‘How do you feel now, Margaret?’
‘Nearly over, Miss Nelly. I shall die with the morning.’
A week later, and the patient had got gradually worse. The constant
exposure, the hard life, and the weeks of semi-starvation, had told
its tale on the weak womanly frame. The exposure in the rain and cold
on that eventful night had hastened on the consumption which had long
settled in the delicate chest. All signs of mental exhaustion had
passed away, and the calm hopeful waiting frame of mind had succeeded.
She was waiting for death; not with any feeling of terror, but with
hopefulness and expectation.
Up to the present, Eleanor had not the heart to ask for any memento
or remembrance of the old life; but had nursed her patient with an
unceasing watchful care, which only a true woman is capable of. All
that day she had sat beside the bed, never moving, but noting, as hour
after hour passed steadily away, the gradual change from feverish
restlessness to quiet content, never speaking, or causing her patient
to speak, though she was longing for some word or sign.
‘You have been very good to me, Miss Nelly. Had it not been for you,
where should I have been now!’
‘Hush, Margaret; don’t speak like that. Remember, everything is
forgiven now. Where there is great temptation, there is much
forgiveness.’
‘I hope so, miss—I hope so. Some day, we shall all know.’
‘Don’t try to talk too much.’
For a while she lay back, her face, with its bright hectic flush,
marked out in painful contrast to the white pillow. Eleanor watched her
with a look of infinite pity and tenderness. The distant hum of busy
Holborn came with dull force into the room, and the heavy rain beat
upon the windows like a mournful dirge. The little American clock on
the mantel-shelf was the only sound, save the dry painful cough, which
ever and anon proceeded from the dying woman’s lips. The night sped on;
the sullen roar of the distant traffic grew less and less; the wind
dropped, and the girl’s hard breathing could be heard painfully and
distinctly. Presently, a change came over her face—a kind of bright,
almost unearthly intelligence.
‘Are you in any pain, Madge?’ Eleanor asked with pitying air.
‘How much lighter it is!’ said the dying girl. ‘My head is quite clear
now, miss, and all the pain has gone.—Miss Nelly, I have been dreaming
of the old home. Do you remember how we used to sit by the old fountain
under the weeping-ash, and wonder what our fortunes would be? I little
thought it would come to this.—Tell me, miss, are you in—in want?’
‘Not exactly, Madge; but the struggle is hard sometimes.’
‘I thought so,’ the dying girl continued. ‘I would have helped you
after _she_ came; but you know the power she had over your poor uncle,
a power that increased daily. She used to frighten me. I tremble now
when I think of her.’
‘Don’t think of her,’ said Eleanor soothingly. ‘Try and rest a little,
and not talk. It cannot be good for you.’
The sufferer smiled painfully, and a terrible fit of coughing shook her
frame. When she recovered, she continued: ‘It is no use, Miss Nelly:
all the rest and all your kind nursing cannot save me now. I used to
wonder, when you left Eastwood so suddenly, why you did not take me;
but now I know it is all for the best. Until the very last, I stayed in
the house.’
‘And did not my uncle give you any message, any letter for me?’ asked
Eleanor, with an eagerness she could not conceal.
‘I am coming to that. The day he died, I was in his room, for she was
away, and he asked me if I ever heard from you. I knew you had written
letters to him which he never got; and so I told him. Then he gave
me a paper for you, which he made me swear to deliver to you by my
own hand; and I promised to find you. You know how I found you,’ she
continued brokenly, burying her face in her hands.
‘Don’t think of that now, Margaret,’ said Eleanor, taking one wasted
hand in her own. ‘That is past and forgiven.’
‘I hope so, miss. Please, bring me that dress, and I will discharge my
trust before it is too late. Take a pair of scissors and unpick the
seams inside the bosom on the left side.’
The speaker watched Eleanor with feverish impatience, whilst, with
trembling fingers, she followed the instructions. Not until she had
drawn out a flat parcel, wrapped securely in oiled paper, did the look
of impatience transform to an air of relief.
‘Yes, that is it,’ said Margaret, as Eleanor tore off the covering. ‘I
have seen the letter, and have a strange feeling that it contains some
secret, it is so vague and rambling, and those dotted lines across it
are so strange. Your uncle was so terribly in earnest, that I cannot
but think the paper has some hidden meaning. Please, read it to me.
Perhaps I can make something of it.’
‘It certainly does appear strange,’ observed Eleanor, with suppressed
excitement.
