GOOD FOR EVIL.
"Bertie Sanderson has not been in the mill for a week," said Tessa to
Katie, as the two friends walked home together one hot afternoon. "One
of the rag-room girls said so. I wonder if she has the fever!"
"That's not likely; the girls are all getting better," said her
companion.
"Yes; but she's been absent for more than a week," persisted Tessa.
"Let's go round that way and inquire."
But Katie, somehow, shrank from this. While she knew nothing with
absolute certainty, she could not help feeling that Bertie was in some
way connected with the general avoidance of herself by the girls of the
Sunday-school class, and the evident suspicion with which both Miss
Eunice and Miss Etta regarded her. What her former companion could have
said or done, she had no idea; but the sense of an undefined something
had made her of late keep as far as possible from Bertie. She was about
to say with her usual impulsiveness:--
"No; I hate Bertie! Don't let's go near her," when she remembered all
her purposes of doing Tessa good and setting her a Christian example. Is
it Christian to cherish a dislike of another because one has reason to
suppose that other has done one an injury? Katie's enlightened
conscience knew it was not. It was not like him who said:--
"Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which
despitefully use you and persecute you;" and who, by acting in strict
accordance with his own teachings, "left us an example that we should
follow in his steps."
For a few moments the little girl said nothing as she walked silently by
the side of her companion; then, having during those silent moments sent
up an earnest prayer that the hateful feelings might be taken away from
her heart, that so she might become more like Christ, she answered by
turning her steps in the other direction.
The two girls found, as Tessa had suggested, that Bertie had indeed
taken the fever, and was very ill in her own comfortable home. Dr. Bolen
had suggested her being removed to the temporary hospital, and being
cared for by the competent nurses there; but her mother would not hear
of it. She was always a very foolish woman, had been very much opposed
to her daughter's going into the mill, and now told her husband that
this fever was all the result of his obstinacy, and she hoped he enjoyed
having murdered his own child. Now, however, she meant to have her own
way. Her Bertie, who was every bit as good as the city young ladies, her
cousins, was not to go to an empty house and be nursed with a lot of
common mill-girls. If her mother couldn't take care of her, she should
like to know who could--which would have been unanswerable if Mrs.
Sanderson had known how to nurse anybody--a thing of which she was
profoundly ignorant. So poor Bertie had a hard time of it, and daily
grew worse instead of better; and as if this were not enough, Mrs.
Sanderson never thought of isolating the patient, or of keeping the
other children from her, and before long the third child, a boy of six
years old, was taken down with the fever also, and the incompetent
mother had her hands more than full with the care of her house, the two
patients, and two fretful, badly trained little children, with only
Nina, who had never been taught to do anything in the world, to help
her.
Matters were in this state on the evening when the girls called, and
poor Mrs. Sanderson, coming to the door, without an atom of prudence or
caution, insisted on dragging in Katie at least, because in her wild
delirium Bertie had been incessantly shouting her name. Katie was
impulsive, not very old or experienced, and had, moreover, been always
taught to obey grown people, so without a thought of possible danger to
herself, she followed the woman into the house, while Tessa waited for
her outside, and was soon standing by the bedside of her old
acquaintance.
She would never have known Bertie Sanderson. The long, disorderly hair,
as well as the disfiguring "bangs," had, by the doctor's orders, all
been shaved off; the round, rosy cheeks were pallid and sunken; the
solid frame was wasted almost to a skeleton, and there was a fierce,
wild look in the eyes alternated with an expression of intense fear.
Katie stood aghast, and even as she looked the wasted lips suddenly
shrieked out:--
"Katie, Katie Robertson! Send her here. I want to tell her something."
"I am here," said Katie, as soothingly as she could, for her fright.
But Bertie took no sort of notice of her; evidently did not recognize
her at all, and went on:--
"It wasn't a lie! I did see her find it and put it in her pocket. That's
being a thief, isn't it? It was money--a great deal of money. I saw a
five and a nought. It wasn't a lie, I tell you! She did steal it!
Katie's a thief, for all she's so saintly."
Katie started. This, then, was the mystery; this was the secret thing
that had been setting so many against her. She had never in all her
speculations concerning the general avoidance thought of this as a
cause. Bertie must have seen her find that fifty-dollar bill and put it
in her pocket. But even if, from mere idleness, she had repeated the
story to her companions, had she told simply what she really saw, could
it be called stealing? And if Miss Eunice or Miss Etta had heard it they
would naturally have spoken of it to their brother; he would have told
the facts as he knew them, and that would have made matters all
straight.
Bertie must have altered her tale in some way, exaggerated it, or
suppressed a part. What for? Could her companion be so malicious as
simply to desire to make her unpopular and to prevent the young ladies
from looking upon her with approbation? She could not understand it. Of
course she could not, for malice and jealousy were entirely foreign to
Katie's nature, even if she had not been striving "in all her ways to
acknowledge" her Saviour. She did wish, however, that she had thought of
mentioning her good fortune and Mr. James's kindness at the time, that
all this trouble might have been avoided.
Meanwhile Bertie began to moan and cry and call for Katie; and the
latter, after speaking in vain again and again, turned to go.
