Twelve days later.
Mother and child were lingering in the grip of the hideous disease.
Of hope for either there was little. The aged sisters looked white
and worn, but they would not give up their posts. Their hearts
were breaking, poor old things, but their grit was steadfast and
indestructible. All the twelve days the mother had pined for the child,
and the child for the mother, but both knew that the prayer of these
longings could not be granted. When the mother was told--on the first
day--that her disease was typhoid, she was frightened, and asked if
there was danger that Helen could have contracted it the day before,
when she was in the sick-chamber on that confession visit. Hester told
her the doctor had poo-pooed the idea. It troubled Hester to say it,
although it was true, for she had not believed the doctor; but when
she saw the mother's joy in the news, the pain in her conscience
lost something of its force--a result which made her ashamed of the
constructive deception which she had practiced, though not ashamed
enough to make her distinctly and definitely wish she had refrained from
it. From that moment the sick woman understood that her daughter must
remain away, and she said she would reconcile herself to the separation
the best she could, for she would rather suffer death than have her
child's health imperiled. That afternoon Helen had to take to her bed,
ill. She grew worse during the night. In the morning her mother asked
after her:
“Is she well?”
Hester turned cold; she opened her lips, but the words refused to come.
The mother lay languidly looking, musing, waiting; suddenly she turned
white and gasped out:
“Oh, my God! what is it? is she sick?”
Then the poor aunt's tortured heart rose in rebellion, and words came:
“No--be comforted; she is well.”
The sick woman put all her happy heart in her gratitude:
“Thank God for those dear words! Kiss me. How I worship you for saying
them!”
Hester told this incident to Hannah, who received it with a rebuking
look, and said, coldly:
“Sister, it was a lie.”
Hester's lips trembled piteously; she choked down a sob, and said:
“Oh, Hannah, it was a sin, but I could not help it. I could not endure
the fright and the misery that were in her face.”
“No matter. It was a lie. God will hold you to account for it.”
“Oh, I know it, I know it,” cried Hester, wringing her hands, “but even
if it were now, I could not help it. I know I should do it again.”
“Then take my place with Helen in the morning. I will make the report
myself.”
Hester clung to her sister, begging and imploring.
“Don't, Hannah, oh, don't--you will kill her.”
“I will at least speak the truth.”
In the morning she had a cruel report to bear to the mother, and she
braced herself for the trial. When she returned from her mission, Hester
was waiting, pale and trembling, in the hall. She whispered:
“Oh, how did she take it--that poor, desolate mother?”
Hannah's eyes were swimming in tears. She said:
“God forgive me, I told her the child was well!”
Hester gathered her to her heart, with a grateful “God bless you,
Hannah!” and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping
praises.
After that, the two knew the limit of their strength, and accepted their
fate. They surrendered humbly, and abandoned themselves to the hard
requirements of the situation. Daily they told the morning lie, and
confessed their sin in prayer; not asking forgiveness, as not being
worthy of it, but only wishing to make record that they realized their
wickedness and were not desiring to hide it or excuse it.
Daily, as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower, the
sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young beauty
to the wan mother, and winced under the stabs her ecstasies of joy and
gratitude gave them.
In the first days, while the child had strength to hold a pencil, she
wrote fond little love-notes to her mother, in which she concealed her
illness; and these the mother read and reread through happy eyes wet
with thankful tears, and kissed them over and over again, and treasured
them as precious things under her pillow.
Then came a day when the strength was gone from the hand, and the mind
wandered, and the tongue babbled pathetic incoherences. This was a sore
dilemma for the poor aunts. There were no love-notes for the mother.
They did not know what to do. Hester began a carefully studied and
plausible explanation, but lost the track of it and grew confused;
suspicion began to show in the mother's face, then alarm. Hester saw it,
recognized the imminence of the danger, and descended to the emergency,
pulling herself resolutely together and plucking victory from the open
jaws of defeat. In a placid and convincing voice she said:
“I thought it might distress you to know it, but Helen spent the night
at the Sloanes'. There was a little party there, and, although she did
not want to go, and you so sick, we persuaded her, she being young
and needing the innocent pastimes of youth, and we believing you would
approve. Be sure she will write the moment she comes.”
“How good you are, and how dear and thoughtful for us both! Approve?
Why, I thank you with all my heart. My poor little exile! Tell her I
want her to have every pleasure she can--I would not rob her of one.
Only let her keep her health, that is all I ask. Don't let that
suffer; I could not bear it. How thankful I am that she escaped this
infection--and what a narrow risk she ran, Aunt Hester! Think of that
lovely face all dulled and burned with fever. I can't bear the thought
of it. Keep her health. Keep her bloom! I can see her now, the dainty
creature--with the big, blue, earnest eyes; and sweet, oh, so sweet and
gentle and winning! Is she as beautiful as ever, dear Aunt Hester?”
“Oh, more beautiful and bright and charming than ever she was before,
if such a thing can be”--and Hester turned away and fumbled with the
medicine-bottles, to hide her shame and grief.