One morning, about a week after she had become too ill to keep up, she found herself so far recovered as to be able to go down stairs to breakfast. Every thing upon the table she found arranged in the neatest style. The food was well cooked, especially some tender rice cakes, of which she was very fond.
"Really, these are delicious!" said she, as the finely flavored cakes almost melted in her mouth. "And this coffee is just the thing! How fortunate we have been to obtain so good a cook! I was afraid we should never be able to replace Rachel. But even she is equalled, if not surpassed."
"Still she does not surpass Rachel," said Mr. Smith, a little gravely. "Rachel was a treasure."
"Indeed she was. And I have been sorry enough I ever let her go," returned Mrs. Smith.
At that moment a new cook entered with a plate of warm cakes.
"Rachel!" ejaculated Mrs. Smith, letting her knife and fork fall. "How do you do? I am glad to see you! Welcome home again!"
As she spoke quickly and earnestly, she held out her hand, and grasped that of her old domestic warmly. Rachel could not speak, but as she left the room she put her apron to her eyes. Hers were not the only ones dim with rising moisture.
For at least a year to come, both Mrs. Smith and her excellent cook will have no cause to complain of each other. How they will get along during the last week of next August, we cannot say, but hope the lesson they have both received will teach them to bear and forbear.
CHAPTER XXIII
WORDS
"THE foolish thing!" said my aunt Rachel, speaking warmly, "to get hurt at a mere word. It's a little hard that people can't open their lips but somebody is offended."
"Words are things!" said I, smiling.
"Very light things! A person must be tender, indeed, that is hurt by a word."
"The very lightest thing may hurt, if it falls on a tender place."
"I don't like people who have these tender places," said aunt Rachel. "I never get hurt at what is said to me. No—never! To be ever picking and mincing, and chopping off your words—to be afraid to say this or that—for fear somebody will be offended! I can't abide it!"
"People who have these tender places can't help it, I suppose. This being so, ought we not to regard their weakness?" said I. "Pain, either of body or mind, is hard to bear, and we should not inflict it causelessly."
"People who are so wonderfully sensitive," replied aunt Rachel, growing warmer, "ought to shut themselves up at home, and not come among sensible, good tempered persons. As far as I am concerned, I can tell them, one and all, that I am not going to pick out every hard word from a sentence as carefully as I would seeds from a raisin. Let them crack them with their teeth, if they are afraid to swallow them whole."
Now, for all that aunt Rachel went on after this strain, she was a kind, good soul, in the main, and I could see, was sorry for having hurt the feelings of Mary Lane. But she didn't like to acknowledge that she was in the wrong; that would detract too much from the self-complacency with which she regarded herself. Knowing her character very well, I thought it best not to continue the little argument about the importance of words, and so changed the subject. But, every now and then, aunt Rachel would return to it, each time softening a little towards Mary. At last she said:
"I'm sure it was a little thing. A very little thing. She might have known that nothing unkind was intended on my part."
"There are some subjects, aunt," I replied, "to which we cannot bear the slightest allusion. And a sudden reference to them is very apt to throw us off of our guard. What you said to Mary, has, in all probability, touched some weakness of character, or probed some wound that time has been able to heal. I have always thought her a sensible, good natured girl."
"And so have I. But I really cannot think that she has shown her good sense or good nature in the present case. It is a very bad failing this, of being over sensitive; and exceedingly annoying to one's friends."
"It is, I know; but still, all of us have a weak point, and when that is assailed, we are very apt to betray our feelings."
"Well, I say now, as I have always said—I don't like to have any thing to do with people who have these weak points. This being hurt by a word, as if words were blows, is something that does not come within the range of my sympathies."
"And yet, aunt," said I, "all have weak points. Even you are not entirely free from them."
"Me!" aunt Rachel bridled.
"Yes; and if even as light a thing as a word were to fall upon them, you would suffer pain."
"Pray, ma'am," said, aunt Rachel, with much dignity of manner; she was chafed by my words, light as they were; "inform me where these weaknesses, of which you are pleased to speak, lie?"
"Oh, no; you must excuse me. That would be very much out of place. But I only stated a general fact that appertains to all of us."
Aunt Rachel looked very grave. I had laid the weight of words upon a weakness of her character, and it had given her pain. That weakness was a peculiarly good opinion of herself. I had made no allegation against her; and there was none in my mind. My words simply expressed the general truth that we all have weaknesses, and included her in their application. But she imagined that I referred to some particular defect or fault, and mail-proof as she was against words, they had wounded her.
For a day or two, aunt Rachel remained more sober than was her wont. I knew the cause, but did not attempt to remove from her mind an impression my words had made. One day, about a week after, I said to her:
"Aunt Rachel, I saw Mary Lane's mother this morning."
"Ah?" The old lady looked up at me enquiringly.
