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How It All Came Round, a novel by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 22. Empty Purses |
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_ CHAPTER XXII. EMPTY PURSES It was not until Harold's life was really safe that his mother realized how very nearly he had been taken from her. But for Hinton's timely interposition, and the arrival of Doctor H---- at the critical moment, the face she so loved might have been cold and still now, and the spirit have returned to God who gave it. Looking at the little sleeper breathing in renewed health and life with each gentle inspiration, such a rush of gratitude and over-powering emotion came over Mrs. Home that she was obliged to follow Hinton into his sitting-room. There she suddenly went down on her knees. "God bless you," she said. "God most abundantly bless you for what you have done for me and mine. You are, except my husband, the most truly Christian man I ever met." "Don't," said Hinton, moved and even shocked at her position. "I loved--I love the little lad. It is nothing, what we do for those we love." "No; it is, as you express it, nothing to save a mother's heart from worse than breaking," answered Charlotte Home. "If ever you marry and have a son of your own, you will begin to understand what you have done for me. You will be thankful then to think of this day." Then with a smile which an angel might have given him, the mother went away, and Hinton sat down to write to Charlotte. But he was much moved and excited by those earnest words of love and approval. He felt as though a laurel wreath had been placed on his head, and he wondered would his first brief, his first sense of legal triumph, be sweeter to him than the look in that mother's face this morning. "And it was so easily won," he said to himself. "For who but a brute under the circumstances could have acted otherwise?" In writing to Charlotte he told her all. It was a relief to pour out his heart to her, though of course he carefully kept back names. By return of post he received her answer. "I must do something for that mother. You will not let me come to her. But if I cannot and must not come, I can at least help with money. How much money shall I send you?" To this Hinton answered,-- "None. She is a proud woman. She would not accept it." As he put this second letter in the post, he felt that any money gift between these two Charlottes would be impossible. During little Harold's illness he had put away all thoughts of the possibility of Mrs. Home being entitled to any of his Charlotte's wealth. The near and likely approach of death had put far from his mind all ideas of money. But now, with the return of the usual routine of life in this small and humble house, came back to Hinton's mind the thoughts which had so sorely troubled him on the night on which Charlotte had told him Mrs. Home's story. For his own personal convenience and benefit he had put away these thoughts. He had decided that he could not move hand or foot in the matter. But in the very house with this woman, though he might so resolve not to act, he could not put the sense of the injustice done to her away from his heart. He pondered on it and grew uneasy as to the righteousness of his own conduct. As this uneasiness gathered strength, he even avoided Mrs. Home's presence. For the first time, too, in his life Hinton was beginning to realize what a very ugly thing poverty--particularly the poverty of the upper classes--really is. To make things easier for this family in their time of illness, he had insisted on having what meals he took in the house, in the room with Mr. and Mrs. Home. He would not, now that Harold was better, change this custom. But though he liked it, it brought him into direct contact with the small shifts necessary to make so slender a purse as their's cover their necessary expenses. Mr. Home noticed nothing; but Mrs. Home's thin face grew more and more worn, and Hinton's heart ached as he watched it. He felt more and more compunctions as to his own conduct. These feelings were to be quickened into activity by a very natural consequence which occurred just then. Little Harold's life was spared, and neither Daisy nor the baby had taken the fever. So far all was well. Doctor H----, too, had ceased his visits, and the little invalid was left to the care of the first doctor who had been called in. Yes, up to a certain point Harold's progress towards recovery was all that could be satisfactory. But beyond that point he did not go. For a fortnight after the fever left him his progress towards recovery was rapid. Then came the sudden standstill. His appetite failed him, a cough came on, and a hectic flush in the pale little face. The child was pining for a change of air, and the father's and mother's purse had been already drained almost to emptiness by the expenses of the first illness. One day when Doctor Watson came and felt the feeble, too rapid pulse he looked grave. Mrs. Home followed him from the room. "What ails my boy, doctor? He is making no progress, none whatever." "Does he sleep enough?" asked Doctor Watson suddenly. "Not well; he coughs and is restless." "Ah! I am sorry he has got that cough. How is his appetite?" "He does not fancy much food. He has quite turned against his beef-tea." Doctor Watson was silent. "What is wrong?" asked Mrs. Home, coming nearer and looking up into his face. "Madam, there is nothing to alarm yourself with. Your boy has gone through a most severe illness; the natural consequences must follow. He wants change. He will be fit to travel by easy stages in a week at latest. I should recommend Torquay. It is mild and shielded from the spring east winds. Take him to