Gordon nodded. "It's consumption," he said.
"Oh, Gordon, don't ask me to go. I'm so frightened of death; and I
couldn't help her any--I couldn't say a word," for if I ever felt my
helplessness, it was then. "I'm afraid I would only be in the way," I
supplemented, not without much sincerity.
"A loving heart's never in the way," my husband answered in the lowest
tone. His face, radiant a moment before from its sacred duty, was now
shadowed with sorrow; his eyes gave me a final glance of loneliness and
longing as he turned to go back to the dying bed.
"Oh, Gordon, wait," I cried faintly, sudden resolve gathering in my
heart. "Wait, darling, and I'll go," with which I hurried to his side.
My reward was in his eyes. I could see them, even in the darkened hall
through which we passed into the room of death.
Such a humble room it was, bare and unadorned. The bed stood in the
corner, and even my untutored eyes saw at a glance that life's race was
nearly run for her who lay upon it. Large, dark eyes looked out at me
from the wasted face, wistful in death's mysterious appeal. Poor
Jennie! she little knew how great was the ministry yet remaining to her.
For, as in a moment, the repulsion and the fear all left my heart,
filling fast with a pity and a longing I could neither understand nor
control. It must have been God's prompting, and nothing else. I saw
nothing but the dying face. The mother was there; and Martha, her
cheeks wet with tears; the younger pair, too, were standing near the
bed. But I seemed to behold none of them--not even Gordon.
For I moved instinctively towards the bed, my gaze fixed on the dying
girl. Her eyes seemed to call me; the lure of the eternal was within
them, and I marvelled, little of spiritual insight though I had, at the
deep tranquillity that lay far within. She smiled as she saw me coming
closer, and I sat down on the bed beside her.
I could not but notice that her eyes rested on my face in eager wonder;
she seemed to love to look, so constant was her gaze. And it was
evident--so eternal is the womanly--that she was attracted by what I
wore; my lovely gown, the lace upon its bosom, the diamond pendant with
its chain about my neck, the rich flowers in my hair--all made their
appeal to the dying eyes.
"Oh, it was lovely!" she murmured, after we had spoken a word or two.
"What was, dear?" I answered, for I had no idea.
"What he said--what your husband told me. He made it so easy--and so
beautiful. I'm not afraid to die--not now, ma'am."
I marvelled as I beheld the strange serenity that seemed to wrap her
like a garment. "Oh," she went on faintly, "it must be lovely to be
able to do that; to be able to tell people, when they're dying, about
the Saviour--and about heaven. Do you do it too, ma'am?"
I shrank before the pervading eyes, for they seemed to look through and
through the soul with the penetrating power that death imparts. "No,"
I said tremblingly, "no, I don't believe I ever did."
"But you will, won't you?" she went on calmly; "he'll tell you how--and
you'll tell it too. Oh, it comforts so--I believe it because he does,"
her eyes turning now in reverence to Gordon's face.
"Yes, dear, yes, I'll try," I faltered, and the eager eyes looked
content. Something prompted me to put my hands to my hair, though I
had forgotten the flowers were there. "Would you like them, Jennie?"
as I placed them in the wasted hand. I had no need to ask, so grateful
was the light that kindled the wan face.
"These comfort too," she murmured. Then suddenly: "Can you sing?--I
love when people sing to me, if I love them."
"Not very well, Jennie," I answered, for I knew I could not trust my
voice.
"Please do," she pleaded; "just some little song."
I turned to Gordon; he was standing above me. "Let us try," he said;
"suppose we sing 'Forever with the Lord'?"
I consented. But a quick impulse came to me and I whispered to him:
"One of your psalms, Gordon--that lovely one about the Valley."
I saw how glad he was. "You must sing it too," he said; and then, in
tones of more than womanly gentleness, he began the noble strain.
"Yea though I walk in death's dark vale
Yet will I fear none ill,
For Thou art with me and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still."
I didn't know then, and hardly know exactly yet, what those two last
lines really mean; but no one could fail to see their power. They have
been often tested when life's lamp was burning low; and the far-off
music of Immortality, whatever be the meaning of the words, echoes
through them. Jennie's face was beautiful to see.