"Oh, don't go away!" said Mrs. Sanderson, imperatively. "She'll know
you by-and-by; and I can't stand her calling for you; besides, if you
can just stay with Bertie and give her the medicine and drink, I might
get a chance to see to Alf., who is most as bad as she is, and see what
Nina's doing with those children; they've been screaming this half-hour.
I don't believe she's given 'em a mite of dinner, and I guess there
ain't anything in the house for supper. You just stay where you are."
Not a thought had selfish Mrs. Sanderson for the fact that she was
exposing a neighbor's child to the same evil which had overtaken her
own. Nor in Katie's inexperience did she think of it either; but she did
feel very indignant at the tone of command and very much inclined to
rebel.
Moreover, she did not want to stay and take care of a girl who had
behaved so shamefully toward herself. One by one the bitter things she
had been forced to endure through this girl's treachery and
deceitfulness came to her remembrance--the avoidance of her companions,
the disapprobation and suspicion of the overseer, the changed manner of
her Sunday-school teacher, the tears she had shed in secret, and the
discouragement she had felt in her efforts to be good; and a sense of
indignation possessed her which for a moment made her feel almost glad
that the girl had thus got her deserts.
But this feeling was not of long continuance. The Good Spirit, who was
leading Katie along the paths of righteousness, would not allow her to
turn aside from them because for the moment the way seemed unpleasant
and opposed to her natural inclinations. Unheard by outward ears, but
heard quite plainly in her heart, he whispered words that made the
little girl pause and think a second time before she refused to do as
she was commanded. Here was a good opportunity of being like Christ. He
forgave his enemies. He was kind to the unthankful and the evil. He gave
up his life that those who hated and persecuted and finally killed Him
might be saved. This thought decided her.
"Let me speak a word to Tessa first," she said; "then I'll stay."
She then told her waiting companion how ill Bertie was, and how Mrs.
Sanderson was overwhelmed with so many to see to, and wanted her to
stay and help. She asked Tessa to get tea for the boys and send one of
them for her at bedtime, all of which her friend promised faithfully to
attend to, and went her way.
When Katie returned to the sick-room, Mrs. Sanderson actually thanked
her, and then went off, glad to attend to other responsibilities, and
the young nurse was left with the excited, tossing patient. Strangely to
herself, she did not feel the least anger or bitterness toward her now,
in spite of all her unkindness to herself. The words which had been in a
recent Sunday-school lesson, "I was sick and ye visited _me_," came
again and again to her mind, and it hardly seemed to be Bertie to whom
she was called to minister. She had no experience in sickness, but to
some people nursing is an intuitive gift, and Katie inherited it from
her mother. Her touch was cool and light. She seemed to know by instinct
when the patient needed drink or change of position. She smoothed the
disordered bed, shook up the pillows, turned the cool side uppermost,
closed the open blind through which the western sun was blazing into
the sick girl's eyes, and finding a large newspaper lying on the floor,
made a fan of it, keeping off the flies and creating a current of air,
till by degrees the tossings and cries ceased, the wildly staring eyes
closed, and Bertie fell into a light, though restless, sleep.
Meanwhile, Mr. Sanderson had come home from the bindery, and seemed
surprised to find Katie sitting so quietly by his sick child. He
remonstrated with his wife--in another room--for exposing a stranger to
such danger of infection; but when she asked him what she was to do with
two sick children and three well ones on her hands, and who was to get
the meals for them all, he had no answer to give, only he set about
making the fire and getting supper himself, holding the baby on one arm
and telling Nina what to do about setting the table. When all was ready
he sent Katie down to her supper and himself watched the two sick
children,--which, now that one of them slept, was quite
possible,--resuming his watch after he had had his own. Mrs. Sanderson
declared that she was completely "beat out," as well she might be, poor
woman, and dropping on the lounge in the sitting-room was asleep in a
moment, while Katie coaxed Nina to help her wash the dishes, clear up
the room, and put the two younger children to bed.
By this time Dr. Bolen came in, looked at his patients, and said that,
though Bertie was certainly not better, sleep was the best thing for her
and should be encouraged as much as possible. Alf., he thought, would do
well. Then seeing Katie and not recognizing her, he asked where that
other girl came from and what she was doing there. Mrs. Sanderson
explained, dwelling emphatically upon Bertie's cries for her friend and
the soothing influence her presence had exerted.
"That's all very well," said the doctor; "but how am I going to excuse
it to her mother if she gets the fever, and what am I going to do with
another patient upon my hands and no one to nurse her?"
"Oh, well, there's no harm done. She's only been here a little while,
and her brother's coming to take her home before long."
"Not quite so fast, my good lady. She has been exposed to the fever
already, and if she goes home now, may communicate it to her two
brothers or the other girl that boards with them. Then her mother would
be sure to go home to take care of them, and there would be an end of my
hospital and my quarantine. No; she must either go to her mother and
take her chance there, or she must stay here till we see whether she has
escaped the contagion."
"Please, let me stay here," said Katie, who had overheard this
conversation. "I don't think I shall have the fever, but I am sure I can
be of use to them all."
"Wouldn't you like to go and be with your mother?"
"Yes, sir, I'd like to, but I'd _rather_ stay here; because, because
they need me, and"--the rest of the sentence was spoken low as if
without being intended for any one to hear, but both the doctor and Mr.
Sanderson heard it and marveled at the words. They were:--
"Even Christ pleased not himself."