Nancy by Rhoda Broughton - CHAPTER XLIX
"So mayst thou die, as I do; fear and pain
Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!"
All right! Yes, for Barbara it is all right. Friends, I no more doubt that than I doubt that I am sitting here now, with the hot tears on my cheeks, telling you about it; but oh! not�not for us!
"Much laughing will end in much crying." The Brat was right. God knows the old saw has come true enough in my case. I exulted too soon. Too soon I said that the all-victor was vanquished. He might have left us our one little victory, might not he?�knowing that at best it was but a reprieve, that soon or late�soon or late, Algy�we all, every human flower that ever blossomed out in this world's sad garden, must be embraced in the icy iron of his arms.
I always said that we were too many and too prosperous; long ago I said it. I always wondered that he had so long overlooked us. And now that he comes, he takes our choicest and best. With nothing less is he content. Barbara sickens. Not until the need for her tender nursing is ended, not until Algy can do without her, does she go; and then she makes haste to leave us.
On the morning after my mad and premature elation, it is but too plain that the fever has laid hold of her too, and in its parching, withering clasp, our unstained lily fades. We take her back to Tempest at her wish, and there she dies�yes, dies.
Somehow, I never thought of Barbara dying. Often I have been nervous about the boys; out in the world, exposed to a hundred dangers and rough accidents, but about Barbara�never, hardly more than about myself, safely at home, scarcely within reach of any probable peril. And now the boys are all alive and safe, and Barbara is going. One would think that she had cared nothing for us, she is in such a hurry to be gone; and yet we all know that she has loved us well�that she loves us still�none better.
Alas! we have no long and tedious nursing of her. She has never given any trouble in her life, and she gives none now. Almost before we realize the reality and severity of her sickness, she is gone. Neither does she make any struggle. She never was one to strive or cry; never loud, clamorous, and self-asserting, like the boys and me; she was always most meek, and with a great meekness she now goes forth from among us�meekness and yet valor, for with a full and collected consciousness she looks in the face of Him from whom the nations shuddering turn away their eyes, and puts her slight hand gently into his, saying, "Friend, I am ready!"
And the days roll by; but few, but few of them, for, as I tell you, she goes most quickly, and it comes to pass that our Barbara's death-day dawns. Most people go in the morning. God grant that it is a good omen, that for them, indeed, the sun is rising!
We are all round her�all we that loved her and yet so lightly�for every trivial thing called upon her, and taxed her, and claimed this and that of her, as if she were some certain common thing that we should always have within our reach. Yes, we are all about her, kneeling and standing in a hallowed silence, choking back our tears that they may not stain the serenity of her departure.
Musgrave is nearest her; her hand is clasped in his; even at this sacred and supreme moment a pang of most bitter earthly jealousy contracts my heart that it should be so. What is he to her? what has he to do with our Barbara?�ours, not his, not his! But it pleases her.
She has never doubted him. Never has the faintest suspicion of his truth dimmed the mirror of her guileless mind, nor will it ever now. She goes down to the grave smiling, holding his hand, and kissing it. Now and then she wanders a little, but there is nothing painful or uneasy in her wanderings.
Her fair white body lies upon the bed, but by the smile that kindles all the dying loveliness of her face, by the happy broken words that fall from her sweet mouth, we know that she is already away in heaven. Now and again her lips part as if to laugh�a laugh of pure pleasantness.
"As the man lives, so shall he die!" As Barbara has lived, so does she die�meekly, unselfishly�with a great patience, and an absolute peace. O wise man! O philosophers! who would take from us�who have all but taken from us�our Blessed Land, the land over whose borders our Barbara, at that smile, seems setting her feet�you may be right�I, for one, know not! I am weary of your pros and cons! But when you take it away, for God's sake give us something better instead!
Who, while they kneel, with the faint hand of their life's life in theirs, can be satisfied with the probability of meeting again? God! God! give us certainty.
The night has all but waned, the dawn has come. God has sent his messenger for Barbara. An awful hunger to hear her voice once more seizes me, masters me. I rise from my knees, and lean over her.
"Barbara!" I say, in a strangling agony of tears, "you are not afraid, are you?"
Afraid! She has all but forgotten our speech�she, who is hovering on the confines of that other world, where our speech is needed not, but she just repeats my word, "Afraid!"
Her voice is but a whisper now, but in all her look there is such an utter, tender, joyful disdain, as leaves no room for misgiving.
Nay, friends, our Barbara is not at all afraid. She never was reckoned one of the bravest of us�never�timorous rather! Often we have laughed at her easy fears, we bolder ones. But which of us, I pray you, could go with such valiant cheer to meet the one prime terror of the nations as she is doing?
And it comes to pass that, about the time of the sun-rising, Barbara goes.
"She is gone! God bless her!" Roger says, with low and reverent tenderness, stooping over our dead lily, and, putting his arm round me, tries to lead me away. But I shake him off, and laugh out loud.
"Are you mad?" I cry, "she is not dead! She is no more dead than you are! Only a moment ago, she was speaking to me! Do dead people speak?"
But rave and cry as I may, she is dead. In smiling and sweetly speaking, even while yet I said "She is here!" yea, in that very moment she went.
Our Barbara is asleep!�to awake�when?�where?�we know not, only we altogether hope, that, when next she opens her blue eyes, it will be in the sunshine of God's august smile�God, through life and in death, her friend. |
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