"I don't wonder your words hurt the poor girl," I added.
"Why? What did I say?" quickly asked aunt Rachel.
"You said that she was a jilt."
"But I was only in jest, and she knew it. I did not really mean any thing. I'm surprised that Mary should be so foolish."
"You will not be surprised when you know all," was my answer.
"All? What all? I'm sure I wasn't in earnest. I didn't mean to hurt the poor girl's feelings."
My aunt looked very much troubled.
"No one blames you, aunt Rachel," said I. "Mary knows you didn't intend wounding her."
"But why should she take a little word so much to heart? It must have had more truth in it than I supposed."
"Did you know that Mary refused an offer of marriage from Walter Green, last week?"
"Why, no! It can't be possible! Refused Walter Green?"
"Yes."
"They've been intimate for a long time."
"I know."
"She certainly encouraged him."
"I think it more than probable."
"Is it possible, then, that she did really jilt the young man?" exclaimed aunt Rachel.
"This has been said of her," I replied. "But, as far as I can learn, she was really attached to him, and suffered great pain in rejecting his offer. Wisely she regarded marriage as the most important event of her life, and refused to make so solemn a contract with one in whose principles she had not the fullest confidence."
"But she ought not to have encouraged Walter, if she did not intend marrying him," said aunt Rachel, with some warmth.
"She encouraged him so long as she thought well of him. A closer view revealed points of character hidden by distance. When she saw these, her feelings were already deeply involved. But, like a true woman, she turned from the proffered hand, even though, while in doing so, her heart palpitated with pain. There is nothing false about Mary Lane. She could no more trifle with a lover than she could commit a crime. Think, then, how almost impossible it would be for her to hear herself called, under existing circumstances, even in sport, a jilt, without being hurt. Words sometimes have power to hurt more than blows. Do you not see this now, aunt Rachel?"
"Oh, yes, yes. I see it; and I saw it before," said the old lady. "And, in future, I will be more careful of my words. It is pretty late in life to learn this lesson—but we are never too late to learn. Poor Mary! It grieves me to think that I should have hurt her so much."
Yes, words often have in them a smarting force, and we cannot be too guarded how we use them. "Think twice before you speak once," is a trite, but wise saying. We teach it to our children very carefully, but are too apt to forget that it has not lost its application to ourselves.
CHAPTER XXIV
MAY BE SO
"NEXT time you go out, you'll buy me a wagon, won't you, mother?" said my little boy to me, one day.
I didn't want to say "no," and destroy his happy feelings; and I was not prepared to say "yes;" and so I gave the evasive reply so often used under such circumstances, "May be so," and which was meant rather as a negative than an affirmative. The child was satisfied; for he gave my words the meaning he wished them to have. In a little while after, I had forgotten all about it. Not so my boy. To him the "May be so" was "yes," and he set his heart, confidently, on receiving the wagon the next time I should go out. This happened on the afternoon of that very day. It was towards evening when I returned. The moment I rung the bell at my own door, I heard his pattering feet and gleeful voice in the entry.
"Where's my wagon?" said he, as I entered, a shade of disappointment falling suddenly upon his excited, happy face.
"What wagon, dear?" I asked.
"My wagon. The wagon you promised to buy me."
"I didn't promise to buy a wagon, my son."
"Oh, yes you did, mother! You promised me this morning."
Tears were already in his eye, and his face wore a look of distressing disappointment.
"I promised to buy you a wagon? I am sure I remember nothing about it," I replied confidently. "What in the world put that into your head?"
"Didn't I ask you?" said the child, the tears now overflowing his cheeks.
"Yes, I believe you did ask me something about a wagon; but I didn't promise to buy you one."
"Oh, yes you did, mother. You said may be so."
"But 'may be so' doesn't mean yes."
At this the little fellow uttered a distressing cry. His heart was almost broken by disappointment. He had interpreted my words according to his own wishes, and not according to their real meaning.
Unprepared for an occurrence of this kind, I was not in the mood to sympathise with my child fully. To be met thus, at the moment of my return home, disturbed me.
"I didn't promise to buy you a wagon; and you must stop crying about it," said I, seeing that he had given way to his feelings, and was crying in a loud voice.
But he cried on. I went up stairs to lay off my things, and he followed, still crying.
"You must hush, now," said I, more positively. "I cannot permit this. I never promised to buy you a wagon."
"You said may be so," sobbed the child.
"May be so, and yes, are two different things. If I had said that I would buy you a wagon, then there would have been some reason in your disappointment; but I said no such thing."
He had paused to listen; but, as I ceased speaking, his crying was renewed.
"You must stop this now. There is no use in it, and I will not have it," said I, resolutely.
My boy choked down for a few moments at this, and half stifled his grief; but o'ermastering him, it flowed on again as wildly as ever. I felt impatient.
