CHAPTER XVII.

THE LAST BIRTH-DAY.

Mere human power shall fast decay, And youthful vigour cease; But they who wait upon the Lord, In strength shall still increase.

Frank felt no unnatural apathy or indifference about dying, for he looked upon it with awe, though not with fear; nor did he express any rapturous excitement on the solemn occasion, knowing that death is an appointed penalty for transgression, which, though deprived of its sharpest sting by the triumphs of the cross, yet awfully testifies to all succeeding generations, that each living man has individually merited the utmost wrath of God, and that the last moment on earth, of even the most devoted Christian, must be darkened by the gloom of our original sin and natural corruption. Yet, "as in Adam all die, so in Christ are all made alive;" and amidst the throng of consolatory and affecting meditations that crowded into his mind on the great subject of our salvation, he kept a little book in which were carefully recorded such texts and reflections as he considered likely to strengthen his own faith, and to comfort those he left behind--saying one day to Major Graham,

"Tell grandmama, that though my days have been few upon the earth, they were happy! When you think of me, uncle David, after my sufferings are over, it may well be a pleasing remembrance, that you were always the best, the kindest of friends. Oh! how kind! but I must not--cannot speak of that----. This is my birth-day!--my last birth-day! Many a joyous one we kept together, but those merry days are over, and these sadder ones too shall cease; yet the time is fast approaching, so welcome to us both,

'When death-divided friends at last Shall meet to part no more.'"

In the evening, Major Graham observed that Frank made Mrs. Crabtree bring everything belonging to him, and lay it on the table, when he employed himself busily in tying up a number of little parcels, remarking, with a languid smile,

"My possessions are not valuable, but these are for some old friends and messmates, who will be pleased to receive a trifling memorial of one who loved them. Send my dirk to Peter Grey, who is much reformed now. Here are all the letters any of you ever sent me; how very often they have been read! but now, even that intercourse must end; keep them, for they were the dearest treasures I possessed. At Madras, formerly, I remember hearing of a nabob who was bringing his whole fortune home in a chest of gold, but the ropes for hoisting his treasure on board were so insufficient, that the whole gave way, and it fell into the ocean, never to be recovered. That seemed a very sudden termination of his hopes and plans, but scarcely more unexpected than my own. 'We are a wind that passeth away and cometh not again.' Many restless nights are ordained for me now, probably that I may find no resource but prayer and meditation. Others can afford time to slumber, but I so soon shall sleep the sleep of death, that it becomes a blessing to have such hours of solitary thought, for preparing my heart and establishing my faith, during this moment of need."

"Yes, Frank! but your prayers are not solitary, for ours are joined to yours," added Laura. "I read in an old author lately, that Christian friends in this world might be compared to travellers going along the same road in separate carriages--sometimes they are together--often they are apart--sometimes they can exchange assistance, as we do now--and often they jostle against each other, till at last, having reached the journey's end, they are removed out of these earthly vehicles into a better state, where they shall look back upon former circumstances, and know even as they are known."

Laura was often astonished to observe the change which had taken place in her own character and feelings within the very short period of their distress. Her extreme terror of a thunder-storm formerly, had occasioned many a jest to her brothers, when Harry used, occasionally, to roll heavy weights in the room above her own, to imitate the loudest peals, while Frank sometimes endeavoured to argue her out of that excessive apprehension with which she listened to the most distant surmise of a storm. Now, however, at Hammersmith, long after midnight, the moon, on one occasion, became completely obscured by dense heavy clouds, and the air felt so oppressively hot, that Frank, who seemed unusually breathless, drew closer to the window. Laura supported his head, and was deeply occupied in talking to him, when suddenly a broad flash of lightning glared into the room, followed by a crash of thunder, that seemed to crack the very heavens. Again and again the lightning gleamed in her face with such vividness, that Laura fancied she could distinguish the heat of it, and yet she stirred not, nor did a single exclamation, as in former days, arise on her lips.

