"Oh, what more could I ask? what have I to do with doubt or fear, since he is mine and I am his?"
"Only the physical pain," he said, low and tenderly; "and Arthur tells me that with the help of anæsthetics there will be little or none of that during the operation, but – "
"What may come afterward can be easily borne, dear papa," she said, as he paused, overcome by emotion.
"My dear, brave darling! a more patient, resigned sufferer never lived!" was his moved, though low-breathed, exclamation.
A moment's silence fell between them, he leaning over and caressing her with exceeding tenderness; then, "Papa," she said, with a loving look up into his eyes, "I cannot bear to see you so distressed. Arthur holds out strong hope of cure, of speedy and entire recovery; and we may be spared to each other for many years if the will of God be so; but – surely it is my wisest plan to prepare for every possibility.
"I feel very easy about my dear children, most of them having already arrived at years of maturity, and being comfortably settled in life; Edward and my two older daughters, at least; while the others I can leave in the safest of earthly hands, even those of my dear and honored father, whose love for them is only secondary to my own; and for each one I have reason to hope that the good part has been chosen which can never be taken away."
"I do indeed love them very dearly," he responded, "for their own sake, their father's, and most of all because they are the offspring of my own beloved child. Should I outlive her, they shall want for nothing their grandfather can do to make them happy."
"I know it, dear father, and can leave them to your and their heavenly Father's care without a doubt or fear," she said, with a gentle sigh over the thought of the parting with her darlings that might be so near.
She went on to speak of some business matters, then said: "I think that is all, papa. I do not care to make any alteration in my will; and, as you know, you and brother Horace are my executors. To-morrow I must have a little talk with each of my children, and then I shall be ready for Arthur and his assistants.
"I want all my children near at hand in case of an unfavorable result and that I am able to say a few last words, bidding them all farewell."
There was again a moment of silence, her father seeming too much overcome to speak; then she went on: "I think they must not be told to-night, that the two younger ones need know nothing of the danger till the morning of the operation. I would spare them all the suffering of anticipation that I can; and were I but sure, quite sure, of going safely through it all, they should know nothing of it till afterward; but I cannot rob them of a few last words with their mother."
"My darling! always unselfish, always thinking of others first!" Mr. Dinsmore said, in moved tones, bending over her and pressing his lips again and again to her pale cheek and brow.
"Surely almost any mother would think of her children before herself," she returned with a sweet, sad smile.
But just at that instant childish footsteps were heard in the hall without, then a gentle rap on the door, and Walter's voice asking, "Mamma, may I come in?"
"Yes, my son," she answered, in cheerful tones, and in a moment he was at her side, asking, in some alarm and anxiety, "Mamma, dear, are you sick?" bending over her as he spoke, and pressing ardent kisses upon cheek and lip and brow.
"Not very, mother's darling baby boy," she answered, lifting to his eyes full of tender mother love.
"'Baby boy?'" repeated Walter, with a merry laugh, gently smoothing her hair, and patting her cheek lovingly, while he spoke. "Mamma, dear, have you forgotten that I am eleven years old?"
"No, dear; but for all that you are still mother's dear, dear baby boy!" she said, hugging him close.
"Well, I shan't mind your calling me that, you dearest mamma," laughed Walter, repeating his caresses; "but nobody else must do it."
"Not even grandpa?" queried Mr. Dinsmore, with a proudly affectionate smile into the bright young face.
"I don't think you'd want to, grandpa," returned the lad, "because, you know, you're always telling me I must try to be a manly boy. But I came up to remind you and mamma that it's time for prayers. Grandma sent me to do so and to ask if you could both come down now."
"You will not think of going down, Elsie?" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed in surprise, as his daughter made a movement as if to rise from her couch.
"Yes, papa," she returned. "I have been resting here for some hours and feel quite able to join the family now. I am not in pain at this moment, and Arthur said nothing about keeping to my room."
