Chapter VII: Nat Tyrrell's Notions

"YOU'RE a good woman, Madge. I don't know a better. And my little girl is main grateful to you, for taking so much trouble with her. Seems to me, though, that you've got a wrong crank or two into your brain."

"Maybe," said Madge placidly. She was standing outside her cottage-door, that same Saturday afternoon, having just seen the last of nearly a dozen little barefooted damsels, who were wont to run up the hill once a week, for half-an-hour's Bible reading with Madge, as a preparation for the Sunday following. "I've taken many a crank into my head, and been set right in it, before now, and I dare say I'll take many another. We're none of us gifted with over-clear sight."

"A man holding the Word of God for his rule, needs never to go wrong," said Nat Tyrrell decisively.

"No, he don't need, and a man walking in full daylight needs never to stumble, but there's no doubt he often do and often will, in both cases," responded Madge. "What's the crank I've hold of now, Nat?"

Nat's answer was another question: "What's your reading been about to-day?"

"Asking God for what we want."

"Thought so," said Nat.

"Yes, you had your head against the lattice, last part of the time," said Madge in her quiet way.

Nat laughed, half inclined to blush also. "Well, you see, I knowed you'd have no objection."

"Not a bit. Have out with your say, Nat. I'm waiting to be set right."

"Well, look you here," said Nat, noways unwilling to assume the pleasant office of mentor, "I didn't just like all you was telling of the children, to go and pray for everything they wanted, and they'd get it."

"No, I didn't promise that neither," said Madge. "I told them they'd get it, if 'twas God's will."

"Yes, and nothing was ever too small to pray about, you said—not even if 'twas a bit of food, or a wish for something you couldn't get."

"Well," said Madge. "Don't the Bible say, 'In everything . . . let your requests be made known unto God . . .'¹?"

¹ Phil. iv. 6.

"Yes, but it don't mean everything of that kind," said Nat.

"What does it mean?" Madge wanted to know.

"It don't mean that," repeated Nat Tyrrell. "It means seeking pardon and forgiveness, and God's glory, and man's salvation."

"And they're great things to pray for, sure enough, but you can't say they're just quite 'everything' to us in this life," responded Madge. "I'd like to know the texts you have found in other parts, to make the meaning of this clear to you in that light, Nat."

"'Tain't one text in partic'lar," said Nat, sheering off from an awkward request. "Seems to me, Madge, you forget that God is the mighty Creator of the whole universe, when you talk of troubling Him with your little fidgets. Asking Him about such foolish matters as a hard lesson, or a broken toy, or a sharp word from another, as I heard you telling the children—why, 'tis downright profanation."

Madge looked across to the wide blue waste of water, heaving and tossing ceaselessly in its boundless power, then glanced at the bushes by her side, where a bright-breasted robin, on an early autumn visit, hopped daintily from twig to twig.

"I don't know," she said at length. "I'm thinking, Nat, that if you'd been at a bedside once, where a little child was called from the dead, and the next thing the Lord did, was to tell them to give her a bit of food—I'm thinking you'd have stepped forward, and said, 'Master, isn't it profanation to think of anything so poor as meat and drink, after you've been working so mighty a miracle?'"

Nat looked rather at a loss.

"And then He cares for the sparrows," Madge went on, after a little break. "And we're of more value yet. And the very hairs of our heads are all numbered. It don't seem to me that the Lord's measure of great and little is the same at all that ours is. I'm quite sure of one thing, and that is, that whatever has aught to do with our happiness, isn't too small for Him to attend to. Besides, don't He tell us plainly to ask for all we want?"

"Yes, but you don't seem to remember, Madge, that all them promises are to be taken in the spirit, and not in the letter."

"And that's what I try to do, too. There's that verse—'Delight thyself also in the Lord, and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart.' ¹

"Don't I know well enough it means only if the desire of my heart isn't for anything against His will. And it's the same with another promise—'Ye shall ask "what ye will," and it shall be done unto you.' ² But taking them in the spirit don't mean putting them aside altogether, Nat."

¹ Ps. xxxvii. 4. ² John xv. 7.

"'Ask what ye will' of spiritual good, it means, Madge. The 'desire of your heart' hadn't ought to be for anything but spiritual benefits, and if you delight in God, He'll give you those, sure enough."

"I don't find it so in my Bible," maintained Madge stoutly. "I've a love for taking Bible words as they are, and not adding my own explainings. Didn't Mr. Prior tell us to take care of that very danger, only last Sunday?"

"I didn't take him to mean exactly that," said Nat.

