Stranica 179 [179]
OCR
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 doing 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 remembrance 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 shuddering 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 brightly,—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 blithesome 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. Another—again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble mourners 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 devoted 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 wished 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 forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired, that such recollections 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 removed; 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; anything 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