"Then I wouldn't, mamma," said Walter, slipping his hand into hers. "I'm sure Cousin Arthur's always ready enough to order us to keep to our rooms if there's any occasion. I'm glad he doesn't think you sick enough to have to do that."
His mother only smiled in reply, and, taking her father's offered arm, moved on in the direction of the stairway, Walter still clinging to her other hand.
Anxious looks and inquiries greeted her on their entrance into the parlor, where family and servants were already gathered for the evening service; but she parried them all with such cheery words and bright sweet smiles as set their fears at rest for the time.
But those of Edward were presently rearoused as – the younger members of the family and the servants having retired from the room – he noticed a look of keen, almost anguished anxiety, bestowed by his grandfather upon his mother; then that her cheek was unusually pale.
"Mother dear, you are not well!" he exclaimed, hastily rising and going to her.
"No, not quite, my dear boy," she replied, smiling up at him; "but do not look so distressed; none of us can expect always to escape all illness. I am going back to my room now and, though able to do so without assistance, will accept the support of the arm of my eldest son, if it is offered me."
"Gladly, mother dear, unless you will let me carry you; which I am fully able to do."
"Oh, no, Ned," she said laughingly, as she rose and put her hand within his arm; "the day may possibly come when I shall tax your young strength to that extent, but it is not necessary now. Papa, dear," turning to him, "shall I say good-night to you now?"
"No, no," Mr. Dinsmore answered, with some emotion, "I shall step into your rooms for that as it is on my way to my own."
"I, too," said Mrs. Dinsmore; "and perhaps you will let me play the nurse for you if you are not feeling quite well."
"Thank you very much, mamma. In case your kind services are really needed I shall not hesitate to let you know. And I am always glad to see you in my rooms."
"Mother, you are actually panting for breath!" Edward exclaimed when they were half-way up the stairs. "I shall carry you," and taking her in his arms as he spoke, he bore her to her boudoir and laid her tenderly down on its couch. "Oh, mother dear," he said, in quivering tones, "tell me all. Why should your eldest son be shut out from your confidence?"
"My dear boy," she answered, putting her hand into his, "can you not rest content till to-morrow? Why should you think that anything serious ails me?"
"Your pale looks and evident weakness," he said, "grandpa's distressed countenance as he turns his eyes on you, and the unusually sober, serious look of Cousin Arthur as I met him passing out of the house to-night. He had been with you, had he not?"
"Yes, my son, and I meant that you and your sisters should know all to-morrow or the next day. It is only for your own sake I would have had you spared the knowledge till then."
"Dearest mother, tell me all now," he entreated; "for surely no certainty can be worse than this dreadful suspense."
"No, I suppose not," she replied in sorrowful tones, her eyes gazing into his, full of tenderest mother love. Then in a few brief sentences she told him all.
"Oh, mother dear; dearest mother!" he cried, clasping her close, "if I, your eldest son, might but take and bear it all – the pain and the danger – for you, how gladly I would do so!"
"I do not doubt it, my own dear boy," she returned, in moved tones, "but it cannot be; each of us must bear his or her own burden and I rejoice that this is mine rather than that of my dear son. Do not grieve for me; do not be too anxious; remember that he whose love for me is far greater than any earthly love appoints it all, and it shall be for good. 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.' Blessed, comforting assurance! And how sweet are those words of Jesus, 'What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter!'"
"Yes, dearest mother," he said, with emotion, "and for you it will be all joy, the beginning of an eternity of bliss, if it shall please him to take you to himself; but oh, how hard it will be for your children to learn to live without you! But I will hope and pray that the result may be for you restored health and a long and happy life."
For some moments he held her in a close embrace, then, at the sound of approaching footsteps in the hall without, laid her gently down upon her pillows.
"Keep it from Zoe for to-night, if possible," she said softly. "Dear little woman! I would not have her robbed of her night's rest."
"I will try, mother dear," he said, pressing his lips again and again to hers. "God grant you sweet and refreshing sleep, but oh, do not for a moment hesitate to summon me if there is anything I can do to relieve you, should you be in pain, or to add in any way to your comfort."
