CHAPTER XXVI.
SAVED FROM THE RIVER.
WHEN Dr. Arundel turned from seeing his wife on her way, he called a cab, and placing the poor woman and her baby in it, drove quickly to Cromer Street, directing the man to stop at a house near the middle.
His "nurse" was at home, and came directly to the cab door.
"I have brought you another patient," said Dr. Arundel cheerfully; "and a baby this time, too."
The nurse held out her arms for it, and the poor weak mother, after a glance at her kind face, yielded it to her, tottering, however, after her as quickly as she could.
"Give her two or three spoonfuls of beef-tea at once, and get her to bed, and in about twenty minutes I will call in and see how she is."
With an unspoken explanation, which the nurse seemed to comprehend, he turned away to visit another patient near.
The nurse helped the sick woman into the back room, and proceeded to lay the now sleeping babe upon one of the two beds, in the second of which was an elderly woman who was asleep. Everything in the room was the picture of cleanliness; there was a curtain which could be drawn from side to side, and the nurse now noiselessly drew this on its easy rings, and then went into her own room to place a little saucepan of beef-tea on the fire.
Meanwhile the poor woman had sunk on a chair exhausted; the little spark of life which had carried her thus far seemed failing.
"I'll undress you, my dear," said the nurse kindly; "take no trouble, I'll do everything; just sit still, you're too weak to help yourself."
"Indeed I am," moaned the sick woman. "No one knows what I have gone through the last week or two with my poor baby; at last—"
"There, don't talk," said the nurse, noticing the pallor which overspread her face at these words, "you shall tell me everything when you are nicely in bed."
Meanwhile she had been swiftly and tenderly unfastening the poor shabby clothes, and soon her patient was resting in the soft bed, with clean and fresh linen round her, and her own old garments noiselessly removed to the other room, to be seen to and hung up presently.
The nurse returned with the beef-tea, and proceeded to feed her with it spoonful by spoonful.
"How kind you are," she exclaimed, looking up. "Oh, what it is not to hear baby crying!"
"Yes, my dear; now be quiet. See, your baby is quite happy by you, and if it wakes, I'll see to it; don't you fret."
"This is rest," said the woman, giving her aching body up to the sense of repose.
The nurse looked at her fixedly. "My dear," she said, "I ought not to let you go to sleep without saying one word about Him who has given you this rest."
"The doctor?" asked the woman.
"No; better than that; Jesus, the Saviour. You feel helpless enough, don't you? Ill, and weak, and fainting?"
"God knows I do," answered the weary creature.
"Aye, God knows you do! Well, that is just the time when He can take us in hand. 'While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.'"
"I don't care about that," said the woman wearily. "Oh, let me rest!"
The doctor, with his quiet footstep, now stood beside the bed; he had come in, finding the door open.
"My dear," he said kindly, "supposing your rest which you so crave should end in your not waking again—end in death?"
She moved slightly without opening her eyes. "Let me rest," she entreated. "I should have been dead now but for you; so what does it matter when it is?"
"Not if you are content to go to the end of the journey," said the doctor in a tone intended to rouse her. "Where are you going, do you think?"
"I can't think; I only know I meant to take my baby with me, and we should have been together."
"I do not think you would," said the doctor; "but you may be for ever if you like."
"What?" she said.
"Go to be for ever with your child, if both of you look to Jesus."
The woman's dulled senses here failed her, and she fell into a heavy sleep which was almost stupor.
The nurse's and doctor's eyes met.
"We must let her sleep for an hour, and then I shall try to awaken her. How awful it is to see a soul dying without God!"
He went into the other room and sat down, while the nurse quickly cleared up the poor woman's things, and put the kettle on for a cup of tea for her dear doctor, who however sat very silent, his heart rising in imploring supplication that this soul might be plucked as a brand from the burning.
He drank his tea almost in silence, after motioning to the nurse to take hers.
"You will need your strength, I expect," he said, "so eat a good tea."
He asked her a few questions as to other cases she had in her charge, and then they sat silent again; while the doctor drew out his Bible and read it near the window, to catch the remaining light in that dull little street.
By-and-by he looked at his watch, and went into the other room with the nurse. The woman and her babe still slept the sound sleep of the utterly exhausted.
Doctor Arundel poured a little beef-tea, which had been kept warm on the hob, into a teacup, and going to the bedside with it, he began to raise the poor creature's head.
