Part 23

"You will be surprised to hear that Abby is with us," she wrote, "and, indeed, it hardly seems real to any of us yet. It appears that Mrs. Granger had been away, so that she had not seen Abby for some time. As soon as she came home she went to visit her, and found her so very unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that she wrote to father about it, without telling Abby what she was going to do. As soon as we received the letter, father and mother set out directly, and they found her so very unwell, and so very uncomfortable, that they thought the only thing to be done was to bring her home at once, and she was very glad to come. She is a little more comfortable to-day, but Dr. M. does not give us much encouragement, and she is so very anxious to see you, that mother thinks you had better come home directly. She wants Walter to come with you and finish his visit here. Telegraph, that we may know when to expect you.

"P. S.—Mammy has taken possession of little Emma, and will hardly allow any one else to look at her. She is a sweet little creature, and seems healthy."

Olive handed the letter to Laura. "I must go to-morrow," she said, "or to-night, if it is not too late."

"You will gain nothing by leaving to-night," said Mr. Witherington, as soon as he understood the matter. "It will be better to take the early morning-train. I shall be very sorry to have you leave us, but I can not ask you to stay."

Laura's eyes were full of tears, as she followed Olive to her own room.

"Poor Abby! Poor child! But I am thankful she is at home again. I think she will get better—don't you?—now that she has a comfortable place to live in."

"I don't know," said Olive. "Charlotte would not have written so if she had not been very much alarmed. She does not make a fuss for nothing, and I think Abby must have felt herself very ill before she consented to go. Poor child! I suppose she thought she might at least die at home."

"Don't talk about that," said Laura. "I am sure she will get well. Just think how strong she always was!"

"She has never been well since Emma was born," said Olive, shaking her head, "and if her lungs were affected, as aunt feared last spring, there would be nothing worse for her than singing lessons. I declare, Laura, I never thought it would be hard for me not to hate any one, but it is hard for me to have any other feeling toward that man—"

"And the worst of it was, in my mind," said Laura, "that I never believed he really cared much for her, except for having his own way. You know I insinuated to you that he offered himself to me."

Olive nodded.

"He did so again, and from what I heard afterward, I was pretty sure he was engaged to Abby even then. I taxed him with his attentions to her at the time, but he laughed, and said all he cared for was her music. If she had refused him, he would have been dangling after some one else in two weeks' time. Then after, there was so much opposition made by the family, I suppose he persuaded himself that he really loved her, and was determined to have her at any rate."

"He is—but there is no use in talking about that. I should like to forget him entirely, if I could. Do you think you shall go to the country to-morrow?"

"Probably not till Thursday now. I shall be able to go to M. as easily from Briars as from here, if it is necessary. If she gets better, so that change of air is considered desirable for her, we will come and take her down there. You must be sure and let me know of her state as often as you can. Does it not seem strange that this news should come just as we were talking about death this morning?"

"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" repeated Olive, almost involuntarily. "But if it must be one or the other, I should rather it were Abby than you."

"You think she is better prepared. But, indeed, Olive, I am going to try and be more serious after this. You and my husband make me ashamed of being such a butterfly. But you know I was brought up to it."

"I know it," said Olive, "but don't make that an excuse for your present course of life, if you feel that you are wrong, Laura. You can act for yourself, and you are bound to do it."

"But what shall I do, Olive? Suppose I become convinced of the uselessness and emptiness of all these things—how shall I break off from them? I can not go into a convent."

"And it would be of no use if you did, so long as you carried an unchanged heart with you. The same desires and objects of life would be just as sinful if they were not gratified, as though they were. It is not the circumstances, but your heart, that wants changing first, and when that is right, never fear but the way will be plain before you."

The next morning, Walter and Olive began their journey, and arrived at home in the middle of the afternoon. Charlotte met them at the door.

"She is much more comfortable to-day," was her reply to Olive's hurried query, "but you must expect to see her much changed. She had a terrible turn of suffering last night, from which she was relieved by a severe hemorrhage at the lungs this morning. She says it is the third she has had since June. You can not go up now," she added, checking Olive's eagerness. "She has just fallen asleep for the first time in twenty-four hours."

Olive inquired for the baby.

"Mammy has taken her out to walk. She is the only one who can coax her away from her mother, but Emma seemed to take to her honest black face at once. She will sit upon the bed as still as a mouse, hours at a time, if we will let her. I never saw such a child! Mr. Collins came yesterday to pray with Abby, and when he began, the little thing put her tiny hands together, and held them up as though she understood it all. It was quite too much for mother—I never saw her so affected. She was obliged to leave the room."

"How does Abby seem to feel herself?"

"She is quite composed most of the time, and complains very little. The only thing that comes to trouble her, is her anxiety about her husband. She is afraid he will not get here—"

"Has any one written?" asked Olive, as Charlotte paused without completing the sentence.

