Still there was no response, and Miss Wynward went down again to Margaret.
“I think you had better come up without waiting for her consent,” she said, “if seeing you roused her, even to anger, it would do her good. Do you mind making the attempt?”
“No,” replied Margaret, “but if the Baroness gets very angry, you must let me run away again. I am quite unequal to standing anything like a scene!”
“You will have but to quit the room. Whatever her ladyship may say she cannot move from her couch. She attacked poor Miss Brandt most unwarrantably last evening, but that was in the first frenzy of her grief. She is quite different now!”
“Poor woman!” again ejaculated Margaret, as she followed Miss Wynward, not without some inward qualms, to the presence of Madame Gobelli. But when she caught sight of the immovable figure on the couch, all her fear and resentment left her, overcome by a mighty compassion. She went straight up to the Baroness and bending down tenderly kissed her twitching face.
“Dear Madame,” she said, “I am—we all are—so truly sorry for your grievous loss. It reminds me of the bitter time, not so long ago, you may remember, when I lost my darling little Ethel, and thought for the while that my life was over! It is so hard, so unnatural, to us poor mothers, to see our children go before ourselves! I can weep with you tear for tear! But do remember—try to remember—that he is safe—that though you remain here with empty arms for a while, death can no more take your boy from you, than a veil over your face can take God’s light from you. He is there, dear Madame Gobelli—just in the next room with the door closed between you, and though I know full well how bitter it is to see the door closed, think of the time when it will open again—when you and I will spring through it and find, not only our dear Bobby and Ethel, but Christ our Lord, ready to give them back into our arms again!”
The Baroness said nothing, but two tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her flabby cheeks. Margaret turned from her for a minute and walking up to the bed, knelt down beside it in prayer.
“Dear Christ!” she said, “Thou Who knowest what our mothers’ hearts are called upon to bear, have pity on us and give us Thy Peace! And open our eyes that we may gather strength to realise what our dear children have escaped by being taken home to Thee—the sin, the trouble, the anxiety, the disappointment—and make us thankful to bear them in their stead, and give us grace to look forward to our happy meeting and reunion in the Better Land.”
Then she rose and bent over the dead boy.
“Dear Bobby!” she murmured, as she kissed the cold brow, and placed the white blossoms in his hands and round his head. “Good-bye! I know how happy you must be now, in company with the spirits of all those whom we have loved and who have gone home before us—how grateful you must feel to the dear Redeemer Who has called you so early—but don’t forget your poor mother upon earth! Pray for her, Bobby,—never cease to ask our dear Lord to send her comfort and peace and joy in believing. For His own dear sake. Amen!”