HOW SHALL I LIVE THROUGH THE LONG, LONG YEARS?
A balmy summer morning in the month of July. Outside, and far up
overhead, a dappled sky shining down on a world of light and beauty;
green verdant slopes and wide sweeps of meadowland glistening still
with the early dew; flowers blossoming everywhere, from the modest
daisy and golden buttercup to the queenliest rose and fairest lily;
birds singing from every bush and tree their morning trill of
flute-like melody; bees humming busily hither and thither; butterflies
flitting idly by or resting snugly in the heart of a flower; in short,
the world of nature all awake and joying with a pure, glad joy in the
golden summer sunshine.
Inside a darkened room, with softly-shaded blinds and peaceful hush
brooding over all, a girl--one might almost say a child--lying quietly
on a dainty bed with white, weary face and closed eyes, round which
dark lines of pain and suffering are plainly circled; and lastly, a
young lady nestling back in a low basket-chair and keeping tender watch
over the slight figure stretched so motionless before her. Suddenly
the heavy lids unclose, and a pair of tired eyes are raised, with a
sad, pathetic look, to the watcher's face.
"Is that you, Edith?" asks the weak voice in low, feeble tones; and the
young lady, bending down to press a kiss on the white brow, answers,--
"Yes, dear; and I am so glad you have enjoyed such a nice long sleep."
The child raised one thin, fragile hand, and pushing back the hair from
her damp forehead, spoke once more. "I was dreaming, Edith,--dreaming
the old days were back again, and that Dick and I were having such fun
in the oak parlour. Archie Trollope was there too, and we were chasing
each other round and round the room; but neither Dick nor Archie could
catch me, my feet seemed so nimble. I thought it was true, Edith, and
a great weight rolled from my heart; but oh"--and the low wail
accompanying the words pained the listener sorely--"I awoke and found
it was all a dream."
"My poor little Winnie!" replied the young lady, smoothing the pained
lines from the invalid's brow with soft, gentle touch. But the child
had not yet finished.
"Edith," she continued, a wild, haunting look of unrest stealing into
her eyes, "I am so tired lying here day after day. I want to be out in
the sunshine with the birds and the flowers. Tell me, when shall I be
able to walk in the sunlight once more?"
Edith's face was wet with tears. "Try to be patient, dear," she said
in a somewhat broken voice; "one does not recover very quickly from an
illness such as yours."
Winnie seemed dissatisfied. "You don't look me straight in the face
when you speak, Edith, and your voice has a little tremble in it.
Hush! hear how the birds are singing! They know I dearly love the
sunshine, and are calling me out into the midst of it; I hear them
every day warbling so happily. Do you think they ever wonder why I
never come--why I never dance up and down the garden walks and spend
hours with them and the flowers as I did last year? And the sea,
Edith--some nights, when the wind is sleeping and not a leaf stirring
on the trees, I can hear the waves crooning a low, sweet song as they
wash along the wide beach of sand. They also seem to be calling me out
into their midst; and I--O Edith, I cannot come."
There was a passionate ring of pain in the voice, and the look of
unrest had given place to one of intense yearning. Edith's tears fell
fast as she laid her head down on the pillow beside her little sister
and pressed warm kisses on the quivering lips.
"Little Winnie," she whispered, "don't you think it is hard, hard for
us to see you lying suffering here? Oh, my dear, can't you guess how
we miss your little dancing figure, and your bright, merry chatter?
Our hearts are sore for you, dearest, in your pain and weariness, and
we would sacrifice anything to be able to raise you up strong and well
soon. But we cannot; and, oh, little sister, try to wait patiently a
little longer."
"You say that every day, Edith," answered the child pettishly. "It is
always the old, old story--wait a little longer; and when you speak in
that strain a great fear creeps into my heart and won't be shut out. I
try not to listen; I think upon other things; I tell it to go away, but
it still remains. Edith, O Edith! tell me that some day I shall stand
up strong and well; tell me quick, quick, for something whispers that
will never be."
"Nonsense, dear!" faltered the elder sister; "you must not become
fanciful. In a short time I hope to see you quite better."
"You don't say you are perfectly certain, Edith," cried Winnie, still
suspicious, "and you look at anything rather than me. I believe my
fear is too true; and if so, how shall I live through the long, long
years?"
Edith hardly knew how to reply. "Hush, Winnie, hush!" she began
pleadingly; "you are rushing to rash conclusions. And only think,
dear, we have you, though weak and helpless, spared to us still. What
if you had died?"
"I wish I had," replied the girl wildly; "I would far rather lie
quietly under the daisies than live a long, long crippled life. Oh, to
think I shall never again run races on the sandy shore, and laugh when
the little waves splash my feet; never pluck the wild flowers and make
sweet, fragrant posies; never climb the forest trees or sit under the
great pines I love so well! I can't bear it, Edith; indeed I can't. I
wish I were dead."