She gave the desired promise and he stole softly from the room; but not to join his wife till some moments of solitude had enabled him so to conquer his emotion that he could appear before her with a calm and untroubled countenance.
Mr. and Mrs. Dinsmore passed into the boudoir as he left it. Rose had just learned from her husband of his talk of that evening with Dr. Conly, and what the physician had then told him of his daughter's condition and the trial awaiting her in the near future.
Rose was full of sympathy for Elsie, and so overcome at the thought of the trial she must so soon pass through that she could scarcely speak.
They clung to each other in a long, tender embrace, Rose shedding tears, Elsie calm and quiet.
"You will let me be with you, dear Elsie?" she said at last. "Oh, how willingly I would help you bear it if I could!"
"Dear mamma, how kind you are and have always been to me!" exclaimed the low sweet voice. "Your presence will be a great support while consciousness remains, but after that I would have you spared the trial.
"Don't fear for me; I know that it will all be well. How glad I am that should I be taken you will be left to comfort my dear father and children. Yet I think that I shall be spared. Arthur holds out a strong hope of a favorable termination.
"So, dear father," turning to him and putting her hand in his, "be comforted. Be strong and of a good courage! Do not let anxiety for me rob you of your needed rest and sleep."
"For your dear sake, my darling, I will try to follow your advice," he answered, with emotion, as in his turn he folded her to his heart and bade her good-night.
CHAPTER XI
The next morning found Mrs. Travilla calm and peaceful, even cheerful, ready for either life or death. She was up at her usual early hour, and Rosie and Walter, coming in for their accustomed half hour of Bible reading with mamma, found her at her writing-desk just finishing a note to Violet.
"Dear mamma," exclaimed Walter, in a tone of delight, "you are looking so much better and brighter this morning. I was really troubled about you last night lest you were going to be ill; you were so pale, and grandpa looked so worried."
"Grandpa is always easily frightened about mamma if she shows the slightest indication of illness," said Rosie; "as indeed we all are, because she is so dear and precious; our very greatest earthly treasure.
"Mamma dearest, I am so rejoiced that you are not really sick!" she added, dropping on her knees beside her mother's chair, clasping her arms about her, and kissing her again and again with ardent affection.
"I, too," Walter said, taking his station on her other side, putting an arm round her neck, and pressing his lips to her cheek.
She returned their caresses with words of mother love, tears shining in her eyes at the thought that this might prove almost her last opportunity.
"What do you think, Rosie?" laughed Walter. "Mamma called me her baby boy last night; me – a great fellow of eleven. I think you must be her baby girl."
But Rosie made no reply. She was gazing earnestly into her mother's face. "Mamma dear," she said anxiously, "you are not well! you are suffering! Oh, what is it ails you?"
"I am in some pain, daughter," Elsie answered, in a cheerful tone; "but Cousin Arthur hopes to be able to relieve it in a day or two."
"Oh, I am glad to hear that!" Rosie exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. "Dearest mamma, I do not know how I could ever bear to have you very ill."
"Should that trial ever come to you, daughter dear, look to God for strength to endure it," her mother said in sweetly solemn accents, as she gently smoothed Rosie's hair with her soft white hand and gazed lovingly into her eyes. "Do not be troubled about the future, but trust his gracious promise: 'As thy days, so shall thy strength be!' Many and many a time has it been fulfilled to me and to all who have put their trust in him?"
"Yes, mamma, I know you have had some hard trials, and yet you always seem so happy."
"You look happy now, mamma; are you?" asked Walter, a little anxiously.
"Yes, my son, I am," she said, smiling affectionately upon him. "Now let us have our reading," turning over the leaves of her Bible as she spoke. "We will take the twenty-third psalm. It is short, and so very sweet and comforting."
They did so, Elsie making a few brief remarks, especially on the fourth verse, which neither Rosie nor Walter ever forgot.
