Chapter XIV: Rest

WHEN Nellie arrived in London that afternoon, she was met at the station by Arthur. And on her eager enquiry for their mamma, his answer was boy-like and abrupt—

"As bad as can be."

No need to dwell on that ride home in the cab. When they drew up at the door, Nellie gathered her things together and hastened up the steps, only longing to keep calm, and to be able to do what might be wanted.

Simmons opened the door and welcomed her, but it was with a face so altered and anxious that Nellie asked no questions, but went immediately upstairs.

Just outside the drawing room door she met Ada coming down to greet her.

"Dear Nellie," she said, commanding herself with great effort, "mamma is very ill, papa told me to say. Will you take off your things and come in as if you had not been away."

Nellie did as she was told, but dared not venture into the nursery on her way up. She could hear hushed voices, and the little clatter of tea-cups; but she feared lest the sight of her should raise a shout, and she passed into her room.

In a minute more, a little footstep was heard entering, and Netta, with a woebegone face, stood at her side holding a cup of tea.

"Mary sent you this, Nellie," she said, looking up shyly, and hardly expecting to be kissed.

She was folded in her sister's arms; but she soon managed to say sedately, "Mary says she cannot leave baby, but you are on no account to go down till you have eaten this piece of bread and butter and had your tea."

"Thank her, dear, very much. I will do as she advises."

"She says dear mamma does not know you are come, so there is no hurry; and you will feel all the better for it."

Netta withdrew, having discharged her message, and Nellie swallowed her tea mechanically, hardly knowing what she was doing.

Then glancing in the glass, more by habit than because she thought of it, to see that she was neat, she was startled to find herself ghastly pale.

"What shall I do?" she mentally ejaculated. "I shall frighten them all."

She knelt down by her bed for an instant. She knew not what to say, and no words would form themselves in her mind beyond a cry of, "Help me, oh, help me!" Then she rose, and slowly went down to her mamma's room.

How still the house was inside, and what a roar the passing cabs and vehicles made! Nellie stood outside on the mat till the wild beating of her heart should cease. She could not pray, but her thoughts went towards God nevertheless—her only Refuge.

At last she opened the door softly and entered. The room was shaded from the glare of the June sunshine, and seemed quiet and peaceful.

The first thing she saw was Ada, sitting in the window working, and then her glance took in the rest of the room; her mamma lying in a wrapper on the sofa, and her father seated by her, with her hand in his.

Mrs. Arundel's eyes turned directly towards Nellie as she entered, and she held out her hand, saying very faintly, "I am glad you are come, darling."

She kissed the ashy pale cheek, and then bent to greet her father, who rose and gave her his seat, himself leaving the room.

Mrs. Arundel did not speak for some time, and Nellie sat silently by her.

All this was very hard for her to understand; it had never been explained, and she could only wonder at it all in a sort of terrible dream.

Presently Ada got up, and taking a cup from a small night-lamp, she fed their mamma with two or three spoonfuls of some nourishing broth.

Mrs. Arundel after this seemed to rouse herself a little, and said to Nellie:

"We did not expect this, dear, so soon; but God knows best, Nellie."

Nellie pressed her hand, but could not trust herself to speak.

"I am glad you are come, dear. I trust them all to you. You will do your best for them, Nellie?"

"Indeed I will, dear mamma, if—"

"Yes, dear, I understand; if I am taken away. We will try to talk of it calmly. Papa says there is just a possibility, but only a little, of my recovery, and I should feel happier to say what I wish now."

She spoke very low, but quite clearly and collectedly:

"The pain has been dreadful, Nellie; but it is better now; and while dear papa is away, I will tell you what I want."

Ada had turned her back and dropped her work in her lap, and now sat with her arms resting on the table and her face looking out into the square, of which, however, she saw nothing.

"Nellie dear, you must comfort papa. You must remind him that the time will be very short before we meet again. You must do all you can to cheer him. Not at first, dear—" She paused; then gathering breath again, "But after a while; not by forgetting, Nellie, but by remembering—remembering how happy we have been, and how soon we shall meet again. We have not tried to forget your own mother, have we, Nellie?"

"No, indeed; never, dear mamma."

"No; and so I do not want you to banish my name, but think of meeting me and her so very soon—, so very soon!"

The soft voice ceased, and Nellie looked towards Ada in dismay; for a death-like faintness seemed to overspread the features. Ada hastily rose and again administered the restorative.

