Chapter Seven

by Kate J. Neily
Edited and Revised by Amber Moeller

Meanwhile, while Maggie was merrily guessing at the contents of the mysterious-looking parcels, and her father was as merrily declaring all her guesses to be wrong, Nelly lay still on the lounge in the now darkened room, thinking over and over all the troubles of the day, and feeling more bitter than ever, now that she knew how much enjoyment she had missed. Presently Anne came in to light the gas and lay the cloth for supper; and Nelly rose slowly, and made her way, painfully, with stiff and aching limbs, upstairs.

Her father, too, had just come in, and was taking off his overcoat in the fall. His pockets bulged out suspiciously also; but Nelly felt too ill to care what they contained, and was only anxious to escape his questions as to why she look so dull, and if that was the kind of face for Christmas Eve.

She had to run another gauntlet of questions when she went into her mother's room; and she was thankful when supper was at last over, and she could creep off to bed. Not that the night brought her much relief; her temples throbbed with pain; her limbs ached, and the choking sensation in her throat grew worse and worse, so that by morning she was scarcely able to speak, and felt quite too ill to rise. Her father was alarmed when he came in to see her, and went immediately for the doctor, who came and pronounced the disease to be a decided case of diphtheria, which would necessitate confinement to her room for at least a fortnight.

"A pretty idea this, for you to be getting sick on Christmas Day!" said the good doctor, with a kindly smile. "I guess you must have run and romped too much at the school, yesterday. My little daughter was telling me you youngsters had a grand Panjandrum there --eh, Miss Nelly?"

Nelly grew, if possible, paler than she was already. She had quite forgotten that Dr. Lawson's little daughter Annie went to No. 8; and now surely all the shameful story about her would come out. For a moment her heart turned her eyes imploringly, first on the doctor, and then on her father. But with the next instant came the remembrance that little Annie Lawson belonged to the Primary Department, and wouldn't be likely to know the cause of her leaving school, even if she had happened to notice that she was absent. The blood came back again to her heart and her cheek, and she answered, hoarsely, --

"O, no; that isn't the reason, doctor, for I didn't stay to play at all. I didn't feel very well, and I came home quite early."

"O, that's it," said the doctor, cheerily. "Well, well, you've taken a pretty bad cold somehow or other, my child; but we'll pull you safely through it, God willing. And even if you can't be up and about, enjoying your Christmas presents, and can't even have your share of the turkey and mince pies, which is pretty hard, I confess, why, still you've a good deal to make it a 'Merry Christmas' for you. Here's your good papa, now, ready to do anything in the world for you; you've got a snug room, and a warm fire, while many poor children, as sick as you, are shivering with the cold; and the blessed sun is shining as bright as if it was brand new; and the church bells are ringing and all the world is happy, keeping Christ's birthday; and you must try to be as patient as you can -- won't you, my little maid? and I'll be in again this evening, to see how you're getting along."

He was off, with a kind goodbye, and Anne, who had just come in with some arrowroot for Nelly, said, "What a nice gintleman, for sure, Dr. Lawson was!" But Nelly thought sullenly that it was very easy for those who were well and happy to preach to others that they ought to be so too, and swallowed her breakfast in no very cheerful mood. Meanwhile her father, who had accompanied the doctor downstairs, came back, bringing his hands full of pretty Christmas gifts, which he spread out on the bed around her.

There was a handkerchief-box, of beautifully ornamented cardboard, from her mother, who knew that Nelly's handkerchiefs were very apt to lie scattered over her drawer, in anything but an orderly way; and a little scent-bag, smelling as sweet as a bed of violets in spring time, was put in as little Jennie's present to her sister; a whole set of the "Meadowgrass Stories", six dainty volumes in green and scarlet, crimson and brown, purple and buff, from her father; a coral bracelet, to match her necklace, from the aunt who had given her that and a little strawberry emery cushion as Frank's present.

The gifts did not afford much pleasure to the unhappy girl. Her face lit up for a moment at the sight of the bracelet, which appealed to her strongest passion,--love of dress,--and she clasped it languidly round her wrist for a moment; but she was suffering too much to be able to enjoy even an ornament, which, at another time, would have filled her heart with rapture, and she asked presently to have all the things taken away.