"Let me sleep," she murmured, burying her face deeper in her pillow.
"After you have swallowed this nice beef-tea," said the doctor.
She still resisted obstinately, and he tried another plan. "If you don't take it, as I wish, you will wake your baby up, and what a pity that would be!"
"Oh, don't wake her for the world!" murmured the woman, yielding slightly to their touch.
"Then drink this," urged the doctor, "or she will wake."
So she drank it, and, as he expected, it roused her a little from her dead slumber.
"It is too late for me," she said half to herself, as if continuing something she had been saying in her dream; "I never gave it a thought before, and now it is too late, too late."
Oh the mournful sound of those dreadful words in that plaintive voice!
"If your baby had fallen into the river, and you could pull it out, would you stop on the bank, and say it was 'too late'?" asked the doctor earnestly.
"No!" said the woman. "At least, not if it fell in alone, and I was safe on the shore."
"Supposing it was in a burning house, and you could still rush up the staircase, would you wring your hands at the bottom, and say it was 'too late' to rescue it?"
"No, no!" exclaimed the woman, now fully awake, and turning to clasp her baby to her breast. "No, no, never while I could get to it. My baby! My baby!"
"Ah, then, it is not too late for you. You are drowning, you are in a burning house; but Jesus has come to seek you, to save you. Oh, stretch out your arms to Him now, my dear! Do, or you will be lost."
The woman looked in the face of her babe earnestly and longingly, with unspeakable yearning, and at last she whispered, "Did you say we might be separated after all?"
"Indeed you might. There is only blessedness with Jesus, and if you will not believe He died for your sins, if you will not look to Him to save you, you can never go to be with Him, where I hope your baby will go."
The woman still clasped her child, but did not answer. She was thinking deeply, with what little power of thought she had left.
"When He was on earth," resumed the doctor, "He took such little babies as yours up in His arms, and said He should like to have them with Him in heaven."
"Did He?" said the poor woman. "Was He ever fond of little babies?"
"He was indeed, and He loves you and your baby so much that He died to save you."
"It was kind of Him," she said dreamily; "let me rest now."
She sank down again, and the exhausted frame was once more at rest in profound slumber, nor did she even wake when her baby stirred; but the nurse gently withdrew the tiny little thing from her arms, and took it into her own room, where she fed it, and washed it, and made it more comfortable than its poor sick and poverty-stricken mother had been able to do for many a long day.
Meanwhile Dr. Arundel had left, promising to return by-and-by.
The nurse then took the babe back, laid it by the side of its sleeping mother, and afterwards went to her other patient, and told her a little of what she had gathered of the young woman's history.
She had explained to Dr. Arundel in the cab that her husband had died two or three months ago, and that ever since she had been struggling with poverty and ill health, until at length she had been forced to abandon what little work she could find, and begin the downward road of selling her things one by one to obtain food. At last illness and starvation had deprived her of all hope, and she had given herself up to utter despair.
"And no wonder," added the nurse; "for what must such a life be without God to trust in?"
They spoke low, and so the evening hours passed away, and it grew on to ten o'clock.
The nurse was sitting silent watching the dying woman, when she perceived that she had opened her eyes, and was looking at her earnestly.
"You shall have some beef-tea," she said, rising and fetching it, without attending to the woman's shake of the head.
"Just a mouthful to please me," she said as she held it to the white lips.
The woman was going to refuse, but altered her mind, and took it. She seemed very grave, but there was a clear look about her eyes which the nurse had not seen since her arrival.
"I have not been asleep all the time," she said in a whisper; "I have been thinking about the Saviour that held the little babies."
"Have you?" said the nurse. "And what about Him, my dear?"
"I have been telling Him I should like Him to take care of my little baby when I am gone. Do you think He will?"
"I'm quite sure of it."
"Are you?" she asked, her eyes full of the deepest longing. "You cannot know how awful it is to me to think of her being taken to the workhouse!"
"If you tell Jesus about it, He will see to her."
"I have told Him; but, oh, I deserve it all! Did you know, did I tell you, if I had not fainted, or been brought here, I and my baby would be lying now in the cold, dark river? Think of that!"
"Dreadful," said the nurse, shuddering; "but you are sorry now, my dear?"
"Very sorry," said the poor creature, her eyes filling with long dried-up tears; "I hope He'll forgive me."
