Rob received Peggy's confession of her latest gardening exploit with a
roar of good-natured laughter. She had been afraid lest he might be
angry, or--what would have been even worse--superior and forbearing; but
he was neither the one nor the other. Such a genuine, Peggy-Pickle
trick, he declared, was worth taking some trouble to enjoy, and went far
towards consoling him for the advent of a fashionable young lady in the
place of his mischievous little friend. His generosity was not
sufficient, however, to prevent him from enlarging on the exceeding
beauty of the seedlings which had been so ruthlessly disturbed, and
Peggy listened in an agony to a string of names wherein syllables ran
riot. _Salpiglossis_! Alas, alas! she had not the faintest idea what
the flower was like, but the name was exquisite, all-satisfying. It
rolled off her tongue with sonorous effect. To speak of it alone would
have been joy. She looked so meek and wretched that Rob nerved himself
to fresh efforts, and wrought miracles on her behalf, so that if by any
chance she admired a plant in The Larches' garden, that plant was
transplanted bodily to Yew Hedge, and smiled a welcome to her on her
next approach.
The gardener pointed out the folly of moving plants in bloom, and
prophesied failure; but no failure came, for plants have their likes and
dislikes, like other living creatures, and there is no doubt that they
are more amiably disposed to some people than to others. If another man
had been rash enough to disturb their flowering, they would have sulked
for the rest of the season, and made him suffer for his boldness; but no
plant ever sulked at Robert Darcy. He had simply to lay it down in any
spot he liked, and, behold, it grew and flourished! His fingers seemed
to possess the power to impart health and strength, and, thanks to his
care, Peggy soon felt safe from ridicule, at least on the score of her
garden, and could devote herself with an easy mind to the work indoors.
She experienced the usual string of aggravations which are known to
every one moving into a new house; tradesmen took twice the allotted
time to fulfil an order, and eventually sent home the wrong article;
patterns selected were invariably "out of stock"; escapes of gas made it
necessary to deface newly decorated walls; and effects which were
intended to be triumphs of artistic beauty, turned out snares and
disappointments. From the lofty frame of mind which aims at nothing
short of perfection, Peggy subsided by degrees into that resigned
melancholy in which the exhausted strugglers feel that "anything will
do," if only, by chance, a house may be made fit to live in.
It was on the occasion of a final visit to town, two days before the
removal, that Mrs Asplin surprised Peggy by expressing a desire to bear
her company.
"I have several things to do, and I should like to go when I can have
your help," she said; and the vicar's face instantly assumed an
expression of the profoundest dejection. He knew that his wife's
expeditions into town invariably demanded toll in the shape of a nervous
headache the next day, and hastened to raise his usual note of protest.
Why need she go? Could she not send her order by post, or could not
Peggy buy what was wanted? Why tire herself needlessly, when she had no
strength to spare? She knew very well--"How unwell I shall be!"
concluded his wife for him with a laugh. "Really and truly, Austin
dear, I want to do something this time that no one else can do for me.
I'll promise to be careful, and drive about all the time, and get a good
lunch."
"Penny omnibuses, and tea and scones! I know your days in town. Ah,
well, a wilful woman must have her way! If you have made up your mind
to go, it's no use arguing; but I don't know what it can be you need so
badly. We seem to have everything we need."
"Blessed, blessed, ignorance of man!" cried Peggy, rolling her eyes to
the ceiling. "It's all very well for you, sir, who can never wear
anything but a black coat and hat, but consider the fascinations of
summer fashions to poor defenceless women! Mrs Asplin and I want to
look at the shops, and groan in chorus over all the distracting
fripperies which we want so badly, and can't afford. We pretend we have
weighty business; but that is the true explanation, isn't it, dear?"
"Oh yes--I love shop windows!" replied Mrs Asplin vaguely. She had
wandered to the window, and stood looking out on to the garden, with her
back turned to her companions. Peggy would have followed, but, on her
approach, the other walked quickly forward and began stooping over the
flower-beds, and snipping off the withered blossoms. For some reason it
was evident that she did not wish to be followed, and Peggy felt an
uneasy pang at the sight of her flushed, exhausted face. During her
lengthened visit to the vicarage she had become more and more conscious
of the lack of strength shown by the dear mistress of the house. Her
spirit was as cheery as ever, but she no longer raced up and down in her
old impetuous manner, but rather spent half her time resting on the
sofa, with the busy hands lying idly on her lap.
She did not like to make any protest, since Mrs Asplin's mind was
evidently set on going to town, but she privately registered a
determination to charter a hansom by the hour, and see that the shopping
expedition was conducted in the most luxurious manner possible.
It did not seem as if there was much to be done after all, for Peggy's
business being concluded, her companion invested in a yard of ribbon,
and some Berlin wool, and then pronounced her shopping finished.
