LIGHT IN DARKNESS.
"How pretty my room is to-day, Edith! You have made it all bright and
fairy-like with flowers. Yes, open the blinds, please, and let the
sunshine in; my head is really better this morning, and I wish all the
light I can possibly get." So spoke Winnie, as she watched her sister
scattering sweet posies of flowers throughout the entire room, and felt
the sweet, subtle perfume of "the flowers that in earth's firmament do
shine."
"Why are you so particular to-day, Edith?" she continued, as that young
lady flitted about, looping and relooping the soft lace curtains,
pouncing on every stray speck of dust, and sweeping every
medicine-bottle out of sight. "Jane tidied the room as usual this
morning, and yet here you are, poking into every corner, and arranging
and rearranging everything. One would think the Queen was coming to
see me. What is the reason of it all?" and Winnie looked decidedly
curious.
"So you are going to have a visitor, dear," replied Edith, bringing a
fragrant nosegay over to the bedside and laying it on the snowy pillow.
"Now don't ask me any questions, for I dare not tell. Only wait
patiently and you will see for yourself."
The child did not seem particularly charmed. "I hate visitors, Edith,"
she said, the sunshine dying out of her face, and the restless, weary
look stealing into her eyes; "they make my heart full of wicked,
rebellious thoughts when I see them coming into the room so well and
strong. I detest their long faces and sympathetic remarks. Ugh! I
suppose they mean to be kind, but when they speak I feel as if I hated
everything and everybody."
"I don't think you will tell me all that this afternoon," replied Edith
with a knowing smile. "It is always the unexpected that happens, and I
shall be very much surprised if you do not count this day as one of the
bright spots in your life.--Ah, there is the bell. Give me a kiss,
Win, and keep a pretty smile for the unwelcome visitor." So saying
Edith tripped away, and Winnie waited in gloomy silence the advent of
the hated guest. Why could people not leave her alone? Why did they
require to come and flaunt all their bright, strong health before her?
She wished none of their sympathy and condolences--only leave her alone
to her grief and misery.
These being her thoughts, it was a very cross, peevish face which met
Miss Latimer's gaze as she entered the sick chamber in company with
Mrs. Blake and confronted the little invalid.
"I have brought a friend to see you, dear," said the step-mother,
smiling down on the quiet figure with its weary, pain-stricken face.
"You will be pleased to welcome her, I know, and have so much to talk
about that my presence can be easily dispensed with for a little time."
As she spoke, Mrs. Blake smoothed the sick girl's brow lovingly, and
then withdrew, leaving the two friends together once more.
There was no need to ask, "Are you glad to see me, Winnie?" for the
great eyes, shining with a wonderfully joyous light, told the tale the
lips refused to utter. Forgetting her helplessness, the child
stretched out her arms and tried to rise, but sank back with a low cry
of pain, and those piteous words, "O Aunt Judith, come to me quickly,
for I cannot go to you."
Miss Latimer was greatly moved, and could do nothing at first but kiss
the little face once so fresh and sweet, now pinched and wan with
suffering.
"Dear child," she said at length, "my heart is bleeding for you. Tell
me, Winnie, how did all this happen?" and with Aunt Judith's arms round
her, and a sense of peaceful rest stealing over her weary frame, the
sick girl told all that there was to tell, simply, truthfully, with no
attempt to screen herself from blame.
"I was wrong to speak as I did," she finished sadly, "but I had
provocation. O Aunt Judith, I cannot express the awful feeling of
hatred I bear towards Ada, when I think that if it had not been for her
I should be running about in the sunshine now."
"Hush, Winnie! do not say that," replied Miss Latimer softly; "her
heart will be heavy enough now, I fancy, and--" But here Winnie broke
in:--
"No, Aunt Judith. I don't believe she feels the least little particle
of sorrow. She ran away when I fell, and never even came to ask for me
after the accident. No one knows she had anything to do with my fall
except my own family, and they decided to leave her alone and make no
remark. Mamma was awfully good. She said she had formed a wrong
estimate of Ada's character, and told me I had been right."
There was a few minutes' pause, then Winnie continued: "I know, Aunt
Judith, you think I am very wicked for hating Ada so bitterly; but, oh!
look what she has done to me. My life is spoilt" (with the old wail of
an infinite pain); "I shall never be able to walk again."
