She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer;
Apart she sighed; alone she shed the tear.
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave
Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
CRABBE.
On the night which followed Lucy's departure the cottage seemed
singularly lonely. The wayward girl could not but be missed in so small
a household. Her very waywardness, indeed, had caused excitement, which
slightly roused Mabel's thoughts from present and coming evils.
It was night--how strange is its power over us? Can it be more than
fancy that the spirits of darkness have freer power to wander unseen
upon our earth? Why else should we start with such vague terror, at the
slightest sound which breaks the stillness? Why should we often feel
almost a childish desire for companionship?
Mabel had stolen to her mother's room to persuade herself that she
slept, and stood for a moment watching her. The feeble light of the
night lamp shone upon her features, and she trembled when she marked the
sunken cheeks, and the countenance deeply traced and drawn down by care
and pain. It seemed as if, in that moment, the conviction which she had
so long defied, forced itself upon her mind, and she felt that that
loved parent must die. Those only who have experienced that sudden
belief can tell of the bitterness with which it comes. And it is sudden,
for we may speak of death as possible, nay, even probable, with
calmness; but this is not belief, not the feeling which comes when the
varying color, the emaciated hand, or the hollow eye attracts our
attention, and we feel the truth striking coldly on our hearts. Then,
almost for the first time, the full power of fear and love is known. We
long to arrest the hand of death by the vehemence of our passion; and,
though we know such efforts are vain, yet how difficult is it to be
resigned.
Mabel turned from her mother's room with the choking sensation, of
tears, that will not be suppressed. The cold, loud wind beat against the
cottage, tossing dry leaves and broken sticks against the casement, then
howling round, as if in derision of her grief. Amy was sleeping, the
sweet, gentle, exhausted sleep, that sometimes follows pain; but Mabel
knew that in a short while she would awake, and require refreshment, and
she did not care to lie down, till she had made her comfortable.
There was a letter lying upon the dressing-table, placed so as to catch
her eye; the sight of it was a relief to her, and she took it and broke
the seal, then shading the light from her sister, she sat down and read
as follows:--
"DEAR MISS LESLY,
"I will trust that you will forgive me the liberty I take in
addressing you by letter; for your unwearied attention to those
who now claim your care, gives me little hope of speaking to you
without interruption. I might not have time to tell you that the
remembrance of my share in the late unhappy accident renders me
miserable when I am compelled to watch your patient suffering,
without the power to afford you the least redress or comfort. It
is impossible to remember the last few happy weeks, without
contrasting them, but too painfully with the present. I cannot
forbear continually reproaching myself with the change, nor shall
I cease to be unhappy till I may, in some way alleviate your
sufferings. Let me entreat you, then, to forgive my presumption,
in seeking a remedy in the gratification of the fondest hopes of
my life. I needed some acquaintance with you, to remove the
prejudices which I have been led to form, through the too
thoughtless behaviour of some ladies, it needed, I may say, even
the last bitter trial, to shew me the nature of your character,
and the refinement to which sorrow could bring it. How else could
I have been aware of the existence of such uncommon resignation,
and such sweet forgiveness. They have inspired me with a feeling,
which, while hope remains, softens the pain I feel; they lead me
to aspire with boldness, which may surprise you, but I am a
soldier, and though too accustomed to feign sentiment which does
not exist, I am only capable of bluntness where my heart is really
touched; and, therefore, at once, most boldly, but most
respectfully do I ask you to be my wife.
"The fortune with which I am blessed, renders my profession more
an amusement than a necessity, and it would be amply sufficient to
secure your sweet sister all the comforts which may alleviate
pain, and all the medical advice which may help to remove it. Only
give me the power to protect you from the cold blasts of the
world, and the right to aid you in taking charge of one, whose
helplessness has been caused by my fault, and I will shew you that
a husband's tenderest love and a brother's most watchful care will
ever be ready to protect you both. One word more. Though with the
most jealous hand I would guard you from all pain, I must, though
but for a moment, inflict it in alluding to past events. I am
aware of much, if not all, of your early history, and know that I
cannot be the first object of your affections; yet would I rather
have your second love, or even your friendship, than the warmest
attachment of any other woman living.
