University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

HOW did we hear it! how did we bear to hear it!—I do
not know—there seems a mist over that day when my
father came in from his walk and told us, what she herself
had said: that the life-current of the best friend we had at
Glen Luna, would perhaps not last out the tide of that
swift-running year.

I say I know not how we heard it, and yet I remember
the unbelief—so hard to give up; the bitter tears, so hard
to stay. The anxious questioning of physicians, the unvarying
reply—that those months of weakness and ill-health
had been but the gradual wearing out from which there was
no return,—the gentle drawing back of every bolt and bar
that hindered the free spirit's flight. Yet still Kate and I
hoped; in spite of the grave certainty on my father's face
—the steadfast sorrow on Mrs. Howard's; with a hope that
Phœnix like, died and sprung up again from its own ashes.
It would live—everywhere but in Miss Easy's presence.
She did not speak to us of her daily decreasing strength:
she was placid, cheerful as she had ever been; and except
that we found her on the sofa instead of at the window or
in her garden, things seemed much as usual. But the eye
that met us as we entered the room, the quiet keeping of
our hands after the first clasp was over, said, O how plainly,
“Not long!”—and sometimes the steady, absent gaze

through the bay-window, spoke of other scenes with which
the mind was already growing familiar. We could have
better borne an expression that had more of earth. Much as
we had loved her for those years of sympathetic friendship,
we were drawn yet closer by the love with which she now
clung to us—even more than ever,—as deepen the waters
of a stream before the barrier that is raised to their future
progress. Miss Easy's greatest earthly comfort seemed to
be in our society. At first it was little more than the
society of heart—even our eyes shrank from encountering
hers; and many an hour passed in almost unbroken silence.
Not always,—sometimes we ventured to talk, and often
read to her; and sometimes—but that was not at first—we
sang her favourite hymns. And by degrees, as heart and
voice learned to control themselves, we grew to loving all
—especially the last—as no pleasure can be loved that is
not mixed with one drop of great bitterness.

I said there was no spring like that of life,—neither is
there any autumn like that which sometimes follows the
young heart's summer: when the leaves fall that cannot
be replaced, and the birds fly away that will never come
back. When the stream that swept off the rubbish of
every-day life is stayed with ice which the spirit will scarce
ever have heat enough to thaw away. In the calm we had
enjoyed for several months, old annoyances seemed to
have faded out, but with this new, real sorrow, how quickly
and vividly they all revived! We felt as if it was the fall
of everything—money diminishing, difficulties increasing;
and the one friend near us whom we loved and trusted,
passing away like the rest! It is not enough to have the
support of one's own immediate family,—a single fibre of
confidence that can take root without, fetches much comfort,
and strengthens and refreshes all within. And the
fibre takes hold so joyously if perchance it finds a soil that
neither repels nor dries it up!—it is hard transplanting.

“Yes,” said Miss Easy thoughtfully, as we sat by her
one afternoon, “yes—we have loved each other very much.
Ever since the day when this child came running in from
the woods, and stood looking so shyly and quietly at me, I
have loved her—loved you all. I thought the wind had the
best hair-brush I had ever seen, Gracie. And you are just

what you were then—yes, every one of you—only better.
What should I do without you now!”

“I wish you would let us stay here all the time, dear
Miss Easy,” said Kate.

“No, it isn't necessary for me, and it wouldn't be good
for you, dear—no, I am sure of it. I won't let you be here
except in the day; at least not at present.”

“We love to be here,” said Kate softly; and I looked up
and added, “Very much!”—and Miss Easy smiled her belief
of our words, but still repeated,

“Not at present.”

How glad we all were that Miss Avarintha was away!
how happy to want her bustling attentions! and though
Miss Easy never said as much, we were sure she thought it.
Indeed she could hardly help feeling the different manner in
which my stepmother did everything; for putting heart out
of the question, Mrs. Howard was perfect in that very point
where Miss Bain was most deficient—“the not too much.”
A blessed thing everywhere, especially in a sick room.
How quietly and thoughtfully was all arranged, provided,
or directed! and by such counsels and example, Kate and I
became as Miss Easy declared, “the two best little mice she
had ever seen.” But my stepmother could not be satisfied
that the long nights should be passed alone; and by dint
of a true woman's gentle management and persuasion she
carried her point, and came to the Bird's Nest every night
to take the place we had supplied by day. And then after
an early breakfast, Kate and I would have a quick frosty
walk in the morning air, to find my stepmother at her
friend's side, reading or talking in a voice that carried comfort
with it. And Miss Easy would say tearfully,

“I went to sleep with your mother here Katie, and I
dreamed that it was an angel.”

