Oldal 179 [179]
131
palance—the racking thoughts that crowd
upon the mind, and make the heart beat
violently, and the breath come thick, by
the force of the images they conjure up
before it—the desperate anxiety to be do¬
ing something to relieve the pain, or
lessen the danger which we have no
power to alleviate; and the sinking of
soul and spirit which the sad remem¬
brance of our helplessness produces,—
what tortures can equal these, and what
reflections or efforts can, in the full tide
and fever of the time, allay them!
Morning came; and the little cottage
was lonely and still. People spoke in
whispers; anxious faces appeared at the
gate from time to time, and women and
children went away in tears. All the
livelong day, and for hours after it had
wn dark, Oliver paced softly up and
own the garden, raising his eyes every
instant to the sick-chamber, and shudder¬
ing to see the darkened window looking
as if death lay stretched inside. Late at
night Mr. berne arrived. “It is
hard,” said the good doctor, turning away
as he spoke, “so young—so much beloved
—but there is very little hope.”
Another morning the sun shone bright¬
ly,—as brightly as if it looked upon no
misery or care; and, with every leaf and
flower in full bloom about her,—with life,
and health, and sounds and sights of joy
surrounding her on every side, the fair
young creature lay wasting fast. Oliver
crept away to the old church-yard, and,
sitting down on one of the green mounds,
wept for her in silence.
here was such peace and beauty in
the scene, so much of brightness and
mirth in the sunny landscape, such blithe¬
some music in the songs of the summer
birds, such freedom in the rapid flight of
the rook careering overhead, so much of
life and joyousness in all, that when the
boy raised his aching eyes, and looked
about, the thought instinctively occurred
to him that this was not a time for death ;
that Rose could surely never die when
humbler things were all so glad and gay ;
that graves were for cold and cheerless
winter, not for sunlight and nce.
He almost thought that shrouds were for
the old and shrunken, and never wrapped
the young and graceful form within their
ghastly folds.
A knell from the church-bell broke
harshly on these youthful thoughts. An¬
other—again! It was tolling for the fu¬
neral service. A group of humble mourn¬
ers entered the gate, and they wore white
favours, for the corpse was young. They
stood, uncovered, by a grave; and there
was a mother—a mother once—among
the weeping train. But the sun shone
brightly, and the birds sang on.
Oliver turned homewards, thinking on
the many kindnesses he had received from
the young lady, and wishing that the time
could come over again, that he might
never cease showing her how grateful
for self-reproach on the score of neglect
or want of thought, for he had been de¬
voted to her service; and yet a hundred
little occasions rose up before him on
which he fancied he might have been
more zealous and more earnest, and wish¬
ed he had been. We need be careful how
we deal with those about us, for every
death carries with it to some small circie
of survivors thoughts of so much omitted,
and so little done; of so many things for¬
gotten, and so many more which might
have been repaired, that such recollec¬
tions are among the bitterest we can have.
There is no remorse so deep as that which
is unavailing; if we would be spared its
tortures, let us remember this in time.
When he reached home, Mrs. Maylie
was sitting in the little
he trembled to think what change could
have driven her away. He learnt that
she had fallen into a deep sleep, from
which she would waken again either to
recovery and life, or to bid them farewell,
and die.
They sat, listening, and afraid to speak,
for hours. The untasted meal was re¬
moved; and, with looks which showed
that their thoughts were elsewhere, they
watched the sun as he sank lower and
lower, and at length cast over sky and
earth those brilliant hues which herald
his departure. Their quick ears caught
the sound of an approaching footstep, and
they both involuntarily darted towards the
door as Mr. Losberne entered.
s What of Rose?’ cried the old lady.
“Tell me at once. I can bear it; any¬
thing but suspense. Oh, tell me! in the
name of Heaven!”
“ You must compose yourself,” said the
doctor, supporting her. “Be calm, my
dear ma’am, pray.”
“Let me go, in Gods name!” genes
Mrs. Maylie. “My dear child! She is
dead! She is dying!”
“No!” cried the doctor, passionately.
“As He is good and merciful, she will
live to bless us all for years to come.”
The lady fell upon her knees, and triea
Aye