The rain cleared off in the afternoon and a bright glint of sunshine
shone through the slowly dispersing clouds, enabling the children of
the village choir to put on their best frocks and hats for the
important function to which Cicely had summoned them. There was
great excitement among these little people. That they should be
specially asked to sing to Miss Vancourt was to them an unexpected
and unprecedented honour, and filled them with speechless delight
and pride. They were all very shy and nervous, however, and it was
with quite a trembling awe that they scraped their feet on the
polished oak floors of the Manor, and dragged them hesitatingly and
timidly along into the morning room where Maryllia lay peacefully
resting, and awaiting their approach. Her nurses had attired her
freshly and becomingly, and had wrapped her in soft pale rose
cashmere with delicate ribbons of the same hue tying it about her,
while her lovely hair, loosely knotted on the top of her head, was
caught together by a comb edged with pink coral which gave just the
contrasting touch of colour to the gold-brown curls. She turned a
smiling happy face on the children as they entered, and to Miss Eden
and her young assistant, Susie Prescott, she held out her hand.
"It is so good of you to humour me in my fancy!" she said; "I loved
the little hymn you all sang on the Sunday I came to church with my
friends--don't you remember?--and I want to hear it again. I came in
late to service that day, didn't I?--yes!--it was so wrong of me!
But I should never do it again if I had the chance. Unfortunately we
are always sorry for our wrong-doings too late!" She smiled again,
and in answer to murmured words of sympathy from Miss Eden, and the
sight of tears in the eyes of Susie Prescott, made haste to say--"Oh
no!--I'm not in any pain just now. You need not think that. I am
just helpless--that's all. But I've got all my reasoning faculties
back, thank God!--and my sight has been spared. I can read and
write, and enjoy music,--so you see how many blessings are still
left to me! Will you ask the children to begin now, please? There is
not a piano in this room,--but Cicely will play the accompaniment on
the old spinet--it's quite in tune. And she will sing with you."
In another moment they were all grouped round the ancient instrument
of Charles the Second's day, and Cicely, keeping her hands well
pressed on the jingling ivory keys, managed to evoke from them
something like a faint, far-off organ-like sound. Falteringly at
first, and then more clearly and steadily, as Cicely's full round
voice assisted them, the children sang--
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me down to lie
In pleasant fields where the lilies grow,
And the river runneth by."
Maryllia listened, watching them. The declining sunlight, pale as it
was, shed luminance upon the awkward stumpy boys, and bashfully
shrinking girls, as with round, affectionate eyes fixed upon her,
they went on tunefully--
"The Lord is my Shepherd; He feedeth me,
In the depth of a desert land,
And, lest I should in the darkness slip,
He holdeth me by the hand.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want,
My mind on Him is stayed,
And though through the Valley of Death I walk,
I shall not be afraid!"
Here, something like a sob interrupted the melody. Some one in the
little choir broke down,--but Cicely covered the break with a tender
chord, and the young voices rose above it.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; O Shepherd sweet,
Leave me not here to stray,
But guide me safe to Thy heavenly fold,
And keep me there, I pray!"
With each verse, the harmony grew sweeter and more solemn, till
Maryllia, lying back on her pillows with closed eyes through which
the tears would creep despite herself, began to feel earth very far
away and heaven very near. At the 'Amen,' she said:
"Thank you! That was beautiful! Do you mind singing the third verse
over again?"
They obeyed, looking at Cicely for the lead.
"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want;
My mind on Him is stayed,
And though through the Valley of Death I walk,
I shall not be afraid!"
There was a silence.
"Now," breathed Cicely softly--"now the Amen!"
Full and grave came the solemn chord and the young fresh voices with
it,--
"A--men!" And then Cicely went up to Maryllia and bent over
her.
"Are you pleased, dearest?"
She was very quiet. There were tears in her eyes, but at the
question, she smiled.
"Very pleased! And very happy! Take the children away now and give
them tea. And thank them all for me,--say I will see them again some
day when I am stronger--when I do not feel inclined to cry quite so
easily!"
In a few minutes all the little scuffling shuffling feet had made
their way out of the room, and Maryllia was left to herself in the
deepening twilight,--a twilight illumined brightly every now and
again by the leaping flame of a sparkling log fire. Suddenly the
door which had just been closed after the children, gently opened
again, and Cicely entering, said in rather a tremulous voice--
"Mr. Walden is here, Maryllia."
Whereat she quickly disappeared.
Maryllia turned her head round on her pillows and watched John's
tall straight figure slowly approaching. A delicate, Spring-like
odour floated to her as he came, and she saw that he carried a bunch
of violets. Then she held out her hand.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Walden!"
He tried to speak, but could not. Without a word he laid the violets
gently down on the silk coverlet of her couch. She took them up at
once and kissed them.
"How sweet they are!" she murmured--"The first I have had given to
me this year!"
She smiled up at him gratefully, and pointed to a chair close beside
her.
"Will you sit near me?" she said--"And then we can talk!"
Silently he obeyed. To see her lying there so quietly resigned and
helpless, nearly unmanned him, but he did brave battle with his own
emotions. He took her little offered hand and gently kissed it. If
to touch its soft smooth whiteness sent fire through his veins,
there was no sign of feeling in his face. He was grave and strangely
impassive.
"I am grieved to see you like this---" he began.
"Yes, I am sure you are!" she quickly interrupted him--"But please
do not talk about it just now! I want to forget my poor crippled
body altogether for a little while. I've had so much bother with it
lately! I want to talk to you about my soul. That's not crippled.
And you can tell me just what it is and what I am to do with it."
He gazed at her in a kind of bewildered wonder.
"Your soul!"--he murmured,
"Yes." And a shadow of sad and wistful thought darkened her
features--"You see I may not live very long,--and I ought to be
properly prepared in case I die. I know you will explain everything
that is difficult to me,--because you seem to be sure of your faith.
You remember your sermon on the soul, when I came to church just
that once?"
He bent his head. He could find no words with which to interrupt
her.
"Well, I have often thought of it since,--and I have longed--oh, so
much!--to make a confession to you! But may I ask you one or two
questions first?"