“Miss Graeme,” said the doctor, hastily, “you must not speak to your father yet. Marian’s case is by no means hopeless, and your father must be spared all anxiety at present. A sudden shock might—” He paused.
“Is not my father well? Has he not quite recovered?” asked Graeme.
“Quite well, my dear, don’t be fanciful. But it will do no good to disturb him now. I will speak to him, or give you leave to speak to him, if it should become necessary. In the meantime you must be cheerful. You have no cause to be otherwise.”
It was easy to say “be cheerful.” But Graeme hardly hoped for her sister, after that day. Often and often she repeated to herself the doctor’s words, that there was no immediate danger, but she could take no comfort from them. The great dread was always upon her. She never spoke of her fears again, and shrank from any allusion to her sister’s state, till her friends—and even the faithful Janet, who knew her so well—doubted whether she realised the danger, which was becoming every day more apparent to them all. But she knew it well, and strove with all her power, to look calmly forward to the time when the worst must come; and almost always, in her sister’s presence, she strove successfully. But these quiet, cheerful hours in Marian’s room, were purchased by hours of prayerful agony, known only to Him who is full of compassion, even when His chastisements are most severe.
Chapter Eighteen.
No. None knew so well as Graeme that her sister was passing away from among them; but even she did not dream how near the time was come. Even when the nightly journey up-stairs was more than Marian could accomplish, and the pretty parlour, despoiled of its ornaments, became her sick-room, Graeme prayed daily for strength to carry her through the long months of watching, that she believed were before her. As far as possible, everything went on as usual in the house. The children’s lessons were learned, and recited as usual, generally by Marian’s side for a time, but afterwards they went elsewhere, for a very little thing tired her now. Still, she hardly called herself ill. She suffered no pain, and it was only after some unusual exertion that she, or others, realised how very weak she was becoming day by day. Her work-basket stood by her side still, for though she seldom touched it now, Graeme could not bear to put it away. Their daily readings were becoming brief and infrequent. One by one their favourite books found their accustomed places on the shelves, and remained undisturbed. Within reach of her hand lay always Menie’s little Bible, and now and then she read a verse or two, but more frequently it was Graeme’s trembling lips, that murmured the sweet familiar words. Almost to the very last she came out to family worship with the rest, and when she could not, they went in to her. And the voice, that had been the sweetest of them all, joined softly and sweetly still in their song of praise.
Very quietly passed these last days and nights. Many kind inquiries were made, and many kind offices performed for them, but for the most part the sisters were left to each other. Even the children were beguiled into frequent visits to Mrs Snow and others, and many a tranquil hour did the sisters pass together. Tranquil only in outward seeming many of these hours were to Graeme, for never a moment was the thought of the parting, that every day brought nearer, absent from her, and often when there were smiles and cheerful words upon her lips, her heart was like to break for the desolation that was before them.
“Graeme,” said Marian, one night, as the elder sister moved restlessly about the room, “you are tired to-night. Come and lie down beside me and rest, before Will and Rosie come home.”