CHAPTER L.THE STORM GATHERING.
It was more than thecrampsand thehypowhich ailed Mrs. Barrett, though at first it seemed much like both, and after seeing her fall away to sleep, Edith went to her own room without a thought of danger. But later in the morning, when she stood again by her mother’s bedside, and saw how pinched her features were, and how old and worn she looked without her teeth and puffs of hair, and how weak and helpless she seemed, she began to feel some alarm and sent for the physician at once. It was a severe cold, the doctor said, and there was no danger to be apprehended; but Mrs. Barrett thought differently. She had a settled conviction that the sickness coming on so fast was her last. She had onlycome to America to die, and Edith would not long be troubled with her, she said, in reproachful tones, which she meant should make her daughter sorry that she had not been more pleased to see her. And Edith was sorry, and made every possible amends by nursing her herself, and staying constantly with her.
And yet with all the care Mrs. Barrett grew worse, and every succeeding day found her weaker than the preceding one had left her. She did not seem to have any vitality or rallying force, and without any real disease sank so fast that within two weeks after her arrival in Hampstead, she came to the point where she looked death in the face and knew he was waiting for her.
There was no hope, and her only share in Edith’s grandeur would be a costly coffin and a great funeral, when many would look upon her face, never dreaming that they had seen it before. That was all, and she knew it now, and as earth began to fade away, and the realities of the next world loomed darkly in the distance, remorse came hand in hand with the shadow of death, and filled her heart with horror and anguish when she remembered the past and her sad, wasted life. It was no comfort to her now that the baptismal waters had once bedewed her head, and she been numbered outwardly with the children of God. To her there had never been any reality in religion. Everything was done for effect, and because it was respectable. For her there was no efficacy in Jesus’ blood, no heart yearnings after His presence, or tears because she could not feel Him with her. Even her praying had only been in public when it was the proper thing to do, for by herself she never prayed, never till now, when she stood face to face with death, and felt her burden of guilt and sin rolling over her like a mountain, and crushing her to the earth. Then conscience awoke, and like David she cried:
“My sin is ever before me.”
Oh, that one particular sin! How it haunted her day and night, seeming so much larger than all the rest, and making her shrink away from Edith’s presence and cover her head with the bed-clothes, so as not to see the face bending so kindly overher. For many long years she had slighted the Holy Spirit, and trampled on her conscience, until it would almost seem that the one was hard as a rock and the other flown forever. But God’s mercy is infinite, and He was giving her another chance, and leading her back to Himself through the thorny path her own deeds had made for her feet to walk in. At last when she could bear the anguish no longer, and must speak to some one, she said to Gertie, who was sitting with her that night:
“Gertie, are you a Christian? Do you ever pray?”
The question was very abrupt, and Gertie’s face flushed, and she waited a little before answering:
“Yes, I pray, and hope I am a Christian in the sense you mean. Andyouare a Christian, too?” she added, after a pause; and Mrs. Barrett said quickly:
“No, never. There was nothing real; all was for effect, and now it is like so many scorpions stinging me to madness, and one act hurts me worse than all the rest. Gertie, if you had done something very wicked years ago, something which nobody in the wide world knew besides you, but which concerned another very, very much,whatwould you do? you, who pray and hope you are a Christian?”
Ordinarily Gertie would have thought herself too young and inexperienced to offer advice to one so much her senior, and whom she had believed so good a woman, but now words seemed put into her mouth, and she answered unhesitatingly:
“I should ask God to forgive me; and if the person so much concerned was within my reach I should confess it to him, I think.”
There was a bitter cry, and Gertie saw great drops of sweat on Mrs. Barrett’s brow as she moaned:
“Yes, that is it,—only I must reverse it. Confess to her first, and then I can dare to pray, which I cannot now. Oh, Gertie, Gertie,—never, never tell a lie as long as you live.”
She was very much excited, and seemed at times to be out of her head, and talked queer things of theblue-eyed baby, “the child who she thinks is dead.”
“Oh, where is it now, and what was its fate?” she kept whispering to herself, and once, as Gertie bent over her to bathe her head, she said, “Are you she,—the girl, the child, you know?”
“No, I am only Gertie; try to sleep and not talk any more to-night. You will be better in the morning and can tell Mrs. Schuyler,” Gertie said, feeling intuitively that Edith was the person concerned in the secret troubling the guilty woman so much.
She was sure of it when Mrs. Barrett answered:
“Yes, I must tell her. I must. Heaven give me strength to do it.”
Perhaps this was the first genuine prayer she had ever made, and as if already better for it she became more quiet and slept sweetly till the dawn of the morning, when Edith came to see how she had passed the night and relieve Gertie of her watch.
“Go to bed now, child,” she said, “and I will see that you are not called till lunch. You must be very tired.”
Gertie obeyed, and going to her own room, the adjoining one, was soon in a deep sleep, while Edith took her place by Mrs. Barrett’s bedside.