Her sister was about to speak, but she pushed her aside, saying feebly,
"Oh, if I could only get my strength back again! I never knew what a
blessing health was till I lost it." There was such a depth of pathos
in the weak voice, such an undertone of sadness, that Edith almost
broke down again.
"Winnie," she said softly, "I wonder how Aunt Judith would answer you
just now?"
Winnie looked up through her tears. "I don't know," she replied
wistfully; "but she can't understand how awful it is to lose health for
life in one day."
"No," responded Edith; "but I think, Winnie, Miss Latimer must have had
some exceeding bitter sorrow--some terrible trial to bear in her own
time."
"How?" with a gesture of surprise.
"Because, dear, those books of hers which I have been reading to you
lately are full of grand, loving thoughts, and strong, helpful words,
such as could only come from a heart torn and bleeding through
suffering. I never saw Miss Latimer, as you know, Winnie, but I am
ready to say with you she must be a good, noble woman."
The little girl's eyes were brimming over again. "Don't speak of her,
Edith; it makes me wish so much to see her, and mamma has forbidden
that."
"Not now, Winnie, not now!" said Edith eagerly; "she would be only too
pleased to see your friend. At first, when you were so ill, you called
continually for Aunt Judith, and Algy was sent to Dingle Cottage in
search of her. He found, however, only a fast-closed door, and could
gain no information as to where she had gone from any of the
neighbours. It seems the whole family left town for the summer on the
afternoon of the examination day, so that I am sure Miss Latimer does
not even know you are ill. She and Nellie were not in the school at
the time of your accident." Edith's voice faltered at this point: but
rapidly recovering herself, she continued: "Then we bought all Aunt
Judith's books, dear, to try to cheer you a little. It was the only
thing we could do. Some day, when we return to town, you will see Miss
Latimer again."
Winnie lay weeping quietly. At last she said, "Please leave me alone
for a short time, Edith; I wish to think it all out myself," and the
elder sister obeyed.
Slipping on her hat, she passed out of the house into the sunshine and
wended her way slowly towards the shore, the words ringing in her ears
with that low wail of intense pain--"How shall I live through the long,
long years?"
Poor Winnie! her fears were but too well grounded. No hope was
entertained of her ever being able to leave her couch again.
When the kind-hearted doctor had broken the news to the sorrowing
family, almost the first thought of each was, How would she bear it?
How would she, the little restless sprite, always flitting about here
and there, endure perhaps a long life of crippled helplessness? And
oh! how were they to tell her of the sad future, stretching far into
the coming years? It was all very well to waive her questions in the
meantime, but that could not be done much longer. Already the child
seemed listening to each word with a haunting sense of fear; and now
that they had taken her from the busy town to their quiet sea-side
home, where summer after summer she had danced about in innocent glee,
the dread deepened as the days went by and she felt no sign of
returning strength to her feeble frame. There was no need to tell the
sad tidings after all, however--she had found out for herself; and the
necessary part now was to teach her how to live bravely and cheerfully
through the long, long years.
Edith's thoughts were very dreary as she walked quietly through the
little sea-side village, and saw the happy, sun-kissed children, full
of health and strength, playing on the sandy shore, and shouting their
lusty laughter to each other, while one who would have joined so
heartily in their merriment was lying pale and weary on a lonely couch
of pain. The little wistful face and tired eyes kept ever rising up
before her, while the words rang continually in her ears,--"How shall I
live through the long, long years?"
With a quick impatient movement she drew out her watch, and noting the
hour, saw that the mail had been due some little time ago, and letters
would be lying at the small post-office. Entering the little shop, she
found another occupant besides herself preparing to receive a small
budget of papers from the shopwoman's hands.
"No letters to-day, Miss Latimer; only these papers," the girl was
saying as Edith stepped towards the counter.--"Good-morning, Miss
Blake; we are glad to see you amongst us again."
The lady started at Edith's name, and turning, looked earnestly at the
graceful figure from under the brim of a shady hat--a gaze which Edith,
busy with her own thoughts, failed to observe.
"Three letters for you to-day, miss," the shopwoman continued, "and one
with a foreign post-mark on it. I'm thinking it'll be from Master
Dick."
Edith lifted the letters. "Yes," she said with a bright smile, "you
are quite right, Janet. It is addressed to my little sister; how
pleased she will be!"
The girl's eyes saddened. "Is Miss Winnie keeping stronger?" she
inquired in a subdued voice; "we were all so sorry to hear about her
illness, dear lamb."
The young lady shook her head. "Not much, Janet; but of course we have
only been here a week as yet. We are hoping she will reap the benefit
of the sea-air by-and-by. Good-morning." And Edith, gathering her
letters together, left the shop and turned slowly in the direction of
home. In a few minutes she heard rapid footsteps behind her, and a
low, sweet voice said gently, "May I be pardoned for addressing Miss
Blake?"
