Chapter XXI: A Gleam of Hope

MR. DRUMMOND had sent Richard Evans to break the bad news of the accident to Mrs. Livesey, whilst he accompanied Adam to the hospital.

"Oh, Mr. Evans! My poor Adam, my husband!" wailed Margaret, as she saw the face of the old workman, and not waiting to hear what news he had brought. "To think he should be taken from me in such a way, and him so good and kind. There's so many that are no use to anybody, and that nobody would want, though they might miss them for their very badness, and because they made their families miserable. What shall I do? What shall I do?"

Tears streamed down Margaret's face, and all her independent, self-reliant manner was gone. She could only clasp her hands in an agony of combined remorse and sorrow, as she wailed out her regrets and complaints in turn.

"You've heard of the accident then," said Richard. "Ill news flies fast indeed, for I thought I'd lost no time in coming. Mr. Drummond was so anxious you shouldn't hear in a sudden way."

"My little Tom heard about it, and ran home as fast as his feet would carry him. Poor thing! He knew no better than to speak out. How should he? Where is my poor Adam? Where have they taken him to? I must go and bring him home."

"I'm grieved for you," began Richard, "but words bring poor comfort. There's only One that can wipe away tears and give the oil of joy for mourning. May He comfort and strengthen you. But you must have a bit of patience, Margaret. You shall see him as soon as it's wise for you to go."

"Where have they taken my husband?" persisted Margaret.

"To the hospital. Mr. Drummond went with him. He would trust nobody to see after him on the road but himself. You shall go to him, I tell you, as soon as possible."

"Seeing him won't bring him to life," cried Margaret. "And oh, dear, dear, I let him go out this morning without answering him, or giving him so much as a look when he said, 'Good-bye, dear lass.'"

"Well, you must make that right when you see him. Adam isn't the one to bear malice. He'll forget and forgive. He's badly hurt. Arm broken in two places, beside cuts and bruises, but he'll get well in time, no fear."

"Get well!" cried Margaret, hardly believing that her ears were telling the truth. "Why, some one told my little Tom that his father was killed, and ever so many more men beside him."

"Nay, Mrs. Livesey, things are not that bad," said Richard, relieved to find himself in the position of one who brings comparatively good tidings, when his heart had been sinking within him at the thought of what had to be told. "Your Adam is worth any number of dead men yet. I've told you the truth. He's hurt, but nobody thinks his life is in any danger.

"It's poor Jim that's killed, the merriest, thoughtlessest chap at Rutherford's, in spite of his sharp-tongued wife. She'll be sorry she never gave him a gentle word, I daresay, now he's gone, though I fancy it will be more for the loss of his wages than his company. There must be such-like wives to be all sorts, I reckon," said Richard. "Your home is a different place from what poor Jim had to go to. Keep up your heart, Margaret. Adam's hurts are being well tended to, and you can see him soon. I'll go with you to the hospital."

Margaret's face had been growing paler as she listened to the hopeful words. She had borne up somehow, when the first great shock came. Now the revulsion of feeling was too great, and to the surprise of Richard Evans, she sank at his feet, fainting and unconscious.

With fatherly tenderness, the man succeeded in lifting Margaret from the ground and on to a couch, one of the treasured articles of furniture which formerly belonged to her mother.

Little Tom had been an eager listener to the news brought by Richard, and had just gathered that, after all, his father was still alive, when a fresh terror seized him. "Mother must be dead," he thought, for her face was white, and she neither spoke nor moved after she was laid on the couch.

Richard Evans read the child's fears in his face, and said, "You must be a man, Tom. Don't cry, but run off to the missis next door, and tell her to come this minute to your mother."

Tom had been on the point or giving vent to his feelings by a lusty roar, but the firm words of Richard Evans checked the sound, and subsiding into mere tears, he ran off to obey his orders.

The neighbour returned with him immediately, and Richard gave Margaret into her care. Then he sent Tom on another errand.

"You know where I live, little chap, don't you?" he said.

"Yes," replied Tom.

"Then go thy ways to my house as fast as thy feet will carry thee, and bring Sarah Evans back here, if she's with her aunt when thou gets there. If she isn't, tell my wife she must come, for somebody is badly wanted at Adam Livesey's."

Tom's fears lent swiftness to his feet, and when he reached the house, he could hardly deliver his message for want of breath.

Sarah was with her aunt, but knowing what had happened at Rutherford's, she had quietly made ready to go and offer her services to Mrs. Livesey, without waiting to be asked.

"Maybe she'll have got a neighbour in, Sarah," said Mrs. Evans, when the girl told her she was going to do what she could for Margaret. "She has behaved none so well to you. I don't forget how you went to the house before, and set Mrs. Livesey free to go straight away to her mother, and how you toiled and moiled with her tribe of little ones all those weeks, doing for them as well as she did in some ways, and better in others. And when they got to love you, poor things, as was only natural when you made their home happy and bright, she gave you the cold shoulder, and drove you right away from the house."

