GOING HOME.
Sir John and Mrs. Grenville left poor Susy standing with her apron to her
eyes at the corner of the street, and went on in the direction of the fever
hospital. Their hearts had sunk very low at Susy's words, and they began to
share in Waters' belief that there was a mysterious sympathy between the
two sick children, and that if one went away perhaps the other would follow
quickly.
The fever hospital was some little distance off, but they both preferred
walking to calling a cab. It was not the visiting hour when they got there,
but Mrs. Grenville scribbled some words on a little card, and begged of the
porter who admitted them into the cool stone hall to send a note with her
card and Sir John's at once to the lady superintendent. This little note
had the desired effect, and in a few moments they were both admitted to the
good lady's private sanctum.
Mrs. Grenville in a few low words explained the nature of their errand. The
good lady nurse was all sympathy and interest, but when they mentioned the
name of the child they had come to see her face became very grave and sad.
"That little one!" she remarked; "I fear that God is going to take that
sweet child away to himself. She is the sweetest and prettiest child in the
hospital--she has gone through a terrible illness, and I don't think I have
once heard her murmur. Poor little lamb! her sufferings are over at last,
thank God; she is just quietly moment by moment passing away. It is a case
of dying from exhaustion."
"But, good madam, can nothing be done to rouse her?" asked Sir John, his
face turning purple with agitation. "Has she the best and most expensive
nourishment--can't her strength be supported? Perhaps, ma'am, you are not
aware that a good deal depends on the life of that little girl. It is not
an ordinary case--no, no, by no means an ordinary case. My purse is at your
command, ma'am; get the best doctors, the best nurses, the best care--save
the child's life at any cost."
While Sir John was speaking the lady nurse looked sadder than ever.
"We give of the best in this hospital," she said; "and there has been from
the first no question of expense or money. Perhaps the worst symptom in the
case of little Joanna Aylmer is in the fact that the child herself does not
wish to recover. I confess I have no hope whatever, but it is a well-known
saying that, in fever, as long as there is life there is hope. Would you
like to see the child, Mrs. Grenville? It might comfort your own little
darling afterward to know that you had gone to see her just at the end."
Mrs. Grenville nodded in reply, but poor Sir John, overcome by an undefined
terror, sank down by the table, and covered his face with his hands.
Mrs. Grenville followed the nurse into the long cool ward, passing on her
way many sick and suffering children. The child by whose little narrow
white bed they at last stopped was certainly now not suffering. Her eyes
were closed; through her parted lips only came the gentlest breathing; on
her serene brow there rested a look of absolute peace. Little Jo Aylmer was
alive, but she neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Grenville stooped down and
kissed her, leaving what she thought was a tear of farewell on her sweet
little face.
As she was walking home by Sir John's side, she said abruptly, after an
interval of silence:
"It is quite true, John--we must do what we can to keep Maggie, but little
Jo is going home."
"She must not die. We must keep her somehow," replied Sir John.
That night it seemed to several people that two little children were about
to be taken away to their heavenly home, for Maggie's feeble strength
fluttered and failed, and, as the hours went by, the doctors shook their
heads and looked very grave. She still talked in a half-delirious way
about Jo, and still seemed to fancy that she and Jo were soon going
somewhere away together.
All through her illness no one had been more devoted in her attentions to
the sick child than the faithful servant Waters. When the day began to
break, Waters made up her mind to a certain line of action. Her mistress
had told her how very ill little Jo Aylmer was--she had described fully her
visit to the hospital--had told Waters that she herself had no hope
whatever of Jo, and had further added that the child herself did not wish
to live.
"That's not to be wondered at," commented Waters. "What have she special to
live for, pretty lamb? and there's much to delight one like her where she's
going; but all the same, ma'am, it will be the death-knell of our little
Miss Maggie if the other child is taken."
When the morning broke, Waters felt that she could bear her present state
of inaction no longer, and accordingly she tied on her bonnet and went
out.
First of all she wended her steps in the direction of the Aylmers' humble
dwelling. She mounted the stairs to Mrs. Aylmer's door and knocked. The
poor woman had not been in bed all night, and flew to the door now, fearing
that Waters' knock was the dreaded message which she had been expecting
from the hospital.
"'Tis only me, ma'am," said Waters, "and you has no call to be frightened.
I want you just to put on your bonnet and shawl, and come right away with
me to the hospital. We has got to be let in somehow, for I must see Jo
directly."
"For aught I know," said Mrs. Aylmer, "little Jo may be singing with the
angels now."
"We must hope not, ma'am, for I want that little Jo of yours to live. She
has got to live for our Miss Maggie's sake, and there is not a moment to
lose; so come away, ma'am, at once."
Mrs. Aylmer stared at Waters; then, because she felt very weak, and feeble,
and wretched herself, she allowed the stronger woman to guide her, and the
two went out without another word being said on either side.
It was, of course, against all rules for visitors to be admitted at five
o'clock in the morning; but in the case of mothers and dying children such
rules are apt to become lax, and the two women presently found themselves
behind the screen which sheltered little Jo from her companions.
"She won't hear you now," said the nurse; "she has not noticed any one for
many hours." Waters looked round her almost despairingly--the poor mother
had sunk down by the bedside, and had covered her face with her hands.
Waters, too, covered her face, and as she did so she prayed to her Father
in heaven with great fervor and strong faith and hope. After this brief
prayer she knelt by the little white cot, and took the cold little hand of
the child who was every moment going further away from the shore of life.
"Little Jo," she said, "you have got to live. I don't believe God wishes
you to die, and you mustn't wish it either. You have got your work to do,
Jo; do you hear me? Look at me, pretty one--you have got to live."
Waters spoke clearly, and in a very decided voice. The little one's violet
eyes opened for a brief instant and fixed themselves on the anxious,
pleading woman; both the nurse and the mother came close to the bed in
breathless astonishment.
"Have you got a cordial?" said Waters, turning to the nurse. "Give it to
me, and let me put it between her lips."
The nurse gave her a few drops out of a bottle, and Waters wetted the
parched lips of the child.
"There's another little one, my pretty, and she's waiting for you. If you
go I fear she'll go, but if you stay I think she'll stay. There are them
who would break their hearts without her, and she ought to do a good work
down on the earth. Will you stay for her sake, little Jo?" Here the sick
child moved restlessly, and Waters continued.
"Send her a message, Jo Aylmer," she said. "Tell her where you two are
next to meet--in the country, where the grass is green, or in--heaven. Oh,
Jo! do say you will meet Miss Maggie in the cool, shady, lovely country,
and wait until by and by for heaven, my pretty lamb."
Whether God really heard Waters' very earnest prayer, or whether little Jo
was at that moment about to take a turn for the better, she certainly
opened her eyes again full and bright and wide, and quite intelligible
words came from her pretty lips.
"My day-dream," said little Jo Aylmer; "tell her--tell her to meet me where
the grass is green."