A GATHERED FLOWER
The printed circulars were issued in Phebe's own name. Whether she had
the legal right to do this or not she did not know, but knew well enough
the moral right was hers.
The very first trial of the new scheme showed that it would prove a
success. This was largely attributable to two things; first, to
Reynolds' "push": the scheme being largely his own he felt the
responsibility of it, and for his own credit's sake determined it should
"go"; the other thing was Phebe's good sense; the grocery department she
conducted from a housewife's standpoint, the drapery department from a
Christian woman's standpoint, and thus in both had a considerable
advantage over her husband.
Fellow tradespeople marvelled that in the absence of the husband there
should be an extension of the business. Woman is supposed to be
conservative, yet at the same time it is acknowledged she quickly sees a
point and seizes it while the man is still thinking about it. Each
cannot be fully true. Love may make her at times conservative; but if
roused to devoted service she cannot be anything but progressive.
But if sunlight was growing in the business department the shadows were
deepening in the home department. Sturdy little Jack had been elevated
to sleeping in the crib, while frail little Queenie nestled each night
to sleep in the mother's arms. Nanna could see that the child was a
fading flower, soon to be transplanted to a fairer region, but, strange
to say, the mother's eyes only saw the still brilliant tints of the
sweet blossom. Very early every morning the child would sit up and
stroke the mother's face till she wakened, such a glad light coming into
her eyes when she had succeeded. A little later on she did not attempt
to sit up, but stretched up her arms to her mother's face. Then came a
morning when the mother woke without the touch of the little fingers;
the child was awake, the love-light as usual in the soft, grey eyes, but
with not strength enough left to show its love in the old way.
Then it was Phebe grew alarmed, and the doctor was sent for. But all
that human aid could do Nanna had already done. And then came a day when
even the shopmen stole about on tip-toe. (The Potter was about to put
His cup into the furnace again. There was high work designed for it, for
which it needed great preparation.)
All day long Phebe sat by the fire nursing her dying child on her knee.
The angels must have bent very closely round Mary of Nazareth as she
nursed her Babe; but surely they gather just as closely round a mother
whose child they are about to conduct to their King!
There was still the love-light in the little one's eyes. Nanna was
standing at the window watching the sunlight fade from the sky; Phebe
was watching the light slowly fade from her child's eyes.
The angels were bending still closer.
For one moment the little hand was once more raised to stroke the loving
face bending over it. It was a last effort, and then the light was gone.
The angels had gone.
"It is time she had some more milk," said Nanna, coming near.
"She is asleep," said Phebe, in a strained voice, "let her alone just
now," and quite hastily she put her arm over the child, drawing the
shawl partly over its face.
Nanna did not feel she had the heart to press her point, and left the
room for a few minutes. On her return she said, "Phebe, dear, you must
wake Queenie, she must have her milk; it will never do to neglect any
effort. Let me have her for a few moments. I'll promise to wake her
gently," and she held out her arms beseechingly.
Phebe's answer was to strain the little form passionately to her breast.
"Come, come," said Nanna, more firmly, "let me take her."
"To wake her?" asked Phebe, looking at her with wild eyes.
"Yes, there's a dear. You will be quite worn out."
"She will never wake again," wailed Phebe, and then tears came to her
relief, tears which in the first moments of her agony seemed to be
freezing her life's blood.
"Phebe! Phebe! Why did you not tell me before? Did you know that she was
gone when I spoke to you before?"
"Yes, but I could not let you have her, and I cannot let you have her
now." She rose to go upstairs, still carrying the little cold form.
"But I must have her, Phebe, dear," said Nanna, planting herself firmly
in Phebe's way.
"Surely, you will not take her from me yet! I cannot, oh, I cannot part
with her. It is so hard! Oh, so hard!"
"It is hard just now, darling, I know. Sit down again, and let us look
at the sweet little face." Phebe did so. "And won't you really let me
have her at all?" Nanna continued; "surely, you will!" and Phebe,
pressing a passionate kiss on the cold brow, yielded, knowing that never
again in this life would she hold that little form in her arms. Was it
any wonder she was loth to part with it, when, however much her arms
might ache for it in the future, she could never again press it to her
heart!
And then came days of darkness. Why had God allowed her child to be
taken? He could not have prevented her husband's desertion without
taking away his free will, but the child did not wish to leave her; why
did not God touch her with His healing hand? Was not her lot hard enough
without this last trial? Why did not God, to make up for the loss of
husband, allow the child to remain? Would not an earthly loving father
have done as much? These questionings would come, and her heart could
find no answers--yet.