The days never seemed long when we sat there working
and talking, or listening in our turn—the bright hopefulness
of Miss Easy's face almost forbade their being sad: we
were half beguiled into her glad acceptance of whatever
God sent. But as November fairly set in—as the leaves
lost more and more of October's bright colouring, and fluttered
dry and shrivelled from the half-stripped trees, how
were the days winged!—how was the little wood-path that

we trod every morning dark with more than the sun's absence!
and as his long beams looked at us over the Brown
bluff as we walked slowly home at night, they glanced
from my heart as it had been ice—bringing only a quick
feeling of pain by their exceeding brightness.

We were less constantly with Miss Easy now,—she
could not bear to have many in her room at once, and my
stepmother being most needed, hardly ever left it. A letter
from Miss Easy's own hand (she would let no one else
write it) had summoned Mr. Rodney; and he had arrived,
and did very much to help and support both patient and
nurse. Still our friend made a point of seeing us every
day, but they were quiet visits—little said on either side
except by the eye and the hand, and that little almost too
much. Many a time did Kate and I go weeping home, after
one of those long looks of affection from Miss Easy, so
full of sympathy for our trembling words, so unshrinking,
so undoubting for herself.

The last few days of November came; and with them
all the glory of Indian summer,—warm, sunny, breathless:
the remaining leaves unstirred; the hills blue with haze.
Even Brown bluff lost its ruggedness under the universal
veil of that soft sunlight.

We had gone rather late to the Bird's Nest, hoping first
to get some message; for without this the walk was always
one of painful forebodings: but no message came, and not
willing to wait longer Kate and I set out. No word was
spoken—the bright glory of the afternoon was oppressive—
clouds would have been pleasanter. We could not breathe
freely in that perfect stillness; and as we passed the white
curtains—hanging listlessly and unlooped-up now—our
steps were quickened, and I saw Kate's hand pressed upon
her heart, as if to silence that too.

We saw no one when we first reached the house, and
going softly up stairs we entered Miss Easy's room. She
appeared to be half sleeping, and with more weariness and
prostration in her attitude than we had ever seen—the position
of the very fingers seemed involuntary. She was a
little raised up, supported by pillows, and my stepmother's
gentle hands had arranged her hair, and tied over it one of
those handkerchiefs which it had become second nature to

wear; and a very slight motion of the fringed ends was the
only token that breath yet came through the parted lips.
We gazed fearfully for a moment, then looked round for
Mrs. Howard. She had gone to lie down; and there was
no one in the room but Mr. Rodney, who had risen at our
entrance and now stood at the other side of the bed,—a
look was our only greeting.

The windows were all open, and the warm light had found
its way even in here; and beautiful pictures lay without,—
on one side, of the lake—on the other, of meadow-land,
then our bluff, and the smoky hills beyond. Again that
painful stillness—the chirp of a bird, the rustle of some
dry leaf as it fell, were all,—each breath that we drew was
more and more smothered; while Mr. Collingwood's watch
measured off the minutes that we were to stand there.

They were not many.—Miss Easy turned her head
slightly and opened her eyes; and her first look fell on us.
The never-failing smile came on the instant—grave, amid
all its sweetness.

“Come to see me once more!” she said, holding out her
hand. “Dear children! yes, they have been such a comfort!”

We stooped down to kiss her, but without venturing to
speak; and then when we had drawn our chairs close to
the bed, she took both our hands in one of hers, and giving
the other to Mr. Rodney she again closed her eyes, and lay
for a while quiet: the gentle pressure of the hand from
time to time, just telling that she remembered and loved
our presence.

“Katie,” she said then, speaking low and at intervals,
“never allow yourself to dread anything. Ever since I lost
my mother, one sorrowful thought has been on my mind—
that I should die alone,—and see what has come of it!—
how safely we may trust all to God's arranging!—What
could I have more?—not one friend, but several—the best.
—Could any sister have been like your mother—could I
have loved my own children better than I love you
three!”—

“The love is not lost,” said Mr. Rodney gently.