"He will, He will," said the nurse earnestly. "He gave His own life to save you, and to bring you to God."
The poor woman was silent and exhausted; and then suddenly she leant towards the nurse, and seizing her hand, kissed it over and over again.
"I am going, I think," she said feebly, falling back, "but you said He died to save me; will He save me after I have been so wicked? How can He love me?"
"He loved you before you felt yourself wicked. Oh, trust Him!"
The woman looked upwards. "I will," she said; "for I have no one else; and please, dear Saviour, take care of my poor little child."
Again she appeared to become unconscious, but the nurse and the other patient, who had also been listening to and praying for her, rejoiced with the angels over the repenting sinner.
About half-past ten Dr. Arundel came in, and after feeling her pulse and examining her features closely, took a chair by the bedside and waited. The slight touch of his fingers, however, roused her again, and she spoke to the nurse in a painful whisper, "I can't breathe; do put me up higher."
The nurse raised her, and placed more pillows at her back.
"Let me hold my baby once more," she gasped; and the nurse quickly and kindly obeyed, placing the little creature in the poor trembling arms.
"She is not hungry now?" asked the mother, looking up with imploring eyes.
"Oh, no! She has been washed and fed. See how much better she looks," said the nurse.
The poor woman bent over her and kissed her passionately; then laid her face against the little head and wept tears of anguish. "I can't leave her," she sobbed; "I never can leave her, and yet I must!"
"Do you remember," said the nurse soothingly, "you were going to trust her to Jesus? He loves her."
The woman listened; she relaxed her passionate hold, though still clasping her babe tenderly and protectingly.
"I remember now," she answered; "and as He has loved me, He'll love her! Yes; I can leave her to Him."
She hid her face again in the tiny little bosom, and sobbed as if her heart would break; but the listeners knew that the weeping was submissive this time, and they rejoiced that the loving Saviour was gently bringing the weary sheep home to the fold.
"The way is rough," said the doctor, turning to the nurse; "but, oh, the glory!"
"I have a message for you about your baby, if you can bear it," he said to the poor creature.
"Yes," she said faintly.
"A dear young lady who loves the Lord Jesus has offered to take care of her, feed her, and clothe her, and bring her up happily, and teach her about heaven, where you will be."
The woman once more kissed her baby passionately; and they heard her murmur words of thanksgiving over its little head. "He's so good, baby," she whispered, "so kind; He's given you a home, and my child must love Him, and thank Him, and come to mother some day, because He died to save us both."
They were her last words; for she seemed to fall asleep with her child still on her bosom; but after a little while they saw she had gone "home," and was with "the multitude whom no man can number, who have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb."
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE ANSWER.
THE next morning, after the poor young mother's death, a cab stopped at Sunnyside, and the nurse got out with the little babe in her arms.
Ellen opened the door to them, and ushered them into the drawing room, where Christina was sitting, while by her stood Walter, who had but that moment arrived with the message that the babe was on its way, but had not had time to give it.
"Here she is, ma'am," said the motherly nurse, coming forward. And Christina held out her arms, while a sudden qualm came over her as to whether she would be able properly to fulfil her trust.
When the little tender form rested on her knees, and she looked into its white, half-starved face, and thought of all the love that young mother had lavished on it, but that now it could never know such a love again, she bent her head over it, and burst into tears.
"Don't cry, ma'am," said the nurse kindly; "you will be like a mother to it, poor lamb; it will never know the difference, and the poor creature that's gone to glory trusted it to you and her Saviour."
Christina wiped the tears away which had fallen on the baby's face and shawl, and stooped and kissed it tenderly. "Poor wee thing. Oh, Walter, I wish I knew more how to do for it, and comfort it!" she said, while she could not help crying afresh.
"You will soon learn; and I believe will not need much learning either," he said, touched by her tears and her tender face.
Christina turned to the nurse and said, looking up, "You will like some lunch, I am sure, nurse; but let me know when you are ready to go; I have a note to send."
When Walter and she were again alone, Christina once more bent and kissed the little sleeping face.
"Walter," she said, looking up, and speaking earnestly, "I could never part from this little one while God spares her life. She is taken into my heart for once and all; so young, so helpless, left me by her mother, lent to me by God! I can never part with her."
"I would not ask it," he said very low, while the sudden hope rushed into his heart and face at once, that now might be the time for Christina's answer.
"Have I waited long enough, dear?" he asked, his voice trembling strangely. "Could you give me hope now?"
