The Home at Greylock. E. Prentiss
Margaret Haydon would be her choice. Yet a score of difficulties arose at once. It would never answer for the mother to be at service and the daughter living in ease and luxury; in fact, they ought not to be separated in any way. So thinking, she renounced Margaret, and looked about her for some other young person, seeking, as a matter of course, and constantly, Divine direction. Still, Margaret filled her thoughts to such a degree that she was persuaded that, for some reason, hers was the lot to be cast in with her own. A visit from Mrs. Haydon, and some mysterious hints dropped by her, so far settled the question, that she resolved to lay the case before her, and take counsel with her. It was some time before they met again, but when they did so, she opened the subject as delicately and kindly as she could. Mrs. Haydon listened to the whole story in silence, and at its conclusion said, quietly:
"You will see, dear Madam, the hand of God in it all. You say that on the 18th day of January you began to think of my Margaret, and of offering her a home. On that day, after many a sleepless night, I asked leave of my mistress to see a physician; she not only permitted it, but sent for the family doctor. He told me I had six months to live, and no more. Now, here was my poor child to be deprived of her mother, not well-educated enough to teach, too well-educated to be happy among a crowd of ill-bred servants, and I knew not what would become of her. There was only one thing I could do, and that was to leave her with my God. He knew I had no wicked ambition for her, though I did want her so bred, that if her father's family ever fell in with her, they need have no occasion to be ashamed of her. And then I knew that if her natural tastes could be at all gratified, it would keep her from a fondness for dress, and visiting and idling, and other follies to which young women are prone. Now, all my prayers for her are answered. Before you knew of her coming need, your heart was made to yearn over her; and now I can die in perfect peace, for you will be a mother to my child, and teach her all I could have taught her, and far, far more."
"And where do you propose to die?" asked Mrs. Grey.
Two remarkable women had got together, and were talking in this quiet, passionless way of so solemn an event as death. How was this? It arose from the fact that commotion, and hue and cry, and clamor belong only to undisciplined characters. Who ever heard of the General of an army becoming panic-stricken and demoralized? He leaves that to the common soldier.
Both Mrs. Grey and Mrs. Haydon had passed through too many and too deep waters to regard death as anything more than a little rill, over which one passed at a single footstep.
"I shall have to go to a hospital," said Mrs. Haydon.
"And have Margaret nurse you?"
"That is not allowed. And if it is not asking too much, since you so kindly propose to care for my child, might she come to you directly?"
"While you go off, alone, to die in a hospital? No; oh, no. Were you to go at once?"
"Yes, at once. I have toiled on till I can toil no more."
"Is it possible that you are so ill, yet show it so little?"
"It's the quiet mind, the doctor says, that keeps me up. He said that if I had worried, it would have hastened my death. Thank God, I have learned to cast all my care on Him, and He has cared for me."
There was silence for some minutes. What might be mistaken for dogged submission, Mrs. Grey recognized as the kind of faith that travels across and moves mountains. She was decisive in all her ways always knew her own mind, and now came to a very rapid conclusion.
"Does Margaret know?"
"No, Madam. Would you be willing to break it to her?"
"Yes; and I will see that your last days are made as comfortable as possible. Leave everything to me. On the day you are to leave your employer's, send Margaret to me. I will tell her what is before her. Poor child! her distress will be dreadful."
"Would it be right for us to have no farewell?"
"No, no, indeed, you shall have a farewell. Leave everything to me."
Mrs. Haydon took leave, and Mrs. Grey rang; her factotum immediately appeared.
"Mary, we are going to have some visitors; that is, I want the room prepared for a sick person and a young lady. And Mary—their appearance, when they arrive, is to be a matter between you and me; no one else is to know what sort of clothes they wear. When asked questions in the kitchen, just say they are friends of mine."
Mary, discretion itself, withdrew, and in a few days Margaret unsuspectingly made her appearance. Mrs. Grey had a most trying task before her, and expected some such burst of anguish as that of four years ago. But Margaret had passed through much discipline during those four years. To see her mother a kitchen housemaid; to feel herself the yoke of servitude, had been hard, very hard. She did not shed a tear when the truth was told her, and only said, setting her teeth together, "I always have said that if the Lord loved my mother half as well as she loved Him, He'd take her out of a kitchen and find a more suitable place for her."
"He loves her, as He does all His children, so much more than any of us love Him, that we have no arithmetical terms with which to describe it. And if a manger and a carpenter's shop were suitable places for Him, what spot is too humble for us?"
"You would not like to lie in a manger, or work in a carpenter's shop, or drudge in a kitchen."
"No, dear, I do not pretend that I should; but I hope I should act, under the same circumstances, as your mother has done. I think she did the best she could for you. And now she has toiled in an uncongenial sphere long enough, and her Master has by His providence told her so."
"But what will become of her? Sick people need homes. We have laid by some money, but you know mother's wages were very small because she had an incumbrance. Yes, that's all I am in this world, an incumbrance!"
"It will not be so in the next world. But here is the question, as to where your mother is to spend her last months. She has decided to go to a hospital."
"Poor mother! But I will not let them neglect her. I will take care of her day and night."
"My dear, you will not be allowed to do that. An occasional visit is all that is permitted."
"An occasional visit to my sick mother!" cried Margaret; "I should like to see them undertake to separate us! I would tear them to pieces first!"
Mrs. Grey remained silent, and Margaret ran furiously on till the silence struck and checked her.
"We will get your mother safely into a hospital, or what is as good as a hospital, without tearing anyone to pieces. A room is all ready for her, and there you shall take care of her."
"Oh, Mrs. Grey, it is impossible. We haven't nearly enough to justify our taking a room."
"How would this plan suit you, then? Suppose your mother enters a hospital where I know she will be kindly treated, and I give you a home with me? You would be here exactly as if you were my own child, could be well educated, and surrounded by all the refinements of life. Look around you. This beautiful room, with its luxuries, would be yours; you would have books, pictures, everything you wanted."
Margaret looked as she was bidden, and at one glance took in all the charms of the spot. Then rising scornfully to her feet, she burst into tears, jerking out the words in jets of indignation:
"That I should live to be bribed to forsake my dying mother! Now I am degraded!"
Mrs. Grey's experiment was a success. For that it was only an experiment the sagacious reader has at once divined.
"Ah! I knew I was not mistaken in you!" she cried; "I knew you would prove as true as steel!"
She rose and caught both the hands of the excited girl in her own, then said in tones that elicited instant obedience:
"Follow me."
They entered now a large, airy room, which contained two dainty, white beds; an open wood-fire burned on the hearth, near which a cat sat, purring.
"Here