BABY.
BUT a greater trial than the loss of money was hanging over the homes
in Myrtle Street. The summer had been an unhealthy one for children. At
many a door the black crape tied with white ribbon (as was the custom
of the place) announced that there were aching hearts within, and drew
a sigh from many a mother who saw the token. Myrtle Street had thus far
escaped better than most parts of the city; but its time was to come;
and one morning in September it was told among the neighbours that the
Wilbur children had the scarlet fever.
Letty had the greatest horror of this disorder. She had seen enough of
its effects in the Trescott family to make her regard it as more to
be dreaded than the plague. She kept Alick closely within the limits
of her own premises, and watched him with a vigilant eye, that the
malignant disease, if it appeared, might at least be taken in time; but
as yet the little boy seemed as well as a mother could wish.
There were two or three deaths in the neighbourhood, and then the cloud
seemed to pass away.
One cold, raw, damp day towards the end of October, Agnes came into
Number Nine, bringing Madge, who was now considerably grown.
"I wish you would let Madge stay here while I go down-town," she said.
"I don't know how it is, but she has been so fractious the last two or
three days that there is no living with her. I know if I leave her with
Mary there will be trouble all the time; but she is always good with
you."
Letty made no objections, and Madge was soon playing on the floor with
Alick. She was usually a merry child, and as active as a kitten; but
to-day she seemed tired and languid, and when Alick was taking his
usual noonday nap, she crept up and lay down beside him, and was soon
asleep.
Letty glanced at the children two or three times as she went about her
work, and thought what a pretty picture they would make.
After a long nap, Madge awoke, crying. Her hands were hot and dry,
her lips parched, and her eyes bloodshot and heavy. Letty took her up
without waking Alick, and, as she still complained of being thirsty,
set her in the rocking-chair, while she went for some cool water. When
she came back, Madge was dozing again. Presently Agnes came in, full of
all she had seen.
"Do look at this child," said Letty. "Isn't her throat swollen?"
"Yes, I know," replied Agnes, warming her feet composedly. "It was so
yesterday; but she did not seem to be sick,—only cross."
"Yesterday!" repeated Letty, in amazement. "You don't mean to say that
her throat was so yesterday, when you had her out in the damp and cold
half the afternoon? Why, you are crazy!"
"Nonsense!" said Agnes, lightly. "She is used to the open air, and as
tough as a knot. I suppose it is the mumps."
"Well, I should think that was enough to call for more care; for
if a child takes cold with them it goes very hard, I can tell you.
I must say, Agnes, it was presumption to take Madge out under such
circumstances. At any rate, you might have reflected before you exposed
Alick to the disease. You would not be very well pleased if I had done
so by you."
Agnes looked a little ashamed. "Well, Letty, to say the truth, I forgot
all about it, I know she was out of sorts yesterday; but she seemed
well enough this morning, only that she was fretful. They say children
never are very sick when they are cross, you know."
"I believe that is a great mistake," said Letty. "A pleasant child
like Madge seldom or never becomes cross and fretful without some good
reason."
"Oh, I don't know. Children take all sorts of fits. Mrs. Van Horn
wanted me to go down-town with her and see Rosenblatt's opening of fall
fashions,—the loveliest bonnets you ever saw, only so very small: they
hardly come on the head at all, and are perfectly covered with lace and
flowers; you never saw any thing so pretty."
"Well, well, never mind the bonnets," said Letty, a little impatiently.
"What are you going to do about Madge?"
"Dear me, Letty, you need not be so short! One would think I had made
the child sick on purpose. I am sure I think as much of my children as
you do of yours, if I don't make quite such a parade about it. What had
I better do?"
"Take her home and send for your physician at once."
"Come, Madge; come with mother," said Agnes, rising,—"your naughty
mother, who don't care any thing about her children."
But Madge would not come. She cried, and declared she could not walk;
and Agnes was obliged to carry her. Towards evening she came over
again, looking very much frightened.
