ALMOST a week had passed since Kate's arrival at the humble home in Mary Street. A week of anxiety it had been to all; for Mrs. Grahame grew daily weaker. Dr. Turner came and went, and tenderly as a nurse he assisted in placing the sick woman in easier positions on her pillows. Soothing medicines were administered, quiet services rendered; all that his art could suggest was not tardily executed.
But better than all the restoratives which human skill might introduce, was the little word of encouragement whispered softly in Mrs. Grahame's dying ear before the doctor's departure. Upon more than one occasion his voice yeas raised in prayer from the side of that lowly bed, and soon the stricken family learned to welcome Dr. Turner's visits as much for his spiritual ministry as for his medical skill.
I have often since thought what priceless opportunities are given to the christian doctor; not only can he apply the healing virtues of his art to the poor, diseased body, but led by the Spirit of God, he can tell of the medicine for the broken heart-the balm that is better than Gilead's, of the great Physician, who can recover the leprous sinner, and make the sin-sick soul hear from His lips the cheering words, "Thou art made whole."
“The loving Lord knows it all, Emily, dear one," said Aunt Mary, soon after the dear sufferer had recovered from a severe attack. “He went through pain and suffering for you, didn't He?"
“Who else is in pain, Mary?" asked the sick woman, a little incoherently.
“You, darling, now," said Aunt Mary. “Jesus once went through pain for you. He suffered that He might bring you to God."
“Did He suffer like this for me? Could He have suffered like this for me?" answered Mrs. Grahame. "How He loves me! Yes! How He loves me. He suffered more than this for me."
Ah! those two watchers in that lonely, lowly, humble chamber felt conscious that a wondrous change was at hand. No return of the pain had taken place for some hours, and the low, gentle breathings of the dying woman were all the sounds to be heard in the apartment. The pale face lay peacefully upon the white pillow, and a quiet smile was visible upon the parted lips. The hand of death was there. His icy touch was on the pallid brow.
The stars of night gradually disappeared in returning daylight, and the busy world began to wake up to its customary routine; but Mrs. Grahame still slumbered on. It was towards mid-day when she awoke, and then her gaze rested upon her daughter Kate. Aunt Mary had gone downstairs to prepare the children for what she knew must now be very near. Gerald, too, had been sent for, and was hourly expected.
“Kate, is it you, love?" asked Mrs. Grahame in a low, distinct tone as she looked at her child. “It is, mother darling," answered Kate, as she leaned over the pale, emaciated form, and imprinted a fond kiss on the peaceful forehead.
“I have had such a sweet sleep, love," was the next remark.
“I have not left you all night, mother," said Kate softly, as she strove to control the emotion that almost mastered her.
“There has been One who has never left me, Kate," said the mother. "You know Him, too, Kate?"
“Yes, mother; but not as you do," was the reply.
“Mine has been a rough voyage," said the dying mother. "Yes, Kate," she added;” I can look back at it from where I now lie, and see His mercy in the waves of sorrow which have beaten upon me."
“Mercy! mother, you are very weary, I know; but will you tell me why you said mercy?" asked Kate in a low tone.
“My darling, if it had not been for those trials, I should not have known, as I now do, His perfect love to me."
“Mother," said Kate, "all will be peace there."
“All is peace now, my sweet child. All, all. The weary voyage is past. The desired haven is in sight; but, best of all, He waits for me. I see Him there!"
Then followed a pause, during which the bright eyes were apparently resting in wondering satisfaction upon some ravishing object near at hand.
“Mother, I will call Aunt Mary," said Kate in a low, tremulous tone.
“No, darling!" answered Mrs. Grahame gently. “Let her rest a little; what time is it?"
“Half-past one, mother," said Kate, as she drew me from my place at her side, and looked at my dial-plate.
“You still value my watch, darling," said the mother gently, as she noticed the manner in which Kate was regarding me. Give it to me for a moment." Once more I was in my dear mistress's hand. “Open it, Kate," she said, as she found she had no strength to accomplish the task. “Those are his marks, darling," she added, as she gazed with tearful eyes upon the scratches which an unsteady hand had left upon me.
“Don’t think of that now, mother darling," pleaded Kate, for she knew full well to what sad times memory had flown.
“Poor boy! Poor Herbert!" murmured Mrs. Grahame softly, as she lifted me to her lips. "Tell him what I did, Kate love, because he was not here himself. Tell him with my dying love, that if a mother can forgive and pardon as I do, the love of God in Christ is richer, fuller, freer far beyond mine." And the mother's voice trembled, and for one moment a slight shadow was perceptible upon the marble brow.
“Take the watch again now, love, and when you look at it, think what I have often told you-'As long as time lasts Jesus, the Lord, will be with you, as He has been with me.’”
