Chapter XVIII: Sunnie's Mother

"What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through,
Instead of this heart of stone, ice-cold whatever I do;
Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all?"
—Christina Rossetti.

HE smiled as he shook hands with Jean.

"You have found us out," he said. "Sunnie has been expecting to see you every day. Her mother was not sure of your present address."

"Can I see her," asked Jean, "or is it best not?"

"I don't think it will hurt her a bit, only you mustn't stay long, for her sleep forsakes her at present, when she is too talkative."

"Perhaps Mrs. Gordon would rather I did not see her to-day."

"If you have my permission, it will be all right."

His smile was bright as he looked at her, and then he led her upstairs and opened the door of a large front drawing-room. There, on her couch by the window, was Sunnie. She did not turn her head or hear their entrance, for she was busy talking to her bird.

"If you were let out of your cage now, Dicky darling, would you know how to fly? Or would you have quite, quite forgotten how to, all these long, long years? But I think I know the secret, Dicky. I shall soon fly somehow, and they're going to make me either fly on earth, or else fly to heaven!"

Jean's eyes filled with sudden tears. Then, she stepped quickly across the room, and knelt down by the couch. Sunnie's arms were round her neck in an instant.

"My darling painter! You've come at last. Now I'm quite happy; and isn't it a wonderful happenings my being in London!"

"Now listen to me," put in Dr. Fergusson, as he pulled out his watch and shook it sternly in front of Sunnie. "Ten minutes' talk, and then Miss Desmond must go; those are my orders. She will come again another day."

Sunnie looked at him, a little saucily. "We shall have to talk very fast then, for there's ten million things, I want to tell her! This isn't my first visit to my painter in London, is it? You remember how I came before?"

She looked up at Jean with one of her mischievous glances.

"I've been to London very often since you've been here! I left my body behind, as I told you it was too hindering and stupid! Cousin Leslie never knew how I came—it was just a secret between me and you—and now I've come like everybody else does, by the train, with luggage, and it's a much stupider way, and it tires one so."

"But I love to see you here, Sunnie," said Jean, with her hand caressing the golden curls. "It has been such a pleasant surprise to me."

"And where has your little ill lady gone to?"

"Far away. She has a husband now, and doesn't want me."

"That's a pity! Cousin Leslie and me often wants you; we shall never get husbands and leave off wanting you!"

Jean laughed merrily. "You can't tell, Sunnie. You are safe from one for a long time yet, but he may turn up one day!"

"Let me tell you a nice little plan of mine," said Sunnie, with an old-fashioned air. "I've thought of it for a long time. You must come to us soon again, and instead of my picture you must paint Cousin Leslie. Yes—" here she held up one small finger at the doctor—"you're not to confusion me by laughing! My painter shall do you, and I'll tell you how to sit. I shall have you sitting in a chair, and you'll be smelling a bunch of violets, and your hair must just be long enough, to curl up at the edge like I love to see it, and I'll put my fur rug over your feet, and you must be reading a book, and just looking up and pretending not to laugh. And do you know what the picture shall be called?"

"Let me see," said the doctor. "I should think it might be 'The Versatile Wonder.' I am to be smelling, and curling, and cowering under a rug, and sitting, and reading, and looking, and pretending. Don't you think I might be talking, and playing the piano, and walking, and—"

Sunnie stopped him severely. "You're to listen to me—this isn't your ten minutes! It's mine and my painter's. The picture shall be called 'The Man We Love.' And my painter shall write it underneath, and send it to the 'Cademy, and it shall be put next mine. That's what it shall be called, for it's quite true, isn't it?" She turned her blue eyes upon Jean for confirmation.

Certainly. Sunnie was good at bringing about embarrassing situations.

Jean's cheeks flushed crimson. She tried to pass it off.

"I'm afraid. I shall never get another picture into the Academy, Sunnie."

"No; but tell me, isn't the name of it nice. We do love him, don't we?"

Jean's eyes caught the doctor's. His sense of humour was stronger than his sentiment fortunately, and she laughed aloud meeting his amused glance.

"What man or woman don't you love, Sunnie?" he asked. "We must wait awhile for this wonderful picture. My hair must curl first!"

The time was slipping by. Jean wondered if Sunnie was purposely keeping off the all-important topic. But in a minute or two, the child's face changed. A shade like the white clouds of a summer's day passed over it. She raised herself on her cushions, and took hold of one of Jean's hands with both hers.

"I'm going through a great thing this week," she said, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. "They say I sha'n't be hurt, and Cousin Leslie promises me I shall feel nothing, but I know it's a solemn thing, because mother's tears fell on my cheeks last night. It means, perhaps, that I shall get up and walk, like the palsy man who was dropped through the roof to Jesus. How I wish He would make me do it without any doctors! I love Cousin Leslie, but I've seen three strange men, and one had glasses that made him look like an owl, and they've poked me about so!"