"Dear Walter!" she said, laying her soft hand on his for an instant. "How patient and kind you have been."
He looked in her face questioningly, and their eyes met: hers, still dewy with tears; his, strong, faithful, true.
"I must not keep you waiting for ever," she said hesitating; "and if you care so much still—why—Walter, I shall miss you dreadfully when you go."
"Christina!" he exclaimed. "Then you will?"
"Yes," she answered; "you have been so very good to me."
* * * * * *
"The nurse is ready, ma'am," said Ellen, opening the door a few minutes after.
"Then fetch Margaret too, I want her to see the little baby. Look, Ellen, shall we not all long to put some colour into these thin little cheeks?"
"Poor little mite!" exclaimed Ellen. "And so the poor mother is dead, ma'am?"
"Yes," said Christina; "but she died trusting in Christ; what a mercy that was."
"Yes, indeed," answered Ellen, going off to fetch Margaret, whose motherly arms soon held the baby. "We ought to have a fire for it," she said to Christina, "if you will allow it, ma'am."
"Oh, certainly! But I cannot think what we shall do for clothes."
"Mamma sent a message about that," said Walter, "and a parcel."
"Just like her," answered Christina; "and what was the message?"
"That she would lend you whatever you wanted more than these, till you had time to get some made. Nellie has already begun to cut out several little garments; and Netta and Isabel had on their thimbles when I came away."
"What dear little girls they are," said Christina; "we shall all have to be busy. Did you hear its name, Walter?"
"Yes; she told my father it was Alice Forbes."
"A pretty name," said Christina.
The baby gave a little sound, which rather startled them all; and Margaret said she should take her to the play-room at once, and feed her.
"See, Maggie!" she exclaimed, entering, "here's the dearest little baby for us!"
Maggie came directly and peeped at the bundle on her mother's knee.
"Come Alfy," said Margaret, "you must love her too."
"Me don't 'ike babies," said Alfy, who was standing by the guard watching Ellen's quick movements in igniting the already laid fire; "me 'ike to see the fire."
"What tiny feet!" said Margaret, taking no notice of Master Alfy. "Look, Maggie. I never did see such a thin baby, Ellen; it makes my heart ache dreadfully!"
"That will burn," said Ellen, getting up and replacing the large guard. "Margaret, these guards are much nicer with these wide-apart bars going downwards, so that they cannot climb, and yet can feel the heat."
"Yes; so I thought when I first saw it. Now, baby, come and spread your poor little toes at this blaze."
Alfy's eyes had wandered in the direction of the baby in spite of his intentions, and he now drew a little nearer, and carefully pulled the old shawl aside to get a view of her face. He made no remark, however, but went back to his favourite arm-chair and little table.
Christina soon came in with the parcel and began opening it on the table, assisted by Maggie, who was extremely interested in its contents.
"Here is a little frock, and here's another," she exclaimed; "and here's a flannel petticoat; and, oh!" Jumping down, "Let me warm it, mother, ready for the baby."
"Do," said her mother; "for I think, ma'am, I shall bathe it just as if I had had it all night, it will be all the better for it."
"Yes," said Christina; "and if you want any help, remember I shall always be ready to come, or will send someone."
She left the room, and met Walter in the hall.
"I must go," he said regretfully; "but I will come back again if you will let me?"
"Very well," she said, smiling slightly, and looking down, "whenever you wish."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
"GOOD-BYE."
THOSE last weeks flew quickly by. But before the end of them, Nellie had wonderfully cheered up; for she had been obliged to confess to herself that she had latterly felt strangely dull. However, as Walter's face brightened, so the weight passed away from her heart.
The new baby was a great interest to all, and kept them well employed in working to provide it with a wardrobe.
Arthur said it was hard that he should not be able to contribute; for, having spent all his available pocket-money at South Bay, he had nothing left. His mother, however, often had a remedy for the small evils of life, and she asked him if he could not think of anything to make, which he could sell, and afterwards spend the money for the baby. He sat a very long time silent; and his mother did not help him while he could help himself. At last he looked up, "Do you think I could make a blotting portfolio, something like those we did at South Bay?"
"Yes," answered his mother; "or needle-books made in the same way, only very neatly, are pretty; or you might make a scrap-book on coloured calico, and paint the pictures nicely for some nursery."
"Nobody would buy that," said Arthur.
