MERCY AND SELF-DENIAL.
The Sabbath morning rose clear and bright, Nature looking all the fairer
for the tears which she had shed on the previous night. As Isa Gritton
was completing her toilet, Hannah brought in a note. Isa instantly
recognized the handwriting; and as this missive had evidently not passed
through the post, but been brought by a messenger, the young lady, with
some anxiety, broke open the envelope and read its contents:—
_Saturday Evening._
DEAR MISS GRITTON,—I was on the way to Axe, but felt so ill
with feverish headache that I could not proceed beyond this
wretched little inn (the Black Bear), which, as I hear, is not
ten minutes’ walk from your house. Could you come over and see
me?—Yours,
CORA MADDEN.
“Who brought this?” inquired Isa of Hannah.
“Mrs. Taylor, the landlady of the ‘Black Bear.’ She’s a-waiting below,
and she says that she wants to see you partic’lar.”
Isa hastened down-stairs, and found in the hall the landlady of the
roadside public-house, which had been dignified with the name of an inn
on the strength of the single guest-chamber which it held above the
tap-room. Cora Madden must have felt ill indeed before she accepted such
shelter. The landlady was a woman of a coarse and vulgar stamp, deeply
pitted with small-pox, and with a strong scent of spirits about her. Isa
felt repugnance at the idea of paying a visit at her house.
“The lady writ that last night,” said Mrs. Taylor, not waiting to be
questioned, but speaking loud and fast and without a pause; “but it
warn’t convenient to send it over, for Tom hadn’t come in, and Jim hadn’t
just his legs; and ’twas lucky I didn’t, ’cause we did not know what it
was, and now it’s all come out red as fire.”
“What has come out? what do you mean?” asked Miss Gritton.
“The small-pox, miss; quite full out—not a place on her face where you
could lay a sixpenny bit. It’s very unlucky it’s in my house, but the
chay put up in the stables last night, and the man’s a-going to put the
horse to—”
“Stop!” exclaimed Isa; “let me understand you. Do you mean to tell me
that Miss Madden is lying ill of small-pox in your house?”
“But won’t stop there long—couldn’t think of it. I’ve six children, and I
nigh died of small-pox myself these thirty years back, so I know what it
be; and it’s a great shame, it is, to come a-sickening in the midst of a
family, and get an inn the name of being infected. But she’s a-going at
once back to Portal, or on to Axe, afore she’s an hour older.”
“A moment—listen!” cried Isa, interrupting with difficulty the loud
incoherent rattle of the landlady; “are you going to send away a lady ill
of the small-pox, without so much as knowing where she can find a place
of shelter?”
“I guess there be lodgings to be had somewhere; if not at one place at
another; they’ll drive about till they find ’un; she can’t stay with me:
I’ve a large family, and thirty years back come Michaelmas I—”
Isa Gritton pressed her hand to her forehead, trying to collect her
thoughts, distracted by the vociferous talking. A new difficulty had,
most unexpectedly, risen before her; a sudden emergency, and—as something
seemed to whisper within—a call for the exercise of Christian mercy
towards one whom she had regarded as a foe.
The sound of Mrs. Taylor’s loud voice drew Gaspar Gritton out of his
room. “Who is here? is anything the matter?” he cried.
“It cant be expected that I should turn my house into an hospital, and
frighten away customers and—” Mrs. Taylor would have pursued her remarks
had she had any listener, but Isa, anxious and troubled in countenance,
had drawn her brother into the study.
“Gaspar, Cora is at the ‘Black Bear,’ ill with small-pox. The landlady is
going to send her away at once to find a shelter where she may. Oh, were
the complaint anything but small-pox, it would seem but common charity to
offer her a refuge here!”
“And lay her under obligation; ay, ay, I see—lay her under deepest
obligation—I see, I see; the best thing that could possibly be done!”
cried Gaspar.
Isa was startled at her brother’s eagerness; her words had been the
intuitive expression of the feelings of a generous spirit, but she had
not seriously contemplated bringing a small-pox patient into her home.
Gaspar saw his sister’s cheek turn pale, and became aware that the step
proposed must be attended not only with great personal inconvenience, but
serious hazard to his young and beautiful sister. Unlike her brother,
Isa had never yet had the malady, and regarded it with considerable
dread. It was not only the peril to life, and the minor risk of permanent
disfigurement, which made Isa shrink from exposing herself to infection,
but the quarantine to which she must be subjected while nursing a patient
in small-pox would be, especially at this time, a very serious trial. It
would be like a sudden calling back of winter when the blossoms of spring
were opening to sweetest fragrance and brightest beauty. Even the dull
comfortless days at Wildwaste had been gemmed with some moments of such
exquisite happiness as had almost served to brighten the whole; and now
must the door be closed against even Edith and Henry Eardley, because it
had been opened to receive Cora Madden? Gaspar read strong repugnance to
the sacrifice in the expressive countenance of his sister.
