Mrs. Grey proceeded on her way, on a bitterly cold day, when so much
ice had formed in the harbor that crossing the ferry occupied hours
instead of minutes. Foreseeing that return before the morrow would be
impossible, she sent a dispatch home to that effect, and at last, weary
and benumbed, presented herself to the Grosgrains.
She found them too absorbed in tribulation to concern themselves about
her condition, and all talked together with briny tears, telling an
incoherent story, out of which she at last got at these facts:
A young man, to whom Miss Grosgrain had engaged herself on board the
steamer that brought them from England, had so won their confidence
that they were gradually led to put their entire business affairs
into his hands. He conducted them, for a time, so well that they
congratulated themselves that their fortune had ceased to be a care
to them. Recently he had received letters from his mother summoning
him to take possession of a large property, to which he had become
heir through his father's death, and had urged to have the marriage
celebrated at once, and that they should all accompany the happy pair
to Europe, there to live in almost regal splendor. Charmed with the
prospect, they sold their palatial residence, their horses, plate,
furniture, and prepared for a grand flight. But when all was in trim,
one little item disappeared--namely, the foreign lover--who forgot to
refund the sums in his hands, the result of the sale, and had also
contrived to possess himself of their whole fortune. Whither he had
disappeared they failed to learn; and here they were, huddled together
in a house no longer theirs, as miserable a group as one need to see.
Why had they sent for Mrs. Grey in particular? Well, with a vague hope
that she would help them in some way; she had the reputation of being
everybody's right hand. And she had come to help them, and listened
with real sympathy to their story.
"Have you done everything that can be done to arrest the fugitive?" she
asked.
"Yes; he has fled to some country where he will be safe, and live in
luxury while we starve here."
"You have your jewels left; they will carry you along till you have
time to bethink yourselves what to do next."
"Oh!" groaned Miss Grosgrain, "our jewels are gone too. Our
seamstress, Jane, whom we trusted as we did each other, disappeared at
the same time with--with that wretch, whose name I never will speak as
long as I live--and took almost all our valuables with her. No doubt
she was his accomplice, and has left the country with him."
"It will be necessary, then, to seek remunerative employment," Mrs.
Grey said, as cheerfully as she could; "now let me see what gifts you
have."
"Employment!" shrieked the girls. "What a disgrace!"
"Why call it disgrace, when thousands of women are engaged in it?
Refined and well-educated women, too."
"So I tell the girls," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "If we set still and do
nothing, we shall starve."
The quartette was too full of dismay to correct the maternal grammar,
and listened in gloomy silence.
"We never had to work for our living," pursued Mrs. Grosgrain, "but
the girls' marmer had to, and she was a master-hand at tailoring. And
they've all took after her. Mary can make as handsome a bonnet as any
milliner, and so can Flora; and the others can cut and fit beautifully."
"But there was a deal of money spent on your education," said Mrs.
Grey, turning to the young ladies; "could you not open a school?"
She knew they could not, but thought it best to make them face the
situation for themselves.
"They never took to their books," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "And they never
thought to come to this. But they're all handy, like their marmer."
"Then the hands must come to the rescue," said Mrs. Grey, looking
brightly into the sad faces around her.
"What a disgrace!" cried Miss Grosgrain. "We who were born to so much
better things!"
"I think we were all born to the lot in which we find ourselves," said
Mrs. Grey, kindly. "Poverty is no disgrace, nor is work; I would rather
see one of my daughters employed as a housemaid, than living a life of
ease and luxury and pleasure. In the one case I should hope to see her
forming a useful character; in the other I should expect to see her a
mere cumberer of the ground. Now, you have asked me to advise you, and
I will try to do it. Have you any friends who will aid you until you
begin to support yourselves?"
They shook their heads mournfully. Their money had plenty of friends;
personally, they had none.
"We have to leave this house in a week," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "The
party that owns it is going to pull it all to pieces."
"I would as lief die, as to work for my living!" cried Miss Grosgrain.
