CHAPTER XVIII.
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW.
The next day at breakfast Mrs. Burton announced her intention of goingto see Mrs. Alroy instead of attending church, and said that if shewere not home to dinner they might know she had thought it necessary toremain.
"Mayn't I go with you, mamma?" asked Winnifred.
"I think it would not be best for either Ernestine or yourself, Winnie,and certainly not for Mrs. Alroy."
Winnie at once saw that her mother was right, and instead of demurring,she went and gathered some beautiful clusters of lilacs for Ernestine,and cut the one white rose in bloom on her window-sill to send to Mrs.Alroy.
Mrs. Burton set off, taking a basket of fruit and the flowers, but shesighed as she turned the corner leading to Mrs. Alroy's, for she feltthat the fruit would never refresh the world-weary woman for whom it wasintended.
When she reached her destination she glanced apprehensively up to thesecond-story windows, for, although she said nothing about it to Winnie,she had on the previous day given up all hope of Mrs. Alroy's recovery.But the sorrowful banner which she had dreaded to see was not there, andshe breathed more freely as she passed up the stairs.
In answer to her low knock the door was opened by Ernestine, who smiledas Mrs. Burton took her hand, a sad little smile of welcome which wentto her visitor's heart.
"Mamma is resting quite easily now, but she passed a painful night. Iwill tell the nurse you are here. How beautiful the flowers and fruitare!" she said, as Mrs. Burton handed the basket to her.
"Yes, dear; the lilacs are for you--you know their odor is too strongfor a sick-room--but Winnie sent this rose from her own little monthlyto your mother."
Ernestine's lips quivered, as she took the rose without speaking, andwent into the little bedroom, closing the door gently behind her.
Mrs. Burton found a vase, which she filled with water to put the lilacsin, and sat down to await the nurse's coming. She had not long to wait.The nurse, entering, closed the door behind her as softly as Ernestinehad done, and motioned Mrs. Burton to follow her into the littlekitchen.
"There is not the slightest hope," said she, in answer to Mrs. Burton'sanxious inquiry. "The doctor says it may be a matter of hours only,although she may live for some days yet. It is neuralgia of the heartand she has been suffering exceedingly. However, she is resting easiernow--which is not a good sign, you know--and wants to see you. She hasasked me to send her daughter on some little errand, because she wantsto see you alone."
They entered Mrs. Alroy's room together, and Ernestine, at a sign fromthe nurse, followed her out of the room. Mrs. Alroy took Mrs. Burton'soutstretched hand, and for a moment neither spoke. Then the former saidquietly:
"Please sit down, Mrs. Burton, for I have much to say to you. And Icannot speak long at a time, so you will have to be patient with me. Youare not in a hurry?"
"My dear Mrs. Alroy, I have the day at your disposal. Do not hesitate tocommand me."
"You know something of my past life--so I found out yesterday. I neednot touch upon it further. It is past now and I no longer regret it. Butit is of the future I wish to speak. Not my own--that lies beyond ourknowing--but of my daughter's--"
The sick woman put her hand over her eyes a moment, and Mrs. Burtonwalked to the window to fight back the tears which were fast rising toher eyes. Mrs. Alroy was the first to regain control of herself, and asMrs. Burton resumed her seat, she went on:
"I had a long talk with Mr. Allen yesterday. He knows my family and Ihave placed my affairs in his hands. I have no doubt that Ernestinewill be taken care of, but it is of her immediate future that I wish tospeak. I would not have her go among strangers at once, and I am aboutto ask a great favor of you. The child loves you next to myself; yourdaughter is her dearest friend--"
"Winnifred feels it an honor to be thought so. Nothing would please bothof us, all of us, better than to have Ernestine make her home with usfor as long a time as she may desire."
"You give me courage to die. You could almost give me courage tolive--but not quite. Yes, that is what I wish to ask of you, but onlyfor the remainder of the school year. Preparing for the high-schoolexamination will occupy my little girl's mind and help her to bear theseparation, and after that--in the shadow of death pride vanishes, andI have requested Mr. Allen to write to my brother. They will settleeverything else." She sank back on her pillows and closed her eyeswearily.
Mrs. Burton could not immediately command her voice, but laid her handgently on that of the sick woman. The latter, without opening her eyes,continued:
"I shall not last long; this pain has too constantly been hovering aboutmy heart; it cannot be driven back again; it must soon strike its lastblow. But I do not fear it; it will be sharp but quick. Nor do I wish tolive. Even my little daughter's wonderful love for me can no longer holdme. Besides, I know that from a material point of view she will onlyprofit by my departure. She does not know that, and I am all shehas--and I have not had the courage to tell her. This hard task I mustask you to do for me. I have only a hope--to you that hope is certainty.Your views are different; you can soften the blow as I cannot do. Youwill stay here awhile?"
"Anything I can do for you is too little."
"I have been loquacious, but I had long restrained myself. What time isit?"
"Half past eleven."
"Ernestine will soon be here, and I will tell her to make a cup of teafor you."
"Oh, no--"
"Yes, it will give her occupation and relieve the strain. There she isnow."
Ernestine came in with soft footsteps. "How do you feel now, mamma?" sheasked gently.
"Quite easy, dear. I think I shall sleep for a little while. Mrs. Burtonwill stay to lunch, and you may make a cup of tea for her and yourself.The nurse will stay with me now; you can call her."
The nurse came, and Mrs. Burton and Ernestine left the room together.
After the sad little lunch Mrs. Burton, summoning up all her courage,spoke.
"Ernestine," she said, "your mother has asked me to tell you somethingwhich she would gladly spare you knowledge of, but which you must know.She is going on a long journey, from which she can no more return toyou. But you will one day go to her."
Ernestine's great eyes dilated wildly. "You mean that my mother isgoing--"
"My dear, my dear! Your mother walks in the valley of the shadow ofdeath, yet she fears no evil. You--and I and all who love you andher--are enveloped in its gloom, but if she fears not passing to theUnknown, shall we fear for her or for ourselves?"
"I cannot do without my mother, Mrs. Burton! I cannot! I cannot! She isall I have--all I want!" and the girl burst into a tempest of tears.
Mrs. Burton gathered her up in her arms and let her weep undisturbed forsome minutes. Then she said gently:
"Your mother wants to go. If she could live longer, she would seldom befree from pain. Besides, it is God's will."
"Oh, my mother! my mother!" And Ernestine dropped upon her knees.
Mrs. Burton went out and left her, knowing that the stricken child'shope was in a Comforter greater than herself.
When Ernestine went in later, pale but quiet, her mother turned towardher with a smile.
"Kiss me, my daughter, my baby!" she said, "and be at peace, as I am."
The windows of the little bedroom faced the west, and toward eveningMrs. Alroy asked the nurse to draw back the curtains. "It has been astormy day," she said, "but the sun is setting clear. I think I will goto sleep."
And she closed her tired eyes, and "fell on sleep" without being touchedby the dreaded pain.
When they knew that it was indeed all over, they led Ernestine away, andshe allowed them to put on her hat and went submissively home with Mrs.Burton.
When she returned to her own home again, the little room had beentransformed into a bower of flowers, and Mrs. Alroy slept under theirfragrant covering, beautiful and serene, with a smile on her lips.Ernestine was met on the threshold by a tall, handso
me man, who put hisarms about her and said how glad he was to see his little niece. He hadcome at once in response to Mr. Allen's telegram.
All was quiet and beautiful. A dozen or so friends gathered to listento the sweet words of farewell to the dead and of benediction to theliving; and then Mr. Van Orten took his sister home with him, that shemight lie beside her kindred in the little old village on the banks ofthe Hudson.
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