SICKNESS AT THE MILL HOUSE
"OH, Mavis! Oh, Bob! Mother's very ill! Oh, isn't it dreadful? The
doctor's going to send a hospital nurse to take care of her, for he
says she'll be ill for weeks, if—if she recovers!" And Rose finished
her sentence with a burst of tears.
The scene was the parlour at the Mill House one afternoon during the
first week of the new year. Rose had crept quietly into the room with
a scared look on her face, having overheard a conversation between her
father and the village doctor, the latter of whom had been called in
to prescribe for Mrs. John, who had been ailing since the night of the
concert, when she had taken a chill.
No one had thought her seriously ill until that morning, when she had
declared herself too unwell to rise, and had been unable to touch the
breakfast which her little daughter had carried upstairs to her. Then
it was that her husband had become alarmed, and the doctor had been
sent for. The medical man's face had worn a grave expression as he had
left the sick-room, and he had immediately informed Mr. Grey that his
wife was seriously ill with pneumonia, the result of a neglected cold.
"If she recovers?" echoed Bob, questioningly. "What do you mean, Rose?
It's only a cold that mother has, isn't it?"
"No, it's something much worse than that—pneumonia. Mrs. Long's husband
died from pneumonia." And poor Rose's tears and sobs increased at the
remembrance.
"Oh, don't cry so dreadfully, Rosie," implored Mavis. "People often
recover from pneumonia, indeed they do! Mother has nursed several
pneumonia patients since I can remember, and not one of them died. You
mustn't think Aunt Lizzie won't recover."
"But she's very ill—the doctor said so," returned Rose, nevertheless
checking her sobs, and regarding Mavis with an expression of dawning
hope in her blue eyes. "He said she would require most careful nursing,
and he couldn't tell how it would go with her."
"Doctors never can tell," said Mavis, sagely. "Mother says they can
only do their best, and leave the result to God. Poor Aunt Lizzie! How
sorry I am she should be so ill!"
"The doctor says we are not to go into her room again," sighed Rose. "I
heard him say to father, 'Don't let the children into her room to worry
her; she must be kept very quiet.'"
"As though we would worry her!" cried Bob, in much indignation. He felt
inclined to follow his sister's example and burst into tears. But he
manfully, though with much difficulty, retained his composure.
Before night, a trained nurse from a nursing institution at Oxford was
installed at the Mill House, and took possession of the sick-room. And
during the anxious days which followed, the miller's wife approached
very near the valley of the shadow of death, so that those who loved
her went in fear and trembling, and stole about the house with
noiseless footsteps and hushed voices.
But at length, a day arrived when the patient was pronounced to have
taken a turn for the better. And after that, she continued to progress
favourably until, one never-to-be-forgotten morning, the doctor
pronounced her life out of danger.
"We shall be allowed to see her soon now, father, shan't we?" Rose
inquired eagerly, after she had heard the good news from her father's
lips.
"I hope so, my dear," he answered. "It will not be long before she
will be asking for you, if I'm not mistaken. But she's been too ill
to notice anything or any one. You won't forget to thank God for His
goodness in sparing your mother's precious life, will you, Rosie?"
"No, indeed, father," she responded, earnestly. "We prayed—Bob, and
Mavis, and I—that God would make dear mother well again, and you see He
is going to do it. I felt so—so helpless and despairing, and there was
only God who could do anything, and so—and so—"
"And so you were driven to Him for help and consolation? Ah, that's the
way with many folks! They forget Him when things go smooth, but they're
glad to turn to Him when their path in life is rough. But His love
never fails. You found Him a true Friend, eh, my Rose?"
"Yes, father, I did. Mavis said I should; she said I must remember that
Jesus Himself said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be
afraid,' and that I must trust in Him. And I tried not to be afraid. I
couldn't do anything but pray; and after a while I began to feel that
God really did hear my prayers, and I don't believe He'll ever seem
quite so far off again."