Miss Latimer's eyes grew misty, and Winnie continued:---
"You are good and true, Aunt Judith. You sit there looking at me with
such a kind, loving face, and don't say like the others, 'Wait a little
longer, Winnie; some day you will be all right again.'" Then repeating
the words, with a weary depth of woe in her voice--"I shall never be
able to walk again; and, O Aunt Judith, can you guess what that means
to me?"
"Yea, my darling, I can," whispered the patient listener, "and your
cross is a heavy one to carry."
"Heavy!" muttered the sick girl; "so heavy that I shall not be able to
carry it patiently. It is bad enough just now, Aunt Judith, but think
what it will be when the months go rolling by and find me still weak
and helpless. How shall I bear my life, such a weary, weary life, week
after week, and year after year? I loved the world so much--the
bright, beautiful world with all its sunshine and flowers; and now I
feel as if I were withdrawn from it altogether. What will Dick say
when he comes home, and I cannot go with him here and there as in the
dear old days? Aunt Judith, I can see no light anywhere. Teach me,
you who are so brave and strong, how to bear my life now."
Miss Latimer kissed the little quivering face with its sad, mournful
eyes; then drawing her chair closer to the bedside, she kept her loving
arms round the sobbing child and tried to comfort her.
"My darling," said the kind, gentle voice, the voice Winnie had so
longed and thirsted for, "I do not think you know how deep the pain is,
how warm the sympathy, I feel for you. You say the broad, flowery way
along which you have hitherto travelled has ended now, and nothing lies
stretched before save an interminable waste of blackness through which
you imagine it impossible to journey. Yet, will you believe me, dear
child, when I tell you that in the blackened tract of moorland you will
find a joy, a peace passing all understanding, and learn that the life
you now deem too hard to live is a grand, beautiful life, and your
weary couch of pain but the school where the Master teaches some of his
purest, holiest lessons! The darkness may be very thick and dense for
a time, Winnie, but by-and-by light will begin to break through, and
night give place to day; and if the flowery way should never again open
up before you, you will find in the rugged upland path the sunshine of
God's favour, while his presence shall go with you, and he will give
you rest. My child, my little Winnie, this grievous stroke may yet
prove the greatest blessing to yourself and others. Do not say your
life is spoilt; perhaps the true life is only now beginning."
The young girl looked up earnestly into the gentle face. "Speak on,
Aunt Judith," she pleaded. "It makes me feel good to hear you talk
like that; but then" (with sad despair) "when you go away I know I
shall be as wicked and rebellious as ever. Your words lull all the
evil passions to sleep; but in the long, dark night they will waken up,
and I shall be wishing I were dead again. Say something more, Aunt
Judith. Tell me how I am to keep the good feelings always in my heart,
and be willing to live through the long, long years."
Then Miss Latimer's soft voice spoke again; and, cradled lovingly in
those tender arms, the sick girl learned where to find the daily
strength and grace for every need; and how to gather up the scattered
threads of her life together, and weave them into a golden web shining
with the lustre of simple faith and holy resignation.
Some time afterwards Mrs. Blake entered, and Miss Latimer rose to
depart; but Winnie would not let her go just yet. She had so many
questions to ask, and there was so much she wished to know. How were
Miss Deborah, Aunt Margaret, and Nellie? When would they all return to
town? Had Aunt Judith written a new book lately? and if so, what was
it called? Miss Latimer had a busy time answering all those queries,
but at last the young invalid was satisfied; and promising to come
again soon, Aunt Judith said good-bye, and left the room with a heavy
heart.
Mrs. Blake following, thanked her for her visit, and hoped she would
repeat it at an early date. The young step-mother saw the error she
had made in the past, and with graceful tact tried to atone for her
open rudeness to this grave, noble woman, who seemed like a queen in
spite of the simplicity of her garments.
Miss Latimer's sweet, true nature harboured no feeling of umbrage or
malice, and her smile was frank and friendly as she willingly accepted
the invitation. Then Edith, appearing at that moment, offered to
accompany her part of the way home, and Mrs. Blake returned to the
sick-room and Winnie.
