Chapter III: White Lilies

FRIGHTENED immeasurably at the discovery that her mother was quite unconscious, Felicia summoned Mrs. M'Cosh, who bathed the invalid's face and hands with cold water and soon succeeded in reviving her and in reassuring the little girl who stood trembling by the bedside. One point Mrs. M'Cosh now insisted upon, and that was that a doctor should be called in. Accordingly, the parish doctor was sent for, and came and examined the sick woman very carefully. He spoke of heart trouble and general debility, but much to the relief of mother and daughter he did not suggest the patient's removal to a hospital. He would tell the district nurse to look in, he said, and he would also speak to the relieving officer.

"Meanwhile, I will undertake to see that Mrs. Renford wants for nothing," declared Mrs. M'Cosh; "I live in the house and understand nursing."

The doctor nodded and took his departure, promising to call again on the following day. Mrs. M'Cosh followed him downstairs and held a brief conference with him ere he left the house. Ten minutes later she reappeared in the attic, bearing a tray which held a teapot, three cups, a cake, and a plate of daintily cut bread and butter.

"I thought it would be pleasant for us all to have tea together," she remarked as she put her burden on the table. "Now, Felicia, try to make a good meal, to please me, and do you try also, my dear," she added, glancing at the invalid.

"I shall never be able to thank you for your kindness," Mrs. Renford replied, with rather an uncertain smile. She was deeply touched by the way in which Mrs. M'Cosh had called her "my dear."

"Please don't try," was the quick response; "I've a notion that if I was ill you'd do as much for me. Yes, I know you would. Now, Felicia, cut that cake whilst I pour out the tea."

The little girl obeyed. She was looking quite bright and smiling, the truth being that she thought her mother could not be very ill, as the doctor had not ordered her removal to the hospital; and she was so relieved at his not having done so that she was feeling quite light-hearted. Poor little girl, she did not dream of the trouble which was coming upon her!

Mrs. M'Cosh watched her with an expression of mingled sympathy and tenderness which was not lost upon the invalid, who, at the conclusion of the meal, suggested that Felicia should go out and do the errands she had mentioned earlier in the day. Accordingly, Felicia sallied forth, carrying a great bundle of blouses and aprons to be delivered at the shop for which her mother worked, satisfied with the knowledge that Mrs. M'Cosh would remain in the attic till her return.

"Indeed, she is very, very kind," thought the little girl gratefully; "and she seems to get on with mother better than she did at first."

She took the blouses and aprons to the shop, and received the payment for the making of them—only a small sum, certainly, but sufficient to buy a few groceries. How she longed to be able to purchase something very nice for her mother! She lingered outside the provision shops staring into the windows, halt no one took any notice of her. In Bristol, that city of charities, as in most places, it is the deserving poor who are generally overlooked.

"Oh, if I were only rich!" sighed Felicia, pausing by-and-by before a florist's shop. "How I wish I had some of those flowers for mother! Oh, those roses and lilies! How she would love a sight of them!"

A young lady—a pretty young lady clad in a pale blue gown—came out of the shop at that moment carrying a great bunch of white lilies. Felicia drew back to let her pass, and as she did so the other's eyes rested upon her with a clear, observant glance which caught the expression of mingled admiration and longing in the little girl's face. The young lady uttered no word, but she smiled—Felicia never forgot that smile, it was so full of understanding and goodwill—and selecting several stalks of the flowers laden with budding blooms, she gently placed them in Felicia's hand ere she passed swiftly on. It was one of those gracious, spontaneous acts which are always so sweet because entirely unexpected, and Felicia's countenance glowed with delight.

"How good of her! I wonder what made her do it?" she thought as she hurried homewards. "And I never thanked her! She was gone in a moment! Oh, how pleased mother will be!"

On reaching home she stole gently upstairs, reflecting that her mother might be asleep, but she proved on the contrary to be very wide-awake and turned a pair of alert, dark eyes towards the door as her little daughter entered. There were traces of recently shed tears on her thin cheeks, but she smiled as she caught sight of the flowers, exclaiming—

"Lilies! Oh, how lovely! Where did you get them?"

Felicia told her, placing them in her hand. She bent her face over them, drinking in their delicious perfume. "Consider the lilies," she said softly. "Oh, Mrs. M'Cosh, God has sent them to remind me of His promises, and of my faithlessness. Doesn't it seem like that?"

Mrs. M'Cosh nodded. Glancing at her, Felicia noticed, with a sensation of dismay, that she had been crying too, and even now her eyes were full of tears. What had she and her mother been talking about? Felicia wondered. The little girl was soon to learn, for, when their neighbour had gone downstairs to prepare her husband's supper, and Felicia had put the groceries away in the cupboard and arranged her flowers in a tall pickle jar, on the table, Mrs. Renford called her to the bedside.

