Chapter XXIV: Home!

"SPLENDID day it has been,—only a trifle too hot for any but a salamander," said the doctor, sauntering into Mona's room on the afternoon of the following day. "Well, my dear, how are you getting on?"

His pleasant manner that morning to Madge had convinced her that she need fear no displeasure on account of the last night's conversation. But something now, beneath his would-be careless bearing, gave her a twinge of anxiety.

"I am getting on as well as possible," said Mona brightly. "I quite want to begin sitting up again."

"Patience awhile before that," said Mr. Chetwynd. "More haste worse speed, in some cases."

"But Madge has been reading to me to-day."

"Nothing sensational, I hope."

Mona smiled at the idea.

"Ah, well, I suppose I may trust Madge. She isn't addicted to that sort of literature. Madge, could you be happy to leave Miss Mona for awhile this afternoon?"

"If you wish it, sir," said Madge, somewhat surprised.

"Well, I have a—an errand for you," said Mr. Chetwynd. "Just call Hartly to sit with Miss Mona while you are out, and then come to my study. I'll explain to you where to go, and what to do."

"Madge wants a little air, I am sure, after her imprisonment in this room," said Mona, trying to be unselfish.

"It's no imprisonment, Miss Mona," said Madge. "I'll come as quick as I can, sir."

"I suppose there is some shopping for you to do," observed Mona when he was gone.

And Madge smiled in answer, though aware that the guess was a wrong one. She summoned the motherly old housekeeper from down-stairs, saw that everything which could possibly be needed was at hand, went for her own shawl and hood, and finally made her way to the doctor's room.

He looked up, as she entered, from the letter he was writing.

"That's right. Hartly has had so much to do with the nursing that you need not be uneasy about leaving Miss Mona. And I don't expect to have to go out again this evening, so I shall be at hand."

"Mrs. Hartly can do easy enough all that's wanted," said Madge. "Where am I to go, sir?"

"Sit down a minute, and I'll tell you," said Mr. Chetwynd gravely. "The truth is, I called you in here yesterday evening, to mention something I had heard, but you put it out of my head, and this morning I thought I might as well find out more before making you anxious. About little Nannie Ackman, I mean."

He was evidently moved. Madge saw now in what quarter lay the coming cloud. The little child up on the hill was very dear to her heart. She had not felt surprised to see and hear nothing of Nannie lately, on account of the infectious nature of Mona's illness, but now a sudden fear took possession of her.

"Mr. Prior went up to the old man's cottage yesterday morning, and was so struck with the little one's altered look that he asked me to go and see her. I did not suppose there was any immediate hurry, and I was busy, so I put it off till this afternoon. I have just come back from there,—but—"

"Do you think her ill, sir?"

He shook his head silently.

"Sir, you don't mean that Nannie is in danger."

"She is dying, Madge."

One low sob and no more reached his ears. "How soon?" was asked with an effort.

"Would you like to go and see her?"

"I should, sir. She'll want comforts and looking after."

"She is past all that now. If you want to see her again, you must go at once. Never mind about Miss Mona. I will arrange all that for a few hours. You will be back before night."

She knew he meant that all would then be over. "Is it the fever, sir?" she inquired.

"I can hardly say. There may have been a touch of it hanging about her. Old Ackman seems stupefied, and can give no particulars, though he blames himself bitterly, and with good reason. She was up and about yesterday evening, he says, but seemed to break-down this morning. Nannie herself was unconscious while I was there. She may rouse up again, or may pass away in stupor. But I can do nothing for her."

"And nobody has known the poor lamb to be failing," murmured Madge, passing her hand across her eyes.

"I can't gather that there have been any indications of absolute illness, beyond weakness and languor. My own impression is, that the sudden break-down may be the result of some undetected injury, from the father's rough treatment awhile ago. But after all, it is a cruel conjecture without sufficient proof. She has always been a frail little creature. I won't hinder you any longer, however."

Like one walking in a dream, Madge left the house and went up the hill. It was three weeks or more since last she had been in that direction, for all her few walks of late had been taken in the town, generally with the chemist for their destination.

How forlorn her little cottage looked, with its closed door and shutters, and its growth of garden weeds. Ah, that had never been, if little Nannie had been equal to the task of keeping clear the unwelcome growth, in the absence of her friend. Amos Ackman's door was open, so Madge walked in noiselessly, leaving her shawl and hood in the outer room, but hardly standing still there for a moment on her way.

Her first glimpse as she neared the bedroom was of the old man himself, crouching forward on his stool, with his face half hidden by his hands, while a low groan broke from him from time to time. And then, as she went farther, she saw Nannie. Could it indeed be Nannie?—So white, so changed, so wasted! Mona Clyde at her worst had been nothing like this.

"Ay, ye've come to see her die, have yer," mid old Amos. "Yer was a deal kinder to her than her old father too."

Madge knelt down by the rough mattress, and softly moistened the child's parched lips. And all at once Nannie opened her eyes, and the wan features broke into a smile of recognition.

