Janet's Love and Service Part 25

"Well, we have everything to hope if we can see her safely through the spring without taking cold, and you must keep her cheerful."

"She is always cheerful."

"Well--that's well. You must not let her do anything to weary herself.

I don't like the stove-heat for her. You should let her sleep in the other room where the fireplace is. When the days are fine, she must be well wrapped up and go out, and I will send her something. My dear, you have no occasion for despondency. The chances are all in her favour."

He went toward the door, but came back again, and after walking up and down the room for a little, he came close to Graeme.

"And if it were not so, my child, you are a Christian. If the possibility you have been contemplating should become a reality, ought it to be deplored?"

A strong shudder pa.s.sed over Graeme. The doctor paused, not able to withstand the pain in her face.

"Nay, my child--if you could keep her here and a.s.sure to her all that the world can give, what would that be in comparison with the 'rest that remaineth?' For her it would be far better to go, and for you--when your time comes to lie down and die--would it sooth you then to know that she must be left behind, to travel, perhaps, with garments not unspotted, all the toilsome way alone?"

Graeme's face drooped till it was quite hidden, and her tears fell fast.

Her friend did not seek to check them.

"I know the first thought is terrible. But, child! the grave is a safe place in which to keep our treasures. Mine are nearly all there. I would not have it otherwise--and they are safe from the chances of a changeful world. You will be glad for yourself by and by. You should be glad for your sister now."

"If I were sure--if I were quite sure," murmured Graeme through her weeping.

"Sure that she is going home?" said the doctor, stooping low to whisper the words. "I think you may be sure--as sure as one can be in such a case! It is a great mystery. Your father will know best. G.o.d is good.

Pray for her."

"My father! He does not even think of danger." Graeme clasped her hands with a quick despairing motion.

"Miss Graeme," said the doctor, hastily, "you must not speak to your father yet. Marian's case is by no means hopeless, and your father must be spared all anxiety at present. A sudden shock might--" He paused.

"Is not my father well? Has he not quite recovered?" asked Graeme.

"Quite well, my dear, don't be fanciful. But it will do no good to disturb him now. I will speak to him, or give you leave to speak to him, if it should become necessary. In the meantime you must be cheerful. You have no cause to be otherwise."

It was easy to say "be cheerful." But Graeme hardly hoped for her sister, after that day. Often and often she repeated to herself the doctor's words, that there was no immediate danger, but she could take no comfort from them. The great dread was always upon her. She never spoke of her fears again, and shrank from any allusion to her sister's state, till her friends--and even the faithful Janet, who knew her so well--doubted whether she realised the danger, which was becoming every day more apparent to them all. But she knew it well, and strove with all her power, to look calmly forward to the time when the worst must come; and almost always, in her sister's presence, she strove successfully. But these quiet, cheerful hours in Marian's room, were purchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to Him who is full of compa.s.sion, even when His chastis.e.m.e.nts are most severe.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

No. None knew so well as Graeme that her sister was pa.s.sing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. Even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than Marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, Graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. As far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. The children's lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by Marian's side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. Still, she hardly called herself ill. She suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. Her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, Graeme could not bear to put it away. Their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. One by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. Within reach of her hand lay always Menie's little Bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was Graeme's trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. Almost to the very last she came out to family wors.h.i.+p with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. And the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise.

Very quietly pa.s.sed these last days and nights. Many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. Even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to Mrs Snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pa.s.s together. Tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to Graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them.

"Graeme," said Marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, "you are tired to-night. Come and lie down beside me and rest, before Will and Rosie come home."

Weary Graeme was, and utterly despondent, with now and then such bitter throbs of pain, at her heart, that she felt she must get away to weep out her tears alone. But she must have patience a little longer, and so, lying down on the bed, she suffered the wasted arms to clasp themselves about her neck, and for a time the sisters lay cheek to cheek in silence.

"Graeme," said Marian, at last, "do you think papa kens?"

"What love?"

"That I am going soon. You know it, Graeme?"

Graeme's heart stirred with a sudden throb of pain. There was a rus.h.i.+ng in her ears, and a dimness before her eyes, as though the dreaded enemy had already come, but she found voice to say, softly,--

"You're no' feared, Menie?"

"No," said she, quickly, then raising herself up, and leaning close over, so as to see her sister's face, she added, "Do you think I need to fear, Graeme?"

If she had had a thousand worlds to give, she would have given all to know that her little sister, standing on the brink of the river of death, need not fear to enter it.

"None need fear who trust in Jesus," said she, softly.

"No. And I do trust Him. Who else could I trust, now that I am going to die? I know He is able to save."

"All who come to him," whispered Graeme. "My darling, have you come?"

"I think he has drawn me to Himself. I think I am His very own.

Graeme, I know I am not wise like you--and I have not all my life been good, but thoughtless and wilful often--but I know that I love Jesus, and I think He loves me, too."

She lay quietly down again.

"Graeme, are you afraid for me?"

"I canna be afraid for one who trusts in Jesus."

It was all she could do to say it, for the cry that was rising to her lips from her heart, in which sorrow was struggling with joy.

"There is only one thing that sometimes makes me doubt," said Marian, again. "My life has been such a happy life. I have had no tribulation that the Bible speaks of--no buffetting--no tossing to and fro. I have been happy all my life, and happy to the end. It seems hardly fair, Graeme, when there are so many that have so much suffering."

"G.o.d has been very good to you, dear."

"And you'll let me go willingly, Graeme?"

"Oh! Menie, must you go. Could you no' bide with us a little while?"

said Graeme, her tears coming fast. A look of pain came to her sister's face.

"Graeme," said she, softly; "at first I thought I couldna bear to go and leave you all. But it seems easy now. And you wouldna bring back the pain, dear?"

"No, no! my darling."

"At first you'll all be sorry, but G.o.d will comfort you. And my father winna have long to wait, and you'll have Rosie and Will--and, Graeme, you will tell papa?"

"Yes, I will tell him."

"He'll grieve at first, and I could not bear to see him grieve. After he has time to think about it, he will be glad."

"And Arthur, and all the rest--" murmured Graeme.