We could never tell you all that the poor mother suffered as she lay
there day after day helpless among her children. Her own illness and
helplessness was the last drop, which made her cup overflow. Gradually,
as she lay there listening to the roaring of the storm, it became clear,
to her how little she had come to trust to her husband's promises of
reformation. It was to her own efforts she must trust for the support
of herself and her children; her faith in him quite failed after so many
hopes and disappointments; and now what was to become of them all?
She was angry and bitter against herself, poor woman, because her hope
of better days had quite perished. She called herself faithless, and
said to herself that she did not deserve that it should go well with her
husband, since she had ceased to believe in him and trust him; but, sick
in body and sick at heart, she had no power, for the time at least, to
rally. She prayed in her misery often and long, but it was to a God who
seemed far away--a God who had apparently hidden His face from her.
The third day was drawing to a close. Sophy gathered the children to
their daily reading near their mother's bed, and, with great pains and
patience, found and kept the place for them. John was ten, and a good
reader--quite equal to Sophy herself, he thought; but Ned and little
Will were only just beginning to be able to read with the rest, and
their sister took all the pains in the world to improve them and to make
them really care for the reading; and almost always, this hour was a
very pleasant time. The lesson to-day was the fifth of Mark.
"Now, boys, you must attend carefully," said Sophy, when they were
seated; "because there are many wonderful things in the chapter. I read
it last night by the firelight after you were all in bed; and I want
each of you to tell me which part you think most wonderful. You must
begin, Will, and then Ned; and then I'll read your verses over after
you, so that you may understand them."
For the two little lads could make but little of anything they read
themselves as yet, though they listened with pleasure to the reading of
their sister. And, besides, the double reading would help to pass the
time and make her brothers contented in the house.
Mrs Morely was beguiled from the indulgence of her own sad thoughts,
first as she watched the little girl's grave, motherly ways with her
brothers, and then by listening to the words they were reading. First,
there was the story of the man who had his dwelling in the tombs. They
read on slowly and gravely, Sophy reading each verse again, except when
it was John's turn, till they came to the eighth, "For He said unto him,
Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit."
"And of course he came out of him," exclaimed Sophy. "For Jesus can do
anything--yes, anything. Think of the most difficult thing in the
world--Jesus could do it, as easy as I can do this." And she stooped
and touched her lips to little Will's brow. The children paused to
think about it, and so did the mother.
"Come out of him, thou unclean spirit."
Was it true? Had the unclean spirit obeyed the voice of Jesus then, and
was that voice less powerful now? Surely not. To her He seemed far
away, and yet He was near. It came upon her, as it had never come
before, how if ever her husband was saved it must be through God's power
and grace. If ever her husband was to be saved from the love of strong
drink, it must be through a Divine power that should cleanse him and
keep him and dwell in him for ever. Even the power of the Holy Ghost,
which could convert his heart, and make him "a new creature in Christ
Jesus."
"Sitting, and clothed, and in his right mind," spelt out little Will,
slowly; and Sophy repeated, "clothed, and in his right mind."
The mother's soul went up in an agony of prayer for her husband, that he
might be saved from suffering and shame, and be found "in his right
mind", "sitting at the feet of Jesus."
"Surely He can do it! Surely He will do it! Oh, if I were not so
faithless--so unworthy!"
Still the reading went on, and she listened to the twenty-eighth verse:
"For she said, If I may touch but His clothes, I shall be whole."
"Lord, give me that poor woman's faith, that I may trust and be blessed
as she was," she entreated, covering her face, that her children might
not wonder at seeing her so moved. She seemed to see the Saviour now.
She cast herself at His feet, "fearing and trembling." Surely He would
say to her, as to that other, "Go in peace!"
And still they read on, how Jesus went to the ruler's house, and how,
having put the unbelieving people out, He took the maiden's hand, and
cried, "I say unto thee, Arise. And straightway the damsel arose."
"Of course she arose," said Sophy. "It made no matter that she was
dead; because, you know, it was Jesus who said it. Think of all these
wonderful things!"
"Wonderful indeed! Oh, for faith! Lord, I believe; help Thou mine
unbelief!" prayed the poor mother--her face still covered. Sophy
thought she slept, and sent her little brothers out for a while, cold as
it was, that she might be quiet; and then she went about the house,
softly doing what was to be done. In a little while she brought in her
mother's cup of tea; and, as the light fell on her face, she said,
cheerfully, "Your sleep must have done you good, mother. You look
better."
"Something has done me good, I think, love," said her mother, kissing
the little girl's upturned face. "You are looking pale and weary. I
hope I shall soon be well now."