"Madge is really sick. I wish you would come and look at her."
Alick was playing with Gatty; and Letty ran across the road with Agnes.
Madge was crying and very restless; and the moment Letty looked at her,
she felt as though she should drop.
"It is scarlet fever!" said Letty, in a trembling voice. "Oh, Agnes,
how could you be so careless? And she was playing with Alick all this
morning!"
"How could I tell?" said Agnes, the impulse to blame some one else
being uppermost, as usual. "You ought to have known yourself. You had
seen scarlet fever, and I never had. But you cannot think of a thing
but yourself and your baby! So selfish!"
Letty could not trust her voice to answer.
"And what will Joe say?" pursued Agnes. "It will all be my fault, of
course: every thing always is! And I dare say she will die, and the
baby too. I am the most miserable woman on earth!" And Agnes burst into
tears, thereby frightening Madge, whose sobs became shrieks.
"Listen to me, Agnes," said Letty, who by this time had regained in
some measure her usual self-control. "Madge is very sick, and you must
put by every thing else and take care of her: keep her quiet, and let
Joe go for the doctor as soon as he comes home."
"But don't go, Letty!" sobbed Agnes. "Do stay all night. I am sure you
ought to. I never can take care of Madge alone."
"You forget that I have Alick to attend to. He has been exposed just
at the worst time to catch the disease; and I must be careful that he
takes no cold, and does not eat any thing improper for him. If the
fever cannot be kept off, at least it may be lightened by proper care."
"Yes; that is always the way," said Agnes. "Every one thinks of
herself, and no one thinks or cares what becomes of me. I never saw
such selfishness."
"Of whom did you think when you ran off with Mrs. Van Horn, looking
after millinery, and left Madge to any one who chose to take care of
her?" asked Letty, thoroughly exasperated. "Of whom did you think
when you exposed my delicate little boy to the chance of mumps,—to
say nothing of scarlet fever,—merely to gratify your own senseless
curiosity about the fashions? You have always gone on, pleasing
yourself and caring for nothing and nobody else, ever since you were
born; and now you reap the consequences. It will be well if your
self-pleasing does not cost the lives of two innocent children; for, to
say nothing of this morning, it was nothing short of murder to expose
Madge as you did yesterday."
Never, since Letty was a passionate little girl, had Agnes seen her so
roused.
"I will do what I can for you," continued Letty, speaking more calmly;
"but you must not expect me to leave my own boy to attend upon you. You
had better send for your mother to come and stay with you."
"I know she won't come; and it won't do any good if she does," said
Agnes, recovering herself. "I know she will die, and the baby, too; and
Joe will say it is all my fault."
But Letty was beyond the reach of her voice; and she found herself
compelled to attend to Madge.
When Joe came home, there was the usual scene of recrimination,—which,
however, was cut shorter than common by his going after the doctor and
Mrs. Train.
Madge was very ill from the first; and Dr. Woodman looked very grave
when he saw her. In a few days the baby sickened. He had always been
a sturdy little fellow; and every one hoped he might have the disease
lightly; but the hope was destined to disappointment. The fever ran its
course in a wonderfully short time; and in four days the little boy was
in his coffin. On the same day with the baby, Alick came down, and was
pronounced very ill.
For once, Letty had neither thought nor feeling for another's trouble.
She would not leave Alick for a moment,—not even when Agnes's baby
died. Indeed, it was not easy for her to do so; for he cried after her
the moment she left the room, and would hardly take food or medicine
from any one else. She went about her duties outwardly calm, but with a
heavy burden on her heart and with one thought in her mind:
"I can never forgive Agnes!—Never! Never!"
She could not think. She could not pray. She could not rest in any of
those divine promises which had heretofore been her stay in times of
trouble. She walked in darkness and saw no light. She felt that the
whole universe was cruel to her,—even God himself. For once she was
self-willed. Mrs. De Witt would have persuaded her to lie down and take
some rest while the child slept; but she would, not go,—not even for
John's entreaty. She had naturally a strong, passionate nature; and its
whole force rose in rebellion against the threatened stroke. She could
not and would not submit.
