Heriot's Choice Part 38

'If one could only know, if an angel from heaven might set the seal to our a.s.surance!' he exclaimed once. 'Father, only to know, to be sure of these things.'

'Oh, Cardie, what is that but following the example of the affectionate but melancholy Didymus; "Blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed"; the drowning mariner cannot see the wind that is lashing the waves that threaten to engulf his little bark, cannot "tell whence it comes or whither it goes," yet faith settles the helm and holds the rudder, and bids him cling to the spar when all seems over.'

'But he feels it beyond and around him; he feels it as we feel the warmth of the latent sunshine or the permeating influences of light; we can see the light, father,' he continued eagerly, 'we can lift our eyes eagle-wise to the sun if we will; why should our inner light be quenched and clouded?'

'To test our faith, to make us hold on more securely; after all, Cardie, the world beyond--truth revealed--religion--look to us often through life like light seen from the bottom of a well--below us darkness, then s.p.a.ce, narrowed to our perception, a glimmering of blue sky sown thick with stars--light, keen and arrowy, shining somewhere in the depths; some of us rise to the light, drawn irresistibly to it, a few remain at the bottom of the well all their lives.'

'And some are born blind.'

'Let us leave them to the mercy of the Great Physician; in our case scales may fall from our eyes, and still with imperfect vision we may look up and see men as trees walking, but we must grope on still. Ah, my boy, when in our religious hypochondria whole creeds desert us, and shreds and particles only remain of a fragmentary and doubtful faith, don't let us fight with shadows, which of their very nature elude and fade out of our grasp; let us fall on our knees rather, Cardie, and cry--"Lord, I believe--I will believe; help Thou my unbelief."'

Many and many such talks were held, the hours and days slipping away, Mildred meanwhile devoting herself to the precious work of nursing Olive back to convalescence.

It was a harder task than even Dr. Heriot expected; slowly, painfully, almost unwillingly, the girl tottered back to life; now and then there were sensible relapses of weakness; prostration, that was almost deathlike, then a faint flicker, followed by a conscious rally, times when they trembled and feared and then hoped again; when the shadowy face and figure filled Mildred with vague alarm, and the blank despondency in the large dark eyes haunted her with a sense of pain.

In vain Mildred lavished on her the tenderest caresses; for days there was no answering smile on the pallid face, and yet no invalid could be more submissive.

Unresistingly, uncomplainingly, Olive bore the weakness that was at times almost unendurable; obediently she took from their hands the nourishment they gave her; but there seemed no anxiety to shake off her illness; it was as though she submitted to life rather than willed it, nay, as though she received it back with a regret and reluctance that caused even her unselfishness a struggle.

Was the cloud returning? Had they been wrong to pray so earnestly for her life? Would she come back to them a sadder and more weary Olive, to tax their forbearance afresh, instead of winning an added love; was she who had been as a little child set in their midst for an example of patient humility, to carry this burden of despondent fear about with her from the dark valley itself?

Mildred was secretly trembling over these thoughts; they hara.s.sed and oppressed her; she feared lest Richard's new reverence and love for his sister should be impaired when he found the old infirmity still clinging to her; even now the sad look in her eyes somewhat oppressed him.

'Livy, you look sometimes as though you repented getting well,' he said affectionately to her one day, when her languor and depression had been very great.

'Oh no, please don't say so, Cardie,' she returned faintly, but the last trace of colour forsook her face at his words; 'how can--how can you say that, when you know you wanted me?' and as the tears began to flow, Richard, alarmed and perplexed, soothed and comforted her.

Another day, when her father had been sitting by her, reading and talking to her, he noticed that she looked at him with a sort of puzzled wonder in her eyes.

'What is it, my child?' he asked, leaning over her and stroking her hair with caressing hand. 'Do you feel weary of the reading, Olive?'

'No, oh no; it was beautiful,' she returned, with a trembling lip; 'I was only thinking--wondering why you loved me.'

'Love you, my darling! do not fathers love their children, especially when they have such good affectionate children?'

'But I am not good,' she returned, with something of her old shrinking.

'Oh, papa, why did you and Cardie want me so, your poor useless Olive; even Cardie loves me now, and I have done nothing but lie here and give trouble to you all; but you are all so good--so good,' and Olive buried her pale face in her father's shoulder.

The old self-depreciation waking up to life, the old enemy leaguing with languor and despondency to mar the sweet hopefulness of convalescence.

Mildred in desperation determined to put her fears to the proof when Olive grew strong enough to bear any conversation.

