Mrs. Grey went home thoroughly interested in her new charge, and
tried to concoct some plan for keeping the two together in a sphere
better fitted to their evident refinement. She could think of nothing;
therefore she tried the next best thing, namely, to find a family
capable of appreciating their good fortune in obtaining such services.
In this quest she was successful. Mrs. Haydon and Margaret found a home
in a small, Christian family; they had a neat room to themselves, and
were treated not only with kindness, but consideration. Mrs. Haydon was
respectful, quiet, made a system of her work, found time to read, to
attend to Margaret's lessons, and the ladies of the family confided to
Mrs. Grey that they should feel as if heaven had come down to earth but
for the girl. They did not know what to make of her, and did not like
her. Mrs. Grey thought she did understand her; she had not forgotten
the anguish of the child when she fancied her mother dying, nor the
sudden act of self-control occasioned by her presence. She knew she
had heart and soul, and that innate desire rather to hide than to
display them, only found in a refined nature.
And now, as she sat meditating by her lonely fireside, she came to
the conclusion that if it could be managed, Margaret Haydon would be
her choice. Yet a score of difficulties arose at once. It would never
answer for the mother to be at service and the daughter living in ease
and luxury; in fact, they ought not to be separated in any way. So
thinking, she renounced Margaret, and looked about her for some other
young person, seeking, as a matter of course, and constantly, Divine
direction. Still, Margaret filled her thoughts to such a degree that
she was persuaded that, for some reason, hers was the lot to be cast
in with her own. A visit from Mrs. Haydon, and some mysterious hints
dropped by her, so far settled the question, that she resolved to
lay the case before her, and take counsel with her. It was some time
before they met again, but when they did so, she opened the subject as
delicately and kindly as she could. Mrs. Haydon listened to the whole
story in silence, and at its conclusion said, quietly:
"You will see, dear Madam, the hand of God in it all. You say that
on the 18th day of January you began to think of my Margaret, and of
offering her a home. On that day, after many a sleepless night, I asked
leave of my mistress to see a physician; she not only permitted it,
but sent for the family doctor. He told me I had six months to live,
and no more. Now, here was my poor child to be deprived of her mother,
not well-educated enough to teach, too well-educated to be happy among
a crowd of ill-bred servants, and I knew not what would become of her.
There was only one thing I could do, and that was to leave her with my
God. He knew I had no wicked ambition for her, though I did want her so
bred, that if her father's family ever fell in with her, they need have
no occasion to be ashamed of her. And then I knew that if her natural
tastes could be at all gratified, it would keep her from a fondness for
dress, and visiting and idling, and other follies to which young women
are prone. Now, all my prayers for her are answered. Before you knew of
her coming need, your heart was made to yearn over her; and now I can
die in perfect peace, for you will be a mother to my child, and teach
her all I could have taught her, and far, far more."
"And where do you propose to die?" asked Mrs. Grey.
Two remarkable women had got together, and were talking in this quiet,
passionless way of so solemn an event as death. How was this? It arose
from the fact that commotion, and hue and cry, and clamor belong only
to undisciplined characters. Who ever heard of the General of an army
becoming panic-stricken and demoralized? He leaves that to the common
soldier.
Both Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Haydon had passed through too many and too deep
waters to regard death as anything more than a little rill, over which
one passed at a single footstep.
"I shall have to go to a hospital," said Mrs. Haydon.
"And have Margaret nurse you?"
"That is not allowed. And if it is not asking too much, since you so
kindly propose to care for my child, might she come to you directly?"
"While you go off, alone, to die in a hospital? No; oh, no. Were you to
go at once?"
"Yes, at once. I have toiled on till I can toil no more."
"Is it possible that you are so ill, yet show it so little?"
"It's the quiet mind, the doctor says, that keeps me up. He said that
if I had worried, it would have hastened my death. Thank God, I have
learned to cast all my care on Him, and He has cared for me."
There was silence for some minutes. What might be mistaken for dogged
submission, Mrs. Grey recognized as the kind of faith that travels
across and moves mountains. She was decisive in all her ways always
knew her own mind, and now came to a very rapid conclusion.
"Does Margaret know?"
"No, Madam. Would you be willing to break it to her?"
"Yes; and I will see that your last days are made as comfortable as
possible. Leave everything to me. On the day you are to leave your
employer's, send Margaret to me. I will tell her what is before her.
Poor child! her distress will be dreadful."
"Would it be right for us to have no farewell?"
