"WORTH SENDING FOR!"
"A friend ought to shun no pain,
to stand his friend in stead."—R. Edwards.
AS Leslie Fergusson drove home that night, his brows were furrowed
with thought. In common with other lonely men, he had occasionally a
habit of uttering his thoughts aloud. His good mare Bess was often the
recipient of his confidences.
"I cannot trust myself," he muttered. "I know on the deepest things
in life, we are far apart, yet her little gracious ways, her sweet
wistfulness in the midst of her wilful words, make me long to win her.
It would not be for our lasting happiness, if I did so. I am not a boy,
and I suppose as one grows older, one feels more deeply. I think after
my week in Edinburgh, I will run up to London for a short time. When I
return the picture will have been finished, and she will have left."
Jean little thought, when she left her room so hastily that night, what
a long time it would be, before she saw Dr. Fergusson again.
A day or two afterwards, she was startled by receiving a telegram from
Colonel Douglas.
"Can you return to Miss Lorraine? She is ill."
Jean did not take long to make up her mind. She went straight to Mrs.
Gordon, and showed the message to her.
"I must go at once. She has been so good to me, and she lives alone.
There is no one to look after her."
"And what about Sunnie's portrait? You have nearly finished it, have
you not?"
"Yes; I am only working up the background. I think perhaps, I can work
it up in London, if I take it with me."
"Perhaps that would be the best plan."
Jean's heart sank at Mrs. Gordon's calm acquiescence. She could not
help speaking impulsively, as was her wont—
"I must thank you for the nice time I have had here. You have been very
kind to me, and I shall be dreadfully sorry to leave."
"I think Sunnie will be sorry, too. I consider you have been very
successful with her picture and am glad you have been happy with us.
When must you start?"
"This afternoon, if I may," said Jean, turning away to prevent Mrs.
Gordon's seeing the quick tears in her eyes.
She hardly knew what she was doing for the next hour or two. Every
one was kind, but Jean resented their comparative indifference to her
departure. Meta expressed a hope that she would meet her again in
London.
Sunnie was the only one who really cared, and when she heard, she put
her little arms round her neck, drew her down to her, and began to cry.
"You are one of my friends," she sobbed. "I can't bear a friend to go
away."
Jean kissed the golden head.
"I shall not forget you," she said. "I shall write letters to you now
and then; will you not like that?"
"Yes," sobbed Sunnie, "but I shall be so empty without you, when Cousin
Leslie isn't here. Will you never come back, never?"
Jean could not bring herself to reiterate that mournful word.
"I only came to paint your picture, Sunnie, and now my work is done,
and my friend in London is ill. You mustn't wish to keep me back. I
wish sometimes that I could live here always, but you see, it isn't my
home."
Sunnie lay back on her cushions, and regarded her with tearful eyes;
then a glint of sunshine came like a rainbow across them.
"You must marry a prince and drive to Scotland in a big coach, like
they used to do long ago. And your prince must come and live close
here, and you must come and see me in the twilight, when the fire is
blazing and Cousin Leslie is playing the piano. I shall always be here,
you know; I shall never move away until—I go to heaven."
"Oh! Sunnie," said Jean, kneeling by the child's couch, and taking her
little hands in her own, "how I wish I felt as sure of heaven as you
do!"
Sunnie looked perplexed.
Jean went on in a little burst of confidence—
"You are all so good here, and I feel so wicked! Will you ask God in
your prayers, darling, to teach me what He has taught you?"
"Has God taught me anything?" questioned Sunnie, wonderingly. "I think
Cousin Leslie teaches me most. If you would only stay, he could teach
you too."
"I wish I could stay."
Jean's tone was almost passionate.
Sunnie looked at her pathetically.
"I shall see you in the dark, sitting opposite me, I with your
long-tailed paint-brush and my picture. I shall shut my eyes every
evening, and see you there, and I shall pretend you're real, and I
shall go on talking to you. I have to do such a lot of pretending when
Cousin Leslie is away."
