The Carpenter's Daughter Part 13

"We'll talk about that some other time," said Mr. Mathieson,--"when you get well."

"But suppose I don't get well, father?"

"Eh?----" said Mr. Mathieson, startled.

"Perhaps I shan't get well," said Nettie, her quiet, grave face not changing in the least; "then I shall go to the golden city; and father, I shall be looking for you till you come."

Mr. Mathieson did not know how to answer her; he only groaned.

"Father, will you come?" Nettie repeated, a little faint streak of colour in her cheeks showing the earnestness of the feeling at work. But her words had a mingled accent of tenderness and hope which was irresistible.

"Yes, Nettie--if you will show me how," her father answered, in a lowered voice. And Nettie's eye gave one bright flash of joy. It was as if all her strength had gone out at that flash, and she was obliged to lean back on her father's shoulder and wait; joy seemed to have taken away her breath. He waited too, without knowing why she did.

"Father, the only thing to do is to come to Jesus."

"What does that mean, Nettie? You know I don't know."

"It means, father, that Jesus is holding out his hand with a promise to you. Now if you will take the promise,--that is all."

"What is the promise, Nettie?"

Nettie waited, gathered breath, for the talk made her heart beat; and then said, "'This is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life.'"

"How can a sinful man take such a promise?" said Mr. Mathieson, with suppressed feeling. "That is for people like you, Nettie, not me."

"Oh, Jesus has bought it!" cried Nettie; "it's free. It's without price. You may have it if you'll believe in him and love him, father. I can't talk."

She had talked too much, or the excitement had been too strong for her.

Her words were broken off by coughing, and she remarked that her lip must have bled again. Her father laid her on the bed, and from that time for a number of days she was kept as quiet as possible; for her strength had failed anew and yet more than at first.

For two weeks she hardly moved from the bed. But except that she was so very pale, she did not look very ill; her face wore just its own patient and happy expression. Her father would not now let her talk to him; but he did everything she asked. He read to her in the Bible; Nettie would turn over the leaves to the place she wanted, and then point it out to him with a look of life, and love, and pleasure, that were like a whole sermon; and her father read first that sermon and then the chapter. He went to church as she asked him; and without her asking him, after the first Sunday. Nettie stayed at home on the bed and sang psalms in her heart.

After those two weeks there was a change for the better. Nettie felt stronger, looked more as she used to look, and got up and even went about a little. The weather was changing too, now. April days were growing soft and green; trees budding and gra.s.s freshening up, and birds all alive in the branches; and above all the air and the light, the wonderful soft breath of spring and sunshine of spring, made people forget that winter had ever been harsh or severe.

Nettie went out and took little walks in the sun, which seemed to do her good; and she begged so hard to be allowed to go to her garret again, that her father took pity on her; sent Mr. Lumber away, and gave her her old nice little room on the same floor with the others. Her mother cleaned it and put it in order, and Nettie felt too happy when she found herself mistress of it again and possessed of a quiet place where she could read and pray alone. With windows open, how sweetly the spring walked in there, and made it warm, and bright, and fragrant too. But Nettie had a tenderness for her old garret as long as she lived.

"It had got to be full of the Bible, mother," she said one day. "You know it was too cold often to sit up there; so I used to go to bed and lie awake and think of things,--at night when the stars were shining,--and in the morning in the moonlight sometimes."

"But how was the garret full of the Bible, Nettie?"

"Oh, I had a way of looking at some part of the roof or the window when I was thinking; when I couldn't have the Bible in my hands."

"Well, how did that make it?"

"Why the words seemed to be all over, mother. There was one big nail I used often to be looking at when I was thinking over texts, and a knot-hole in one of the wainscot boards; my texts used to seem to go in and out of that knot-hole. And somehow, mother, I got so that I hardly ever opened the shutter without thinking of those words--'Open ye the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth the truth may enter in.'

I don't know why, but I used to think of it. And out of that window I used to see the stars, and look at the golden city."

"Look at it!" said Mrs. Mathieson.

