Then Louise began to give attention to the dry little cough, and to grow anxious also. Debating the question for a while as to whether she would help or hinder by speaking, she finally determined to try; so she said, in as indifferent a tone as she could assume,—
"Shall I open the bedroom door, mother? Nellie seems to be coughing."
The mother faced round on her from the cupboard, where she was still working, and these were the words she said,—
"Mrs. Lewis Morgan, can I be allowed to manage my own family, or must I give it up to you?"
Then Louise went upstairs, and shut her door and locked it, and sat down in the little rocker so lately vacated by Nellie, and gave herself up to the luxury of tears. It was not merely this event, it was a good many little events that had been piling up during many trying days; and the night was chill, and the world outside was in gloom, and Lewis was away, to be gone all night, and for two nights to come, and it seemed to the young wife as though two nights represented years, and it seemed a long time since she had seen her mother, and she was sorry for poor, little, banished Nellie—and so she cried. She had some vindictive thoughts also; she told herself that this struggle to belong to the family, and be one of them, was perfect nonsense; and she had borne it quite as long as any human being could be expected to; Lewis would insist on a separate home whenever she gave the hint; what was the use in trying to endure this sort of thing longer? Mrs. Morgan had insulted her; why should she bear it? She would not go down to supper; she would not go down again to-night; she would send word that, at least so long as her husband was absent, she would remain in her room, and not irritate the mistress of the house by her presence. She would write to her mother, and tell her just what a hateful world this was, and how disagreeable a person named "mother" could be. She would go home, would start to-morrow morning, and telegraph Lewis to take the westward train instead of the eastern, and meet her there; and they would stay until Father Morgan was willing to give them, what was her husband's right, a spot for himself. To be sure, she meant to do none of these dire things; but it was a sort of luxury to go over them in her heart, and imagine what she could do, the sensation that she could create, if she chose.
This is one of the miserable snares with which Satan trips the feet of unwary saints, leading them to feel that to luxuriate in bitter thoughts, which they really do not intend to carry out, is no harm; letting them forget that by just so much is their spirituality weakened, and their communion with Christ cut off. It was in this case but a partial victory, for Louise, presently feeling the gloom of heart too much for her to struggle under, looked about for relief, and being used to seeking it but in one place, dropped on her knees and carried the whole dreary scene to Him who bears our sorrows and carries our griefs; and when, almost an hour afterward, she answered Dorothy's summons to tea, her face was serene and her heart at rest.
Nellie was at the table, a trifle more quiet than usual—albeit she was always a meek and quiet little mouse—her face a shade paler than usual, and her eyes disposed to seek Louise's with a questioning gaze, as if she would determine whether she had been considered naughty; but when Louise answered the question by a tender, reassuring smile, the little face became radiant.
I want you to do Mother Morgan justice. She was by no means cruel intentionally; she would not have kept Nellie in the cold five minutes had her nature realized the situation. Her own blood was fairly boiling in her veins; she could not have conceived of the possibility of anybody being chilled that day. She honestly believed Dorothy to be a simpleton, and Louise to be trying to interfere with her duties as the mistress of the family. Therefore she had no self-accusing spirit with which to meet her family at the tea-table; so she was self-poised and dignified. But Louise, in her half-hour of communion in the chamber of peace, had found strength enough to bear any amount of dignity, and carried herself sweetly and helpfully through the hour.
Into the gloom of that rainy night came a guest that dispelled all the dignity, and made each member of the unfortunately constructed household feel of kin. Louise was the first to hear it, even before Dorothy, that strange, hoarse cough, which has fallen in so many a household almost like the sound of earth-clods on a coffin, and which too often has been but the forerunner of that very sound. Louise had heard it from the little sister at home often enough, and understood the signal so well that it brought her to her feet with a bound; so that when Dorothy, a few moments later, knocked hesitatingly at her door, she answered with a quick "Yes, dear," and threw it wide-open, herself nearly dressed.
"O Louise! Do you hear Nellie? Isn't she very sick?"