"Father wrote the day they came home, but we have received no answer. I think, though she does not say so, that she is afraid he will be displeased at her coming. I do not see why he should. She could not stay there alone, and in such an uncomfortable place, too."

"How was she when uncle found her? I have heard nothing yet, except what you said in your letter."

"That is pretty much all. Father got a letter from Mrs. Granger, saying that she thought Abby was very ill—more than she herself was aware. Mrs. Granger did not say that she had bled at the lungs; perhaps she did not know it. But her description of the symptoms she had observed alarmed father and mother so much that they determined to set out for there directly.

"When they got there, the woman who lived in the lower part of the house told her that she thought Mrs. Forester was dying of consumption, and had been all summer. They found her up-stairs, in a room as hot as a furnace, with the western sun full on the windows. She was lying on the sofa, partly dressed, and a little girl was trying to put the room in order. It seemed that was the only place she had to stay, and she lay there from one day to another, unable to go down-stairs most of the time.

"Of course she was very much surprised to see them. She tried to make out that she was only tired and sick. But, partly by questioning her, and partly by inquiring of the woman of the house, (who seemed disposed to be as kind as she knew how, mother said) they found that she had been giving lessons in singing and on the piano all summer, and had only stopped the latter when she grew too hoarse to speak.

"Mrs. Hines said that Mr. Forester had been there twice, and staid four days each time. She thought he took some money from Mrs. Forester when he went away. She said she had tried to alarm him about Mrs. Forester's state of health, but he seemed to think she was not very sick.

"'Nonsense, Mrs. Hines!' he had said. 'How can you think of her being sick with such a splendid color as she has? It is nothing but a cold.'

"'I was mad enough at him to knock him down,' the good woman said, 'but I don't think he meant to neglect her. It was only his foolishness—'"

"It has been his foolishness which has done all the mischief, from beginning to end," said Olive bitterly. "But go on, Charlotte."

"There is little more to tell," replied her cousin. "She was unwilling to come at first, though mother said she evidently wished it very much. But she yielded at last, upon father's assurance that he would write to Mr. Forester directly. She bore the journey better than was expected, and seemed so happy when she was carried in and laid upon her old bed. She appeared just as much like a child as ever at first. And Edward would let no one carry her in but himself, and the good old fellow laughed and cried till I did not know but he would go into hysterics outright. Mammy seized upon Emma, who went to her directly, and she has kept her ever since, except when she has been cooking something nice to tempt 'Miss Abby' into eating.

"Almost every one we know has come to inquire for her—even aunt Dimsden seems to have forgiven her completely. She has been here two or three times a day, and sat up with her last night. Indeed, no one in the house went to bed till almost morning."

Mrs. Merton now entered the room to greet Olive and Walter. She was stately and elegant as ever, but looked worn and anxious.

"Abby is still asleep, my dear. Come and get some refreshment, for I am sure you must both need it. Mr. Landon, how well you are looking. I think your change of employment must agree with you." She continued: "I assure you sir, I was very angry with you for a time, till this romantic girl begged a peace for you. How could you give up all your splendid prospects so suddenly?"

"Simply because I thought it was right, dear Mrs. Merton," said Walter, "and I have never found reason to alter my opinion, though I can not deny that at the time I felt it a great sacrifice."

"I should think so indeed. With your talents, you might have become so distinguished and been so useful."

"I hope what talents I have may be a hundredfold more useful in the calling I have chosen," replied Walter; "and as for distinction, pardon me, but I do not think a Christian has any right to make that an object. The servants in the parable were commanded to employ that committed to their charge, whether it were ten talents or one, not to their own advantage but to that of their master; and if they were rewarded afterward, it was only by the grace of their lord. I do not believe that at the last hour I shall at all regret the loss of worldly distinction."

"But according to that view you remove one of the greatest spurs to human action," remarked Charlotte.

"True, but only to substitute a stronger and better one in its place. The man who is moved to employ his time and talents because they are gifts from the Being best loved in the universe, to be employed to His honor and consecrated to Him, will, I think, be far less likely to go wrong than he who uses his gifts only to his own advantage, and that he may obtain the praise of men."

"But are all men capable of being influenced by such motives?" inquired Charlotte incredulously. "Are they not above the reach of common minds?"

"Since they are offered by the Lord of all alike to all minds, we are bound to believe that they are suited to all. I believe more people are actuated by them than the world chooses to believe. How many men and women one sees discharging monotonous and painful duties from year to year and from day to day with nothing visible to sustain them, yet cheerful and even happy under their burdens, because they have a faith that looks above and beyond them to a region of rest and happiness."

Charlotte sighed.

"I wish I had it then, I am sure," she said in a weary tone not unmixed with bitterness. "But the more I struggle for it, the more unattainable it seems."

Mammy now appeared to say that Miss Abby was awake, and Olive and her aunt withdrew.

