CHAPTER XXIV.
DOWN THE RIVER
Tom did not get up in the afternoon. However, he came in the evening, and the next morning, and the next.
Margaretta and Roger, Bonny, Selina, and Mr. Jimson also came. Grandma was decidedly better, and in their joy they came even oftener than they had in their sorrow at her illness.
Berty could hardly contain herself for very lightness and extravagance of spirit. It had seemed to her that she could not endure the mere thought of a further and long-continued illness on the part of her beloved grandmother. To think of that other contingency—her possible death—sent her into fits of shuddering and despondency in which it seemed as if she, too, would die if her grandmother did.
Now all was changed. Day by day the exquisite sunshine continued, the air was balmy, there was a yellow haze about the sun. It seemed to Berty that she was living in an enchanted world. Grandma was going about the house with a firm step—a bright eye. She had gone over all her trunks and closets. She had sorted letters, tidied her boxes of clothes, and arranged all her belongings with a neatness and expedition that seemed to betoken the energy of returned youthfulness.
She was also knitting again. Nothing had pleased Berty as much as this. Tears of delight fell on the silk stocking as she handed it to Grandma the first time she asked her for it.
“Dear Grandma,” said Berty, on this afternoon, abruptly dropping on a foot-stool beside her, and putting her head on her knee, “dear Grandma.”
Mrs. Travers, still steadily knitting, glanced at her as if to say, “Why this sudden access of affection?”
“It doesn’t mean anything in particular,” said Berty, pressing still closer, “only that you are so dear.”
Grandma smiled, and went on with her work.
“You are just toeing that stocking off,” said Berty.
“Yes, dear,” replied her grandmother. “This is the last of the six pairs for Mrs. Darley-James. You will remember, Berty, they are all for her.”
“Why should I remember?” asked the girl, anxiously. “You always remember for yourself.”
“True,” said Mrs. Travers, composedly, and, getting up, she went to her writing-desk. Taking out a roll of exquisitely made stockings, she wrapped them in a piece of paper, and with a firm hand wrote, “Mrs. Darley-James, from her old friend, Margaret Travers.”
Having directed the parcel, she left her desk and went to the veranda.
Berty followed her. Grandma was looking strangely up and down the river—strangely and restlessly. At last she said, “It’s a glorious afternoon. I should like to go out in a boat.”
“But, Grandma,” said Berty, uneasily, “do you feel able for it?”
Her grandmother looked at her, and the brightness of her face silenced the girl’s scruples.
“I will take you in my boat, dear,” she said, gently, “if you wish to go.”
“I should like to have Margaretta come,” said Mrs. Travers.
“Very well, we will send for her.”
“And Roger,” said Grandma.
“Roger is at an important business meeting this afternoon, I happen to know,” said Berty, hesitatingly.
“He would leave it for me,” said Grandma.
“Do you wish me to ask him?” inquired Berty, in some anxiety.
“Yes,” said Grandma, softly.
Berty got up and was about to leave the veranda, when Mrs. Travers went on. “Will you send for Bonny, too?”
“Oh, Grandma, don’t you feel well?” asked Berty, in increasing anxiety.
“Just at present I do, dear,” and her voice was so clear, her manner so calm, that Berty was reassured until her next remark.
“Berty, where is Tom this afternoon?”
“Oh, Grandma, he was going to Bangor on business. He is just about getting to the station now.”
“Will you send for him, too?”
“Send for him?” faltered Berty. “Oh, Grandma, you are ill. You must be ill.”
“Do I look ill?”
“Oh, no, no,” said Berty, in despair. “You don’t look ill, your face is like an angel’s, but you frighten me.”
“My child,” said Grandma, “I never felt better in my life; but despatch your messengers.”
Berty left the room. She had a strange sensation as if walking on air. “Bring your boat, Roger,” she wrote, “your family boat. Mine isn’t large enough.”
Her messengers were faithful, and in an hour Margaretta, Bonny, Roger, and Tom were hastening to the house.
