“No, my dear,” she said tranquilly; “the mystery doesn’t trouble me. I’m a poor, weak creature, and I was never clever at understanding. I only know that it’s going to be a change for the better, so of course I’m ready to go. When I hear people talk of shrinking and trembling at the thought of death, I think they can’t really believe what they profess, or why should they prefer to live on, lonely, and suffering, and poor, rather than make a little journey to gain peace and rest? It’s not reason, my dear, it’s not reason.”
Miggles was silent, blinking her little eyes, and panting after the exertion of talking. Gradually a pucker gathered on her forehead, and an expression of anxiety spread over her face.
“There is only one thing that troubles me—only one thing; but it’s very serious. I can’t”—she turned solemn, innocent eyes upon the girl’s face—“I can’t feel myself a sinner! That’s a great secret, my dear, but you’ve been so kind to me this last week that I feel I can make the confidence. Of course I should not wish it repeated. No! isn’t it sad? I’ve tried my best, but I can’t do it. It seems to me that I have done my best. I was a good daughter. My dear mother died blessing my name; and with the dear Gorings I’ve done my duty—for love, I’ve done it, far more than money. All through I’ve done my duty, and I have loved God and the people round me. I’ve never felt ill-will towards a living creature; and when I come to search for my sins, dear—really and truly—I tell you in confidence, I can’t find them,” cried Miggles sadly. She lowered her chin, glancing sideways at Vanna as a shamed child might do discovered in the perpetration of an infantile peccadillo, and Vanna smiled a tender, humorous response.
“Can’t you, Miggles? Not if you try very hard? I can’t help you, I’m afraid. My bad memory refuses to remind me of your crimes. It’s a serious state of affairs.”
“It is, dear,” agreed Miggles gravely. “I’ve been taking myself to task, lying here upon this bed, and examining into the state of my soul. I fed very grateful, and full of faith, and quite tranquil and happy at the thought of passing away. I could not fed that, you know, if I had a ‘conviction of sin,’ like all the good people in books. It has always put me so terribly out of the way when I have failed to please any one, and they have been cold and stand-off in their manner. It does happen like that sometimes, even with the best intentions... If I believed I had grieved my dear Heavenly Father, how wretched I should be! But I don’t, dear, I don’t. I am quite happy, quite at peace. The question is, Am I justified? It would be rather a comfort to be a Catholic sometimes—would it not, dear?—and confess to a dear, saintly old priest. Not, of course, that I could subscribe to their creed I can tell you that I’ve been quite upset in church sometimes when they intone the Litany, and call themselves miserable sinners in such very despondent tones. I did not feel myself a miserable sinner, and it was no use pretending that I did. That made me wretched in another way, for I thought I must be a Pharisee, which would be worst of all!”
“Dear Miggles, the Litany was written at the time of the Plague of London, and was meant to be a sort of national penitential psalm. The plague was believed to have been sent as a punishment for the sins of the nation, and the priests marched in procession through the streets intoning this cry for mercy. It was never intended to be used as a regular part of the Church service in times of peace and prosperity; and I think a good many people feel like you, who would not have the courage to put their thoughts into words. A service of praise would often seem more dignified and inspiring. Dear, good, kind little soul, why trouble yourself to find trouble? If you have peace, you have the greatest of all blessings, and a blessing that is never enjoyed, dear Miggles, until it has been won. I’m struggling for it now, but it’s a long way off. I have still many battles to fight.”
The old woman looked at the young one with a long, questioning glance.
“Yes, dear child! I have seen it, and wondered. But you are so young still, and your life is ahead. We shall see you happy like Jean, starting your home with a fine young husband—”
“No!” Vanna held up a warning hand. “Miggles, you have confided in me. I’ll tell you something about myself, but you must never allude to it again. It doesn’t bear speaking of. There is a reason why I can never marry. I can’t tell you what it is, but it is fixed—irrevocable. I shall never be happy like Jean.”
Miggles stretched out her hand and laid it upon the dark head, smoothing the hair with gentle touch. But she did not speak. In the course of her sixty years she had heard many such assertions from the lips of girls who had afterwards lived to become happy wives and mothers. She told herself that dear Vanna had no doubt suffered a disappointment, and was feeling cast-down and hopeless in consequence. Quite natural, poor dear—quite; but in time youth would reassert itself; she would meet some one else, such an attractive girl as she was, and would find that the heart which she supposed dead was still capable of love and joy. Oh, certainly she would marry and be happy; but for the moment one could not tell her so. That would be cruel. Time! time! that was the best medicine. She smoothed and stroked with tender, motherly touch, and Vanna, blessing her for her silence, felt the sudden crystallising of an idea which had been growing quietly in her mind during the past week.