"Miss Merton," said Walter, after a moment's silence, "will you permit me to ask you a question upon your last remark? Of course I can not claim an answer, but it may lead to something satisfactory to you perhaps. You say that you have sought such a faith—but how?"

"By study," replied Charlotte, "I have examined all the evidences for the authenticity and authority of the Scriptures, and perfectly satisfied myself on that point. Then I began to review the articles of our Church, comparing them with the Bible, and, as far as I have gone, I am convinced that they are perfectly scriptural."

"But still I understand that you have not yet attained to what you really want. You have collected the materials, but they are only dead matter after all. You have acquired knowledge, and now you want faith to make that knowledge available."

"Yes, I suppose so. But how is that to be attained?"

"By prayer. My dear Miss Charlotte, in this matter I can give you no other advice than I would give to the youngest child in my Sunday-school class. Seek God in prayer; beg of him to enable you to see yourself exactly as you are. Let me ask you what you will think a common-place question: Have you felt yourself to be a great sinner?"

"I can not say that I ever have," replied Charlotte frankly. "Of course, I know that I have done wrong sometimes, but it seems to me that I am about as good as people in general."

"That is at least an honest answer. Let me ask you again to entreat of God to see yourself just as you are. Pray for correction of your own unworthiness, and then compare yourself with the requirements of His law and Gospel. That is the first step, and when you have attained to that, believe me, you will no longer care whether you are as good as other people or not. I do not hesitate to tell you that you must come to feel yourself a lost sinner, utterly without any plea in the sight of God, and deserving of nothing but his anger, before you can arrive at peace."

"That is just what I have heard preached all my life, Mr. Landon, and it has done me no good yet."

"You have heard it preached all your life because there is nothing else to preach," replied Walter. "We have no right to make a new Gospel for the use of the first families exclusively. The reason that you have derived no good from it has been that you have not yielded to it. Beware that pride in your own talents and refinement does not prevent you from yielding to this Gospel which you have heard all your life, till it be too late. Only open your mind to conviction, be willing to see the truth as it is, and after a while you will find rest to your soul."

"You have spoken plainly, Mr. Landon, and I thank you for it," said Charlotte, after a moment's silence. "I tell you plainly that I do not believe I shall ever come to see myself such an utterly lost creature as you think me, though I suppose you have the same opinion of all the rest of mankind and I will endeavor to follow your advice, and perhaps I shall profit by it."

Olive found Abby supported by piles of pillows, and breathing with difficulty. She was fearfully changed. The rosy flushed skin had become white as paper, and a scarlet spot burned in each cheek, while her eyes looked twice as large as ever, and perfectly transparent.

Much as she felt the necessity of calmness, Olive could hardly command her voice as she spoke to her.

Abby had been forbidden to speak, but she whispered:

"I am so glad you have come. Have you heard from William yet?"

"Not yet, but I presume he will be here to-night. He might have started for home you know, and in that case the letter would have met him on the road."

This supposition, which no one had thought of, seemed to comfort Abby, and she lay back with a more contented expression. Olive gave Laura's messages, which seemed to give her pleasure, and she whispered:

"Thank her."

They sat for some time in silence, and then seeing that her aunt had left the room, Abby said with effort:

"I must say one thing, Olive, in case I get worse. If any thing happens to me, you must take Emma, if Walter is willing. Bring her up like your own, in the fear of God. Will you?"

"I will, love, God helping me. But indeed you must not talk now, you will be better to-morrow."

"I hope so. I should like very much to get well if God pleases. Do you think it is wrong?"

"No indeed, dear child. But try and be willing to have it either way." Olive could say no more.

"I am, I hope, Olive," said Abby. "I have learned where and who He is, Olive. We are not strangers."

"You must not say another word," said Olive. "Let me read you something."

"Not now. Just sit still, and let me look at you."

She took Olive's hand in her own, and leaned back with her eyes fixed upon her. Gradually her eyes closed, her grasp relaxed, and she fell into a tolerably quiet sleep, which lasted till dark.

Her physician came in the evening, and pronounced that there was a slight improvement.

Olive followed him down-stairs to learn his opinion of her sister's case.

"Please tell me the exact truth, Doctor," she said, as he made her some evasive reply. "It can not be worse than my fears."

"My dear Olive, you know all about it now as well as I can tell you," said the good old man. "She may get well, but humanly speaking there is hardly a possibility of it. I shall not be surprised to see her comparatively comfortable again, and she may even be able to be up again, but that is all. She must be kept quiet, and indeed she keeps herself so. I never saw any one in a better state of mind, and that of itself does a great deal. If she sleeps to-night, as she seems inclined, I shall expect to see her a great deal better in the morning."

CHAPTER NINETEENTH.