"But there is something else I have to do, dear," she explained,
catching the girl's glance of amazement. "The real reason why I came up
to-day was to see a doctor. I did not wish to distress them at home,
but I've not been feeling well, Peg; I have not been well for a long
time. I have made an appointment with a doctor in Harley Street, and if
you will go with me I'll be very grateful. I am not nervous, but--but
it feels a little bit lonesome to go alone!"
She turned her face towards the girl and smiled at her, with sweet,
tired eyes, and Peggy's heart gave a sickening throb of apprehension.
She put out her hand and slid it lovingly through the other's arm.
"Of course I'll go, and proud that you ask me! Poor darling! so that is
the way you do your shop-staring! It is just like you to allow yourself
to be blamed, rather than give pain or anxiety. I thought you were
looking ill, and am so glad you have made up your mind to consult a
first-rate man. He will find out what is the matter, and put you right
again in no time."
"He can't put new works into an old machine. Not even the cleverest
doctor can do that. The springs are giving out, Peg, and I can only be
repaired, not cured. I don't expect to be made well, but I want to keep
going if possible, for the sake of Austin and the children. I have been
intending to pay this visit for a year back, but I kept putting it off
and off. I was afraid of what he might say."
"Nonsense! Afraid, indeed! He'll laugh at your fears, and give you a
tonic which will make you perfectly well again."
Mrs Asplin smiled, and was silent. Twenty-one could not be expected to
realise the weakness and pain which come as companions, and not as
guests; the weakness which must grow greater instead of less; the pain
which cannot be charmed away. It is not to be wished that it should,
for youthful optimism has its own work to accomplish in the world; but
it would tend to a better understanding between old and young, if the
latter would remember that it is the lack of hope which makes the
bitterest drop in the cup of age! To bear the weary ache, and know that
it will grow worse; to feel one power after another slipping away, and
to realise that it is for ever; to be lonely, and to see the loneliness
closing in ever deeper and deeper. Ah, think of it, young impatient
soul! Think of it and be tender, be loving! Spare not the sweet gift
of sympathy. The time will come when you will long to have done still
more.
Peggy held Mrs Asplin's hand in her own as they sat waiting together in
the doctor's study, and kept her seat sturdily through the interview
which followed. She felt instinctively that her presence was a support
to her friend, and that the consciousness of her sympathy was a support
during the trying ordeal. The doctor questioned, and the patient
replied. He scanned her face with his practised eyes, felt her pulse,
and produced a stethoscope from the table. Then for a time there was
silence, while he knelt and listened, and listened again, and Peggy
heard her own heart throb through the silence. He was an old man, with
an expression full of that large tenderness which seems the birthmark of
the true physician, and he lingered over his task, as if unwilling to
face what lay beyond. At last he rose and laid the stethoscope
carefully on the table, letting his fingers linger over the task. Peggy
heard him catch his breath in a struggling sigh, and for a moment his
eyes met her own, anxious and troubled.
"Well?" queried Mrs Asplin gently. "Well, tell me the verdict!"--and
the doctor crossed the room again and seated himself by her side.
"My dear lady, you ask a hard question. It is difficult to say in a few
words all that one thinks of a case. You are not strong; you need rest.
I will prescribe for you, and see you again later on, and meanwhile I
should like to see your husband, if he could have a talk with me here.
There are certain rules which I should like you to observe, but we don't
care to trouble patients with these matters. It is simpler and better
to instruct their friends."
Mrs Asplin looked at him steadily, a smile lighting up her face.
"Ah, doctor, it won't do. You can't take me in at all!" she cried in
her winsome Irish voice. "It's the truth I want, and no pretence. My
husband believes that I am shop-gazing in Regent Street, and that's all
he is going to hear about this visit. He is delicate himself, and puts
an altogether exaggerated value on his old wife. Indeed, he'd worry us
both to death if he knew I were ill. Don't be frightened to speak
plainly. I am not a coward! I can bear the truth, whatever it may be.
It is the heart that is wrong?"
"Yes," he said, and looked at her with kindly eyes. There was an
invincible fascination about Mrs Asplin which strangers were quick to
acknowledge, and it was easy to see that admiration and respect combined
to make his task exceptionally trying. "Yes, the heart is very weak.
It can never have been strong, I think, and you have not spared
yourself. You are the kind of woman who has lived, in the fullest sense
of the word; lived in every faculty--"
"Every single one, and I'm thankful for it! I've been so happy, so
rich, so sheltered! Whatever happens now, I have been one of the most
fortunate of women, and dare not complain. So tell me, please, what
does it mean? To what must I look forward?"
