THE FRIEND.
WEEK passed, and Mr. Smith saw nothing more of Madge. Raymond had become worse, and she never left him.
It was Saturday evening, about five o'clock, when Mrs. Smiley was called up from the kitchen by hearing that a gentleman wanted to speak to her. She came up, smoothing down her apron with her hands, which were not of the cleanest.
"Do two children of the name of Leicester live here?"
"Yes, sir, surely; at least there were two of 'em a couple of hours ago, but I can't rightly say whether the lad's alive yet."
"What! is he so ill, then?"
"Ay, ay, sir, ill enough, I warrant."
"I will go up to them."
"Very well, sir; I'm sure if you're a friend that'll do something for them, I'm right glad to see you, for they sorely need one."
Mr. Smith, for it was he, followed Polly's guidance to Raymond's room, then thanking her, he knocked at the door himself, and entered.
Madge was leaning over the sick boy, holding a glass of water to his lips; and as she looked round, Mr. Smith thought he had never seen a face so strangely and sadly altered as hers. It had lost nearly all its childishness—it looked so old, and womanly, with a weight of care in it that was pitiable to see; and yet, with all this, it was so calm and still, so composed, that any one would have imagined that her one thought was how to nurse her patient. And so it was. Madge felt that a great deal depended upon her fortitude and self-control. Had she lost this, she could not have attended upon Raymond; and though she was only a weak little girl in herself, God gave her the strength she needed. She did not spend her time in idly fretting, or in gloomy thoughts about the future; she just did the duties that came in her way, one by one, and left the rest trustfully to God.
One glance was sufficient to show Mr. Smith how ill the boy was. The wildness of the fever was past, and he had sunk into a state of almost complete lethargy.
"Madge," said the artist, "I came to see why you had not come again to me."
Madge only pointed to Raymond's sharpened features resting on the pillow; it was excuse enough.
"He is very ill," said Mr. Smith. "I never saw any one looking more ill."
"Mrs. Smiley says he is dying," said Madge in a low tone of forced calm; and she repeated the last words sadly to herself, "dying, O Raymond!"
"When was the doctor here?"
"We have had no doctor, sir."
"Why not? That has not been wise, Madge."
THE ARTIST'S VISIT.
"We could not afford it, sir."
"There was the parish doctor."
"I knew nothing about him, sir; and I had nobody to tell me."
"Poor child, poor child!" and the artist was feeling the boy's pulse. Raymond opened his eyes, and seeing a man by his side, said faintly, "I've failed, father—I'll go to the shop—it's not done!"
"Hush, hush, my boy; we must not talk now." And then Mr. Smith beckoned Madge into the next room. She followed him silently, and for a moment or two her new friend stood looking into her pale, troubled face. Then he laid his hand on her head, and there were tears in his eyes as he spoke.
"I have a little daughter at home, Madge, who is about your age; and if she were in trouble—;" suddenly his voice faltered, and he added hurriedly, "may God grant that my Lilian may never be left as you are."
Madge lifted her eyes to his face, then clasping his hand, she said, "Oh, sir, save Raymond; I will love you always, if you will save him. Oh, do not let him die!"
"Keep up your brave little heart; I will do my best. Madge, if your brother lives, he will some day be a great artist."
Again that glad, joyful light came into Madge's eyes, which the artist had seen there once before. "I know it! I know it!" she cried. "Did you like the picture, sir?"
"Yes, my child. I saw unmistakable signs of genius in it. I am buying it myself, little Madge; will you receive the purchase-money?"
"No, no; wait till Raymond can have it himself. He must live!—he will, he will!"
"Hush, my child; there is One above who only knows about that; he must do as seemeth to him best. Now, Madge, go back to him; I will go and get a friend of mine to come and see him."
Madge did as he bid her; and in about an hour Mr. Smith returned with a doctor.
He looked very grave when he had examined his patient, and then beckoned Mr. Smith away.
"I have very little hope of him," he said sorrowfully; "the prostration of strength is fearful; I fear he will never rally; but he must have stimulants now, and plenty of nourishment;—we must do what we can."
"Yes," said Mr. Smith warmly; "and if you save him, Morton, you will have saved one who will be a great man some day. That boy has an artist's soul within him; he will rise to fame."
"I should like to save him for the sake of that little patient maiden who is watching him. What a touching face the child has, and how she seemed to be hanging on every look of mine!"