"He will be coming back soon. You must wish him goodbye for me, Sunnie."
There was a tremor in her voice. She felt again the touch of his hand
on her shoulder: that involuntary, earnest touch that had shown her the
secret of her heart, and had made him take a decisive step to remove
himself from the fascination of her presence.
"Yes," said Sunnie; "make up a nice message for me to give him. Your
love and a kiss?"
"Oh no!" said Jean, laughing though her heart ached. "No special
message—just a goodbye."
Then she rose to her feet, and stood looking down upon the little
invalid very tenderly.
"Sunnie, I wonder if you would give me what you give the doctor every
night. You call it your blessing."
Sunnie's face shone. She brushed the traces of her tears away with her
little hands, and then clasped them over Jean's dark head, which was
now bent down over her.
"God bless you, and keep you safe and good in London. Amen."
With the echoes of that sweet little voice ringing in her ears, Jean
left Strathglen that afternoon, and as the night express whirled her
away, she put her head in her hands and sobbed in sheer unhappiness.
"I shall be an outsider always. I went, and now I am returning; it
has only been a passing incident in my life. I should have liked to
make it my home. I hoped to get to know Mrs. Fergusson; I longed to
have more talk with Dr. Fergusson, to know him as—as a friend. He
was so reserved, so unapproachable at first, and lately, he has been
so different. Oh, I wish I had his religion; I wish I could have the
steadfast happiness that he has! They will all forget me. After all,
what can I expect? I went on a matter of business. It is done—they want
me no more."
She was so occupied with herself and her feelings that it was not till
she approached London that her thoughts turned to Miss Lorraine.
"I wonder if she is very ill. It is rather strange Colonel Douglas
telegraphing for me. If anything happened to her, I shouldn't have
a friend left. I wonder if there is any one else in the world as
friendless as I!"
But when she reached Miss Lorraine's house and met the housemaid at
the door, when she heard that the mistress of the house had been taken
ill three weeks ago with an attack of influenza, and seemed to have
no strength to rally from it, but had been lying weak and exhausted,
hardly knowing those in the room, then Jean put herself in the
background and rose to the occasion.
"Take me to her," she said.
"Please, miss, the nurse said they were not to be disturbed. These
nurses are terrible fidgets. We have had two changes already, and this
one treats me as if I'm the dirt under her feet! And please, miss, the
Colonel is in the drawing-room: will you see him first?"
Jean sped up the narrow stairs, and the next moment had her hand
grasped gratefully by Colonel Douglas, who was looking worn and
harassed.
"This is good of you, Jean. I have been so anxious. My sister is
abroad, and there has been no one I could turn to. Frances has always
been the one to nurse and help others, and when she is struck down, it
seems strange that she should be left so forlorn. She has been calling
for you. The fact is, her old servants and the nurses don't pull well
together. The house wants a mistress. You will put things straight."
Jean nodded, then went straight to the sick-room. She was shocked to
find Miss Lorraine so weak, and her feeble words, "Stay, Jean. Don't
leave me. I want some one who cares for me," touched her to the heart.
She interviewed the nurse and doctor, found that the former's services
would be no longer required, and took possession of the sick-room
herself. Before a few days were over, she had proved herself an apt and
skilful nurse. Miss Lorraine caught the infection of her brightness,
and rapidly began to recover.
Colonel Douglas haunted the house. There was something infinitely
pathetic to Jean in his attitude. Grapes, flowers, and dainties of all
kinds were the plea for him to come in.
"Will you take this to Frances, my dear? And if she is well enough—if
it wouldn't excite her—just tell her that I'm on the spot to do or
carry messages."
And in watching by the sick-bed, and in consoling and comforting
the staunch old friend, Jean learnt many a lesson in patience and
unselfishness. It made her realise her own narrow outlook and the
poorness of her aims and standards in life.
It was a bright afternoon in early spring when Miss Lorraine first came
into her pretty drawing-room. Jean had filled it with sweet-smelling
flowers, and when the invalid, looking very white and fragile, was
seated in her favourite chair, Jean came and knelt down by her
caressingly.