"Stop this moment, I say!" And I took hold of his arm firmly. My will is strong, and when a little excited, it often leads me beyond where I would go in moments of reflection. My boy knew this by experience. By my manner of speaking he saw that I was in earnest, and that, if he did not obey me, punishment would follow. So, with what must have been a powerful effort for one so young, he stifled the utterance of his grief. But, the storm within raged none the less violently, and I could see his little frame quiver as he strove to repress the rising sobs.
Turning away from me, he went and sat down on a low seat in a corner of the room. I saw his form in the glass as I stood before it to arrange my hair, after laying aside my bonnet; and for the first time my feelings were touched. There was an abandonment in his whole attitude; an air of grief about him that affected me with pity and tenderness.
"Poor child!" I sighed. "His heart is almost broken. I ought to have said yes or no; and then all would have been settled."
"Come," said I, after a few moments, reaching my hand towards the child—"let us go down and look out for father. He will be home soon."
I spoke kindly and cheerfully. But he neither moved, looked up, nor gave the smallest sign that he heard me.
"Oh, well," said I, with some impatience in my voice—"it doesn't matter at all. If you'd rather sit there than come down into the parlor and look out for dear father, you can please yourself."
And turning away as I spoke, I left the chamber, and went down stairs. Seating myself at the window, I looked forth and endeavored to feel unconcerned and cheerful. But, this was beyond my power. I saw nothing but the form of my grieving child, and could think of nothing but his sorrow and disappointment.
"Nancy," said I to one of my domestics, who happened to come into the parlor to ask me some question, "I wish you would run down to the toy store in the next block, and buy Neddy a wagon. His heart is almost broken about one."
The girl, always willing, when kindly spoke to, ran off to obey my wishes, and in a little while came back with the article wanted.
"Now," said I, "go up into my room and tell Neddy that I've got something for him. Don't mention the wagon; I want to take him by surprise."
Nancy went bounding up the stairs, and I placed the wagon in the centre of the room where it would meet the child's eyes on the moment of his entrance, and then sat down to await his coming, and enjoy his surprise and delight.
After the lapse of about a minute, I heard Nancy coming down slowly.
"Neddy's asleep," said she, looking in at the door.
"Asleep!" I felt greatly disappointed.
"Yes, ma'am. He was on the floor asleep. I took him up, and laid him in your bed."
"Then he's over his troubles," said I, attempting to find a relief for my feelings in this utterance. But no such relief came.
Taking the wagon in my hand, I went up to the chamber where he lay, and bent over him. The signs of grief were still upon his innocent face, and every now and then a faint sigh or sob gave evidence that even sleep had not yet hushed entirely, the storm which had swept over him.
"Neddy!" I spoke to him in a voice of tenderness, hoping that my words might reach his ear, "Neddy, dear, I've bought you a wagon."
But his senses were locked. Taking him up, I undressed him, and then, after kissing his lips, brow, and cheeks, laid him in his little bed, and placed the wagon on the pillow beside him.
Even until the late hour at which I retired on that evening, were my feelings oppressed by the incident I have described. My "May be so," uttered in order to avoid giving the direct answer my child wanted, had occasioned him far more pain than a positive refusal of his request could have done.
"I will be more careful in future," said I, as I lay thinking about the occurrence, "how I create false hopes. My yea shall be yea, and my nay nay. Of these cometh not evil."
In the morning when I awoke, I found Neddy in possession of his wagon. He was running with it around the room, as happy as if a tear had never been upon his cheek. I looked at him for many minutes without speaking. At last, seeing that I was awake, he bounded up to the bedside, and, kissing me, said:
"Thank you, dear mother, for buying me this wagon! You are a good mother!"
I must own to having felt some doubts on the subject of Neddy's compliment at the time. Since this little experience, I have been more careful how I answer the petitions of my children; and avoid the "May be so," "I'll see about it," and other such evasive answers that come so readily to the lips. The good result I have experienced in many instances.
CHAPTER XXV
"THE POOR CHILD DIED."
MY baby, nine months old, had some fever, and seemed very unwell. One neighbor said:
"You'd better send for the doctor."
Another suggested that it had, no doubt, eaten something that disagreed with it, and that a little antimonial wine would enable it to throw it off; another advised a few grains of calomel, and another a dose of rheubarb. But I said:
"No. I'll wait a little while, and see if it won't get better."
"You should give him medicine in time. Many a person dies from not taking medicine in time;" said a lady who expressed more than usual concern for the well-being of my baby. She had a very sick child herself.
"Many more die," I replied, "from taking medicine too soon. I believe that one half of the diseases in the world are produced by medicines, and that the other half are often made worse by their injudicious administration."
"You'd better send for the doctor," urged the lady.