"No, no, indeed, you shall have a farewell. Leave everything to me."
Mrs. Haydon took leave, and Mrs. Grey rang; her factotum immediately
appeared.
"Mary, we are going to have some visitors; that is, I want _the_
room prepared for a sick person and a young lady. And Mary--their
appearance, when they arrive, is to be a matter between you and me;
no one else is to know what sort of clothes they wear. When asked
questions in the kitchen, just say they are friends of mine."
Mary, discretion itself, withdrew, and in a few days Margaret
unsuspectingly made her appearance. Mrs. Grey had a most trying task
before her, and expected some such burst of anguish as that of four
years ago. But Margaret had passed through much discipline during those
four years. To see her mother a kitchen housemaid; to feel herself
the yoke of servitude, had been hard, very hard. She did not shed a
tear when the truth was told her, and only said, setting her teeth
together, "I always have said that if the Lord loved my mother half as
well as she loved Him, He'd take her out of a kitchen and find a more
suitable place for her."
"He loves her, as He does all His children, so much more than any of us
love Him, that we have no arithmetical terms with which to describe it.
And if a manger and a carpenter's shop were suitable places for Him,
what spot is too humble for us?"
"_You_ would not like to lie in a manger, or work in a carpenter's
shop, or drudge in a kitchen."
"No, dear, I do not pretend that I should; but I hope I should act,
under the same circumstances, as your mother has done. I think she did
the best she could for you. And now she has toiled in an uncongenial
sphere long enough, and her Master has by His providence told her so."
"But what will become of her? Sick people need homes. We have laid by
some money, but you know mother's wages were very small because she had
an incumbrance. Yes, that's all I am in this world, an _incumbrance_!"
"It will not be so in the next world. But here is the question, as to
where your mother is to spend her last months. She has decided to go to
a hospital."
"Poor mother! But I will not let them neglect her. I will take care of
her day and night."
"My dear, you will not be allowed to do that. An occasional visit is
all that is permitted."
"An occasional visit to my sick mother!" cried Margaret; "I should
like to see them undertake to separate us! I would tear them to pieces
first!"
Mrs. Grey remained silent, and Margaret ran furiously on till the
silence struck and checked her.
"We will get your mother safely into a hospital, or what is as good as
a hospital, without tearing anyone to pieces. A room is all ready for
her, and there you shall take care of her."
"Oh, Mrs. Grey, it is impossible. We haven't nearly enough to justify
our taking a room."
"How would this plan suit you, then? Suppose your mother enters a
hospital where I know she will be kindly treated, and I give you a home
with me? You would be here exactly as if you were my own child, could
be well educated, and surrounded by all the refinements of life. Look
around you. This beautiful room, with its luxuries, would be yours; you
would have books, pictures, everything you wanted."
Margaret looked as she was bidden, and at one glance took in all the
charms of the spot. Then rising scornfully to her feet, she burst into
tears, jerking out the words in jets of indignation:
"That I should live to be bribed to forsake my dying mother! Now I _am_
degraded!"
Mrs. Grey's experiment was a success. For that it was only an
experiment the sagacious reader has at once divined.
"Ah! I knew I was not mistaken in you!" she cried; "I knew you would
prove as true as steel!"
She rose and caught both the hands of the excited girl in her own, then
said in tones that elicited instant obedience:
"Follow me."
They entered now a large, airy room, which contained two dainty, white
beds; an open wood-fire burned on the hearth, near which a cat sat,
purring.
"Here is your mother's hospital," said Mrs. Grey, "and you are matron,
doctor, nurse, daughter, everything she can need. On these shelves,"
she added, opening a door, "are the hospital supplies; with this
spirit-lamp you can make tea, warm liquids, and do a score of things.
Here is a shade from the gas at night; this is a tray for food, when
your patient takes to bed; this little nursery refrigerator will keep
you supplied with ice day and night, and preserve milk and the like
twelve hours and more. This candle will be of service when you have to
move about at night, and these dressing-gowns can be washed at your
pleasure. You see I am an old soldier in this sort of battle-field, and
keep my armor always at hand."
All this, spoken in a cheerful, business-like manner, gave Margaret
time to recover herself; without a word of thanks on the one hand, or
of demur on the other, she accepted the situation, took off her outer
garments and hung them up, and turning to Mrs. Grey, asked, as if all
that was befalling her was an every-day occurrence:
"When is my mother coming?"
"I am going for her now. She thinks she is merely to call here to bid
you farewell, and then go and languish her life away among strangers."
