Part 95 (2/2)

How kindly they have made me one of them! I need not ask Charlotte to take care of Bustle, and your father will ride Deloraine. My love to him, and earnest thanks, for you above all, Amy. And dear mamma! I must look now to meeting her in a brighter world; but tell her how I have felt all her kindness since I first came in my strangeness and grief.

How kind she was! how she helped me and led me, and made me know what a mother was. Amy, it will not hurt you to hear it was your likeness to her that first taught me to love you. I have been so very happy, I don't understand it.'

He was again silent, as in contemplation, and Amabel's overcoming emotion had been calmed and chastened down again, now that it was no longer herself that was spoken of. Both were still, and he seemed to sleep a little. When next he spoke, it was to ask if she could repeat their old favourite lines in ”Sintram”. They came to her lips, and she repeated them in a low, steady voice.

When death, is coming near, And thy heart shrinks in fear, And thy limbs fail, Then raise thy hands and pray To Him who smooths the way Through the dark vale.

Seest thou the eastern dawn!

Hear'st thou, in the red morn, The angel's song?

Oh! lift thy drooping head, Thou, who in gloom and dread Hast lain so long.

Death comes to set thee free, Oh! meet him cheerily, As thy true friend And all thy fears shall cease, And In eternal peace Thy penance end.

'In eternal peace,' repeated Guy; 'I did not think it would have been so soon. I can't think where the battle has been. I never thought my life could be so bright. It was a foolish longing, when first I was ill, for the cool waves of Redclyffe bay and that s.h.i.+pwreck excitement, if I was to die. This is far better. Read me a psalm, Amy, ”Out of the deep.”'

There was something in his perfect happiness that would not let her grieve, though a dull heavy sense of consternation was growing on her.

So it went on through the night--not a long, nor a dreary one--but more like a dream. He dozed and woke, said a few tranquil words, and listened to some prayer, psalm, or verse, then slept again, apparently without suffering, except when he tried to take the cordials, and this he did with such increasing difficulty, that she hardly knew how to bear to cause him so much pain, though it was the last lingering hope. He strove to swallow them, each time with the mechanical 'Thank you,' so affecting when thus spoken; but at last he came to, 'It is of no use; I cannot.'

Then she knew all hope was gone, and sat still, watching him. The darkness lessened, and twilight came. He slept, but his breath grew short, and unequal; and as she wiped the moisture on his brow, she knew it was the death-damp.

Morning light came on--the church bell rang out matins--the white hills were tipped with rosy light. His pulse was almost gone--his hand was cold. At last he opened his eyes. 'Amy! he said, as if bewildered, or in pain.

'Here, dearest!'

'I don't see.'

At that moment the sun was rising, and the light streamed in at the open window, and over the bed; but it was ”another dawn than ours” that he beheld as his most beautiful of all smiles beamed over his face, and he said, 'Glory in the Highest!--peace--goodwill'--A struggle for breath gave an instant's look of pain, then he whispered so that she could but just hear--'The last prayer.' She read the Commendatory Prayer. She knew not the exact moment, but even as she said 'Amen' she perceived it was over. The soul was with Him with whom dwell the spirits of just men made perfect; and there lay the earthly part with a smile on the face. She closed the dark fringed eyelids--saw him look more beautiful than in sleep--then, laying her face down on the bed, she knelt on. She took no heed of time, no heed of aught that was earthly. How long she knelt she never knew, but she was roused by Anne's voice in a frightened sob--'My lady, my lady--come away! Oh, Miss Amabel, you should not be here.'

She lifted her head, and Anne afterwards told Mary Ross, 'she should never forget how my lady looked. It was not grief: it was as if she had been a little way with her husband, and was just called back.'

She rose--looked at his face again--saw Arnaud was at hand--let Anne lead her into the next room, and shut the door.

CHAPTER 36

The matron who alone has stood When not a prop seemed left below, The first lorn hour of widowhood, Yet, cheered and cheering all the while, With sad but unaffected, smile.

--CHRISTIAN YEAR

The four months' wife was a widow before she was twenty-one, and there she sat in her loneliness, her maid weeping, seeking in vain for something to say that might comfort her, and struck with fear at seeing her thus composed. It might be said that she had not yet realized her situation, but the truth was, perhaps, that she was in the midst of the true realities. She felt that her Guy was perfectly happy--happy beyond thought or comparison--and she was so accustomed to rejoice with him, that her mind had not yet opened to understand that his joy left her mourning and desolate.

Thus she remained motionless for some minutes, till she was startled by a sound of weeping--those fearful overpowering sobs, so terrible in a strong man forced to give way.

'Philip!' thought she; and withal Guy's words returned--'It will be worse for him than for you. Take care of him.'

'I must go to him,' said she at once.

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