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Nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. She would not have delayed to obey if her father had been quite himself; but in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial. She waited an instant, and again said softly and pleadingly, "Father, I've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,—all ready."
"Cinnamon and sugar—" he cursed with a great oath; and turning, gave Nettie a violent push from him, which was half a blow. "Go home!" he repeated—"go home and mind your own business, and don't take it upon you to mind mine."
Nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. Nobody saw her; but that her father should have laid a rough hand on her hurt her sorely; it hurt her bitterly. He had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now rather made it more sorrowful than less so to Nettie's mind.
She could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment Nettie's faith trembled. Feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, would the Lord not hear her, after all? It was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her ill. There was more to do that: the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. Nettie walked slowly back on her road till she neared the shop of Madame Auguste, then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the Frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps.
She did not remain there two seconds. Madame Auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. She saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see Nettie fall down at her threshold. As instantly, two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. Then Madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy, and her brow with Cologne water, and chafed her hands. She had laid Nettie on the floor of the inner room, and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. Nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse.
"Why, my Nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?"
"I don't know. But I must go home!" said Nettie, trying to raise herself. "Mother will want me—she'll want me."
"You will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow; "and I will find some person to carry you home—or some person what will bring your mother here. I will go see if I can find some one now. You lie still, Nettie."
Nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. She was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief that she had for a moment failed to trust fully the Lord's promises. She fully trusted them now. Let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, Nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek Him" had a blessing in store for her. Bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and Nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "For He hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath He hid His face from him; but when he cried unto Him, He heard." "Our heart shall rejoice in Him, because we have trusted in His holy name." Prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled Nettie's heart all the while the Frenchwoman was gone.
Meanwhile Madame Auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to Nettie. Nettie was like herself now, only very pale.
"I must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. How did I come in here?"
"Blood!" said the Frenchwoman; "where did you cut yourself, Nettie? Let me look!"
Which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that Nettie smiled at her. Her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was.
"How did I get in here, Mrs. August?"
The Frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. Instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some riz-au-gras again.
"What did you have for dinner, Nettie? you did not tell me."
"Not much—I wasn't hungry," said Nettie. "Oh, I must get up and go home to mother."
"You shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised Nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon. "It is good for you. You must take it. Where is your father? Don't talk, but tell me. I will do everything right."
"He is at work on Mr. Jackson's new house."
"Is he there to-day?"
"Yes."
Madame Auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. It was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come,—if they were not gone by already!—how should she know? Even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the Frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. The men came along, a scattered group of four or five.
"Is Mr. Mat'ieson there?" she said. Madame Auguste hardly knew him by sight. "Men, I say! is Mr. Mat'ieson there?"
"George, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking tall man paused at Madame's threshold.
"Are you Mr. Mat'ieson?" said the Frenchwoman.
"Yes, ma'am. That's my name."
"Will you come in? I have something to speak to you. Your little daughter Nettie is very ill."
"Ill!" exclaimed the man. "Nettie!—Where is she?"
"She is here. Hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very ill. She is come fainting at my door, and I have got her in here; but she wants to go home, and I think you had better tell her she will not go home, but she will stay here with me to-night."
"Where is she?" said Mr. Mathieson; and he stepped in with so little ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. He looked round the shop.
"She is not here—you shall see her—but you must not tell her she is ill," said the Frenchwoman, anxiously.
"Where is she?" repeated Mr. Mathieson, with a tone and look which made Madame Auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them. She opened the inner door without further preparation, and Mr. Mathieson walked in. By the fading light he saw Nettie lying on the floor at his feet. He was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. He stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word.
"Father," said Nettie, softly.
He stooped down over her. "What do you want, Nettie?"
"Can't I go home?"
"She must better not go home to-night," began Madame Auguste, earnestly, "it is so wet and cold! She will stay here with me to-night, Mr. Mat'ieson. You will tell her that it is best."
But Nettie said, "Please let me go home! mother will be so troubled." She spoke little, for she felt weak; but her father saw her very eager in the request. He stooped and put his strong arms under her, and lifted her up.
"Have you got anything to put over her?" he said, looking round the room. "I'll fetch it back."
Seeing that the matter was quite taken out of her hands, the kind little Frenchwoman was very quick in her arrangements. She put on Nettie's head a warm hood of her own; then round her and over her she wrapped a thick woollen counterpane, that to be sure would have let no snow through if the distance to be travelled had been twice as far. As she folded and arranged the thick stuff round Nettie's head, so as to shield even her face from the outer air, she said, half whispering,
"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 heartIn faith shall rest.No grief nor fear my soul shall partFrom Jesus' breast."In sweet belief I knowWhat 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.