STELLA'S LONDON HOME
IN a handsomely furnished bedroom in a large house in a London
square, her face pressed disconsolately against the window-pane,
stood a little girl of about ten years old. It was nearly four
o'clock, and the October day that had dawned with brilliant sunshine
had clouded in, and the rain fell heavily, drenching the few
pedestrians whose business obliged them to face the stormy elements.
The child was a pretty little creature, beautifully formed, with
dainty hands and feet, and a pale oval face, out of which two soft
brown eyes shone like stars. She was dressed in a showy, fantastic
style, her scarlet skirt just reaching to her knees, a scarlet ribbon
confining her rich dark hair, and scarlet shoes with high heels
ornamented with large paste buckles encased her little feet.
Half-a-dozen silver bangles jingled on each slender wrist, and the
delicate laces at her throat were fastened by a brooch far too
valuable for a child to wear. Presently she began to sing softly
to herself, till a sudden memory crossing her mind she paused, and
sighed: "Oh, how dull it is, to be sure! I wish mother would make
haste and get well; she's been ill so long. I cannot think why she
doesn't get better."
At that moment a hansom cab appeared in sight and drew up in front
of the house. A tall gentleman alighted, and, having paid the driver,
entered the house. The child sighed again. "Another doctor,
I suppose!"
Then, nothing more of interest to be seen, she left the window, and
going to a chest-of-drawers began turning over the contents with
evident enjoyment. She took out frock after frock, some of silk,
others woollen, and surveyed them one by one with critical eyes.
She smoothed ribbons, she pulled out laces, she folded and refolded;
and then seated on the floor drew a glove-case towards her and began
trying on her stock of gloves. It was wonderful the interest the
child took in her fine clothes; it was evident she was accustomed
to give them much consideration.
Whilst she was thus employed the door was softly opened and a
hospital nurse peeped in; then without a word shut the door again
and went downstairs. She was a gentle-faced woman, known as "Sister
Ellen" in the sick-room. Her kind face was thoughtful and sad as she
turned into the house-keeper's room. Mrs. Mudford, the house-keeper,
was seated by the fire. She rose as the nurse entered and drew an
easy-chair forward.
"There, my dear," she said kindly, "rest yourself a bit; you must be
nearly fit to drop. We'll have a cup of tea together, and that will
refresh you, will it not?"
"Oh, yes! I should like that better than anything. Mrs. Knight is a
trifle easier now, and her brother-in-law is with her. I have left
them alone by her desire; she has something of importance to say
to him."
"What does he think of her? He is a doctor, is he not?"
"Yes. He says the same as the others. She will not be alive
in twenty-four hours. Poor woman!"
The house-keeper busied herself with the tea-things, and whilst the
nurse sipped the refreshing beverage they discussed the patient in
low tones.
All her life Mrs. Knight had lived for herself alone. Neither husband
nor child had been so dear to her as herself. She was one of those
whose portion, as the psalmist says, was in this life, and it could
not be expected that she would be much regretted by her
acquaintances, much less by her servants, whom she had never
considered in the least. Sister Ellen, who had nursed all sorts
and conditions of sick people, acknowledged to herself that she
had never had to do with one so utterly selfish as the woman who
lay dying upstairs.
[Illustration: SHE BEGAN TURNING OVER THE CONTENTS WITH EVIDENT
ENJOYMENT.]
"I liked Dr. Knight's face," Mrs. Mudford remarked; "he is like the
photographs I've seen of his brother."
"Is he? Yes, I like his face too. I wonder if he will be the child's
guardian."
"Very likely. Why, Miss Stella will be an heiress, for her mother
is very rich, as every one knows."
"Indeed. Poor little girl!"
"Not many would pity her for being an heiress, nurse!"
"I suppose not; but I was thinking of the responsibilities wealth
brings. I went up to see the little one, but she was quite happy
turning over her finery, and was much too engrossed to notice me.
I thought it a pity to disturb her, so I slipped away without
a word."
Mrs. Mudford threw up her hands with a gesture expressive of
disapproval, exclaiming: "And her mother on her death-bed! The idea
of being taken up with all that frippery now! She hasn't a scrap
of natural affection, the heartless little thing! Well, well,
I suppose it's not to be wondered at! She's her mother's own child!"
Sister Ellen sighed.
"I think it is one of the saddest cases I have ever nursed,"
she said.
At that moment there was a call for the nurse, and putting down her
empty cup she hastily left the room and ran upstairs.
Meanwhile little Stella Knight, having looked over the contents
of the chest-of-drawers, returned to her old post by the window. She
had not been peering out long into the gathering darkness when the
house-keeper entered and seized her by the hand.
"Your mother wants you, Miss Stella," she said. Her manner was
somewhat flurried, and the child gazed at her in surprise.
