By the side of William Carlyle's dying bed knelt the Lady Isabel. The time was at hand, and the boy was quite reconciled to his fate.
Merciful, indeed, is God to dying children! It is astonishing how very readily, when the right means are taken, they may be brought to look with pleasure, rather than fear, upon their unknown journey.
The brilliant hectic, type of the disease, had gone from his cheeks, his features were white and wasted, and his eyes large and bright. His silky brown hair was pushed off his temples, and his little hot hands were thrown outside the bed.
"It won't be very long to wait, you know, will it, Madame Vine?"
"For what, darling?"
"Before they all come. Papa and mamma, and Lucy, and all of them."
A jealous feeling shot across her wearied heart. Was /she/ nothing to him? "Do you not care that I should come to you, William?"
"Yes, I hope you will. But do you think we shall know /everybody/ in Heaven? Or will it be only our own relations?"
"Oh, child! I think there will be no relations, as you call it, up there. We can trust all that to God, however it may be."
William lay looking upward at the sky, apparently in thought, a dark blue, serene sky, from which shone the hot July sun. His bed had been moved toward the window, for he liked to sit in it, and look at the landscape. The window was open now, and the butterflies and bees sported in the summer air.
"I wonder how it will be?" pondered he, aloud. "There will be the beautiful city, its gates of pearl, and its shining precious stones, and its streets of gold; and there will be the clear river, and the trees with their fruits and their healing leaves, and the lovely flowers; and there will be the harps, and music, and singing. And what else will there be?"
"Everything that is desirable and beautiful, William; but, what we may not anticipate here."
Another pause. "Madame Vine, will Jesus come for me, do you think, or will He send an angel?"
"Jesus has /promised/ to come for His own redeemed--for those who love Him and wait for Him."
"Yes, yes, and then I shall be happy forever. It will be so pleasant to be there, never to be tired or ill again."
"Pleasant? Ay! Oh, William! Would that the time were come!"
She was thinking of herself--of her freedom--though the boy knew it not. She buried her face in her hands and continued speaking; William had to bend his ear to catch the faint whisper.
" 'And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying: neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away.' "
"Madame Vine, do you think mamma will be there?" he presently asked.
"I mean mamma that was."
"Ay, ere long."
"But how shall I know her? You see, I have nearly forgotten what she was like."
She leaned over him, laying her forehead upon his wasted arm, and burst into a flood of impassioned tears. "You will know her, never fear, William; she has not forgotten you."
"But how can we be sure that she will be there?" debated William, after a pause of thought. "You know"--sinking his voice, and speaking with hesitation--"she was not quite good; she was not good enough to papa or to us. Sometimes I think, suppose she did not grow good, and did not ask God to forgive her!"
"Oh, William!" sobbed the unhappy lady, "her whole life, after she left you, was one long scene of repentance, of seeking forgiveness.
Her repentance, her sorrow, was greater than she could bear, and----"
"And what?" asked William, for there was a pause.
"Her heart broke in it--yearning after you and your father."
"What makes you think it?"
"Child, I /know/ it!"
William considered. Then, had he been strong enough, he would have started up with energy. "Madame Vine, you could only know that by mamma's telling you! Did you ever see her? Did you know her abroad?"
Lady Isabel's thoughts were far away--up in the clouds perhaps. She reflected not on the possible consequences of her answer, or she had never given it.
"Yes, I knew her abroad."
"Oh!" said the boy. "Why did you never tell us? What did she say? What was she like?"
"She said"--sobbing wildly--"that she was parted from her children here; but she should meet them in Heaven, and be with them forever.
William, darling! all the awful pain, and sadness, and guilt of this world will be washed out, and God will wipe your tears away."
"What was her face like?" he questioned softly.
"Like yours. Very much like Lucy's."
"Was she pretty?"
A momentary pause. "Yes."
"Oh, dear, I am ill. Hold me!" cried out William, as his head sank to one side, and great drops, as large as peas, broke forth upon his clammy face. It appeared to be one of the temporary faint attacks that overpowered him at times lately, and Lady Isabel rang the bell hastily.
Wilson came in, in answer. Joyce was the usual attendant upon the sick room; but Mrs. Carlyle, with her infant, was passing the day at the Grove; unconscious of the critical state of William, and she had taken Joyce with her. It was the day following the trial. Mr. Justice Hare had been brought to West Lynne in his second attack, and Barbara had gone to see him, to console her mother, and to welcome Richard to his home again. If one carriage drove, that day, to the Grove, with cards and inquiries, fifty did, not to speak of the foot callers. "It is all meant by way of attention to you, Richard," said gentle Mrs. Hare, smiling through her loving tears at her restored son. Lucy and Archie were dining at Miss Carlyle's, and Sarah attended little Arthur, leaving Wilson free. She came in, in answer to Madame Vine's ring.
"Is he off in another faint?" unceremoniously cried she, hastening to the bed.
"I think so. Help to raise him."
William did not faint. No; the attack was quite different from those he was subject to. Instead of losing consciousness and power, as was customary, he shook as if he had the ague, and laid hold both of Madame Vine and Wilson, grasping them convulsively.
"Don't let me fall! Don't let me fall!" he gasped.
"My dear, you cannot fall," responded Madame Vine. "You forget that you are on the bed."
