Chapter 15

HOW SHALL I LIVE THROUGH THE LONG, LONG YEARS?

A balmy summer morning in the month of July. Outside, and far up overhead, a dappled sky shining down on a world of light and beauty; green verdant slopes and wide sweeps of meadowland glistening still with the early dew; flowers blossoming everywhere, from the modest daisy and golden buttercup to the queenliest rose and fairest lily; birds singing from every bush and tree their morning trill of flute-like melody; bees humming busily hither and thither; butterflies flitting idly by or resting snugly in the heart of a flower; in short, the world of nature all awake and joying with a pure, glad joy in the golden summer sunshine.

Inside a darkened room, with softly-shaded blinds and peaceful hush brooding over all, a girl--one might almost say a child--lying quietly on a dainty bed with white, weary face and closed eyes, round which dark lines of pain and suffering are plainly circled; and lastly, a young lady nestling back in a low basket-chair and keeping tender watch over the slight figure stretched so motionless before her. Suddenly the heavy lids unclose, and a pair of tired eyes are raised, with a sad, pathetic look, to the watcher's face.

"Is that you, Edith?" asks the weak voice in low, feeble tones; and the young lady, bending down to press a kiss on the white brow, answers,--

"Yes, dear; and I am so glad you have enjoyed such a nice long sleep."

The child raised one thin, fragile hand, and pushing back the hair from her damp forehead, spoke once more. "I was dreaming, Edith,--dreaming the old days were back again, and that Dick and I were having such fun in the oak parlour. Archie Trollope was there too, and we were chasing each other round and round the room; but neither Dick nor Archie could catch me, my feet seemed so nimble. I thought it was true, Edith, and a great weight rolled from my heart; but oh"--and the low wail accompanying the words pained the listener sorely--"I awoke and found it was all a dream."

"My poor little Winnie!" replied the young lady, smoothing the pained lines from the invalid's brow with soft, gentle touch. But the child had not yet finished.

"Edith," she continued, a wild, haunting look of unrest stealing into her eyes, "I am so tired lying here day after day. I want to be out in the sunshine with the birds and the flowers. Tell me, when shall I be able to walk in the sunlight once more?"

Edith's face was wet with tears. "Try to be patient, dear," she said in a somewhat broken voice; "one does not recover very quickly from an illness such as yours."

Winnie seemed dissatisfied. "You don't look me straight in the face when you speak, Edith, and your voice has a little tremble in it. Hush! hear how the birds are singing! They know I dearly love the sunshine, and are calling me out into the midst of it; I hear them every day warbling so happily. Do you think they ever wonder why I never come--why I never dance up and down the garden walks and spend hours with them and the flowers as I did last year? And the sea, Edith--some nights, when the wind is sleeping and not a leaf stirring on the trees, I can hear the waves crooning a low, sweet song as they wash along the wide beach of sand. They also seem to be calling me out into their midst; and I--O Edith, I cannot come."

There was a passionate ring of pain in the voice, and the look of unrest had given place to one of intense yearning. Edith's tears fell fast as she laid her head down on the pillow beside her little sister and pressed warm kisses on the quivering lips.

"Little Winnie," she whispered, "don't you think it is hard, hard for us to see you lying suffering here? Oh, my dear, can't you guess how we miss your little dancing figure, and your bright, merry chatter? Our hearts are sore for you, dearest, in your pain and weariness, and we would sacrifice anything to be able to raise you up strong and well soon. But we cannot; and, oh, little sister, try to wait patiently a little longer."

"You say that every day, Edith," answered the child pettishly. "It is always the old, old story--wait a little longer; and when you speak in that strain a great fear creeps into my heart and won't be shut out. I try not to listen; I think upon other things; I tell it to go away, but it still remains. Edith, O Edith! tell me that some day I shall stand up strong and well; tell me quick, quick, for something whispers that will never be."

"Nonsense, dear!" faltered the elder sister; "you must not become fanciful. In a short time I hope to see you quite better."

"You don't say you are perfectly certain, Edith," cried Winnie, still suspicious, "and you look at anything rather than me. I believe my fear is too true; and if so, how shall I live through the long, long years?"

Edith hardly knew how to reply. "Hush, Winnie, hush!" she began pleadingly; "you are rushing to rash conclusions. And only think, dear, we have you, though weak and helpless, spared to us still. What if you had died?"

"I wish I had," replied the girl wildly; "I would far rather lie quietly under the daisies than live a long, long crippled life. Oh, to think I shall never again run races on the sandy shore, and laugh when the little waves splash my feet; never pluck the wild flowers and make sweet, fragrant posies; never climb the forest trees or sit under the great pines I love so well! I can't bear it, Edith; indeed I can't. I wish I were dead."

