Grace Darling by Eva Hope (people reading books .txt) 📕

clear and distinct that it was most plainly heard, was already speaking to the very soul of the lighthouse-girl. She heard it in those quiet evenings when her eyes looked over the sea, and she often wondered what the wild waves were saying. In the busy mornings, when her hands took up the household tasks, in order to lighten her mother's burdens, she received the summons which had surely been sent to her. And even then she prepared to go. Not for her were long years spent in the enjoyment of those comforts which kind friends had provided for her. Hers was to be the early fading of the flower, for the insidious disease which carries off so many beloved ones from our midst had already marked her for his prey. Says a writer of her—"She died in that beautiful period of her life when all seems hallowed, so that the heart turns to her in her loveliness, beauty, innocence, and purity, and venerates her as a gem of virtue and a true heroine;" and he adds, "We are apt to regret that one so deserving should be cut down so young." And all who contemplate the life of Grace Darling must feel the same. And yet we need not suppose that the prayers of her friends were unheard or unanswered. If that which we call death were really ceasing to live, then indeed we might well pray to have this life continued. But the Christian knows better; and to him there is great significance in those words written long ago—"He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest it him, even length of days for ever and ever." This life is but the beginning. It is continued under other circumstances, and in a better land; and in that land we may be sure Grace Darling has found a happy home.

She was never particularly robust. She had not a strong frame; and it will be remembered that in our description of her in these pages, it was remarked that she was of slight build, and had a clear complexion. In the year 1851 [Transcriber's note: 1851 is what is in the book, but since Grace Darling died in 1842, it should probably be 1841.], and when she had only for a short time enjoyed the fruit of her heroic deed, it became evident that her health was declining. There is always room for hope, however, when the patient is young, and when, as in the case of Grace, the disease is consumption. Its first attacks are so insidious that the danger is not always realised. The victim looks more lovely than ever, and so well besides, that it seems as if it cannot be anything great that is the matter. And the symptoms do not seem to be alarming. There is but a feeling of weakness and weariness—a pain in the side, not very bad, perhaps, and a cough, which may be only the result of a cold. There seems nothing to frighten one in such common-place symptoms. Only, unfortunately, these things are stubborn, and do not yield to treatment. And after a time, it is seen that the flesh wastes, the eyes become bright, and there are heavy night perspirations, especially towards morning. There is fever, loss of strength, and loss of appetite, and at last the sad truth is borne in upon the shrinking mind, that it is clearly a case of consumption.

We can imagine what consternation this sad conviction brought to the inmates of the Longstone lighthouse, for it is well known that there is but little hope that consumption is ever curable. The friends of Grace did the best they could; and toward the end of the year she removed to Bamborough, her medical attendant having advised her to do so.

The removal probably prolonged her life for a season, for it was not until the autumn of the following year that she died. But although she lived on it was evident, even to herself, that no real good was being done. She stayed some time, long enough to give the thing a fair trial, hoping and patiently waiting for a change, but no change came. Everything was done that could be to make the sufferer more comfortable, and to keep her hopeful and happy. Indeed, Grace was very tranquil, and even cheerful, though all this time she clung to life, and would gladly have prolonged it if it had been possible.

"I think," she said, "that if I could be farther away from the sea, I should perhaps get better."

"Perhaps you would," said her friends eagerly, catching at anything that was at all hopeful, and they at once made arrangements to have her removed from Bamborough to some inland place. It was decided that she should go to Wooler, and great hopes were entertained that so complete a change would be beneficial. Wooler is a small market-town in Northumberland, eighteen miles north-west of Alnwick, and is situated on the borders of the county. The scenery is very delightful, for it is in the midst of a country varied with sunny hills and picturesque glens, which belong principally to the Cheviot range, the Humbleton, Hedgehope and Beamish-head hills. It will be seen, therefore, that the air is pure, and there is no doubt that the place would be life-giving to many who should seek convalescence there. But neither bracing atmosphere, nor picturesque scenery, had any effect upon Grace Darling; and it became evident to the anxious eyes that watched her most closely and fondly, that she continued to grow gradually worse.

But even then those who loved her were not willing to let her pass away without making other efforts.

"Grace," they said, "perhaps another doctor could think of some other remedy. Could you bear the journey to Newcastle! If we went there, it is possible that some of the great physicians could do you good. Are you willing to try?"