Mr. Grey had guessed rightly in thinking his wife would soon desire to
see her children, for the day following the one on which the doctor
had pronounced her life out of danger, she asked for them, and they
were allowed into the sick-room long enough for each to kiss her and
be assured, in a weak whisper from her own lips, that she was really
better.
The next day, they saw her again for a longer time, but she did not
inquire for Mavis, a fact which hurt the little girl, though she did
not say so, and strengthened her previous impression that her aunt did
not like her.
Before very long, Rose was allowed in and out of the sick-room as she
pleased, and was several times left in charge of the invalid. She
proved herself to be so helpful and reliable that, on one occasion, the
nurse complimented her upon those points, and she subsequently sought
her cousin in unusually high spirits.
"Mavis, what do you think?" she cried, in great excitement. "Nurse
says she is sure I have a real talent for nursing! Fancy that! But for
mother's illness, I should never have found it out, should I? Oh, I'm
so glad to know that I really have a talent for something, after all!"
Meanwhile, Mrs. John was gaining strength daily. Although she had not
expressed a wish to see Mavis, she thought of her a good deal, and she
missed the sound of her voice about the house.
"Where is Mavis?" she asked Rose, at length. Then, on being informed
that the little girl was downstairs in the parlour, she inquired, "How
is it I never hear her singing now?"
"Oh, mother, she would not sing now you are ill," Rose replied.
"She would not disturb me—I think I should like to hear her. It must be
a privation to her not to sing."
"I don't think she has felt much like singing lately. We've all been so
troubled about you—Mavis too. Oh, I don't know how I could have borne
it whilst you were so dreadfully ill, if it had not been for Mavis!"
"What do you mean, Rose?"
"She kept up my heart about you, mother. And she's been so good to us
all—helping Jane with the housework, lending Bob her games and keeping
him amused, and doing everything she could to cheer us up. Wouldn't you
like to see her?"
"Yes," assented Mrs. John, "to-morrow, perhaps."
So the following day found Mavis by her aunt's bedside, looking with
sympathetic eyes at the wan face on the pillow.
"I'm so glad you're so much better, Aunt Lizzie," she whispered softly.
"You'll soon get strong now."
"I hope so, Mavis. My illness has spoiled your holidays, I fear. You
must have had a very dull time."
"A very sad, anxious time," Mavis said gravely; "but never mind—that's
past."
"And you will soon forget it," her aunt remarked, with a faint smile.
"Oh no, Aunt Lizzie, I'm not likely to do that! But I'd so much rather
look forward to your being well again. We were all so wretched when you
were so terribly ill, and now God has made us happy and glad. Why, I
feel I could sing for joy!"
"I think you rarely find difficulty in doing that, Mavis; you are so
light-hearted."
"Not always, Aunt Lizzie; but I do try to be."
"Why?" Mrs. John inquired, in surprise.
"Because Jesus said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it
be afraid,'" Mavis answered, seriously. "I try not to be troubled or
afraid," she continued; "but it's very, very hard not to be sometimes.
I found that when mother went away; nothing seemed to matter much when
we were together, but after she'd gone—oh, then it was different. I
felt my heart would break, it ached so badly, but—are you sure I am not
tiring you, Aunt Lizzie?"
"No; I like to hear you talk. Go on—tell me all you felt when your
mother went away."
Mavis complied. She would have opened her heart to her aunt before, if
she had ever had the least encouragement to make her her confidante.
By-and-by, she became aware that there were tears in the sunken eyes
which were watching the varying expressions of her countenance, and she
ceased speaking abruptly.
"You must have been very lonely and sad, child," Mrs. John said. "I
never realized you felt the parting from your mother so much. I wish I
had known; but I thought—"
She paused, and did not explain what she had thought. She was beginning
to understand that she had misjudged Mavis, and the knowledge that
she had done so humiliated her, whilst she was conscious that she had
allowed her jealous heart to prejudice her against the child. "I might
have been kinder to you, my dear," she admitted, with a sigh.