Her sister was about to speak, but she pushed her aside, saying feebly, "Oh, if I could only get my strength back again! I never knew what a blessing health was till I lost it." There was such a depth of pathos in the weak voice, such an undertone of sadness, that Edith almost broke down again.

"Winnie," she said softly, "I wonder how Aunt Judith would answer you just now?"

Winnie looked up through her tears. "I don't know," she replied wistfully; "but she can't understand how awful it is to lose health for life in one day."

"No," responded Edith; "but I think, Winnie, Miss Latimer must have had some exceeding bitter sorrow--some terrible trial to bear in her own time."

"How?" with a gesture of surprise.

"Because, dear, those books of hers which I have been reading to you lately are full of grand, loving thoughts, and strong, helpful words, such as could only come from a heart torn and bleeding through suffering. I never saw Miss Latimer, as you know, Winnie, but I am ready to say with you she must be a good, noble woman."

The little girl's eyes were brimming over again. "Don't speak of her, Edith; it makes me wish so much to see her, and mamma has forbidden that."

"Not now, Winnie, not now!" said Edith eagerly; "she would be only too pleased to see your friend. At first, when you were so ill, you called continually for Aunt Judith, and Algy was sent to Dingle Cottage in search of her. He found, however, only a fast-closed door, and could gain no information as to where she had gone from any of the neighbours. It seems the whole family left town for the summer on the afternoon of the examination day, so that I am sure Miss Latimer does not even know you are ill. She and Nellie were not in the school at the time of your accident." Edith's voice faltered at this point: but rapidly recovering herself, she continued: "Then we bought all Aunt Judith's books, dear, to try to cheer you a little. It was the only thing we could do. Some day, when we return to town, you will see Miss Latimer again."

Winnie lay weeping quietly. At last she said, "Please leave me alone for a short time, Edith; I wish to think it all out myself," and the elder sister obeyed.

Slipping on her hat, she passed out of the house into the sunshine and wended her way slowly towards the shore, the words ringing in her ears with that low wail of intense pain--"How shall I live through the long, long years?"

Poor Winnie! her fears were but too well grounded. No hope was entertained of her ever being able to leave her couch again.

When the kind-hearted doctor had broken the news to the sorrowing family, almost the first thought of each was, How would she bear it? How would she, the little restless sprite, always flitting about here and there, endure perhaps a long life of crippled helplessness? And oh! how were they to tell her of the sad future, stretching far into the coming years? It was all very well to waive her questions in the meantime, but that could not be done much longer. Already the child seemed listening to each word with a haunting sense of fear; and now that they had taken her from the busy town to their quiet sea-side home, where summer after summer she had danced about in innocent glee, the dread deepened as the days went by and she felt no sign of returning strength to her feeble frame. There was no need to tell the sad tidings after all, however--she had found out for herself; and the necessary part now was to teach her how to live bravely and cheerfully through the long, long years.

Edith's thoughts were very dreary as she walked quietly through the little sea-side village, and saw the happy, sun-kissed children, full of health and strength, playing on the sandy shore, and shouting their lusty laughter to each other, while one who would have joined so heartily in their merriment was lying pale and weary on a lonely couch of pain. The little wistful face and tired eyes kept ever rising up before her, while the words rang continually in her ears,--"How shall I live through the long, long years?"

With a quick impatient movement she drew out her watch, and noting the hour, saw that the mail had been due some little time ago, and letters would be lying at the small post-office. Entering the little shop, she found another occupant besides herself preparing to receive a small budget of papers from the shopwoman's hands.

"No letters to-day, Miss Latimer; only these papers," the girl was saying as Edith stepped towards the counter.--"Good-morning, Miss Blake; we are glad to see you amongst us again."

The lady started at Edith's name, and turning, looked earnestly at the graceful figure from under the brim of a shady hat--a gaze which Edith, busy with her own thoughts, failed to observe.

"Three letters for you to-day, miss," the shopwoman continued, "and one with a foreign post-mark on it. I'm thinking it'll be from Master Dick."

Edith lifted the letters. "Yes," she said with a bright smile, "you are quite right, Janet. It is addressed to my little sister; how pleased she will be!"

The girl's eyes saddened. "Is Miss Winnie keeping stronger?" she inquired in a subdued voice; "we were all so sorry to hear about her illness, dear lamb."

The young lady shook her head. "Not much, Janet; but of course we have only been here a week as yet. We are hoping she will reap the benefit of the sea-air by-and-by. Good-morning." And Edith, gathering her letters together, left the shop and turned slowly in the direction of home. In a few minutes she heard rapid footsteps behind her, and a low, sweet voice said gently, "May I be pardoned for addressing Miss Blake?"

