<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></SPAN>CHAPTER XXXVI</h2>
<h3>THE SHADOW OF DEATH</h3>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_339" id="Page_339"></SPAN></span>It was in truth Mara herself who came and stood in the
doorway. She appeared overwearied with her walk, for
her cheeks had a vivid brightness unlike their usual tender
pink. Her eyes had, too, a brilliancy almost painful to
look upon. They seemed like ardent fires, in which the
life was slowly burning away.</p>
<p>"Sit down, sit down, little Mara," said Aunt Ruey.
"Why, how like a picture you look this mornin',—one
needn't ask you how you do,—it's plain enough that you
are pretty well."</p>
<p>"Yes, I am, Aunt Ruey," she answered, sinking into
a chair; "only it is warm to-day, and the sun is so hot,
that's all, I believe; but I am very tired."</p>
<p>"So you are now, poor thing," said Miss Ruey. "Roxy,
where's my turkey-feather fan? Oh, here 'tis; there,
take it, and fan you, child; and maybe you'll have a glass
of our spruce beer?"</p>
<p>"Thank you, Aunt Roxy. I brought you some young
wintergreen," said Mara, unrolling from her handkerchief
a small knot of those fragrant leaves, which were wilted by
the heat.</p>
<p>"Thank you, I'm sure," said Miss Ruey, in delight;
"you always fetch something, Mara,—always would, ever
since you could toddle. Roxy and I was jist talkin' about
your weddin'. I s'pose you're gettin' things well along
down to your house. Well, here's the beer. I don't
hardly know whether you'll think it worked enough,<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_340" id="Page_340"></SPAN></span>
though. I set it Saturday afternoon, for all Mis' Twitchell
said it was wicked for beer to work Sundays," said Miss
Ruey, with a feeble cackle at her own joke.</p>
<p>"Thank you, Aunt Ruey; it is excellent, as your things
always are. I was very thirsty."</p>
<p>"I s'pose you hear from Moses pretty often now," said
Aunt Ruey. "How kind o' providential it happened
about his getting that property; he'll be a rich man now;
and Mara, you'll come to grandeur, won't you? Well, I
don't know anybody deserves it more,—I r'ally don't.
Mis' Badger was a-sayin' so a-Sunday, and Cap'n Kittridge
and all on 'em. I s'pose though we've got to lose
you,—you'll be goin' off to Boston, or New York, or
somewhere."</p>
<p>"We can't tell what may happen, Aunt Ruey," said
Mara, and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she
spoke.</p>
<p>Miss Roxy, who beyond the first salutations had taken
no part in this conversation, had from time to time regarded
Mara over the tops of her spectacles with looks of
grave apprehension; and Mara, looking up, now encountered
one of these glances.</p>
<p>"Have you taken the dock and dandelion tea I told you
about?" said the wise woman, rather abruptly.</p>
<p>"Yes, Aunt Roxy, I have taken them faithfully for two
weeks past."</p>
<p>"And do they seem to set you up any?" said Miss
Roxy.</p>
<p>"No, I don't think they do. Grandma thinks I'm
better, and grandpa, and I let them think so; but Miss
Roxy, <i>can't</i> you think of something else?"</p>
<p>Miss Roxy laid aside the straw bonnet which she was
ripping, and motioned Mara into the outer room,—the
sink-room, as the sisters called it. It was the scullery of
their little establishment,—the place where all dish-wash<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_341" id="Page_341"></SPAN></span>ing
and clothes-washing was generally performed,—but
the boards of the floor were white as snow, and the place
had the odor of neatness. The open door looked out pleasantly
into the deep forest, where the waters of the cove,
now at high tide, could be seen glittering through the trees.
Soft moving spots of sunlight fell, checkering the feathery
ferns and small piney tribes of evergreen which ran in
ruffling wreaths of green through the dry, brown matting
of fallen pine needles. Birds were singing and calling to
each other merrily from the green shadows of the forest,—everything
had a sylvan fullness and freshness of life.