"Oh, Aunt Lizzie, you have always been kind to me," Mavis said
gratefully, unaware that Mrs. John's conscience was reminding her not
so much of actions as of thoughts.
"I don't know what I have said to make you cry," she added, as a tear
ran down her aunt's pale cheek. She wiped the tear away with her
handkerchief as she spoke, and kissed the invalid. She had never felt
greatly drawn towards her before, always having been a little in awe of
her, but at that moment the barrier of misunderstanding which had stood
between them was swept aside.
"I have not heard you singing lately," Mrs. John remarked, by-and-by.
"Rose tells me you have been fearful of disturbing me. You need not be
now, for I believe it will cheer me greatly to hear you singing again.
Our song-bird has been silent long enough."
Mavis smiled, and kissed her once more, and shortly after that, the
nurse, who had been absent, returned, and confidential conversation was
at an end.
The young people had been back to school for several weeks before the
mistress of the Mill House was about again, and it was some time before
she was well enough to undertake her accustomed duties. But with the
lengthening days, she gained strength more rapidly, and the doctor said
she needed only the spring sunshine to make her well.
In the meanwhile, Mavis continued to receive cheering news from
her mother, who wrote every mail. Miss Dawson was much better, and
there was now every reason to hope that she would return to England
completely restored to health. But when that would be, Mrs. Grey had
not yet said, though in one letter she had remarked that perhaps it
would be sooner than Mavis expected. The little girl's heart had
thrilled with happiness when she had read that.
Almost the first news Mrs. John was told when she was about again
after her illness, was that Richard Butt, who had taken a cottage in
the village, had been allowed a few days' holiday, and the loan of a
waggon, on which he had conveyed his household furniture and his wife
and baby from Woodstock to their new home.
"They're comfortably settled in now, ma'am," said Jane, who had
explained all this to her mistress. "I've been to see them. Mrs. Butt
seems a nice, well-mannered young woman, and the child's as fine a baby
as you ever saw in your life."
"Yes," joined in Rose. "And father's very pleased with Butt, because
he's so careful of the horses, and he hasn't had the least cause of
complaint against him yet. Aren't you glad to know that, mother?"
"Butt thinks a great deal of father," Bob said, eagerly, "and no
wonder! He told me he was almost despairing when father gave him work.
He said father was one of the few people who wouldn't hit a man when
he's down. I know what he means, don't you, mother?"
"Yes," was the brief assent.
"So do I," said Mavis. "I think the Good Samaritan in the parable must
have been very like Uncle John."
There was one piece of news which Rose had refrained from mentioning to
her mother as yet, and that was that she and Mavis were now in the same
class at school. She dreaded telling her this, and it was a decided
relief when she learnt that it was not necessary for her to do so, as
Mavis had forestalled her.
Mavis had also told her aunt, how greatly Rose was troubled on account
of her slowness in learning, and how really painstaking she was, and
this, coupled with Miss Matthews' report that Rose was patient and
industrious and always desirous of doing her best, caused Mrs. John to
reflect that she had been a little hard on her daughter.
"Although she's not quick like her cousin, she has many good
qualities," she thought to herself. "God does not endow us all with
gifts alike, and I have been unwise to make comparisons between the
children."
So she spoke kindly and encouragingly upon the matter to Rose, who
exclaimed, with a ring of glad surprise in her voice—
"Oh, mother, I so feared you would be angry with me for allowing
Mavis to catch up to me in her lessons! Indeed, indeed, I have done
my best. I know I'm slow and stupid in many ways; but God has given
me one talent, and, now I know that, I don't mind. Nurse said I had a
real talent for nursing, so I mean to be a nurse when I grow up. Mavis
will be a great singer, I expect, but I shall be quite content to be a
nurse."
Mrs. John made no response, but she pressed a warm kiss on Rose's lips,
and her little daughter saw she was pleased, and added ingenuously—
"I asked God to make you understand I'd done my best, and He has."