AS the doctor had prophesied, Abby was much more comfortable the next morning—better, indeed, than, she had been since her arrival, and it was thought that a little talking would do her no harm. She seemed to find the greatest pleasure in recurring to her childhood, and her school-days, and in talking about them.

Emma sat quietly upon the bed, looking at her mother, and amusing herself with some old play-things of Charlotte's that Mammy had discovered in a remote corner of the nursery. She was a very precocious and beautiful child, having her mother's blue eyes and fair hair already beginning to curl in rings round her face.

Olive and Charlotte sat at work by the bed, and Mrs. Merton went and came from the parlor to the sick-room as she could find time. A great many people called to inquire for the invalid, and, according to the pleasant custom of the place, gifts of flowers, fresh fruit, and other delicacies, were sent in.

Abby seemed as though she would have been quite happy, but for her anxiety about her husband, who came about noon, feeling very much abused, and preparing to be very lofty and indignant at having his wife carried off without his knowledge. He had not received the letter, having left Boston before it arrived, and he was naturally much amazed on reaching home, and going straight to his room, to find Abby and the baby gone, the bedstead empty, and the furniture covered up.

The terrible fear that first came over him being removed by the reply to his first question, he was all the better prepared to be irritated, when Mrs. Hines, nowise inclined to soften matters, informed him "that Mrs. Forester's friends had come and took her home, and time enough they did, too, in her opinion."

An attempt to silence and overawe that lady by dignified and lofty demeanor turned out a signal failure, and ended in what might with propriety be called a scolding-match, on which occasion the gentleman came off second-best, so that it was in no very good humor that he took the cars to M. By the time he arrived there, he had worked himself up into a great passion, and was determined to do wonderful things. Abby should return with him at once, or not at all, and he would put a final end to her peevishness and childish freaks of temper. He would teach Mr. Merton to interfere in his affairs.

A thundering ring brought that gentleman himself to the door. Mr. Merton possessed in a remarkable degree the commanding presence, and calm, all-penetrating eye, which is apt to belong to distinguished lawyers. And as his gaze rested upon his nephew-in-law, that gentleman felt a sudden and sensible diminution of his courage and wrath; so he thought it best to begin, before any more of it forsook him.

"So, Mr. Merton!" he commenced, in a much louder tone than was necessary. "You think it an honorable proceeding, do you, to enter a gentleman's house and interfere with his affairs, as you have done with mine! Let me tell you—"

"Tell me in a lower tone, if you please," interrupted Mr. Merton blandly. "There is no occasion for the next street to be informed, and moreover, your voice will alarm your wife, who lies in a very precarious state. Be pleased to walk in, and then we can discuss the matter properly."

Mr. Forester was put down, in spite of himself. He followed Mr. Merton in to the library, and took a seat. "Well, sir!" he continued. "I should like to know by what right my wife has been taken away without my knowledge?"

"Simply because there was no one to stay with her, and she was far too ill to be left alone. There was no other course to take."

"By whose judgment was she pronounced so ill?" asked Mr. Forester, trying to continue his lofty tone, but feeling more and more all the time that it was a failure.

"Upon my own, and my wife's, corroborated by that of your family physician," was the composed reply.

"She must have become suddenly worse, then," said Mr. Forester peevishly. "She seemed well enough when I was last at home. I never saw any one have a more splendid color."

"Being unused to sickness, probably the symptoms did not attract your attention," returned Mr. Merton politely. "She is very ill now, and I am sorry to be obliged to tell you, that Dr. Willson pronounces her recovery very doubtful. Indeed, he told Olive that only the utmost quiet and ease, would prolong her life from day to day. I should not tell you this painful intelligence so abruptly, my dear sir," he continued, "but that I wish to impress upon you the absolute necessity of caution. I will go and tell my wife that you are here; and she will prepare Abby for seeing you."

Mr. Merton was gone some little time—long enough for Mr. Forester to make up his mind that they were all in a conspiracy to frighten him out of finding any fault with Abby. "But I will not be bullied," he said internally, as he followed Mr. Merton up-stairs; "she shall go back to-morrow, if she is able to be moved."

All thought of finding fault, of taking Abby back, for once even of himself, were put to flight by his first look at her. She had raised herself from her pillows, and was looking eagerly toward the door: every trace of color had vanished from one cheek, while on the other the hectic spot burned more brightly than ever. Her large eyes looked black, from the dilatation of their pupils and the hands she stretched out to him were transparent as porcelain.

He was shocked beyond measure. It had never been any part of his education to put any constraint upon his emotions, and as she threw herself towards him, he clasped her in his arms, and burst into tears. Abby's eyes were always ready to overflow, but nothing could be more dangerous now than a fit of crying.

"This will never do!" Mrs. Merton's calm voice was heard saying. "Mr. Forester, you are endangering Abby's life by giving way so. If you can not compose yourself, you must retire at once. Abby, my love, remember—"