There are moods of mind when the sight of the bloom and
freshness of nature affects us painfully, like the want of
sympathy in a dear friend. Mara had been all her days a
child of the woods; her delicate life had grown up in them
like one of their own cool shaded flowers; and there was
not a moss, not a fern, not an upspringing thing that
waved a leaf or threw forth a flower-bell, that was not a
well-known friend to her; she had watched for years its
haunts, known the time of its coming and its going, studied
its shy and veiled habits, and interwoven with its life each
year a portion of her own; and now she looked out into
the old mossy woods, with their wavering spots of sun and
shadow, with a yearning pain, as if she wanted help or
sympathy to come from their silent recesses.</p>
<p>She sat down on the clean, scoured door-sill, and took
off her straw hat. Her golden-brown hair was moist with
the damps of fatigue, which made it curl and wave in
darker little rings about her forehead; her eyes,—those
longing, wistful eyes,—had a deeper pathos of sadness
than ever they had worn before; and her delicate lips trembled
with some strong suppressed emotion.</p>
<p>"Aunt Roxy," she said suddenly, "I <i>must</i> speak to
somebody. I can't go on and keep up without telling
some one, and it had better be you, because you have skill<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_342" id="Page_342"></SPAN></span>
and experience, and can help me if anybody can. I've
been going on for six months now, taking this and taking
that, and trying to get better, but it's of no use. Aunt
Roxy, I feel my life going,—going just as steadily and as
quietly every day as the sand goes out of your hour-glass.
I want to live,—oh, I never wanted to live so much, and
I can't,—oh, I know I can't. Can I now,—do you
think I can?"</p>
<p>Mara looked imploringly at Miss Roxy. The hard-visaged
woman sat down on the wash-bench, and, covering
her worn, stony visage with her checked apron, sobbed
aloud.</p>
<p>Mara was confounded. This implacably withered, sensible,
dry woman, beneficently impassive in sickness and
sorrow, weeping!—it was awful, as if one of the Fates had
laid down her fatal distaff to weep.</p>
<p>Mara sprung up impulsively and threw her arms round
her neck.</p>
<p>"Now don't, Aunt Roxy, don't. I didn't think you
would feel bad, or I wouldn't have told you; but oh, you
don't know how hard it is to keep such a secret all to one's
self. I have to make believe all the time that I am feeling
well and getting better. I really say what isn't true
every day, because, poor grandmamma, how could I bear
to see her distress? and grandpapa,—oh, I wish people
didn't love me so! Why cannot they let me go? And
oh, Aunt Roxy, I had a letter only yesterday, and he is so
sure we shall be married this fall,—and I know it cannot
be." Mara's voice gave way in sobs, and the two wept
together,—the old grim, gray woman holding the soft
golden head against her breast with a convulsive grasp.
"Oh, Aunt Roxy, do you love me, too?" said Mara. "I
didn't know you did."</p>
<p>"Love ye, child?" said Miss Roxy; "yes, I love ye like
my life. I ain't one that makes talk about things, but I<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_343" id="Page_343"></SPAN></span>
do; you come into my arms fust of anybody's in this
world,—and except poor little Hitty, I never loved nobody
as I have you."</p>
<p>"Ah! that was your sister, whose grave I have seen,"
said Mara, speaking in a soothing, caressing tone, and putting
her little thin hand against the grim, wasted cheek,
which was now moist with tears.</p>
<p>"Jes' so, child, she died when she was a year younger
than you be; she was not lost, for God took her. Poor
Hitty! her life jest dried up like a brook in August,—jest
so. Well, she was hopefully pious, and it was better
for her."</p>
<p>"Did she go like me, Aunt Roxy?" said Mara.</p>
<p>"Well, yes, dear; she did begin jest so, and I gave her
everything I could think of; and we had doctors for her
far and near; but <i>'twasn't to be</i>,—that's all we could
say; she was called, and her time was come."</p>
<p>"Well, now, Aunt Roxy," said Mara, "at any rate, it's
a relief to speak out to some one. It's more than two
months that I have felt every day more and more that
there was no hope,—life has hung on me like a weight.