Raising her eyes in surprise, Edith saw the stranger lady close at her side, looking very much agitated.

"Certainly!" she replied courteously. "Can I assist you in any way?" And the stranger replied--

"I do not know whether you will ever have heard Winnie speak of me or not. My name is Latimer, and your little sister was a great friend of my niece. They were always together at school, and Winnie spent two afternoons with us when we were in town, I--"

But she was allowed to proceed no further, for Edith stood holding out her hands, and saying with shining countenance, "You are Aunt Judith, are you not? I am so pleased to have met you, Miss Latimer. My little sister is very ill. Will you come and see her now?"

Miss Latimer looked perplexed. "I am staying here at present," she said simply, "and intend remaining till the end of August; this air seems so beneficial to my invalid sister. I hardly know how to reply to your invitation, Miss Blake. I never knew till the other day about Winnie's accident, and I should dearly like to see the child; but still--"

"Please do not finish your sentence, Miss Latimer," replied Edith, blushing with confusion. "We owe you an ample apology for our rudeness, and both my father and mother will be only too delighted to see you. Winnie has been calling for you continually, and my brother went to Dingle Cottage, but found you out of town."

"Yes," said Miss Latimer; "the doctor advised us to come here on account of my youngest sister. Nellie was with us during the month of June, but has gone home till we return to town. I thank you for your kindness, Miss Blake, and will call at your house to-morrow. I am sorry I cannot accompany you this afternoon."

Edith looked up at the true, noble face, shaded by the simple summer hat; and as she did so, a slow, sweet smile broke over Aunt Judith's lips and lighted up her whole countenance.

"No wonder Winnie loved her!" thought the gay, fashionable girl. "I feel as if I could kneel in all reverence at her feet, she looks so good and pure." But she only said aloud,--"Then I shall expect you to-morrow afternoon, Miss Latimer. Our house is easily found. You will see the name, Maple Bank, on the gate. Please do not disappoint us; and oh! I am so glad I have met you at last."

So they parted, and Edith stepped homewards with a lightened heart.

Mr. and Mrs. Blake received her news quietly. They would rather the intimacy had not been renewed, but for Winnie's sake no opposition would be made now. They would find out Miss Latimer's present home, and call on her that evening. As for telling Winnie, it might be better, perhaps, to keep her still in ignorance till the following day.

Clare alone turned up her haughty nose when Edith related the morning's adventure, and inquired if she too were becoming infected with the Latimer mania. "For my part," concluded the proud girl, "I think our parents very foolish--encouraging Winnie in all her whims and fancies. There will be no end to them soon. I am very sorry for the child, but I still decidedly disapprove of giving in to her continually. I should not be surprised if this wonderful Aunt Judith becomes a daily visitor before long. However, I wash my hands of the whole affair." And lifting a book, Clare passed out through the window into the garden; while Edith, disgusted at the cruel words, went slowly upstairs, and placed Dick's precious letter in Winnie's hands.

It was a wonderful epistle, spiced with grand nautical phrases, and brimful of the truly marvellous and incredible in nature. Winnie laughed heartily over the absurd yarns, described with sailor-like veracity, and then gave a little cry of joy when Edith, who was reading the letter aloud, ended with the following words:--"And now, my dear little Win, if we have favourable weather you may expect to see your dear old Dick home about the end of September; and won't we have a jolly time of it then! No end of larks and mischief. I suppose you will still be at Maple Bank when my ship comes in, so" (here Edith stopped, but the child bade her read every single word) "see and keep well and strong, that you may be able to enjoy all sorts of capers with--Your loving sailor brother, DICK."

"Don't look at me like that, Edith," said Winnie, when the long letter was carefully folded up and returned to its envelope. "I am not going to cry or even think; my heart is too sore. No one must tell Dick till he comes home. Let him remain in ignorance as long as possible." Then she closed her eyes wearily and remained silent. But Edith was not to be deceived by any apparent calmness or resignation, and knew only too well that the child's whole soul was crying out in rebellion at the sad trial which had befallen her.

Daylight stole softly, silently away; the summer breeze sighing a dreamy even-song through the forest trees, lulled the singing birds to rest; the little flowers drooped their pretty heads, and closed their dewy petals in slumber; the busy whirr and hum of insects ceased,--and the nature-world was hushed in sleep. Only the restless sea broke on the peaceful calm with its ceaseless swish-swish of waves. And far, far out on the ocean breast, leaning over the bulwark of a gallant ship, homeward bound, was a young sailor, gazing across the moonlit waters, and thinking of the bright fairy sister waiting to give him a joyous welcome back.