And Nanna, who knew all about them, never chided. She just waited,
knowing that ere long comfort _would_ come. "It was the sight of sorrow
such as yours that made Jesus shed tears," she said one day. "It fair
broke the blessed Lord down to see that woman Mary cry so, and to see
the trouble death brings."
"Then you don't think He's cross with me for fretting so?" asked Phebe,
with some excitement.
"Not a bit of it, dearie. He knows right well what a blow it has been to
you, and sympathises with you; rest on that."
"That is a comfort, but then, Nanna, why did He not prevent it? He is
all-powerful, and could have prevented it if He had chosen!" It was the
old cry from a broken heart, "Why! Why!"
"Because He wished for your child exactly the same as you do." She spoke
very emphatically.
"What is that?" Phebe asked, eagerly.
"The greatest good. Be sure of this, if it had been for the child's good
she would have stayed. God can judge so much better than we can what is
the best, so He decided she was to go. You do believe, don't you,
dearie, that God knows best?--He must do!"
"Yes." But the voice had no ringing tone in it.
"And there's another thing I want you to rest on, though you cannot work
it out yet in your own mind, but it's true, for all that, and it's this,
that God will make all this trouble work for good in your own life,
quite apart from dear little Queenie's, or, even for your sake, He would
not have permitted it."
"I believe it all, Nanna, and yet it seems so hard to live out the
belief."
"Yes, dearie, I know, but that's just because the trouble has kind of
stunned you. Just you wait awhile, and you will be able not only to rest
on the fact of God's wisdom and goodness, but _cheerfully_ to rest."
"I wish I could!"
How strange it is that there is never a wounded heart but there's
somebody close by to put in some extra drop of bitterness. A friend
called in one day with the express intention of showing sympathy, but
succeeded in doing just the opposite, by remarking she was sure it was
not the will of God any little child should die, and what a pity it was
we had not more faith. All this Phebe told to Nanna, and, for a wonder,
Nanna was near to exploding.
"I do wish folk would have more sense! Why, it seems to me, some folks
think they know better than God Himself. If you had prayed, 'My child is
not going to die, my faith will keep her here,' wouldn't that have been
dictating to God! Then, think of all the holy men and women who have
died young! Do you think God allowed them to die before their time
simply because they didn't know they might have healing through faith!
Don't trouble your head about that. Why, God, perhaps, has some work up
yonder to do that only an innocent child-spirit like Queenie could do,
or He may have taken her to shield her from some evil. If your faith
could have saved that child you would have had the faith. God knew right
enough you didn't want to part with her." Then when the dear old soul
had taken breath, she started off again. "What is a sign? It's something
out of the ordinary way to teach you some special lesson. Well, Jesus
said the sick were to be cured by faith, as a sign, not as a rule.
Nobody can get over that, so there now," and off she went to give Jack
his supper.
It was not long before Phebe herself realised at least one blessing
which had come into her life since the child's departure, and that was
the sense of the nearness of the spirit world. It seemed as if a line of
light connected her world with the beyond, and the line of light was the
pathway Queenie had trod. When she had lost her mother her grief was
great, but it was the grief of a child, her soul had not the conscious
power then to reach after her loved one as now she reached after her
child.
The whole of her life seemed made up of strips of light and shade, and
just as this gleam from the golden land dawned upon her, the old
darkness seemed all to come back again. The following letter was
received from Ralph:--
"_Queen's Hotel, Adelaide._
"MY DEAR PHEBE,
"I dare say you have been wondering what part of the globe I
have travelled to. This letter will set your mind at rest on
that score. I do not suppose I shall stay here long, but any
letters you send will be sure to be forwarded to me. I have
already found several friends here and have good prospects. No
doubt my sudden departure was a shock to you, but I did it out
of regard for you, and you must think of it in that way. And
you cannot say I did not leave you well provided for. The
goodwill of the business and the stock are worth a great deal.
You are in a much better position now than before you were
married. As soon as ever I am permanently settled we will
discuss future plans. Of course I miss you and the children
very much, and no doubt you miss me. This is a splendid
country, with room to breathe in. I only wish I had come years
ago. I mean to make my mark here; no more small pettifogging
ways for me. My friends tell me I am just the man to succeed
here. It is nice to be appreciated.
"Write soon and tell me how you all are.
"I am,
"Your affectionate husband,
"RALPH WARING."
It was not long before Phebe noticed that though the letter was in a
foreign envelope, it had neither stamp nor postmark of any description.
By what means the letter had reached her seemed too great a mystery for
her to attempt to unravel, so the thought of it was put right away, the
change in Ralph's affections being quite sufficient for her to cope with
just then.