Annabelle Clare was one of a large family. She had the inestimable blessing of godly parents, and her elder sisters too, were true Christians—all a happy, united family. Surely the lines had fallen to her in pleasant places.
Annabelle was about seventeen years of age when I first knew her, and still much engrossed with her education—a sweet, graceful girl, loved and admired by all her young companions; and had her kind impartial mother really admitted the truth, she, the cleverest and handsomest of her children, was her special darling.
It was the early summer time; all nature springing up in fresh beauty, and a joyous promise in those soft bright days, made everyone cheerful, even in spite of themselves in some cases.
The Clare young people were having a game of croquet with their friends; all seemed as happy as young people could possibly be, the sunshine, and the songs of the birds, all seemed in keeping with those young hearts, full of life and thoughtless hope. Annabelle stopped suddenly to pick up her brooch, which had loosened, and was lying just where some player must put a foot on it; and as she raised herself, she felt, as she afterward expressed it, “something gave way;” but she said nothing, and the game finished in due time, rather to her relief, as the pain began to increase. By night she was suffering so much that a local doctor was sent for, and all that love and skill could suggest was done for her, but in vain; she grew rapidly worse, and the doctor wished a celebrated specialist sent for.
It was a Saturday afternoon when the great man came, and the suffering girl went through a long examination. Her father drove him back to the train, but the mother watched eagerly for the doctor in the hall. As he came down, she laid her hand almost impatiently on his arm,
“Doctor, I must speak to you—tell me—tell me the worst. I can bear it, God will help me, but tell me quickly.” He looked at her gently, and tried to break it to her; but she interrupted him, “Tell me quickly -I must know all.”
“Well,” he said, “her strength may last a day or two, or it may not. She may awake out of this sleep we have put her off into, and tell you she has no pain; but you will know, if that is the case, the end is near—perhaps ten or twelve hours, perhaps only two or three.”
Mrs. Clare silently loosed her hold of the doctor’s arm, and stole softly up the stairs, while he noiselessly left the house. Her daughter’s was a low room, and one of the windows was open, and at it the nurse, in her white cap, sat sewing. The balmy air, sweet with the perfume of the hawthorn, fanned the cheek of the dying girl, as she lay on the bed; a low moan escaped the parted lips now and then, and the fair soft hand was tossed restlessly. O, how the mother’s heart ached, as she thought to herself
“So young—so fair—and yet I could part with her without a sigh, if I only knew she was the Lord’s. Why did I never ask her? She seemed so good—so to love her Bible—so like the others that I know are saved—and I never doubted it till now—and now, a few hours perhaps -” and she threw herself on her knees and pleaded for her child; ay, pleaded she might know that it was well with her. Mr. Clare slipped in, and knelt down beside his wife, for an instant; as he did so, their eyes met, and each knew what the other knew, what the other felt. When they rose, it was very calmly, for they felt the answer would be given.
Hours passed on, and the mother watched as well as the night nurse. She had told the nurse she must be left alone with her child when she awoke—and now she waited. How long those hours seemed, and yet how short, as she thought how soon the parting must come from her darling child.
Just as the birds burst forth, each with a note of his own, yet all making one glorious melody, and the first dawn of the morning broke, shedding a weird light into the sick-room, Annabelle moved, and her mother saw that she was watching her. The nurse brought some refreshment to the weary girl, and then left the room. The mother could hardly speak for the beating of her heart, but Annabelle broke the silence: -
“Mother, I feel so much better; the pain is all gone. I’m only very tired now, but I shall soon get well of that,” she added with a smile.
“Well, darling, but if it should please God to take you, you are ready to go, are you not?” she said gently—oh, how gently.
There was a silence.
“No, mother,—no, I can’t die. I’m not going to die surely—no, no, not that—” (and the poor girl trembled with agitation); “no, I don’t want to die; I never thought about it; and God would never take me so young—so very young. Why should I not be allowed to have time to think—time to—”
She stopped, for her father had come in. He had heard enough, and he must be with his dying child in her hour of terrible need, entering the valley of the shadow of death alone—no rod, no staff to comfort her, poor child. They repeated many passages of Scripture to her (passages she was familiar with, but had never made her own), many verses of hymns too they reminded her of—but her only answer was,
“I can’t die; I can’t meet the Lord.”
But by degrees this terrible response came less often, and less decidedly said, till at last her mother repeated, “Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11:2828Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28)).
“Rest,” Amabelle repeated, and then the eyes closed, and the long lashes were wet with tears, and her lips moved, though they heard no sound, as the parents silently lifted up their hearts to God for her.
The morning had come (the Lord’s Day morning). Brightly and beautifully the sun shone into the room—wonderful picture of the light that had, at last shone into that weary heart. Life, light, and gladness, all hers now; and rest—though not the complete rest so soon to be hers—too. She took her mother’s hand, and turned those lovely deep eyes on her father, as she said,
“I know that rest now. O, how good the Lord is!”
A few loving parting words were said, child and parents bound together now forever. The parting seemed nothing, in the certainty of the meeting to part never again.
There was a moment’s quiet, for her breathing had become difficult; then she suddenly seemed to fix her eyes on something opposite; she sat up, a look of glad surprise shining in her face, as she said,
“O, mother! it is the Lord Himself!”
Reader, whoever you may be, time, your time, is fast fleeting by. If death were to come as suddenly to you as it did to this young girl, would it find you “unprepared”?
Well was it for her that she had had the blessing of a Christian home, with all its early influences and instructions; and how graciously did God bring them home to her as she lay and realized her nearness to the eternal world! Remember that mere education in the truths of the gospel will never save your soul; by faith you must make them your own.
“We speak of the mercy of God,
So boundless, so rich, and so free!
But what will it profit thy soul,
Unless’tis relied on by thee?
We speak of the Saviour’s dear name,
By which God can sinners receive;
Yet still art thou lost and undone,
Unless in that name thou’lt believe.
We speak of the blood of the Lamb,
Which frees from pollution and sin;
But its virtues by thee must be proved,
Or thou wilt be ever unclean.
We speak of the glory to come,
Of the heaven so bright and so fair;
But unless you in Jesus believe,
Thou shalt not, thou can’st not be there.”