CHAPTER XI.
GOING HOME.
Sir John and Mrs. Grenville left poor Susy standing with her apron to hereyes at the corner of the street, and went on in the direction of the feverhospital. Their hearts had sunk very low at Susy's words, and they began toshare in Waters' belief that there was a mysterious sympathy between thetwo sick children, and that if one went away perhaps the other would followquickly.
The fever hospital was some little distance off, but they both preferredwalking to calling a cab. It was not the visiting hour when they got there,but Mrs. Grenville scribbled some words on a little card, and begged of theporter who admitted them into the cool stone hall to send a note with hercard and Sir John's at once to the lady superintendent. This little notehad the desired effect, and in a few moments they were both admitted to thegood lady's private sanctum.
Mrs. Grenville in a few low words explained the nature of their errand. Thegood lady nurse was all sympathy and interest, but when they mentioned thename of the child they had come to see her face became very grave and sad.
"That little one!" she remarked; "I fear that God is going to take thatsweet child away to himself. She is the sweetest and prettiest child in thehospital--she has gone through a terrible illness, and I don't think I haveonce heard her murmur. Poor little lamb! her sufferings are over at last,thank God; she is just quietly moment by moment passing away. It is a caseof dying from exhaustion."
"But, good madam, can nothing be done to rouse her?" asked Sir John, hisface turning purple with agitation. "Has she the best and most expensivenourishment--can't her strength be supported? Perhaps, ma'am, you are notaware that a good deal depends on the life of that little girl. It is notan ordinary case--no, no, by no means an ordinary case. My purse is at yourcommand, ma'am; get the best doctors, the best nurses, the best care--savethe child's life at any cost."
While Sir John was speaking the lady nurse looked sadder than ever.
"We give of the best in this hospital," she said; "and there has been fromthe first no question of expense or money. Perhaps the worst symptom in thecase of little Joanna Aylmer is in the fact that the child herself does notwish to recover. I confess I have no hope whatever, but it is a well-knownsaying that, in fever, as long as there is life there is hope. Would youlike to see the child, Mrs. Grenville? It might comfort your own littledarling afterward to know that you had gone to see her just at the end."
Mrs. Grenville nodded in reply, but poor Sir John, overcome by an undefinedterror, sank down by the table, and covered his face with his hands.
Mrs. Grenville followed the nurse into the long cool ward, passing on herway many sick and suffering children. The child by whose little narrowwhite bed they at last stopped was certainly now not suffering. Her eyeswere closed; through her parted lips only came the gentlest breathing; onher serene brow there rested a look of absolute peace. Little Jo Aylmer wasalive, but she neither spoke nor moved. Mrs. Grenville stooped down andkissed her, leaving what she thought was a tear of farewell on her sweetlittle face.
As she was walking home by Sir John's side, she said abruptly, after aninterval of silence:
"It is quite true, John--we must do what we can to keep Maggie, but littleJo is going home."
"She must not die. We must keep her somehow," replied Sir John.
That night it seemed to several people that two little children were aboutto be taken away to their heavenly home, for Maggie's feeble strengthfluttered and failed, and, as the hours went by, the doctors shook theirheads and looked very grave. She still talked in a half-delirious wayabout Jo, and still seemed to fancy that she and Jo were soon goingsomewhere away together.
All through her illness no one had been more devoted in her attentions tothe sick child than the faithful servant Waters. When the day began tobreak, Waters made up her mind to a certain line of action. Her mistresshad told her how very ill little Jo Aylmer was--she had described fully hervisit to the hospital--had told Waters that she herself had no hopewhatever of Jo, and had further added that the child herself did not wishto live.
"That's not to be wondered at," commented Waters. "What have she special tolive for, pretty lamb? and there's much to delight one like her where she'sgoing; but all the same, ma'am, it will be the death-knell of our littleMiss Maggie if the other child is taken."
When the morning broke, Waters felt that she could bear her present stateof inaction no longer, and accordingly she tied on her bonnet and wentout.
First of all she wended her steps in the direction of the Aylmers' humbledwelling. She mounted the stairs to Mrs. Aylmer's door and knocked. Thepoor woman had not been in bed all night, and flew to the door now, fearingthat Waters' knock was the dreaded message which she had been expectingfrom the hospital.
"'Tis only me, ma'am," said Waters, "and you has no call to be frightened.I want you just to put on your bonnet and shawl, and come right away withme to the hospital. We has got to be let in somehow, for I must see Jodirectly."
"For aught I know," said Mrs. Aylmer, "little Jo may be singing with theangels now."
"We must hope not, ma'am, for I want that little Jo of yours to live. Shehas got to live for our Miss Maggie's sake, and there is not a moment tolose; so come away, ma'am, at once."
Mrs. Aylmer stared at Waters; then, because she felt very weak, and feeble,and wretched herself, she allowed the stronger woman to guide her, and thetwo went out without another word being said on either side.
It was, of course, against all rules for visitors to be admitted at fiveo'clock in the morning; but in the case of mothers and dying children suchrules are apt to become lax, and the two women presently found themselvesbehind the screen which sheltered little Jo from her companions.
"She won't hear you now," said the nurse; "she has not noticed any one formany hours." Waters looked round her almost despairingly--the poor motherhad sunk down by the bedside, and had covered her face with her hands.Waters, too, covered her face, and as she did so she prayed to her Fatherin heaven with great fervor and strong faith and hope. After this briefprayer she knelt by the little white cot, and took the cold little hand ofthe child who was every moment going further away from the shore of life.
"Little Jo," she said, "you have got to live. I don't believe God wishesyou to die, and you mustn't wish it either. You have got your work to do,Jo; do you hear me? Look at me, pretty one--you have got to live."
Waters spoke clearly, and in a very decided voice. The little one's violeteyes opened for a brief instant and fixed themselves on the anxious,pleading woman; both the nurse and the mother came close to the bed inbreathless astonishment.
"Have you got a cordial?" said Waters, turning to the nurse. "Give it tome, and let me put it between her lips."
The nurse gave her a few drops out of a bottle, and Waters wetted theparched lips of the child.
"There's another little one, my pretty, and she's waiting for you. If yougo I fear she'll go, but if you stay I think she'll stay. There are themwho would break their hearts without her, and she ought to do a good workdown on the earth. Will you stay for her sake, little Jo?" Here the sickchild moved restlessly, and Waters continued.
"Send her a message, Jo Aylmer," she said. "Tell her where you two arenext to meet--in the country, where the grass is green, or in--heaven. Oh,Jo! do say you will meet Miss Maggie in the cool, shady, lovely country,and wait until by and by for heaven, my pretty lamb."
Whether God really heard Waters' very earnest prayer, or whether little Jowas at that moment about to take a turn for the better, she certainlyopened her eyes again full and bright and wide, and quite intelligiblewords came from her pretty lips.
"My day-dream," said little Jo Aylmer; "tell her--tell her to meet me wherethe grass is green."