"No. I'll wait until the morning, and then, if he's no better, or should be worse, I'll call in our physician. Children often appear very sick one hour, and are comparatively well again in the next."
"It's a great risk," said the lady, gravely. "A very great risk. I called in the doctor the moment my dear little Eddy began to droop about. And it's well I did. He's near death's door as it is; and without medical aid I would certainly have lost him before this. He's only been sick a week, and you know yourself how low he is reduced. Where do you think he would have been without medicine? The disease has taken a terrible hold of him. Why, the doctor has bled him twice; and his little chest is raw all over from a blister. He has been cupped and leeched. We have had mustard plasters upon his arms and the calves of his legs. I don't know how many grains of calomel he has taken; and it has salivated him dreadfully. Oh! such a sore mouth! Poor child! He suffers dreadfully. Besides, he has taken some kind of powder almost every hour. They are dreadfully nauseous; and we have to hold him, every time, and pour them down his throat. Oh, dear! It makes my heart sick. Now, with all this, the disease hangs on almost as bad as ever. Suppose we hadn't sent for the doctor at first? Can't you see what would have been the consequence? It is very wrong to put off calling in a physician upon the first symptoms of a disease."
"Pardon me, Mrs. Lee, for saying so," was my reply, "but I cannot help thinking that, if you had not called the doctor, your child would have been quite well to-day."
Mrs. Lee—that was the lady's name—uttered an exclamation of surprise and disapproval of my remark.
"But, cannot you see, yourself; that it is not the disease that has reduced your child so low. The bleeding, blistering, cupping, leeching, and calomel administrations, would have done all this, had your child been perfectly well when it went into the doctor's hands."
"But the disease would have killed him inevitably. If it requires all this to break it, don't you see that it must have taken a most fatal hold on the poor child's system."
"No, Mrs. Lee, I cannot see any such thing," was my reply. "The medicine probably fixed the disease, that would, if left alone, have retired of itself. What does the doctor say ails the child?"
"He does not seem to know. There seems to be a complication of diseases."
"Produced by the treatment, no doubt. If there had been scarlet fever, or small pox, or croup, active and energetic treatment would, probably, have been required, and the doctor would have known what he was about in administering his remedies. But, in a slight indisposition, like that from which your child suffered, it is, in my opinion, always better to give no medicine for a time. Drugs thrown into the tender system of a child, will always produce disease of some kind, more or less severe; and where slight disorders already exist, they are apt to give them a dangerous hold upon the body, or, uniting with them, cause a most serious, and, at times, fatal illness."
But Mrs. Lee shook her head. She thought the doctors knew best. They had great confidence in their family physician. He had doctored them through many dangerous attacks, and had always brought them through safely. As to the new-fangled notions about giving little or no medicine, she had no confidence in them. Medicine was necessary at times, and she always gave her children medicine at least two, or three times a year, whether they were sick or well. Prevention, in her eyes, was better than cure. And where there was actual sickness, she was in favor of vigorous treatment. One good dose of medicine would do more good than a hundred little ones; with much more to the same effect.
On the next morning, my dear baby, who was just as sick for a few hours as Mrs. Lee's child was at first, was as well as ever.
Not long after breakfast, I was sent for by Mrs. Lee. Her poor child was much worse. The servant said that she was sure it was dying. I changed my dress hurriedly, and went over to the house of my neighbor.
Shall I describe the painful object that met my sight? It was three days since I had seen the little sufferer; but, oh! how it had changed in that brief time. Its face was sunken, its eyes far back in their sockets, and its forehead marked with lines of suffering. The whole of its breast was raw from the blister, and its mouth, lying open, showed, with painful distinctness, the dreadful injury wrought by the mercury thrown, with such a liberal hand, into its delicate system. All the life seemed to have withdrawn itself from the skin; for the vital forces, in the centre of its body, were acting but feebly.
The doctor came in while I was there. He said but little. It was plain that he was entirely at fault, and that he saw no hope of a favorable issue. All his, "active treatment" had tended to break down the child, rather than cure the disease from which it at first suffered. There was a great deal of heat about the child's head, and he said something about having it shaved for a blister.
"Wouldn't ice do better, doctor?" I felt constrained to suggest. He turned upon me quickly and seemed annoyed.
"No, madam!" he replied with dignity.
I said no more, for I felt how vain my words would be. The blister, however, was not ordered; but, in its stead, mustard plasters were directed to be placed over the feet and legs to the knees, and a solution of iodine, or iron, I don't now remember which, prescribed, to be given every half hour.
I went home, some time after the doctor left, feeling sick at heart. "They are murdering that child," I could not help saying to myself. My own dear babe I found full of health and life; and I hugged it to my breast with a feeling of thankfulness.
Before the day closed, Mrs. Lee's poor child died. Was it a cause of wonder?