Again she lay still, but looking out at the bright landscape
and the declining sun.

“It was from this window I saw your flag, little Gracie
—and thought what a sister it must be for whom you took
so much trouble,—how long ago—how past! We have
been very happy together—we shall be yet happier—I
trust. `Not lost'—O no!—it brings some pain, but more
pleasure. I am quite happy—I shall look for you all!”

“You are not suffering, dear Miss Easy?” said Kate
after another pause.

“No love—I have nothing but peace,—this weariness
only betokens rest—`from this place I cannot so much as
see Doubting Castle.'”

Another short silence, and then without opening her eyes,
Miss Easy said,

“Sing to me.”

But how?—We had commanded ourselves so far, our
hearts had been as it were locked up that no sorrow might
come forth to show itself: but that little request told so
much of the past, so much of the future, compliance was
almost impossible—it was like the touch of a master-key.
In vain Kate strove—the words would not come unless tears
came with them; and then, thoughtfully kind as ever, Mr.
Rodney gave us time, and himself began the hymn.

The words, the tune, albeit the voice that sang them
steadied itself with difficulty, calmed us. There are some
feelings too high, too much above the world not to stay its
tears; and that one breath of `things eternal' seemed to
keep down the swelling of our hearts—to carry them away
from `things temporal';—and still clasping Miss Easy's
hand we sang to her of that faith she had so long practised
—that refuge she had so long sought.

“Another—” she said,—“my favourite.”

Again we sang, but the words were more of life's weakness—it
was harder work.

The mind might have had its wish, for Miss Easy's face
was clear as if all shadows of earth had fled away—as if
faith had almost given place to sight, when she said,

“Once more—`My faith looks up to Thee!'”

It was sung—though with that nervous moving of the
lip and wavering of the voice that were controlled only
because they must be; but with the ending of the last
verse all my fortitude gave way,—I was trembling from
head to foot.

Closer Miss Easy held my hand.

“He will do that,” she said—“for me—for you. `His
covenant will he not break,'—His word cannot fail—see
that your trust fail not.” She was silent a moment, and in
that moment came the twittering of a bird under the window,
clear, distinct—it was like the echo of those last
words, “See that you trust him!” And Miss Easy looking
up at us with exceeding fondness and with a smile that
yet shone through tears, said,

“Good-night my dear children!—I must not keep you
longer.”

We bent over her, and passing her arm round each of
us she kissed us once and again, and then after one more
long look, quietly closed her eyes and we left her. But as
we passed through the door we heard her say slowly,

“No more on earth!—but oh Mr. Rodney, I shall see
them in heaven!”

And hastily going down stairs Kate and I went into the
little parlour, and wept out all the smothered feelings of
that afternoon.

“No more on earth!”—she spoke true. When we met
my stepmother in the morning there was no need to ask
tidings—they were written on her face. Gentle, peaceful
as had been life, even such was death—“the golden bridge
from earth's clay-banks to heaven's shore!”

The Indian summer still lingered;—as lingered the smile
upon Miss Easy's face,—loth to give place to darkness and
decay. It was there to the last,—the soul's own gilding
on its broken temple—the written receipt of all the blessings
to which she had looked forward. That face might

have convinced an unbeliever;—how strongly it repeated
to us, “See that your trust fail not!”

In that very room where three days before we had sung
of the hope that was now perfected, we three stood looking
from the north window. The same golden light, the
same soft haze, the same sun sending his slant beams over
the Brown bluff; while along the little path that wound
about its base, rising and falling with the broken ground,
went the little train of dark figures. They were but few—
Mr. Ellis, my father, Mr. Rodney, our old retainer Ezra Barrington,
Squire Suydam, and some of the poor country people
whom she had befriended, were all. We would not have
had it otherwise—we would not have had a crowd of careless
ones:—in that handful of men there were not more
figures than hearts; and as they now and then stopped to
change bearers, we knew it was a precious office to them
all,—knew there was not one whose foot would not go
gently over the rough ground, whose hand was not tenderly
adjusted to its work. And so we watched them—
sending our hearts too, with the procession, till it had
passed round the bluff, and in all that fair prospect there
was nothing but the warm sunshine of Indian summer.