Chapter 25 A Shadow
Chapter 25
A Shadow
“Hatty! What spirits you’re in!” said Lucy, as Hatty came dancing into her room early the next morning wearing some of her sister’s city garments. “There! isn’t that a perfect fit?” said Hatty. “You would think the dress was made for me!”
“You may have it and welcome,” replied Lucy. “I meant to give you some of my dresses. But, Hatty, how you do fly about!”
“Well, it’s enough to make one fly, to see how cheerful father is looking. And I can tell you, such presents as came yesterday won’t come every day!”
“No, indeed, I hope not,” said Lucy.
“Oh, Lucy! Put away that matronly attitude. It’s not attractive at all. You and Mother seem to think it’s a sin to smile.”
“Oh, Hatty!”
“Well, you try to keep me from smiling, at any rate. Now, what harm is there in my ‘flying about,’ as you call it?”
“None, dear Hatty. It does me good to see you happy. Only sometimes I look forward to the time when you’ll have real troubles, and then I long to give you something even better than mere good spirits—something to lean on when they fail.”
“We should not borrow trouble,” said Hatty.
“No, but there is no harm in borrowing sunshine if it will make a gloomy future less gloomy. Indeed, dear Hatty, I hope your evil day is far off, and I wouldn’t alarm you now if I could help it. But I must speak to someone, and I dare not excite Mother’s fears until I have consulted you. Ever since I came home, I have noticed how extravagantly fond you are of Arthur, as indeed we all are. He is certainly a remarkable boy!”
“That’s true!” returned Hatty. “His teacher says he is the finest boy in school. And you don’t have the least idea how he’s been while you’ve been gone. So kind to all the children, so affectionate toward Mother! She often has spoken of it, and said Arthur would be the stay and staff of her old age.”
“I’m sure he will be that to us all if he lives to become a man,” said Lucy. She paused and listened. From Arthur’s little room she still heard that cough that had vibrated through every nerve of her heart through the long night.
“But I don’t understand you!” said Hatty. “Is anything the matter with Arthur?”
“He seems changed and looks ill to me. And his cough—don’t you notice that?”
“Oh, Lucy! I don’t think he looks ill! What can have put that into your head? He is indeed growing tall fast, and that makes some difference in his strength.”
“Don’t be excited, Hatty,” said Lucy, detecting beneath these careless, pettish words, real anxiety, and alarm. We must not forget that Arthur is in the hands of God and that nothing can befall him without His consent. I’ll be sorry I spoke to you about him, if you look so! I felt so afraid some terrible blow was coming! And you appeared so unprepared for it!”
“If Arthur dies, I hope I do too!” cried Hatty passionately.
“I know you don’t mean that! But I have given you great pain, needlessly, perhaps. But that cough! Listen, Hatty!”
Hatty listened. The cough, previously hardly noticed, now sounded painful in her awakened ears. “Lucy!” she said, “I’ll tell you what I think about this world. I think it’s a hateful place to live in! Just as you get to feeling contented and happy, some dreadful thing happens, and you don’t care whether you live or die!”
“Well, dear Hatty,” said Lucy, weeping, “and isn’t this the very reason why we want our happiness established on something which is not changeable? Something which cannot die, even?” Poor Hatty could not answer. The shadow of her first real sorrow was stealing over that path that had seemed all sunshine. Everything up until now had given way before her beauty, her health, her fine, joyous spirits. But now—she rushed from the room to find her brother.
“He won’t die!” she thought. She flew to Arthur’s door. It was early, and worn with the fatigue from his cough and a sleepless night, he had not yet risen.
“Come in!” he said when he heard Hatty’s knock. She rushed in and threw herself into his arms in a fit of tears and sobs.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, in great alarm.
“Oh, Arthur! Dear Arthur! Dear, darling Arthur! Don’t die! Don’t die!” she gasped.
“Who says I am going to die?” he asked, becoming very pale, and looking towards the little window in vain, yearning for air. In her half frantic grief, she did not observe the look but went on incoherently. “Only just live, dear Arthur; you can be sick if you want, and you needn’t even try to be well, and it’s no matter if you don’t even talk if it hurts you! Only just live; only just promise you will!” She fell on her knees by the side of his bed, and clasping her hands, looked imploringly up into his face. He looked down at her with a smile she never forgot. The momentary surprise and alarm had subsided and he lay back on his pillow, very pale, but serene, almost joyous.
“If it were not for you and Mother and Lucy, I would be too happy!” he said faintly. He coughed again, and the red life-blood gushed forth, staining the clasped, imploring hands, the white sheets, and the lovely dress. She ran shrieking to Lucy, who, on her knees, was wrestling for submission to the will of God which was so full of mystery. In a moment she was at his side, had seen the pale figure, and, suppressing the agony that struggled not less fiercely in her heart than in Hatty’s, she sought the simple remedy of prayer always at hand. Arthur was relieved. He smiled at her and held her hand, and would have spoken, but she would not allow him.