"Mother wants me!" in amazed accents. "Wants me!"
"Yes, my dear. Come!"
"Had I not better brush my hair first? Mother will be angry if I do
not look nice."
"No! no! Come at once! She will not notice! She is too ill!"
Impressed by the woman's manner, Stella followed her obediently,
and in another moment entered her mother's room.
The autumn day was waning now. There was no light in the apartment
save from the flames in the grate that flickered fitfully.
Mrs. Knight lay breathing quietly, her eyes closed. Her
brother-in-law stood on one side of the bed, whilst Sister Ellen,
who was at the foot went forward and taking Stella by the hand
led her to her mother's side.
The doctor was conscious of a brilliant little figure in scarlet,
and a pair of very bright eyes that met his curiously.
"How are you, mother?" asked a gentle, sedate voice. "I hope you are
better."
Stella was looking at her mother now—at the poor pinched face, void
of all paint and powder, so different from the brilliant countenance
that was familiar to her. The dying woman opened her eyes and looked
at her child. She had never been an affectionate mother, but she had
always been proud of her little girl's beauty. Now a new feeling
arose in her heart for the first time.
"Stella," she whispered, "you must be a good girl when I am gone, and
do everything your uncle tells you. He loved your father, and he will
love you."
She turned her dim eyes to her brother-in-law, and he answered
the look.
"She shall be as one of my own children. God helping me, I will take
good care of her."
A look of satisfaction crossed the dying face, almost a look of
content.
"Kiss me, my dear," she said to Stella, "and then go, for I am very
tired."
Stella bent over her mother and their lips met; then the child
obediently stole away.
"How she has altered!" she exclaimed to Mrs. Mudford, who was waiting
for her outside. "Do you think she is very, very ill?"
"Yes, my dear, I do."
"Who is the strange doctor, Mrs. Mudford? I liked the look of him."
"He is your uncle, Miss Stella."
"My uncle! Oh!"
The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and at eight o'clock
as usual Stella went to bed. She lay awake thinking of her mother,
wondering if she would get better, and remembering how she had told
her she must be a good girl and obey her uncle.
"I believe she must be going to die," thought Stella, a feeling
of awe creeping over her, and she was quite relieved when she heard
footsteps pause outside her bedroom door.
"Who is there?" she called.
It was Sarah, the plain-faced girl of eighteen who did the sewing
for the family. She came into the room bearing a lighted candle
in her hand.
Stella jumped up in bed and cried, "Oh, Sarah, do stay with me for
a little while, do! I feel so lonely and frightened."
"Poor little dear!" said the kind-hearted maid, as she set the candle
on the dressing-table and sat down on the edge of the bed. "But don't
be lonely, Miss Stella, you mustn't be ever that, you know."
"Oh, Sarah! how can I help it? I know what you're going to say—that
the Lord Jesus is here; but it's so difficult, so very difficult
to believe!"
"It's true, nevertheless, darling, whether you believe it or no!"
"Yes, yes, I suppose so. Do you know that mother is very ill?"
"Yes, Miss Stella."
"Do you think she is going to die?"
Sarah hesitated. Her plain honest face was red, her eyelids were
swollen with weeping. The child repeated her question.
"I think Jesus is going to take her home," Sarah answered simply.
"Home! To heaven, do you mean? But I don't believe mother loves
Jesus!"
"Oh, my dear, perhaps the dear Lord's teaching her now; it's never
too late with Him, Miss Stella. His love is from everlasting to
everlasting. I begged leave to see her just now, and she looks—oh!
I can't explain—but she looks as though she was at peace.
Dr. Knight's with her still, and so is Sister Ellen. There, there,
darling, don't cry!" for Stella was weeping quietly. "When my mother
died I felt it dreadfully, so, my dear, I know what you feel!"
"Did you love your mother very much?" Stella asked.
"Better than any one in the world. She was very poor, and she slaved
from morning to night to bring us up properly. Father—well, he drank,
and she had everything on her shoulders, poor dear!"
"But, Sarah, supposing your mother hadn't been always kind to you—
supposing she had not cared for you much?" Then, as the maid was
silent, "I think in some ways it must be nicer to be poor. When
people are rich I don't think they have time to love each other!"
"Oh, Miss Stella, that's a mistake! Rich or poor it's the same if
one's heart is in the right place. Now, go to sleep like a good girl,
and I'll sit with you for a while."
Stella closed her eyes obediently, and was soon fast asleep. Sarah,
who loved her dearly, watched by her for some time, and then, feeling
assured that her slumber was deep and untroubled, softly left the
room.
When the morning dawned the blinds of the house were closely drawn,
the inmates moved with hushed footsteps and spoke in whispered
accents, for the mistress lay with the majesty of death upon her,
and Stella was motherless.