37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
Meanwhile Mara had been lying in the passive calm of
fatigue and exhaustion, her eyes fixed on the window, where,
as the white curtain drew inward, she could catch glimpses
of the bay. Gradually her eyelids fell, and she dropped
into that kind of half-waking doze, when the outer senses
are at rest, and the mind is all the more calm and clear for
their repose. In such hours a spiritual clairvoyance often
seems to lift for a while the whole stifling cloud that lies like
a confusing mist over the problem of life, and the soul has
sudden glimpses of things unutterable which lie beyond.
Then the narrow straits that look so full of rocks and quicksands,
widen into a broad, clear passage, and one after another,
rosy with a celestial dawn, and ringing silver bells of
gladness, the isles of the blessed lift themselves up on the
horizon, and the soul is flooded with an atmosphere of light
and joy. As the burden of Christian fell off at the cross and
was lost in the sepulchre, so in these hours of celestial vision
the whole weight of life's anguish is lifted, and passes away
like a dream; and the soul, seeing the boundless ocean of
Divine love, wherein all human hopes and joys and sorrows
lie so tenderly upholden, comes and casts the one little drop
of its personal will and personal existence with gladness into
that Fatherly depth. Henceforth, with it, God and Saviour
is no more word of mine and thine, for in that hour the child
of earth feels himself heir of all things — “All things are
yours, and ye are Christ's, and Christ is God's.”
“The child is asleep,” said Miss Roxy, as she stole on
tiptoe into the room when their noon meal was prepared.
A plate and knife had been laid for her, and they had
placed for her a tumbler of quaint old engraved glass, reputed
to have been brought over from foreign parts, and
which had been given to Miss Roxy as her share in the
effects of the mysterious Mr. Swadkins. Tea also was
served in some egg-like India china cups, which saw the
light only on the most high and festive occasions.
“Had n't you better wake her?” said Miss Ruey, “a cup
of hot tea would do her so much good.”
Miss Ruey could conceive of few sorrows or ailments
which would not be materially better for a cup of hot tea.
If not the very elixir of life, it was indeed the next thing
to it.
“Well,” said Miss Roxy, after laying her hand for a
moment with great gentleness on that of the sleeping girl,
“she don't wake easy, and she 's tired; and she seems to be
enjoying it so. The Bible says, `He giveth his beloved
sleep,' and I won't interfere. I 've seen more good come of
sleep than most things in my nursin' experience,” said Miss
Roxy, and she shut the door gently, and the two sisters sat
down to their noontide meal.
“How long the child does sleep!” said Miss Ruey as the
old clock struck four.
“It was too much for her, this walk down here,” said
Aunt Roxy. “She 's been doin' too much for a long time.
I 'm a-goin' to put an end to that. Well, nobody need n't
say Mara ha' n't got resolution. I never see a little thing
have more. She always did have, when she was the leastest
little thing. She was always quiet and white and still, but
she did whatever she sot out to.”
At this moment, to their surprise, the door opened, and
Mara came in, and both sisters were struck with a change
that had passed over her. It was more than the result of
mere physical repose. Not only had every sign of weariness
and bodily languor vanished, but there was about her
an air of solemn serenity and high repose that made her
seem, as Miss Ruey afterwards said, “like an angel jest
walked out of the big Bible.”
“Why, dear child, how you have slept, and how bright
and rested you look,” said Miss Ruey.
“I am rested,” said Mara; “oh how much! And happy,”
she added, laying her little hand on Miss Roxy's shoulder.
“I thank you, dear friend, for all your kindness to me. I
am sorry I made you feel so sadly; but now you must n't
feel so any more, for all is well — yes, all is well. I see
now that it is so. I have passed beyond sorrow — yes,
forever.”
Soft-hearted Miss Ruey here broke into audible sobbing,
hiding her face in her hands, and looking like a tumbled
heap of old faded calico in a state of convulsion.
“Dear Aunt Ruey, you must n't,” said Mara, with a voice
of gentle authority. “We must n't any of us feel so any
more. There is no harm done — no real evil is coming —
only a good which we do not understand. I am perfectly
satisfied — perfectly at rest now. I was foolish and weak to
feel as I did this morning, but I shall not feel so any more.
I shall comfort you all. Is it anything so dreadful for me
to go to heaven? How little while it will be before you all
come to me! Oh, how little, little while!”
“I told you, Mara, that you 'd be supported in the Lord's
time,” said Miss Roxy, who watched her with an air of
grave and solemn attention. “First and last, folks allers is
supported; but sometimes there is a long wrestlin'. The
Lord 's give you the victory early.”
“Victory!” said the girl, speaking as in a deep muse,
and with a mysterious brightness in her eyes; “yes, that is
the word — it is a victory — no other word expresses it.
Come, Aunt Roxy, we will go home. I am not afraid now
to tell grandpapa and grandmamma. God will care for
them; He will wipe away all tears.”