Of course this could not go on. Little Alick died after some days'
illness,—died on Thanksgiving-day, which seemed to make the trial
harder to endure. Letty went through the funeral service with the same
outward composure which had alarmed her friends from the beginning; but
on returning from the grave, she fainted away several times, and the
next day was too ill to sit up.
In this emergency, Mrs. De Witt came out in all her strength. If ever
a woman contrived to be in several places all at once, she was that
woman. Her own house was as orderly as ever, and her husband's meals
always ready and comfortable: yet she contrived to find time for the
care of Letty and her house. She was nurse, housekeeper and mistress to
both families at once; and she did it all well.
She had an efficient help in Gatty, who had been trained in ways of
usefulness from her cradle. Mrs. De Witt had thought at one time of
sending her into the country, to be out of harm's way; but she changed
her mind, and contented herself with keeping the child away from
Alick during his illness. The reasons she gave for her course were
characteristic:—
"You see, it a'n't as if she hadn't been exposed already. She has; and
she may come down any time. If she is here, I can keep watch of her;
and I know what's what. I sha'n't think she has got the fever every
time she sneezes, and I sha'n't send her out in the cold for a walk
because her head aches with the rash coming out. Garrett's wife is like
enough to do either, or both. Besides, if she is here, she can see to
the dinner and wait upon her father, while I am taking care of Alick
and helping Mrs. Caswell."
At the end of a week Letty was able to sit up and come down-stairs; but
when she tried to take up her household work again, she found it out of
her power. She could not work. She had overtaxed her strength, and was
now paying the penalty. She struggled in vain against her weakness.
Her strength was becoming less every day; and she could do little but
lie on the sofa and think. The doctor came to see her, and prescribed
tonics; but nothing seemed to do any good; and every one began to fear
that she would soon follow her child.
One day Dr. Woodman came in and found her alone, weeping. A Testament
was lying by her, but she was not reading. After a few inquiries, the
doctor went to the door, sent away his horse, and then came back and
sat down by Letty's side. After a few minutes' silence he took up the
Testament.
"You have a good companion here," said he. "I hope you find comfort in
it?"
Letty involuntarily shook her head, and the tears started afresh.
"My dear Letty," said the doctor, "it may appear like a strange remark
to make to a woman who has just lost her only child, but it seems to me
that you are suffering from something more than grief for your little
one. Tell me: do you feel that God is with you in this sorrow?"
"No," replied Letty. "He is not. I am alone. God has forsaken me, and
refuses to hear my prayers. I am all alone, and must be alone. There
is no comfort for me anywhere, and I can never look forward to seeing
my child again: I have no hope, and am without God in the world!" Her
voice was lost in sobs.
"God can never forsake or forget us, though we forsake and forget Him,"
said the doctor. "Tell me: have you not given yourself to God to be
entirely his?"
"I thought I did, once," said Letty.
"Never mind what you did once. Very likely you did; but you can no more
live upon past religious experience than you can upon what you ate last
year. Can you give yourself to him NOW?"
"What do you mean by giving myself to him, doctor?" asked Letty.
"I mean that you should put yourself, your hopes and fears, your
troubles, sorrows and sins,—all, in short, that goes to make up
yourself,—into God's hands. Submit yourself to his will. Lay yourself
as it were on the altar before him, and trust that he will accept you.
That is what I mean. Can you do that?"
"I have tried," said Letty, sorrowfully; "but—"
"But what?"
"It makes no difference. I cannot feel that I am accepted. I know that
I am not."
"How do you know it? Excuse me if I ask very close questions,"
continued the doctor, as Letty did not answer. "We are old friends, and
I want to help you if I can. Let me ask you if you are sure that no
cherished sin is keeping you from God?"