"Indeed I think they would, but whichever you like best, dear; or you can do fretwork."
"So I can; that's the best thought, because I can make something really pretty, and it would be sure to sell."
So Arthur made a fretwork book-stand, and after some little trouble and inquiry found a purchaser in his grandmamma, who happened to be visiting London at the time. He received four shillings; and when it was safely in his hand, he felt very proud and happy.
"Now to spend it!" he exclaimed. "Who will go with me to see about the things?"
Ada, who had now returned from Hampstead, willingly proposed to help him; and after a little consultation with their mother, the two set forth. They made their way to the shop mentioned by Mrs. Arundel; and Ada rather bashfully asked to see some warm stuff suitable for a baby's pelisse.
The shopkeeper knew the children, and guessed it was for some charitable object. "Is it for your own baby brother?" he asked prudently.
"No; it is for a poor little girl who has been left an orphan."
"Well," said he pleasantly, "I have something very nice here—a remnant—how much were you to spend?"
"Three shillings, and a shilling for some narrow velvet," said Arthur; "I'm afraid it will not buy anything very nice."
"I should be pleased to let you have this remnant for that money, for a little orphan," he answered, "if you will allow me to help to that small extent. And do you think a couple of yards of flannel would be acceptable?"
So the children returned home delighted with their parcel, and unfolded before their mother's appreciating eyes sufficient warm, soft, grey french merino to make a beautiful winter pelisse, displaying also the nice piece of flannel which would be so useful too.
"How very kind of Mr. Thorne!" she said.
That evening, while Arthur read to them, Ada and Mrs. Arundel proceeded to cut it out, and all hands set to work to get it made. It was to be very plain—"none of your grand furbelows," Arthur had said, and Mrs. Arundel's taste said the same; the little motherless babe should be very quietly dressed.
In two days, the busy fingers had finished it. "Ada will be quite a seamstress," said her mamma; "I never thought she would be so industrious."
Arthur and Ada went together to Sunnyside to see it put on the baby. Two weeks of good air and plenty of food had already told upon the little creature, and in its clean clothes and comfortable surroundings, it looked its best when introduced for the first time to Arthur.
Christina was delighted with the pelisse, said it was the thing of all others she wanted, "for baby has not been beyond the garden yet; as I was rather ashamed of its shawl, and all the pelisses I could see were either so common or else so splendid that I would not buy one; but this is perfection!"
October was slipping away all too fast; and much as some of the little party wished to defer it, the very last day of Walter's stay in England at length arrived.
Christina had come to No. 8 to spend it with them there; and she and Walter had been for a long walk in Regent's Park. In the evening they all gathered in the drawing room, and talked over the many new interests of the last three months.
"Your text has borne fruit, dear Walter," said his stepmother, while her hand rested lovingly in little Tom's.
"It has indeed, thank God," he answered; "though I was but watering the seed you and my father have been sowing for so many years."
"Yes," said Mrs. Arundel thoughtfully; "so that 'he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice together.'"
"I have only one word of caution to say to you all, dears," he said, "Christina and I have been thinking of it a great deal this afternoon. Remember that whatever work we do outside our homes is as nothing compared to the work inside. If we were to be ever so busy at work, but be cross, or fretful, or disobedient at home, it could not be accepted by Him who says it is the heart He wants: 'I dwell with him who is of humble and contrite heart, and who trembleth at my word.'"
"But you do not think, Walter, it has made us cross," said Ada, looking up.
"No, dear, indeed; but there is a tendency in all of us to neglect our own souls, especially when we are busy in work for God. Never let anything hinder you all from reading your Bibles and spending a little time with God every day. It would be as foolish for us to think of going to our daily tasks without it, as it would be of a young man to attempt to climb a mountain without his breakfast."
"We will try not to forget," said Arthur.
"There is the clock striking nine, and we agreed to say good-bye then," said Walter; "and afterwards I must take Christina home. Nellie, I shall see you to-morrow before I start at five."
The farewells were spoken hurriedly now; and Walter only seemed to hear his father's words, "My son, I bless God for the day you came home."
When he parted from Christina at her own door an hour later, he said, "How I wish it were 'taking you home' instead of parting from you. But one thing, dear, I do feel, and that is my only comfort, you are safe in more tender, more protecting, more wise, and more loving care than even mine could be. Good-bye till—"
"Till God brings you home again, dear Walter."