Mark was full of plans for his college tasks, and he talked freely of them as the family gathered around his couch in the cool "front room," where he was quite willing to spend most of his time.
"This lazy brother of yours, Charles, is a disgrace to the farm," he said brightly. "Yes, a little rest will fix me all right; but I should like nothing better than to get out into the field with you. How the twins are coming on! Jimmy is a born farmer, and you are wise to let him study at home and help you. You must let me have Johnny before long. I am glad you and Amelia intend to give him a college education. Don't you think it a little strange that they develop so differently? They are manly fellows and do you great credit."
"Don't you think you would better have a doctor, Mark?" asked his brother-in-law, as if he had not heard one word.
"No, this weariness will soon pass away. In the meantime I have plenty to think about, and the time will not hang heavy on my hands."
The weariness did not pass, and Mrs. Banner found him one afternoon mith flushed face and heavy eyes.
"I have fever; mother, you may send for the doctor."
Thus began mortal conflict between life and death. Days tense with anxiety, and nights long with watching, followed in swift succession.
"He will have a hard siege, Mrs. Banner," said the kind physician, who was leaving nothing known to medical skill undone; "but his clean and temperate life will stand him in good stead now, and I believe he will recover. I should like to have a consulting physician."
"Anything, anything, doctor. Let nothing be left undone. Do you know how much my life is bound up in his? Do you know what his life means to us all?"
"Yes, I know; and, God helping us, we will save him; but he is very ill. His mind is perfectly clear, and he is keeping off delirium by sheer will power. I wish he would not fight so against it; the struggle weakens him."
Mrs. Banner went back to his bedside, a sword piercing her heart, but calm and alert. Mark lifted his heavy eyes.
"Mother, if I die, can you bear it?"
In that supreme hour her mother love did not fail him, and she answered quietly:
"How is it with you, my son; is it all right?"
"Yes," he answered firmly. "God knows best."
"I do not think I shall be long behind you, dear."
"I believe that."
"My precious boy."
"My mother." He rested a little.
"Mother, will you send for Keren? We were to be married soon. If she is willing I should like to be married now. If I live she can be with me; if I go, I want to leave her with you as a daughter; she is so alone in the world. Will you do that for my sake?"
"She is coming this afternoon, Mark. If she wishes it, Charles can make the necessary arrangements. But we hope that you will get well; we believe that you will. Whatever comes, she shall be to me a dearly loved daughter."
In the early morning of the following day there was a strange and solemn wedding, where Life and Death joined hands over a fevered pillow; where a man, strong in his weakness, and a beautiful woman, brave in her courage, kneeling at his bedside, plighted their faith: "So long as ye both shall live."
The voice of the white-haired minister, who had known them both from childhood, trembled with deep emation. He paused, and then, with tender emphasis and uplifted hand, announced, the solemn conclusion: "I pronounce you husband and wife, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
The doctor and Keren remained in the sickroom to watch through anxious hours. Doris, who had knelt by Keren's side, a bridesmaid, white and still, fled to her room.
"I cannot bear it, dear God. Thou wilt not take him from us. Spare him, oh, spare him, I pray!" she pleaded in agony.
A week passed, and then another. All that love and medioal skill could do was without avail. The physician, who loved Mark as a brother, left much of his practice to other hands, and day and night worked and watched over him, but in vain. A call from the eternal world summoned him away, and a strong and beautiful life, full of promise for the future, rich with the fruitage of its brief hour, went out into the everlasting years, to enter upon more exalted service.
A veil seemed to fall between Doris and the other world, and a dark and terrible conflict came upon her soul. Was God good? Had He forgotten them? Did He care? Life without Mark! The very thought was more than she could bear, and it was long before faith, triumphant, discerned any brightness beyond the gloom.
Robert Courtney came swiftly to them, to help them bury their dead and share their grief. He gave his strong arm for Keren's support, as they stood at the open grave, and his heart ached for the mother, bowing her white head in silence, and pale Doris, gazing with tearless eyes at the mound of broken earth, soon to cover, cover deep out of their sight, the fair young head they loved so well.
Only to her journal, as to a close friend, could Doris fully reveal the depths of her sorrow. She did not forget that others were as deeply bereaved as she and needed her support and comfort.
September 15, 1852. Was it a month, Juna, or a century ago, that I talked with you here? Perhaps if I try to write the terrible pressure in my head will grow less. I try to be as patient as I can through these days of bitter grief, for each one of us has enough to bear, and I must not add to their sorrow. I may tell you all, without fear of giving pain. I did not know that one could suffer so and yet live.
The sun itself seems darkened. Mark has been lying in his grave for a week, and yet I must go on living, and so must we all. We are all trying to comfort mother. She looks so wan and thin, but she says that she has taken, for her staff of comfort, the words that Mark spoke, with steadfast faith, as he talked with her about dying: "God knows best."
Dear Amelia's idolized brother is gone, too, as well as mine. How she hung over him with tireless watching, able to soothe and comfort him always with her skilful nursing. What should we have done without brother Charles, who was everywhere with his clear judgment and helpful hands? He and Robert, whose sympathy has been priceless, have greatly endeared themselves to us all. And the boys! They had never come near to death before, and they went noiselessly about with awed faces, helping wherever they could. On that dreadful day, when the doctor told us, with tears that he did not try to conceal, that there was no hope, Amelia found them out in the barn, lying on the hay, sobbing as if their hearts would break.
