Chapter 16

LIGHT IN DARKNESS.

"How pretty my room is to-day, Edith! You have made it all bright and fairy-like with flowers. Yes, open the blinds, please, and let the sunshine in; my head is really better this morning, and I wish all the light I can possibly get." So spoke Winnie, as she watched her sister scattering sweet posies of flowers throughout the entire room, and felt the sweet, subtle perfume of "the flowers that in earth's firmament do shine."

"Why are you so particular to-day, Edith?" she continued, as that young lady flitted about, looping and relooping the soft lace curtains, pouncing on every stray speck of dust, and sweeping every medicine-bottle out of sight. "Jane tidied the room as usual this morning, and yet here you are, poking into every corner, and arranging and rearranging everything. One would think the Queen was coming to see me. What is the reason of it all?" and Winnie looked decidedly curious.

"So you are going to have a visitor, dear," replied Edith, bringing a fragrant nosegay over to the bedside and laying it on the snowy pillow. "Now don't ask me any questions, for I dare not tell. Only wait patiently and you will see for yourself."

The child did not seem particularly charmed. "I hate visitors, Edith," she said, the sunshine dying out of her face, and the restless, weary look stealing into her eyes; "they make my heart full of wicked, rebellious thoughts when I see them coming into the room so well and strong. I detest their long faces and sympathetic remarks. Ugh! I suppose they mean to be kind, but when they speak I feel as if I hated everything and everybody."

"I don't think you will tell me all that this afternoon," replied Edith with a knowing smile. "It is always the unexpected that happens, and I shall be very much surprised if you do not count this day as one of the bright spots in your life.--Ah, there is the bell. Give me a kiss, Win, and keep a pretty smile for the unwelcome visitor." So saying Edith tripped away, and Winnie waited in gloomy silence the advent of the hated guest. Why could people not leave her alone? Why did they require to come and flaunt all their bright, strong health before her? She wished none of their sympathy and condolences--only leave her alone to her grief and misery.

These being her thoughts, it was a very cross, peevish face which met Miss Latimer's gaze as she entered the sick chamber in company with Mrs. Blake and confronted the little invalid.

"I have brought a friend to see you, dear," said the step-mother, smiling down on the quiet figure with its weary, pain-stricken face. "You will be pleased to welcome her, I know, and have so much to talk about that my presence can be easily dispensed with for a little time." As she spoke, Mrs. Blake smoothed the sick girl's brow lovingly, and then withdrew, leaving the two friends together once more.

There was no need to ask, "Are you glad to see me, Winnie?" for the great eyes, shining with a wonderfully joyous light, told the tale the lips refused to utter. Forgetting her helplessness, the child stretched out her arms and tried to rise, but sank back with a low cry of pain, and those piteous words, "O Aunt Judith, come to me quickly, for I cannot go to you."

Miss Latimer was greatly moved, and could do nothing at first but kiss the little face once so fresh and sweet, now pinched and wan with suffering.

"Dear child," she said at length, "my heart is bleeding for you. Tell me, Winnie, how did all this happen?" and with Aunt Judith's arms round her, and a sense of peaceful rest stealing over her weary frame, the sick girl told all that there was to tell, simply, truthfully, with no attempt to screen herself from blame.

"I was wrong to speak as I did," she finished sadly, "but I had provocation. O Aunt Judith, I cannot express the awful feeling of hatred I bear towards Ada, when I think that if it had not been for her I should be running about in the sunshine now."

"Hush, Winnie! do not say that," replied Miss Latimer softly; "her heart will be heavy enough now, I fancy, and--" But here Winnie broke in:--

"No, Aunt Judith. I don't believe she feels the least little particle of sorrow. She ran away when I fell, and never even came to ask for me after the accident. No one knows she had anything to do with my fall except my own family, and they decided to leave her alone and make no remark. Mamma was awfully good. She said she had formed a wrong estimate of Ada's character, and told me I had been right."

There was a few minutes' pause, then Winnie continued: "I know, Aunt Judith, you think I am very wicked for hating Ada so bitterly; but, oh! look what she has done to me. My life is spoilt" (with the old wail of an infinite pain); "I shall never be able to walk again."

