CHAPTER XXI.

PARTING WORDS.

THE day following was Sunday. Lady Halcot's brief improvement in health seemed to be already on the wane. It was as if she had kept up just long enough for the carrying out of her purposes, whatever they might have been; and then the flickering light went down.

"All is settled now, and my mind is at rest," she said calmly to Gwendoline, after Mr. Selwyn's second visit. "There is nothing to trouble me any more."

And even before night, Gwendoline knew that she was failing.

Early in the morning a marked change for the worse became apparent, and Mr. Fosbrook, called hurriedly in, did not think well of her state. "I have expected this for some time," he said gravely to Gwendoline. "The only marvel is that she has gone on so long."

It had been arranged that Mr. Rossiter should come in after breakfast, to administer the Holy Communion, as he had done occasionally since she had been entirely cut off from attending public worship. Lady Halcot would allow no change of plan; but by the time the short service came to an end, she was almost pulseless with exhaustion.

About five o'clock in the afternoon she revived a little, and seemed to enjoy a cup of tea. Gwendoline, who had not left her all day, was keeping watch beside the couch, Frith being within call.

"It is passing off now," Lady Halcot said. "I thought this morning that the end was very near. Yes,—near, still, it must be. My last earthly Communion is over."

"Oh, not yet," Gwendoline broke out sorrowfully. "Don't talk about leaving me yet."

Lady Halcot's withered hand came softly on hers.

"Will you be a little grieved to lose me, Gwendoline?"

"A little!" Gwendoline's voice failed.

"Yes; you will feel it, I know. You have been very good to me, my dear, and I owe much to you. But you will have your mother and all of them again,—your father,—your brothers and sisters. I am afraid the separation has been hard to bear at times. If I were living the last two years over again, I would arrange differently. Things that are done cannot be undone."

"We can never forget all you have done for us," murmured Gwendoline.

"Not more than is right. Not really much; it has involved no self-denial. But I am thankful to have been able to make these last arrangements—just in time. Now my mind is at rest. I believe your wish would be, Gwendoline, that your mother should be remembered in my will rather than yourself. I have acted on that supposition,—and it will all revert to you later."

"Oh, thank you! I would so much rather!" Gwendoline said earnestly.

"I felt convinced that it would be so. Also, I desired that others should see your mother reinstated in her old position, so far as can be now."

"It will make mother so happy," said Gwendoline. "I know she has always longed to feel that you had quite forgiven her,—I mean, that you felt as you used to feel."

"Yes; you are right to alter your form of expression. It is not a case for forgiveness,—from me towards her. Perhaps rather from her towards me."

Then, after a pause for recollection, "But I was saying something. My wish has been to reinstate her, so far as is now possible. It is possible only in a measure. She would once have inherited all my own property. I do not feel, however, that I can undo the gifts for the building of the hospital and the almshouses. I may be mistaken, but it does not appear to me right,—even though the resolution was taken under mixed motives—under a mistake in some measure; still I cannot think I should act rightly in reversing that decision."

"Oh no; you could not. Mother would feel the same," said Gwendoline.

"Yes; you agreed with me before on that question, and I was glad of it. Your assent helped me through the difficulty. I have not forgotten. And, after all, Mr. Selwyn finds the sum-total at my disposal to be more than he imagined some months ago. You and your mother will not know want. Also, I have esteemed it my duty to lessen the legacy to Miss Withers. My opinion of her has undergone a change. Still, I do not wish to show vexation. It has been too much my way in the past. I wish to forgive entirely any manner of wrongdoing towards me. Miss Withers will not find her name omitted in my remembrances to friends."

Gwendoline was conscious of a slight stir behind the large screen which stood between bed and door. She went to close the latter, and saw a figure passing swiftly down the passage. Gwendoline drew her own conclusions, yet she said nothing.

"Yes; you are right to shut the door. I like my room kept fresh, but it is very cold to-day. We were speaking about your mother just now. I wish her to understand that I feel towards her as of old. All bitterness is at an end. Sometimes, in the last week, I have considered whether to send for her."