“Well, though, you mus' n't think of goin' till you 've had
a cup of tea,” said Aunt Ruey, wiping her eyes. “I 've
kep' the teapot hot by the fire, and you must eat a little
somethin', for it 's long past dinner-time.”
“Is it?” said Mara. “I had no idea I had slept so long
— how thoughtful and kind you are!”
“I do wish I could only do more for you,” said Miss
Ruey. “I don't seem to get reconciled no ways; it seems
dreffle hard — dreffle; but I 'm glad you can feel so;” and
the good old soul proceeded to press upon the child not
only the tea, which she drank with feverish relish, but
every hoarded dainty which their limited house-keeping
commanded.
It was toward sunset before Miss Roxy and Mara started
on their walk homeward. Their way lay over the high
stony ridge which forms the central part of the island. On
one side, through the pines, they looked out into the boundless
blue of the ocean, and on the other caught glimpses of
Harpswell Bay as it lay glorified in the evening light. The
fresh cool breeze blowing landward brought with it an invigorating
influence, which Mara felt through all her feverish
frame. She walked with an energy to which she had long
been a stranger. She said little, but there was a sweetness,
a repose in her manner contrasting singularly with the passionate
melancholy which she had that morning expressed.
Miss Roxy did not interrupt her meditations. The nature
of her profession had rendered her familiar with all the
changing mental and physical phenomena that attend the development
of disease and the gradual loosening of the silver
cords of a present life. Certain well-understood phrases
everywhere current among the mass of the people in New
England, strikingly tell of the deep foundations of religious
earnestness on which its daily life is built. “A triumphant
death” was a matter often casually spoken of among the
records of the neighborhood; and Miss Roxy felt that there
was a vague and solemn charm about its approach. Yet the
soul of the gray, dry woman was hot within her, for the conversation
of the morning had probed depths in her own
nature of whose existence she had never before been so
conscious. The roughest and most matter-of-fact minds
have a craving for the ideal somewhere; and often this
craving, forbidden by uncomeliness and ungenial surroundings
from having any personal history of its own, attaches
itself to the fortune of some other one in a kind of strange
disinterestedness. Some one young and beautiful is to live
the life denied to them — to be the poem and the romance;
it is the young mistress of the poor black slave — the pretty
sister of the homely old spinster — or the clever son of the
consciously ill-educated father. Something of this unconscious
personal investment had there been on the part of
Miss Roxy in the nursling whose singular loveliness she
had watched for so many years, and on whose fair virgin
orb she had marked the growing shadow of a fatal eclipse;
and as she saw her glowing and serene, with that peculiar
brightness that she felt came from no earthly presence or influence,
she could scarcely keep the tears from her honest
gray eyes.
When they arrived at the door of the house, Zephaniah
Pennel was sitting in it, looking toward the sunset.
“Why, reely,” he said, “Miss Roxy, we thought you
must a-run away with Mara; she 's been gone a'most all
day.”
“I expect she 's had enough to talk with Aunt Roxy
about,” said Mrs. Pennel. “Girls goin' to get married have
a deal to talk about, what with patterns and contrivin' and
makin' up. But come in, Miss Roxy; we 're glad to see
you.”
Mara turned to Miss Roxy, and gave her a look of peculiar
meaning. “Aunt Roxy,” she said, “you must tell
them what we have been talking about to-day;” and then
she went up to her room and shut the door.
Miss Roxy accomplished her task with a matter-of-fact
distinctness to which her business-like habits of dealing with
sickness and death had accustomed her, yet with a sympathetic
tremor in her voice which softened the hard directness
of her words. “You can take her over to Portland, if you
say so, and get Dr. Wilson's opinion,” she said, in conclusion.
“It 's best to have all done that can be, though in my mind
the case is decided.”
The silence that fell between the three was broken at last
by the sound of a light footstep descending the stairs, and
Mara entered among them.
She came forward and threw her arms round Mrs. Pennel's
neck, and kissed her; and then turning, she nestled
down in the arms of her old grandfather, as she had often
done in the old days of childhood, and laid her hand upon
his shoulder. There was no sound for a few moments but
one of suppressed weeping; but
she did not weep — she lay
with bright calm eyes, as if looking upon some celestial
vision.
“It is not so very sad,” she said at last, in a gentle voice,
“that I should go there; you are going, too, and grandmamma;
we are all going; and we shall be forever with the
Lord. Think of it! think of it!”
Many were the words spoken in that strange communing;
and before Miss Roxy went away, a calmness of solemn rest
had settled down on all. The old family Bible was brought
forth, and Zephaniah Pennel read from it those strange
words of strong consolation, which take the sting from death
and the victory from the grave: —
“And I heard a great voice out of heaven, `Behold the
tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them,
and they shall be his people; and God himself shall be with
them and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears
from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow nor crying, for the former things are passed away.'”
