THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
I was alone with mums in her room the next morning when her letters were
brought up. The poor little thing had a headache and was very tired,
and, for once, she hadn't got up to breakfast. She had not been able to
go to sleep the night before--really she had had a lot of worries
lately--and then when she did, it was so nearly morning that she slept
on ever so much longer than usual. For she's not a bit lazy, like some
mothers I know.
When she _does_ have breakfast in bed, she lets me look after her. It's
awfully jolly. Father is sure to say as he goes off, 'You'll see to your
mother, Jack.'
The girls don't mind. Anne wouldn't be much good at anything like
that--at least, she wouldn't have been _then_, though she's ever so much
better _now_ about forgetting things, and spilling things, and seeming
as if all her fingers were thumbs, you know. Hebe is very handy, and
she always was. But she never put herself before Anne, and so we got in
the way of me being the one to do most for mums. I told you at the
beginning--didn't I?--that some people might think me rather a girl-y
boy, but I don't mind one scrap of an atom if they do. I have my own
ideas. I know the splendidest cricketer and footballer you ever saw is a
fellow whose sister's a cripple, and she can't bear any one to lift her
but him, because he's so gentle. And I've seen a young doctor in our
village doing up a baby that was burnt nearly to death, as if _his_
fingers were fairy's, and afterwards I heard that he'd been the bravest
of the brave in some awful battles in Burmah, or somewhere like that.
Indeed, he got so wounded with cutting in to carry out the men as they
dropped--it was what they call a skirmish, I think, not a proper battle
where they have ambulances and carrying people and everything ready, I
suppose--that he's had to leave off being a soldier-doctor for good.
And now that the girls know it can't be for long, except in holidays,
that I can look after mums, they're very good about letting me be with
her as much as I can. And I've got them into pretty good ways. I don't
think she'll miss me so _very_ much when I go.
Well, I settled the breakfast tray with Rowley, and nothing was
forgotten. I let Rowley carry it up, because I knew it was safer for her
to do it, and there's no sense in bragging you're bigger than you are,
and can carry things that need long arms when you know you can't. But I
walked beside her, opening the doors and watching that the things didn't
slide about; that's how I always do. And then when the tray was safe on
the bed, and I had arranged the 'courses,' first the roll and butter and
ham and egg--I cracked the top of the egg and got it ready--and then the
muffin and marmalade, my nice time began. I squatted at the foot of the
bed, near enough to reach mums anything she wanted, and then we talked.
We talk of lots of things when we're alone like that. Mums tells me of
anything that's on her mind, and I comfort her up a bit. Of course we
talked about the unlucky brooch, and about Anne, and how easily she and
Serry might have been run over, or something like that.
'Yes, indeed,' said mums, 'I often think we're not half thankful enough
for the misfortunes that _don't_ happen.'
Just then there came a knock at the door.
'Bother!' thought I. I don't think I _said_ it, for mums thinks it's
such an ugly word.
It was Rowley again.
'Your letters, ma'am,' she said. 'They were forgotten when I brought up
the tray.'
There were only three. Two were nothing particular--accounts or
something. But the third was in a strange handwriting, and mums opened
it quickly.
'It's from Lady Nearn,' she said. 'I think it was rather me to write to
her. It's very kind of her, but----'
She began reading it, and her face got very grave.
'Do leave it till you've finished your breakfast, mums,' I said. 'You've
not even finished the first course.'
But she scarcely listened to me.
'Oh, Jack!' she said, 'I'm afraid we haven't got to the end of the
troubles caused by poor gran's diamonds yet. Oh dear, I shall be so
uneasy for some days to come!'
I couldn't make out what she meant, and when she saw my puzzled face she
went on to explain. Lady Nearn's letter was very kind, but she thought
it right to tell mother that Anne and Serena had run into some risk by
coming to her house the night before, for it was quite decided that
three of her children had got whooping-cough. Not the two they had seen;
at least she still _hoped_ they--the twins--wouldn't get it, for they
were very delicate, and they had been separated from the others. But
still there was no telling how infection might be caught, and she
advised mother to be prepared for her little girls having perhaps got
the illness.
Mums did look worried.
'It's a most tiresome and trying thing,' she said; 'and neither Hebe nor
Maud is very strong. Perhaps I shouldn't have told you, Jack. You must
be sure not to speak of it to any of them.'
I promised, of course. And then poor mums, instead of having a nice
rest, declared she must get up at once, and go off to catch the doctor
before he went out. Wasn't it too bad? She wanted to know what to
do--whether it was any good trying to separate Anne and Serry from the
rest of us, and how soon it would show, and a lot of things like that.
For mother was an only child herself, and she always says she isn't at
all experienced about children. She's had to learn everything by us, you
see.
Well, she did catch the doctor, and came back looking rather jollier.
He had comforted her up. There were ten chances to one against the girls
having got it, he said; and as for separating them, now they had been
with us all, it would be nonsense.