"I'd ask him if I was you," said Madge securely. "But about those words now—if you was to come to me, Nat, and say, 'Ask what you will, Madge, and I'll give it you,' I'd take you at your word, and ask many a thing, supposing of course it was in your power to give. And when my Lord says, 'Ask what you will, Madge,' mayn't I take Him at His word too, or am I to make out that He don't speak my language, or that His words has a scantier meaning than if you or I was to use them? Why, I tell you, Nat, I've tried Him right often, and tested His promises times and again. And He's given me the things I wanted too—given 'em so quick and full that I'm like to be half-frightened I can get my wishes so easy. And then you'd have me draw back, and never ask again. Seems to me, Nat, that while God says, 'Ask,' you go and say, 'Don't ask.'"

"'Tis a terrible responsibility, Madge, to insist on having our own will in prayer," said Nat, slipping from one ground of argument to another.

"You're right enough there," rejoined Madge, with quickness. "Didn't the Israelites do it, and got their wish, when God 'gave them their request but sent leanness into their soul'? I've a dread of that, I can tell you."

"And yet go on a-doing the same!" said Nat.

"Not if I know it," said Madge temperately. "If 'tis according to God's will, He hears me. I'd never dare, Nat, to say more than this—'Lord, I've a wish for that thing or the other, and I make a particular request to have it, if 'tis Thy will; and if not, Thy will be done.' And times are when He don't give me my wish at all, though it's oftener He do. If He keeps back the thing I want, He's pretty sure to give me a smile to make up for it, though,—and I don't know as I wouldn't rather have that of the two," Madge added softly, a gleam breaking over her own face the while.

She was getting out of Nat Tyrrell's depth, and because he could not understand her, he thought she was running astray. "I'm afeared you've a good many more cranks than one in your brain, Madge," he said, shaking his head.

"Like enough," said Madge quietly. "Only 'tis no crank I'm telling you of now, Nat. I'll not say, though, that you haven't a bit of truth either in your thought. Maybe there are some in the world who've so given up their will to God, as to have scarce a wish apart from Him. That is what David meant, it seems to me, when he said, 'One thing have I desired of the Lord, that will I seek after;' and that one thing, you know, was to dwell in the House of the Lord, and know ever more of Him. I do think, Nat, that to have no will at all of my own for earthly things, but only to care to know the will of God, would be a sort of heaven on earth. But I haven't reached to that yet,—though I'll strive more for it after to-day, so you see you've taught me a lesson, for all we don't think just alike. Only so long as I 'have' a strong will, and ever so many wishes always rising up, I'll make them all known to my Lord, every single one, and leave the answering of them in His hands."

And then, after a thoughtful silence, Madge suddenly turned, and exclaimed at the sight of Mona Clyde, seated in an exhausted position on the little bench, holding the apparently senseless form of Nannie Ackman.

"I could not help sitting still to hear what you were saying, and you were talking so busily that you did not see me," explained Mona, with a faint smile. "Did you mind, Mrs. Hardwicke? I thought you would not. Please take Nannie. I am so tired!"

"Why, poor little lass, some harm has come to her surely!" exclaimed Nat, as he lifted the child in his strong arms.

Madge, with her usual habit of never wasting words on emergencies, stepped inside the cottage and brought a glass of water to Mona, waiting silently to be made acquainted with facts.

"Thank you, I am better now," and Mona sat up, with a sigh. "I thought I should never get to the top of the hill, and I stumbled so that I think she has fainted with pain. O Madge—Mrs. Hardwicke, I mean—it is that wicked father of hers. He has hurt the poor little creature dreadfully, and if you let her go back to him, I think he will end by killing her. I wanted to take her home with me, but he would not consent. What can be done, Mrs. Hardwicke?"

"I'm Madge to everybody, please, Miss Mona," was the quiet answer. "There's room for Nannie in my cottage, and her father 'll never dare to touch her here."

Voice and manner were alike unruffled, yet Mona felt sure that it was no shallow stream of sorrow and indignation which flowed below. Madge Hardwicke's first care was to bring forward the one easy-chair the cottage contained, and settle in it her weary young visitor, with cushion and stool. Mona submitted, from lack of power to do anything else, and then lay back silently, watching Madge's further movements, through the open bedroom door, with a curious feeling of pleasant trust in the calm self-possession and tender motherliness of all that she did.

It did not take Madge long to undress Nannie and lay her in her own bed. She came back to Mona when that was done—her face a trifle graver. "I'm thinking, Miss Mona, I'll get Nat Tyrrell to call and ask the doctor to step up here. Maybe by then you'll be rested enough to walk back with him."

