"I would not tell nothing to mother about your lip; it is not much. I wish I could keep you. Now she is ready, Mr. Mat'ieson."
And Mr. Mathieson stalked out of the house and strode along the road with firm, swift steps, till, past Jackson's, and past the turning, he came to his own door, and carried Nettie upstairs. He never said a word the whole way. Nettie was too muffled up and too feeble to speak; so the first word was when he had come in and sat down in a chair, which he did with Nettie still in his arms. Mrs. Mathieson, standing white and silent, waited to see what was the matter; she had no power to ask a question. Her husband unfolded the counterpane that was wrapped round Nettie's head; and there she was, looking very like her usual self, only exceedingly pale. As soon as she caught sight of her mother's face, Nettie would have risen and stood up, but her father's arms held her fast. "What do you want, Nettie?" he asked. It was the first word.
"Nothing, father," said Nettie, "only lay me on the bed, please; and then you and mother have supper."
Mr. Mathieson took her to the bed and laid her gently down, removing the wet counterpane which was round her.
"What is the matter?" faltered Mrs. Mathieson.
"Nothing much, mother," said Nettie, quietly; "only I was a little ill. Won't you bake the waffles and have supper?"
"What will
you
have?" said her father.
"Nothing—I've had something. I feel nicely now," said Nettie. "Mother, won't you have supper, and let me see you?"
Mrs. Mathieson's strength had well-nigh deserted her; but Nettie's desire was urgent, and seeing that her husband had seated himself by the bed-side, and seemed to have no idea of being anywhere but at home that evening, she at length gathered up her faculties to do what was the best thing to be done, and went about preparing the supper. Nettie's eyes watched her, and Mr. Mathieson, when he thought himself safe, watched
her
. He did not look like the same man, so changed and sobered was the expression of his face. Mrs. Mathieson was devoured by fear, even in observing this; but Nettie was exceedingly happy. She did not feel anything but weakness; and she lay on her pillow watching the waffles baked and sugared, and then watching them eaten, wondering and rejoicing within herself at the way in which her father had been brought to eat his supper there at home after all. She was the only one that enjoyed anything, though her father and mother ate to please her. Mrs. Mathieson had asked an account of Nettie's illness, and got a very unsatisfactory one. She had been faint, her husband said; he had found her at Mrs. Auguste's, and brought her home; that was about all.
After supper he came and sat by Nettie again, and said she was to sleep there, and he would go up and take Nettie's place in the attic. Nettie in vain said she was well enough to go upstairs; her father cut the question short, and bade Mrs. Mathieson go up and get anything Nettie wanted. When she had left the room he stooped his head down to Nettie and said low,
"What was that about your lip?"
Nettie started: she thought he would fancy it had it been done, if done at all, when he gave her the push at the frame-house. But she did not, dare not, answer. She said it was only that she had found a little blood on her handkerchief, and supposed she might have cut her lip when she fell on Mrs. Auguste's threshold, when she had fainted.
"Show me your handkerchief," said her father. Nettie obeyed. He looked at it, and looked close at her lips, to find where they might have been wounded; and Nettie was sorry to see how much he felt, for he even looked pale himself as he turned away from her. But he was as gentle and kind as he could be! Nettie had never seen him so; and when he went off up to bed, and Nettie was drawn into her mother's arms to go to sleep, she was very, very happy. But she did not tell her hopes or her joys to her mother; she only told her thanks to the Lord; and that she did till she fell asleep.
The next morning Nettie was well enough to get up and dress herself. That was all she was suffered to do by father or mother. Mr. Mathieson sent Barry for water and wood, and himself looked after the fire while Mrs. Mathieson was busy; all the rest he did was to take Nettie in his arms and sit holding her till breakfast was ready. He did not talk, and he kept Barry quiet: he was like a different man. Nettie, feeling indeed very weak, could only sit with her head on her father's shoulder, and wonder, and think, and repeat quiet prayers in her heart. She was very pale yet, and it distressed Mr. Mathieson to see that she could not eat. So he laid her on the bed when he was going to his work, and told her she was to stay there and be still, and he would bring her something good when he came home.
