MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
MISS MANSFIELD had assured her sister that she would do all she could
for Ellen, and she kept her promise, for although her letter had
expressed no pity for her niece, her heart felt for the girl, and
she regretted her sufferings none the less that her sense of justice
pronounced them deserved.
On the morning following the accident, she had called at the hospital
to inquire for Ellen, but had not been allowed to see her, as she was
then asleep. The next day she again came to visit her, bringing some
oranges as a token of good-will. Ellen had rather dreaded seeing her
aunt, fearing she would reproach her for her disobedience. But her
aunt's manner was kinder and more gentle than she had yet known it. The
words in which she attempted to express her sympathy were abrupt and
somewhat peculiar, it is true, but they expressed genuine feeling, and
she refrained from making any allusion to the origin of the disaster.
When Ellen, overcoming with an effort her reluctance, sorrowfully
confessed her fault, and begged her aunt to forgive her, Miss Mansfield
answered dryly,—
"There's no need of many words about that. I reckon you've had a lesson
you won't forget in a hurry, and what's done can't be undone, so
there's an end to it."
The difference which Ellen observed in her aunt's manner was to be
accounted for by the fact that she had that morning, to her grief and
bitter regret, learned of Mary's death. Conscience told her plainly
that she was to blame for what had happened. Had she not so hastily and
unjustly dismissed her from her employ, Mary, in all probability, would
never have contracted the illness which proved fatal. Miss Mansfield's
self-reproach was keen, and she felt as though she could never forgive
herself for having acted as she had. Long did the memory of Mary cause
her pain, till at length, it led her to seek, at the foot of the cross,
the pardon and peace which the Saviour alone can give to the sin-laden
soul. She never forgot the lesson which this sad experience taught her,
and for the future, treated her apprentices with more consideration and
kindness than she had previously shown.
Ellen felt cheered by her aunt's unexpected kindness, but still she
longed for her mother's presence, and wished she were not so far from
those whom she loved.
Thinking about her home, and recalling happy days that were past, she
fell asleep, and in her sleep, still saw the dear old homestead, and
the faces of her parents and brothers and sisters.
She did not lose the consciousness of weakness and pain, but she
dreamed that she was no longer in the hospital, surrounded by
fellow-sufferers, and tended by a strange though kind nurse, but lying
in her little bed at home, with her brothers and sisters smiling upon
her, and her mother at hand to attend to her wants. By her side sat
Jerry, with such a happy face, as he talked to her about the Great
Physician, and heard her tell how Jesus had made her whole. Then she
saw her mother bending over her, and heard her say, "My poor Nelly!"
and even felt her kiss upon her lips. With that, she awoke and opened
her eyes. But so bewildered was she at the sight which met her gaze,
that she thought she must still be dreaming.
For as she lifted her eyes, they rested upon her mother's face—her own
mother bending over her, just as she had seen her in her dream. For a
moment, she looked in amazement, till it dawned on her mind that this
was no dream, but a joyous reality, and, forgetful of her burns, she
sprang up with a cry of delight.
"Oh, mother! How did you get here?"
"My dear child," said her mother, as she folded her in a warm embrace.
"Do you think I could stay away from you when you were laid up thus?"
Ellen cried for very joy. The sound of her mother's voice, the sense of
her presence, were unspeakably precious.
There is no one like a mother to a sick child. Ellen had often behaved
undutifully to her mother, and had manifested little gratitude for her
devotion; yet she had loved her all the while, and in pain and sorrow,
her heart had yearned for her. All past grievances were forgotten, as
she gazed on her parent's face, for was she not her own mother, who
loved her and cared for her as none other could?
"However did you manage to get away, mother?" she asked, when she had
recovered a little from her pleasant surprise. "What will poor baby do
without you?"
"Oh! Baby is getting quite a big child now, and will soon run alone.
I can trust him in Lucy's care; she is wonderfully thoughtful and
managing for her age. And father will have to be both mother and father
to them all for a few days," replied her mother.
"And Jerry? How is Jerry?" asked Ellen, eagerly.
"Oh! Jerry really seems to be getting stronger, I am thankful to say,
dear, and he has great hopes that he will be quite well in time,"
answered Mrs. Mansfield. "His father carries him downstairs now, and he
sits in the chimney-corner. He's as good as ever, bless him! Sometimes
I tremble when I listen to his words, for I fear he's almost too good
to live."
"Too good to live!" repeated Ellen. "Oh, no, mother, do not say so.
Surely one had need be good to live, as well as to die."
Many were the questions Ellen asked her mother, and much had they to
say to each other.
Whilst they were talking, Dr. Graham entered the ward, and approached
to ascertain how Ellen was progressing.
"You are her mother?" said he, as he looked at Mrs. Mansfield, for the
resemblance of child to parent proclaimed the tie.