"You must face the fact that you can no longer afford to live at full
pressure. You must be content to let others work, and to look on
quietly. I fear you must face increasing weakness and languor."
"And for--how long? My children are still young. I should like to see
them settled. I should like to feel my husband had other homes open to
him when he was left alone. If I am _very_ careful--for how long?"
Peggy closed her eyes with a feeling of suffocation. The pulses in her
ears were beating like hammers, the floor seemed to rock to and fro
beneath her feet, and the doctor's voice sounded from an immense
distance.
"Perhaps three years. I don't think more. If you ask me for an honest
opinion, I should say probably three years--"
Three years to live, and then--_death_. Three years longer in that
happy home, and then good-bye to all who loved her. Three years! Three
years! The words repeated themselves over and over in Peggy's brain as
she sat motionless in her chair, staring at the opposite wall. Outside
in the street an organ was grinding out a popular air, the front door
opened and shut, and footsteps passed along the hall, a little heathen
idol upon the mantelpiece nodded his head at her in mocking fashion.
Some one was talking at the other end of the room in a quiet, level
tone, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. It was surely--surely
not Mrs Asplin herself?
"Thank you! It is kinder to tell me the truth; but the time is shorter
than I expected. I should like to ask one more question. Shall I be
doing my husband a wrong in keeping this from him? Could he do anything
to prolong my life? I am most anxious not to throw this shadow over our
home; but if he could help in any way, it would, of course, be my duty
to spare him the pain of knowing afterwards that more might have been
done."
"He could do nothing except shield you from exertion, and that you can
do for yourself. I should say, on the whole, that it would be better
for you, even physically speaking, to secure the cheerfulness of
surrounding that would come from ignorance, than to be continually
reminded of yourself by the anxiety of your family. Remember always
that you are your own best doctor! I have told you the worst, and now I
may add that I have known people in as precarious a condition as
yourself live twice, and even three times the time specified by their
doctors. You know what is needful--a peaceful life without excitement;
fresh air, rest, and, above all things, the specific which our Quaker
friends have named for us, `_The quiet mind_.'"
His voice dropped to a softened cadence as he spoke those last words,
and the tears started in the listener's eyes.
"Yes--yes! I know. I'll remember that. Thank you, thank you for all
your kindness!"
The eyes of doctor and patient met in a long, steady glance, which had
in it a light, as of recognition. They were friends indeed, though they
met for the first time to-day; for they were bound together by the
closest of ties, in that they both served and trusted a common Master!
In that moment, when as it seemed she stood upon the brink of death,
Mrs Asplin's mind travelled with lightning speed over the years which
had passed since she first gave herself and her concerns into the hands
of her Saviour, and trusted Him to care for her in this world and the
next. Had He ever failed her? A thousand times, no! Sickness,
anxiety, even death itself, had visited her home, but the peace which
was Christ's parting gift to His disciples had dwelt in her heart, and
He Himself had never seemed so near as when trouble fell, and for a time
hid the sun in the skies. If she had known beforehand that she was to
lose her first-born darling, to spend long years in painful anxiety
about her husband's health, and to see her children's future crippled
for lack of means to give them the best opportunities, her heart would
have sunk with fear, and she would have declared the trial too great for
her strength; yet He had enabled her to bear them all, and with each
fresh trial had given a fresh revelation of His mercy. She had
submitted to His will, weeping, it may be, but without bitterness or
rebellion, and the reward had come in the serene peacefulness which
possessed her soul. Christ had done all this for her, and now in this
latest trial she looked to Him to support and comfort to the end.
"Thank you, doctor," she murmured once more; and a moment later Peggy
and Mrs Asplin were in the passage, following the old butler towards
the door. It seemed years and years since they had paced it last, but
nothing had changed. The man let them pass out without a glance in
their direction, as though it were the most commonplace thing in the
world for people to receive a death-warrant in the course of half an
hour's visit. The pavement outside was flooded with sunshine, carriages
were driving to and fro; two men walking along together broke into a
peal of laughter as they passed; a newsboy shouted out some item of
popular interest. Nobody knew, nobody cared! The great, noisy, cruel
world jostled on its way as if such things as death and parting had no
meaning in its ears. Peggy's young heart swelled with bitterness. She
dared not speak to Mrs Asplin, dared not trust her own voice, but she
drew the thin hand through her arm, and gripped it with passionate
fervour. They walked on in silence the length of the block, then
stopped instinctively, and exchanged a long, earnest look. Mrs
Asplin's eyes were shining with a deep inward glow, the colour had come
back to her cheeks, her expression was calm and peaceful.
"Peggy, child!" she exclaimed softly; "you are so white! This has been
a strain for you, dearie. You must have lunch at once."
Even at this supreme moment of her life her first thought was for
others, not herself!