Roland Graeme: Knight. A Novel of Our Time

by Agnes Maule Machar

"I wish you could manage to keep Grace, as well as the other children, as much as possible out of the sick-room. Hers isn't a constitution to stand an attack of fever, and she would have it more severely than they."

Nora's heart sank. She was depressed at any rate, and she remembered the old, too true proverb that "misfortunes never come single."

Mr. Alden returned that day, to her great relief; and he at once undertook a large share of the nursing, which the strong, tender-hearted man could so well perform. Anxious as he naturally was, as to the result of this inroad of dangerous disease among his happy little flock, his faith would not allow him to indulge in useless worry; and the influence of his cheerful spirit cheered not only the little patients, in the natural fretfulness of sick children, but also the nurses themselves. The other children were sent away to the house of a relative, but Grace would not be persuaded to leave her post as eldest daughter, though kept, as the doctor had directed, as much as possible out of the sick-room. The little patients' cases proved light, and it was not long before Dr. Blanchard pronounced them out of danger. But, just as they seemed fairly convalescent, Grace was prostrated by the same disease, in a much severer form.

Dr. Blanchard's fears were only too soon verified. The fever ran its course very rapidly—exhausting her small strength in a few days. There was a short period of delirium in which all her talk was of fair and pleasant things,—woodland wanderings,—spring flowers,—intermingled with snatches of childish fairy-tales, and Christian hymns. Nora could always soothe the delirium a little, by singing Grace's favorite, "He Leadeth Me," or her own, "Lead Kindly Light." But when the delirium passed away, it was evident that the quiet which followed was the quiet of approaching death; and, before they could realize the impending calamity, the real Grace was gone. Only the fair form that had enshrined her happy spirit lay there, cold and inanimate as a beautiful statue.

The blow was to them all a stunning one. Nora could scarcely bring herself to believe that their bright little Grace was really dead! She had hoped to the last, doing everything that love and anxiety could suggest. Even when she stood by the still and rigid form in the "white raiment" that loving hands had covered with flowers, she could not get rid of the feeling that the living Grace was somewhere at hand, or cease expecting every moment to hear her familiar voice. It was almost the first time that death had come very near to her, and opened its unfathomable mystery at her feet. And, apart from her deep sorrow for her little friend, the new experience stirred in her heart the haunting questionings that come to us all, at such times of irretrievable loss.

Mrs. Alden was, very naturally, prostrated with grief and watching, and Mr. Alden had been shut up, either with his wife, or alone in his study, most of the time since Grace had quietly drawn her last breath; so that Nora had much to do and to think of, though one or two other friends came in to help. To her, however, was assigned the sad duty of taking in the two or three old friends who, notwithstanding the circumstances, desired to take a last look at the fair unconscious face.

Nora meantime had comparatively little time to think of the subject that had been so engrossing a few days before. It did recur to her again and again, in intervals of quiet;—but of course she had never ventured to intrude the matter on Mr. Alden at such a time. And she had been thinking, now, of Roland Graeme, with profound sympathy. She could easily divine the sorrow that the death of Grace must have brought to him. And she was not surprised, when, on the eve of the funeral, he appeared, looking sad and haggard, with the request that he might look on the sweet face once more.

"Are you sure it's safe for you?" she asked.

"I've had the disease," he replied, "but if I had not, I should still want to do this."

Nora took him to the door of the room, and, with true respect for his sorrow, left him to enter it alone. He stood by the coffin, silently, controlling his emotion, so that he might fix in his memory forever the fair angel-face with its aureole of golden hair, and the happy smile that the last sleep had brought. He could not think it death. After a time, the door opened, and Mr. Alden, looking ten years older, came softly in. He grasped Roland's hand in silence, then stood, like him, looking tenderly down on the marble face. At last he spoke in a broken voice: