SICKNESS.
All was changed at Dr. Vale's cottage on Monday noon: Mrs. Maxwell,
Harty, and Lucy once more sat down to dinner by themselves. The
doctor was with a distant patient, and Rosa had gone with Mr.
Gillette, to pass a few days in the city.
Although Mr. Gillette had been with them so short a time, both Harty
and Lucy were sorry to part with him; and they did not wonder at
Rosa's strong attachment to their uncle.
Lucy felt very sad when it was first proposed that Rosa should leave
home, although it was only for a few days; but she knew this was a
selfish feeling, and struggled to overcome it. Early on Monday
morning the packing of Rosa's trunk commenced. Lucy ran about to
wait on her sister, and helped her in her preparations as cheerfully
as if she herself were of the party; she even insisted upon lending
her certain belts and ribbons which were the treasures of her
wardrobe.
Harty was not up when the carriage came to the door; he had been
called once, but had fallen asleep again. He thrust his tumbled head
from the window, and bade his sister a hearty farewell as she drove
from the door.
This little circumstance seemed to have put him in a bad humour for
the day. He pushed away his plate at breakfast, declaring he would
not eat a mouthful of such trash; although everything was very nice,
and there were hot cakes, of which he was usually very fond.
Notwithstanding Harty's ill-humours, he was a favourite with old
Betsy, and she was always careful to send him up a good breakfast,
even when he had been lazy.
At dinner, his temper did not seem to have improved. "How you do
eat," he said to Lucy: "it takes away my appetite to see you stuff
so. I will speak to father about it."
Poor Lucy looked up in surprise, for she was only quietly taking a
moderate meal. Once she would have answered pettishly or begun to
cry, but Rosa had taught her that a cheerful as well as a soft answer
often turneth away wrath, and she smilingly replied, "Why, Harty, I
shall not be a stout, rosy girl soon, unless I make good dinners. Do
try some of this horse-radish, it will make you relish your dinner as
well as I do."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Harty, impatiently, "you need not try so hard to
be like Rosa: you can never hit it; you are as unlike as an acorn to
an apple."
Lucy blushed, and was glad that Mrs. Maxwell spoke to her just then,
for she was hurt by her brother's rudeness, and tempted to make a
hasty reply.
Mrs. Maxwell wanted a certain apron for a pattern, and Lucy ran for
it as soon as dinner was over, little thinking that even Mrs. Maxwell
had learned something from Rosa, and had spoken to her at that moment
to change the conversation.
Lucy really felt sorry to see Harty come into the dining-room after
tea, as if he intended to spend the evening there, for the frown was
on his brow. She was about to ask him why he did not go to see John
Staples, when she remembered that Rosa had said that John was a bad
companion, and that sisters ought to do everything to make their home
pleasant, even when their brothers were cross and disagreeable; for
boys were often led into temptation when out of the house, from which
they were safe when at home.
With these thoughts in her mind Lucy laid aside a mark which she was
working for Rosa, and which she was anxious to finish before her
return, and went for the chequer-board.
"Don't you want to beat me?" she asked gently of Harty.
"It is so easy to do that, I don't care for it," was his reply.
The little girl was not discouraged; she took out her scrap-book and
pictures, and the bottle of gum-arabic, and placed them on the table.
She knew Harty would be sure to take an interest in some new
engravings which one of the school-girls had that day given her.
A spirited engraving of a wild horse caught his eye, and he soon was
engaged in looking over the addition to the old stock, and in
advising Lucy where to paste them. One of the engravings he claimed
as his own. Lucy knew perfectly that he was mistaken, but she gave
it to him without a word; and when he laughed at her awkward way of
using the brush, she joined in the laugh, holding up her sticky
fingers in a comical way.
Presently Harty put his head on the table, and fell fast asleep.
"Harty must be unwell," said Mrs. Maxwell, as she roused him from his
heavy sleep, and told him he had better go up to bed.
Grumbling at being waked, he disappeared, without saying Good night
to anybody.
Rosa's room looked lonely and deserted to Lucy as she passed it that
night; and she wondered, as she put the lamp down on her own little
table, where her sister was, and what she was doing.
That pretty room was a different place to Lucy from what it once was.
She did not think of looking for robbers now; she had given that up
long ago; and when she looked out of the pleasant window, the stars
seemed like spirits, that told her of the power of the great God, who
was her friend. She had ceased to hear mysterious noises in the
orchard; the stillness of the night was only disturbed by the
twittering of some restless bird, or the waving of the tender leaves
in the soft wind; but Lucy felt no fear as she looked out upon the
quiet scene. Once she had been afraid of ghosts, and often feared at
night to see some white figure rise before her; but since she had
learned to love the ever-present, invisible God, she felt safe from
all harm, whether from spirits or evil men. Lucy liked to be alone
now, that she might think about the gentle Saviour who was ever with
her. To that Saviour she spoke in sincere prayer that night. Her
brother was not forgotten: she prayed that God might watch over him
and make him truly good, and as she did so there was not a harsh
feeling in her heart towards him, notwithstanding his unkindness
during the day.
In the middle of the night Lucy woke suddenly: she did not long doubt
as to what had roused her, for the rain was falling in torrents, and
soon there was a heavy clap of thunder, at almost the same moment
that the room was lit by the glare of lightning. Lucy lay very
still: she could not help feeling that there was some danger, but she
was calm and peaceful. "The lightning is in God's hand, my Father's
hand," she thought. "He will take care of me;" and she was soon
almost asleep again. A loud groan made her start up in bed and
listen. It was repeated, and seemed to come from Harty's room.
Without a thought but of alarm for her brother, she slipped on her
shoes, and throwing her little wrapper about her, she ran to him.
"What is the matter, Harty?" film asked, as she stood by his side.
"Go away! they'll not get me; I know where to hide," he muttered.
"Wake up, Harty," said Lucy, "there's nobody trying to catch you."
The lightning lit the room, and she saw that her brother's eyes were
wide open, and that his cheeks were flushed. She took his hand; it
was burning hot: he snatched it from her, saying, "Let me go, John,
you don't play fair."
"Don't you know me, brother?" said Lucy, leaning over him.
"Oh yes, Thomas; tell Betsy to bake me some cakes," was his reply.
Poor Lucy! what should she do? She did not like to leave her brother
to call Mrs. Maxwell; yet something, she knew, ought to be done for
him immediately. At length she thought to knock on the wall, and
wake Mrs. Maxwell, as her room was next to Harty's.
"What, afraid again?" said Mrs. Maxwell, as she saw Lucy standing by
her brother's bed.
A groan from Harty, and a few muttered words, immediately drew her
attention to him.
"I told you he was ill last night; why, how hot he is! Harty, what
ails you?" said Mrs. Maxwell in a breath.
Harty could not tell what ailed him, for he was delirious with fever.
"What shall we do?" said Mrs. Maxwell, desperately: "your father
won't be home till near morning, I know, and I am afraid to give any
medicine, for he always scolds about my 'dosing the children.'"
"But Harty ought to have something done for him, I am sure," said
Lucy.
"Well, we'll do what we can to put him in a perspiration," said Mrs.
Maxwell. "I'll go to the kitchen and make him some hot drink, and
get hot water for his feet, and may be that'll be the best thing till
the doctor comes home." So saying, she disappeared with the light
she had brought in her hand.
Lucy put on her brother's great coat, that lay on a chair; for the
storm had cooled the air, and she was quite chilly. Thus equipped,
she began to act the nurse as well as she could. Her first step was
to light a lamp. Harty had a nice lucifer-box on his shelf: she felt
carefully for it, and managed to find it without knocking down any of
his treasures.
Not a thought of fear crossed her mind, although Mrs. Maxwell had
gone to the kitchen in the basement, and there was no one near to aid
her, if her brother should attempt in his delirium to injure her.
Love to God made her trust in His protection; love to her brother
made her forgetful of danger to herself while striving to be useful
to him. She bathed his burning forehead, and moistened his parched
lips, and often spoke to him tenderly, hoping he might answer her
naturally. Sometimes, for a moment, she fancied he knew her, but as
she bent to catch his words, some unmeaning sentence would convince
her she was mistaken. How welcome was the sound of her father's
footstep! Unconscious of any evil, Dr. Vale entered the house, and
was hurried to Harty's bedside. Lucy watched his face as he felt her
brother's pulse and noticed his other symptoms, and her heart grew
sadder yet as she read his deep anxiety.