Berty met them in the hall. “No, Grandma isn’t ill,” she said, with a half-sob. “Don’t stare at her, and don’t frighten her. She just took a fancy to go out boating, and to have you all with her.”
“But it is so unlike Grandma to interfere or to disarrange plans,” murmured Margaretta; “there is something wrong.” However, she said nothing aloud, and went quietly into the parlour with the others and spoke to Grandma, who looked at them all with a strange brightness in her eyes, but said little.
Tom could not get the fright from his manner. Old Mrs. Travers would not interrupt a railway journey for a trifle. They might say what they liked.
In somewhat breathless and foreboding silence they got into Roger’s big boat moored at the landing, and he and Tom took the oars.
Once out upon the bosom of the calmly flowing river, their faces brightened. Sky and water were resplendent, and they were softly enveloped in the golden haze of approaching sunset.
Here where the river was broadest the shores seemed dim in the yellow light. With the dying glory of the sun behind them, they went down the stream in the direction of Grandma’s pointing hand.
How well she looked, propped up on her cushions in the stern. Her eyes were shining with a new light, her very skin seemed transparent and luminous. Was it possible that, instead of failing and entering upon a weary old age, this new-found energy betokened a renewed lease of life? Their faces brightened still further. Tom at last lost the fright from his eyes, and Berty’s vanished colour began to come fitfully back.
As they sat enfolding her in loving glances, Grandma occasionally spoke in low, short sentences, mostly relating to the river.
“I was born by it—it has been a friend to me. Children, you will all live by the river.”
Upon arriving opposite Bobbetty’s Island, Grandma smiled. Berty’s tramp, Mafferty, in a decent suit of clothes, stood on a rock, surrounded by a number of handsome, dignified cats, who sat or stood beside him like so many dogs. As they passed he waved them a respectful greeting with one of Tom’s discarded hats.
“You will not give him up,” said Grandma to Tom. “You will not become discouraged.”
“I will not,” he said, solemnly.
CHAPTER XXV.
LAST WORDS
“The sun has gone down,” said Margaretta, suddenly.
It had indeed. The huge golden ball had just dropped behind the hills on the western side of the river.
Grandma half-raised herself on her cushions, a restrained eagerness took possession of her, as if she were disappointed that she had not obtained one more glimpse of the king of day, then she sank back and smiled into the unwavering eyes of her youngest granddaughter. The eyes of the others might occasionally wander. Berty’s gaze had not left her face since they came upon the river.
“You wished to see the sun again,” said Berty. “I should have warned you that it was about to disappear.”
“I wished to say good-bye to it,” said Grandma, “a last good-bye.”
“To say good-bye,” repeated Berty, in a stunned voice, “a last good-bye,” and with a heart-broken gesture she put her hand to her head, as if wondering if she had heard aright.
Margaretta was trembling. Since the withdrawal of the sun, the yellow, lovely glow had faded. There was a gray shadow on everything, even on their own bright faces—on all except Grandma’s. That radiance about her was not a reflection of any light in this world; it was unearthly; and she fearfully touched Roger with a finger.
She knew now why they had been brought out upon the river, and, endeavouring once, twice, and finally a third time, she managed to utter, in a quivering voice, “Grandma, shall we take you home?”
“No, Margaretta,” replied Grandma, clearly, and she pointed down the river. “Take me toward the sea. I shall soon be sent for.”
They all understood her now. Their scarcely suppressed forebodings rushed back and enveloped them in a dark, unhappy cloud.
Grandma was repeating in a low voice, “Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself, for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.”
Margaretta, leaning over, drew a flask from Roger’s pocket. Then, slipping past the motionless Berty, she knelt before her grandmother.
“Dearest, I brought a stimulant with me. Will you have some?”
“But I have no need of it,” said Grandma, opening wide her strangely beautiful eyes.
It seemed to Margaretta that she could not endure their bliss, their radiance. She turned her head quietly away, and, with a rain of tears falling down her face, sat looking out over the river.
Presently controlling herself, she again turned to her grandmother. Perhaps there was something she could do for her. Her hands might be cold. They were, and Margaretta, taking them in her own, chafed them gently.