"She knows you, she does. Sure she'll soon be well now," said Amos falteringly. "Don't yer think so, Madge? I'd be main glad, for 'tis all along o' my doing. She'll get well now, eh?"

Madge knew better, and so did Nannie. But Madge thought that the face of an angel could hardly have worn a look of more loving compassion, than that which shone through those glazing eyes, as they turned slowly towards the unhappy old man.

"Poor father!" was softly breathed forth, with an appealing glance towards Madge, as if to beg her to comfort him. "There 'll be nobody to pray for him now."

"I'll pray, Nannie. Is it that you want?" asked Madge. "I'll never let a day pass without praying for him. And God won't forget all your back-prayers, you know."

"No, 'cause they're written up there, ain't they?" said Nannie faintly yet confidently, with a slight upward gesture of one hand.

"Why, she's beginning to talk ever so," said Amos, in a pleased tone. "Ain't she better now, Madge?"

"She'll be better soon," said Madge. "She'll be better up in the Father's Home, Amos. You'd best make sure, and see you're in the way to go there too, or it'll be a longer parting for you than for Nannie and me."

Amos drooped his head again. "I'm thinkin' it'll have to be a different heaven to hold old Amos, from what 'll take in you and Nannie," he said heavily.

"There's only one heaven, and one way into it, for her and you and me," said Madge.

And before she could say more, Nannie's lips formed, clearly and tenderly, the sweetest Name which language ever framed—

"JESUS!—father."

"Ay, it's all Him, and Him alone," said Madge. "You've only to go to Him, and ask pardon through His blood, and it'll all come right."

Madge did not know how the poor old sin-burdened man had already begun to stumble, with his failing steps, up to the foot of the Cross. But Nannie knew, and though too weak to explain, she said in a low voice,—

"He'll come, Madge."

"Ay, the Lord 'll surely bring him, Nannie," said Madge.

And then Nannie shut her eyes and lay quite quiet, with her two little thin hands folded together, and the panting breath so irregular that it sometimes seemed as if it would stop altogether, without another word being spoken.

Madge knelt there just as quietly, praying that the little one's troubled life might have such a peaceful ending as now seemed likely, that no clouds of Satan might be sent to try her faith. And Madge had what she wished.

An hour passed, while the life of the summer day and the life of the little child ebbed sweetly away, side by side. And the sun went slowly down upon the one, but rose in dazzling radiance upon the other. And presently Nannie opened her eyes and murmured—

"They're singing—"

"Who are, Nannie?"

"Up, somewhere," said Nannie. "I'll hear 'em now, won't I? O Madge!—I won't see the Resurrection-day after all from here."

Was it a momentary feeling of something like disappointment?

"Maybe not from up on this hill, Nannie," said Madge. "But you'll see it, sure enough, for you'll rise before we're caught up, and you'll come on with the Master in His glory to meet us—if so be I'm spared till then."

"With Him!" And Nannie's face, as she uttered the words, lighted up with a strange and holy joy. "O Madge! Think what it'll be—this very night—to see my own Lord Jesus! Why, Madge!—"

"Ay, won't it be—?" Madge had begun, trying to quell the impatient longing which throbbed at her own heart, in answer to the child's burst of joy. But she broke off, for words from her were no longer needed, and a look of glad surprise had flashed into the dying eyes.

"Why, Madge! I didn't think it 'ud be so soon, but I'm going quick. I'm ready, ain't I?—'cause Jesus died for me, you know. O Madge, I wish you was coming with me too. Isn't He—just—beautiful?"

Two long faint gasps between the words,—one sigh,—and Nannie was at rest.

Better so. The little worn-out body lay there still. But Nannie—poor little Nannie!—after all her hopes and fears and longings, had reached the loving circle of the gathering family, in her Father's House above.

Madge knelt on for a minute, with her head bent low. Then, with a calm singular smile upon her face, she rose and went to Amos.

"Don't you stay here any longer," she said. "Nannie's well off now."

He shook his head, and crouched lower, without response.

"She's well off," repeated Madge. "She's at rest now, poor little lamb, and she wouldn't want you to grieve for her over-much. Don't spend your time looking back to the past, Amos, but see you make ready to join her where she's gone—maybe soon. There's the Blood for your sins and mine, no less than for hers."

"I wouldn't ha' believed it, though, if it hadn't been for her praying," murmured old Amos, as he yielded to Madge's guiding touch, and went out into the front room, while Madge remained behind, and did all that needed to be done to the lifeless body lying there.

Poor little Nannie! More of a martyr was she than even Madge Hardwicke guessed. But Madge knew enough to bend over her, and kiss the small white cheek, whispering—

"'She's' had her meed of suffering for the Lord, and she's gained her rest early; but maybe Nannie's one of the last that 'll be first in the Kingdom of Heaven."

Then Madge left the room, and going past old Amos, who in his solitary grief refused to answer when she would have set herself to comfort him, she passed into the pleasant evening twilight beyond.

