Made Straight | AdventAI

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Mar 19, 1885

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 11, No. 12.

"Made Straight."

THERE are three kinds of stories: those that have no foundation in fact, those that are partly true, and those into which no element of fiction enters. The following narrative belongs strictly to the latter class, and demonstrates the mighty power of human sympathy when informed by the divine spirit of charity and unselfishness.

A clear-eyed, sweet-faced woman presented herself at the door of one of our millionaires not long since, as nurse to the gentleman's only child, and this is something like the conversation that took place between the lady and the physician, before the former's presentation to her patient.

"It seems to me, doctor," she said, "that some one else would do better here. My work lies chiefly among the poor, you know, and what if I should not do my best?"

"Your poorest would do, Miss Branscombe," her companion replied, assuringly, "and I am not afraid. In one respect, you never had so poor a patient, and in no case did you ever face one who needed you more. Like yourself," he went on, touching lightly and reverently the deformed shoulder of his companion, "she has this to contend with, only her case is a thousand times worse than yours in all its aspects. It does not seem probable that she will ever be reconciled to her condition, but it seemed to me that you could be of use here, if any one could, and that is why I have been so persevering."

A young lady, about eighteen, her face drawn with pain and dark with impatience and nervous gloom, lay propped up with pillows in the most luxurious bed that money could buy, in an apartment so tastefully and expensively furnished that it seemed as if there could be nothing more beautiful in the world. The girl's mother, pale and anxious, sat watching by the bedside, unable to give her child one single ray of hope to guide her out of this awful spiritual darkness.

"Miss Julia," said the doctor cheerfully, "I have brought you the nurse I spoke of—Miss Branscombe, Miss Edgerton—and I am sure, my dear, that you will begin to improve at once under her care."

"I don't want to improve," said the sufferer, in tones of the most intense irritation. "I want to be well. What are doctors good for I should like to know, if they cannot cure such a case as mine? I cannot bear it! If it were anything else I might, but this I cannot and I will not endure."

"We will do all we can for you, my child," the doctor replied, sorrowfully. "You must try to do as the nurse says, and I'll be in to-morrow morning and see how you are progressing."

The kind-hearted physician was always glad to escape from this room. His skill was great, but he knew not how "to minister to a mind diseased."

A few minutes later the nurse, attired in her simple cambric dress, white apron, and cap, was endeavoring to soothe the agonizing restlessness of her charge.

Mrs. Edgerton, with a feeling of intense relief, after having watched the nurse go about her duties, left the room. A helper had come she knew, not alone because of the doctor's singular praise and the glimpse the anxious parent had had of the capabilities of the newcomer, but because of something sweet and heavenly that shone from the woman's eyes and radiated from her whole being, something that seemed to the bewildered and disheartened watcher akin to the love of God. What were all their millions, all this magnificence, to the broken-hearted father and mother, who would have gladly sacrificed it all if by so doing health and symmetry could have been restored to their only child. An accident some years before had injured the spine, but the deformity had been of such slow growth that it had seemed possible to arrest it altogether. But a fall on the ice the winter previous had given a strange and awful impetus to the old trouble, and a badly deformed back was the inevitable consequence. The girl's proud nature rebelled against such an affliction, and who can wonder? A thousand times a day she said she could not bear it, and as many more that she would not. No one could soothe or help her, and the physician's last hope was in Miss Branscombe. This lady listened to the rebellious complaints of her patient without the slightest attempt to restrain her, and when the torrent of fault-finding and invective ceased for lack of strength, the nurse said, simply, "Yes, dear, I understand it all."

"But you can't understand it," the poor girl moaned. "No one can. Even you who are obliged to work for a living would suffer as you never suffered before if you had what I have."

"It is best that we should know about each other at once, Miss Edgerton," said her companion. "In the first place, instead of being obliged to work for my living I am rich, and only work because I love to relieve suffering, because I can do more good in this way than in any other. And then—look here, please"—and now Miss Branscombe rose and turned her back to the patient—her poor deformed back, over which she had spread a full muslin cape to match her dress, in order to conceal it as much as possible. "You see," she continued, quickly turning a radiant face to the strangely surprised young lady, "that I can sympathize with you by reason of having undergone the same bitter and terrible experience that you are undergoing now."

The sick girl's eyes seemed riveted on the speaker's face.

"I want to tell you one more thing, and then you must take your medicine and spend a few minutes in silence as the doctor directed. You will do this for my sake, please, as well as your own, because I must obey the physician. What I want to add is this: I was afflicted, and I was very wayward and very wicked and very hard to be taken care of, very trying to those who loved me most. I wish now that I could have the privilege of living over some of those days and doing it more worthily. I am only thirty years old, Miss Edgerton, but I have lived long enough to see that my humpback is the best load that I could have been called upon to carry. Now," taking out her watch, "we will not talk any more at present."

Here was something new to think about, and for the first time in the invalid's young and undisciplined life some one to obey. That she never once thought of resisting this singular influence is proof enough of its potency.