Ah, well! doctors don't know everything. _I'd_ have separated them fast
enough, I know; and it would have been a good punishment for Anne and
Serena to have been shut up for a day or two; perhaps it would have made
them think twice before doing some wild, silly thing again.
So mums and I kept our own counsel. She told father, of course, but no
one else, not even nurse--it would only have made her nervous. We sent
round once or twice to ask how the little Nearns were--mums wrote notes,
I think, as she didn't want the servants chattering. And we were very
sorry to hear that the poor twins had got it after all, and rather
badly.
'So you see, Jack,' said mother, 'it wasn't any good separating them.
Dr. Marshall must know.'
I think this was rather a comfort to her. If the doctor had been right
about one thing, there was more chance of his being right about another.
And for two or three days we all kept quite well, and mother began to
breathe freely.
But, alas! I think it was about the fourth morning after that evening,
when I ran into the nursery on my way down to prayers, I found mother
there, talking to nurse. Mother looked very grave, much worse than
nurse, who didn't seem particularly put out.
'It's only a cold, ma'am, I'm sure,' she was saying. 'A cold soon makes
a child feverish and heavy. I don't think, indeed, there's any need for
the doctor; but it's just as you like, of course.'
Then 'it' had come. Poor mums! I stole up to her and slipped my hand
into hers. I understood, though nurse didn't. It was rather nice to feel
that I was mother's sort of confi---- I'm not sure of the word. But who
was it that was ill? My heart did go down when I heard it was not Anne
or Serry--really, I think I'd have said they deserved it--but poor old
Maudie! Sensible, good little Maud, who never did naughty, silly things,
or teased anybody. It did seem too bad.
'May I run in to see her?' I asked.
Nurse would have said, 'Yes, of course, Master Jack,' in a moment, but
mother shook her head.
'Not till Dr. Marshall has been, dear,' she said; and she gave my hand a
little squeeze. I'm afraid she began to wish she had separated the
girls after all.
I could see that nurse thought mums very funny, as she went on asking
ever so many questions about Maud--above all, was she coughing?
'A little,' said nurse; 'rather a croupy, odd-sounding sort of cough.'
But she was too old for croup, of course. It was just cold.
'I must go down to prayers now,' said mother. 'I will come up
immediately after breakfast, and I will send for Dr. Marshall. I am sure
it will be best.'
Just then there came the sound of a cough from Maud's room--a queer,
croaky sort of cough--and we heard the poor little thing call out--
'Oh, mums, is that you? Do come to see me. I does feel so funny.'
'Yes, darling, I will come very soon,' said mother. It was so queer to
hear Maudie talking babyishly--she always did if she was at all ill. As
we went downstairs I was sure mums was crying a little.
Well, that was the beginning of it all. When the doctor came, of course
he looked very owly, and said he couldn't say for a day or two; and
pretended to be jolly, and told mother she wasn't to be so silly, and
all that kind of talk. But after his 'day or two'--no, indeed, before
they were over--he had to allow there was some cause for grave looks.
For by then they'd _all_ got it--all except me! Just fancy, all four of
them! The nursery was like a menagerie, for no sooner did one cough than
all the others started too, and they all coughed different ways. If it
hadn't been really horrid it would have been rather absurd--something
like the mumps, you know. It's _all_ you can do not to laugh at each
other when you've got the mumps. I'll never forget Serry's face,--never,
as long as I live, and she's the prettiest of us, I suppose. I saw my
own once in the glass, but I wouldn't look again. And yet it's awfully
horrid. It hurts--my goodness! doesn't it just?
There was no good separating _me_. I made mums see that, and I promised
her I'd do my very best not to get the whooping-cough; and I didn't!
That was something to be proud of, now, wasn't it? You mightn't think
so, but it was; for I really believe I stopped myself having it. Ever so
often, when I heard them all crowing and choking, and holding on to the
table, and scolding--how Serry did scold sometimes--over it, I felt as
if I was going to start coughing and whooping too-- I did, I give you
my word. But I just _wouldn't_. I said to myself it was all fancy and
nonsense--though I don't a bit believe it was--and I drank some water,
and got all right again. And after a week or two, the catchy feeling in
my throat went off.
It was a good thing I kept well, for mums did need some comfort. The
worst of it didn't come for a good while--that's the tiresome part of
the whooping-cough, you never know where you are with it, it lasts such
a time; and when you think it's about over, very often you find children
have got some other illness from it--I mean something the matter with
their chests or throats, or bothers like that.
It was Maud that got it first, and seemed the worst for a good while;
but then she took a turn and got hungry again, and the doctor began to
speak of our soon going away somewhere for change of air; and we were
getting jollier, and mums looking less worried, when all at once Hebe
got very bad indeed. It was partly her own fault, though she hadn't
meant it. She had been feeling very ill indeed, but she didn't like to
say so, for she thought most likely the others felt just as bad, and you
know she's dreadfully unselfish. Often and often she'd get up in the
middle of the night if Serry called out she was thirsty or
anything--very often it was only that she fancied the clothes were
slipping off, or some nonsense like that--and Hebe may have caught cold
by that. Anyway, there came one morning that poor Hebe couldn't get up
at all; indeed, she could scarcely speak. We all ran in to see what was
the matter, and she just smiled a tiny little smile, and put out her
poor little hand--it was burning hot--and whispered, 'I daresay I'll be
better soon.'