“No, no,” he said; “you might take the infection. Miss Madden must try
her chance somewhere else.”
“Let me consider for a few moments, Gaspar. Detain the woman, I must ask
counsel ere I decide;” and Isa hurriedly sought her own room, to sink
on her knees and implore guidance and light on the tangled path opening
before her.
There were a few words which Isa had heard from the lips of the vicar of
Axe, which she had laid up in her heart for a time of perplexity like
this:—“When you are in doubt as to what course to pursue, when reason
appears to be lost in a mist, and you cannot clearly discern the narrow
path of duty, ask conscience two simple questions,—‘Were my Lord in
visible presence here, what would He bid me do? what may I venture to
believe that He would have done in my place?’ Such questions, honestly
put, and in a spirit of prayer, will draw forth such a reply as will
clear off the mist, and be as the voice saying, _This is the way, walk ye
in it, when ye turn to the right hand or to the left._”
Isa obeyed the direction now; bending her head over her clasped hands,
with the prayer, “Oh, guide me, Lord, by Thy counsel!” she asked
conscience the two simple questions. Familiar words of Scripture recurred
to her mind,—_Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye
also so unto them_. What would she desire if, like Cora, she were
ill, desolate, and alone, driven from the shelter even of a miserable
wayside inn, and sent to seek from house to house a place in which to
lay—perchance a dying head? And what would have been the conduct of the
Merciful One towards such a sufferer, however erring, however guilty?
Would He have paused to consider whether she were a foe or a friend?
_Christ pleased not Himself_, and He _hath left an example that we should
follow His steps_.
Isa rose from her knees, and calling the servant, whom she heard
spreading the breakfast in the adjoining apartment, she at once gave
orders for preparing for the reception of a lady ill of small-pox. Isa
would give up her own sleeping-room to Cora, and have Lottie’s little
pallet-bed placed in the boudoir for herself. Leaving Hannah wondering
and grumbling, Isa returned to her brother and informed him of her
decision. Gaspar, glad that it was such as might further his own selfish
interests, sent off Mrs. Taylor to make arrangements for Cora’s removal
to Wildwaste Lodge.
Isa had won another silent victory over the Midianites within, over
Selfishness, Vanity, and Fear. One sacrifice had given her strength for
another. Under the influence of that faith which worketh by love, Isa
made every preparation for the comfort of Cora that she could have made
for that of a cherished sister, giving her own efforts to make up for the
shortness of time and the incapacity or unwillingness of her servant.
Not more than half an hour elapsed before a chaise drove up to the door,
where Isa Gritton stood ready to welcome Cora Madden. The driver feared
to help out the invalid, who—swathed in blankets, a miserable, disfigured
object—would have been forced to descend without aid, and drag her
tottering limbs into the house, had not Isa’s hands been stretched out
to support—had not Isa’s slight arm been thrown gently around her. Cora
crossed the threshold, and feebly walked up the staircase, resting upon
the woman whose peace she for a time had blighted, whose prospects she
had done her utmost to destroy! Self-denying kindness may be shown to a
friend from natural affection—to a stranger from intuitive pity; but when
shown to a bitter enemy, it is one of the strongest proofs that the love
of Christ which constraineth hath been shed abroad in the heart.
“You are indeed a good Samaritan; God will bless you for it!” murmured
Cora, as she sank upon her comfortable bed, while Isa gently beat up the
pillow to support the aching head of her guest. Never had a blessing from
any other lips gone so warm to the heart of Isa; it was a blessing wrung,
as it were, from an enemy; it was as the encouraging word heard by Gideon
on the night when he stood in the camp of the foe.
[Illustration: THE ARRIVAL OF MISS MADDEN]
Gaspar had sent from the hamlet a messenger for a doctor. He came
before noon, and pronounced that Miss Madden had not been injured by her
removal, and that with care she was likely to do well. He prescribed
absolute quietness, and forbade her speaking much on any subject,
especially such as might excite her. But it was easier for the doctor
to give the order than it was for Isa to enforce it. Her patient little
merited the name. Cora was eager to speak on business; and Isa could
scarcely soothe her into silence by entreating that she would wait a few
days, and that then she might have an interview with Mr. Gritton himself.
Gaspar had made the unusual effort of walking over to the steward’s
cottage, to speak to Mr. Holdich about a nurse to assist his sister.
