A SERIOUS ILLNESS.
As we have before stated, Mabel had only changed her upper garments.
Stockings and shoes, though soaked through in coming along the wet
grass, she had not thought of, and her wet petticoat steamed and smoked
as she stood drying it by the kitchen fire.
'Dear me! dear me!' exclaimed Aunt Mary; 'why did you not immediately
take off all your wet clothes? Clara dear, go with Mabel upstairs, help
her to undress and get into bed, and I will bring some warm tea up as
soon as possible. I am quite distressed to see the state you are in, my
dear,' she added.
Mabel, though of course obliged to obey, went off very reluctantly,
declaring all the time that she should be no worse for the wetting, and
feeling far more concerned about the spoiling of her dress and her hat,
than fearful of any consequence that might ensue from keeping on her wet
clothes.
The room in which the cousins slept opened into one that was occupied by
their aunt, so that she could easily communicate with them if anything
was the matter. Strict in requiring obedience to her commands, and in
not permitting any of her rules to be disregarded, Miss Livesay was
still a most loving and unselfish relative and friend, untiring in the
kind attentions to the sick, ever glad and ready to relieve the needy,
or to give a word of advice or sympathy when it was likely to be well
received. All the household had retired to rest but herself; she had
seen her dear children, as she often called Clara and Mabel, fast asleep
in their separate little white beds, but she still felt anxiety on
Mabel's account.
'Poor, foolish girl,' said the kind aunt to herself, 'I wonder whether I
shall ever be able to convince her of her folly. I cannot change her
heart, but I will pray that it may be changed; and I will do everything
in my power, both by example and precept, to show her that "Wisdom's
ways are ways of pleasantness, and her paths peace."' As Miss Livesay
said this, she once more went to look at the sleepers in the adjoining
room. Clara lay pale, peaceful, and soundly asleep; but Mabel, though
also asleep, looked flushed, and appeared restless.
This, Aunt Mary thought, might arise from the hurry and agitation of
running home so quickly; she did not wish to meet evils half-way, yet,
on retiring from the room, she made up her mind to take another look at
the sleeping girl during the night. This she accordingly did, but
observing no fresh symptoms for alarm, she lay down again, and only
waked when Clara came to tell her that Mabel complained of great pains
in her limbs. This sad news completely awed the kind aunt, for she
dreaded an attack of rheumatic fever, as Mabel's mamma had been a
dreadful sufferer two years before from that very serious malady. As
soon as possible, the doctor was sent for. Aunt Mary was no alarmist,
and could herself have dealt with any ordinary complaint; but she wished
to have the doctor's opinion, and, if possible, his decision, on the
real nature of the illness from which her niece was suffering, in order
that she might act with befitting caution, if there were any likelihood
of infection.
Clara sat disconsolate by the side of the pretty white bed, where her
poor cousin lay with feverish head and aching limbs. The stricken girl
was very quiet, except when she made an attempt to move, and then the
pain caused her to utter a faint cry, which thrilled through Clara's
kind heart; for she had never before been called upon to watch by a
sick-bed.
'Oh, dear Mabel, I am so sorry for you,' said the affectionate
child-nurse; 'I wish I could do anything to give you relief from your
pains.'
'Thank you, dear Clara,' said the poor girl, in a quiet, subdued tone,
very unlike that of the preceding day; even in this short time
reflection had been at work, conscience had not been inactive, for
retribution seemed to have come so suddenly as a necessary consequence
of wrongdoing.
But the doctor is here now; we must not keep him waiting. A kind,
fatherly, benevolent-looking man stands beside the bed of pain, on one
side, and the loving, anxious aunt and cousin on the other.
'You are quite right in your idea as to the nature of the complaint,
dear madam,' said Dr. Madox. 'Your niece is suffering from an attack of
rheumatic fever; a very sharp attack it appears to be, but it need not
on that account be a long one, though, just now, it is impossible to
predict. However, we will do all we can for her,' added the doctor,
cheerfully; 'in the meantime, you know, of course, that there is no
danger of infection, though I should advise the patient to be kept
perfectly quiet.'