He was as good as his word, and at night brought home some oysters, to tempt Nettie's appetite; but it was much more to her that he stayed quietly at home, and never made a move towards going out. Eating was not in Nettie's line just now; the kind little Frenchwoman had been to see her in the course of the day, and brought some delicious rolls and a jug of
riz-au-gras
, which was what seemed to suit Nettie's appetite best of all.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE GOLDEN CITY
"Blessed are the peacemakers."—
Matt.
v. 9."
Several days went on. She did not feel ill, and she was a little stronger; but appetite and colour were wanting. Her father would not let her do anything; he would not let her go up to her garret to sleep, though Nettie pleaded for it, fearing he must be uncomfortable. He said it was fitter for him than for her, though he made faces about it. He always came home and stayed at home now, and especially attended to Nettie; his wages came home too, and he brought every day something to try to tempt her to eat; and he was quiet and grave and kind—not the same person.
Mrs. Mathieson, in the midst of all her distress about Nettie, began to draw some free breaths. But her husband thought only of his child—unless, perhaps, of himself—and drew none. Regularly after supper he would draw Nettie to his arms, and sit with her head upon his shoulder; silent generally, only he would sometimes ask her what she would like. The first time he put this inquiry when Mr. Lumber was out of the way, Nettie answered by asking him to read to her. Mr. Mathieson hesitated a little, not unkindly, and then read—a chapter in the Bible, of course, for Nettie wished to hear nothing else. And after that he often read to her; for Mr. Lumber kept up his old habits and preferred livelier company, and so was always out in the evenings.
So several days passed; and when Saturday came, Mr. Mathieson lost half a day's work, and took a long walk to a farm where the people kept pigeons, and brought home one for Nettie's supper. However, she could fancy but little of it.
"What shall I do for you?" said her father. "You go round like a shadow, and you don't eat much more. What shall I do that you would like?"
This time there was nobody in the room. Nettie lifted her head from his shoulders and met his eyes,
"If you would come to Jesus, father!"
"What does that mean, Nettie? You know I don't know."
"It means, father, that Jesus is holding out His hand with a promise to you. Now, if you will take the promise,—that is all."
"What is the promise, Nettie?"
Nettie waited, gathered breath, for the talk made her heart beat, and then said, "'This is the promise that He hath promised us, even eternal life.'"
"How can a sinful man take such a promise?" said Mr. Mathieson, with suppressed feeling. "That is for people like you, Nettie, not me."
"Oh, Jesus, has bought it!" cried Nettie; "it's free. It's without price. You may have it if you'll believe in Him and love Him, father.—I can't talk."
She had talked too much, or the excitement had been too strong for her. Her words were broken off by coughing, and she remarked that her lip must have bled again. Her father laid her on the bed, and from that time for a number of days she was kept as quiet as possible; for her strength had failed anew, and yet more than at first.
For two weeks she hardly moved from the bed. But except that she was so very pale, she did not look very ill; her face wore just its own patient and happy expression. Her father would not now let her talk to him; but he did everything she asked. He read to her in the Bible; Nettie would turn over the leaves to the place she wanted, and then point it out to him with a look of life, and love, and pleasure, that were like a whole sermon; and her father read first that sermon and then the chapter. He went to church as she asked him; and without her asking him, after the first Sunday. Nettie stayed at home on the bed, and sang psalms in her heart.
After those two weeks there was a change for the better. Nettie felt stronger, looked more as she used to look, and got up and even went about a little. The weather was changing too, now. April days were growing soft and green; trees budding and grass freshening up, and birds all alive in the branches; and above all, the air and the light, the wonderful soft breath of spring, and sunshine of spring, made people forget that winter had ever been harsh or severe.
Nettie went out and took little walks in the sun which seemed to do her good; and she begged so hard to be allowed to go to her garret again, that her father took pity on her, sent Mr. Lumber away, and gave her her old nice little room on the same floor with the others. Her mother cleaned it and put it in order, and Nettie felt too happy when she found herself mistress of it again, and possessed of a quiet place where she could read and pray alone. With windows open, how sweetly the spring walked in there, and made it warm, and bright, and fragrant too!