I have had to <i>make</i> myself keep up, and make myself do
everything, and no one knows how it has tried me. I am
so tired all the time, I could cry; and yet when I go to
bed nights I can't sleep, I lie in such a hot, restless way;
and then before morning I am drenched with cold sweat,
and feel so weak and wretched. I force myself to eat, and
I force myself to talk and laugh, and it's all pretense; and
it wears me out,—it would be better if I stopped trying,—it
would be better to give up and act as weak as I feel;
but how can I let them know?"</p>
<p>"My dear child," said Aunt Roxy, "the truth is the
kindest thing we can give folks in the end. When folks
know jest where they are, why they can walk; you'll all
be supported; you must trust in the Lord. I have been<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_344" id="Page_344"></SPAN></span>
more'n forty years with sick rooms and dyin' beds, and
I never knew it fail that those that trusted in the Lord was
brought through."</p>
<p>"Oh, Aunt Roxy, it is so hard for me to give up,—to
give up hoping to live. There were a good many years
when I thought I should love to depart,—not that I was
really unhappy, but I longed to go to heaven, though I
knew it was selfish, when I knew how lonesome I should
leave my friends. But now, oh, life has looked so bright;
I have clung to it so; I do now. I lie awake nights and
pray, and try to give it up and be resigned, and I can't.
Is it wicked?"</p>
<p>"Well, it's natur' to want to live," said Miss Roxy.
"Life is sweet, and in a gen'l way we was made to live.
Don't worry; the Lord'll bring you right when His time
comes. Folks isn't always supported jest when they
want to be, nor <i>as</i> they want to be; but yet they're supported
fust and last. Ef I was to tell you how as I has
hope in your case, I shouldn't be a-tellin' you the truth.
I hasn't much of any; only all things is possible with
God. If you could kind o' give it all up and rest easy in
His hands, and keep a-doin' what you can,—why, while
there's life there's hope, you know; and if you are to be
made well, you will be all the sooner."</p>
<p>"Aunt Roxy, it's all right; I know it's all right. God
knows best; He will do what is best; I know that; but
my heart bleeds, and is sore. And when I get his letters,—I
got one yesterday,—it brings it all back again.
Everything is going on so well; he says he has done more
than all he ever hoped; his letters are full of jokes, full of
spirit. Ah, he little knows,—and how can I tell him?"</p>
<p>"Child, you needn't yet. You can jest kind o' prepare
his mind a little."</p>
<p>"Aunt Roxy, have you spoken of my case to any one,—have
you told what you know of me?"<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_345" id="Page_345"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"No, child, I hain't said nothin' more than that you
was a little weakly now and then."</p>
<p>"I have such a color every afternoon," said Mara.
"Grandpapa talks about my roses, and Captain Kittridge
jokes me about growing so handsome; nobody seems to
realize how I feel. I have kept up with all the strength
I had. I have tried to shake it off, and to feel that nothing
was the matter,—really there is nothing much, only
this weakness. This morning I thought it would do me
good to walk down here. I remember times when I could
ramble whole days in the woods, but I was so tired before
I got half way here that I had to stop a long while and
rest. Aunt Roxy, if you would only tell grandpapa and
grandmamma just how things are, and what the danger is,
and let them stop talking to me about wedding things,—for
really and truly I am too unwell to keep up any longer."</p>
<p>"Well, child, I will," said Miss Roxy. "Your grandfather
will be supported, and hold you up, for he's one of
the sort as has the secret of the Lord,—I remember him
of old. Why, the day your father and mother was buried
he stood up and sung old China, and his face was wonderful
to see. He seemed to be standin' with the world under
his feet and heaven opening. He's a master Christian,
your grandfather is; and now you jest go and lie down in
the little bedroom, and rest you a bit, and by and by, in
the cool of the afternoon, I'll walk along home with you."</p>
<p>Miss Roxy opened the door of a little room, whose white
fringy window-curtains were blown inward by breezes from
the blue sea, and laid the child down to rest on a clean
sweet-smelling bed with as deft and tender care as if she
were not a bony, hard-visaged, angular female, in a black
mohair frisette.</p>
<p>She stopped a moment wistfully before a little profile
head, of a kind which resembles a black shadow on a white
ground. "That was Hitty!" she said.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_346" id="Page_346"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Mara had often seen in the graveyard a mound inscribed
