"DON'T you think you could manage the walk, dear, to-day?" said Mabel coaxingly one Sunday morning after breakfast.
Isabel looked dubious. "Couldn't we sit here and read?" she said.
"It isn't like going to church," said Mabel discontentedly.
She and Isabel had been pretty regular in their attendance lately, for Mr. Randolph, finding his younger daughter wished to go, had ordered that the carriage should always be in readiness to take her. Sometimes he had gone with her himself, and sometimes her mother and Julia had joined them.
Altogether it had been a very happy summer to Isabel and her father. She suffered from languor and weakness during the hottest part of the weather. But since the summer had begun to wane, and the days to grow cooler, she had felt better. And so Mabel felt sure she could walk to church if she tried, and she pressed it upon her as a positive duty. They could not have the carriage to-day, for Mrs. Randolph wished to go and see a friend at a distance who was ill. And Mr. Randolph was away upon business, so that Isabel could not have that excuse for staying at home, thought Mabel.
She had discovered that if Isabel did not go to church on Sunday, she generally contrived to go and see Mrs. Barker during the following week, and she was still a little jealous of the old lady's influence over her cousin, and had never quite forgiven her for sundry home truths that had been spoken to herself. As one of the people whom she—Mabel—was supposed to be able to teach, it was not pleasant to go and see her, as Isabel did, in the character of a scholar. And so now she pressed Isabel to go to church with the greater pertinacity on this account.
"Very well, dear, I'll go," said Isabel at last. But even as she spoke, she heaved something like a sigh of weariness at the prospect of such a long walk.
"That's right, make haste and get your things on," said Mabel briskly. "It will be a lovely walk across the fields such a fine morning."
Mabel enjoyed the walk immensely, but before they reached the church, she could not but notice how tired Isabel seemed. "I am afraid I have walked too fast for you, dear," she said. "We will go more slowly."
"I am tired," admitted Isabel. "I hope it won't rain before we get home," she added in a little alarm. "Look at those clouds over there."
Mabel did look, and tried to laugh off her cousin's fears. But after they got into church, instead of attending to the service, her eyes and thoughts wandered to the opposite window, where she could see that the clouds were slowly gathering in blackness all round. Poor Isabel was spared this anxiety, for she was too weary to think of anything, and sat leaning back in the corner with her eyes closed, looking utterly worn out. But presently there was a sound that roused even her dormant faculties, for the rain-drops were pattering on the windows, and she looked at Mabel in dismay.
"It won't last long," whispered her cousin confidently.
But the rain continued to come down steadily and incessantly, so that it seemed impossible for either of them to attend to the service for the fright this had caused them.
"Perhaps mamma did not go before the rain came on, and she will send the carriage," whispered Isabel when the service was over, and the people began to move.
Mabel nodded. "We will wait here until it comes," she said. "You sit still, and I'll go and look if it is here yet."
Mabel made several journeys to the church door, but each was unsuccessful. And at last they began to see that they would have to leave the church, for the sexton wanted to close the doors.
"You'll get a cab round the corner," he said. And not knowing what else to do, the two girls started off in quest of one. But they walked nearly half a mile, and got very wet before one was found.
Isabel went to bed as soon as she reached home, and Mabel took care that every remedy she knew of as being good for a cold should be promptly applied. And doubtless it did her cousin a great deal of good, but it could not undo the mischief that the long walk, and the fright, and the wetting had done.
When Mr. Randolph came home the next day, he found his younger daughter very ill. And though the doctor spoke lightly of it as a "slight attack," the anxious father was very much alarmed.
But Isabel began to improve after the first day or two, and by the end of the week she was able to leave her bed, and be carried to the couch in her own sitting-room. Everybody hoped that she would soon be down-stairs again now, but her progress towards convalescence seemed to be arrested at this point. The weather was cold and damp, and although always bright and cheerful, it seemed as though the springs of her life had been chilled and exhausted.
Mr. Randolph soon grew anxious again, and talked of calling in a physician to see her, but Isabel begged him so earnestly to wait a little longer before doing this that at last he consented to wait for a week to see if there was any further improvement.
Mabel could not understand why her cousin should have such an objection to the physician being sent for. And when they were by themselves she said, "Why are you so afraid of this physician, Isabel?"
"I do not think I am afraid exactly, dear, but—but I want to get used to the thought of going home soon before papa knows it."
"Going—home—soon," uttered Mabel with whitening lips. "Oh, Bella, Bella, what have I done?" she gasped, covering her face with her hands.
"Don't—don't, Mabel," said the invalid, gently drawing down her hands.
"But what do you mean? You cannot mean that—that—" and Mabel stopped.
"That I am going to begin to live in earnest soon, that is it; this earth life has only been a half-dying sort of life. I have never been able to do as other girls did, but it will be changed soon, and I shall begin to live thoroughly—think of it, Mabel—to live, to live!" said Isabel exultantly.
"But, my darling, I don't understand," said her cousin, wiping away the fast-falling tears; "how can you know this?"
"The voice has told me—the Seed, and the Word, and the Light, and the Voice—they all mean the same thing, Mrs. Barker says. And so you see I cannot be mistaken, for God Himself has told me that I am going home soon. I shall not get stronger, as dear papa hopes, but weaker and weaker until the end comes."
"Then why not have the physician at once? He might recommend something that would do you good."
But Isabel shook her head. "He would tell papa to take me away to Nice, or Mentone, or some of those places, and I want to die at home, with you and papa and everybody that loves me. You will stay with me to the very last, won't you, Mabel?"
"Yes, yes. But, oh, what have I done?" exclaimed Mabel, wringing her hands in agony.
"Nothing, dear. That little cold I caught did not cause this. I have been learning to know it all the summer. I have been just slipping away for a long time, I think—ever since my cough got worse in the spring, but the last few days I have known it would be soon now."
Mabel sat crying silently by her cousin's couch. Oh how bitterly she regretted urging her cousin to go to church now, and the pride and jealousy of Mrs. Barker that led to it! She had succeeded in persuading herself at the time that as it was a good thing to go to church, therefore it must be good for her and Isabel to go. But no such sophistry would avail her now. It might be, as Isabel said, that this had not caused the more serious part of her illness, but she believed herself and she knew her uncle and aunt also believed, that this had been the active cause of arousing all the more serious mischief.
Poor Mabel! She was indeed to be pitied, and the more, perhaps, that for the last few months she had set herself steadily to the task of rooting out the seeds of pride that hindered the growth of the good seed in her heart. She had been more pleasant and yielding with Julia, been less watchful for any little affront that might be offered to herself, and more guarded in her own behaviour lest she should offend. And that this should happen now, just when she thought she was gaining a victory over herself, was indeed a trial and mystery to her.
Her uncle and aunt were, of course, very angry with her. And Mr. Randolph at first felt inclined to yield to his wife's proposal, that she should be sent home at once. But Isabel was so distressed when she heard of it, and Mabel begged so earnestly to be allowed to stay and nurse her cousin at least until she was a little better, that Mr. Randolph yielded the point at last, but he could not wholly forgive Mabel yet.
Before the end of the week stipulated for by Isabel, her father insisted upon sending for the physician who had seen her once or twice before, and the verdict he had to give was anxiously waited for by Mr. Randolph. Alas! Before he saw her, the physician knew what that verdict would have to be, and he almost dreaded to meet the searching gaze that he knew awaited him down-stairs.
Mr. Randolph drew him into the library and shut the door. "Now, tell me what you think of her, doctor," he said as he handed him a chair.
"It is useless for me to try and deceive you," said the physician compassionately. And then as gently as he could, he told the heart-stricken father all the truth—that there was no hope, and a few weeks would probably end the mortal life of his best-beloved daughter.
Mr. Randolph proposed taking her away to the south of France at once, but the physician shook his head. "It would be downright cruelty to attempt it," he said. "If I had seen that such a change would have done her any good, I should have ordered it last spring. But I knew that the fatigue and excitement incident upon travelling, would but have hastened the end, and you would only have taken her away to die. Her gentle placid disposition, and the even tenor of her life, has doubtless prolonged her existence by some months," added the physician.
"But she caught cold and got overfatigued a short time ago—it was that that brought on the attack," said Mr. Randolph.
"It may have accelerated things a little, but this damp cold weather has done the most mischief. If I am not greatly mistaken, she knows herself that the end is near, for as I was leaving her she whispered, 'You will not send me away, doctor?' And her eyes said plainly enough that she knew it would be of no use."
Mr. Randolph covered his face with his hands and groaned in agony. "Forgive me, doctor," he said after a pause, "but the world will be empty to me when she has left it. She has been the home sunshine, and there is not a servant in the house but could tell you of some little kindness done, some little considerate act in sparing them trouble, or helping them over a difficulty—Oh, doctor, doctor, can nothing save her?" he broke off, wringing his hands in anguish.
The physician was a Christian, and, valuable as his time was, he contrived to spare an hour to sit and comfort the sorrow-stricken father so that at last he was able to go to Isabel calm at least.