This was indeed a very painful trial for all parties; but Aunt Mary felt
that the hand that afflicts can also sustain. She knew, also, that pain
and suffering and sorrow are often antidotes to the much more serious
evils of pride and vanity and sinful tempers, and that, when they are
submitted to patiently, they bring forth excellent fruits.
'Let me nurse dear Mabel myself, aunt,' said Clara; 'I will do
everything I can do for her night and day. Oh, I do hope she will soon
be well again!'
'And I _hope_ so too, my dear Clara,' replied her aunt; 'but you must
not think that you can attend to your cousin without help. You may of
course remain with her for company; and this need not perhaps hinder
your lessons, unless she should become very impatient, as is often the
case with sufferers in this severe malady. But health, your health, my
child, must be attended to; you must have air and exercise. And I fear
that we shall all be required to lend a helping hand to the poor invalid
should the fever greatly increase. I am just going to write to my
sister, Mabel's mamma. I must be careful not to alarm her, in her weak
state, as she is very nervous. You can return now to your cousin,'
continued Aunt Mary, 'and be sure you do not leave her alone until I
come to you. Ring for anything that is wanted.'
And now for weeks and weeks, this same selfish, self-willed girl, Mabel
Ellis, lay on the bed of pain and languishing, and I may add, I am
rejoiced to say, on the bed of sincere repentance. Yes, the salutary
lessons of adversity had not been taught in vain, for they were not
transitory ones, they had taken deep root; while the Divine precepts and
heavenly counsels, which she had heard daily from her most loving and
tender nurses, sank deep into a heart out of which had been weeded, to
make room for them, the rank and bitter weeds of pride and passion.
Mabel Ellis was indeed an altered character, when able once more to sit
up in the arm-chair; though so weak that she could scarcely speak above
her breath, her looks of love and thankfulness, and the soft eyes often
filled with glad tears, spoke most expressively to the hearts of her
aunt and cousin, for they felt that their labour of love had not been in
vain; and though all Aunt Mary's usual routine had been put aside, and
for a time a new phase of life had been set before her, in this trial
she could feel thankful.
'The seeds of affliction and pain,
When the soil has been moistened with rain
That flow'd from a penitent heart,
Into beauty, and fragrance will start.
'Oh flowers of celestial birth!
Though springing from clods of the earth,
How rich are the odours ye shed
O'er the couch where the languishing head
'Is pillow'd in gentle repose,
Forgetting awhile its past woes;
Then waking, the incense of praise,
With your odorous breathings, to raise.'
None but those who are recovering from a serious illness can conceive
the feelings of gratitude and love which take possession of the heart
when it is rightly disposed, what time the rod of affliction is removed.
Mabel seemed to feel herself a new creature, and as she threw her arms
round her cousin's neck, she gave expression to feelings of thankfulness
and love for the kind attention she had received from her and from her
aunt. She did not fail to lament bitterly the pride and sinful temper,
which now appeared to her to have been the principal cause of all her
trouble.
It was while she was thus bitterly lamenting the past, and weeping on
Clara's shoulder, that Aunt Mary came rather suddenly into the room and
surprised them.
'Come, my children,' said the kind lady, 'this will never do! Nurse and
convalescent both in tears,' she added, for Clara was also weeping; 'I
am afraid, dear Mabel, I shall have to dismiss your young attendant, and
engage one with more judgment and with less sympathy.'
'Oh no, no, dear aunt,' was the ready response. '_I_ will behave better,
I assure you,' said Clara. 'Poor Mabel is weak, and a little thing makes
her cry. She is only sorrowing now for the past; you will teach her, I
know, to hope for the future.'
'Yes, even while we sorrow, we must hope; hope is the great lightener of
all trouble. Come, cheer up, my child,' said Aunt Mary; 'I have some
pleasant news for you to-day. I have just had a letter from Camden
Terrace, to say that your papa and mamma and Freddy are coming to see
you this afternoon, and to drink tea with me. Ah, I see you can smile,
and be glad. We must have no more tears to-day; entertain only thoughts
of love and thankfulness.'