to this young person, and heard traditionally of a young
and pretty sister of Miss Roxy who had died very many
years before. But the grave was overgrown with blackberry-vines,
and gray moss had grown into the crevices of
the slab which served for a tombstone, and never before
that day had she heard Miss Roxy speak of her. Miss
Roxy took down the little black object and handed it to
Mara. "You can't tell much by that, but she was a most
beautiful creatur'. Well, it's all best as it is." Mara
saw nothing but a little black shadow cast on white paper,
yet she was affected by the perception how bright, how
beautiful, was the image in the memory of that seemingly
stern, commonplace woman, and how of all that in her
mind's eye she saw and remembered, she could find no
outward witness but this black block. "So some day my
friends will speak of me as a distant shadow," she said,
as with a sigh she turned her head on the pillow.</p>
<p>Miss Roxy shut the door gently as she went out, and
betrayed the unwonted rush of softer feelings which had
come over her only by being more dictatorial and commanding
than usual in her treatment of her sister, who was
sitting in fidgety curiosity to know what could have been
the subject of the private conference.</p>
<p>"I s'pose Mara wanted to get some advice about makin'
up her weddin' things," said Miss Ruey, with a sort of
humble quiver, as Miss Roxy began ripping and tearing
fiercely at her old straw bonnet, as if she really purposed
its utter and immediate demolition.</p>
<p>"No she didn't, neither," said Miss Roxy, fiercely. "I
declare, Ruey, you are silly; your head is always full of
weddin's, weddin's, weddin's—nothin' else—from mornin'
till night, and night till mornin'. I tell you there's
other things have got to be thought of in this world besides
weddin' clothes, and it would be well, if people would<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_347" id="Page_347"></SPAN></span>
think more o' gettin' their weddin' garments ready for the
kingdom of heaven. That's what Mara's got to think of;
for, mark my words, Ruey, there is no marryin' and givin'
in marriage for her in this world."</p>
<p>"Why, bless me, Roxy, now you don't say so!" said
Miss Ruey; "why I knew she was kind o' weakly and
ailin', but"—</p>
<p>"Kind o' weakly and ailin'!" said Miss Roxy, taking
up Miss Ruey's words in a tone of high disgust, "I should
rather think she was; and more'n that, too: she's marked
for death, and that before long, too. It may be that
Moses Pennel'll never see her again—he never half knew
what she was worth—maybe he'll know when he's lost
her, that's one comfort!"</p>
<p>"But," said Miss Ruey, "everybody has been a-sayin'
what a beautiful color she was a-gettin' in her cheeks."</p>
<p>"Color in her cheeks!" snorted Miss Roxy; "so does a
rock-maple get color in September and turn all scarlet, and
what for? why, the frost has been at it, and its time is
out. That's what your bright colors stand for. Hain't
you noticed that little gravestone cough, jest the faintest
in the world, and it don't come from a cold, and it hangs
on. I tell you you can't cheat me, she's goin' jest as
Mehitabel went, jest as Sally Ann Smith went, jest as
Louisa Pearson went. I could count now on my fingers
twenty girls that have gone that way. Nobody saw 'em
goin' till they was gone."</p>
<p>"Well, now, I don't think the old folks have the least
idea on't," said Miss Ruey. "Only last Saturday Mis'
Pennel was a-talkin' to me about the sheets and tablecloths
she's got out a-bleachin'; and she said that the
weddin' dress was to be made over to Mis' Mosely's in
Portland, 'cause Moses he's so particular about havin'
things genteel."</p>
<p>"Well, Master Moses'll jest have to give up his partic<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_348" id="Page_348"></SPAN></span>ular
notions," said Miss Roxy, "and come down in the
dust, like all the rest on us, when the Lord sends an east
wind and withers our gourds. Moses Pennel's one of the
sort that expects to drive all before him with the strong
arm, and sech has to learn that things ain't to go as they
please in the Lord's world. Sech always has to come to
spots that they can't get over nor under nor round, to have
their own way, but jest has to give right up square."</p>
<p>"Well, Roxy," said Miss Ruey, "how does the poor
little thing take it? Has she got reconciled?"</p>
<p>"Reconciled! Ruey, how you do ask questions!" said
Miss Roxy, fiercely pulling a bandanna silk handkerchief
out of her pocket, with which she wiped her eyes in a
defiant manner. "Reconciled! It's easy enough to talk,
Ruey, but how would you like it, when everything was
goin' smooth and playin' into your hands, and all the
world smooth and shiny, to be took short up? I guess you
wouldn't be reconciled. That's what I guess."</p>
<p>"Dear me, Roxy, who said I should?" said Miss Ruey.
