Not so with myself. I could not sleep; every wish to do so was gone, chased away by my sister's words, and I lay looking out on the balcony, that appeared white as snow beneath the silver moonlight. What did aunt mean? why had she not told me? and why when saying it to Charlotte did her voice lower and tremble? Those changes must have been conspicuous indeed for my careless sister to have observed them. Then came back suddenly to my recollection the words spoken by aunt, which, though not understood by me at the time, nevertheless took such painful hold upon my heart: "For indeed, my dear children, I am not strong, and it would be no light matter to me to experience the hours of anxiety," etc. Coupling this sentence with the announcement made to Charlotte, could it be? did she know it? was she—was she going to die?
This thought, which seemed to flash like fire through my brain, sent a rush of agony to my heart beyond my power to lie still and endure. Softly leaving the bed, I stole to the window and sat down, and gazed for some time with tearless, unconscious eyes on the singular view, white and ghost-like in the moonbeams. Our kind, gentle, loving benefactress—oh, more than that, our tender, devoted mother!—was she going to die? going to leave us? Were we never again to meet in this world? to hear her soft, earnest voice? be encouraged and brightened by her affectionate smile?
The hour, the wild loneliness of the place and the death-like stillness within and without sharpened these reflections to a degree of keenness which for a while quite bewildered me by the intensity of their misery, they were so new, so sudden and so unprepared for; for though always delicate, our cheerful, enduring, uncomplaining aunt was one of the very last people with whom I should of myself have connected the chill, dreary idea of death; for—alas that so it is and ever will be!—darkness and cold and dreariness are the brief attributes of death to our mortal nature, and we shrink from it even when the sting is removed and the grave no longer triumphs.
But now, the perception once awakened, one remembrance after another came thronging to my mind, until dread doubt became an overwhelming certainty, and bowing my face in my hands upon my knees, I wept such tears as I had never before shed in my young life. Nor did they bring me that relief the tears of childhood had hitherto done; they were hot and scalding, and seemed but to scorch my pained heart. After a while I bethought me I was not acting as aunt would approve, and how unhappy it would make her were she now to see me thus hopelessly and rebelliously yielding myself up to sorrow. Sliding down upon my knees, I prayed long and ardently—prayed that dear aunt might be spared. Oh, never before had I experienced more truly the feeling of praying from my soul and heart as I did now! My whole being trembled with the fervour of my petitions. I wished to pray for our good, kind uncle, that support might be given him, if God, in his divine wisdom, still saw best to remove her from amongst us, and for a spirit of submission in myself, but I could not. I felt as if it were impossible any amount of support could in the slightest degree reconcile us to a loss that seemed like wrenching away the principal part of our very existence. I grew more calm, however, for prayer will always bring a peace to the believer's heart which the whole world cannot give at such times, and presently I returned again to my bed and to a dreamy sleep extending later into the beautiful morning than I wished.
CHAPTER IX.
The bright sunshine, the soft voice of birds, whose songs in that clime, though brief and broken, are peculiarly melodious, the glow and glitter and warm stir of life above, below and on every side, were altogether so little in unison with the sad thoughts which had agonized my mind the previous night that my spirits, buoyant with youth, yielded to these cheering influences, and began to rise again to their own level. Hope struggled within my heart, and so far succeeded that, as I pursued my morning's walk through the sweet garden and over the memorable plank bridge to the Flats, I commenced to question with myself whether Lotty's view of the case might not after all be the right one, and that the more likely because her cooler, quieter judgment would favour her discerning the truth more clearly than my anxious disposition admitted of. Perhaps dear aunty was only meditating a short visit to some friend's house, and could not conveniently take us with her as heretofore. Yes, I would hope and wait.
MECHIE AND THE GARDENER.