The opportunity came sooner than she hoped.

One day the cloud lifted a little. Roy had been admitted to his sister's room, and his agitation and sorrow at her changed appearance and his evident joy at seeing her again had roused Olive from her wonted lethargy. Mildred found her afterwards lying exhausted but with a smile on her face.

'Dear Roy,' she murmured, 'how good he was to me. Oh, Aunt Milly,'

clasping Mildred's hands between her wasted fingers, 'I don't deserve for them to be so dear and good to me, it makes me feel as though I were wicked and ungrateful not to want to get well.'

'I dreaded to hear you say this, Olive,' returned Mildred. As she sat down beside her, her grieved look seemed a reproach to Olive.

'It was not that I wanted to leave you all,' she said, laying her cheek against the hand she held, 'but I have been such a trouble to every one as well as to myself; it seemed so nice to have done with it all--all the weariness and disappointment I mean.'

'You were selfish for once in your life then, Olive,' returned Mildred, trying to smile, but with a heavy heart.

'I tried not to be,' she whispered. 'I did not want you to be sorry, Aunt Milly, but I knew if I lived it would all come over again. It is the old troublesome Olive you are nursing,' she continued softly, 'who will try and disappoint you as she has always done. I can't get rid of my old self, and that is why I am sorry.'

'Sorry because we are glad; it is Olive and no other that we want.'

'Oh, if I could believe that,' returned the girl, her eyes filling with tears; 'but it sounds too beautiful to be true, and yet I know it was only Cardie's voice that brought me back, he wanted me so badly, and he asked me to stay. I heard him--I heard him sob, Aunt Milly,' clutching her aunt with weak, nerveless fingers.

'Are you sure, Olive? You were fainting, you know.'

'Yes, I was falling--falling into dark, starry depths, full of living creatures, wheels of light and flame seemed everywhere, and then darkness. I thought mamma had got me in her arms, she seemed by me through it all, and then I heard Cardie say I should break his heart, and then he sobbed, and papa blessed me. I heard some gate close after that, and mamma's arms seemed to loosen from me, and I knew then I was not dying.'

'But you were sorry, Olive.'

'I tried not to be; but it was hard, oh, so hard, Aunt Milly. Think what it was to have that door shut just as one's foot was on the threshold, and when I thought it was all over and I had got mamma back again; but it was wrong to grieve. I have not earned my rest.'

'Hush, my child, you must not take up a new lease of life so sadly; this is a gift, Olive, a talent straight from the Master's hands, to be received with grat.i.tude, to be used joyfully; by and by, when you are stronger, you will find more beautiful work your death would have left unfinished.'

A weary look crossed Olive's face.

'Shall I ever be strong enough to work again?'

'You are working now; nay, my child,' as Olive looked up with languid surprise, 'few of us are called upon to do a more difficult task than yours; to take up life when we would choose death, to bear patiently the discipline of suffering and inaction, to wait till He says "work."'

'Dear Aunt Milly, you always say such comforting things. I thought I was only doing nothing but give you trouble.'

'There you were wrong, Olive; every time you suppress an impatient sigh, every time you call up a smile to cheer us, you are advancing a step, gaining a momentary advantage over your old enemy; you know my favourite verses--

"Broadest streams from narrowest sources, n.o.blest trees from meanest seeds, Mighty ends from small beginnings, From lowly promise lofty deeds.

"Acorns which the winds have scattered, Future navies may provide; Thoughts at midnight, whispered lowly, Prove a people's future guide."

I am a firm believer in little efforts, Olive.'

Olive was silent for a few minutes, but she appeared thinking deeply; but when she spoke next it was in a calmer tone.

'After all, Aunt Milly, want of courage is my greatest fault.'

'I cannot deny it, dear.'

'I am so afraid of responsibility that it seemed easier to die than to face it. You were right; I was selfish to want to leave you all.'

'You must try to rejoice with us that you are spared.'

'Yes, I will try,' with a sigh; but as she began to look white and exhausted, Mildred thought it wiser to drop the conversation.

The family circle was again complete in the vicarage, and in the evenings a part of the family always gathered in the sickroom. This was hailed as a great privilege by the younger members--Roy, Polly, and Chriss eagerly disputing it. It was an understood thing that Richard should be always there; Olive seemed restless without him. Roy was her next favourite; his gentleness and affection seemed to soothe her; but Mildred noticed that Polly's bright flow of spirits somewhat oppressed her, and it was not easy to check Chriss's voluble tongue.