"Thank you, dear," said her mother, looking upon her, oh, with what love! "Kiss me, Ada."

Ada bent down and gave the required kiss, but retreated again to the table, and took up her old station there.

Mrs. Arundel stretched out her hand for Nellie's, and again began to speak.

"Then there are our dear children. Take care of Ada and Arthur, my elder ones. Guard them, if you can, from the wicked world."

She paused, and looking upwards, seemed to be praying; and Nellie heard the words softly whispered, "I pray not that Thou shouldst take them out of the world, but that Thou wouldst keep them from the evil."

"He will care for them, Nellie. And my little ones, teach them to love Jesus. If I knew I were saying my last word on earth, it would be, 'Teach them to love Jesus.'"

"My little Tom! Nellie, I don't feel anxious about him; only so afraid of what he will suffer for a little while without me; but it may not be long. I hope for him it will not be long."

"Then my poor little baby boy. But I know you and Ada will care for him, and teach him of Jesus; will you not, Ada?"

Ada gave the promise she asked for, in a tone which was almost hoarse in its effort to be calm, and then turned away again, unable to bear it.

At last Nellie gathered courage to whisper a few words of comfort. "Dear mamma," she said with infinite tenderness, "as you dealt with the dead, so will I try to deal with you. I will faithfully do my best, God helping me, to fulfill all your wishes, even as you did what my own mother would have wished.

"I shall never, never forget your love. Now take comfort; and while it breaks my heart even to say it, yet let me assure you, Ada and I will do all we can to fill your place."

Nellie could say no more. The tender words were said with a throat that seemed to ache intolerably; and then she could only bend down, and kiss the white hand that lay in hers, over and over again.

Mrs. Arundel seemed satisfied, and fell quietly asleep as they watched her.

Ada beckoned to Nellie to go down; and just at this moment Nurse Raymond stole in, and made signs to the same effect; so she gently slipped her hand from the loosening clasp, and left the room, descending to the dining-room.

There she found her father alone, drinking a cup of tea. How altered he looked. Nellie hardly dared to glance at him, but came forward, and sat down at the table.

"I told nurse to take your place, dear, for a few minutes, that I might speak to you," said her father.

Nellie was going to ask him a question about it; but now that the urgent need for calmness was removed her strong command over herself gave way, and throwing herself into her father's arms she wept as if her heart would break.

He did nothing to check her; only pressed her closely to him, and whispered from time to time "Poor Nellie; poor little daughter; poor little dear," over and over again.

At last the violence of her grief subsided, and she remembered her father's share in this sorrow. She raised herself, and began wiping away her tears.

"Tell me all," she said at last.

"It was a fright," answered her father, "which developed the disease which I feared existed; a shock. They were carrying little Tom downstairs, and one of his bearers slipped. It was only a stumble; but just enough to make a commotion, and to cause Tom to give a half-scream. She seemed to bear it pretty well for an hour or two, and then—" Dr. Arundel paused.

"When was it? When did this happen?"

"Three days ago. I wrote at once to your grandmamma; but I had no time to explain then. I have written again since."

"Could nothing be done?" asked Nellie, looking hopelessly up in her father's face, and knowing her question was vain, even while she put it.

"Nothing more than has been done, dear child. Two physicians have been to see her; but they both know that the heart is in a very critical state."

"Dear papa," said Nellie, hesitating, and laying her head once more on his shoulder, "we still can pray. Perhaps it may be God's will to hear us."

"Yes, my dear, I do pray, and I know He answers. He is not far off, Nellie; not far off, my child, but very, very near; so near, that I feel His love, and am sure—"

"Sure?" she whispered, questioningly.

"That He will be with us even unto the end."

Nellie's head nestled closer to the beloved breast; but she could say no more. In presence of that faith, and in anticipation of that sorrow, no words of hers could be adequate.

At last her father stooped and kissed her fondly.

"I must go up now, Nellie. Nurse Raymond will sit up part of the night; but I shall be with her for the present."

"Could not I sit up? I should like to so much."

"No, dear; your strength will be needed for the care of the house. We must have all things as straight as we can, if for nothing else, than that she may know it is so."

Nellie was too downcast to do anything but acquiesce; indeed, she knew what her father said was right. She could not do everything, and there was wisdom in saving herself for greater duties.