"Pray shut the window, Laura," said Frank languidly, raising his eyes; "and be so kind as to close the shutters!"

"Why, Frank?--you never used to be alarmed by thunder!"

"No! nor am I now, dear Laura. What danger need a dying person fear? Some few hours sooner or later would be of little consequence--

Come he slow, or come he fast, It is but death that comes at last.

Yet, Laura, do you think I have forgotten old times! Oh, no!--not while I live. You attend to my feelings, and surely it is my duty to remember yours."

"Never mind me, Frank!" whispered Laura. "I have got over all that folly. When real fears and sorrows come, we care no more about those that were imaginary."

"True, my dear sister; and there is no courage or fortitude like that derived from faith in a superintending providence. Though all creation reel, we may sleep in peace, for to Christians 'danger is safe, and tumult calm.'"

When Frank grew worse, he became often delirious. Yet as in health he had been habitually cheerful, his mind generally wandered to agreeable subjects. He fancied himself walking on the bright meadows, and picking flowers by the river side,--meeting Lady Harriet,--and even speaking to his father, as if Sir Edward had been present; while Harry and Laura listened, weeping and trembling, to behold the wreck of such a mind and heart as his. One evening, he seemed unusually well, and requested that his arm-chair might be wheeled to the open window, where he gazed with delight at the hills and meadows,--the clouds and glittering water,--the cattle standing in the stream,--the boats reflected on its surface,--and the roses fluttering at every casement.

"Those joyous little birds!--their song makes me cheerful," said he, in a tone of placid enjoyment. "I have been in countries where the birds never sing, and the leaves never fade; but they excited no sympathy or interest. Here we have notes of gladness both in sunshine and storm, teaching us a lesson of grateful contentment,--while those drooping roses preach a sermon to me, for as easily might they recover freshness and bloom as myself. We shall both lie low before long in the dust, yet a spring shall come hereafter to revive even 'the ashes of the urn.' Then, uncle David, we meet again,--not as now, amidst sorrow and suffering, with death and separation before us,--but blessed by the consciousness that our sins are forgiven,--our trials all ended,--and that our afflictions which were but for a moment, have worked out for us a far more exceeding, even an eternal weight of glory."

Some hours afterwards the Doctor entered. After receiving a cordial welcome from Frank, and feeling his pulse, he instantly examined his arms and neck, which were covered entirely over with small red spots, upon observing which, the friendly physician suddenly changed countenance, and stole an alarmed glance at Major Graham.

"I feel easier and better to-day, Doctor, than at any time since my illness," said Frank, looking earnestly in his face. "Do you think this eruption will do me good? Life has much that would be dear to me, while I have friends like these to live for. Can it be possible that I may yet recover?"

The Doctor turned away, unable to reply, while Frank intensely watched his countenance, and then gazed at the pale agitated face of Major Graham. Gradually the hope which had brightened in his cheek began to fade,--the lustre of his eye became dim,--his countenance settled into an expression of mournful resignation,--and covering his face with his hands, he said, in a voice of deep emotion,

"I see how it is!--God's will be done!"

The silence of death succeeded, while Frank laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. A few natural tears coursed each other slowly down his cheek; but at length, an hour or two afterwards, being completely exhausted, he fell into a gentle sleep, from which the Doctor considered it very doubtful if he would ever awaken, as the red spots indicated mortification, which must inevitably terminate his life before next day.

Laura retired to the window, making a strenuous effort to restrain her feelings, that she might be enabled to witness the last awful scene; and fervently did she pray for such strength to sustain it with fortitude, as might still render her of some use to her dying brother. Her pale countenance might almost have been mistaken for that of a corpse, but for the expression of living agony in her eye; and she was sunk in deep, solemn thought, when her attention became suddenly roused by observing a chariot and four drive furiously up to the gate, while the horses were foaming and panting as they stopped. A tall gentleman, of exceedingly striking appearance, sprung hurriedly out, walked rapidly towards the cottage door, and in another minute entered Frank's room, with the animated look of one who expected to be gladly welcomed, and to occasion an agreeable surprise.