"You will let me go on doing things for you, won't you? You won't get
strong enough to do without me?"
"My dear child, you have worn yourself out in looking after me. Humanly
speaking, you have brought me back to life again, and though when I was
weak and ill I longed to die, it was a very wrong and selfish wish."
"Why?" asked Jean, who was always being astonished at Miss Lorraine's
view of things.
"I have done so little, and there is so much to do," was the reply.
"However small our influence is, it is ours to use for our Master. A
lifetime of a hundred years is not too long to work for Him. We have
only one life on earth. I don't believe we shall ever get the same
chance of helping one another again."
"What about me?" asked Jean, in her impulsive fashion. "I haven't yet
begun to think of any one in the world but myself!"
"Well," said Miss Lorraine, "I was wondering the other day, if I had
been brought back to life just to help you along the road of life. I am
afraid I have been rather a failure in that way up to the present time."
Jean's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"You are helping me," she said. "You shall help me, for I think now, I
am willing."
No more was said then, for the door opened and Colonel Douglas came in.
It was their first meeting since Miss Lorraine's illness. He stepped
across the room on tiptoe, looking at her with eager, anxious eyes.
"My dear," he said, as he grasped her hand, "how frail you look, and
how glad and thankful I am that you have been spared to us."
His voice was husky, and as he sat down by her side, his hands trembled
visibly as he rested them on his knees.
Miss Lorraine looked at him with a quiet smile.
"Yes," she said, "when you began to take an interest in a little
rebellious girl down in the Essex marshes, you little thought what a
good turn you would be doing me, later on."
Jean laughed.
"I haven't done much," she said; "but I am proud to think that Colonel
Douglas thought me worth sending for."
But the Colonel did not seem to hear. He had only eyes and ears for
Miss Lorraine.
"We have missed you sadly," he said, with a wistful look at her. "I
wonder if it is a good thing for you to see your friends so soon. You
have had a rest from their worries all this time."
"But I am quite fit and ready to hear everything now," she said briskly.
Colonel Douglas shook his head.
"About as fit as that pale snowdrop would be to bear a weight of any
sort," he replied.
And Jean, watching her invalid with a jealous eye, quite agreed with
him, for a very little upset her now. Jean sometimes could hardly
believe that illness could so change the quiet, self-contained woman.
She started and trembled at the slightest sound, and her tears came as
easily as her smiles. She was putting a strong restraint upon herself
now. The sight of her old friend was almost too much for her.
Colonel Douglas noted her weakness, and with wonderful tact began to
talk to Jean of her grandfather and old home.
"I was down there for a couple of days last week," he said. "We had
some snipe shooting. Your cousin is a pleasant young fellow; have you
never met him yet?"
"No," said Jean. "I have heard nothing from my old home since I left. I
only knew of his existence from you."
"He is trying his hand at farming down there. I shouldn't say he will
make his fortune at it, but it gives him something to do, and keeps him
from getting into mischief. He asked me after you, how you were getting
on, and said he would like to meet you. I thought perhaps when he next
comes up to town, Frances—if you are strong enough—"
"Yes," she said, as he hesitated, "certainly ask him to come and see
us. I shall be very glad to see him."
"And my grandfather?" asked Jean slowly. "Did he mention me at all."
"I cannot say he did. He made no response when I told him what you were
doing."
"I shall never be forgiven," said Jean. "Would you like to see my
picture of little Sunnie, Colonel Douglas? Miss Lorraine made me
promise to show it to her this afternoon."
She left the room to get it. Colonel Douglas stood up by the fire and
looked down upon Miss Lorraine, with a smile of content.
"Jean's character is developing," she said. "She is growing out of that
heedlessness and irresponsibility. Her thoughtfulness and patience in a
sick-room has filled me with astonishment."
"She was very young when we took her in hand," said the Colonel,
smiling. "I think her emancipation was a success; she would have become
bitter and self-centered, had she stayed with her uncle."