"Providence has not given you the choice," said Mrs. Grey, gravely.
"And all that looks so distressing now, may, through Him, become a
benediction."
"I had a little money hid away," said Mrs. Grosgrain, brightening up.
"I always mistrusted that our luck wouldn't always last, and now and
then I hid gold pieces away. But my memory has failed of late years,
and I don't remember exactly where I put it. 'Twa'n't all in one place,
and when we sold out I forgot all about it. If we could stay in the
house long enough, I guess I could find some of it."
"To whom did you sell out?"
"To James J. Sheldon."
"Ah! He is a friend of mine. I can easily persuade him to allow you to
stay. He could do nothing to the house in this cold weather."
"Still, it isn't likely if we find the money that it will amount to
anything; and, for my part, I wish I was dead."
Hereupon ensued fresh bursts of tears all around.
"My dear," asked Mrs. Grey, seriously, "where should you be if you were
dead?"
"I could not be worse off than I am now," was the sullen answer.
"You must excuse the way she talks," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "She never
had no trouble before, and it sets her ag'inst everything. I'm older,
and don't feel so bad. If it wasn't for seeing the girls so full of
trouble, I should say I hadn't felt so comfortable these twenty year."
Poor Mrs. Grosgrain, do you know the reason? You have been snubbed
more than "twenty year" by these four young women, and now they let
you alone, and you are jogging on in such English as you please; and
what a relief it is! Take an old hat, and the more you brush it, the
worse it looks. No amount of labor could make a real lady out of one
whose instincts were not refined. It was not going to be the hardship
to her to descend to what she sprang from, as to these girls who had
never been there with her. To make a long story short, however, Mrs.
Grey never rested till she had found employment for them all. At first
their pride fell flat, and they struggled against their fate in a way
that put all her energy to the test; but contact with her strong and
steadfast nature at last told upon them all. In the strictest sense
of the word, she rescued them from the ruin to which prosperity was
leading them; or, rather, she fell in with the Providential plan for
their rescue, and helped carry it out.
Now, why all this self-sacrifice and labor for five ill-bred,
ill-tempered women, with whom she had not five thoughts in common?
Well, she saw in them now what she always had seen--human beings to
be saved or to be lost; she had kept up an acquaintance with them for
years, on the mere chance of sometime finding an entrance to their
souls; and she found it "after many days."
Even most of her children did not understand this; they loved and
respected her too much to call her Quixotic, yet fancied such people
as the Grosgrains unworthy so much long patience, such journeys to and
fro, such letters, such lines upon line. But they could have found
ample explanation for all she did in the twenty-fifth chapter of
Matthew. The fact is, the Grosgrains err in their way; but we err in
ours when we draw our sanctified garments about us and pass by on the
other side. An eagle may have a more ruinous fall than a butterfly,
because he flies higher.
Meanwhile, there fell a shadow upon Greylock, and everybody in it.
Belle's devoted little lover, Margaret's little pearl, fell sick.
Only the mother observed the change in her at first, it was so nearly
imperceptible; but as time passed, all had to own that there was a
mysterious change, with no marked symptom of disease, except increasing
silence and lassitude. Everybody's virtue came to the front now. They
told her stories, they sang to her, her father and uncles walked the
floor with her by the hour together when a strange restlessness was
soothed by it. The elder children moved about the house on tiptoe;
the younger ones, not quite up to the situation, but impressed by it,
whispered to each other that they would play the "softest plays" they
knew. The physician, early called in, was puzzled and helpless. Yet all
were full of hope save Mrs. Grey and Belle. They did not tell each
other what they feared, yet each saw it in each other's eyes. As the
little creature became increasingly nervous and sensitive to noise, it
was obvious that the household must be reduced in numbers, and, very
reluctantly, most of them departed for their own homes.
Margaret's inexperience with children kept her long free from grave
anxiety. There were days when Mabel would brighten and become as
animated as ever; a new toy would give her pleasure, and she would take
it to bed with her. Such days encouraged her inordinately.
