White Lilies
FRIGHTENED immeasurably at the discovery that her mother was quite
unconscious, Felicia summoned Mrs. M'Cosh, who bathed the invalid's
face and hands with cold water and soon succeeded in reviving her and
in reassuring the little girl who stood trembling by the bedside. One
point Mrs. M'Cosh now insisted upon, and that was that a doctor should
be called in. Accordingly, the parish doctor was sent for, and came
and examined the sick woman very carefully. He spoke of heart trouble
and general debility, but much to the relief of mother and daughter
he did not suggest the patient's removal to a hospital. He would tell
the district nurse to look in, he said, and he would also speak to the
relieving officer.
"Meanwhile, I will undertake to see that Mrs. Renford wants for
nothing," declared Mrs. M'Cosh; "I live in the house and understand
nursing."
The doctor nodded and took his departure, promising to call again on
the following day. Mrs. M'Cosh followed him downstairs and held a
brief conference with him ere he left the house. Ten minutes later she
reappeared in the attic, bearing a tray which held a teapot, three
cups, a cake, and a plate of daintily cut bread and butter.
"I thought it would be pleasant for us all to have tea together," she
remarked as she put her burden on the table. "Now, Felicia, try to make
a good meal, to please me, and do you try also, my dear," she added,
glancing at the invalid.
"I shall never be able to thank you for your kindness," Mrs. Renford
replied, with rather an uncertain smile. She was deeply touched by the
way in which Mrs. M'Cosh had called her "my dear."
"Please don't try," was the quick response; "I've a notion that if I
was ill you'd do as much for me. Yes, I know you would. Now, Felicia,
cut that cake whilst I pour out the tea."
The little girl obeyed. She was looking quite bright and smiling,
the truth being that she thought her mother could not be very ill,
as the doctor had not ordered her removal to the hospital; and she
was so relieved at his not having done so that she was feeling quite
light-hearted. Poor little girl, she did not dream of the trouble which
was coming upon her!
Mrs. M'Cosh watched her with an expression of mingled sympathy and
tenderness which was not lost upon the invalid, who, at the conclusion
of the meal, suggested that Felicia should go out and do the errands
she had mentioned earlier in the day. Accordingly, Felicia sallied
forth, carrying a great bundle of blouses and aprons to be delivered at
the shop for which her mother worked, satisfied with the knowledge that
Mrs. M'Cosh would remain in the attic till her return.
"Indeed, she is very, very kind," thought the little girl gratefully;
"and she seems to get on with mother better than she did at first."
She took the blouses and aprons to the shop, and received the payment
for the making of them—only a small sum, certainly, but sufficient to
buy a few groceries. How she longed to be able to purchase something
very nice for her mother! She lingered outside the provision shops
staring into the windows, halt no one took any notice of her. In
Bristol, that city of charities, as in most places, it is the deserving
poor who are generally overlooked.
"Oh, if I were only rich!" sighed Felicia, pausing by-and-by before a
florist's shop. "How I wish I had some of those flowers for mother! Oh,
those roses and lilies! How she would love a sight of them!"
A young lady—a pretty young lady clad in a pale blue gown—came out of
the shop at that moment carrying a great bunch of white lilies. Felicia
drew back to let her pass, and as she did so the other's eyes rested
upon her with a clear, observant glance which caught the expression of
mingled admiration and longing in the little girl's face. The young
lady uttered no word, but she smiled—Felicia never forgot that smile,
it was so full of understanding and goodwill—and selecting several
stalks of the flowers laden with budding blooms, she gently placed
them in Felicia's hand ere she passed swiftly on. It was one of those
gracious, spontaneous acts which are always so sweet because entirely
unexpected, and Felicia's countenance glowed with delight.
"How good of her! I wonder what made her do it?" she thought as she
hurried homewards. "And I never thanked her! She was gone in a moment!
Oh, how pleased mother will be!"
On reaching home she stole gently upstairs, reflecting that her mother
might be asleep, but she proved on the contrary to be very wide-awake
and turned a pair of alert, dark eyes towards the door as her little
daughter entered. There were traces of recently shed tears on her thin
cheeks, but she smiled as she caught sight of the flowers, exclaiming—
"Lilies! Oh, how lovely! Where did you get them?"
Felicia told her, placing them in her hand. She bent her face over
them, drinking in their delicious perfume. "Consider the lilies," she
said softly. "Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh, God has sent them to remind me of His
promises, and of my faithlessness. Doesn't it seem like that?"
Mrs. M'Cosh nodded. Glancing at her, Felicia noticed, with a sensation
of dismay, that she had been crying too, and even now her eyes were
full of tears. What had she and her mother been talking about? Felicia
wondered. The little girl was soon to learn, for, when their neighbour
had gone downstairs to prepare her husband's supper, and Felicia had
put the groceries away in the cupboard and arranged her flowers in a
tall pickle jar, on the table, Mrs. Renford called her to the bedside.
