At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say her prayers—as custom demanded—Stephen’s prayers lacked conviction. But when Anna had kissed her and had turned out the light, then it was that Stephen prayed in good earnest—with such fervour, indeed, that she dripped perspiration in a veritable orgy of prayer.
“Please, Jesus, give me a housemaid’s knee instead of Collins—do, do, Lord Jesus. Please, Jesus, I would like to bear all Collins’ pain the way You did, and I don’t want any angels! I would like to wash Collins in my blood, Lord Jesus—I would like very much to be a Saviour to Collins—I love her, and I want to be hurt like You were; please, dear Lord Jesus, do let me. Please give me a knee that’s all full of water, so that I can have Collins’ operation. I want to have it instead of her, ’cause she’s frightened—I’m not a bit frightened!”
This petition she repeated until she fell asleep, to dream that in some queer way she was Jesus, and that Collins was kneeling and kissing her hand, because she, Stephen, had managed to cure her by cutting off her knee with a bone paper-knife and grafting it on to her own. The dream was a mixture of rapture and discomfort, and it stayed quite a long time with Stephen.
The next morning she awoke with the feeling of elation that comes only in moments of perfect faith. But a close examination of her knees in the bath, revealed them to be flawless except for old scars and a crisp, brown scab from a recent tumble—this, of course, was very disappointing. She picked off the scab, and that hurt her a little, but not, she felt sure, like a real housemaid’s knee. However, she decided to continue in prayer, and not to be too easily downhearted.
For more than three weeks she sweated and prayed, and pestered poor Collins with endless daily questions: “Is your knee better yet?” “Don’t you think my knee’s swollen?” “Have you faith? ’Cause I have—” “Does it hurt you less, Collins?”
But Collins would always reply in the same way: “It’s no better, thank you, Miss Stephen.”
At the end of the fourth week Stephen suddenly stopped praying, and she said to Our Lord: “You don’t love Collins, Jesus, but I do, and I’m going to get housemaid’s knee. You see if I don’t!” Then she felt rather frightened, and added more humbly: “I mean, I do want to—You don’t mind, do You, Lord Jesus?”
The nursery floor was covered with carpet, which was obviously rather unfortunate for Stephen; had it only been parquet like the drawing-room and study, she felt it would better have served her purpose. All the same it was hard if she knelt long enough—it was so hard, indeed, that she had to grit her teeth if she stayed on her knees for more than twenty minutes. This was much worse than barking one’s shins in the garden; it was much worse even than picking off a scab! Nelson helped her a little. She would think: “Now I’m Nelson. I’m in the middle of the Battle of Trafalgar—I’ve got shots in my knees!” But then she would remember that Nelson had been spared such torment. However, it was really rather fine to be suffering—it certainly seemed to bring Collins much nearer; it seemed to make Stephen feel that she owned her by right of this diligent pain.
There were endless spots on the old nursery carpet, and these spots Stephen could pretend to be cleaning; always careful to copy Collins’ movements, rubbing backwards and forwards while groaning a little. When she got up at last, she must hold her left leg and limp, still groaning a little. Enormous new holes appeared in her stockings, through which she could examine her aching knees, and this led to rebuke: “Stop your nonsense, Miss Stephen! It’s scandalous the way you’re tearing your stockings!” But Stephen smiled grimly and went on with the nonsense, spurred by love to an open defiance. On the eighth day, however, it dawned upon Stephen that Collins should be shown the proof of her devotion. Her knees were particularly scarified that morning, so she limped off in search of the unsuspecting housemaid.
Collins stared: “Good gracious, whatever’s the matter? Whatever have you been doing, Miss Stephen?”
Then Stephen said, not without pardonable pride: “I’ve been getting a housemaid’s knee, like you, Collins!” And as Collins looked stupid and rather bewildered—“You see, I wanted to share your suffering. I’ve prayed quite a lot, but Jesus won’t listen, so I’ve got to get housemaid’s knee my own way—I can’t wait any longer for Jesus!”
“Oh, hush!” murmured Collins, thoroughly shocked. “You mustn’t say such things: it’s wicked, Miss Stephen.” But she smiled a little in spite of herself, then she suddenly hugged the child warmly.
All the same, Collins plucked up her courage that evening and spoke to the nurse about Stephen. “Her knees was all red and swollen, Mrs. Bingham. Did ever you know such a queer fish as she is? Praying about my knee too. She’s a caution! And now if she isn’t trying to get one! Well, if that’s not real loving then I don’t know nothing.” And Collins began to laugh weakly.
After this Mrs. Bingham rose in her might, and the self-imposed torture was forcibly stopped. Collins, on her part, was ordered to lie, if Stephen continued to question. So Collins lied nobly: “It’s better, Miss Stephen, it must be your praying—you see Jesus heard you. I expect He was sorry to see your poor knees—I know as I was when I saw them!”
“Are you telling me the truth?” Stephen asked her, still doubting, still mindful of that first day of Love’s young dream.
“Why, of course I’m telling you the truth, Miss Stephen.”
And with this Stephen had to be content.
