XVIII.
NOVEMBER.
THIS morning Ernest received an early summons to Amelia.I got out of all manner of patience with him because he would take his bath and eat his breakfast before he went, and should have driven any one else distracted by my hurry and flurry.
"She has had a hemorrhage!" I cried."Do, Ernest, make haste.""Of course," he returned, "that would come, sooner or later.""You don't mean," I said, "that she has been in danger of this all along?""I certainly do."
"Then it was very unkind in you not to tell me so.""I told you at the outset that her lungs were diseased.""No, you told me no such thing.Oh, Ernest, is she going to die?""I did not know you were so fond of her," he said, apologetically.
It is not that," I cried."I am distressed at the thought of the worldly life she has been living-at my never trying to influence her for her good.If she is in danger, you will tell her so? Promise me that.""I must see her before I make such a promise," he said, and went out.
I flew up to my room and threw myself on my knees, sorrowful, self-condemned.I had thrown away my last opportunity of speaking a word to her in season, though I had seen how much she needed one, and now she was going to die! Oh, I hope God will forgive me, and hear the prayers I have offered her!
EVENING.-Ernest says he had a most distressing scene at Amelia's this morning.She insisted on knowing what he thought of her, and then burst out bitter complaints and lamentations, charging it to husband that she had this disease, declaring that she could not, and would not die, and insisting that he must prevent it.Her uncle urged for a consultation of physicians, to which Ernest consented, of course, though he says no mortal power can save her now.I asked him how her husband appeared, to which he made the evasive answer that he appeared just as one would expect him to do.
DECEMBER.-Amelia was so determined to see me that Ernest thought it best for me to go.I found her looking very feeble.
"Oh, Katy," she began at once," do make the doctor say that I shall get well!""I wish he could say so with truth," I answered."Dear Amelia, try to think how happy God's own children are when they are with Him.""I can't think," she replied."I do not want to think.I want to forget all about it.If it were not for this terrible cough I could forget it, for I am really a great deal better than I was a month ago."'
I did not know what to say or what to do.
"May I read a hymn or a few verses from the Bible?" I asked, at last.
"Just as you like," she said, indifferently.
I read a verse now and then, but she looked tired, and I prepared to go.
"Don't go," she cried."I do not dare to be alone.Oh, what a terrible, terrible thing it is to die! To leave this bright, beautiful world, and be nailed in a coffin and buried up in a cold, dark grave.
"Nay," I said, "to leave this poor sick body there, and to fly to a world ten thousand times brighter, more beautiful than this.""I had just got to feeling nearly well," she said, "and I had everything I wanted, and Charley was quite good to me, and I kept my little girls looking like fairies, just from fairy-land.Everybody said they wore the most picturesque costumes when they were dressed according to my taste.And I have got to go and leave them, and Charley will be marrying somebody else, and saying to her all the nice things he has said to me.
"I really must go now," I said."You are wearing yourself all out.""I declare you are crying," she exclaimed."You do pity me after all.""Indeed I do," I said, and came away, heartsick.
Ernest says there is nothing I can do for her now but to pray for her, since she does not really believe herself in danger, and has a vague feeling that if she can once convince him how much she wants to live, he will use some vigorous measures to restore her Martha is to watch with her to-night.Ernest will not let me.
JAN.18, 1843.-Our wedding-day has passed unobserved.Amelia's suffering condition absorbs us all.Martha spends much time with her, and prepares almost all the food she eats.
JAN.20.-I have seen poor Amelia once more, and perhaps for the last time.She has failed rapidly of late, and Ernest says may drop away at almost any time.
When I went in she took me by the hand, and with great difficulty, and at intervals said something like this:
"I have made up my mind to it, and I know it must come.I want to see Dr.Cabot.Do you think he would be willing to visit me after my neglecting him so?""I am sure he would," I cried.
"I want to ask him if he thinks I was a Christian at that time-you know when.If I was, then I need not be so afraid to die.""But, dear Amelia, what he thinks is very little to the purpose.The question is not whether you ever gave yourself to God, but whether you are His now.But I ought not to talk to you.Dr.Cabot will know just what to say.""No, but I want to know what you thought about it."I felt distressed, as I looked at her wasted dying figure, to be called on to help decide such a question.But I knew what I ought to say, and said it:
"Don't look back to the past; it is useless.Give yourself to Christ now."She shook her head.
"I don't know how," she said."Oh, Katy, pray to God to let me live long enough to get ready to die.I have led a worldly life.I shudder at the bare thought of dying; I must have time.""Don't wait for time," I said, with tears, "get ready now, this minute.A thousand years would not make you more fit to die."So I came away, weary and heavy- laden, and on the way home stopped to tell Dr.Cabot all about it, and by this time he is with her.
"MARCH 1.-Poor Amelia's short race on earth is over.Dr.Cabot saw her every few days and says he hopes she did depart in Christian faith, though without Christian joy.I have not seen her since that last interview.That excited me so that Ernest would not let me go again.
Martha has been there nearly the whole time for three or four weeks, and I really think it has done her good.She seems less absorbed in mere outside things, and more lenient toward me and my failings.