Jean returned, and with the help of Susan, got her large canvas into
the room. When she threw back the covering over it, Miss Lorraine
caught her breath.
The picture glowed with life and colour. Sunnie lay back amongst
her cushions with the firelight playing over her face and cloud of
golden hair. Her little face seemed almost to be alive, the eyes were
looking upwards with that peculiar mixture of dancing fun and sweet
seriousness, her mouth was slightly parted, and her attitude was that
of a listener to the unseen.
As Jean looked at it a lump came into her throat. It brought back with
a rush those happy hours in the firelight.
"I am thinking," she said, "of calling it 'What the fairies told her!'
Do you like it, Miss Lorraine?"
"So very much, dear. It is intensely life-like. Why, Jean, you ought to
try to get it into the Academy."
"I did think of it, and asked Mrs. Gordon if she would mind. She said
she would not. Do you think there might be a chance of getting it
taken?"
"Certainly," said Colonel Douglas, looking at it intently. "You have
surprised me, Jean. You must have made rapid progress with your art.
This is something more than a mere portrait. You have treated it so
artistically."
"Her surroundings were artistic," said Jean. "I never got the first
sight of her out of my mind. It burnt itself into my brain, and I
determined to reproduce it, if possible. I am glad you like it. I love
to look at it myself, for it gives me Sunnie, and I am sure there isn't
another child like her in the whole world!"
"Let it stay there, Jean," said Miss Lorraine. "I shall enjoy looking
at it."
Jean slipped out of the room soon after this, leaving the Colonel and
the invalid to talk together, and though Miss Lorraine was rather tired
after the interview, she was none the worse for it.
The next day Jean brought her a letter to read.
"As you have seen what Sunnie is like, I thought you might be
interested in her letter."
Miss Lorraine took it and read:
"MY DEAREST PAINTER,—I do not call you Miss Desmond any more. I miss
you always, but most I miss you when Cousin Leslie is making the piano
talk, because there is only one to listen, and it was two when you were
here."
"I got my sofa to take me to see you last night. We were half an hour
doing it, for I told nurse not to talk till I told her, and she says
it was half an hour by the clock. I tell you what we did, and you must
tell me if it was right. We went very quickly and not too high, just
on a line with the telegraph wires that I see from the window. I knew
they led to London, so I could not go wrong. Then we flew over hundreds
and hundreds of roofs, till we came outside your house; then we dropped
until I could peep in at the window. And this is what I saw:"
"You were in your pretty pink dressing-gown giving nasty medicine to
a little old lady in curls in bed, and she was making faces like I do,
and then you laughed at her, and began telling her one of your nonsense
stories, and then she drank it up and laughed, too. Then you went into
another room, and sat down by the fire and thought of Sunnie, and a
nice hot dinner was brought in on a little round table, and you sat up,
and eat it."
"When you'd finished, you went back to the fire, and then I crept in
at the window, and crept on to your lap. Didn't you feel me cuddle you?
You were looking tired and had sad eyes, but I kissed you happy again.
And then, I had to come back, and the journey home was long and very
cold. My sofa says he doesn't like London, but we shall come and see
you again soon. I will make him take me."
"Write me a letter and tell me you will be looking out for me when
the fire flares up and the lamps are out. You won't see me, but you
will feel me. Nurse has helped me spell this; she says it is all
nonsense, but she doesn't understand what you and me and Cousin Leslie
make up together. Cousin Leslie played to me about you the day before
yesterday. We had the train that took you away and the barrel-organs
that played in the London streets when you got there, and the poor,
sick lady whispering, and you making her better."
"Write me a long letter soon. I send you this new blessing: I made
it up myself yesterday—"
"'God keep you beautiful, and good,
and bring you back to Scotland and us
for ever and ever. Amen.'"
"Your loving"
"SUNNIE."
Miss Lorraine smiled as she handed this back to Jean.
"You have won her heart," she said.
"Every one loves her," was Jean's reply. But there was a wistful look
in her eyes as she spoke, that Miss Lorraine noted and remembered.