"Yes, sir; I've come a long way to see her, but I couldn't rest till I
saw for myself exactly how she was."
"She is doing nicely," the doctor pronounced, when he had made some
inquiries of the nurse. "She does not mean to be in the hospital long,
I can see; we shall soon have to dismiss her as convalescent."
"Oh, I am thankful to hear you say that," exclaimed Mrs. Mansfield.
"It is a great relief to me. I shall be able to leave her with an easy
heart."
"Oh, mother! Don't talk of leaving me, when you have only just come,"
said Ellen, in a reproachful tone.
"My dear, there are the others to be thought of, you know," replied her
mother. "But you may be sure I will remain with you as long as ever I
can."
"How many children have you?" asked the doctor, kindly.
"Nine younger than this one, sir, and one of them a constant invalid."
"Ah, yes, I remember; my daughter was telling me this morning about
your little boy," replied Dr. Graham, who had been much interested in
the account of Jerry he had heard. "How does he suffer? Tell me all
about him."
Mrs. Mansfield readily began to give particulars of the accident which
had befallen Jerry, and his consequent sufferings.
The doctor interrupted her with many a question as she proceeded.
"And you have had no opinion on his case, save that of the country
doctor who attended him after the accident?" he said, when she had told
all.
"We have had no chance of getting any other, sir, living as we do in
the country, many miles from any town, with such a large family to
bring up, and little money to spend on them."
"True, true, I understand," said the doctor, nodding his head. "But
now, do you think you could bring the boy here, that we might see
what we can do for him? Of course, I can give no opinion till I have
examined him; but it is not improbable that his case may be more
hopeful than you suppose."
Oh! how the faces of Ellen and her mother brightened at those words.
"Indeed, sir, I should be glad to do so, if you think the journey would
not harm him," replied Mrs. Mansfield.
"Well, from what you tell me, I should think he might without risk,
attempt the journey," said Dr. Graham. "But I would not urge you to
take the step without due consideration. I need hardly tell you that
if, by God's blessing, he recovers, his cure will, in all probability,
be slow. You must be prepared to part with him for some time if you
bring him to this hospital."
Mrs. Mansfield's countenance fell. The thought of a long separation
from Jerry gave her heart a pang. But the hope held out, the
possibility of her boy's restoration to health, was worth any amount of
personal sorrow and anxiety.
"If my husband were willing, sir, I would let the lad come, for the
sake of the good he might get," she said, after a minute's silence.
"Well, when you go home, you must talk it over with your husband, and
hear what he has to say on the matter," replied Dr. Graham. "And if
you think you'd like the little fellow to come here, just let me know,
and I'll secure his admission, and look after him. There, there, you
need not thank me till we see the result. I think we might perhaps do
something for him, but I cannot speak with certainty."
He then began to explain to Mrs. Mansfield, what precautions to observe
in order to shield Jerry as much as possible from fatigue, in case the
journey were undertaken. Ellen listened eagerly to his words, and so
sanguine were her expectations that Jerry's oft-repeated prayer seemed
to her to be already answered.
For three days, Mrs. Mansfield stayed at her sister-in-law's house,
spending as much of each day as possible at her daughter's bedside.
Then, as Ellen seemed getting better, and was evidently comfortable
and well cared for at the hospital, the claims of the other children
pressed upon her mother's heart, and she felt obliged to return home.
Ellen bade her good-bye with less regret than she would otherwise
have felt, because she looked forward to Jerry's coming, which Mrs.
Mansfield hoped to bring about.
Great was the surprise of the little sufferer when the proposed journey
was named to him. They had feared that in his weakness, he would shrink
from the fatigue involved in such an undertaking. But, on the contrary,
he was delighted with the plan, and believed that it was designed by
the Lord in answer to his prayer, and would issue in his recovery.
"God grant you may be right, my boy," his mother would say, as she
listened to his hopeful words.
Yet it was not without fear that the parents made arrangements for
their child's removal to the hospital. They trembled lest their efforts
to promote his restoration to health should but do him harm. But the
boy felt no fear, and his brave, hopeful spirit served to support him
under the inevitable fatigue. His mother herself accompanied him on his
journey, for she could entrust the care of him to no one.
The day fixed for their going proved fine and mild for the time of
year, which wanted only a fortnight to Christmas. The children were all
much excited by their brother's departure, and hardly knew whether to
be glad or sorry. For were there not tears in their mother's eyes as
she wrapped her warmest shawl around Jerry's fragile form, although she
smiled the while, and talked hopefully of the future day when he would
come back to them strong and well?
Resting on a mattress in a covered wagon slowly driven by his father,
the little invalid reached the station without experiencing any
discomfort, and the rest of the journey was accomplished equally well.
That night, Jerry slept in the hospital. Lulled to rest by happy
thoughts, he passed a very different night from the first his sister
had spent within those walls.