"Do not then turn away from me without consideration, think of
your sister--of me--and of yourself, unprotected in a world of
strangers, and, if you can, accept the love of
"Your most devoted and respectful
"ARTHUR CLAIR."
"The Rectory,
"Friday Evening."
Mabel was troubled, not only by the generous tone of the letter, but
because it brought to view, subjects which she had not allowed herself
to think upon; for her real strength consisted in a knowledge of her
weakness, and she knew that she should be quite incapable of acting, if,
to present pain, she added the contemplation of future trials. But now,
Clair, in offering her a provision for the future had forced her to
think of it. Perhaps generously to save her from the imputation of
accepting him, only when pressed by circumstances, as she might be, in
but a few weeks.
Now the letter as it lay before her would have her think. She had but a
few minutes before left her mother's room with the saddest conviction;
and now, crowding on her remembrance came a thousand little speeches,
that told her, how earnestly, that dear mother had tried to warn her of
her approaching death. Speeches which then appeared but the result of
nervous weakness, now occurred to her as truths, which no reasoning
could controvert. Some of their little property she knew rested in the
hands of an improvident and extravagant aunt, and the remainder of their
income would fail altogether when her mother's pension dropped.
And Amy, whose precarious health rendered her now unable to be even
moved from room to room, she on whom she had lavished all the comforts
which affluence can invent, how could she bear the trials of poverty?
How could she suffer the privations to which they would inevitably be
reduced; she who could scarcely hear the sound of a heavy footfall
without pain, or be moved, without the greatest agony, from the couch on
which she constantly lay. Not that she wavered with regard to Clair, but
his letter made her uneasy. Poverty, death, and even that place where
"all that's wretched paves the way to death," she would have preferred
to marriage, if she could but have endured them alone. But who would be
her companion? She turned her eyes to the bed where, with cheeks flushed
and eyes that scarcely closed, lay the little sufferer, her small,
wasted hand tightly compressed as if with pain. At this moment she
slightly moved, and Mabel was instantly by her side. Her eyes glistening
bright with fever were now opened wide, and gazing anxiously on poor
Mabel's tell-tale face.
"Mabel," said she in a low, sweet but peculiar voice, "sit down by me,
for I must talk to you to-night, as my pain is all gone."
Mabel seated herself by her, and took the little hand in hers.
"You will not be frightened, Mabel dear," said the child, "if I talk
about strange things, and about going away."
"No, sweet one, no," replied her sister, "talk of anything you like; but
where are you going?"
"Mabel, dear," she returned softly, "I suffer such pain that I do not
think it will be much longer--I must die soon, and then I hope I am
going to that beautiful country we have talked of so often in the
church-yard. I wish you could come with me, Mabel dear, for I dream so
often that papa is waiting for me, and it is all so beautiful."
A quiet pressure of her hand was the only answer.
"But I cannot help thinking of you, love," continued Amy, "and what you
will do without me when I am gone; but yet, Mabel dear, think how
strange it would be to me to lie here always; and, if I grew big like
this, you would only cry over me, as you do when you think I am asleep;
so, Mabel dear, let me go to heaven."
The last words were spoken in the coaxing tone with which she used so
often to carry her point in some little argument, and, finding no
answer, she pat her hand under Mabel's head, which was bent down, and
raised it gently, her face was very pale, and tears were streaming from
her eyes.
"Mabel, dear, dear Mabel," cried Amy, "I, who have been such a trouble
to you all my life, are you so sorry to part from me, your naughty
child. But now, I know it was very good in you to correct me sometimes,
or I never should have been as happy as I am, and now, I feel it to be
all right that I should be in such pain. Will you not rejoice too,
darling? Look at me, there are no tears in my eyes though I am talking
of leaving you."
But the moment the sisters' eyes met, Amy's were filled with tears, and
her head sunk back exhausted. Mabel could not trust herself to say
anything; but, gently smoothing her pillow, she suffered her own head to
sink upon it, and, fatigued alike by grief and want of rest, she closed
her eyes, and fell asleep.
"Tired nature's sweet restorer balmy sleep,"
Of what untold comfort are you to the mourner. Cares, that bow the head
to the earth at night, seem lighter to the waking thoughts, refreshed,
perhaps, by good angels while we sleep. Were there no such sweet
forgetfulness of sorrow, could we bear to look upon it long?