Mrs. Maxwell told him how fretful and indifferent to food Harty had
appeared during the day, and of his unusual nap in the evening; and
as she did so, Lucy felt grateful that she had borne pleasantly with
her brother's ill-humour, which had, no doubt, been caused in part by
disease. How painful her feelings would have been if she had treated
him with unkindness, though with ever so great provocation! Children
can never know how soon the illness or death of their friends may
make them bitterly lament the slightest harshness towards them.
When Dr. Vale had given Harty such medicines as he thought most sure
to give him relief, he for the first time noticed Lucy, who had kept
by the bedside. Even in his sadness, he almost smiled at the funny
little figure wrapped in the thick coat, with only the face visible,
looking out from the nightcap.
"Go to bed, child; you can do no good here, and it will make you ill
to lose your sleep," he said to her, gently.
"But, father," she pleaded, "I shall not sleep if I do go to bed; I
can't bear to leave poor Harty."
"Mrs. Maxwell and I can do all that is needed for him to-night, my
dear," said he, kissing her sorrowful face. "To-morrow we shall want
you to run about and wait on us. Go, take some rest, like a good
child, that you may be able to be useful in the morning."
With this motive to console her, Lucy went to her room. When there,
all the fearful reality of Harty's illness came fully upon her. He
might be taken from her, she thought, and at the very idea her tears
flowed fast, and her heart throbbed with distress. Lucy did not long
forget the heavenly Friend to whom she had learned to go in all her
trials. Now she prayed earnestly to Him to spare her brother's life,
or grant him his reason, that he might be able to realize his awful
situation if he indeed must die. After this prayer she felt more
composed, although very, very sad. At last she fell asleep, and did
not wake until the sun was several hours high.
Her first thought in waking was of her brother. She stole gently to
his door. Mrs. Maxwell was sitting beside him: she motioned to Lucy
to go away, and made a sign that Harty was sleeping.
The sorrow and anxiety of that day would have been harder for Lucy to
bear, if she had not been so busy. Mrs. Maxwell did not leave the
sick-room, and Dr. Vale was there nearly all the time; but unwilling
as he was to leave his son, he was obliged to visit other patients
several times during the day.
Lucy was kept almost constantly in motion. She brought for Mrs.
Maxwell what was needed from the surgery or the kitchen, and carried
messages in all directions. She carefully placed a little chair by
the door, and there she sat silently, to be ready whenever she might
be wanted.
Lucy did not ask her father any questions, but she hoped from hour to
hour to hear him say that her brother was better; but no such
cheering words fell from his lips.
Towards evening he hastily wrote a letter, and said to Lucy, as he
handed it to her to send to the post, "I have written to Rosa to come
home immediately. Tell Patty to have a room ready for Mr. Gillette;
he will return with her."
These words were full of dreadful meaning to Lucy. Harty must be
very ill, she knew, or Rosa would not have been sent for. Throwing
aside her usual quiet manner, she clasped her father round the neck
and sobbed upon his bosom. "Dear, dear father," she whispered, "do
you think Harty will die?"
"God may spare him," said Dr. Vale, his strong frame shaking with
emotion, and the tears in his eyes.
Lucy had never seen her father so much moved before, and she felt
sure that he had very little hope that her brother would be well
again.
She ceased sobbing, and a strange calmness came over her. Every
impatient or unkind word that she had ever spoken to Harty came back
to her; and oh how solemnly she resolved, if he should recover, to be
a better sister to him than she had ever been before! She tried to
remember something that Harty had said which could make her feel sure
that he would be happy in heaven, if he should die. She thought of
the Sunday evening when he had bid her "Good night" so kindly, and
joined in saying the Catechism; of the first Sunday that he had made
a prayer on entering church; and of the many times that he had
listened with interest while Rosa talked of the Saviour. But these
recollections did not set her mind at rest. She knew that God had
said, "My son, give me thine heart;" and she felt sadly sure that
Harty had never, in sincerity, given his heart to God.