The child's face looked flushed and animated. "Mamma dear," she said
sweetly, "thank you for allowing me to see Aunt Judith again. I shall
not be so cross and troublesome now. She has been telling me what a
beautiful life I may yet lead in spite of my pain and helplessness, and
her words have hushed the bad thoughts to rest."
The fair, frivolous lady seemed bewildered, but replied, "I am willing
to confess my error, Winnie: Miss Latimer is no longer an unwelcome
visitor here," then she changed the subject.
Meanwhile the days passed on, and Miss Latimer became a frequent guest
at Maple Bank, winning all due respect and honour by the true dignity
of her nature and sweet womanly heart. Edith hailed those visits with
pleasure; and Winnie--ah! they were like great spots of sunshine to the
sick girl fretting sorely under her load of pain.
She was by no means a patient invalid this restless child, and the
constant lying day after day and the monotony of sick-room life tried
her exceedingly. It was only natural that such should be the case;
that the wild tomboy nature, with its bright flow of animal spirits,
should chafe and rebel at this heavy discipline. But one becomes
wearied of constant murmuring, and sometimes those around her waxed
impatient. Then it was that Miss Latimer's soothing words came into
use, and the strong hand was stretched out to help the failing feet;
and by-and-by, slowly yet surely, the discipline began to show its
fruit, and Winnie to learn the first lesson in the school of pain.
August at length drew near to a close. Miss Latimer and her little
household returned to town. The days began rapidly to creep in, and
the beautiful harvest moon "grew like a white flower in the sky."
"Let us go home, mamma," pleaded Winnie. "I should like to be back in
town when Dick's ship comes in; and it is so lonely here. I shall not
feel so much at meeting him where we have not the same opportunity to
romp about; and oh! although it is very wrong and selfish of me to
trouble you, I cannot bear to meet him here."
The child's words were very pathetic, and so, yielding to her wish, the
Blakes returned to town.
Winnie sighed her satisfaction when safely deposited in the oak parlour
once more. Then the old life began again--the same, yet not the same;
for although everything around was as it had been in the bygone days,
Winnie herself was changed, and the busy, active life over for ever.
But she had her happy times too; for the oak parlour was rapidly
becoming the room of the household, and Winnie seldom knew what it was
to be left alone. Thither came Aunt Judith with her soft, gentle
words; Nellie, fresh from the dear home circle, her troubles all blown
away by the happy home atmosphere; Edith and Clare, with their gay
young voices and dainty ways; and all the members of the family,
slipping in every now and then to see how the little invalid was
progressing. Her quiet submission was daily becoming more patent; and
as those around noted the efforts at cheerfulness and patience, their
love gradually increased, and Winnie the invalid was tenfold dearer to
the hearts of her family than Winnie the little tomboy had been. Her
days were not idle ones by any means; for as her health in some
respects improved, a daily governess was engaged to come and instruct
her, and under Miss Montgomery's mild tuition Winnie laid aside her
former indolence and began to show an interest in her studies.
The papers were eagerly scanned now for news of the expected ship, but
the days sped on and still nothing was heard of the longed-for vessel.
At length, however, one evening in the beginning of October, when the
gray twilight was creeping silently over the busy town, Edith and
Winnie were together in the oak parlour--the one sitting toasting
herself cosily at the fire, the other lying on her invalid couch
half-asleep. Downstairs in the large drawing-room a few guests were
assembled, and the sound of voices singing floated sweetly upwards and
fell soothingly on the sick girl's ear.
"Edith!" she said, opening her sleepy eyes for a moment, "I wish you
would go down beside the others and enjoy yourself. I feel in a
deliciously comfortable mood just now, and will not miss you at all.
Do obey me!" and she looked fondly over at the pretty figure basking
lazily in the firelight glow.
Edith roused herself. "I should like to join them for a short time,
Win; but it seems selfish leaving you all alone, and nurse is too busy
to come and sit beside you just now."
"Oh, I shall not weary," was the bright reply; "besides, the music will
lull me to sleep in a few minutes. Run away, and think of me as
enjoying my forty winks."
The elder sister rose, and kissing Winnie's little face, went slowly
from the room, along the passage, and down the broad carpeted stair.