"In my thoughts, you know, mother. Oh, mother, how happy we are, that are going to the city! It seems to me as if all that sunlight was a curtain let down, and the city is just on the other side."

It was a lovely spring day, the windows open, and the country flooded with a soft misty sunlight, through which the tender greens of the opening leaf began to appear. Nettie was lying on the bed in her room, her mother at work by her side. Mrs. Mathieson looked at her earnest eyes, and then wistfully out of the window where they were gazing.

"What makes you think so much about it?" she said, at last.

"I don't know; I always do. I used to think about it last winter, looking out at the stars. Why, mother, you know Jesus is there; how can I help thinking about it?"

"He is here, too," murmured poor Mrs. Mathieson.

"Mother," said Nettie, tenderly, "aren't those good words,--'He hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted, neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, _he heard_?' I have thought of those words, very often."

Nettie wished she could sing, for she had often seen singing comfort her mother; but she had not the power to-day. She gave her the best she could. Her words, however, constantly carried hurt and healing together to her mother's mind. But when Nettie went on to repeat softly the verse of a hymn that follows, she was soothed, notwithstanding the hinted meaning in the words. So sweet was the trust of the hymn, so unruffled the trust of the speaker. The words were from a little bit of a book of translations of German hymns which Mr. Folke, her Sunday-school teacher, had brought her, and which was never out of Nettie's hand.

"'As G.o.d leads me so my heart In faith shall rest.

No grief nor fear my soul shall part From Jesus' breast.

In sweet belief I know What way my life doth go-- Since G.o.d permitteth so-- That must be best.'"

Slowly she said the words, with her usual sober, placid face; and Mrs.

Mathieson was mute.

For some weeks, as the spring breathed warmer and warmer, Nettie revived; so much that her mother at times felt encouraged about her. Mr.

Mathieson was never deceived. Whether his former neglect of his child had given him particular keenness of vision in all that concerned her now, or for whatever reason, _he_ saw well enough and saw constantly that Nettie was going to leave him. There was never a wish of hers uncared for now; there was not a straw suffered to lie in her path, that he could take out of it. He went to church, and he read at home; he changed his behaviour to her mother as well as to herself, and he brought Barry to his bearings. What more did Nettie want?

One Sunday, late in May, Nettie had stayed at home alone while the rest of the family were gone to church, the neighbour down stairs having promised to look after her. She needed no looking after, though; she spent her time pleasantly with her Bible and her hymns, till feeling tired she went to her room to lie down. The windows were open; it was a very warm day; the trees were in leaf, and from her bed Nettie could only see the sunshine in the leaves, and in one place through a gap in the trees, a bit of bright hill-side afar off. The birds sang merrily, and nothing else sounded at all; it was very Sabbath stillness. So Nettie lay till she heard the steps of the church-goers returning; and presently, after her mother had been there and gone, her father came into her room to see her. He kissed her, and said a few words, and then went to the window and stood there looking out. Both were silent some time, while the birds sang on.

"Father," said Nettie.

He turned instantly, and asked her what she wanted.

"Father," said Nettie, "the streets of the city are all of gold."

"Well," said he, meeting her grave eyes, "and what then, Nettie?"

"Only, I was thinking, if the _streets_ are gold, how clean must the feet be that walk on them!"

He knew what her intent eyes meant, and he sat down by her bedside and laid his face in his hands. "I am a sinful man, Nettie!" he said.

"Father, 'this is a faithful saying, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners.'"

"I don't deserve he should save me, Nettie."

"Well, father, ask him to save you, _because_ you don't deserve it."

"What sort of a prayer would that be?"

"The right one, father; for Jesus does deserve it, and for his sake is the only way. If you deserved it, you wouldn't want Jesus; but now '_he_ is our peace.' O father listen, listen, to what the Bible says." She had been turning the leaves of her Bible, and read low and earnestly--"'Now we are amba.s.sadors for G.o.d, as though G.o.d did beseech you by us; we pray you, in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to G.o.d.' Oh, father, aren't you willing to be reconciled to him?"

"G.o.d knows I am willing!" said Mr. Mathieson.