"I hope so, mother,--not that I am tired; but it will be good to see you
up again."
Still it grew more bitterly cold. The nails and the boards of the old
house cracked so often, and with such violence, that the children grew
terrified lest it should fall upon them.
As for Sophy, the thought that she ought to brave the bitter cold and
all those mountainous drifts, never left her for a moment. She had been
hoping all along that the expected food night come. But the fear of
actual want was now drawing nearer every moment; and soon, she knew, she
would have no choice but to go.
That night she divided into two parts the small quantity of meal that
remained. One part she put aside for the morning, and of the other she
made for her brothers' supper some thin gruel, instead of their usual
hearty porridge. The hungry little lads eyed with undisguised
discontent the not very savoury mess; but, fortunately, the table was
laid in the corner of the room most distant from their mother's bed, and
their murmurs were unheard by her.
"Now, boys, I have something to say to you," began Sophy, gravely.
"There is not much supper; but you must be content with it. We shall be
sure to have something more to-morrow. If the things don't come
to-night, I shall go myself to the village to-morrow, to see what has
become of them. At any rate, we must not fret mother about it. It will
be all right to-morrow, you may be sure."
She made quite merry over little Will's fears that the things might
never come, and that they all might starve, as sometimes children did in
books. She laughed at him, and made him laugh at himself. But, though
Sophy spoke hopefully to her brothers, she had her own troubled thoughts
to struggle with still. That was a long, long night to her, and to her
mother too. Though Mrs Morely did not know how nearly they were at the
end of their stores, she knew they could not last long; and the thought
would come back, What if there was nothing awaiting them in the village?
What if her husband had fallen again? She could not hope for immediate
help from him, even if he were to hold firm after his arrival in
Montreal and get immediate employment. How were the next few weeks to
be got through? She thought and planned, till she grew weary and
discouraged; but she never quite let go of the hope that had come to her
through the children's reading in the afternoon. He who had cast out
devils, He who had raised the dead, could He not also save her husband?
He who had been merciful to the poor woman who trusted in Him, would He
not be merciful to her? Was not His love unchanged, and were not His
promises the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever? She clung to the
thoughts of the wonderful works of Jesus, going over and over them in
her mind, turning the poor woman's words into prayer to suit her own
case; and so the night wore away.
Sophy slept now and then; but she might just as well have kept awake,
for in her dreams she fancied she was lost in the snow, and that she was
struggling on through it with the baby in her arms. The night seemed as
long as a whole winter to her, she told her mother afterwards; but it
came to an end at last.
The first thing that Mrs Morely saw, on waking from a momentary
slumber, was her little daughter taking a coverlet from the bed to
fasten it over the low window. She must have fallen asleep again; for
the next thing she saw was Sophy standing by her bed, with a cup of tea
and a bit of toast in her hand. There was a small, bright fire on the
hearth; but there was no other light in the room. It seemed early to
her; but the children were all awake, and clamouring to be allowed to
rise, notwithstanding their sister's entreaties that they would lie
still till the room was warm. But little Harry was cold and hungry, and
would not be persuaded; and at last he made a rush towards his mother's
bed. In passing the window he caught hold of the coverlet that hung
over it; and down it fell, and the bright sunlight streamed in. A cry
of surprise, which soon changed to indignation, burst from the children.
"Mother," exclaimed Sophy, entreatingly, "I did it to keep out the cold,
and to make the day seem shorter."
"But, dreary as the days are, surely the nights are drearier," said her
mother, wonderingly.
"Yes, mother; I know--but--" She paused. What could she say, but that
she wished to keep the children asleep, because there was so little to
give them when they awoke? She saw from her mother's face that she
understood her reason, and she hastened to say, "I must go to the
village, mother. It is no use waiting any longer. I ought to have gone
yesterday. They have forgotten to send the things--or my father has
forgotten to get them," she added to herself, with a sense of pain and
shame.
"I ought to have gone yesterday, mother," repeated Sophy, "but I was
afraid of losing my way in the snow. I was foolish, I know, but I could
not help thinking of the little lad you told us about once, who never
came back."
"We must do something," said her mother; "and I am afraid it would be
impossible for me to go to the village myself. Surely the road must be
opened by this time. Is it still as cold, do you think? You must take
John with you. Two are better than one."
"No; it is not so cold, I think," said Sophy. "And, dear mother, you
are not to fret. We can go easily, and it will all come right, you'll
see." And Sophy made a great pretence of hastening the dressing of her
little brothers, that she might get their breakfast first and then hurry
away.