“That will be just as God wills. But what I want to say is this. You must go cheerfully to her. If, by all this, God has been preparing her for His presence, you must not let a shadow fall on her last days. It is a wonderful thing to be permitted to walk to the rivers brink with one whom God has called to go over—an honour and blessing greatly to be coveted; and you must not lose the blessing it may be to you, by giving way to a murmuring spirit. Not that I am afraid for you,” she added, laying her hand on Effie’s arm. “All will be well; for I do believe you, and your sister too, are among those whom God will keep from all that can really harm. Don’t vex yourself with trying to make plain things which He has hidden. Trust all to Him, and nothing can go far wrong with you then.”
But it was with an inexpressible sinking of the heart that Effie, when her hurried journey was over, found herself standing at the door of the hospital. It was the usual hour when the patients are visited by their friends; and the servant, thinking she was some one sent by the Seatons, sent her up to the ward at once, without reference to the doctor or the matron of the institution. Thus it was that with no preparation she came upon the changed face of her sister.
If Effie should live to be a hundred years old, she would never forget the first glimpse she had of that long room, with its rows of white beds against the wall. Every one of the suffering faces that she passed stamped itself upon her memory in characters that can never fade; and then she saw her sister.
But was it her sister? Could that face, white as the pillow on which it lay, be Christie’s? One thin, transparent hand supported her cheek; the other—the very shadow of a hand—lay on the coverlet. Was she sleeping? Did she breathe? Effie stooped low to listen, and raising herself up again, saw what almost made her heart cease to beat.
That which Christie had dreaded all these weary weeks, that which she could find no words to tell her sister, had come upon her. “I shall be a cripple all my life,” she had written; that was all. Now the thin coverlet betrayed with terrible distinctness her mutilated form. Effie saw it, and the sight of it made the row of white beds and the suffering faces on them turn round. She took one step forward, putting forth her hands like one who is blind, and then fell to the floor.
The shock to Effie was a terrible one. For a while she struggled in vain with the deadly faintness that returned with every remembrance of that first terrible discovery. She was weary with her journey, and exhausted for want of nourishment, having eaten nothing all day. Her very heart seemed to die within her, and the earth seemed to be gliding from beneath her feet. She was brought back to full consciousness with a start, as she heard some one say:
“She ought not to have seen her. She must not see her again to-night. She must go away and come again in the morning.”
With a great effort she rose.
“No,” she said, quietly and solemnly; “I cannot go away. I shall never leave her again, so help me God!”
She rose up, and with trembling fingers began to arrange her hair, which had fallen over her face. Some one gently forced her into a chair.