BURDENS.
MAIMIE’S work had dropped to the ground, and she was leaning forward,
with eyes shut, one hand pressed to her side, the other holding a chair
for support.
“Maimie!” Jack cried again; “are you ill? Mother, look!” he said
passionately.
We were all three by her side in a moment. She made a kind of
warding-off movement, and muttered, “Don’t move me!”
“You had better lie down on the sofa,” I said. “I think you have been
working too hard.”
She shook her head, and then rested it against Cherry.
“Come, my dear,” I said, touching her.
After a moment’s hesitation she stood up slowly; but then there was a
gasp, almost a cry, and she dropped back, white as ashes.
“O don’t make me move,—please, please don’t,—it is so cruel.”
“Mother, you must not,” Jack cried, in a trembling voice, as if he too
thought me cruel. I could have borne anything but this. I felt my heart
grow suddenly hard.
“Of course Maimie can sit here, if she prefers to do so,” I said
coldly. “I thought she would be better on the sofa.”
Maimie hid her face on Cherry’s shoulder, and sobbed. I stood waiting,
uncertain whether to go back to my work, and deterred by a fear of
seeming unkind in Jack’s eyes.
“The wisest plan would really be to go upstairs and lie on your bed,” I
said at length.
“If you only would leave me in peace!” moaned the girl.
She yielded presently, however, so far as again to stand up, allowing
us to help her. It was evidently no mere case of fancy, for her lips
were quite colourless, and the sharp catches in her breath, though
partly hysterical, told also of severe pain. I suggested her bedroom
again, and proposed a hot fomentation, but she shuddered, and almost
petulantly declined; so Cherry ran for pillows, and tried to place her
comfortably on the sofa. I heard two or three times an impatient—“That
won’t do—” and “Oh, don’t,” followed by a low-toned,—“I’m sorry I was
cross, Cherry.”
Cherry answered this with a kiss.
“Better, Maimie?” she asked.
“No. It’s dreadfully bad, Cherry.”
I came near again, and asked,—“Where is the pain?”
A motion of her hand to her side was the only reply.
“Have you had it before to-day?”
“Not so badly. Please leave me alone.”
“A hot fomentation would be the best thing for you,” I said again.
“O no; I only want to be left alone. Please don’t speak.”
So I went to my work, and Cherry retired to hers, both with a sigh.
Jack took up his station watchfully near the sofa, like a faithful dog.
I did not know what to think. My own children, with the exception of
Cress, had known remarkably good health. And even for Cress’ ailments,
home-care and tending had commonly been sufficient. We had mercifully
known almost nothing of acute illnesses, through my married life. Amid
many troubles, that trouble had been spared us. If Maimie now were
going to be ill, or were going to prove only delicate in a general way,
it would be a serious matter.
It is curious how heavily any new anxiety seems to weigh upon one. I
have been often struck with this. Old cares go on year after year, and
in a measure we grow accustomed to the bearing of them. I suppose the
back becomes fitted to the burden. But a new trouble does not fit at
all. It frets and fidgets, and we cannot forget it for a moment.
After all, neither old nor new worries aught so to weigh upon those who
truly serve God. For are we not told,—“Cast thy burden upon the Lord,
and He shall sustain thee”? If our burden is truly cast off upon God,
then we certainly have not to bear it ourselves as well. And if we may
indeed walk with no burden at all to bear, then how light and free our
steps might be!
But I am quite sure I did not cast off my burden that day upon Him. If
I had done so, it would not have pressed so hardly upon me.
I am writing about everyday anxieties,—just such as hundreds of people
are constantly going through. I think it is in these commonplace
anxieties that people most signally fail. If any very great sorrow
comes, such as the loss of husband or child, then in our helplessness
we rush to our God for help, and He bears us on. But the lesser cares
and fidgety worries we try to bear ourselves,—and of course that means
that we bear them badly.
Just so I failed that day. Things looked dark and sad, as I sat over
my mending. I began to wonder if anybody ever had such troubles as I
had. I could not see how in the world we were to meet the expenses of
the coming half-year. It would have been difficult enough in any case.
And now here was Maimie, not only thrust upon us for support, but also
threatened with illness, perhaps severe illness. What should we do?
What could we do?
From where I sat, I could see the pale face with its pretty outline,
and the brows drawn into a fixed frown of pain. Maimie’s flaxen hair
was tossed back in disorder, and the white lips stirred with a quick
panting motion. I could see the slender hands clasped together, as if
in a struggle for self-command.
As I worked, and looked, and thought, there came into my mind words of
gentle rebuke—“O thou of little faith, wherefore dost thou doubt?”
Yet still I went on doubting. For mingled with the pain of anxiety
was another pain—more like pain of jealousy. Why should my Jack sit
there, watching Maimie with such fixed grieved eyes? Of course we
were all sorry for Maimie—quite sorry enough. I could have pitied her
tenderly—but for Jack. I did not like my Jack to wear that look to
anybody except myself.
And I was wrong. I knew it even then; I know it better now. What! was
I to demand a monopoly of my boy’s heart? He loved me none the less
because he gave love also to this forlorn child cast into our midst.
What business had I with miserable jealousy?