Chapter X: Sickness at the MILL House

"OH, Mavis! Oh, Bob! Mother's very ill! Oh, isn't it dreadful? The doctor's going to send a hospital nurse to take care of her, for he says she'll be ill for weeks, if—if she recovers!" And Rose finished her sentence with a burst of tears.

The scene was the parlour at the Mill House one afternoon during the first week of the new year. Rose had crept quietly into the room with a scared look on her face, having overheard a conversation between her father and the village doctor, the latter of whom had been called in to prescribe for Mrs. John, who had been ailing since the night of the concert, when she had taken a chill.

No one had thought her seriously ill until that morning, when she had declared herself too unwell to rise, and had been unable to touch the breakfast which her little daughter had carried upstairs to her. Then it was that her husband had become alarmed, and the doctor had been sent for. The medical man's face had worn a grave expression as he had left the sick-room, and he had immediately informed Mr. Grey that his wife was seriously ill with pneumonia, the result of a neglected cold.

"If she recovers?" echoed Bob, questioningly. "What do you mean, Rose? It's only a cold that mother has, isn't it?"

"No, it's something much worse than that—pneumonia. Mrs. Long's husband died from pneumonia." And poor Rose's tears and sobs increased at the remembrance.

"Oh, don't cry so dreadfully, Rosie," implored Mavis. "People often recover from pneumonia, indeed they do! Mother has nursed several pneumonia patients since I can remember, and not one of them died. You mustn't think Aunt Lizzie won't recover."

"But she's very ill—the doctor said so," returned Rose, nevertheless checking her sobs, and regarding Mavis with an expression of dawning hope in her blue eyes. "He said she would require most careful nursing, and he couldn't tell how it would go with her."

"Doctors never can tell," said Mavis, sagely. "Mother says they can only do their best, and leave the result to God. Poor Aunt Lizzie! How sorry I am she should be so ill!"

"The doctor says we are not to go into her room again," sighed Rose. "I heard him say to father, 'Don't let the children into her room to worry her; she must be kept very quiet.'"

"As though we would worry her!" cried Bob, in much indignation. He felt inclined to follow his sister's example and burst into tears. But he manfully, though with much difficulty, retained his composure.

Before night, a trained nurse from a nursing institution at Oxford was installed at the Mill House, and took possession of the sick-room. And during the anxious days which followed, the miller's wife approached very near the valley of the shadow of death, so that those who loved her went in fear and trembling, and stole about the house with noiseless footsteps and hushed voices.

But at length, a day arrived when the patient was pronounced to have taken a turn for the better. And after that, she continued to progress favourably until, one never-to-be-forgotten morning, the doctor pronounced her life out of danger.

"We shall be allowed to see her soon now, father, shan't we?" Rose inquired eagerly, after she had heard the good news from her father's lips.

"I hope so, my dear," he answered. "It will not be long before she will be asking for you, if I'm not mistaken. But she's been too ill to notice anything or any one. You won't forget to thank God for His goodness in sparing your mother's precious life, will you, Rosie?"

"No, indeed, father," she responded, earnestly. "We prayed—Bob, and Mavis, and I—that God would make dear mother well again, and you see He is going to do it. I felt so—so helpless and despairing, and there was only God who could do anything, and so—and so—"

"And so you were driven to Him for help and consolation? Ah, that's the way with many folks! They forget Him when things go smooth, but they're glad to turn to Him when their path in life is rough. But His love never fails. You found Him a true Friend, eh, my Rose?"

"Yes, father, I did. Mavis said I should; she said I must remember that Jesus Himself said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,' and that I must trust in Him. And I tried not to be afraid. I couldn't do anything but pray; and after a while I began to feel that God really did hear my prayers, and I don't believe He'll ever seem quite so far off again."

Mr. Grey had guessed rightly in thinking his wife would soon desire to see her children, for the day following the one on which the doctor had pronounced her life out of danger, she asked for them, and they were allowed into the sick-room long enough for each to kiss her and be assured, in a weak whisper from her own lips, that she was really better.

The next day, they saw her again for a longer time, but she did not inquire for Mavis, a fact which hurt the little girl, though she did not say so, and strengthened her previous impression that her aunt did not like her.

Before very long, Rose was allowed in and out of the sick-room as she pleased, and was several times left in charge of the invalid. She proved herself to be so helpful and reliable that, on one occasion, the nurse complimented her upon those points, and she subsequently sought her cousin in unusually high spirits.

"Mavis, what do you think?" she cried, in great excitement. "Nurse says she is sure I have a real talent for nursing! Fancy that! But for mother's illness, I should never have found it out, should I? Oh, I'm so glad to know that I really have a talent for something, after all!"

Meanwhile, Mrs. John was gaining strength daily. Although she had not expressed a wish to see Mavis, she thought of her a good deal, and she missed the sound of her voice about the house.

"Where is Mavis?" she asked Rose, at length. Then, on being informed that the little girl was downstairs in the parlour, she inquired, "How is it I never hear her singing now?"

"Oh, mother, she would not sing now you are ill," Rose replied.

"She would not disturb me—I think I should like to hear her. It must be a privation to her not to sing."

"I don't think she has felt much like singing lately. We've all been so troubled about you—Mavis too. Oh, I don't know how I could have borne it whilst you were so dreadfully ill, if it had not been for Mavis!"

"What do you mean, Rose?"

"She kept up my heart about you, mother. And she's been so good to us all—helping Jane with the housework, lending Bob her games and keeping him amused, and doing everything she could to cheer us up. Wouldn't you like to see her?"

"Yes," assented Mrs. John, "to-morrow, perhaps."