"I want to have a talk with you, little daughter," she said, a slight
hesitation in her tone. "No, dear, I am not too tired. What I have to
say must be said to-night, for I may not have another opportunity—"
"Why not, mother?" Felicia interposed quickly, her voice betraying the
anxiety she felt.
"Because, dear, I am very ill. The doctor says my heart is in a very
bad state; I have thought so myself for some time, and—and I must put
my house in order, so to speak—"
"Mother!"
It was an exceedingly bitter cry, full of sorrow and fear, and bursting
into a passion of grief, Felicia sobbed unrestrainedly. Mrs. Renford
watched her pitifully, murmuring, "Poor child! Poor child! My poor
little girl!"
At length it dawned upon Felicia that for her mother's sake she must
try to compose herself, and struggling to subdue her sobs, she wiped
the tears from her eyes, but they would flow again.
"Oh, mother, it cannot be that you are so ill as that!" she cried at
length.
"Yes, my dear, it is so. I do not mind except for you, and—and
even for you, Felicia, it may be for the best. Don't look at me so
reproachfully, dear, I know what I am saying. Listen to me, little
daughter, and don't make things harder for us both than you can help."
"Oh, mother, I will try not to! But, oh, what shall I do, what shall I
do when—when—"
"When I am gone? It is about that I want to speak to you. You
know, dear, you have relations in Somerset, your grandfather and
grandmother—your father's parents."
"I can't bear to think of them, mother. They were cruel to you."
"They were not kind," Mrs. Renford admitted, "but—but they did not
understand. They never forgave their son for marrying me, and when he
died they would have taken you from me, it is true; but—I want you not
to dwell on that. When I am gone, I believe they will give you a home.
I've been talking matters over with Mrs. M'Cosh, and she agrees with me
that you ought to go to them—but not whilst I live; I cannot part with
you yet, my dear, dear child."
Felicia flung her arms around her mother's neck, and kissed her with
passionate affection. Her tears had ceased to flow now, but her heart
was full of a dull sense of despair.
"My mind has been much troubled by doubts and fears to-day," Mrs.
Renford proceeded to admit, "but when you came in just now with those
lilies, they reminded me of Christ's promise to care for His own. Did
He not say, 'Fear not, little flock'? And you and I belong to His
flock, Felicia, and though we shall be parted before long by the valley
of the shadow of death, we shall meet again. Oh, my dear, that thought
must be our consolation now!"
Mrs. Renford sank back exhausted upon the pillow, but presently she
continued the conversation.
"I have made a great many mistakes in my life," she confessed sadly.
"I ought not to have married your father without his parents' consent,
but I was young and thoughtless, and I did not understand they would
so utterly disapprove of me as they did. I was not brought up as they
considered their son's wife should have been. Oh, Felicia, if better
days come to you, don't let them make you forget the past, and—and—if
anyone endeavours to teach you to be ashamed of your mother, remember
that, though she was a 'nobody' and not very wise, she loved you and
tried to teach you to be a good girl, and—she did the best she could.
God doesn't ask more than that, and you know His judgment is not the
world's, but infinitely loving and merciful."
"Oh, mother, do you think I could ever be ashamed of you?" Felicia
questioned in a heart-broken voice. "Oh, why do you talk to me like
this? Perhaps, after all, the doctor is mistaken, and you will recover."
"It may be so, of course; I have heard that doctors cannot always tell
how it will be when a patient is suffering from heart disease. But if
he is right, you will do as I wish, will you not?"
Felicia nodded silently, and her mother was satisfied.
"I have given Mrs. M'Cosh instructions how to act. I feel she is one
to be trusted, and she has proved herself kind and sympathetic—a
true friend in need." Mrs. Renford paused, and her eyes wandered to
the flowers on the table—the room was full of their fragrance. "How
beautiful those lilies are!" she exclaimed, with a ring of pleasure
in her frail voice; "God bless the young lady who gave them to you,
whoever she is. They have come like a message from God."
For several days the lilies bloomed in the pickle jar, whilst the sick
woman grew weaker hour by hour. Felicia was obliged to cease working,
for her mother could not endure the sound of the sewing machine;
and, instead, she spent her time ministering to the dear invalid who
followed her eve loving, wistful eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh came and went; the
doctor was very kind and attentive, and the district nurse called
to see what she could do; but Mrs. Renford was passing beyond human
assistance. One morning found her lying white and lifeless with a smile
of ineffable content upon her lips, and Mrs. M'Cosh—her plain face
swelled and purple with weeping—laid the pure, white lilies on her
breast, and then led Felicia—stunned with grief at the loss she had
sustained—unresistingly from the room.