Jean felt the little hot hands that were holding hers so tightly, begin to tremble. Dr. Fergusson had moved to the other end of the room, and was looking out of the window. She bent and kissed Sunnie on the forehead.

"It will be all right, darling; Cousin Leslie will be there; he won't leave you. And Some One else will be there, too. I am quite sure Jesus will."

The child's blue eyes glistened. She nodded her head gravely. "Yes, I shall shut my eyes, and tell Him to take me straight to heaven, if it hurts too much."

Then, in an unusually brisk and cheerful little tone, she remarked aloud, "And so you see, when p'raps you see me next, I shall be walking downstairs and opening the door to you, and I shall say, 'Come in; Miss Margaret Gordon has left her sofa, and you'll never see that Margaret Gordon again. Quite a new one is speaking to you now.' My dear painter, tell me true, which will you like best—the new strong walking Sunnie, or the little old sick one?"

Jean's time was up. She clasped the child to her for a minute, and tried to steady her voice.

"My Sunnie, as I know her, will never change," she said, and then she wished her goodbye.

In the hall, Jean turned to Dr. Fergusson, who followed her out.

"Tell me," she said impulsively, "is there any risk?"

"Not much," he said; "not enough to give me an anxious thought, but I don't know what the after effect may be. She is so nervously strung, and so excitable. Her mother and I have talked about it for a long time, and it is entirely her wish that the attempt should be made."

"If anything happened to Sunnie, I should never forgive you."

Jean's tone was fierce with emotion.

"Her mother would certainly not forgive me."

The doctor straightened himself as he spoke, and his features became set and hard.

Then he looked at Jean and his tone softened. "Physicians are only God's instruments," he said. "Little Sunnie is in better hands than ours."

"When is it to be?"

"The day after to-morrow."

There was silence; then as Jean held out her hand his eyes met hers.

"I will let you know the result as soon as I can, but it will not be a sudden cure. Very, very gradual. Goodbye."

He turned back hastily, and Jean went out into the street feeling very depressed, and more lonely than ever.

All the next day, she painted away with feverish eagerness. It was wonderful, the tight hold little Sunnie had taken of her heart; she tried to banish her from her thoughts, but her sweet little pathetic voice kept ringing in her ears—

"They're going to make me either fly on earth, or else fly to heaven!"

When the following day came, she absented herself from the studio, and though she made a pretence of doing a little painting at home, she spent most of her time in pacing her two rooms. Her heart felt bitter against Mrs. Gordon.

"Why should she urge this so much? Does she really care at all for her child, or is her invalidism a bore to her? I suppose Dr. Fergusson can be trusted, but he may have been overpersuaded by her."

If Jean had been a witness of a scene the evening previously, she would have judged Mrs. Gordon less harshly.

She had been sitting by her child till she fell asleep. Sunnie had been restless and wakeful, and it was ten o'clock before she dropped off into the sound slumber her mother waited for. Then Mrs. Gordon rose to leave the room. Turning round, she found that Dr. Fergusson was standing behind her chair, looking meditatively at the little sleeper.

She looked at him.

"This time to-morrow it will all be over."

"Yes," he said; "and God grant it may be successful."

"I want to speak to you. Come into the drawing-room."

Her voice was abrupt, yet before she went she bent down and kissed her child passionately.

Dr. Fergusson looked at her curiously, as he followed her into another room.

He closed the door, and then she turned and faced him. There was a light in her eyes, a tremor about her firmly pressed lips, that showed that this was no light matter to her.

"Tell me again, Leslie, am I risking her life?"

"I can only say, I think not."

"But you are not sure of it being a success? We have the best surgeons, they are hopeful, and you are so. It must, it must be a cure!"

She sat down with her face towards the fire, and though her hands were lightly clasped on her knees, the doctor noted how they trembled, and how nervously she was working her fingers in and out of each other.

After a minute, she said, without looking round—

"Sit down, Leslie, and listen to me. You will not despise me; you know how I love her!"

She stopped, as if she could not go on, and then it seemed as if her tongue was loosed.

She spoke rapidly, choking back more than one dry sob.

"Sunnie is the only bit of joy that God has left me. He has tempered that. I see her suffer, I know how much she misses. I see other healthy, happy children, and remember what she was when she was born."

"I never forget, never for one moment, day or night, what she might be and what she is. She is reconciled to it, but she is not natural, not child-like—she—don't be shocked, God is weaning her from me to Himself. I do not love Him; how can I? She does. Her interest is in the Unseen—mine is not; she loves me as she does her nurse, not as she does God!"

"And, Leslie, listen to me: she is my child—I must have her; she is all that is left to me. I want her to rise from her sofa, to shake off all her unnatural goodness and devotion, to leave it with her cushions and couch, and to come out into the world with me, her mother! Listen! I have stood aside all these years seeing you, and even strangers, gather, round her couch and amuse and interest her hour by hour. I have sat downstairs in my lonely drawing-room and heard the music and the laughter overhead. My heart is too full of passion and bitterness to join in it."