Harry and Laura shrunk close to their uncle, when the stranger, now in evident agitation, gazed round the room with an air of painful astonishment, till Major Graham looked round, and instantly started up with an exclamation of amazement, "Edward! is it possible! This is indeed a consolation! you are still in time!"

"In time!!" exclaimed Sir Edward, grasping his brother's hand with vehement agitation. "Do you mean to say that Frank is yet in danger!"

Major Graham mournfully shook his head, and undrawing the bed curtains, he silently pointed to the sleeping countenance of Frank, which was as still as death, and already overspread by a ghastly paleness. Sir Edward then sunk into a chair, and clenched his hands over his forehead with a look of unspeakable anguish, saying, in an under-tone, "Worn out, as I am, in mind and body, I needed not this to destroy me! Say at once, brother, is there any hope?"

"None, my dear Edward! None! Even now he is insensible, and I fear with little prospect of ever becoming conscious again."

At this moment Frank opened his eyes, which were dim and glassy, while it became evident that he had relapsed into a state of temporary delirium.

"Get more candles! how very dark it is!" he said. "Who are all those people? Send away everybody but grandmama! I must speak to her alone. Never tell papa of all this, it would only distress him--say nothing about me. Why do Harry and Laura never come? They have been absent more than a week! Who took away uncle David too?"

Laura listened for some time in an agony of grief, till at last, unable any longer to restrain her feelings, she clasped Frank in her arms and burst into tears, exclaiming, in accents of piercing distress, "Oh Frank! dear Frank! have you forgotten poor Laura?"

"Not till I am dead!" whispered he, while a momentary gleam of recollection lighted up his face. "Laura! we meet again."

Sir Edward now wished to speak, but Frank had relapsed into a state of feeble unconsciousness, from which nothing could arouse him; once or twice he repeated the name of Laura in a low melancholy voice, till it became totally inaudible--his breath became shorter--his lips became livid--his whole frame seemed convulsed--and some hours afterwards, all that was mortal of Frank Graham ceased to exist. About four in the morning his body was at rest, and his spirit returned to God who gave it.

The candles had burned low in their sockets, and still the mourners remained, unwilling to move from the awful scene of their bereavement. Mrs. Crabtree at length, who laid out the body herself, extinguished the lights, and flung open the window curtains. Then suddenly a bright blaze of sunshine streamed into the room, and rested on the cold pale face of the dead. To the stunned and bewildered senses of Harry and Laura, the brilliant dawn of morning seemed like a mockery of their distress. Many persons were already passing by--the busy stir of life had begun, and a boy strolling along the road whistled his merry tune as he went gaily on.

"We are indeed mere atoms in the world!" thought Laura bitterly, while these sights and sounds fell heavily on her heart. "If Harry and I had both been dead also, the sun would have shone as brightly, the birds sung as joyfully, and those people been all as gay and happy as ever! Nobody is thinking of Frank--nobody knows our misery--the world is going on as if nothing had happened, and we are breaking our hearts with grief!"

Laura's heart became stilled as she gazed on the peaceful and almost happy expression of those beautiful features, which had now lost all appearance of suffering. The eyes, from which nothing but kindness and love had beamed upon her, were now closed for ever; the lips which had spoken only words of generous affection and pious hope, were silent; and the heart which had beat with every warm and brotherly feeling, was for the first time insensible to her sorrows; yet Laura did not give way to the strong excess of her grief, for it sunk upon her spirit with a leaden weight of anguish, which tears and lamentations could not express, and could not even relieve. She rose and kissed, for the last time, that beloved countenance, which she was never to look upon again till they met in heaven, and stole away to the silence and solitude of her own room, where Laura tried in vain to collect her thoughts. All seemed a dreary blank. She did not sigh--she could not weep; but she sat in dark and vacant abstraction, with one only consciousness filling her mind--the bitter remembrance that Frank was dead--that she could be of no farther use to him--that she could have no future intercourse with him--that even in her prayers she could no longer have the comfort of naming him; and when at last she turned to his own Bible which he had given her, to seek for consolation, her eyes refused their office, and the pages became blistered with tears.