Then she asked that the blinds be shut, and the shades drawn down; she did not want to see the sunshine, not to hear the merry sound of the bells; and then she turned her face to the wall, and drew the covers close up to her chin, as though she wanted to be alone; and her father went out, hoping that she would be able to go to sleep. Then, after stopping to see how the mother and baby were getting on, and to report that Nelly was a little more comfortable, he took Frank and Jennie, who were beginning to feel that it was rather dull in the house with so many sick people, round to the church to share in the Christmas-tree festival there.

Nurse came in and out to give Nelly her medicine, and to bring her loving messages from her mother, who felt it rather hard that she and her daughter should have to be separated in their illness, but begged Nelly to bear it bravely, as she was trying to do. Anne took special pain to flavor her food as nicely as possible; "it was too bad, anyway, the pore little craythur should be havin' to ate sick messes on Christmas Day, whim there was the turkey brownin' so beautiful, and the puddin' jist as full o' plums as it could stick!" said the good-natured handmaiden. Everybody, indeed, was as kind as could be; but still the day passed very heavily by to the sick girl.

The pain of her illness would have been hard enough to bear of itself, but when to this was added a heart full of such unhappy thoughts, it was hard indeed. And the doctor's words had brought yet another anxiety. Diphtheria! that was the dangerous disease. Nelly had had a little cousin die of it a year or two ago; and only last winter two of her schoolmates had been brought to the grave, after only a single night's illness, with this terrible disease. What if this should be her fate--if she should die? Was she ready to die?

Ah, no--never! at least of all, just now, with this burden of sin and deception on her soul. Nelly was obliged to acknowledge this in her own secret heart. Now, in the possible near approach of death, she could no longer pretend to excuse herself enough how false, and mean, and wicked she must appear in the sight of God. She knew, too, that she had no right to hope for his forgiveness until she was willing to confess her fault to her mother, and acknowledge all the falsehoods, spoken and acted, of which she had been guilty; all the evil tempers, the anger, and jealousy, which had filled her heart with bitterness since yesterday morning.

But this she was not willing to do unless she was obliged to. It would cost her infinite shame and mortification, and, perhaps, after all, it might not be necessary. She did not believe she was going to die this time, and, after she got well, she would go hard to work, and replace the spoiled shoes; and then no one need ever know what she had done. And, meanwhile, she felt quite sorry enough without having to lose the confidence of her father and mother, and she was resolved never to do such a thing again. She supposed it was wrong, as every one kept telling her, to be so fond of dress; and after this she would try never again to care about anything except to be neat and nice. Indeed, she would be quite a different girl every way, and even try to become a Christian; and what more could be expected of her?

So the poor foolish girl deluded herself, and deceived her own heart with false promises of great things to be done in the future, while she refused to do the duty near at hand--to tell her mother all the story of yesterday. And, though her mind was far from being at rest, and her conscience troubled her continually, still, as the disease grew no worse, and the dread of possible death became fainter and fainter, she closed her ears to its warnings, and persisted in her sinful silence.

Thus the Christmas week passed by, merrily enough to the world outside, amid the sunshine, the bustle, and the gay jingle of sleigh-bells, but drearily enough to Nelly, in her darkened chamber, with her cheerless thoughts. New Year's Day, too, came, with its added gayety; everywhere the sidewalks were crowded with gentlemen, hastening from house to house to renew the last year's friendships, and bid to all a Happy New Year; everywhere the streets thronged with flying sleighs, and every door opening and reopening at the sound of the calling bell.

Still Nelly was confined to her own room, and could not even see her illness had been the worst, and she was daily getting better, the doctor thought it best that she should run no risk of taking fresh cold, an that no one else should be exposed to the possibility of sharing her disease. So another long, dull week dragged slowly by, and at length the freedom of the house was granted to her; and, with a sigh of inexpressible relief, she found herself no more a prisoner in her dark, close room, and felt as last entirely safe from her haunting fear of death.

Did she remember now all the promises which she had made, in the hour of her dread, to God and her own soul?

We shall see.

To be continued ...

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