Nettie wished she could sing, for she had often seen singing comfort her mother; but she had not the power to-day. She gave her the best she could. Her words, however, constantly carried hurt and healing together to her mother's mind. But when Nettie went on to repeat softly the verse of a hymn that follows, she was soothed, notwithstanding the hinted meaning in the words. So sweet was the trust of the hymn, so unruffled the trust of the speaker. The words were from a little bit of a book of translations of German hymns which Mr. Folke, her Sunday-school teacher, had brought her, and which was never out of Nettie's hand.
"As God leads me, so my heart
In faith shall rest.
No grief nor fear my soul shall part
From Jesus' breast.
"In sweet belief I know
What way my life doth go;
Since God permitteth so,
That must be best."
Slowly she said the words, with her usual sober, placid face; and Mrs. Mathieson was mute.
For some weeks, as the spring breathed warmer and warmer, Nettie revived; so much that her mother at times felt encouraged about her. Mr. Mathieson was never deceived. Whether his former neglect of his child had given him particular keenness of vision in all that concerned her now, or for whatever reason,
he
saw well enough, and saw constantly, that Nettie was going to leave him. There was never a wish of hers uncared for now; there was not a straw suffered to lie in her path, that he could take out of it. He went to church, and he read at home; he changed his behaviour to her mother as well as to herself, and he brought Barry to his bearings. What more did Nettie want?
One Sunday, late in May, her father came into her room to see her. He kissed her, and said a few words, and then went to the window and stood there looking out. Both were silent for some time, while the birds sang on.
"Father," said Nettie.
He turned instantly, and asked her what she wanted.
"Father," said Nettie, "the streets of the heavenly city are all of gold."
"Well," said he, meeting her grave eyes, "and what then, Nettie?"
"Only I was thinking, if the
streets
are gold, how clean must the feet be that walk on them!"
He knew what her intent eyes meant, and he sat down by her bed-side and laid his face in his hands. "I am a sinful man, Nettie!" he said.
"Father, 'this is a faithful saying, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners.'"
"I don't deserve He should save me, Nettie."
"Well, father, ask Him to save you,
because
you don't deserve it."
"What sort of a prayer would that be?"
"The right one, father; for Jesus does deserve it, and for His sake is the only way. If you deserved it, you wouldn't want Jesus; but now '
He
is our peace.' Oh, father, listen, listen to what the Bible says." She had been turning the leaves of her Bible, and read low and earnestly, "'Now we are ambassadors for God, as though God did beseech you by us; we pray you, in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.' Oh, father, aren't you willing to be reconciled to Him?"
"God knows I am willing!" said Mr. Mathieson.
"
He
is willing, I am sure," said Nettie.
There was a long silence. Mr. Mathieson never stirred. Nor Nettie hardly. The words were true of her,—"He that believeth shall not make haste." She waited, looking at him. Then he said, "What must I do, Nettie?"
"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ."
"How, child?"
"Father, the best way is to ask Him, and He will tell you how. If you are only willing to be His servant, if you are willing to give yourself to the Lord Jesus—are you willing, father?"
"I am willing—anything!—if He will have me," said Mr. Mathieson.
"Then go, father!" said Nettie, eagerly, "go and ask Him, and He will teach you how; He will! He has promised. Go, father, and ask the Lord—will you? Go now."
Her father remained still a moment—then he rose up and went out of the room, and she heard his steps going up to the unused attic. Nettie crossed her hands upon her breast, and smiled. She was too much exhausted to pray otherwise than with a thought.
Then slumber stole over her, and she slept sweetly and quietly while the hours of the summer afternoon rolled away. Her mother watched beside her for a long while before she awoke, and during that time read surely in Nettie's delicate cheek and too delicate colour what was the sentence of separation. She read it, and smothered the cry of her heart, for Nettie's sake.
The sun was descending toward the western hill country, and long level rays of light were playing in the tree-tops, when Nettie awoke.
