THE BURDEN MAKES ITSELF FELT
"MR. BETTS," said the nurse, three days later, as she came into the
room, "that lady is downstairs, and she wants to know if you would
like to see her."
"What lady?" asked Michael, though he thought he knew.
"The lady who made you the jelly—Mrs. Lavers, of course."
"Oh no," said Michael, shrinking down and drawing the bedclothes
closer about him, as if he would fain hide himself; "I don't want to
see her. I can't have her coming here. Tell her so, please."
"Don't you think that seems rather ungrateful, when she has been so
kind to you?" asked the nurse. "Shall I say that you do not feel
strong enough to see her to-day, but you hope to do so in a day or
two?"
"No, no, no!" cried Michael vehemently. "Say nothing of the kind. I
can't see her, I tell you. I can't and I won't, so there!"
"You're a strange man," said the nurse; and she went away, perhaps to
repeat the same remark below stairs.
When she came back into the room a little later, Michael's eyes were
fixed on her anxiously.
"Has she gone?" he asked.
"Yes, she has gone."
"What did she say?"
"Oh, she was sorry you would not see her, and she asked me to give
you this." And the nurse held out to him a little bunch of sweet
violets.
But Michael recoiled as if she were offering him something
disagreeable.
"I wish she hadn't," he said.
"Well, you are ungrateful," said the nurse. "Catch me ever giving you
flowers! And why you couldn't have let her come up to see you, I
can't think. She would have read a chapter of the Bible to you,
perhaps, and that would have done you good."
"I can read one to myself," said Michael.
"You're hardly strong enough for that yet. Have you a Bible?"
"Of course I've got a Bible," replied Michael indignantly. "What do
you take me for? There is one somewhere that belonged to my mother,
and there are plenty of them in the shop. Pretty old some of them
are, too. The older they are, the more precious they are, you know."
"The Bible is precious anyhow," said the nurse. "It is a grand
comfort, especially when one is weak and low. But you're thinking
only of the binding, and the paper, and the print, Mr. Betts."
"Of course I am," he said; "it's my business to think of them."
"And does it not concern you to think of what is written in the
Bible?"
"Oh, I know all about that. I was taught the Bible when I was young.
I used to go to Sunday School. You need not look at me, nurse, as if
you thought me a great sinner. I've always lived honest and
respectable. I've never—"
The words that Michael had been about to utter stuck in his throat.
It was no longer possible for him to declare that he had never done
wrong.
"Well, I know that I am a sinner," said the nurse, "and I'm glad I
know it, since it was not the righteous, but sinners, whom Jesus came
to save. And I can't help thinking that perhaps the worst sin of all
is not to be conscious of sin."
"I don't know what you mean," said Michael; "I can't profess to be a
worse man than I am. I've always tried to do my duty. And I've been
good to other people, though they've only repaid me with ingratitude."
"Ah, it's hard to meet with ingratitude," said the nurse; "it does
make you feel as if you would never do anything for people again. But
then we forget how often we ourselves are ungrateful to God. Now
don't you go and be ungrateful, Mr. Betts."
"Why should you say that?" he asked.
"Oh, I was only thinking how good God has been in restoring you to
health."
"Was I so very bad?" asked Michael.
"Indeed you were ill. There was one day when I almost gave you up.
But that seems long ago now, and you are making a good recovery.
You'll soon be as well as ever."
Michael looked grave. He doubted the nurse's last statement. He felt
that his illness had made an old man of him. Most people had thought
him one before. Michael heaved a deep sigh, and was silent. He lay
still for some time, his contracted brow showing that he was thinking
deeply, and when at last he spoke, his words puzzled the nurse, since
she had not been able to follow his train of thought.
"Was she smartly dressed?" he asked.
"She? Who? Of whom are you speaking, Mr. Betts?"
"The lady who brought those flowers," he said.
"Why, no; she's in widow's mourning, poor thing."
"Ah, to be sure, I forgot," he murmured.
"I don't fancy she would have been smart in any case," continued the
nurse. "I don't think she has much to be smart with. I noticed that
her gloves were shabby. And the little girl's frock was the worse for
wear."
"Ah, then the little girl was there," said Michael, with some
eagerness.
"Yes, indeed, and she's the sweetest little mite that ever I saw, and
with such a quick tongue. She asked me ever so many questions about
you, Mr. Betts. She wanted to know how old you were, and whether your
hair had turned white in your illness, and if you were able to read
in bed. I think she would have liked to come and see you. Oh, and I
was to be sure to tell you that if you would like her 'Pilgrim's
Progress' to read whilst you were ill she would lend it to you."