Miss Latimer's eyes grew misty, and Winnie continued:---

"You are good and true, Aunt Judith. You sit there looking at me with such a kind, loving face, and don't say like the others, 'Wait a little longer, Winnie; some day you will be all right again.'" Then repeating the words, with a weary depth of woe in her voice--"I shall never be able to walk again; and, O Aunt Judith, can you guess what that means to me?"

"Yea, my darling, I can," whispered the patient listener, "and your cross is a heavy one to carry."

"Heavy!" muttered the sick girl; "so heavy that I shall not be able to carry it patiently. It is bad enough just now, Aunt Judith, but think what it will be when the months go rolling by and find me still weak and helpless. How shall I bear my life, such a weary, weary life, week after week, and year after year? I loved the world so much--the bright, beautiful world with all its sunshine and flowers; and now I feel as if I were withdrawn from it altogether. What will Dick say when he comes home, and I cannot go with him here and there as in the dear old days? Aunt Judith, I can see no light anywhere. Teach me, you who are so brave and strong, how to bear my life now."

Miss Latimer kissed the little quivering face with its sad, mournful eyes; then drawing her chair closer to the bedside, she kept her loving arms round the sobbing child and tried to comfort her.

"My darling," said the kind, gentle voice, the voice Winnie had so longed and thirsted for, "I do not think you know how deep the pain is, how warm the sympathy, I feel for you. You say the broad, flowery way along which you have hitherto travelled has ended now, and nothing lies stretched before save an interminable waste of blackness through which you imagine it impossible to journey. Yet, will you believe me, dear child, when I tell you that in the blackened tract of moorland you will find a joy, a peace passing all understanding, and learn that the life you now deem too hard to live is a grand, beautiful life, and your weary couch of pain but the school where the Master teaches some of his purest, holiest lessons! The darkness may be very thick and dense for a time, Winnie, but by-and-by light will begin to break through, and night give place to day; and if the flowery way should never again open up before you, you will find in the rugged upland path the sunshine of God's favour, while his presence shall go with you, and he will give you rest. My child, my little Winnie, this grievous stroke may yet prove the greatest blessing to yourself and others. Do not say your life is spoilt; perhaps the true life is only now beginning."

The young girl looked up earnestly into the gentle face. "Speak on, Aunt Judith," she pleaded. "It makes me feel good to hear you talk like that; but then" (with sad despair) "when you go away I know I shall be as wicked and rebellious as ever. Your words lull all the evil passions to sleep; but in the long, dark night they will waken up, and I shall be wishing I were dead again. Say something more, Aunt Judith. Tell me how I am to keep the good feelings always in my heart, and be willing to live through the long, long years."

Then Miss Latimer's soft voice spoke again; and, cradled lovingly in those tender arms, the sick girl learned where to find the daily strength and grace for every need; and how to gather up the scattered threads of her life together, and weave them into a golden web shining with the lustre of simple faith and holy resignation.

Some time afterwards Mrs. Blake entered, and Miss Latimer rose to depart; but Winnie would not let her go just yet. She had so many questions to ask, and there was so much she wished to know. How were Miss Deborah, Aunt Margaret, and Nellie? When would they all return to town? Had Aunt Judith written a new book lately? and if so, what was it called? Miss Latimer had a busy time answering all those queries, but at last the young invalid was satisfied; and promising to come again soon, Aunt Judith said good-bye, and left the room with a heavy heart.

Mrs. Blake following, thanked her for her visit, and hoped she would repeat it at an early date. The young step-mother saw the error she had made in the past, and with graceful tact tried to atone for her open rudeness to this grave, noble woman, who seemed like a queen in spite of the simplicity of her garments.

Miss Latimer's sweet, true nature harboured no feeling of umbrage or malice, and her smile was frank and friendly as she willingly accepted the invitation. Then Edith, appearing at that moment, offered to accompany her part of the way home, and Mrs. Blake returned to the sick-room and Winnie.