"Are you there, mother?" she said—"and is the Sunday so near over? How I have slept!"
"How do you feel, dear?"
"Why, I feel well," said Nettie. "It has been a good day. The gold is all in the air here—not in the streets." She had half raised herself, and was sitting looking out of the window.
"Do you think of that city all the time?" inquired Mrs. Mathieson, half jealously.
"Mother," said Nettie, slowly, still looking out at the sunlight, "would you be very sorry, and very much surprised, if I were to go there before long?"
"I should not be very much surprised, Nettie," answered her mother, in a tone that told all the rest. Her child's eye turned to her sorrowfully and understandingly.
"You'll not be very long before you'll be there too," she said. "Now kiss me, mother."
Could Mrs. Mathieson help it? She took Nettie in her arms, but instead of the required kiss, there came a burst of passion that bowed her head in convulsive grief against her child's breast.
Ashamed of her giving way, Mrs. Mathieson checked herself and dried her tears. Nettie lay down wearily.
"I will stay here, mother," she said, "till tea is ready; and then I will come."
Mrs. Mathieson went to attend to it.
When Nettie went into the other room, her father was sitting there. She said nothing, however, and even for some time did not look in his face to see what he might have to say to her. She took a cup of tea and a biscuit, and ate an egg that her mother had boiled for her. It was when supper was over, and they had moved from the table, and Mrs. Mathieson was busy about, that Nettie turned her eyes once more upon her father, with their soft, full inquiry. He looked grave, subdued, tender—she had heard that in his voice already; not as she had ever seen him look before. He met her eyes and answered them.
"I understand it now, Nettie," he said; then drew her close within his arms; and without one word Nettie sat there, till for very happiness and weariness she fell asleep, and he carried her to her room.
There was a great calm fell upon the family for a little time thereafter. It was like one of those spring days that were past—full of misty light, and peace, and hope, and promise. It was a breath of rest.
But they knew it would end—for a time; and one summer day the end came. It was a Sunday again, and again Nettie was lying on her bed, enjoying in her weakness the loveliness of the air and beauty without. Her mother was with her, and knew that she had been failing very fast for some days. Nettie knew it too.
"How soon do you think father will be home?" she said.
"Not before another hour, I think," said Mrs. Mathieson. "Why, what of it, Nettie?"
"Nothing–" said Nettie, doubtfully. "I'd like him to come."
"It won't be long," said her mother.
"Mother, I am going to give you my little dear hymn-book," said Nettie presently; "and I want to read you a hymn now, and then you will think of me when you read it. May I?"
"Read," said Mrs. Mathieson; and she put up her hand to hide her face from Nettie. Nettie did not look, however; her eyes were on her hymn, and she read it, low and sweetly—very sweetly—through. There was no tremor in her voice, but now and then a little accent of joy or a shade of tenderness.
Mrs. Mathieson's head bowed as the hymn went on, but she dared not give way to tears, and Nettie's manner half awed and half charmed her into quietness. When the reading ceased, and Mrs. Mathieson felt that she could look toward Nettie again, she saw that the book had fallen from her hand, and that she was almost fainting. Alarmed, instantly she called for help, and got one of the inmates of the house to go after Mr. Mathieson. But Nettie sank so fast, they were afraid he would not come in time. The messenger came back without having been able to find him; for after the close of the services in the church Mr. Mathieson had gone out of his way on an errand of kindness. Nettie herself was too low to ask for him, if indeed she was conscious he was not there. They could not tell; she lay without taking any notice.
But just as the last rays of the sun were bright in the leaves of the trees and on the hills in the distance, Mr. Mathieson's step was heard. One of the neighbours met him and told him what he must expect; and he came straight to Nettie's room. And when he bent down over her and spoke, Nettie knew his voice, and opened her eyes, and once more smiled. It was like a smile from another country. Her eyes were fixed on him. Mr. Mathieson bent yet nearer and put his lips to hers; then he tried to speak.
"My little peacemaker, what shall I do without you?"
Nettie drew a long, long breath. "Peace—i