"Bless her!" murmured old Michael.
He felt it would be delightful to see her come into his room. How her
fair face and sunny locks would light up the old gloomy attic! Her
pretty tones would be like music in his ears. But then he remembered
that he had wronged her too. He could not look on her without feeling
that he had injured her. It would hurt him to receive kindness from
her. The wrong that he had done had raised a barrier between them.
How he wished that he had taken the notes to Mrs. Lavers at once! It
would have been so much easier to explain then. The thought of that
past action was beginning to weigh on his mind like a load.
As he felt it thus, there was suddenly recalled to his mind the
picture in the "Pilgrim's Progress" to which little Margery had drawn
his attention—the picture of the man with the heavy burden on his
back. He could hear the childish voice saying:
"Oh, weren't you glad, Mr. Betts, when his burden fell off? Have you
lost your burden, Mr. Betts?"
Well, if he had not known then, he knew now that he had a burden to
carry. With the thought he gave such a groan, that the nurse came in
haste to see what was the matter with him.
"Can't you rest comfortably?" she asked.
"No, I can't," he answered; "I'm very uneasy—very uneasy indeed."
The next day Michael was permitted to sit up for a little while. He
scarcely appreciated the privilege, for when he moved from the bed,
he realized how very, very weak he was, and felt so good-for-nothing
that he was thankful when he was allowed to lie down again. But the
following day he felt stronger, and was able to sit up a little
longer, and he continued to make progress till the day came when he
was able to go downstairs.
One day, Michael asked his nurse to go downstairs and fetch him a
Bible. She would have no difficulty in finding one in the shop, he
said, if she looked on a certain shelf to which he directed her. And
then Michael sighed as he thought of the shop. What would become of
his business with the shop shut up for so long? His rival in the
Tottenham Court Road was probably flourishing at his expense, and
drawing away some of his best customers. What a thing it was to be
all alone, with no one to depend on in time of need!
When his nurse brought him the Bible, Michael opened it and sat for
some time studying its pages. It was years since he had read the
Bible, and though he professed to "know all about it," the old,
almost forgotten words impressed him now with strange freshness and
vividness. But though he read passage after passage, what he read
gave him little comfort. The Book seemed to speak only to condemn
him. "He that loveth not his brother whom he has seen: how can he
love God whom he hath not seen?" Here were words that set him
thinking.
Michael knew that he did not love his poor outcast brother. No, he
had wished him dead. Nor did he love God. No, his heart was so cold
and dead he hardly knew what love meant.
Michael never forgot the evening when he first came downstairs, and
had his tea served to him in the little back sitting-room. It was a
dreary return to his old surroundings. There was no one to give him a
welcome except Mrs. Wiggins, and her greeting was of a lugubrious
character. According to her code of propriety, it was the correct
thing to express sympathy by assuring him that he looked "awful bad
yet," and that it would be long ere he lost the effects of his
illness, and indeed he could never hope to be the man he was, with
other such cheering truths.
His nurse had done her best to give to the dingy old room a cheerful
appearance. There was a bright fire in the grate, the table was set
quite daintily, and hot buttered toast, a poached egg and fresh
watercress were there to tempt his appetite. But Michael had never
felt so depressed in his life as when he looked round on his old
familiar haunt. On the morrow his nurse was to leave, and he would be
thrown entirely on himself again. The prospect filled him with
despair. The old, lonely, loveless life looked hateful to him now.
Michael had finished his tea, and was resting in the big armchair,
when the shop bell rang sharply, and Mrs. Wiggins came a few minutes
later to say that a messenger had come, who wished to speak with the
nurse. She went out to attend the summons, and Michael waited,
wondering what it might mean. In a few minutes she returned, her
demeanour betraying some excitement.
"I am sorry to say, Mr. Betts, that I must leave you this evening,"
she began; "at once, indeed. The doctor knows that you can do without
me now, and he has sent to beg that I will go at once to Mrs. Lavers'
house. Her little girl is very ill."
"Ill! The little girl!" exclaimed Michael, starting forward in his
chair. "You don't mean that?"
"Indeed I do, unhappily. It's diphtheria she has, poor little dear,
and that's a terrible thing with children. You won't mind my leaving
you a few hours earlier?"
"Mind! Of course not. Go at once, nurse; go and do all you can for
her. Oh, do try your utmost to save her life, for I—I love that
little girl, nurse. I could not bear to hear that she was dead."
"You may be sure I shall do my best for her," she responded, looking
at him in amazement. So he had the remnant of a heart after all, this
poor old man.