"The child knows I have no sympathy in her pretty fancies and conceits. Life is too real, too horrible to me to pretend to look at it with her innocent eyes. So I have looked on, as I say, and seen her turn to you instead of to me for her amusement and entertainment. Don't mistake me, I have never grudged you one hour you have spent with her. I am grateful, deeply grateful to you for doing what I could never do. I don't know if I am grateful to you and to her nurse, for making her so religious, but I am grateful to you for making her little life a bright and happy one."

"But now—oh, how can I tell you? Ever since you told me there might be a chance of her recovery, that she might, if this operation and treatment is successful, be able to stand and walk, and even be like other girls, how I have hugged the hope of it to my heart, how I have resolved to have my way and will with her, should she regain her health! I am desperately anxious, Leslie, about to-morrow's result! I feel I am staking my all on it, but if we win, my child shall be mine, ten thousand times more than she has ever been! I shall come first with her. I will take her out, and let her mix with other children, and clear her mind of all these morbidly religious fancies."

"Don't think I want to make a clean sweep of you, but I am tired of being in the background; I am tired of feeling my child is more saintly than I am! I want her to drop to her mother's level, to turn to me for wisdom and counsel, to think of earth and all it can give her, and be a little companion to me. A cripple child may well be a saint, but a healthy one, never!"

This passionate revelation of a soul that had shut itself away from others for so long startled its hearer.

Yet as he listened, Dr. Fergusson pitied more than he condemned. He knew that the trouble in her life had made her bitterly rebellious against the One whom she considered had cruelly afflicted her. It had soured and embittered her whole nature, and her very silence and reserve had helped her to nurse her resentment in secret. The flame of anger and bitterness had burnt steadily all these years, eating away all that was good and wholesome in her nature, and Helen Gordon had given way too long to the evil powers in her soul to be ashamed of owning now her passionate feelings and motives.

For a moment there was silence, then the doctor spoke.

"Helen, I can hardly believe it is you that is speaking! If these are your sentiments, may God in His mercy take little Sunnie from you, before you have time to injure her soul!"

The mother sprang to her feet.

"You are cursing me, Leslie!"

"Far be it from me to do that, and yet I can almost feel for the first time in my life, the power and the force of the Master's words: 'But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in Me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea!'"

There was a dead silence for a minute. The passion died out of Mrs. Gordon's eyes. She resumed her seat, and Dr. Fergusson gently put his hand on her shoulder.

"Helen, your love for your child will save you from trying to ruin her."

Mrs. Gordon remained silent.

"You are a little unhinged by your anxiety; you do not really mean what you say."

"I mean every word of it," she said huskily. "I don't know why I said it, though!"

"I want to ask you a question." Dr. Fergusson's tone was very grave. "Have you ever prayed since your husband's death?"

She looked straight at him as she replied shortly, "Never."

"Then I want you to do so now, with me. Don't speak. I tell you, I will not undertake to see little Sunnie through this operation, unless you kneel down with me and commit her into God's care and keeping."

"I cannot pray to One whom I have lost faith in!"

"'If we believe not, yet He abideth faithful,'" quoted Dr. Fergusson sadly. "You are a miserable woman, Helen, and in your misery, you are actually contemplating dragging your happy little child—as you express it—down to your own level. Is this a mother's work? Do you see what your wild words signify? Look back to your own childhood, and remember your absolute, unquestioning faith, your confidence and love and trust in God above. I knew you in those days, and I remember. Let us kneel together, and ask for that old faith to be given back to you. God is love. He understands. He pities, and He will forgive."

In another moment, Dr. Fergusson was on his knees in that drawing-room, and yielding to his almost magnetic influence, when again he put his hand on her shoulder, Mrs. Gordon followed his example.

His few quiet words had shown her herself in a startling light.

And then the strong man by her side poured out his soul in earnest, almost heart-broken supplication for her. It was a prayer that seemed to bring God Himself down to wrestle with the powers of darkness that surrounded the soul of one of His creatures.

And Leslie Fergusson knew that there was a desperate issue at stake. He knew that the woman beside him had come to a crisis in her life. If ever her pride was to be broken down, and she was to take the place of a supplicant instead of an injured sufferer, if ever her darkness was to be turned into light, and her rebellious discontent transformed into the peace that passes understanding, that time would be now. It was no wonder that he wrestled in prayer, no wonder that his soul rose in all its strength and importunity, and laid hold of the Hand that moves the world.

As Mrs. Gordon listened to the effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man, she felt indeed that it would avail much.

Let us leave them. If the woman with seven devils in her was brought to the feet of her Saviour, and rid of her tormentors, would He be less ready to receive and pardon one who was likewise brought to His feet by one of His servants?

When Dr. Fergusson came out of that room, he looked worn and exhausted, but there was a light in his eyes that told of victory.

And that night a tear-stained, repentant woman knelt long at her bedside acknowledging her sin, and worshipping the One she had wounded so sorely.