Lucy was fully sensible of the consoling power—the great PLEASURE of being useful; and her mind was both practically and theoretically Christian; so, she never yielded to fretfulness or impatience; she knew that, through all her trials—through her waking hours of pain, through the weary time of total incapacity for the fulfilment of her duties—God was with her, was her stay, was her support; was trying her, as pure gold is tried in the fire; would sustain her in spirit unto the end: she knew all this, she never doubted, but she suffered; her heart fluttered like an imprisoned bird, as she toiled and panted up the high stairs, while the children laughed and sported, with the spirit and energy of health, and called to her to ‘come faster.’ Night brought rest without refreshment; she could not sleep; and, stifling her cough, lest she should disturb others, she would look up to the starry sky, often repeating—
“Oh! that I had wings like a dove;”
but hardly had she so prayed, when a sense of her own unworthiness, of the duty of watching and waiting for God’s appointed time, would come upon her, and she would add, “Not my will, but Thine be done.” No one was cruel, no one even unkind to her; the cross cook (all good cooks are cross), would often make her lemonade, or reserve something she thought the young girl might eat; the lady’s-maid, who had regarded her, at first, as a rival beauty, won by her cheerful patience, said, that even when her eyes were full of tears, there was a smile upon her lip; all the servants felt for her; and, at length, her mistress requested her own physician to see what was the matter with “poor Joyce.”
There are exceptions, no doubt; but, taken as a body, medical men—God bless them for so being!—are the very souls of kindness and generous humanity; how many have I known whose voices were as music in a sick chamber; who, instead of taking, gave; ever ready to alleviate and to sustain.
“Have you no friends?” he inquired.
“None, sir,” she replied; “at least none to support me; and,” she added, “I know I am unable to remain here.” While she said this, she looked with her blue, truthful, earnest eyes, into his face; then paused, hoping, without knowing what manner of hope was in her, that he would say—“she was able;” but he did not; and she continued, “there is no one to whom I can go, except an old servant of my poor father’s; so, if—” there came, perhaps, a flush of pride to her cheek, or it might be she was ashamed to ask a favour—“if, sir, you could get me into AN HOSPITAL, I should be most grateful.”
“I wish I could,” he answered, “with all my heart. We have hospitals enough; yet, I fear—indeed, I know—there is not one that would receive you, when aware of the exact nature of your complaint. You must have a warm, mild atmosphere; perfect quiet, and a particular diet; and that for some considerable time.”
“My mother, sir,” said Lucy, “died of consumption.”
“Well, but you are not going to die,” he replied, smiling; “only you must let your father’s old servant take care of you, and you may soon get better.”
Lucy shook her head, and her eyes overflowed with tears; the physician cheered her, after the usual fashion. “I am not afraid of death, sir,” said the young woman; “indeed, I am not; but I fear, more than I ought, the passage which leads to it; the burden I must be to the poor faithful creature who nursed me from my birth. I thought there was an hospital for the cure of every disease; and this consumption is so general, so helpless, so tedious.”