Miss Secker has just been here. She says the report came from the Stone House. Mr. Pevensey had written some hurried orders to the steward, saying Mrs. Pevensey, in crossing the Mer de Glace, had fallen through a crevasse, and, with difficulty, had been drawn up with ropes, alive, but nearly dashed to pieces. Oh, melancholy news! the mother of so large a family! so kind a neighbour! so admirable a wife! so charitable and exemplary in the various relations of life! What a loss she will be, should she not recover! Meanwhile, what responsibility devolves upon poor Arbell, her sole nurse! It is enough to put a grey head on her young shoulders.
This morning, I could not rest till I was off in the donkey-chair to call on Mrs. Prout, and inquire whether she had heard anything from Emily. The post had just come in; I found them in tears over Arbell’s letter, inclosed to them by Emily. It was written at her mother’s bedside, in the little parsonage of a Swiss pasteur.
Poor mamma, she wrote, was taken out more dead than alive. The guides, who were all goodness, made a kind of litter for her with their poles and ropes, and threw their jackets over it. But when papa lifted her on it, she thrilled all over, like a little bird that had fallen out of its nest; and Arbell turned her head away, for it made her feel quite sick. So then, as the litter shook her so much, they only took her at first to the nearest châlet, where there was a very kind bergere, and where they laid her on the heaps of hay for the cows; and a guide ran off to the inn for an English doctor, whose name they happened to have seen on the travellers’ book.
Meanwhile, poor mamma lay quite still; but her face was very cold. And once, when Arbell softly wiped the damp off it, and kissed her white lips, she whispered, “Good girl—dear Arbell!” so that she was ready to burst into tears, but knew she must not. And when the guide came back, he said the English doctor had gone up Mont Blanc; and Arbell could not help thinking, how stupid and wicked it was of him, to be running after such nonsense when he had better have been minding his own business. However, he brought back mamma’s maid, Kent, and a famous mountain doctor, who ordered a sheep to be killed, and mamma to be immediately wrapped in its skin, which they did. And, directly afterwards, a most benevolent-looking pasteur (such another as Oberlin must have been!) came in, with a face of kind concern; and, after a few words with papa, it was arranged that the guides should carry mamma, who seemed in a stupor, to the pasteur’s house, which was close at hand, and much quieter than the inn. So they did so; Arbell holding her vinaigrette to mamma’s nose all the way, though she could not be quite sure it was of any use. When they got there, such a neat old housekeeper came out, quite a Louise Schepler; for the pasteur, like Oberlin, was a widower. But he had no children, which was all the better, because the house was all the quieter. So they took dear mamma into the best bed-room, where everything was very poor and scanty, but very clean; and just then, the English doctor arrived, who had only gone a little way up the mountain after all, and, strange to say! had turned back under an unaccountable impression that he was wanted. And he said, as mamma was in the skin, she might as well remain in it, though it was queer practice; and then he gave her a very strong restorative from the pasteur’s medicine-chest, which made her open her eyes and look slowly round, without turning her head; and then he said “You’ll do, my dear madam, now;” and nodded and smiled, and went off talking to papa quite cheerfully. But, oh! he was quite mistaken; for, as soon as the effect of the restorative subsided, mamma felt herself rapidly sinking, and told papa she knew she was going to die. Then poor papa, who had returned quite hopeful, lost all his courage again, and cried bitterly; and called the pasteur, who came in, and knelt down, and offered, oh! such a heavenly prayer! Even Kent, who understood not one word of it, said the very tone was prayer. He began “Seigneur!”—and then made a great stop—and then began again, “Seigneur! Holy and just are all thy ways! Who shall not magnify thee, O God most holy?” And then went on. Arbell’s head was too confused for her to retain it in her memory, but it sank into her heart, and seemed to carry her up to heaven, quite away from all earthly, vexing cares. And when they rose from their knees, dear mamma was asleep, and slept for hours! Meanwhile, papa got some very strong jelly from the inn, and when she woke, he or Kent gave her a spoonful of it from time to time, which she seemed to like; for, when she wanted more, she opened her lips without speaking; and Arbell or Kent watched her lips all night long, taking it by turns to sleep a little on the ground. Poor papa got a little rest in the easy-chair in the parlour. The doctor—Dr. Thorpe—had come very early in the morning, and twice more in the course of the day, and was excessively kind, though at first he had seemed rather brusque. He said all the travellers, inn-people, and guides were deeply interested in mamma, and prayers were being offered up. (Poor Arbell’s writing was here smeared with tears). An English lady had sent Arbell a little text-book, which was a great comfort to her, and so were many hymns she remembered; but she had her little diamond Bible in her pocket already; there were parts in it that she thought she should never be able to read hereafter without their bringing to mind that little whitewashed room, with table, chairs, and drawers painted sea-green, and cold, uncarpeted floor. She was going to bed that night—papa insisted on it; but at four o’clock Kent would change places with her; the pasteur was going to sleep in the easy-chair. She would soon write to dear Miss Prout again.
Thus ended poor Arbell’s letter. What depths of new experience had she sounded in a few hours! I could not help thinking of those beautiful words of the prophet Hosea, “Come, let us return unto the Lord; for He hath torn, and He will heal us; He hath smitten, and He will bind us up.” I felt an impression that it would be so in this instance.
The Pevenseys had been what people might call a moderately religious family; but without much devotional feeling apparent among them. Mrs. Pevensey was a churchwoman; her husband had been brought up among dissenters; Mademoiselle Foularde was a Roman Catholic; and each had such a well-bred respect for what they deemed the prejudices of one another, that I had sometimes feared it tended to a little indifferentism in practice. But what right had I to judge of others? To their own Master they would stand or fall.
“Motives are all, in Heaven’s impartial eye,
But ’tis not ours to doubt and give the lie;
Let each give credit to his neighbour’s share,