C. M. Tucker.’
From these words it would seem as if already some dim sense had come that her time on Earth was nearly over. She was indeed drawing very close to the dark River, which to her did not look dark but bright; and perhaps her eyes had already caught the ‘glitter’ of its waters. A friend, writing soon after, observed: ‘She had been growing more and more conscious of weakness, if not actually weaker, and was looking forward eagerly to release.’ In the month of November came what she was wont to call ‘her Indian Birthday,’—the day on which she had first landed on Indian shores, eighteen years before. And, as she soon after said, when ill, though not yet so ill as to cause anxiety: ‘When the Anniversary of my arrival in this country came round this year, I felt that my work was done, and that I should not live to see another.’
To some minds it may appear as if this perpetual longing for death contained something of a morbid and unhealthy nature. No doubt, as a general rule, it is perfectly natural to cling to life, to shrink from death; and where a desire for the latter exists, it often is romantic and unnatural, or else it arises from impatience of life’s troubles, and from a wish to escape those troubles. This, however, was not the case with Charlotte Tucker. Her romance was never unhealthy romance; she was not cowardly, nor was she in the least morbid. On the contrary, she was thoroughly healthy, high-spirited, vigorous in body and mind,—exceptionally vigorous for her years, through the greater part of middle life and old age, till within a short time before her death. And although she had certainly numerous trials in the course of her seventy-two years,—as who has not?—hers was in many respects a very happy life. She had freedom from money cares; she had plenty of interests; she had success in her pursuits; she had abundance of loving and steadfast friends; she had, above all, one most satisfying intimacy; and, in addition to these things, she had a natural buoyancy, a keen sense of fun, a ready appreciation of the ridiculous, which in themselves would brighten life, and which are not characteristics usually found in morbid and self-centred people.
What was unusual in her was the strong and intense realisation of the Other World. Spiritual things to her were absolutely real. That which is unseen was to her as if seen. The love of Christ was more to her than the love of all earthly friends. Paradise was more to her than Earth. It was not that she did not love Earth, but that her love for Heaven was greater. It was not that she could not enter into the bright things of this world, but that she found the things of the Other World brighter still. She could never be satisfied with the present life; because she was always craving for the higher existence, always longing to rise ‘nearer—nearer’ to God. She was like a caged lark, impatient for freedom. And at last, after all these years of waiting, the time was come.
CHAPTER XXI
A.D. 1893
THE HOME-GOING
Up to the end of October Miss Tucker had seemed to be on the whole much the same as usual; though more than one watcher had noted a gradual failure of strength. The expedition to Bahrwal, for the Dedication, proved to be too much for her powers; especially as she insisted on returning to Batala the same evening, so as not to break into another day’s work.
At the time she appeared, as Mrs. Wade afterwards wrote, ‘though frail, wonderfully bright, ... full of conversation while talking to the Bishop and others.’ When the ‘feast’ took place she sat upon the ground among the Indian Christians, after her old style, utterly refusing a chair. Some who were present left in the middle of the day, so soon as the Dedication was over; but Miss Tucker remained till the evening, so as to be present at the second Service. Notwithstanding her brightness, Mr. Clark was much impressed with the alteration in her look; and he has since said that ‘she evidently believed it to be her leave-taking.’
The day ended, Miss Tucker seemed very much exhausted; and when returning by rail, with Mr. and Mrs. Wade, she lay down on the seat to rest. The result of this expedition was a severe cold, with much hoarseness; and though her daily work went on as usual, she must have felt very poorly. Mr. Clark speaks of her as, a few days later, passing through Amritsar, and calling to see himself and his wife. So ill did he think her looking, that the expression he makes use of is: ‘Death was even then written on her face.’