"How strange it is that the doctor does not give her a tonic, when he
sees how weak she is!" she kept saying. "Nothing ails her but want of
strength."
She and Belle divided the nursing between them, and the one was as
tender and devoted as the other, with this difference: Margaret was
full of hope, and Belle full of misgivings.
"_Where_ are you sick, my darling?" she asked, again and again, and the
plaintive, weary little voice invariably answered: "Nowhere; only _so_
tired, _so_ tired."
"Cyril, I can't bear this suspense any longer," Belle said, at last.
"As soon as I know what God wants of me, He shall have it, if it breaks
my heart. You must make the doctor tell what he thinks."
"He seems completely puzzled," was the reply. "But I will ask him; and
if it would be any relief to you, request a consultation."
"It would be a great relief. Cyril, Mabel is _very_ ill."
"My dear, you exaggerate the matter. I have seen any number of sicker
children, and known them to get well. I don't see, as Margaret says,
why no tonic is given her."
"You will find out, if the doctor is frank with you. If my fears are
well founded I know the reason."
"I did not know you had any definite fear."
"I have; and so has mamma, though she has not said so. We think there
is some insidious disease on the brain."
"The brain!" he repeated. "Oh, Belle, what would you do without your
devoted little worshipper?"
"What every one does who believes in Christ," said Belle, bursting into
tears.
"Yes; you would give her to Him without a word," he said, earnestly,
almost reverently; for while he loved his wife for her own sake and
for her love to himself, he loved her far more for her whole-souled
devotion to Christ.
He went out now to find the doctor and to propose a consultation.
The doctor caught at the suggestion eagerly.
"The case is an obscure one," he said. "The child's debility is very
great, but I find no explanation of it unless there is some insidious
disease upon the brain."
"So her mother thinks."
"Indeed? I am surprised at that. Yet I ought not to be surprised
either, after knowing her all her life. She has her mother's quick
intuitions. Well, I will arrange about the consultation, immediately."
"Could not I do that?"
"Why, yes, I will give you the address of the physician I call in for
children. You will find him at his office to-morrow morning, at ten."
Mr. Heath was thankful to go. Men are generally as out of place in
sick-rooms as steam engines; twenty times he had banged the door and
made Mabel cry out, and Belle had shuddered again and again, at the
sound of his newspaper, which he could have read just as well in the
library.
The word "consultation" sent a chill to Margaret's heart. She rushed
away to her own room, locked the door, threw herself on her face across
the bed, and cried with that bitter, heart-breaking cry which had won
the love and sympathy in which she had been revelling.
"God wouldn't do such a dreadful thing!" she at last said to herself.
"Never was a child adored as Mabel is. There is not one among them all,
half so sweet. Why should He take her? He won't! I know He won't! What
a fool I am for crying so! And there is aunty _slaving_ over the twins!"
She flew to the washstand and tried to remove the traces of her tears;
then hurried to the nursery, where she found both babies fretting
dismally, and Mrs. Grey doing her best to comfort them.
"I have been dreadfully selfish, aunty," she said, taking one of the
twins from her. "I must have a very contracted mind, for it can only
hold one thing at a time. I am as brimful of Mabel as a nest is full of
birds."
"It isn't so much a contracted mind, as an exaggerating heart," was the
reply. "You magnify every one you love, and every pursuit you engage
in."
The nurses, who had been having their breakfasts, came now to the
nursery, and Margaret drew Mrs. Grey away, to see if she could find
comfort in her.
"God wouldn't do such a thing as to take away Mabel, would He, aunty?"
"I used to think He _could_ not do these agonizing things; but He can,
He does, and He knows why I have trembled for Belle when I have seen
that steadfast little lover of hers follow her as the needle does the
pole. It is Maud and her mother over again--only--"
She broke down now, but only for a moment, and asked Margaret's pardon
as meekly as a child.
"Is it wrong, then, to cry?" asked Margaret, bewildered.