"Yes," said Grace, "I am quite willing. I think I could bear the journey, and of course, in so large a place, we could have the very best advice."

"Then we will go to Newcastle; for it may be that, after all, you will recover."

Those who so spoke, however, had no great hope, though it was only natural that they should be extremely anxious to neglect no means that could possibly be used for her recovery.

"I should like my father to go with me to Newcastle," said Grace, "and accompany me when I have to consult the doctor."

"Oh, yes; we can easily make an arrangement with father to do that. I will write to him about it."

It was settled that the Newcastle plan should be tried, and Mr. Darling arranged to meet his daughter at Alnwick.

Everything relating to the gentle heroine of the "Forfarshire" was interesting, and it was not possible for her to visit this place again without the people knowing of it. Their hearts were touched with grief at the signs of approaching dissolution which they saw in her, and many eyes were filled with tears as they beheld her thin face and wasted form. They could not help contrasting this visit with that other which we have so recently described, when soon after her heroic action, she came among them, apparently in good health, and with a long life of happiness before her. Now it was too evident that death had claimed her for his victim, and that in a very short time they would have seen the last of Grace Darling.

Again, as on her former visit, she experienced great kindness at the hands of that noble and benevolent lady, the Duchess of Northumberland. No sooner did she hear of her arrival in Alnwick, than she hastened to see her; and though she endeavoured to speak cheerfully to Grace, the meeting was a very sorrowful one.

"You had better remain here," she said, "and not go on to Newcastle. You shall have the benefit of the advice of my own medical man, who will do anything for you that can possibly be done."

This suggestion was well received, and acted upon by the afflicted family, who began to fear that the case was an utterly hopeless one.

The Duchess was unwearied in her kindly attentions, and immediately procured good lodgings for Grace in the best and most airy part of the town. Every invalid who goes away from home in search of health, knows how dreary a lodging seems after the familiar scenes and comfortable rooms of his own dwelling. But Grace was prevented from feeling the desolation and discomfort which so many have felt, for the Duchess of Northumberland herself furnished the lodgings with every requisite, thus contributing very greatly to the well-being of the invalid.

But, alas, neither medical skill nor the loving ministries of tender friends, was of any avail to Grace Darling. For a time the remedies were patiently persisted in, but every week made the conviction of their failure more overwhelming. It was seen that a stronger hand than those of the human friends around her, was gently leading her into "the valley of the shadow of death."

Mr. Darling's trouble and anxiety were very great when he saw that she, whom he loved so dearly, must die.

"I should like her to be with the members of her own family," he said, "and we must try to remove her, if possible, to the house of her sister at Bamborough, where she will feel more at home."

It was thought that this might be done with care, and it was therefore arranged that on a certain day the removal should take place. There was a touching incident connected with this which shows how real was the kindly attachment which the Duchess felt to the lighthouse-maiden. Her Grace came quiet [Transcriber's note: quite?] unattended, and dressed in the plainest attire, to the lodging of Grace to take her last farewell. It is not too much to say that both felt the parting greatly, and Grace could not but be deeply affected by the kindly manner of her noble friend.

Grace Darling only lived ten days after her removal to Bamborough.

She was nursed with the most assiduous care and tenderness—her eldest sister, Thomasin, never once leaving her through the whole of the latter part of her long illness. But the love of her dear ones, though it might soothe the last moments, could not prolong her life, and she rapidly became worse. She knew that she must die, but she was not afraid of death. She watched for the last change, knowing that it must come, and feeling no alarm at its approach. She was ready to go, and was only listening for the welcome voice of the messenger "to fly away and be at rest." Her sister says that, during the whole of her trying illness, she never once beard her murmur or complain; but with Christian fortitude and trust she gently loosed her hold of earth, and turned her face to the home that had been prepared for her above.

"I should like to see my brothers and sisters before I die," she said.

"And they would be most grieved not to see you," was the assuring reply.

"Some of them may not be able to come, because of the nature of their occupation," she continued, "but I feel that I have not much more time, and that all who can come should do so now."

They were accordingly summoned, and had the mournful satisfaction of hearing her last adieus.

"I wish to give you each some token of my love before I die," she said; and with her own hands, and with the most perfect calmness, she distributed her gifts among them.

As may well be supposed, their grief was very great, and they felt as if they could not bear to part from her. But she comforted them with the assurance of her own sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection.

"Do not mourn for me," she said; "I am only exchanging this life for one