"I want to have a talk with you, little daughter," she said, a slight hesitation in her tone. "No, dear, I am not too tired. What I have to say must be said to-night, for I may not have another opportunity—"

"Why not, mother?" Felicia interposed quickly, her voice betraying the anxiety she felt.

"Because, dear, I am very ill. The doctor says my heart is in a very bad state; I have thought so myself for some time, and—and I must put my house in order, so to speak—"

"Mother!"

It was an exceedingly bitter cry, full of sorrow and fear, and bursting into a passion of grief, Felicia sobbed unrestrainedly. Mrs. Renford watched her pitifully, murmuring, "Poor child! Poor child! My poor little girl!"

At length it dawned upon Felicia that for her mother's sake she must try to compose herself, and struggling to subdue her sobs, she wiped the tears from her eyes, but they would flow again.

"Oh, mother, it cannot be that you are so ill as that!" she cried at length.

"Yes, my dear, it is so. I do not mind except for you, and—and even for you, Felicia, it may be for the best. Don't look at me so reproachfully, dear, I know what I am saying. Listen to me, little daughter, and don't make things harder for us both than you can help."

"Oh, mother, I will try not to! But, oh, what shall I do, what shall I do when—when—"

"When I am gone? It is about that I want to speak to you. You know, dear, you have relations in Somerset, your grandfather and grandmother—your father's parents."

"I can't bear to think of them, mother. They were cruel to you."

"They were not kind," Mrs. Renford admitted, "but—but they did not understand. They never forgave their son for marrying me, and when he died they would have taken you from me, it is true; but—I want you not to dwell on that. When I am gone, I believe they will give you a home. I've been talking matters over with Mrs. M'Cosh, and she agrees with me that you ought to go to them—but not whilst I live; I cannot part with you yet, my dear, dear child."

Felicia flung her arms around her mother's neck, and kissed her with passionate affection. Her tears had ceased to flow now, but her heart was full of a dull sense of despair.

"My mind has been much troubled by doubts and fears to-day," Mrs. Renford proceeded to admit, "but when you came in just now with those lilies, they reminded me of Christ's promise to care for His own. Did He not say, 'Fear not, little flock'? And you and I belong to His flock, Felicia, and though we shall be parted before long by the valley of the shadow of death, we shall meet again. Oh, my dear, that thought must be our consolation now!"

Mrs. Renford sank back exhausted upon the pillow, but presently she continued the conversation.

"I have made a great many mistakes in my life," she confessed sadly. "I ought not to have married your father without his parents' consent, but I was young and thoughtless, and I did not understand they would so utterly disapprove of me as they did. I was not brought up as they considered their son's wife should have been. Oh, Felicia, if better days come to you, don't let them make you forget the past, and—and—if anyone endeavours to teach you to be ashamed of your mother, remember that, though she was a 'nobody' and not very wise, she loved you and tried to teach you to be a good girl, and—she did the best she could. God doesn't ask more than that, and you know His judgment is not the world's, but infinitely loving and merciful."

"Oh, mother, do you think I could ever be ashamed of you?" Felicia questioned in a heart-broken voice. "Oh, why do you talk to me like this? Perhaps, after all, the doctor is mistaken, and you will recover."

"It may be so, of course; I have heard that doctors cannot always tell how it will be when a patient is suffering from heart disease. But if he is right, you will do as I wish, will you not?"

Felicia nodded silently, and her mother was satisfied.

"I have given Mrs. M'Cosh instructions how to act. I feel she is one to be trusted, and she has proved herself kind and sympathetic—a true friend in need." Mrs. Renford paused, and her eyes wandered to the flowers on the table—the room was full of their fragrance. "How beautiful those lilies are!" she exclaimed, with a ring of pleasure in her frail voice; "God bless the young lady who gave them to you, whoever she is. They have come like a message from God."

For several days the lilies bloomed in the pickle jar, whilst the sick woman grew weaker hour by hour. Felicia was obliged to cease working, for her mother could not endure the sound of the sewing machine; and, instead, she spent her time ministering to the dear invalid who followed her eve loving, wistful eyes. Mrs. M'Cosh came and went; the doctor was very kind and attentive, and the district nurse called to see what she could do; but Mrs. Renford was passing beyond human assistance. One morning found her lying white and lifeless with a smile of ineffable content upon her lips, and Mrs. M'Cosh—her plain face swelled and purple with weeping—laid the pure, white lilies on her breast, and then led Felicia—stunned with grief at the loss she had sustained—unresistingly from the room.