"That is it," said Letty. "I know there is." She paused a moment, and
then added, abruptly, "I cannot forgive Agnes! I feel as though she
had murdered my Alick. I would not forgive her, at first. I would not
even go to see her when her child died, though my conscience upbraided
me and I felt that I ought to overcome that feeling. And now I cannot
forgive her!—I cannot!"
"Do you wish to forgive her?" said the doctor, with one of his
penetrating looks. "Would you do so if you could?"
"I don't know."
"But you do know," returned the doctor, in a kind but decided tone; "or
you can know if you will. Don't try to deceive yourself. You know that
God can give you the power to forgive Agnes. Observe, I don't say that
you feel it or realize it; that is quite another matter. But you do
know it, because you know that he can do all things."
"Yes," said Letty: "I know it, certainly."
"Well, now, are you willing he should do it? Are you willing to forgive
Agnes if he gives you the power to do so?"
Letty was silent for a few minutes.
The doctor saw the struggle, and prayed, inwardly, that grace might
conquer.
At last she spoke.
"Yes," said she: "I think I am willing."
"God be praised for that!" said the doctor. "Now think whether there is
any thing else."
"I do not know that there is," replied Letty; "but still I do not feel
that God will accept me."
"Do you believe that God speaks the truth?"
"Of course," said Letty,—surprised at the question.
"And that the Bible is his word?"
"Yes; certainly."
"Well, then, listen," said the doctor, with energy. "Here is just one
brief, simple promise of his, which is all you want:—
"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'
"That ought to be enough for you. But here is another:—
"'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they
shall ask, it SHALL be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'
"Those are God's own words. Cast yourself upon the veracity of God.
Pray for yourself, and I will pray for you. There are two of us agreed.
Come to God just as you are. Give yourself wholly to him, and then
believe that he has accepted you. I must leave you now; but I will pray
for you, and do you pray for yourself; and be sure that, as there is a
God in heaven, so surely he will accept you and make you his own."
A day or two after, the doctor came again. He found his patient more
comfortless than ever.
"No light yet?" said he.
Letty shook her head. "No," said she. "I have no light. I have tried
to give myself up to him, as you say. I have done it. If I know myself
at all, I have done it; but I have no evidence in myself that I am
accepted of him."
"Are you not refusing to believe what God has spoken? God says in his
word that he will receive you; and that should be enough to satisfy you
that he has received you, whether you feel it or not. It is because the
way is so easy that you miss it. Why, suppose I tell you that a certain
medicine is good for you: you believe me,—don't you?—although you do
not feel any immediate effect. Well, just believe God in the same
way,—because he says so."
"I am afraid that I do not forgive Agnes, after all. I went over to see
her last night."
"Good!" said the doctor. "That shows that you are in earnest; and it
ought also to show you that God is with you. Well?"
"But, when I came back, I felt just as hardly towards her as ever. She
did not appear glad to see me at all; and it really seemed that she was
more distressed at my coming across the road in my 'coloured calico
dress,' as she said, than at any thing else."
"Agnes is bound up in dress and fashions; and more's the pity. But you
say you found you had all your work to do over again?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, do it over again; or, rather, be quiet, and let God do it
for you. You can no more make yourself forgiving than you can make one
hair white or black; but, if you are willing, God will do it for you.
Only just believe,—that is all. The inward witness will come in God's
own time, if you are content to take his simple word: never in any
other way. Now, tell me, cannot you do this?"
Letty was silent.
"Yes," said Letty, with a tone and look of decision. "Yes; I can
believe him. I am his. I am not alone or cast-off. Oh, yes; I do
believe his word."
"Remember, from this time, that it is only the sense of God's presence
that you lose,—not his real presence. God never forsakes his children.
Have faith; and do not think of faith in God as some strange,
mysterious thing. It is simply believing in God just as you believe
in any one else. Take all his promises to yourself, just as if there
were no other person in the world to whom they can apply. Don't be too
anxious after inward evidence and consolation. Let God send that in his
own time. It is a blessed thing when it comes; but it is not the ground
of your assurance: that is found in God's word."