Gwendoline's heart gave a bound. "If I only might!" she said beseechingly.

"I think not. I am too weak. I do not feel that I could stand the agitation. Give her my love, and tell her that I regard her as my dear Eleanor. Perhaps, just at last,—but I am not sure. I wish to keep my mind clear now for other matters."

Gwendoline hardly knew whether she might say more. She ventured, after a pause, to suggest, "Mother is such a comfort in illness."

"Yes, my dear; but it would be agitating—would call up distressing memories. I have but one need now, Gwendoline. I want only—Christ."

Lady Halcot seemed striving to break through the chains of her lifelong reserve. She continued, with a manifest effort,—

"I think those lonely weeks were good for me—strangely so. I never knew the feeling of loneliness before; but it came then, when I believed you did not care to come near me, and when all my old confidence was gone. The words of that sermon returned often, and showed me what I was. 'Not rich toward God.' Other riches seemed so worthless. And I used to think you could perhaps have brought comfort. But it was better so. For God Himself helped me."

Another pause followed. Gwendoline asked gently, "Was it that sermon that made you ill?"

"No; the illness was coming on before. I had felt the signs of it without recognising them. But the words of the sermon stayed by me afterwards, and I could not put them away. 'Poverty-stricken,' he had said I was, and I knew it to be true."

Gwendoline's face begged for more; she could not ask it in words.

"Some of those weeks were terribly hopeless," Lady Halcot said, in a weary voice, as if strength were failing. "But I am glad of them now, for I think they taught me much. I had to look to God alone, for there was no other helper. If you had been with me, I might have leant too much upon you."

"I suppose the teaching that comes straight from Him is the best of all," Gwendoline whispered.

"Yes; I think so. Not that one would desire to choose. But He taught me then, and He has been teaching me since—in many ways. Mr. Rossiter's visits have been a help, and your reading too. I cannot talk much on such matters, and I hope I do not deceive myself. I seem to have no fears. Sometimes Christ seems so very near—so very loving. How can I help trusting Him? After all these years of forgetfulness—so much more than I deserve. But I think I am too weak for doctrines and doubts. No doubt it is better so. I know He died for me. I can only just give myself into His keeping,—like a child."

The closing sentence was scarcely audible. Before Gwendoline could resolve what answer to make, she added faintly, "I have wished to say thus much—for your comfort. I cannot talk more. I am very weary."

"You will rest now," Gwendoline said.

"Yes; rest—now. It is over at last. So long—long—tired."

She sank into heavy sleep, and Frith's entrance did not disturb her. It seemed to Gwendoline that there was something unusual about this slumber. Two hours later they had to rouse Lady Halcot, that she might take a little nourishment, and the task proved no easy one. Still, when Gwendoline held a spoon to her lips, she half smiled, and murmured, "Thanks."

"A little more, dear Lady Halcot," Gwendoline entreated.

"No; no more. I cannot swallow. Gwendoline—is it Gwendoline?"

Gwendoline's "Yes" came falteringly.

"I can hardly see," Lady Halcot said, lifting her dim eyes. "Almost dark. Will you kiss me, my dear Gwendoline?"

The tender response brought another smile.

"Yes; a good girl—you have been a good girl. It is almost over now, my dear. And if—if you would like to send—send for your mother—yes—send—"

These were nearly the last words of Lady Halcot. She fell immediately into a state of unconsciousness bordering on coma. The doctor came, but he found her beyond reach of remedies. A telegram had been already sent to Mrs. Halcombe. Gwendoline had, however, small hope that she could arrive in time.

Once only Lady Halcot partially revived. A little before midnight Gwendoline tried to give her some medicine, and it was refused. "Oh, do, please," she said anxiously. "Do, dear Lady Halcot. Mother will be here soon."

But Lady Halcot clasped slowly her faded hands, and murmured, "No, no; none but Christ—none but Christ now!" Then deep sleep again had her in its keeping, and within an hour she passed away.