And then, as Margaret was going to speak, she said:
"I wouldn't talk about it just now, if I were you." So saying, she
drove off in her carriage, and in a few hours mother and daughter were
alone together in the sweet, fresh room which was now their home. They
sat down before the fire, and looked in each other's face as they only
look who know that death may part, but never separate them.
"Do you know where you are, mother?" Margaret asked at length.
"Yes," was the surprised answer, "I am in Mrs. Grey's house, on my way
to the hospital."
"No, you are _in_ the hospital now, on the way to heaven!"
Then they laughed and cried, and said it was a dream. So they sat, hand
in hand, in the long twilight; then Margaret made tea, and cut bread
and toasted it, and from the adjoining store-room brought out such
delicacies as invalids sometimes will fancy when better food grows
insipid, and then helped her mother into one of the soft beds, shaded
the gas, and sat thinking, thinking, thinking, till the soft breathing
of the sleeper admonished her that she, too, ought to be asleep.
It was not till late next morning that Mrs. Grey came to inquire after
her guests, and when she did so, she was in such brilliant spirits,
and acted so exactly as if this were a real hospital, miles away, that
there was no use in trying to prove that it was not. They had never
seen her otherwise than very much in earnest; now she came out in a new
character. She told stories; she read amusing extracts from a book she
had with her; said she believed she would take lunch with them in case
Margaret could stew some oysters on that wonderful little lamp, and
made them feel so thoroughly at home that Margaret became quite gay,
ran around laying the table in a way that would have put brisk Mary to
the blush, and soon had a cosy little lunch prepared, which they all
enjoyed.
"If such times could only last!" Margaret thought. "But good times
never do." And then she asked leave to exhibit Maud's rooms to her
mother, and not an object of beauty escaped their notice, while Mrs.
Grey enjoyed their appreciation of her darling's taste.
So time slipped by; Mrs. Grey invariably keeping up Mrs. Haydon's
and Margaret's spirits; making the best of everything; suggesting
employments for hours when the invalid was free from pain; change of
food; change of position; change of furniture; change of pictures when
the eye wearied of them, and never out of patience or out of heart.
At times the two women fell into sweet and grave talk that Margaret,
sitting silently at her work, could not understand. Their _doctrines_
puzzled her beyond measure. She said to herself now and again:
"_I_ don't think so! _I_ don't believe that!" And then would try
to reconcile their happy, cheerful lives, their patience, their
submission, with her own theories, failed to do it, but carped and
caviled within herself, and watched for flaws in them as cats watch for
mice, all ready to spring out upon them and rout or devour them.
"It's so queer," she thought, "to hear two people, who have been born
and brought up in different countries and in entirely different ways,
talk together as if they'd always belonged to one family. They're just
like Freemasons--they know each other by the touch. I can't understand
it. And now mother has got me off her hands, I verily believe she
thinks it the nicest thing in the world to die. But I don't believe
she's going to die. People that are going to die are solemn, and
mother isn't in the least solemn. She is just exactly what she was
before that horrid doctor said she could only live six months. Now I
know that, what with freedom from over-work, and nice, tempting food,
and living with such a dear, good, funny, quaint old lady, she'll see
too well what is good for her, to die. To die! Ugh! I hope _I_ shall
live a hundred years! It will take fully that to make up for the time
I've lost."
It is easy to believe what one wants to believe, and Margaret found
it agreeable to delude herself into the fondest hopes. Her love for
her mother, though rarely exhibited, was her ruling passion; it was
the only master to whom she would ever submit, yet more than once she
became its slave.
Mrs. Haydon's disease, however, was making progress, as she knew
perfectly well; and from time to time she tried to give Margaret the
parting counsels a Christian mother would naturally wish to give. But
Margaret never would allow any allusion to be made to an event she was
resolved should not take place, and so the precious time passed on.
Mrs. Haydon conferred with Mrs. Grey on the subject, who advised her to
put in writing some of the things she longed to say. But the poor woman
did not hold the pen of a ready writer, and was, besides, in constant
pain; so day after day passed and nothing was done. Then came a sudden
change for the worse, and after that a gradual loss of strength, till
at last, to her perfect horror, Margaret had to admit that the case was
hopeless. The first warm days of June proved exhaustive of what little
vitality was left in the worn frame, and the end came rapidly. Mrs.
Grey lived through hard times with the passionate girl, whose grief was
like a tempest that threatened to sweep her away. In vain she reminded
her of the ecstacy of joy in which her mother had entered into rest; in
vain spoke of the peaceable fruits of grievous sorrow; in vain took her
from place to place. The unsubdued will could not, would not rest.