The child's face looked flushed and animated. "Mamma dear," she said sweetly, "thank you for allowing me to see Aunt Judith again. I shall not be so cross and troublesome now. She has been telling me what a beautiful life I may yet lead in spite of my pain and helplessness, and her words have hushed the bad thoughts to rest."

The fair, frivolous lady seemed bewildered, but replied, "I am willing to confess my error, Winnie: Miss Latimer is no longer an unwelcome visitor here," then she changed the subject.

Meanwhile the days passed on, and Miss Latimer became a frequent guest at Maple Bank, winning all due respect and honour by the true dignity of her nature and sweet womanly heart. Edith hailed those visits with pleasure; and Winnie--ah! they were like great spots of sunshine to the sick girl fretting sorely under her load of pain.

She was by no means a patient invalid this restless child, and the constant lying day after day and the monotony of sick-room life tried her exceedingly. It was only natural that such should be the case; that the wild tomboy nature, with its bright flow of animal spirits, should chafe and rebel at this heavy discipline. But one becomes wearied of constant murmuring, and sometimes those around her waxed impatient. Then it was that Miss Latimer's soothing words came into use, and the strong hand was stretched out to help the failing feet; and by-and-by, slowly yet surely, the discipline began to show its fruit, and Winnie to learn the first lesson in the school of pain.

August at length drew near to a close. Miss Latimer and her little household returned to town. The days began rapidly to creep in, and the beautiful harvest moon "grew like a white flower in the sky."

"Let us go home, mamma," pleaded Winnie. "I should like to be back in town when Dick's ship comes in; and it is so lonely here. I shall not feel so much at meeting him where we have not the same opportunity to romp about; and oh! although it is very wrong and selfish of me to trouble you, I cannot bear to meet him here."

The child's words were very pathetic, and so, yielding to her wish, the Blakes returned to town.

Winnie sighed her satisfaction when safely deposited in the oak parlour once more. Then the old life began again--the same, yet not the same; for although everything around was as it had been in the bygone days, Winnie herself was changed, and the busy, active life over for ever. But she had her happy times too; for the oak parlour was rapidly becoming the room of the household, and Winnie seldom knew what it was to be left alone. Thither came Aunt Judith with her soft, gentle words; Nellie, fresh from the dear home circle, her troubles all blown away by the happy home atmosphere; Edith and Clare, with their gay young voices and dainty ways; and all the members of the family, slipping in every now and then to see how the little invalid was progressing. Her quiet submission was daily becoming more patent; and as those around noted the efforts at cheerfulness and patience, their love gradually increased, and Winnie the invalid was tenfold dearer to the hearts of her family than Winnie the little tomboy had been. Her days were not idle ones by any means; for as her health in some respects improved, a daily governess was engaged to come and instruct her, and under Miss Montgomery's mild tuition Winnie laid aside her former indolence and began to show an interest in her studies.

The papers were eagerly scanned now for news of the expected ship, but the days sped on and still nothing was heard of the longed-for vessel. At length, however, one evening in the beginning of October, when the gray twilight was creeping silently over the busy town, Edith and Winnie were together in the oak parlour--the one sitting toasting herself cosily at the fire, the other lying on her invalid couch half-asleep. Downstairs in the large drawing-room a few guests were assembled, and the sound of voices singing floated sweetly upwards and fell soothingly on the sick girl's ear.

"Edith!" she said, opening her sleepy eyes for a moment, "I wish you would go down beside the others and enjoy yourself. I feel in a deliciously comfortable mood just now, and will not miss you at all. Do obey me!" and she looked fondly over at the pretty figure basking lazily in the firelight glow.

Edith roused herself. "I should like to join them for a short time, Win; but it seems selfish leaving you all alone, and nurse is too busy to come and sit beside you just now."

"Oh, I shall not weary," was the bright reply; "besides, the music will lull me to sleep in a few minutes. Run away, and think of me as enjoying my forty winks."

The elder sister rose, and kissing Winnie's little face, went slowly from the room, along the passage, and down the broad carpeted stair. She had hardly entered the drawing-room and returned the greetings of the merry guests, when a loud ringing at the door bell was followed by the heavy tread of a man's foot in the hall, and the next minute Richard Blake strode into the gaily-lighted room and confronted the assembled company.