Torquay as soon as possible. Keep him there for a month, and he will return quite well." "Suppose I cannot?" "Ah! then----" with an expressive shrug of the shoulders and raising of the brows, "my advice is to take him if possible. I don't like that cough." Doctor Watson turned away. He felt sorry enough, but he had more acute cases than little Harold Home's to trouble him, and he wisely resolved that to think about what could not be remedied, would but injure his own powers of working. Being a really kind-hearted man he said to himself, "I will make their bill as light as I can when I send it in." And then he forgot the poor curate's family until the time came round for his next visit. Meanwhile Mrs. Home stood still for a moment where he had left her, then went slowly to her own room. "Mother, mother, I want you," called the weak, querulous voice of the sick child. "Coming in a moment, darling," she said. But for that one moment, she felt she must be alone. Locking her door she went down on her knees. Not a tear came to her eyes, not a word to her lips. There was an inward groan, expressing itself in some voiceless manner after this fashion,-- "My God, my God, must I go through the fiery furnace?" Then smoothing her hair, and forcing a smile back to her lips, she went back to her little son. All that afternoon she sat with him, singing to him, telling him stories, playing with him. In the evening, however, she sought an opportunity to speak to her husband alone. "Angus, you know how nearly we lost our boy a week ago?" The curate paused, and looked at her earnestly, surprised at her look and manner. "Yes, my dearest," he said. "But God was merciful." "Oh! Angus," she said; and now relief came to her, for as she spoke she began to weep. "You are good, you are brave, you could have let him go. But for me--for me--it would have killed me. I should have died or gone mad!" "Lottie dear--my darling, you are over-strung. The trial, the fiery trial, was not sent. Why dwell on what our loving Father has averted?" "Oh, Angus! but has He--has He," then choking with pent-up emotion, she told what the doctor had said to-day, how necessary the expensive change was for the little life. "And we have no money," she said in conclusion, "our purse is very nearly empty." "Very nearly empty indeed," answered Angus Home. He was absolutely silent after this news, no longer attempting to comfort his wife. "Angus, God is cruel if for the sake of wanting a little money our boy must die." "Don't," said the curate--God was so precious to him that these words smote on him even now with a sense of agony--"don't," he repeated, and he raised his hand as though to motion away an evil spirit. "He is cruel if He lets our boy die for want of money to save him," repeated the mother in her desperation. "He won't do that, Lottie--He will never do that, there is not the least fear." "Then how are we to get the money?" "I don't know, I cannot think to-night. I will go up to Harold now." He turned and left the room with slow steps. As he mounted the stairs his back was so bent, his face so gray and careworn, that though scarcely forty he looked like an old man. This was Harold's one precious hour with his father, and the little fellow was sitting up in bed and expecting him. "Father," he said, noticing the anxious look on his face, which was generally as serene and peaceful as the summer sea, "what is the matter? You are ill; are you going to have the scarlet fever too?" "No, my dear, dear boy. I am quite well, quite well at least in body. I have a care on my mind that makes me look a little sad, but don't notice it, Harold, it will pass." "_You_ have a care on your mind!" said Harold in a tone of surprise. "I know mother often, often has, but I did not think you had cares, father." "How can I help it, boy, sometimes?" "I thought you gave your cares to God. I don't understand a bit how you manage it, but I remember quite well your telling mother that you gave your cares away to God." The father turning round suddenly, stooped down and kissed the boy. "Thank you, my son, for reminding me. Yes, I will give this care too to God, it shall not trouble me." Then the two began to talk, and the son's little wasted hand was held in the father's. The father's face had recovered its serenity, and the little son, though he coughed continually, looked happy. "Father," he said suddenly, "there's just one thing I'm sorry for." "What's that, my boy?" "There were a whole lot of other things, father; about my never having gone to live in the country, and those gypsy teas that mother told me of. You light a fire outside, you know, father, and boil the kettle on it, and have your tea in the woods and the fields. It must be just delicious. I was sorry about that, for I've never been to one, never _even_ to one all my life long; and then there's the pretty lady--I do want to see my pretty lady once again. I was sorry about those things all day, but not now. 'Tisn't any of those things makes me so sorry now." "What makes you sorry, Harold?" "Father, I'm just a little bit jealous about Jesus. You see there's always such a lot of us little children dying and going to heaven, and He can't come for us all, so He has to send angels. Now I don't want an angel, I want Him to come for me Himself." "Perhaps He will, Harold," said his father, "perhaps Jesus will be so very loving to His little lamb that He will find time to come for him Himself." "Oh, father! when you are giving Him your new care to-night, will you just ask Him not to be so dreadfully busy, but to try and come Himself?" "Yes, Harold," said the father. After this promise little Harold went to sleep very happily. _ |
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