Chapter XII: Fears for Others

THE joyous feelings of the boys were damped by their first sight of their uncle's face. It was kind as ever, but so grave, so pale, they felt at once that something serious must have happened.

"Do not leave the carriage, my dear boys," said Mr. Presgrave. "I cannot suffer you at present to enter the house."

"Mamma! Where is she? What is the matter?" exclaimed Tom and Willy, with a vague sense of fear.

"She is well, my children, quite well, thank God! The anxiety and sorrow are mine. Your poor aunt is now lying in a critical state—" his lips quivered as he spoke—"from an attack of malignant fever; and as the doctor cannot yet positively declare that the malady is not infectious in its nature, we have thankfully accepted the offer of Sir Hugh Moncton to receive you for a few days till the issue is known."

The poor boys looked at each other with mingled surprise and sorrow. Willy asked if he might not see his mother, but this was not thought advisable. After sending many a message of love, the boys were driven slowly away.

"How little we know what a day may bring forth!" sighed Willy, after some moments of silence. "We were so happy, and all seemed so bright!"

"Oh! I hope that aunt soon will recover," said Tom, "and then all will be right again. If it were not the cause of our going, I should rather like to visit at Sir Hugh's; they say he has the finest place in the county, with dogs and horses, and everything grand, and Ned Moncton's a splendid young fellow!"

With a faltering step and a heavy heart Mr. Presgrave re-entered the house. Seldom through the course of a long life had clouds gathered so darkly around him! Mrs. Gore had never hitherto permitted her children to visit her neighbour, and now only a sudden and pressing emergency induced her to expose her young sons to the dangerous society of Anderdon Hall. Perhaps anxiety on their account weighed upon Mr. Presgrave as heavily as upon their mother. The feebleness and infirmities of age rendered him less able to struggle against care, whilst the heaviest, to him, of all earthly afflictions, the loss of the wife whom he deeply loved, seemed hanging over his head like a thundercloud ready to burst. Much need had the aged man of the sustaining power of his faith—again and again, he repeated to himself as he feebly and slowly mounted the stairs, "'Why art thou cast down, O my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.'"

With noiseless step, he reached the sick-room—with trembling hand, he unclosed the door, and listened for a moment ere he ventured to enter. After the clear sunshine which he had left, how dark and gloomy appeared that chamber! Drawn curtains shut out the cheerful day, the air felt heavy and oppressive, cooling drinks and lotions lay on a table by the bedside, no sound was heard but the ticking of a watch, which seemed numbering the few moments of departing life.

Mrs. Gore glided silently to the door with her finger upon her lips. "She sleeps still," she whispered, and gently drew her uncle to a corner of the room which opened into the sick-chamber, that they might converse in low tones without disturbing the sufferer.

"Have you seen my poor boys?" inquired the mother.

The old gentleman, in a few brief words, recounted all that had passed.

"O uncle!" said the lady, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I feel as though I had sent my sons into a furnace of temptation! But how could I avoid it? I could not safely have then here—there was no time to form other arrangements—and yet, there is a burden on my soul."

"'Cast thy burden on the Lord, He will sustain thee'!" replied her uncle, taking her hand into both of his own.

"O dear uncle! You are ever ready to comfort others, even when you must most need comfort yourself. I know, too well I know, what you must be suffering now; but you are so firm, so full of Christian courage!"

"No, my daughter," faltered the old man, while tears fast coursed each other down his pale cheek. "I am like a poor, storm-tossed, helpless wanderer, ready to sink in these waves of trouble; but I yet hear my Saviour's voice in the storm—'It is I, be not afraid'!"

Mrs. Gore was one of those gentle beings, who, like creeping plants, so closely, fondly cling round the objects of their tender affection, that existence itself appears wrapped up in theirs. Quiet, retiring, even to timidity, her husband and her children had formed her little world, and on earth she sought nothing beyond. Her delicate features, her gentle, sweet smile, bore impress of goodness which even strangers could not mistake; but those who knew her best were alone aware of the firmness, the self-devotion, in the character of one whom religious principle, like a guiding star, directed in the path of life. Gentle in manner, timid in nature, duty or affection could nerve her to courage; and afraid of infection as she from childhood had been, and eager as she felt to welcome home her boys, without a murmur she was ready to forego the joy and meet the danger, for she felt that God had marked out the course she should pursue.

But to a spirit like hers, the illness of a loved one was a trial peculiarly severe; while her tenderness of conscience and dread of evil rendered her painfully anxious for her sons. "One may bear personal trials firmly," said the tender mother, sitting down and resting her head on her hand, "but to see those whom we love suffer, and not be able to relieve them—to see them in peril, and not be able to succour them."

"We must trust them," said Mr. Presgrave more hopefully and firmly, "to Him who loves them yet better than we do. We can aid them still by fervent prayer to Him who orders all things in heaven and earth; and, like the friends of the paralytic man, lay our loved ones 'at the feet of Jesus'!"