For several days a great shadow lay on Thankful Rest while Lucy
hovered between life and death. Everything human care and skill could
suggest was done, and the issue was in God's hands. Miss Goldthwaite
had come up to Thankful Rest on Sunday, and had stayed, because Lucy
seemed to be happier when she was by. Callers were innumerable, and a
messenger came from the Red House every morning asking a bulletin.
What Aunt Hepsy suffered during those days I do not suppose anybody
ever guessed. It was her way to hide her feelings always, but she
would sit or stand looking at the sick girl with eyes which ought to
have brought her back to health. Uncle Josh was in and out fifty
times a day, and things outside were allowed to manage themselves;
all interest centred in the little attic chamber and its suffering
occupant. She lay in a kind of stupor most part of the day, only
moaning at times with the pain Dr. Gair was powerless to relieve. She
grew perceptibly weaker, and they feared to leave her a moment, lest
she should slip away while they were gone. So the days went by till
Sunday came round again. Dr. Gair came early that morning, and
looked, if possible, graver than usual.
"If she lives till evening," he said to the anxious watchers, "she
will recover, but I cannot give you much hope. Administer this
medicine every two hours; it is all I can do. I will be back before
night."
In after years Aunt Hepsy was wont to say that Sunday was the longest
day she had ever spent in her life. I think others felt so too.
Slowly the hours went round. Even into the darkened room the spring
sunshine would peep, and the twittering of the birds in the orchard
broke the oppressive stillness. At four o'clock the doctor came
again. Save for the almost imperceptible breathing, Lucy lay so pale
and still that they almost thought her dead. At sunset she moved
uneasily, and with a great sigh lifted her heavy lids and looked
round the room. A sob burst from Aunt Hepsy's lips, and Carrie
Goldthwaite's tears fell fast, for Dr. Gair's face said she was
saved. Her lips moved, and he bent down to catch the faintly murmured
words,--
"Have I been sick a long time? I am going to get well now."
The doctor nodded and smiled. "God has been very good to you--to us
all--my child," he said. "He has heard the prayers of those who love
you."
Carrie came to the bedside then, and bending over her, kissed her
once with streaming eyes. Aunt Hepsy moved to the window and drew up
the blind, and the red glow of the setting sun crept into the room,
and lay bright and beautiful on Lucy's face.
"I am glad to see the sun again," said Lucy wearily. "I seem to have
been sick so long. May I go to sleep now, Dr. Gair?"
"Yes; and sleep a week if you like," he said cheerily.--"Rest and
care now, Miss Strong, is all she needs to bring her round."
Aunt Hepsy made no reply whatever. She stood still in the window, her
face softened into a strange, thankful tenderness, and her heart
lifting itself up in gratitude to God, and in many an earnest
resolution for the future. She followed Dr. Gair downstairs, as she
had done that day a week before, and as he passed out caught his hand
in a grip of iron. "I'm a woman of few words, Dr. Gair," she said
abruptly, "but I won't forget what you've done for me an' mine."
"God first, Miss Strong," said the doctor gravely; and then he added
with an odd little smile, "Lucy's lines will be in pleasant places
now, I fancy?"
"If they ain't, I'll know the reason why," said she grimly. "Good
evening."
Lucy's sleep that night was calm and refreshing, and when Dr. Gair
came again in the morning he expressed himself pleased with her
condition. Miss Goldthwaite brought up a breakfast tray with a cup of
weak tea and a piece of toast, of which Lucy was able to eat a little
bit. She had fifty questions to ask; but remembering Dr. Gair's
peremptory orders, Carrie placed a finger on her lips and shook her
head. There would be plenty of time to talk by-and-by, for
convalescence would be a tedious business; in the meantime there was
absolute need of perfect rest. Miss Goldthwaite brought her sewing,
and sat down in the window seat, humming a scrap of song, the outcome
of the gladness of her heart. Lucy lay still in a state of dreamy
happiness, listening to the twittering of the birds mingling with
Carrie's song, and watching the gay April sunbeams dancing among her
golden curls. By-and-by Aunt Hepsy came up, and Lucy looked at her
curiously. She seemed to dimly remember that during the days of the
past week a face like Aunt Hepsy's had bent over her in love and
tenderness, and a voice like hers, only infinitely softer and
gentler, had spoken broken words of grief and prayer at her bedside.
Aunt Hepsy, just yet, did not meet Lucy's wondering eyes, nor speak
any words to her at all. She moved softly about the room, putting
things to rights deftly and silently; but Lucy was sure there was
something different about her.
Immediately after the early dinner, seeing Lucy so much better, Miss
Goldthwaite bethought herself of her neglected household at
Pendlepoint, and said she would go home, promising to come again
to-morrow. Her eyes were full of tears as she bent over to bid Lucy
good-bye, and she whispered tenderly,--
"My darling, what a load I shall lift from anxious hearts at
Pendlepoint to-night. You don't know how dear you are to us all."
Lucy smiled a little in a happy way; to her heart evidences of love
were very precious. She was left alone for nearly a couple of hours,
while Aunt Hepsy washed up dishes and set things right downstairs she
fell into a light doze, and when she awoke, it was to find Aunt Hepsy
sitting by her side with her knitting.
"Have I been sleeping, Aunt Hepsy?" she said. "You don't know how
well I feel. I could almost get up, I think."
Aunt Hepsy laughed a little tremulous laugh.
"In about a month or so, I guess, you'll begin to think about getting
up," she said; and again something in Aunt Hepsy's face set Lucy
wondering _what_ was different about her. There was a short silence,
then Aunt Hepsy laid down her knitting, and took both Lucy's thin
hands in her firm clasp. "Lucy, do you think ye can ever forgive yer
old aunt?" she said suddenly and quickly. "I've been a cross,
hardhearted old fool, an' the Lord's been better to me than I dared
to hope for. He's heard my prayers, Lucy, an' he knows how hard I
mean to try and make up for the past. If ye'll say ye forgive me, and
try to care a little for me, ye'll maybe find Thankful Rest a
pleasanter place than ye think it now."
"O Aunt Hepsy, don't say any more," pleaded Lucy, her eyes growing
dim. "I'm so glad I've been sick, because you've learned to love me a
little."
So the barrier was broken down, and in the ensuing days these two
became very dear to each other; and Lucy grew to understand Aunt
Hepsy, and to see how much good there lay beneath her grim exterior.
The door of Aunt Hepsy's heart had long been locked, and like other
unused things, had grown rusty on its hinges. But Lucy had found the
key, and entered triumphantly at last.