Nurse was frightened; but she's very good and sensible. She just told me
to go down to mother's room and ask her to come up, as Hebe had had a
bad night, and perhaps we'd better send for the doctor to come early.
And, of course, I knew how to do it without startling mums more than
could be helped.
All the same, if she had been dreadfully startled it couldn't have been
worse than had to be. For it was the beginning of Hebe's being awfully
ill. I can't tell you properly what it was; it was something about her
lungs, so bad that she was wrapped in blankets and carried down to a
room beside mother's, where she could be perfectly quiet. And a strange
nurse came--one with a cap and an apron, like you see in pictures of
children in hospitals; she was rather pretty and not old at all, and she
and mums took turns of watching Hebe; and the air of the room had to be
kept exactly the same hotness, like a vinery, you know. And there was a
queer, strange, solemn feeling all about, that I can't explain. We all
felt it, even though they didn't tell us--not even _me_--how bad the
poor little sweet was. The angel of death came very near us that time,
mums told us afterwards, and I know it was true. One night I almost felt
it myself. I woke all of a sudden, and sat bolt up in bed. I had thought
I heard Hebe calling me--I was sure I did--and then I remembered I'd
been dreaming about her. I thought we were walking in a wood. It was
evening, or afternoon, and it seemed to be getting dark, and I fancied
we were looking for the others--it was muddled up with their having gone
out that night, you see--and I felt very worried and unhappy.
'Hebe,' I said, 'it's getting very dark.'
'Yes,' she said, 'it is, darker and darker, Jack'; and her voice sounded
strange. 'Jack,' she went on, 'hold my hand, I'm rather frightened'; and
I felt that she was shivering.
I think I was rather frightened myself, but I tried to comfort her up.
'Perhaps it'll get lighter again after a bit,' I said. 'I don't think
the sun's set yet.'
'Hasn't it?' she said. 'I think it's just going to, though. Jack, can
you say that verse about the shadows or the darkness? I can't remember
it.'
But I couldn't remember it properly either; however I tried. I could
only say, '"I will be with thee"--is it that, Hebe?--"I will be with
thee."' And she squeezed my hand tighter, and I thought she said, 'Yes,
that's it, Jack.'
And then again I fancied she pulled her hand out of mine, and ran on in
front quite fast, calling joyfully, 'I see them, Jack. Come on quick--
Jack, Jack.'
It was then I awoke, and I found I had been squeezing my own hand quite
tight. But I felt sure Hebe had been calling me.
I sat up and listened, but there was no sound. I began to cry; I thought
Hebe was dead, and then I remembered that the verse I couldn't get right
in my dream was about the valley of the shadow of death, and at first
that made me feel worse, till all of a sudden it came into my head that
it wasn't 'the valley of _death_' but only 'the valley of the _shadow_
of death,' And that seemed to mean that Hebe had been _near_ it--near
death, I mean,--'near enough for the shadow of his wings to fall over
her,' was the way mums said it when I told her my dream afterwards. That
comforted me. I got out of bed very softly in the darkness and crept to
the landing, where the balusters run round, and listened.
The gas lamp was burning faintly down below, and I heard a slight
rustling as if people were moving about. And after a while the door of a
room opened softly, and two men came out. It was father and the doctor.
I couldn't have believed big men could have moved so quietly, and I
listened as if I was all ears.
'I think, now----' was the most I could catch of what Dr. Marshall said.
But then came much plainer--of course I know his voice so well--from
father, '_Thank God_.'
And I knew Hebe was better.
I shall always think of that night, always, even when I'm quite old,
when I read that verse. Afterwards mother explained to me more about it.
She said she thought that to good people--you know what I mean by 'good
people'--_Christians_--it should always seem as if, after all, even when
they really do have to die, it is only the _shadow_ that they have to go
through--'the valley of the shadow of death'; that Death itself in any
dreadful lasting way is not really there, because of the presence that
is promised to us--'I will be with thee.'
I can't say it anything like as nicely as mums did, but I do understand
it pretty well all the same; and if ever I feel frightened of death in a
wrong way, I think about it. Mother said we're meant to be afraid of
death in one way, just as we would be afraid and are meant to be afraid
of anything dark and unknown and very solemn. But that's different.
And dear little Hebe had really been some way into the valley of the
shadow. When she got _quite_ well, she told me about it--of the feelings
and thoughts she had had that night when for some hours they thought she
was going far away from us, out of this world altogether. For she had
had all her senses. She thought about us all, and wished she could see
us, and she wished she could hold my hand--'your dear, rough, brown
hand, Jack,' she said. (I'm not quite as particular to keep my hands
very nice as I should be, I'm afraid!)
Wasn't it queer? I'm sure her feelings had come up to me through the
floor and made me dream.