"He expected to be home by six," said Mona. "Why, it is nearly that now. O yes, I shall soon be rested nicely. But do you think little Nannie is much hurt?"

"It is hard to know, Miss Mona. She's come to herself, and she's in a deal of pain, poor little one! She tries to make out her father didn't mean to hurt her when he struck at her, only she fell over a root, and her back came against a sharp stump in the ground. But her poor chest is all black and blue with the weight of his hand, and she can scarce breathe for the pain."

Madge Hardwicke's own hand stole furtively over her eyes.

"It is cruel—horrible," Mona repeated, sitting up. "It is worse than a man would treat his dog. I don't know what uncle Chetwynd will say."

Madge went away to despatch Nat Tyrrell on his errand to the doctor, and then returned to watch by the side of the suffering child, while Mona sat still in her chair, until the doctor came.

"You ain't going to get father punished now," were the first words that saluted Mr. Chetwynd's ears, as he walked to the bedside.

It was a very wan little face that looked up at him from the white pillow, over which Nannie's long black hair strayed carelessly. She spoke with feverish haste, catching her breath sharply between the words, and her small hands were wrung together in a tight clasp. The doctor noted all, but merely remarked:—

"Well, I don't quite know, little one. How are you now?"

"He ain't going to be punished," repeated Nannie. "Father ain't. He didn't mean no harm."

"Where are you hurt, Nannie?" asked Mr. Chetwynd.

"I'm hurt all over. It wasn't his fault," repeated the child, with passionate earnestness, a bright flush coming into her cheeks, and a rush of tears to her eyes. "He was only cross, and didn't know it 'ud be so bad. And if you go and have him took up, and put into prison, it'll be all over. O Madge, it'll be all over."

Nannie sobbed so bitterly, that the doctor's curiosity was roused. "What will be over, Nannie?"

"'Cause Madge and I have asked so that father 'd learn to love God, and if he goes to prison, he'll have nobody to teach him," said Nannie tearfully. "And maybe he wouldn't ever live to come out, or I wouldn't live to see him."

It was a little child's fashion of looking on the question, and Mr. Chetwynd, detecting the weak point in a moment with his critical eye, had a veiled sneer on the tip of his tongue. But Madge was beforehand with him, and quietly extracted its sting.

"That don't make no real difference, Nannie. Maybe it's neither you nor I that can teach him the great lesson. God can have him taught just as easy down in the prison as up here."

Nannie, however, did not seem to find much comfort in that thought, and evidently considered, to her great distress, that Madge was siding against her father. She sobbed long struggling sobs, which shook her all over, and brought on terrible pain. It became hard to decide whether the fears for her father were not almost forgotten in those sharp cries of bodily anguish, but Mr. Chetwynd could stand out no longer, and tried the effect of a consoling, "Well, well, Nannie, it shall be as you wish. I will take no steps in the matter at present, beyond giving your father a few words on the subject. Only try not to cry so, my dear, or you will make yourself worse."

Madge's touch had more effect than the doctor's voice, and Nannie's excitement gradually stilled. It was well for her peace of mind that Mr. Chetwynd had given his promise before he became acquainted with the extent of the child's injuries. He brought his brows together sternly, and drew in his breath almost as sharply as Nannie herself in her pain, when he saw the deep bruise upon her chest. A careful examination followed, during which few words passed the doctor's lips. He beckoned Madge into the outer room at the close, leaving Mona to watch over the worn-out child.

"What are we to do, Madge?" were his first words.

"About what, sir?"

"Nannie, of course. She can't go back to her father's. It is unsafe, and besides, he could not nurse her as she will need to be nursed."

"Do you think her much hurt, sir?" asked Madge.

He made an expressive movement of his head. "Can't say yet to a certainty. The blow on the chest is bad enough, but the injury to the spine may prove worse in the end. It will be a matter of lying up for weeks at all events—months in all probability. I would not speak so openly to any one else, mind you."

"No, sir," said Madge, accepting the compliment with her usual calmness, which always gave the doctor a certain baffled feeling.

"The only plan is to get her off to the hospital, though how she will bear the moving I don't know."

"I doubt but she's as well off where she is now," said Madge.

"Couldn't be better off anywhere than under your wing, Madge. I'm willing enough to aid in expenses, and so will Mr. Prior be, I don't doubt. But how about trouble?"

"If it's the work put in my way for me to do, I don't see as the trouble makes any difference," Madge answered.

So the matter was settled there and then, with few more words about it, and little Nannie became for an indefinite time an inmate of Madge Hardwicke's cottage.