Grandma smiled quietly. “Always thoughtful—my dear, you will be a mother to Bonny.”
“I will,” said the weeping girl.
“Do not be unhappy,” said Grandma, pleadingly. “I am so happy to go. My earthly house is in order. I long for my heavenly one.”
“But—but, Grandma, you have been happy with us,” stammered Margaretta.
“Happy, so happy—always remember that. My only trouble a separated family. One half in heaven, the other on earth. One day to be reunited. You will cherish each other after I am gone—you precious ones on earth—Roger?”
The young man nodded, and bent his head low over the oars.
“And Tom,” said Grandma, with exquisite sweetness, “my third grandson, you will take care of Berty?” Tom tried to speak, failed, tried again, but Grandma knew the significance of his hoarse, inarticulate murmur. Then he averted his gaze from the heart-breaking sight of Berty at her grandmother’s feet. The despairing girl had clasped them to her breast. Grandma was more to her than any of them. How could he comfort her for such a loss?
“Come, come,” said Grandma, cheerily, “our parting is but for a little. See, my child, my spirit is growing brighter and brighter. It has outgrown this poor old worn-out body. Berty, lift your head, and look your grandmother once more in the eyes.”
After some delay, Berty, in mute, anguished silence did as she was bid.
“Some day,” said Grandma, firmly, “your own sturdy limbs will fail you. You will fly from them as from a discarded burden, and come to rejoin your mother and grandmother in the sky. Let me hear you speak. Will you be brave?”
Still in dumb, tearless sorrow, the girl shook her head.
“Is this the child I have brought up?” asked Grandma, with some faintness. “Have I been unsuccessful? Where is your strength in the hour of trial?”
Berty clasped her hands to her side. “Grandma,” she said, slowly, and as if each word were wrung from her. “I will be brave, I will not forget what you have told me.”
“Keep your own family together, and keep the welfare of the children of the city next your heart,” said Grandma, with new strength, “so you will be blessed in your own soul.”
“I promise,” said Berty, with quivering lips.
“Give my love to Selina and her husband,” Grandma went on, after a short pause. “They are happy together, and they know their duty. They have no need of words from me. And now, Bonny, my own and last grandchild—the baby of the family.”
The boy stretched out his hands. He was younger than the others, and he made no attempt to restrain his sobs.
“Such a dear baby he was,” murmured Grandma, patting his downcast head. “Such a lovely, beautiful baby.”
Margaretta made an effort to control herself, and resolutely wiped away the tears pouring down her face. “Grandma,” she uttered, brokenly, “would you like us to sing to you?”
Grandma slightly turned her head. She seemed to be listening to something beyond them. Then she said, slowly, “My dears, I never fancied going out of this world to the sound of earthly music. There are strange and exquisite harmonies from another world floating in my ears. Hark, children—I hear it now plainly. I am nearing the sea.”
“Grandma, darling,” said Margaretta, in distress, “we are many miles from the sea.”
“It is the sea,” murmured the dying woman, and a triumphant smile broke over her face, “the sea of glass near the great white throne—and there is a new sound now. Ah, children!” and, raising herself on her cushions, a very flame of unearthly and exquisite anticipation swept over her face, “the new sound is from the harps of gold of them that stand beside the sea. They have gotten the victory, and they sing praises!”
She sank back—with one joyful exclamation the breath left her body.
Who could mourn for a death like that? Who would dare to grieve over the little worn-out body?
Margaretta reverently stooped over, kissed the face so soon to grow cold, then, lightly draping a white wrap about it, she sat down and held out one hand to Berty, the other to her brother.
Tom and Roger turned the boat’s head toward the city. Their hearts were full of grief, and yet, looking at the calm sky, the peaceful river, they knew that time would pass, their grief would grow chastened, in all probability there stretched before each occupant of that boat a useful and happy life.
Grandma had not lived in vain. She had kept her family together, and while her children’s children lived, and their children, her memory would not be suffered to grow cold, neither would her good deeds be forgotten.