Betty's Battles Part 17

That night Betty goes to sleep with an uneasy sense that the day has not been altogether well spent, in spite of the success of her was.h.i.+ng schemes.

Awakening, some hours later, with this uncomfortable feeling strong upon her, she begins to ask herself what has been wrong? Conscience soon tells her that she has been unkind to her sister.

"I _did_ speak sharply, and I certainly felt very vexed; but, then, it was aggravating, and there is really too much to do in our house for that sort of thing.

"Of course, I know that Lucy is not so old, or so strong, as I am; but she should have remembered how much I like an early cup of tea on was.h.i.+ng-day, and----. What was that? Lucy, did you speak?"

Betty breaks off her meditations hastily, and raises herself on her elbow. Is Lucy asleep on the pillow beside her--surely, she spoke just now?

She is speaking, or, rather, muttering, in her sleep. How strange! Can she be ill?

Then Betty remembers, with a faint thrill of alarm, that Lucy ate neither tea nor supper; and, when mother asked the reason, she said her head ached.

For a long while she lies awake, listening to her sister's uneasy whisperings. "Oh," she thinks, "why was I so unkind to her--suppose she should be really ill?"

Lucy is really ill. After a troubled night of feverish dreaming, she awakes to a consciousness of great pain and stiffness in all her limbs.

A doctor is sent for; her parents' worst fears are realised, Lucy is stricken down with rheumatic fever.

She is very quiet and patient, and tries hard not to complain. Her mother nurses her, relieved by Betty now and then.

Love has taught Mrs. Langdale to be a good nurse; love makes her forget her own small illnesses and worries, and think only of her poor little daughter's suffering.

The remembrance of her unkind words gives Betty bitter pain. Lucy was ill when she scolded her. Oh, if she had known!

After a while, as Lucy grows better, Betty begins to excuse herself again. "She _did_ read too much; I was right in that, and reading is waste of time--only I wish I hadn't been so cross with her."

Slowly the pain grows less, slowly the fever cools; but, alas! for poor Lucy, the doctor says he fears that this illness will leave lasting bad effects behind it; that, though she will soon be fairly well, she will never be quite as strong again as she has been.

One afternoon, Betty is sitting with her sister, while Mrs. Langdale rests. Lucy has just finished her basin of bread and milk, and Betty thinks she is asleep, until she hears her sigh softly to herself, and then make a restless movement on her pillow.

Betty is at her side in an instant.

"Do you want anything, Lucy?"

"No, thank you, Betty," she says, in her weak, patient voice. But Betty sees that two large tears are rolling down her cheeks.

"O Lucy, you mustn't fret, that's ever so bad for you, and, besides, you're getting well so fast. Shall I read to you? You were very interested in some book just before you were taken ill--tell me where to find it."

"No, no, Betty, not that book; it's of--no--use--now." Lucy's lips quiver so painfully, that she can hardly p.r.o.nounce the words, and she buries her face in her pillow.

"Lucy, don't! Oh, please, don't! I was horrid to you that day, and I've been sorry ever since. Do let me read, if it's only to make up a little."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Her arm around her sister's neck.]

"But, Betty, it's of no use. I can never, never, never do it now. I heard the doctor tell mother this morning that I should always have to be careful, or I should be just as bad again, and--and--it's only really strong people who can do--what I wanted to do." Lucy's voice dies away into such a faint whisper that her sister can only just catch the last words.

"Do what?" asks Betty, in great surprise. Then, suddenly, an idea strikes her. "Ah! Lucy, were you studying for something all the time--not just reading to amuse yourself--were you learning about some work you wished to do?"

"Yes, Betty."

"And all these months I have never thought of that. Oh, what was it?

Come, tell me, Lucy, dear."

"I--I wanted to go to the poor heathen women in India, some day, you know. I had read how they suffered, and--and it seemed that G.o.d was telling me to go. So I got all the books I could about India--to be ready when the time came--and I read, and read, and even began to learn their language."

"Why, Lucy, how _could_ you do that?" exclaims Betty, in the greatest astonishment.

"My music teacher's elder sister came home from India a little while ago, and she told me what books to get from the Library."

"And you did all this, and I never guessed. How stupid--how blind I have been!"

"No--no, Betty. I ought to have confided in you; but, somehow, I couldn't speak of it. I felt it too much, and now it is all at an end,"

and her sobs break out afresh.

But Betty leans over the bed, and lovingly draws her arm around her sister's neck.

"O Lucy, I feel that you forgive me for my unkindness, but I cannot forgive myself. When shall I get out of the habit of judging too hastily? I can see quite well now that you couldn't tell me your plans, because I was always so full of my own affairs."

"Betty, Betty, that wasn't the reason. You work so hard for all of us--how could I bother you with my hopes and fears?"

"Ah, Lucy! I never met anyone with so much to do, or so many folks to care for as my dear Captain. Yet no one thinks _her_ too busy to listen to their troubles. I must learn to be more like her--to empty my heart of self--then, dear, you will never hesitate to tell me everything."

CHAPTER XIII

COMRADES

"Clara, what _is_ the matter with you? You seem to be always fretting about something lately. Now I really must know. Is there anything wrong at your home?"

"No--o," comes in m.u.f.fled tones from Clara. She has her head turned away, and takes care Betty shall not catch a glimpse of her face.

Betty steps quickly across the kitchen, and lays a hand on the girl's shoulder. It quivers under her touch; yes, Clara is certainly crying.

"Clara, you must tell me what it is. I can't have you going about the house with this miserable face--just when you were beginning to get on so much better, too."

"Beginning to get on better! O miss that's just where it is!" cries Clara, with a sudden burst of tears. "I _can't_ get on better. I try and try, and make no end of good resolutions--cart-loads of them--and then I go and break them all again directly. Seems as though my head was no better than a sieve--I can't remember; it's of no use--Oh, Oh, Oh!"

"Clara, Clara, don't, there's a dear girl. And you have been doing better--ever so much; father was saying so to me only yesterday."

"But you don't know how hard it is--you don't know how dreadfully I forget; and then I think, 'Oh, what's the use of trying? I'd far better give it all up, and just muddle along as I used to do.'"

But Betty thinks, "Ah, that's just how it used to be with me, before I went to Grannie's, before I went to The Army Meetings near Grannie's home, and gave my heart to G.o.d. I have felt like that sometimes since; but only for a little while, for the Lord has always helped me through the bad times. It is only the Lord who _can_ help us through. I ought to tell Clara that--I _must_ tell her!"

There is a moment's pause. Betty is nervous, and doesn't know how to begin. She makes an effort.

"Clara," she says softly. "Clara, have you ever tried to understand those words in the Bible, '_Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee_'?"