“I cannot talk more, darling," she added, after another pause. “I should like to sleep again, Kate. 'He giveth His beloved sleep,' you know, my child."
Presently Mr. Grahame entered the chamber, and in a few moments afterward Aunt Mary followed. Gerald's arrival came soon after. Almost heart-broken was he when he saw there was no hope of restoration. He had not thought his mother quite well the last time he saw her; but no thought of any serious illness had, till recently, entered his mind. Now the conviction that he was looking upon the dear form for the last time made his young heart quiver with emotion.
“Won’t mother wake again?" asked he of his father, as they stood side by side in that chamber of death.
“I hope so; I trust so, my dear boy," replied Mr. Grahame, whose heart was wrung with anguish and remorse. A fresh voice in the room aroused the sleeper, and as the eyes gently unclosed and wandered round the room as if in search of some one, they finally rested upon the young man standing near.
"Leave us alone a few moments," she said in a fainter tone than she had before spoken; "Gerald and me."
Never were those precious, solemn moments obliterated from the youth's memory. Earnestly, lovingly, and yet with dying fervor, she pleaded with his soul. Gerald had never been brought to the feet of Jesus, there to sit and learn of Him. He was one of those who meant to be a Christian "some day;" but the words of his mother now sank deep into his heart, convincing him that "now was the accepted time, now was Me day of salvation."
"Gerald," said his mother, as his father presently re-entered the room, “promise me one thing."
“Yes, mother, anything," said Gerald, as he knelt by her side and listened.
“You’ll never reproach Herbert when you meet. Forgive him, Gerald."
“As I hope to be forgiven, mother," said Gerald in a solemn tone.
“And tell him I loved and thought of him till the last." And the voice died away, faintly and tenderly, as if her last wish on earth were now gratified.
“Maude, Carrie, Sydney," whispered Mrs. Grahame to her husband a few hours later in the day. And the husband knew that the fond mother would fain see her children once more by her side. They were brought. Tearfully, for a moment, did the mother's gaze rest upon them; but she smiled at her husband and said, “Dear William, He will never fail, I can trust you all to Him."
“Are you in pain, dear Emily?" asked aunt Mary, as she noticed the restless movements of the long, wasted fingers a short time afterward.
“No, Mary; only weary, waiting to go home," was the low, faint answer.
“All is peace, darling?" asked the sorrow-stricken husband.
"All peace!" whispered the dying woman in broken words. “He is my peace, precious Jesus! my Savior! my Lord!"
Daylight was passing away. Evening had commenced, and already the weeping children knew that never again would they hear that dear mother's voice speaking to them as of old. Silently, and with reverent awe, they stood there in that chamber of death. And Mrs. Grahame slumbered again. Just before seven o'clock the eyes slowly opened; but this time with a wondering look which changed into a smile of heavenly sweetness. Another glance of recognition at all present, and with the countenance still retaining that look of ravishing delight and satisfaction, the happy spirit had fled.
“Absent from the body, present with the Lord," said aunt Mary, as she saw that all was over. It was a scene that never could be forgotten. The bereaved husband, the weeping children!
Very tenderly did Kate endeavor to fill that vacant place; but it might not be. She may soothe the grief of father, brother, sisters; but only the tender, loving sympathy and compassion of the God-Man, Christ Jesus, could ever pour the balm into those wounded hearts. Worse than all, too, they must now be divided; Gerald must return to his office, Kate to her duties, and aunt Mary to her home in Derby.
Earnestly had Kate sought guidance of the Lord with reference to her younger sisters; and He who loves to enter into every care and anxiety of His loved ones heard and answered her in a way that she little expected. "I want you to bring Maude and Carrie with you, when you come," wrote Madame Moret, a few days after Mrs., Grahame's death. "I think your aunt's plan to take Sydney under her care is the best thing that can be done for him. Your father, as you say, will indeed be lonely without you; but he may be freer to act for himself if unfettered by any home cares. I am waiting to welcome you as soon as you can return."
Tears of gratitude rose to Kate's eyes as she read the letter. A few moments' talk with aunt Mary about the way in which God had provided for them, and Kate had decided that, for a time at least, she would accept Madame's generosity.
So it was arranged that the lowly spot they had learned to call home was to be home no longer. Mr. Grahame would still remain in Worcester, as by this time he was becoming better known in the city, besides which he had recently had some prospect of a permanent situation, which, if attained, would place him in more comfortable circumstances than he had been enjoying for the last few months.
“Trust in God, dear father," said Kate, as they parted about a week after the interment. “All things work together for good to them that love God."
"It is trusting in the dark sometimes, Kate," replied the father in a low, desponding tone.
“He can make it light, father," were the last words Mr. Grahame heard as the train passed out of the station.