Raising her eyes in surprise, Edith saw the stranger lady close at her
side, looking very much agitated.
"Certainly!" she replied courteously. "Can I assist you in any way?"
And the stranger replied--
"I do not know whether you will ever have heard Winnie speak of me or
not. My name is Latimer, and your little sister was a great friend of
my niece. They were always together at school, and Winnie spent two
afternoons with us when we were in town, I--"
But she was allowed to proceed no further, for Edith stood holding out
her hands, and saying with shining countenance, "You are Aunt Judith,
are you not? I am so pleased to have met you, Miss Latimer. My little
sister is very ill. Will you come and see her now?"
Miss Latimer looked perplexed. "I am staying here at present," she
said simply, "and intend remaining till the end of August; this air
seems so beneficial to my invalid sister. I hardly know how to reply
to your invitation, Miss Blake. I never knew till the other day about
Winnie's accident, and I should dearly like to see the child; but
still--"
"Please do not finish your sentence, Miss Latimer," replied Edith,
blushing with confusion. "We owe you an ample apology for our
rudeness, and both my father and mother will be only too delighted to
see you. Winnie has been calling for you continually, and my brother
went to Dingle Cottage, but found you out of town."
"Yes," said Miss Latimer; "the doctor advised us to come here on
account of my youngest sister. Nellie was with us during the month of
June, but has gone home till we return to town. I thank you for your
kindness, Miss Blake, and will call at your house to-morrow. I am
sorry I cannot accompany you this afternoon."
Edith looked up at the true, noble face, shaded by the simple summer
hat; and as she did so, a slow, sweet smile broke over Aunt Judith's
lips and lighted up her whole countenance.
"No wonder Winnie loved her!" thought the gay, fashionable girl. "I
feel as if I could kneel in all reverence at her feet, she looks so
good and pure." But she only said aloud,--"Then I shall expect you
to-morrow afternoon, Miss Latimer. Our house is easily found. You
will see the name, Maple Bank, on the gate. Please do not disappoint
us; and oh! I am so glad I have met you at last."
So they parted, and Edith stepped homewards with a lightened heart.
Mr. and Mrs. Blake received her news quietly. They would rather the
intimacy had not been renewed, but for Winnie's sake no opposition
would be made now. They would find out Miss Latimer's present home,
and call on her that evening. As for telling Winnie, it might be
better, perhaps, to keep her still in ignorance till the following day.
Clare alone turned up her haughty nose when Edith related the morning's
adventure, and inquired if she too were becoming infected with the
Latimer mania. "For my part," concluded the proud girl, "I think our
parents very foolish--encouraging Winnie in all her whims and fancies.
There will be no end to them soon. I am very sorry for the child, but
I still decidedly disapprove of giving in to her continually. I should
not be surprised if this wonderful Aunt Judith becomes a daily visitor
before long. However, I wash my hands of the whole affair." And
lifting a book, Clare passed out through the window into the garden;
while Edith, disgusted at the cruel words, went slowly upstairs, and
placed Dick's precious letter in Winnie's hands.
It was a wonderful epistle, spiced with grand nautical phrases, and
brimful of the truly marvellous and incredible in nature. Winnie
laughed heartily over the absurd yarns, described with sailor-like
veracity, and then gave a little cry of joy when Edith, who was reading
the letter aloud, ended with the following words:--"And now, my dear
little Win, if we have favourable weather you may expect to see your
dear old Dick home about the end of September; and won't we have a
jolly time of it then! No end of larks and mischief. I suppose you
will still be at Maple Bank when my ship comes in, so" (here Edith
stopped, but the child bade her read every single word) "see and keep
well and strong, that you may be able to enjoy all sorts of capers
with--Your loving sailor brother, DICK."
"Don't look at me like that, Edith," said Winnie, when the long letter
was carefully folded up and returned to its envelope. "I am not going
to cry or even think; my heart is too sore. No one must tell Dick till
he comes home. Let him remain in ignorance as long as possible." Then
she closed her eyes wearily and remained silent. But Edith was not to
be deceived by any apparent calmness or resignation, and knew only too
well that the child's whole soul was crying out in rebellion at the sad
trial which had befallen her.
Daylight stole softly, silently away; the summer breeze sighing a
dreamy even-song through the forest trees, lulled the singing birds to
rest; the little flowers drooped their pretty heads, and closed their
dewy petals in slumber; the busy whirr and hum of insects ceased,--and
the nature-world was hushed in sleep. Only the restless sea broke on
the peaceful calm with its ceaseless swish-swish of waves. And far,
far out on the ocean breast, leaning over the bulwark of a gallant
ship, homeward bound, was a young sailor, gazing across the moonlit
waters, and thinking of the bright fairy sister waiting to give him a
joyous welcome back.