Rebekah at once volunteered to go herself, if her husband’s consent were
obtained, and to Isa’s great relief appeared at the Lodge just as the
doctor quitted it. Not only were her experience and willing help a great
comfort to the young lady, but the presence of a gentle, pious woman,
sympathizing and kind, was a real pleasure to Isa. Much cheerful converse
they had together in the boudoir, with the door open between it and the
room in which Cora lay sleeping. Rebekah had many a pleasant anecdote to
relate to an attentive hearer, of Edith and of one dearer than Edith.
Never had Isa listened to tale of romance with half the interest with
which she did now to the account of the difficulties which had to be
overcome, and the efforts to be made by the vicar of Axe, to introduce
a knowledge of vital religion into that remote and benighted part of his
parish which surrounded Castle Lestrange.
The tidings of Cora’s illness and its nature was not long in reaching the
little country town of Axe. Mrs. Green stood at the door of her shop on
the Monday morning, exchanging gossip with her neighbour the baker.
“If ever there was a parson like ours!” she observed. “Always at work,
Sundays and week-days; and as anxious about his folk as if they were all
his children. He was here again, not an hour ago, to look after that
little thief upstairs; but I chanced to say to him, ‘I s’pose you’ve
heard, sir, as Miss Madden’s lying sick of small-pox at Wildwaste Lodge?’
and he looked as if he’d heard sudden of the death of his father, and
repeated, ‘Small-pox—Wildwaste Lodge!’ as if the words was a knell.”
“I dare say Mr. Eardley’s sorry for the poor lady; she was his
parishioner some years ago when the Maddens lived at the Castle.”
“He must have taken an uncommon interest in her,” said Mrs. Green with
a smile, “for he forgot all about what he’d come for, and was off for
the Lodge like a shot. He’s not one to be afeard of infection; he sat up
all night with poor Bramley, when he was a-dying of the fever. Maybe he
thinks that if Miss Madden’s in a bad way, she might like to have a word
with a parson.”
“She was one of the worldly and gay,” observed the baker, shaking his
head. “I don’t believe that she and Mr. Eardley had ever much to say to
one another; but she’s the sister of his friend Mr. Arthur, and the vicar
may care for her for his sake.”
Had the duty of spiritual visitation been all that had led Henry Eardley
to bend his rapid steps towards Wildwaste, he must have returned to Axe
disappointed. Cora had passed a favourable night, and suffered little but
from the extreme irritation caused by her malady. When Isa softly glided
to her side, and whispered that the clergyman had called to inquire for
her, and to know whether she had any wish to see him, Cora replied with a
characteristic sneer, “I’m not dying; and if I were, I would send for the
undertaker as soon as the parson.”
And yet it was with no feeling of disappointment that Henry Eardley went
on his homeward way. He turned from the dull, unsightly brick building
on the common, as one loath to leave the earthly paradise in which has
been passed a golden hour of life. His interview with Isa had indeed been
but brief, but it was one which left memories behind which would remain
fragrant in his soul to the close of his mortal existence.
“Priceless jewel enclosed in yon dull casket!” said Henry Eardley to
himself, turning to give a parting glance at Isa’s home. “May Heaven
watch over that precious one’s life, and shield her from the danger to
which her noble, unselfish devotion has exposed her.”
That prayer welled up from the depths of the vicar’s soul. It was for one
of whom he for the first time dared to let himself think as possibly the
future partner of all his joys and his sorrows, his guardian angel, his
treasure. Henry Eardley had been fascinated by Isa when meeting her at
the Castle; but a painful misgiving had rested on his mind as to whether
she, the bright ornament of society, flattered and admired, were suited
for, or could ever endure the life of lowly active usefulness which
that of a vicar’s wife should be. From the time when he had first given
himself to the ministry, Mr. Eardley had made a firm resolve, that should
he ever ask a woman in marriage, she should be one who would be his
helper, and not his hinderer, in doing his Master’s work. A pastor and
his wife should be as the two hands of a watch—the one moving in a larger
circle and with more visible activity than the other, but both fixed on
the same centre, both moved by the same spring, united in the same work,
and pointing to the same truth. With this conviction on his mind, Henry
Eardley had almost resolved to shun the society of the baronet’s niece
as a dangerous pleasure; such a bird of paradise, he thought, would
never brook the lowly perch, the secluded nest. But when he saw Isa pale
from watching by the sick-bed of a comparative stranger, for whom the
beauteous had risked the loss of beauty, and the youthful that of life,
all such misgivings passed for ever away. Henry Eardley felt that if he
dare but aspire to the hand of Isa Gritton, even were the malady which
she had braved to rob her of all her loveliness, he would be of all men
on earth the most blessed. That which the maiden had feared would divide
her from him whose regard she most valued, was but as a golden link to
bind them together for ever.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]