"Don't say 'drove,' aunt," replied Sarah; "there was no driving."

"You mightn't call it driving, my lass, but it was the same thing. Margaret Livesey thanked you and praised you, and gave you a necktie, and would have given you a bit of extra money too if you'd have taken it. Those things were all very nice in their way, but it wasn't very nice for you to go to the house a few days after, with your heart full of loving-kindness towards those children, and to feel that you weren't wanted under the roof where you had done your best for everybody, as in God's sight. And Mrs. Livesey knew it, but she couldn't bear for the little things to be made bright and happy by anybody but herself, though, owing to her sharp ways, she often made them glad to get out of her sight."

"We are not all alike, aunt," replied Sarah, the flush on her face showing, however, that the words went home. "I'm not beyond owning that I felt a bit hurt when Mrs. Livesey let me know, without words, that she only looked on me as a girl that had been a sort of stop-gap in the house, and that now my work was done I was not to think I had a settled place there. But after all, you know she said I had filled the gap well, and that hits been a pleasant thing to think of ever since."

"I think I should wait till she asked me, before I went near her again," said Mrs. Evans.

"Maybe I should too, if all were well with her," replied Sarah. "But I cannot wait now. I shall go, and if I can be of any use I shall stay. It isn't likely Mrs. Livesey can have the heart to work, when her mind will be full of poor Adam. He will be away from home till he gets a turn round, that's certain, and she will want to go to him whenever she's allowed in at the hospital."

"Aye, with all her little sharp ways she dotes on Adam and the children. She'll feel every pain he has to suffer as if it were her own. Still, I think I should let her send for me if she wanted me," persisted Mrs. Evans.

"There's nobody knows all about the house and where everything is, like I do, aunt, or could be of the same use all at once, as I can."

"That's just it, my girl. Margaret Livesey ought to know your value, and that the help that is worth having is worth asking for."

"Yes, aunt. But then think how many blessings God gives us that we never ask for, just because of our need, and even when we are not a bit thankful. Whatever should we do if He waited to send everything till we showed that we valued His givings as we ought!"

"Sarah, you are just like your uncle. He always goes to the same Teacher for his lessons. Sometimes I'm ready to be vexed with him, and tell him he's poor spirited to put up with the things he does. But it's no use, he gets over me by putting me in mind of what his Master did when He walked the earth as man, and spent His days and nights in doing good, and specially to His enemies. Go your ways, my lass, and may you be welcomed and blest in the work your hand finds to do! If you are not wanted at Adam Livesey's, you can just come back; you're never one too many in this house."

Sarah's hand was on the latch, and she was about to set out, when little Tom arrived with his tear-stained face, and full of the message which he had not breath to deliver.

"You want me to go back with you, don't you, my man?" said Sarah. "I was just coming."

Tom nodded, and pushing his hand confidingly into Sarah's, turned to retrace his steps in her company.

Amid the general confusion and sense of trouble in Tom's mind, a gleam of comfort now found place. It could not be all bad, if it were the means of bringing dear, kind Sarah to the house again. It was a pity that it should be so, but he and the other children often looked longingly back on the time of mother's absence as the brightest bit in their lives, and they sometimes ventured to whisper the wish to each other that she might have to go away again for something.

Now, the very sight of Sarah and the grasp of her hand gave confidence, and by degrees Tom managed to tell her what had happened at home, of the condition in which he had left his mother, and the message sent by Richard Evans to herself.

"They said father was dead," added Tom, "and I ran home and told mother, and then Mr. Evans came and said father was alive, only he had been hurt and his arm was broke, so they'd taken him to get it set. Then mother went so white and fell down on the floor. I thought she was dead too."

The tears came as Tom recalled the terror, caused by the news of his father and the sight of his mother's face.

"But father is not killed, and mother will soon be better, Tom, so you mustn't cry, my man. You and I have got to help mother, and crying is not the way to do it; but I don't wonder at the tears, my poor little man. I daresay I should have been ready to cry too, if I had been there. Now we must just think to ourselves how we can make the best of a bad job. And we'll make all the haste we can, and see what has to be done first."

"You'll stay with us, Sarah, won't you?" asked Tom.

"To be sure I will, if mother wants me," said Sarah, which reply lengthened Tom's face a little.

Child as he was, he had divined that mother could not have wanted Sarah, or she would have asked her to tea sometimes, and not told him and the rest to hold their tongues when they said how kind she had been, or that she was sick of hearing Sarah's name. Well, any way, he could not be blamed for bringing her this time, for Mr. Evans had sent him to fetch her.