She followed them with a short prayer, and just at its close her father came in, and, sending the children away, spent alone with his daughter the few minutes that remained before the ringing of the breakfast bell.
He obeyed the summons, but she remained in her own apartments, a servant carrying her meal to her.
It was something very unusual for her, and, joined to an unusual silence on the part of their grandfather, accompanied by a sad countenance and occasional heavy sigh, and similar symptoms shown by both Grandma Rose and Edward, excited surprise and apprehension on the part of the younger members of the household.
Family worship, as was the rule followed immediately upon the conclusion of the meal, and Mr. Dinsmore's feeling petition on behalf of the sick one increased the alarm of Rosie and Zoe.
Both followed Edward out upon the veranda, asking anxiously what ailed mamma.
At first he tried to parry their questions, but his own ill-concealed distress only increased their alarm and rendered them the more persistent.
"There is something serious ailing mamma," he said at length, "but Cousin Arthur hopes soon to be able to relieve her. The cure is somewhat doubtful, however, and that is what so distresses grandpa, grandma, and me. Oh, let us all pray for her, pleading the Master's precious promise, 'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'
"Mamma has sent for my sisters Elsie and Violet. She wants as many of her children and grandchildren near her as possible; but Harold and Herbert have to be left out because, being so far away, there is not time to summon them."
"O Ned," cried Rosie, in an agony of terror, "is – is mamma in immediate danger? What – what is it Cousin Arthur is going to do?"
"A – surgical operation is, he says, the only – only thing that can possibly save her life, and – he hopes it will."
"But he isn't certain? O mamma, mamma!" cried Rosie, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
Zoe was sobbing too, Edward holding her in his arms and scarce able to refrain from joining with her, and at that moment the Fairview carriage drove up, and Elsie Leland, alighting therefrom, quickly came in among them, asking in alarm, as she saw their tear-stained, agitated faces, "What is the matter? Oh, is mamma ill?"
Then Edward's story had to be repeated to her, and shortly after to Violet, who, with her children, arrived a little later.
They too seemed almost overwhelmed with distress.
"Can we go to her?" Violet asked, and Mrs. Dinsmore, who had just joined them, replied, "Not yet; your grandpa is with her, and wishes to have her to himself for a while."
"Ob, I hope he will not keep us long away from her; our own, own dear mother!" exclaimed Rosie, with a fresh burst of tears and sobs.
"I think not long, Rosie, dear," Mrs. Dinsmore replied soothingly, putting an arm round the weeping girl as she spoke, and smoothing her hair with gently caressing hand. "Your mamma will be asking for you all presently. She has said that until the danger is past, she wants you all near enough to be summoned to her side in a moment."
"And I – we all – know she is ready for any event," Elsie Leland said, in trembling, tearful tones.
"Yes; and I believe God will spare her to us for years to come, in answer to our prayers," remarked Mrs. Dinsmore in cheerful, hopeful accents.
Walter had gone out into the grounds at the time the older ones repaired to the veranda, and Grace, with Violet's little ones, had joined him there on alighting from the carriage which had brought them from Woodburn.
The four now came running in and Walter, noticing the looks of grief and anxiety on the faces of the older people asked anxiously, "What's the matter, folks?" then added quickly. "Oh, I hope mamma is not worse! Is that it, grandma?" His query was not answered, for at that moment Dr. Conly's carriage came driving up the avenue. All crowded about him as he alighted and came up the steps into the veranda. That, however, was nothing new for he was a great favorite, being not only their relative, but their trusted and valued physician.
"You have come to see mamma?" Mrs. Leland said, half inquiringly. "Oh, Cousin Arthur, do be frank with us! do tell us plainly what you think of her case."
"It is a serious one, Cousin Elsie, I will not deny that," the doctor replied, a very grave and concerned look on his face as he spoke, "and yet I have strong hope of complete recovery; so do not any of you give way to despair, but unite together in prayer for God's blessing on the means used."