How can I write of Keren, in her bridal robes of black? Her white beauty frightens us. She has an exalted look, as if the real She were not here, as if she walked and talked with one unseen. Perhaps it may be so, but for me life is a pall of darkness, and he is gone - gone.
I was alone with Mark one day in his partial delirium. He knew me perfectly.
"Little sister Doris," he whispered, "don't forget, I shall love you always, in this world or in another. Never, never forget."
Again he looked up suddenly, as if he saw some one standing beside him. "Father, father, is that you? I have tried to take care of mother - tried - tried - " his voice trailed wearily.
Oh, Juna, how my heart was wrung! How have I lived, how do I live - live? We found Keren last night looking toward the hills, with her hands clasped tightly on her breast.
"Mother, sisters," she said softly, "I am a crowned queen. Mark loved, loves me. He loves me still; nothing can change that. I bear his name. Neither death nor the grave could keep me from him. Whatever the years may bring, I am his wife."
We left her with love's transfiguring glory in her face, strangely mingled with the infinite pain of her widowhood.
Life stretches out before me; the years ahead are long, long, so long, for I am young, and I am told that sorrow does not kill. I want to live for mother's sake; she needs her children who are left more than ever. I will try, but if I could only feel sure that God cares.
I shall never watch again for him to come 'round the bend o' the road.
Sept. 20. I am dismayed to find that I have scarcely thought of my lover during these dark days. I wrote him, begging pardon for my silence. I felt sure that he would understand our heavy grief, and realize how much of life was gone, how hard it was to gather up daily duties, and go on without faltering. I received this reply, so disappointing. Can it be that I cannot lean on him for comfort in this hour of need?
My dear Doris:-
I cannot understand how any grief can make a betrothed woman neglectful of her duty to her promised husband. He should be her first consideration. While I recognize the fact that your brother's death is a loss to you and your family, and offer you my sympathy, I feel that if you love me as you ought, after your promise, you will see that you have been remiss in duty. I shall hope to find you more careful in the future. I know that my presence would be a comfort to you, but I also feel that it is not wise to expose one's self unnecessarily to surroundings where there has been fatal fever, and will postpone my visit until all possible danger is past. I do this partly for your sake, that you may not be called on to part with your promised husband. You will never find me remiss in duty.
Semper fides,
John.
I have copied this letter, Juna, that I might search my heart as I wrote the words. "If you love me as you ought" I have repeated again and again. I wonder if that can be true. My brain is too weary to reason clearly now.
A letter from Robert has brought evidence of his thoughtful care:
Dear Friends:-
I am thinking constantly of you all during these heavy days. My own grief can be only a little less than yours. Mark was a strong man, physically, intellectually, spiritually, and with it all he had as sweet a spirit as I have ever known. I cannot see why he was called away in his early manhood, but he has been promoted to some higher service, in which God needed just his qualifications. However long life may be for me, I shall sorely miss him until I see his face again - my brother, my best, my closest friend.
I went before the committee, as Doris requested. They were most kind, and said they would write, suggesting that the FemaIe Academy open a month later than usual. I am glad you will have this respite.
Let me serve you in any way possible, and think of me always as one mith you in our common sorrow.
Robert Courtney.
I have copied this, Juna, because it brought me comfort.
Sept. 23. "How strange it is," I said to mother last night, as we were all sitting together in the twilight, "that one disaster brings others in its train, not so great but perplexing, as 'When sorrows come, they come not as single spies, but in battalions.' I have a letter here telling me that the teacher who was to have been my assistant next year is sick with what promises to be a long illness. I must open the school the first of November, and do the best I can, but I cannot do it alone."
"Will you take me?" said Keren.
"You dear Keren," I exclaimed, "I had no idea that you would feel that you could go on."
"Why not I as well as you?" she asked gently.
"You know that I would rather have you than any one in the world, dear sister," I answered eagerly. Oh, what a load she has taken from me! I asked mother if she would go back with us, and she answered: "Yes, dear, any time. Perhaps God is caring for us a little after all."
Mother came to me this morning with a new proposition, asking me how I would like to have Johnny with us next year. He has come to the place where he needs greater advantages than he has in the school here. He can go to the Boys' Academy and be a great help and comfort to us in the home.
"But do you think Amelia and Charles will be willing to spare him just now?" I asked.
"Yes, for his good and our comfort. I talked with them about it yesterday. It will be hard for them to let him go - especially - now." She paused for a moment. "They think they can drive over once a month and spend a day or so with us. That will make it easier for us all."
"What a happy thought! Then we will consider it settled," I said gratefully. Dear Johnny, what a comfort he will be.
Oct. 5,1852. This is the last time I can talk with you, Juna, in this dear room, before we go back to Barnwell. It seems almost impossible for us to take up our work where we laid it down, with the strong bright presence forever missed; but we must, we must, and that is doubtless best. Mother wanders from room to room to-day, with a smile, as she meets us, that is sadder than tears.