"Papa," said Ada entering, with a face which was almost despairing, "poor little Tom is crying so upstairs. He does not like to ask to come to his usual place in mamma's room; but Mary says he fretted all last night."

"I will see about it," said Dr. Arundel as he went out.

"I can't talk," said Ada, without looking at Nellie, "so you will not mind. I feel as if I had no head and no heart."

She sat down stonily at the table and cut some bread and butter, pushing the loaf towards her sister, saying in a low voice, "Eat."

Then they were both silent. What could they say? The blow was too fresh and too heavy to allow of words. Arthur came in, and began his tea, like them, in silence. After they had eaten as much as they could force themselves to swallow, Ada proposed that they should go upstairs again.

When they noiselessly re-entered the sick-room, they found their mamma in bed, and beside her, with a white, patient little face, was Tom, resting his head on her pillow.

Dr. Arundel had found him prepared for bed in the nursery, and had asked him if he could trust himself to be calm, if taken to his mother? "For a great deal depends on calmness, Tom. She has been asking for you, and I should like you to be with her, if you can promise."

"I think I can, papa," he had said; "and you don't know how bad it is to be right away from her."

"Yes, dear, I do know," he answered.

So little Tom was carried down, and his mother had placed her hand on her pillow, and said faintly:

"May he, papa?"

And Dr. Arundel had not had the heart to refuse.

Arthur followed his sisters upstairs, and sat down by his mother's side.

"Dear Arthur," she whispered softly, "will you remember a text I have been thinking of for you?"

"I will try, mother," he whispered in return.

"This is what it is, 'Fear not; I am thy shield, and thy exceeding great reward.'"

"I will not forget, mother," he said, and as he uttered the words, he felt it was good-bye.

"Are the little ones in bed, Nellie?" she asked, as Nellie came and stood by her.

"Not quite."

"And baby?"

"Just ready for bed."

"I should like to kiss them for good-night, dear."

Nellie went up at once, and the little white-robed dressing-gowned flock stole in.

Mrs. Arundel kissed Netta first, and softly said, "God bless you, my child!" And she was immediately drawn away by a sign from her father.

So they were all kissed till it came to the baby's turn. Dr. Arundel took him from Mary, and lifted him over the bed.

"Let me hold him," she said, stretching out her arms.

She folded him in a close embrace, and it seemed as if her arms would never unclasp. "God bless my child!" she said at last, as she had done to the others, and let him go.

Dr. Arundel went with him to the door; then, unable to bear his grief, carried the child upstairs, and waited till he was calm.

When the little ones were gone, and the door had closed on them, their mother turned round in the bed and hid her face.

Tom lay with wide staring eyes, battling with himself to keep his promise, and succeeding; for when his mother put out her hand to take his, he was able to clasp it quietly and to whisper, "'He is able to keep;' mamma, dear."

"Yes," she answered with a sob; "able to keep that which I have committed to Him against that day."

"I meant that," said Tom.

So she fell asleep quietly, resting her weary heart on those blessed words.

They sat silently by her for some time, but presently Dr. Arundel whispered to them to go to bed.

Ada came and stood by the bedside and looked down on her mother; then, turning away, she left the room in obedience to her father's wish.

"I will stay with her till two o'clock," said Dr. Arundel to the nurse, "then you can come."

He sat down by her, and the only sound within was the ticking of his watch, while without, the roar and rumble of the great city went on the same as ever.

Every half-hour he was forced to disturb her, to take the required food or medicine; but he allowed her to rest again without rousing her to speak.

When, after an hour or two's quiet sleep, she opened her eyes, she found only her husband by her and little Tom breathing softly on her pillow.

"How little we thought, dear, it could be like this," she said.

"How do you feel, love, now?" he asked.

"Oh; so very tired, but so happy! It will not be long before I see Jesus."

"Not in pain?"

"Oh, no," she whispered; "only peace. I did not know that it could be so; that He would be able to make me willing."

"He is 'able' for all things, my precious one," he said tenderly, clasping her hand.

"Yes, dearest," she answered, laying her cheek on the loved hand which had supported her for so many years. "Yes, dearest, He is able to keep—you, and me, and them."

She fell asleep again, while Dr. Arundel sat on in the quiet hours, still with her face on his hand.

His practised eyes saw now that there was no hope.

Slowly, slowly, life ebbed away.

As he watched, she gave one sigh, and he knew her ransomed spirit had passed from earth, to be with Him whom she had loved and served all her life.