Suddenly what strength lady Arctura had, gave way, and she began to sink. But it was spring with the summer at hand; they hoped she would recover sufficiently to be removed to a fitter climate. She did not herself think so. She had hardly a doubt that her time was come. She was calm, often cheerful, but her spirits were variable.
Donal's heart was sorer than he had thought it could be again.
One day, having been reading a little to her, he sat looking at her.
He did not know how sad was the expression of his countenance. She looked up, smiled, and said, "You think I am unhappy!--you could not look at me like that if you did not think so! I am only tired; I am not unhappy. I hardly know now what unhappiness is! If ever I look as if I were unhappy, it is only that I am waiting for more life. It is on the way; I feel it is, because I am so content with everything; I would have nothing other than it is. It is very hard for God that his children will not trust him to do with them what he pleases! I am sure, Mr. Grant, the world is all wrong, and on the way to be all wondrously right. It will cost God much labour yet: we will cost him as little as we can--won't we?--Oh, Mr. Grant, if it hadn't been for you, God would have been far away still! For a God I should have had something half an idol, half a commonplace tyrant! I should never have dreamed of the glory of God!"
"No, my lady!" returned Donal; "if God had not sent me, he would have sent somebody else; you were ready!"
"I am very glad he sent you! I should never have loved any other so much!"
Donal's eyes filled with tears. He was ****** as a child. No male vanity, no self-exultation that a woman should love him, and tell him she loved him, sprang up in his heart. He knew she loved him; he loved her; all was so natural it could not be otherwise: he never presumed to imagine her once thinking of him as he had thought of Ginevra. He was her servant, willing and loving as any angel of God: that was all--and enough!
"You are not vexed with your pupil--are you?" she resumed, again looking up in his face, this time with a rosy flush on her own.
"Why?" said Donal, with wonder.
"For speaking so to my master."
"Angry because you love me?"
"No, of course!" she responded, at once satisfied. "You knew that must be! How could I but love you--better than any one else in the world! You have given me life! I was dead.--You have been like another father to me!" she added, with a smile of heavenly tenderness. "But I could not have spoken to you like this, if I had not known I was dying."
The word shot a sting as of fire through Donal's heart.
"You are always a child, Mr. Grant," she went on; "death is ****** a child of me; it makes us all children: as if we were two little children together, I tell you I love you.--Don't look like that," she continued; "you must not forget what you have been teaching me all this time--that the will of God, the perfect God, is all in all!
He is not a God far off: to know that is enough to have lived for!
You have taught me that, and I love you with a true heart fervently."
Donal could not speak. He knew she was dying.
"Mr. Grant," she began again, "my soul is open to his eyes, and is not ashamed. I know I am going to do what would by the world be counted unwomanly; but you and I stand before our Father, not before the world. I ask you in plain words, knowing that if you cannot do as I ask you willingly, you will not do it. And be sure I shall plainly be dying before I claim the fulfilment of your promise if you give it. I do not want your answer all at once: you must think about it."
Here she paused a while, then said, "I want you to marry me, if you will, before I go."
Donal could not yet speak. His soul was in a tumult of emotion.
