CHAPTER XV.
IT IS WELL WITH THE CHILD.
Fair are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer;
Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer.
—Richard Realf.
Mrs. Doring had a friend, a gentle, patient, heavily-burdened woman who lived her difficult life with the high heroism of a daughter of the gods. Though fragile as a flower she kept the wolf at bay for her little family, and nobody ever saw a cloud on her face or heard a complaint from her lips. Born and bred to the refinements of life she met adversity as only the gently bred do meet it—by taking hold of whatever work was at hand, without questioning whether it was what is miscalled menial or not.
When her baby girl was born she begged Cartice to name her, which she did, giving her the name of the little sister who had died when she herself was a child—Isabel. To her mother’s great delight she grew to resemble Mrs. Doring as though of her flesh and blood, and loved her in the same degree. Now she was nearly three years old, bright and winsome, with never a day’s illness in her record.
But a fever came, and behind that stood the last enemy, who, however often routed, is sure to return sometime and win the battle. This was the time of his victory. In the night, when all was silent without, and solemn within, he came. Cartice had the baby in her arms in the last precious, awesome moments. The wasted little hand reached up and silently stroked her face, and the soft, dark eyes, unearthly large and earnest, looked at her with unutterable love. Something else, too, was in their speechless depths—a message not easy to translate, but it brought comfort. Then, that mysterious thing, the breath, which connects us with the universal life principle, ceased; the cold white veil dropped down, and little Isabel was dead.
After holding the silent form close to her heart a moment, Cartice laid it gently on the bed, and the two mother hearts so sorely bereft stood silent but tearless beside it.
Later, when it was ready for its bed in the bosom of the earth, and again together they looked down at its white silence, Cartice said:
“She shall know no evil thought; she shall do no evil deed; she shall tread no evil path. It is well with the child.”
“Yes, in spite of my sore heart, it is well,” said the mother. “I surrender her not to death, but to a larger life, and shall not mourn. No matter what comes, she is safe. My darling’s safe—safe and dead. Since her father’s death I have been troubled at times with fears for her future. I face the inevitable—a few months more here, and then—the end. For the two boys I have arranged. They will have homes and care, but it would have tried my courage to leave this one ewe lamb.”