So the following day found Mavis by her aunt's bedside, looking with sympathetic eyes at the wan face on the pillow.

"I'm so glad you're so much better, Aunt Lizzie," she whispered softly. "You'll soon get strong now."

"I hope so, Mavis. My illness has spoiled your holidays, I fear. You must have had a very dull time."

"A very sad, anxious time," Mavis said gravely; "but never mind—that's past."

"And you will soon forget it," her aunt remarked, with a faint smile.

"Oh no, Aunt Lizzie, I'm not likely to do that! But I'd so much rather look forward to your being well again. We were all so wretched when you were so terribly ill, and now God has made us happy and glad. Why, I feel I could sing for joy!"

"I think you rarely find difficulty in doing that, Mavis; you are so light-hearted."

"Not always, Aunt Lizzie; but I do try to be."

"Why?" Mrs. John inquired, in surprise.

"Because Jesus said, 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid,'" Mavis answered, seriously. "I try not to be troubled or afraid," she continued; "but it's very, very hard not to be sometimes. I found that when mother went away; nothing seemed to matter much when we were together, but after she'd gone—oh, then it was different. I felt my heart would break, it ached so badly, but—are you sure I am not tiring you, Aunt Lizzie?"

"No; I like to hear you talk. Go on—tell me all you felt when your mother went away."

Mavis complied. She would have opened her heart to her aunt before, if she had ever had the least encouragement to make her her confidante. By-and-by, she became aware that there were tears in the sunken eyes which were watching the varying expressions of her countenance, and she ceased speaking abruptly.

"You must have been very lonely and sad, child," Mrs. John said. "I never realized you felt the parting from your mother so much. I wish I had known; but I thought—"

She paused, and did not explain what she had thought. She was beginning to understand that she had misjudged Mavis, and the knowledge that she had done so humiliated her, whilst she was conscious that she had allowed her jealous heart to prejudice her against the child. "I might have been kinder to you, my dear," she admitted, with a sigh.

"Oh, Aunt Lizzie, you have always been kind to me," Mavis said gratefully, unaware that Mrs. John's conscience was reminding her not so much of actions as of thoughts.

"I don't know what I have said to make you cry," she added, as a tear ran down her aunt's pale cheek. She wiped the tear away with her handkerchief as she spoke, and kissed the invalid. She had never felt greatly drawn towards her before, always having been a little in awe of her, but at that moment the barrier of misunderstanding which had stood between them was swept aside.

"I have not heard you singing lately," Mrs. John remarked, by-and-by. "Rose tells me you have been fearful of disturbing me. You need not be now, for I believe it will cheer me greatly to hear you singing again. Our song-bird has been silent long enough."

Mavis smiled, and kissed her once more, and shortly after that, the nurse, who had been absent, returned, and confidential conversation was at an end.

The young people had been back to school for several weeks before the mistress of the Mill House was about again, and it was some time before she was well enough to undertake her accustomed duties. But with the lengthening days, she gained strength more rapidly, and the doctor said she needed only the spring sunshine to make her well.

In the meanwhile, Mavis continued to receive cheering news from her mother, who wrote every mail. Miss Dawson was much better, and there was now every reason to hope that she would return to England completely restored to health. But when that would be, Mrs. Grey had not yet said, though in one letter she had remarked that perhaps it would be sooner than Mavis expected. The little girl's heart had thrilled with happiness when she had read that.

Almost the first news Mrs. John was told when she was about again after her illness, was that Richard Butt, who had taken a cottage in the village, had been allowed a few days' holiday, and the loan of a waggon, on which he had conveyed his household furniture and his wife and baby from Woodstock to their new home.

"They're comfortably settled in now, ma'am," said Jane, who had explained all this to her mistress. "I've been to see them. Mrs. Butt seems a nice, well-mannered young woman, and the child's as fine a baby as you ever saw in your life."

"Yes," joined in Rose. "And father's very pleased with Butt, because he's so careful of the horses, and he hasn't had the least cause of complaint against him yet. Aren't you glad to know that, mother?"

"Butt thinks a great deal of father," Bob said, eagerly, "and no wonder! He told me he was almost despairing when father gave him work. He said father was one of the few people who wouldn't hit a man when he's down. I know what he means, don't you, mother?"

"Yes," was the brief assent.

"So do I," said Mavis. "I think the Good Samaritan in the parable must have been very like Uncle John."

There was one piece of news which Rose had refrained from mentioning to her mother as yet, and that was that she and Mavis were now in the same class at school. She dreaded telling her this, and it was a decided relief when she learnt that it was not necessary for her to do so, as Mavis had forestalled her.

Mavis had also told her aunt, how greatly Rose was troubled on account of her slowness in learning, and how really painstaking she was, and this, coupled with Miss Matthews' report that Rose was patient and industrious and always desirous of doing her best, caused Mrs. John to reflect that she had been a little hard on her daughter.

"Although she's not quick like her cousin, she has many good qualities," she thought to herself. "God does not endow us all with gifts alike, and I have been unwise to make comparisons between the children."

So she spoke kindly and encouragingly upon the matter to Rose, who exclaimed, with a ring of glad surprise in her voice—

"Oh, mother, I so feared you would be angry with me for allowing Mavis to catch up to me in her lessons! Indeed, indeed, I have done my best. I know I'm slow and stupid in many ways; but God has given me one talent, and, now I know that, I don't mind. Nurse said I had a real talent for nursing, so I mean to be a nurse when I grow up. Mavis will be a great singer, I expect, but I shall be quite content to be a nurse."

Mrs. John made no response, but she pressed a warm kiss on Rose's lips, and her little daughter saw she was pleased, and added ingenuously—

"I asked God to make you understand I'd done my best, and He has."