Turning towards the light, Eleanor read as follows:
[Illustration: _Darling, we must now be friends. Remember, Nelly, in
the garden you promised to obey my wishes. Under the care of Miss
Wakefield I hoped you would improve but now I see it was not to be, and
as prudence teaches us that all is for the best I must be content. Ask
Edgar to forgive me the wrong I have done you both in the past, and
this I feel his generous heart will not withhold from me. Now that it
is too late I see how blind I have been, and could I live my life over
again how different things would be. Times are changed, yet the memory
of past days lingers within me, and like Niobe, I mourn you. When I am
gone you will find my blessing a gift that is better than money._]
The paper was half a sheet of ordinary foolscap, and the words
were written without a single break or margin. It was divided
perpendicularly by five dotted lines, and by four lines horizontally,
and displayed nothing to the casual eye but an ordinary letter in a
feeble handwriting.
The tiny threads of fate had begun to gather. All yet was dark and
misty; but in the gloom, faint and transient, was one small ray of
light.
Eleanor gazed at the paper abstractedly for a few moments, vaguely
trying to find some hidden clue to the mystery.
‘You must take care of that paper, Miss Nelly. Something tells me it
contains a secret.’
‘And have you been searching for me two long years, for the sole
purpose of giving me this?’ Eleanor asked.
‘Yes, miss,’ the sufferer replied simply. ‘I promised, you know.
Indeed, I could not look at your uncle and break a vow like mine.’
‘And you came to London on purpose?’
‘Yes. No one knew where I was gone. I have no friends that I remember,
and so I came to London. It is an old tale, miss. Trying day by day
to get employment, and as regularly failing. I have tried many things
the last two bitter years. I have existed—I cannot call it living—in
the vilest parts of London, and tried to keep myself by my needle; but
that only means dying by inches. God alone knows the struggle it is for
a friendless woman here to keep honest and virtuous. The temptation
is awful; and as I have been so sorely tried, I hope it will count in
my favour hereafter. I have seen sights that the wealthy world knows
nothing of. I have lived where a well-dressed man or woman dare not
set foot. Oh, the wealth and the misery of this place they call London!’
‘And you have suffered like this for me?’ Eleanor said, the tears now
streaming down her face. ‘You have gone through all this simply for my
sake? Do you know, Madge, what a thoroughly good woman you really are?’
‘_I_, miss?’ the dying girl exclaimed in surprise. ‘How can I possibly
be that, when you know what you do of me! O no; I am a miserable sinner
by the side of you. Do you think, Miss Nelly, I shall be forgiven?’
‘I do not doubt it,’ said Eleanor softly; ‘I cannot doubt it. How many
in your situation could have withstood your temptation?’
‘I am so glad you think so, miss; it is comfort to me to hear you say
that. You were always so good to me,’ she continued gratefully. ‘Do you
know, Miss Nelly dear, whenever I thought of death, I always pictured
you as being by my side?’
‘Do you feel any pain or restlessness now, Margaret?’
‘No, miss; thank you. I feel quite peaceful and contented. I have done
my task, though it has been a hard one at times. I don’t think I could
have rested in my grave if I had not seen you.—Lift me up a little
higher, please, and come a little closer. I can scarcely see you now.
My eyes are quite misty. I wonder if all dying people think about their
younger days, Miss Nelly? _I_ do. I can see it all distinctly: the old
broken fountain under the tree, where we used to sit and talk about the
days to come; and how happy we all were there before she came. Your
uncle was a different man then, when he sat with us and listened to
your singing hymns. Sing me one of the old hymns now, please.’
In a subdued key, Eleanor sang _Abide with me_, the listener moving her
pallid lips to the words. Presently, the singer finished, and the dying
girl lay quiet for a moment.
‘Abide with me. How sweet it sounds! “Swift to its close ebbs out
life’s little day.” I am glad you chose my favourite hymn, Miss Nelly.
I shall die repeating these words: “The darkness deepens; Lord, with me
abide.” Now it is darker still; but I can feel your hand in mine, and I
am safe. I did not think death was so blessed and peaceful as this. I
am going, going—floating away.’
‘Margaret, speak to me!’
‘Just one word more. How light it is getting! Is it morning? I can see.
I think I am forgiven. I feel better, better! quite forgiven. Light,
light, light! everywhere. I can see at last.’
It was all over. The weary aching heart was at rest. Only a woman, done
to death in the flower of youth by starvation and exposure; but not
before her task was done, her work accomplished. No lofty ambition to
stir her pulses, no great goal to point to for its end. Only a woman,
who had given her life to carry out a dying trust; only a woman, who
had preserved virtue and honesty amid the direst temptation. What an
epitaph for a gravestone! A eulogy that needs no glittering marble to
point the way up to the Great White Throne.