Hatty had run for her parents and they now came hurrying in. John and Hatty and the little children came on tiptoe and holding their breath, behind their parents. How much anguish can be crowded into one small room! How much can lie in one heart, or hide under one calm smile!
Arthur greeted each with a glance of pleasure, which each tried vainly to return. His father allowed himself time for only one kiss on the white forehead and then went hastily out in search of Dr. White. He was at home and was therefore speedily by Arthur’s side. He said little and prescribed little; he strictly ordered entire rest. Once more, trembling hands arranged the “north room” for the sick boy. Once more a fire burned on its cold hearth, and with gentleness and care, he was carried there. No one understood the occasion of his sudden illness, save Arthur and the self-scolding, miserable Hatty. She knew too well that by her recklessness and passionate outburst she had hastened the evil day she sought only to prevent. How thankfully Lucy now recognized the good Providence by which she had been brought home! She was not torn from Arthur’s side by the pressure of other duties; she was granted the luxury of sitting by his side hour after hour, day after day, watching every look, dwelling on every tone, feeling the thin fingers clasp her own with fervent affection, seeing the pale face grow brighter at her approach, and the loving eye follow her every move. With his failing life, her strong heart grew stronger; she felt that there was an Arm beneath and around her whose power she never could have learned except in the hour of sorrow. One evening, as he lay quietly with closed eyes and appeared to sleep, she sat down by his side, thinking over the past and arming herself for the future. All her disappointed hopes concerning him lay withered before her, and as she thought about them, a heavy sigh escaped her.
“Is that you, Lucy?” asked Arthur. She started up and went to him.
“I thought you were asleep, dear,” she said.
“No, I was looking at you. I was thinking how anxious you’ve been ever since I can remember, first to have me good; then, to see me wise. And now you need not feel grieved that I have not had the education you meant for me to have. For I am going to a far better school than even you wanted for me. Christ, Himself, will teach me. I will learn from angels, apostles, and those great men who are now saints in heaven. And I want you to know because it will comfort you when I’m gone, that you showed me the way there. You went first and I followed. I didn’t think very much of what Father and Mother said. I thought they were old and tired of life and liked religion because it fell in with their mature tastes. But I could not think that of you. I knew when you urged me to go to Christ, that He must be a friend for the young, too.”
“I wouldn’t talk anymore now, dear Arthur,” said Lucy gently.
“No, it does me good. I want to hear you say that you are glad for me that I am going away from this world. And, Lucy, take care of poor Mother. Comfort her when I am gone. And Hatty too; I think a great deal of her which I would tell you if I were not so weak. You must lead them all to Jesus. Mother will help you. Jesus himself will help you. Never mind if they don’t learn anything else. I see how worthless the finest education would be to me now if I had that and nothing else.”
“I’m afraid to let you talk any more, dear Arthur,” said Lucy. “I love to hear you, but I know it tires you.”
“No, it does me good. I want to say one thing more, because it may help to comfort you when I’m gone. And I may not have another time as good as this.” He rested a few minutes in silence, then said, “I’ve been thinking of that day we went to the top of Mount Prospect, in Honeydale together. You know I went first, and how tired I was, the sun was so hot, and the hill so steep. While I was going up, I kept pitying you, who were far behind, to think you had to climb all the hard, rough paths, in the heat and over the stones. But when I got to the top and sat down there, and saw the beautiful view, that paid for all the trouble. Then I quit feeling anxious about you. I said to myself, ‘She’ll soon be here; it isn’t far, and she’ll forget her fatigue when she sees what I’m seeing.’”
He paused again to rest. Lucy fanned him gently and moistened his lips. After a time he began again.
“Just so it seems to me when I look back now from the place I’m in. I would feel sorry—yes, I would be distressed to see you climbing up, and climbing up, and getting hurt in the rough places, and faint in the heat; but I look down, and it’s only a little way. You’re almost here, and when you get here, you won’t even remember how you got here; you’ll have enough to do looking at the beautiful view. You’ll think you were only a minute in coming. You’ll forget what hard work it was toiling up. Have I made it clear? Do you understand? For I’m almost there; I won’t be able to say much more.” He fell back, exhausted, on his pillows.
Lucy went quickly out and called her mother. Arthur had fainted; it was long before they could restore him. When at last he opened his eyes, he smiled at them and said, “I thought I was almost there!”
These were his last dying thoughts. He was never again able to converse except in whispered sentences. Growing weaker every day, and not wanting to talk, he lay quietly listening to hymns and Bible verses, sometimes making a single, childlike remark about going to Christ’s school, and then relapsing into silence again. Poor Hatty, gentle and thoughtful now, leaned over him night and day, secretly reproaching herself and regretting her indiscretion; yet comforted by many a loving word and caress from the happy, dying boy.
At last, with a hand of his beloved Lucy in one of his, and Hatty’s in the other, Arthur entered fearlessly into the valley of the shadow of death; and they who had known his life doubted not that when the sisters let go of his hands, angels came and took their places, and guided him onward to a better country, and into eternal joy.