Tom need have had no fears on the score of a welcome for Sarah. With the first moments of returned consciousness, Mrs. Livesey had become aware that she should be ill-fitted to sustain even the burden of her daily work unassisted. Indeed, she doubted whether she might not be dependent upon others for still further help.

Richard Evans had told Mrs. Livesey that he had sent for his niece; but Margaret's pale face flushed at the mention of Sarah's name, then paled again as she whispered, "I don't think she'll come."

"I don't think anything about it. I'm sure she will come sooner or later. It will be very soon if Tom finds her at my place," replied Richard. "Why, bless your heart, Mrs. Livesey, if you were the biggest enemy she had, instead of being a neighbour and in trouble, Sarah would be ready to run to your help without being asked at all. And I really believe she's here," he added, as the latch was lifted and Tom entered with his niece.

"Just at the right time, Sarah, lass," said Richard. "Did Tom meet you on the road?"

"No, uncle; but I had heard about Mr. Livesey's accident, and I thought maybe I could help a bit, so I put on my things, and was ready when Tom came to the door. Please don't move," for Margaret was trying to raise herself from the couch. "You don't look fit for anything but to be waited on, and if you'll let me, I'll look after you and the children. I know where to find things, for you have a place for every one of them, and each in its place."

The tears rolled down Margaret's cheeks as she motioned for Sarah to come near her; then she whispered, "I did not think you would come after all. You are kind. I don't deserve it, but you are fond of the children, and they love you, poor things! And you'll be sorry about my Adam."

"I'm sorry for him and for you, Mrs. Livesey—for one as much as the other, I was going to say, but I think I'm most sorry for you, because it is harder for you to know of his hurt and the pain he will have, than to bear pain yourself. But what a mercy you are not a widow with a troop of little orphans round you at this minute!"

"Aye, lass," said Richard Evans. "And it seems to me that the first thing we should do is just to say a word of thanksgiving to God for Adam's spared life, and a prayer for poor Jim's widow and little ones."

This was a new thought to Mrs. Livesey, who was already turning her mind from the contemplation of what might have been, to the consideration of the very real though lesser trouble she had to face. She was, however, ready enough, first to listen to; then to join in the words of thanksgiving which Richard offered on behalf of her husband, herself and the children, for the precious life still spared, and the hope of restored health and strength. She could feel for her neighbour too, for in that terrible moment when she thought the worst had happened, had she not experienced in little what Jim's wife must bear through the long years of probable widowhood and the struggle for daily bread? She heard Richard's prayer for her and her children, that God would bless and cheer them, and make even this trouble the means of bringing them closer to Him, and teaching them to love and serve Him better.

"Better?" thought Margaret. "I've never loved God a bit. I don't know Him well enough for that. I've grumbled often enough, when things have gone wrong, and blamed Providence for it; but if they've gone right, I've mostly taken the credit to myself."

Then Margaret heard Richard asking that God would bless what was being done for Adam at the hospital, and give him peace of mind, and freedom from anxiety, which might hinder him from speedy recovery.

"Well," thought Margaret, "there's no harm in asking that, though one mostly thinks that doctors have a deal to do with such cases. A bad one will set a joint so as it will be stiff for life, like Jane Middleton's elbow was. She could never raise her hand to her head through that doctor's blundering."

"All good things come of Thee," Richard was saying, and Margaret's thoughts came back once more, so that she heard the old workman thank God for the wisdom and skill that He had bestowed, and by which the doctors had found out the means of lessening pain and prolonging precious lives. He ended by commending them all to the loving hands of the Great Physician both of souls and bodies, then rose from his knees with the bright look on his face which ever comes when the servant of God has held communion with his Divine Master.

Very few moments had been thus occupied, for time was precious, and there was much to be done. The children must be cared for, and all the little household matters attended to, for their sakes. These things, however, Sarah would undertake.

"You'll be free to go and see Adam, Mrs. Livesey," said Richard; "but if you'll take an old man's advice, you'll try and eat a bit before you start. It's a long while since breakfast, and after that faint turn, you had you cannot be fit for much. You'll want all your strength to keep a bright face and a cheery word for Adam. He's sure to be a bit down in the mouth, as one may say, and only natural. Now I'll leave you and Sarah, and I'll just get to know how Adam is going on, and then come back here for you, if the doctors will let you see him."

"They always let a man's wife see him when he's badly hurt," said Margaret. "I must go soon."

"It's often a good sign when they say, 'Wait a bit, and let him have a rest before anybody comes.' When a man is so badly hurt that they think there is no chance of pulling him round again, why, then he must be seen soon, if at all. But when they feel sure it's only a question of a little time, and that every minute's rest is doing him good, they like to keep visitors away for their patient's sake. I hope soon to bring you good news."

With these cheery words, Richard left Mrs. Livesey and Sarah together.