"It depends on the time and place, and how old one is. I don't think
people of my age ought to indulge themselves by giving way to grief in
which the spectator cannot share.
"'Bury _thy_ sorrow, let others be blest,
Give them the sunshine, tell Jesus the rest.'"
It was now Margaret's turn to feel humbled.
"How could I forget, even for a moment, how you had been afflicted?"
she cried, passionately. "But you are so strong, and so patient, and
so cheerful, and hide your scars away so carefully, that it is hard to
realize that you ever had a sorrow. But, aunty, what will Belle do if
she loses Mabel?"
"'She will behave and quiet herself as a child weaned of his mother.'"
Just then the door opened, and Mabel came quietly in. Both were
startled, for she rarely moved about the house now. She saw that they
had been crying, and came and put an arm around each.
"What makes everybody cry?" she asked. "Is anybody dead?"
Even Margaret was astonished at the sunny smile with which Mrs. Grey
instantly diverted the child's attention.
"See," she said, opening a drawer, "what I forgot to give you at
Christmas."
Mabel looked in and saw a snow-white dove nestled there.
"Oh!" she said, "when I get well I will dance for joy! Grandmamma, I
am not so tired to-day as I was yesterday. May I hold my baby a little
while and show him this lovely dove?"
"You may try, darling."
They carried her up to the nursery and put the baby in her arms, but
she could not hold him, and burst into tears. They were the last she
ever shed.
The doctors came in the course of the day, and examined her from head
to foot carefully.
"Does your head ache even a little?" they asked.
"No."
"Where are you sick, then? Put your hand on the place, dear."
"There isn't any place."
"How are her nights?"
"Very restless," said Belle, whose eye was reading every thought of
the physicians, as if the faces they fancied so well-trained were open
books. "She talks and moans in her sleep, and sometimes has painful
dreams."
Mabel, nearly as keen as her mother, though in a different way,
detected a tender, almost mournful glance between her physicians, at
this answer, and reached out a little hand to each. They had to fight
to keep back the tears, as their fingers closed over her wasted ones.
All her life the child had had these touching ways which it is not
possible to describe; one of the secrets of the peculiar way in which
she attracted every one.
After a few more questions the physicians withdrew, promising to return
on the following day. Mr. Heath followed them, but learned nothing
definite. Mabel had a dreadful night; all the symptoms of water on
the brain, hitherto wanting, came on with great force. How they lived
through the next harrowing two weeks they hardly knew. Many whom Mrs.
Grey had blessed in similar scenes, came now, full of tender sympathy
to help support them through the fortnight in which the patient little
lamb died daily, so distressing was her exhaustion. They were prayed
for by hundreds some of them had never seen; and their faith failed not.
For a week the bright eyes remained open, and there was no sleep. They
had ceased asking for her life, but prayed for the mercy of rest.
And at last it came, and the weary eyes were closed. They knelt around
the bed and gave thanks. Then came one of those quick decisions on
Margaret's part, that dotted her whole life as with stars. She put off
her tears, went quietly to her room, and on a wide white ribbon, with
teeth set hard together, began to paint. So, when Belle went to take
her parting look at her darling before the funeral, there lay upon the
coffin, within the ribbon, delicate flowers and green sprays, with the
words:
"_Now_ I lay me down to sleep."
It was an inexpressible comfort, and Margaret was rewarded by the most
loving embrace she had known for years.
"You are entering on mamma's mission of sympathizer very early," said
Belle. "God bless you for it. After this you will be associated with
every thought of my darling."
"I think God has special love for those He takes so early," said Mrs.
Grey. "Dear little Mabel's character was unusually lovely, and now it
will never be anything else."
Belle struggled to speak, but could not. At last she said:
"I cut this epitaph from a newspaper when quite a young girl. How
little I then thought how it would come home to me!
"'Oh!' said the gardener, as he passed down the garden-walk, 'who
plucked that flower? Who gathered that plant?' His fellow-servant
answered, 'THE MASTER!' and the gardener held his peace.'"