“I suppose I ought to be grateful to you, Dr. Grey, for Katie and Robert have told me how patiently and carefully you nursed and watched over me, during my illness; but instead of gratitude, I find it difficult to forgive you for what you have done. You fanned into a flame the spark of life that was smouldering and expiring, and baffled the disease that came to me as the handmaid of Mercy. Death, transformed into an angel of pity, kindly opened the door of escape from the woe and weariness of this sin-cursed world, into the calmness and dreamless rest of the vast shoreless Beyond; and just when I was passing through, you snatched me back to my burdens and my bitter lot. I know, of course, that you intended only kindness, but you must not blame me if I fail to thank you.”
“You forget that life is intended as a season of fiery probation, and that without suffering there is no purification, and no reward. Remember, ‘Calm is not life’s crown, though calm is well;’ and those who forego the pain must forego the palm.”
“I would gladly forego all things for a rest,—a sleep that could know no end. Katie tells me I have been ill a month, and from this brief season of oblivion you have dragged me back to the existence that I abhor. Dr. Grey, I feel to-day as poor Maurice de Guérin felt, when he wrote from Le Val, ‘My fate has knocked at the door to recall me; for she had not gone on her way, but had seated herself upon the threshold, waiting until I had recovered sufficient strength to resume my journey. “Thou hast tarried long enough,” said she to me; “come forward!” And she has taken me by the hand, and behold her again on the march, like those poor women one meets on the road, leading a child who follows with a sorrowful air.’”
“There is a better guide provided, if you would only accept and yield to his ministrations. For the flint-faced fate that you accuse so virulently, substitute that tender and loving guardian the Angel of Patience.
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‘To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God’s meekest Angel gently comes. . . . . . . . . . . There’s quiet in that Angel’s glance, There’s rest in his still countenance! . . . . . . . . . . The ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure. . . . . . . . . . . He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, ‘Be resigned.’ |
A moment since, you quoted De Guérin, and perhaps you may recollect one of his declarations, ‘I have no shelter but resignation, and I run to it in great haste, all trembling and distracted. Resignation! It is the burrow hollowed in the cleft 313 of some rock, which gives shelter to the flying and long-hunted prey.’ You will never find peace for your heart and soul until you bring your will into complete subjection to that of Him ‘who doeth all things well.’ Defiance and rebellious struggles only aggravate your sorrows and trials.”
She listened to the deep, quiet voice, as some unlettered savage might hearken to the rhythmic music of Homer, soothed by the tones, yet incapable of comprehending their import; and as she looked up at the grave, kingly face, her eyes fell upon the broad band of crape that encircled his straw hat, which had been hastily placed on the mantelpiece.
“Dr. Grey, you ought to speak advisedly, for Robert told me that you had recently lost your sister, and that you are now alone in the world. You, who have severe afflictions, should know how far resignation lightens them. I was much pained to learn that your sister died while you were absent,—while you were sitting up with me. Ah, sir! you ought to have watched her, and left me to my release. You have been very kind and considerate toward one who has no claim upon aught but your pity; and I would gladly lie down in your sister’s grave, and give her back to your heart and home.”
Her countenance softened for an instant, and she held out her hand. He took the delicate fingers in his, and pressed them gently.