"Can I see her now, Aunt Rose?" he asked, turning to Mrs. Dinsmore. "I think so," she replied, leading the way, the doctor following, while the others remained where they were, waiting in almost silent suspense.
To them all it seemed a long, sad day. One at a time they were admitted to a short interview with their mother, in which she spoke with each one as though it might be her last opportunity, the burden of her talk being always an earnest exhortation to a life hid with God in Christ; a life of earnest, loving service to him who had died to redeem them from sin and eternal death.
She was very cheerful and spoke hopefully of the result of the operation, yet added that, as it might prove fatal, and in a way to leave her neither time nor strength for these last words, she must speak them now; but they need not despair of seeing her restored to health and given many more years of sweet companionship with her loved ones.
Walter, as the youngest, took his turn last.
For many minutes he could do nothing but sob on his mother's breast. "O mamma, mamma," he cried, "I cannot, cannot do without you!"
"Mother knows it will be hard for her baby boy at first," she said, low and tenderly, holding him close to her heart; "but some day you will come to mamma in that happy land where there is no parting, no death, and where sorrow and sighing shall flee away; the land where 'the inhabitant shall not say I am sick'; the land where there is no sin, no suffering of any kind, and God shall wipe away all tears from our eyes.
"My darling, my little son, there is nothing else mother so desires for you as that you may be a lamb of Christ's fold, and I have strong hopes that you already are. You know that Jesus died to save sinners; that he is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him; that you can do nothing to earn salvation, but must take it as God's free unmerited gift: that Jesus says, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.' All this you know, my son?"
"Yes, mamma dearest," he sobbed. "Oh, how good it was in him to die that cruel death that we might live! Yes, I do love him, and he won't be angry with me because I'm almost heartbroken at the thought of having to do without my dear, dear mother, for many years. O mamma, mamma, how can I live without you?"
"It may please the dear Lord Jesus to spare you that trial, my darling boy," she said. "I know that he will, if in his infinite wisdom he sees it to be for the best.
"And we must just trust him, remembering those sweet Bible words, 'We know that all things work together for good to them that love God.' Leave it all with him, my darling, feeling perfectly sure that whatever he orders will be for the best; that though we may not be able to see it so now, we shall at the last."
"But, mamma, I must pray that you may be cured and live with us for many, many years. It will not be wrong to ask him for that?"
"No, not if you ask in submission to his will, remembering that no one of us knows what is really for our highest good. Remember his own prayer in his agony there in the garden of Gethsemane, 'Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done.'
"He is our example and we must strive to be equally submissive to the Father's will. Remember what the dear Master said to Peter, 'What I do thou knowest not now; but thou shalt know hereafter.'"
"Mamma, I will try to be perfectly submissive to his will, even if it is to take you away from me; but oh, I must pray, pray, pray as hard as I can that it may please him to spare your dear life and let me keep my mother at least till I am grown to be a man. It won't be wrong, mamma?"
"No, my darling boy, I think not – if with it all you can truly, from your heart, say, 'thy will, not mine, be done.'"
When Captain Raymond followed his wife and little ones to Ion, he found there a distressed household, anxious and sorely troubled over the suffering and danger of the dearly beloved mother and mistress. Violet met him on the veranda, her cheeks pale and showing traces of tears, her eyes full of them.
"My darling!" he exclaimed in surprise and alarm, "what is the matter?"
He clasped her in his arms as he spoke, and dropping her head upon his shoulder, she sobbed out the story of her mother's suffering and the trial that awaited her on the morrow.
His grief and concern were scarcely less than her own, but he tried to speak words of comfort to both her and the others to whom the loved invalid was so inexpressibly dear. To the beloved invalid also when, like the rest, he was accorded a short interview.
Yet he found to his admiring surprise that she seemed in small need of such service – so calm, so peaceful, so entirely ready for any event was she.
Finding his presence apparently a source of strength and consolation, not only to his young wife, but to all the members of the stricken household, he remained till after tea, but then returned home for the night, principally for Lulu's sake; not being willing to leave the child alone, or nearly so, in that great house.