At the close of the summer, on their return from many wanderings,
Margaret was installed in Maud's rooms, and Mrs. Grey introduced her
to her friends as her adopted daughter. They had lived under one
roof together nearly a year now, but though Margaret's faults were
obvious--she taking no pains to conceal them--Mrs. Grey had never
wavered in her attachment to and interest in her, and was sure that
the Divine hand had brought them together. As to Margaret, she loved
Mrs. Grey as she did the few she loved at all, intensely, and by
degrees began to regard her with somewhat of the enthusiasm she had
felt for her mother. Still she spent a great deal of time by herself,
reading the letters of her father and mother in the days of their
youthful love. She hardly remembered him, but these letters moved her
wonderfully; they were such as she should write if she were in love;
and for the first time in her life the thought came to her what it
would be to become the object of such devotion.
Theirs had been a real romance, and she had never read of one in any
book that touched her as these revelations did. There was not much
in her mother's handwriting that was original, but what there was,
was tender and girlish. One letter, written during the early part of
their marriage, and during a temporary separation, contained the only
allusion to herself, and she read it with mingled emotions:
"Nous chantons deux, je lui répète,
Nous chantons d'amour;
Deux dans notre nid d'alouette,
Trois peut-être un jour."
She was recalled from the past to the present by a tap at the door, and
reluctantly opening it about an inch, saw Mrs. Grey, who said, "I am
sorry to interrupt you, dear; but Mrs. Cameron and Agnes are here, and
Mrs. Cameron wants a little confidential talk with me, which would be
rather a bore to a young girl; so, if you will entertain her half an
hour or so, I shall be very much obliged to you."
"I am not looking fit to go down," said Margaret.
"So I see, poor child!" replied Mrs. Grey. "But Agnes would not mind
coming up; indeed she would like to do so, for she has spent many happy
hours here in dear little Maud's day."
Margaret rose and went, in a lifeless way, to bathe her tear-swollen
eyes, and in a few moments a bright, smiling girl made her appearance.
"Oh! this lovely room!" she cried. "How glad I am to see it once more.
You naughty child! why haven't you been to see me? Well, I never saw so
many pretty things together in any one room in my life. I am sure you
must be the happiest girl living. If you couldn't be happy in such a
room as this, you couldn't be happy anywhere!"
"Well, then, let me tell you that it takes more than a beautiful room
to make one happy. All this room is good for for me is to be wretched
in!"
"Now, Margaret, I did think you would get over moping when you settled
down here and found yourself openly adopted by Mrs. Grey. Why, my
mother says you ought to be overwhelmed with gratitude."
"I know I ought. But I never do what I ought!"
"Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Dear me! if I had such a
boudoir as this, and such a bedroom, and a bureau all to myself, I
should be as happy as the day is long. As it is, my sister Jane and I
have one room together. She takes the two upper bureau drawers, and
I have to put up with the two lower ones. Then she contrives to use
nearly all the nails in the closet, and nearly all the shelves; and she
is forever getting my towels, and mislaying her hair-brush and using
mine; besides, I dote on having things tidy and in order, and she keeps
all her things helter-skelter. Well, if you won't be happy, you won't;
so there it is! Good-bye. Come and see me, do."
"_Is_ it won't?" Margaret asked herself, as the door closed upon the
good-humored chatterbox. "If I thought it was--"
She had made the acquaintance of Agnes Cameron during the summer; a
shallow friendship had sprung up between them, which would never amount
to anything more; now a heedless word from a thoughtless girl had done
what all Mrs. Grey's wise counsels had failed to do.
Margaret went to the glass and looked at herself. She had no
vanity, and had never cared what people thought of her. She stood,
straightening up now, and studied her own face for the first time.
"What a will you have got, Margaret Haydon!" she said; "and what is the
use of it, if you sit crying and wailing like a child? _I am ashamed of
you!_"
She folded the letters she had been brooding over all the morning,
tied them together with a bit of white ribbon, and locked them up in
a drawer. Then she climbed upon a chair and threw the key as far and
as high as she could; it alighted behind a box, and there it lay for a
year, untouched. Then she walked down-stairs and into the library, and
gave Mrs. Grey a good, wholesome, sound kiss.
"Now, aunty," she said, "I hope you've had the worst of me."
Mrs. Grey looked up, and smiled. How many times she had prayed for this
day!