"Just like the old Dick," thought his brothers and sisters, rising to welcome the young sailor, whose sun-tanned face was shining with honest delight. "Fancy stalking into a drawing-room in rough sea-faring clothes, and startling every one with his sudden appearance." But in spite of such condemnation their welcome was hearty and genuine; for the boy looked so happy and overjoyed himself, it was impossible not to be infected with his gladness of heart.

"Straight from the ship," he explained to his step-mother, standing like a young hero in the midst of the gay company, with a great joy rippling over his kindly face. "Got into dock only this afternoon; and here I am, turned up again like the old sixpence.--Any yarns to spin? you ask. Why, any amount. But in the meantime I am desperately hungry, and could relish a hearty meal." Then turning to Edith: "Where is Winnie? Up in the oak parlour, I suppose. Well, I'm off to her at once. She ought to have been the very first to bid me welcome."

A silence fell on all, and looks were exchanged of mingled sorrow and perplexity.

"What is to be done?" questioned Mrs. Blake inwardly. "Some one must break the news to him before he enters the oak parlour."

Dick, in complete ignorance of the effect his words were causing, wheeled round towards the door and prepared to leave the room, when Edith stepped forward saying, "Yes; Winnie is in her own sanctum as usual. Come; I will accompany you there."

The boy stopped in amazement. "What for?" he inquired bluntly; "I would much rather go alone first."

"Yes, I know," was the confused reply; "but please humour me this once;" and Edith slipped past him as she spoke.

Dick followed, a little mystified and annoyed; but his amazement increased when Edith, opening the library door, drew him into that room and closed the door swiftly behind him.

"Bless my boots! is the girl mad?" ejaculated the boy, turning to the tables and chairs for sympathy. "I am beginning to wonder if I have fallen into the clutches of some escaped lunatic. I say, Edith, old girl, do you take those fits often?"

His sister, however, had no answering smile on her lips, and her voice shook slightly as she replied, "Dick, please prepare yourself to hear bad news. You ought to have been told before, but we kept the evil day as far off as possible. Dear little--" Then she stopped short, terrified at the expression on her brother's face.

"Don't beat about the bush, Edith," he cried in a voice hoarse with emotion; "I can bear anything better than suspense. Tell me, is Winnie dead? But no,"--glancing at his sister's shining garments--"it cannot be that, thank God;" and he drew a long sigh of relief at this point.

"No, Dick," responded Edith, giving him a glance of warm sympathy, "but--" and very simply and tenderly she broke the sad tidings to the agitated boy.

Then there tell on the silence and stillness of the room the sound of a strong heart's sobs, as Dick, in spite of all his manliness, laid his head on the table and wept like a little child.

Oh, how often, often in his lonely night-watches had he pictured this home-coming--dwelling on and gloating over each little detail as a miser does over his gold, till the whole dream-picture became beautiful with a golden glory. He saw the tiny, fairy figure flying to meet him, the quaint gipsy face glowing its joyous welcome, and the great dark eyes shining their wondrous gladness. He felt the clasp of two soft arms round his neck, the touch of warm kisses on his lips, and heard the bright, merry voice melting into sweetest tones, as words of love and tenderness were poured into his hungering ear. And this was the end of it all--his dream-picture shattered, and a young life blasted through a haughty girl's thirst for revenge.

Dick's heart was full of rage and hatred. "If Ada Irvine were within my reach just now," he muttered, "she would live to regret this day." Then raising his head, he looked, and found Edith had slipped away and left him alone with his grief.

The boy rose, sighing heavily. "I am hardly myself yet," he said, dashing his rough, sun-burnt hand across his eyes, and moving slowly towards the door. "What a fool I am, giving way like this! But these things unman a fellow, and I need not be ashamed of my tears. Where did they say she was? In the oak parlour. Well, here goes;" and off strode Dick, swinging along the lighted hall and up the broad stairs at what he afterwards described as the rate of knots.