I had never had hour like to this. I can remember yet how, once or
twice, the thought of all the revelry I had left behind floated before
my eyes; the lights, the flowers, the richly appointed table, the
sumptuous dinner, the circle of exalted guests in glorious array, the
speech and the echoing song--but they all seemed to me now as the dust
beneath my feet. Pale and tawdry, garish, did it all appear in
contrast with the high reality of the scene that had succeeded it. It
must have been God's miracle to my soul. I know not. But I speak only
the simple truth when I say that what was about me now, the humble
home, the squalid room, the dimly burning lamp, the wail of the
broken-hearted, the pale light of death upon one wasted face; these
stood before me as life, very life--and the other had receded into the
phantom shadows of unreality and death. I felt as if I had found
myself at last; I knew I had found my husband, long sundered by the
cruel shadow my own foolish heart had cast; and I dimly hoped that the
dear Father of us all had found us both.
An hour or two later Gordon beckoned me out into the little hall. "I
guess we'll have to go now," he said; "it's almost midnight--and you'll
be tired out."
"Don't," I said earnestly, "don't make me go, Gordon. How can we leave
here?--she's dying. Do you think we'll ever see her again?"
Gordon's look of love was beautiful. "No," he said, "never again,
here--and we'll wait, my darling," the words coming low and passionate.
"Look," as he cast his eyes within the door, "she wants you--she's
motioning for you."
Which was true enough, and in a moment I was bending over the dying
form.
"You'll comfort mother, and Martha, won't you--and the children--when
I'm gone? Poor Martha, she'll have it all to do now," the words coming
faint and pitiful; "all the work, I mean--she works so hard. And she
has to go to the factory, even after she sits up all night."
"I'll do all I can, dear," I promised, trying to speak calmly, though
the tears were running down my cheeks. "I'll come and see them as
often as I can."
"Call them all," she said, rousing herself.
I had not far to call. In a moment they were all about the bed. Then
the emaciated arms stole out and laid hold of a rusty napkin, or towel,
that lay upon the bed beside her. Slowly she unfolded it, producing
its contents one by one.
"This is for you, Ernie," as she handed the little brother a
many-coloured flashing tie; "I saved up to get it for you for
Christmas--but then I knew I'd have to get it sooner. And I made this
for you, Chrissie," as the thin hands held out a little pin-cushion to
the younger sister. "And I want you to have my little locket for a
keepsake, Martha; it's nearly new. And this is for you, mother," as
the sobbing woman bent above her child; "it's my Sunday-school
Bible--and it has the tickets I was saving for a prize; I can't ever
use them now. And the book-marker that's in it is for you," as her
eyes turned to Gordon; "I worked it for you myself, and I was going to
give it to you the first Sunday you came down."
She sank back, exhausted. One by one they turned away, each bearing
the precious treasure. Gordon held his book-marker out before him like
a sacred thing, and I could see his breast heaving as his arm went
round one of the children. My own eyes were streaming, for I had never
witnessed scene so holy; the last will and testament of prince or
magnate had never majesty like this.
Suddenly Jennie motioned me down beside her again. "I didn't have
anything for you," she murmured in pitiful explanation, "because I
didn't know you were coming. So I just give you my--my love," she
faltered low, "and I want to tell you how much you've helped me--to
die. And you'll often do it, won't you?" she went on, reverting to the
request that must surely have been prompted by none but God Himself,
every word burning its way to my inmost heart.
"Yes," I sobbed, "oh, yes, I will, if God will help me--but I can do so
little."
"No," she whispered back, "no--so much. You don't know how much it
helps, for a poor girl like me just to, just to see somebody
that's--that's sweet and lovely," she said timidly--"and that wears
pretty clothes. Just to see somebody that loves you, even if they
didn't speak a word--that helps a lot."
I gently hushed the words. The little circle gathered around the bed
again. The hours went slowly by.
Suddenly her eyes opened wide. "Sing that again," she murmured,
struggling now for breath; "that about--about the vale. It's dark."
Gordon looked into my eyes; his hand touched mine. Then, in a tone
that was part of tenderness and all of triumph, he began, my trembling
voice blending with his own:
"Yea though I walk through death's dark vale
Yet will I fear none ill"
and just as we finished the Shepherd Psalm the wasted face lighted up
with pallid beauty, the raptured eyes looked their last farewell, and
the tired toiler passed into the rest of God.
It was a very solemn joy that wrapped our hearts as Gordon and I walked
home together through the slowly breaking dawn. I knew that our
life-song had begun at last, and my heart was filled with reverent
ecstasy.
"Take me, Gordon," I said, as we entered and closed the door behind us.
"Take me," the tears now flowing fast, "and never, never let me go."
"You're mine," was all his answer as his arms closed about me. "God
gave me you, my darling."