Some impulse—she could not have defined it—made her step across into her own garden, and stand there near the door, with her eyes fixed on the blue waters, and her heart very full of the little friend who had been taken from her. Nannie had grown to be almost like a child of her own during the past few months. Only the blow had come so suddenly, and the passing away had been so peaceful, that as yet she was thinking more of what Nannie had gained than of what she herself had lost.

"Beautiful! Ay, she knows the Master's beauty at last,—more than the wisest man that ever lived on earth. Little Nannie! I'd like to see your joy this very minute. Well, 'tis sweet to think that my turn 'll come too, some day. Maybe, I've more work to do first for my Lord. She'll never get to the end of knowing His beauty more and more for ever; and by-and-by I'll see it too. It's only a glimpse I get now, once and again, but He'll shine out there in glory. And Nannie sees it now."

The sound of a footstep on the pathway made her turn. A manly figure, of somewhat foreign appearance, was briskly advancing towards the garden-gate. Madge stood as if rooted to the spot, with a sudden dimness over her eyes, and a quickened beating at her heart. Was it a dream? Could it be indeed a reality? O faithless Madge even yet.

"Mother!"

Only the one word! Madge did not even exclaim.

But if his strong arm had not in that moment been around her, she would have fallen to the ground.

"Mother, I always said to myself that I'd be sure to find you here, whenever I came, looking out for me."

She did not contradict him, for, in truth, he "had" been in her heart and thoughts at that moment, side by side with Nannie. She made no answer at all, except by the passionate clinging, which seemed as if she could never again loose her hold of him. He began to know now what the long agony of suspense had been.

"It's a wicked son I've been to you, mother dear, leaving you all these years, and never writing. Only that once, at least. And so much the worse then, that I didn't keep my promise. But maybe it's a good thing I'm come now, and not sooner, as I once thought to do. I'd have come back in a reckless sort of mood at that time; but I've learnt since to look on things differently. Mother, will you forgive me, and take me home, and teach me the lessons I wouldn't let you teach me when I was a little boy? Will you, mother?"

"Forgive you!" Madge said, lifting her face to his, all wet with happy tears. "O Neill,—thank God He's given back my boy to me again. It's worth all the waiting to have you come like this. And you'll never leave me any more?"

"Never more, mother, of my own free will. God alone shall part us now."

She would not take him into her cheerless unprepared cottage, but walked up and down with him awhile on the hill-top, in earnest conference, till the first excitement of the meeting had in some measure passed away. And then they went down the path, and stopped at the doctor's house.

Mr. Chetwynd came out to meet Madge in the hall, but he had not looked to see that face of chastened brightness.

"Why, Madge—" he began, and stopped.

"Sir, it is as you thought, and little Nannie has gone to her rest," said Madge. "But the Lord has sent me a blessing alongside of the sorrow, and between the two, I'm nigh in as great a strait as St. Paul himself, as to whether I'll smile or cry."

Mr. Chetwynd looked from Madge to her companion,—half guessing the truth, yet scarcely liking to ask. For the lad he once knew was altered; and perhaps only a mother's eyes could have known him again at a glance.

Madge put her arm into Neill's, and drew him a step forward.

"It's my boy, sir," she said, and the smile won the day.

Mr. Chetwynd held out his hand warmly. "I am glad to see you home, Neill. You have changed indeed since last we met," he said. And then in a different tone, turning to Madge—"You were right and I was wrong, Madge. Your faith certainly deserves its reward."

"No, sir, if you please, you're wrong there," said Madge steadily. "I've nought of desert about me, save desert of evil."

"Didn't you say all along that Neill would surely come home some day?"

Madge was silent a minute, seemingly pondering his words.

"Well?" said the doctor, and Neill too looked inquiringly.

"Sir, it may be I'm mistaken, but it does seem to me that the Lord has just kept back from granting my wish, till He's taught me to lay my will in His, and to leave all in His hands. I used to say Neill would be pretty sure to come home, and to think it too. I've said and felt little of late, save 'Thy will be done!' And now—He's given back to me my boy!"

The last words came like a note of sweet and joyous triumph to the doctor's ears. "You know more about such things than I do, Madge, but I hope I may learn more in time," he said rather sadly. "Neill must sleep here of course to-night. You can arrange with Hartly about his bed. And to-morrow I suppose you will wish to go home with him to your cottage."

Madge did not gainsay the remark. She felt that her boy must come first, and that to prepare a comfortable home for him at once was her simple duty. "Only I'll come in as often as I'm wanted, sir, to sit with Miss Mona," she said.

"It is well Neill did not return a week sooner, or we couldn't have spared you," said Mr. Chetwynd. "But you must spend part of every day with us still, or Miss Mona will be lonely. Well, I am unselfish enough to be very glad you are so happy."

She had her desire at last. There was joy in the mother's heart that night, at the return of the wanderer, and there was joy for her sake throughout the doctor's house, and among the inmates of the Rectory and the town. But the greatest joy of all was the joy of little Nannie, who had passed beyond the mists and the shadows of earth, and had been welcomed into her eternal Home.

THE END.