She had hardly entered the drawing-room and returned the greetings of
the merry guests, when a loud ringing at the door bell was followed by
the heavy tread of a man's foot in the hall, and the next minute
Richard Blake strode into the gaily-lighted room and confronted the
assembled company.
"Just like the old Dick," thought his brothers and sisters, rising to
welcome the young sailor, whose sun-tanned face was shining with honest
delight. "Fancy stalking into a drawing-room in rough sea-faring
clothes, and startling every one with his sudden appearance." But in
spite of such condemnation their welcome was hearty and genuine; for
the boy looked so happy and overjoyed himself, it was impossible not to
be infected with his gladness of heart.
"Straight from the ship," he explained to his step-mother, standing
like a young hero in the midst of the gay company, with a great joy
rippling over his kindly face. "Got into dock only this afternoon; and
here I am, turned up again like the old sixpence.--Any yarns to spin?
you ask. Why, any amount. But in the meantime I am desperately
hungry, and could relish a hearty meal." Then turning to Edith: "Where
is Winnie? Up in the oak parlour, I suppose. Well, I'm off to her at
once. She ought to have been the very first to bid me welcome."
A silence fell on all, and looks were exchanged of mingled sorrow and
perplexity.
"What is to be done?" questioned Mrs. Blake inwardly. "Some one must
break the news to him before he enters the oak parlour."
Dick, in complete ignorance of the effect his words were causing,
wheeled round towards the door and prepared to leave the room, when
Edith stepped forward saying, "Yes; Winnie is in her own sanctum as
usual. Come; I will accompany you there."
The boy stopped in amazement. "What for?" he inquired bluntly; "I
would much rather go alone first."
"Yes, I know," was the confused reply; "but please humour me this
once;" and Edith slipped past him as she spoke.
Dick followed, a little mystified and annoyed; but his amazement
increased when Edith, opening the library door, drew him into that room
and closed the door swiftly behind him.
"Bless my boots! is the girl mad?" ejaculated the boy, turning to the
tables and chairs for sympathy. "I am beginning to wonder if I have
fallen into the clutches of some escaped lunatic. I say, Edith, old
girl, do you take those fits often?"
His sister, however, had no answering smile on her lips, and her voice
shook slightly as she replied, "Dick, please prepare yourself to hear
bad news. You ought to have been told before, but we kept the evil day
as far off as possible. Dear little--" Then she stopped short,
terrified at the expression on her brother's face.
"Don't beat about the bush, Edith," he cried in a voice hoarse with
emotion; "I can bear anything better than suspense. Tell me, is Winnie
dead? But no,"--glancing at his sister's shining garments--"it cannot
be that, thank God;" and he drew a long sigh of relief at this point.
"No, Dick," responded Edith, giving him a glance of warm sympathy,
"but--" and very simply and tenderly she broke the sad tidings to the
agitated boy.
Then there tell on the silence and stillness of the room the sound of a
strong heart's sobs, as Dick, in spite of all his manliness, laid his
head on the table and wept like a little child.
Oh, how often, often in his lonely night-watches had he pictured this
home-coming--dwelling on and gloating over each little detail as a
miser does over his gold, till the whole dream-picture became beautiful
with a golden glory. He saw the tiny, fairy figure flying to meet him,
the quaint gipsy face glowing its joyous welcome, and the great dark
eyes shining their wondrous gladness. He felt the clasp of two soft
arms round his neck, the touch of warm kisses on his lips, and heard
the bright, merry voice melting into sweetest tones, as words of love
and tenderness were poured into his hungering ear. And this was the
end of it all--his dream-picture shattered, and a young life blasted
through a haughty girl's thirst for revenge.
Dick's heart was full of rage and hatred. "If Ada Irvine were within
my reach just now," he muttered, "she would live to regret this day."
Then raising his head, he looked, and found Edith had slipped away and
left him alone with his grief.
The boy rose, sighing heavily. "I am hardly myself yet," he said,
dashing his rough, sun-burnt hand across his eyes, and moving slowly
towards the door. "What a fool I am, giving way like this! But these
things unman a fellow, and I need not be ashamed of my tears. Where
did they say she was? In the oak parlour. Well, here goes;" and off
strode Dick, swinging along the lighted hall and up the broad stairs at
what he afterwards described as the rate of knots.