After Frank's funeral, Sir Edward became too ill to leave his bed; and Major Graham remained with him in constant conversation; while Harry and Laura did every thing to testify their affection, and to fill the place now so sadly vacant.

On the following Sunday, several of the congregation at Hammersmith observed two young strangers in the rector's pew, dressed in the deepest mourning, with pale and downcast countenances, who glided early into church, and sat immoveably still, side by side, while Mr. Palmer gave out for his text the affecting and appropriate words which Frank himself had often repeated during his last illness, "In an hour that ye think not, the Son of man cometh."

Not a tear was shed by either Harry or Laura,--their grief was too great for utterance; yet they listened with breathless interest to the sermon, intended not only to console them, but also to instruct other young persons, from the afflicting event of Frank's death.

Mr. Palmer took this opportunity to describe all the amiable dispositions of youth, and to show how much of what is pleasing may appear before religion has yet taken entire possession of the mind; but he painted in glowing colours the beautiful consistency and harmony of character which must ensue after that happy change, when the Holy Spirit renews the heart and influences the life. It almost seemed to Harry and Laura as if Frank were visibly before their eyes, when Mr. Palmer spoke in eloquent terms of that humility which no praise could diminish--that benevolence which attended to the feelings, as well as the wants of others,--that affection which was ever ready to make any sacrifice for those he loved,--that docility which obeyed the call of duty on every occasion,--that meekness in the midst of provocation which could not be irritated,--that gentle firmness in maintaining the truths of the gospel, which no opposition could intimidate,--that cheerful submission to suffering which saw a hand of mercy in the darkest hour,--and that faith which was ever "forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before,--pressing toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."

It seemed as if years had passed over the heads of Harry and Laura during the short period of their absence from home--that home where Frank had so anxiously desired to go! All was changed within and around them,--sorrow had filled their hearts, and no longer merry, thoughtless creatures, believing the world one scene of frolicsome enjoyment and careless ease; they had now witnessed its realities,--they had felt its trials,--they had experienced the importance of religion,--they had learned the frailty of all earthly joy,--and they had received, amidst tears and sorrows, the last injunction of a dying brother, to "call upon the Lord while He is near, and to seek Him while he may yet be found."

"Uncle David," said Laura one day, several months after their return home, "Mrs. Crabtree first endeavoured to lead us aright by severity,--you and grandmama then tried what kindness could do, but nothing was effectual till now, when God Himself has laid His hand upon us. Oh! what a heavy stroke was necessary to bring me to my right mind, but now, while we weep many bitter tears, Harry and I often pray together that good may come out of evil, and that 'we who mourn so deeply, may find our best, our only comfort from above'."

Unthinking, idle, wild, and young, I laugh'd, and talk'd, and danc'd, and sung; And proud of health, of frolic vain, Dream'd not of sorrow, care, or pain, Concluding in those hours of glee, That all the world was made for me.

But when the days of trial came, When sorrow shook this trembling frame, When folly's gay pursuits were o'er, And I could dance or sing no more; It then occurr'd how sad 'twould be Were this world only made for me.

Princess Amelia.

THE END.

+--------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's note: | | | | Archaic spelling has been retained, along with inconsistent | | hyphenation: cheese-cakes/cheesecakes, good-bye/good bye, | | mile-stone/milestone, over-head/overhead, | | play-things/playthings, rail-road/railroad, | | steam-boats/steamboats, tea-pot/teapot. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+