She saw in a moment that the physician had told him the truth, and holding out her arms she said, "Papa, papa, it will not be for long; we shall soon be together again. I have prayed for you, papa, and I know that God is answering my prayers. He is taking me that He may win you too, for He loves you, papa—loves you so much that He gave His only begotten Son for you—for you, papa," she gasped, for the exertion of saying so much had almost overpowered her.
"Hush, hush, my darling, you must not talk. Shall I send for nurse to come and stay with you?" he asked.
She looked up at him quickly. "You won't send Mabel away, papa—poor Mabel! She is almost breaking her heart as it is."
"No, dear, she shall stay if you wish it."
"I do wish it, papa. I could not do without her now, she helps me and comforts me so much. But you may send for nursey too, she will like to be here, I know, and she can sit beside me at night sometimes, and keep the others company." For she knew that the servants almost quarrelled among themselves for the privilege of "sitting up with Miss Isabel."
So it was arranged that nurse should be sent for to take up her abode in the house. And before the messenger was sent with the note requesting her to do this, Mabel contrived to say, "And you would like to see Mrs. Barker sometimes, wouldn't you, dear? Shall I write and ask her to walk over as often as she can?"
Isabel looked at her cousin. "Would you like it, Mabel?" she asked eagerly.
"Yes, dear, I should now. I am ashamed of feeling jealous because she took up my neglected work, and so had the joy of leading you first to the Lord Jesus Christ."
"Never mind, you have helped me too; I don't know how I should have got on without you, Mabel. But still I should like to see Mrs. Barker, and have one more talk with her before I am too weak. Tell her to come soon, Mabel."
Nurse was not long in obeying the summons to come to Isabel.
And the next morning Mrs. Barker appeared, to Mrs. Randolph's great surprise, who could not understand why her daughter should want nurse's lodger as well as herself.
But Isabel's lightest wish was law now, and so the old lady was taken up to her room.
She was greatly moved at seeing Isabel so prostrate, and yet so calm and happy. "I want to know just a little more about the seed," she said. "You see, I cannot wait for the harvest, I am going home in the springtime, and have only green blades. I do wish sometimes I could have stayed for the fruit."
"But, my dear young lady, you are bearing fruit. The fruits of the Spirit are love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance; these are of the heart, and are all that God asks of you. He knows that active service and outward battling is impossible for you, but that Christ is daily growing in you—that you are one of the branches joined to the true Vine, and thus His life is proved to be in you by these fruits of the Spirit, for without Him you could do nothing."
"Oh, if I had not learned this—learned to love the Lord Jesus, who loved me and gave Himself for me—how miserable I should be now!" exclaimed Isabel. "I should have been unhappy and fretful, and miserable at the thought of dying so young. But now I can trust God, even for dear papa, for I know that the seed is beginning to grow in him, and God will teach and help him to root up all the weeds that hinder its growth."
It was the last long talk she was able to have with Mrs. Barker.
As the days went on, she grew rapidly weaker. She suffered very little pain, beyond the restlessness at night. During the day she dozed a great deal, or lay with Mabel's hand clasped in hers, occasionally asking for a few verses from the Bible, or a hymn to be read to her. But even this soon wearied her, and she would doze off again before Mabel had read many lines.
Mr. Randolph rarely left the house now, except for an hour on the most urgent business, and spent a great deal of his time in Isabel's room, where he could not help learning much that he had never heard of before, and which awoke in him thoughts, and desires, and resolutions that afterwards blossomed into a consistent Christian life. So that when at last the end came, and he had to give back to God the gift intrusted to him for a little while, he could do it with a hope that by and by he should join his beloved daughter in the kingdom where there is no sickness and no partings.
As soon as her cousin's funeral was over, Mabel returned home a wiser if a somewhat sadder girl.
As she stood in her own little room on the eve of her sixteenth birthday, and thought of the hopes and aspirations she had spoken of to herself the year before, she said half aloud: "Ah, the mistake I made was looking too far ahead, and being too ambitious, and so I failed to see the work that God had already given me—the duties that lay nearest to me. Oh, dear, how much I have missed through this! But, God helping me, Isabel shall not have died in vain, I will strive to be content with the smallest service—the lowest place now."
And Mabel kept her word. It cost her many a hard battle before she could quite settle down as her sister's governess and her mother's helpful daughter. But she conquered at last, winning victory from defeat, but never quite forgiving herself for the mistakes she made in that most eventful year of her life.
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