"I wa'n't blamin' the poor child, not a grain."</p>
<p>"Well, who said you was, Ruey?" answered Miss
Roxy, in the same high key.</p>
<p>"You needn't take my head off," said Aunt Ruey,
roused as much as her adipose, comfortable nature could be.
"You've been a-talkin' at me ever since you came in from
the sink-room, as if I was to blame; and snappin' at me as
if I hadn't a right to ask civil questions; and I won't
stan' it," said Miss Ruey. "And while I'm about it, I'll
say that you always have snubbed me and contradicted and
ordered me round. I won't bear it no longer."</p>
<p>"Come, Ruey, don't make a fool of yourself at your
time of life," said Miss Roxy. "Things is bad enough in
this world without two lone sisters and church-members
turnin' agin each other. You must take me as I am,
Ruey; my bark's worse than my bite, as you know."<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_349" id="Page_349"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>Miss Ruey sank back pacified into her usual state of
pillowy dependence; it was so much easier to be good-natured
than to contend. As for Miss Roxy, if you have
ever carefully examined a chestnut-burr, you will remember
that, hard as it is to handle, no plush of downiest texture
can exceed the satin smoothness of the fibres which line
its heart. There are a class of people in New England
who betray the uprising of the softer feelings of our nature
only by an increase of outward asperity—a sort of bashfulness
and shyness leaves them no power of expression for
these unwonted guests of the heart—they hurry them into
inner chambers and slam the doors upon them, as if they
were vexed at their appearance.</p>
<p>Now if poor Miss Roxy had been like you, my dear
young lady—if her soul had been encased in a round,
rosy, and comely body, and looked out of tender blue eyes
shaded by golden hair, probably the grief and love she felt
would have shown themselves only in bursts of feeling
most graceful to see, and engaging the sympathy of all;
but this same soul, imprisoned in a dry, angular body, stiff
and old, and looking out under beetling eyebrows, over
withered high cheek-bones, could only utter itself by a
passionate tempest—unlovely utterance of a lovely impulse—dear
only to Him who sees with a Father's heart the
real beauty of spirits. It is our firm faith that bright
solemn angels in celestial watchings were frequent guests in
the homely room of the two sisters, and that passing by all
accidents of age and poverty, withered skins, bony features,
and grotesque movements and shabby clothing, they saw
more real beauty there than in many a scented boudoir
where seeming angels smile in lace and satin.</p>
<p>"Ruey," said Miss Roxy, in a more composed voice,
while her hard, bony hands still trembled with excitement,
"this 'ere's been on my mind a good while. I hain't said
nothin' to nobody, but I've seen it a-comin'. I always<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_350" id="Page_350"></SPAN></span>
thought that child wa'n't for a long life. Lives is run in
different lengths, and nobody can say what's the matter
with some folks, only that their thread's run out; there's
more on one spool and less on another. I thought, when
we laid Hitty in the grave, that I shouldn't never set my
heart on nothin' else—but we can't jest say we will or we
won't. Ef we are to be sorely afflicted at any time, the
Lord lets us set our hearts before we know it. This 'ere's
a great affliction to me, Ruey, but I must jest shoulder my
cross and go through with it. I'm goin' down to-night to
tell the old folks, and to make arrangements so that the
poor little lamb may have the care she needs. She's been
a-keepin' up so long, 'cause she dreaded to let 'em know,
but this 'ere has got to be looked right in the face, and I
hope there'll be grace given to do it."</p>
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