"Poor little Madge, she loves him better than herself."
For a few days, Raymond hung between life and death; then Dr. Morton's face looked even graver than before. Madge saw that he had no hope.
On Sunday evening, she was sitting beside her brother, watching the fluttering breath, which seemed every instant as if it must cease altogether; when suddenly Raymond opened his eyes. "Madge."
"I've been asleep a long time, and I'm so tired."
"You must try to sleep again, darling Raymond."
A bewildered look passed over the boy's face, then he said eagerly, "Madge, am I going to die?"
She put her face close down to his, and said gently, "We must not talk now, dear; try to sleep again."
He was silent for a few minutes, then the words came thick and fast.
"Madge, I've not been a good brother to you; I meant to have been, but I have thought and thought of nothing but myself. I ought to have gone to the shop. I ought not to have let you want. O Madge! if I might but live, if I might but live!" and then tears fell one by one down the thin, pale cheeks, and dropped on Madge's hand.
"Please, dear Raymond, lie quiet; the doctor said you must be very quiet."
"But, Madge, it doesn't signify; I'm dying, I know I am, and I must speak to you!" he said, raising his voice, and speaking with all the energy of those who know that they are soon to be silent for evermore; "what will you do? what will become of you?"
"Don't fear for me, dear brother," answered Madge, who was crying bitterly.
"No, you love and fear God, and he will take care of you; I know he will! O Madge, I wish I had loved him as you have; but I've been a bad boy, and now it is too late, too late;—if I might but live!" The words were spoken in a low, vehement whisper, and a smothered groan followed them.
"Raymond, our dear Saviour loves you. Think of him, do not think about yourself," and Madge's face became calm as she spoke.
A smile came over her brother's countenance, he closed his eyes and feebly pressed her hand. Then he lay very still and motionless. Once only his lips moved. Madge thought he said, "Mother!" Then all was silent as the grave, except the ticking of the clock in the next room. Madge seemed counting every swing of the pendulum. They seemed like the last grains of sand in the hour-glass of her brother's life, and his breath was getting shorter. At length she could hardly find out whether he breathed or not. She thought of what the doctor said to Mr. Smith: "If he does not rally, there will probably be a short period of consciousness before he dies, and then he will go off quietly." She supposed that period was over now, and Raymond would never speak to her again,—Raymond, her pride, her glory. He was slipping away from her, and soon she should have no brother. Poor little Madge! Years afterwards she could recall that scene more vividly than any other in her life—the look of everything around her; the lazy flies creeping up the window-pane, and one or two which were buzzing about her head; the glass standing on the chair by Raymond's side, which she had held to his lips but a few minutes before, and which she knew he would never drink from again; the way in which she had smoothed the bed-clothes and moved his pillow; and that still, white face, so inexpressibly dear to her, that rested upon it. There was a step beside her, and looking round she saw Mrs. Smiley. The good woman started as she saw Raymond. Then drawing Madge away, she said tenderly, "Poor lamb, come in here now;" and she tried to induce her to leave the room.
"No, no! I must stay," Madge said vehemently, and she sprang to Raymond's side. "Mrs. Smiley, he isn't dead."
"Then he looks like it. Come away, Miss Madge."
"But he isn't. He breathes still."
Yes, there was just a feeble pulsation, so feeble that it was hardly discernible, but it brought new hope to Madge's heart. She moistened his lips with a stimulant, then knelt beside him, with her eyes fixed upon him in intense anxiety. The moments seemed like hours. But at last there came a little short sigh, and then the breathing became more soft and regular. The lines of the face were relaxed, and Raymond was sleeping peacefully.
"If he sleep, he will do well," were words spoken long ago. And so it was.
When the doctor came again, he pronounced his patient better, and told Madge that he might recover.
That night, about twelve o'clock, as she was sitting beside the bed, keeping watch, Madge heard a low, weak voice saying her name. She bent down her head, and Raymond whispered, "Madge, I have had such a happy, beautiful dream, about my painting. Ask God that I may live."
"Perhaps your dream will come true, darling, for the picture is sold," she answered gladly. Then she feared that she had said what was unwise, and that she had excited him. But she was satisfied when she saw the quiet smile of satisfaction that stole over his features.
"Now rest, dear Raymond," she added, as she kissed him, "you will yet live to be my glory."
