Mrs. Train was at first a good deal hurt, but satisfied herself with the idea of the gentility of the thing. She was now very comfortably off, thanks to Aunt Eunice; but the habit of complaining was too deeply fixed to be uprooted by any change of circumstances, and she mourned continually over the fact that the money was so tied up that she could not touch it. It was so hard upon her not to be able to help dear Agnes; and, after all, what did the income from three thousand amount to? It was just an aggravation,—nothing more.
It was the first of August. John's young peach and plum trees were coming into bearing, and the apricot tree, by the kitchen door, was covered with fruit, just growing to perfection. The garden was more fruitful than ever, and John had carried early cucumbers and tomatoes to market, besides using all he wanted himself; while Letty's flower-beds were the envy and admiration of the neighbourhood, and threatened to eclipse Mrs. De Witt herself.
Every thing was in order at Number Nine. Not a nail was loose, not a board hung awry, not a speck of paint was needed anywhere about it. Every one who came through Myrtle Street said, "What a pretty place!"
One warm evening, Letty was standing at the gate, looking for her husband, who was a little later than usual. The short baby, looking shorter still in his abbreviated petticoats, was rolling on the grass. Ginger, now grown a magnificent cat, was prancing around him, keeping a sharp look-out for a fresh grasshopper. Letty turned from her watch for a moment, and looked around her.
"How lovely every thing is!" said she to herself. "How much we have to be thankful for! We have had nothing but mercies from the beginning till now. May God make us grateful!"
She turned again to the gate, and saw John coming slowly up the street.
The moment he came in sight, she perceived that something was the matter. Still, she was not alarmed. John was constitutionally subject to fits of gloom and depression which almost amounted to hypochondria; and while they lasted, he was totally unable to take a cheerful view of any thing.
Letty used to be very much distressed by these fits at first; but she learned, after a while, how to treat them, and even, to some extent, to guard against them, by inducing her husband to take certain precautions in regard to diet and repose, which, left to himself, he was too apt to neglect.
"John has got one of his blue fits," said she to herself. "I thought he was working too hard."
Not to seem as though she were watching him, she took up Alick and went into the house to have tea all ready.
John did not enter at once; and, looking out to see what had become of him, she saw him leaning over the well, breaking bits off a certain choice shrub, a present from Mr. De Witt, which grew close by.
"Why, John, what are you doing?" she exclaimed. "You are spoiling that beautiful rose-acacia."
"Am I?" said John, rousing himself, and looking around. "Well, Letty, I beg your pardon. I did not know what I was about; and that is the truth."
"Do come in and have some tea," said Letty, passing her arm through his. "You look tired out."
"I am!" said John, emphatically.
He sat down to the table, but could not eat a mouthful. The prattle of the baby, now beginning to talk, seemed to annoy him; and, for the first time in his life, he spoke sharply to the child and bade him be quiet.
Alick looked astonished and distressed, and put out his lip to cry.
Letty hastened to divert his attention, and set him down on the floor to share a piece of cake with Ginger.
John soon rose from the table, and, going out, sat down on the step.
Letty hastened to get her dishes out of the way, put the baby to bed, and then went out and sat down beside her husband.
"Is any thing the matter more than weariness, John?" she asked, earnestly.
"Yes, Letty." He paused again, and then went on, in a firmer voice: "Your legacy is all gone!"
"Gone!" repeated Letty. "What do you mean?"
"It is hopelessly gone," said John, "and all my year's earnings with it!" He threw his pipe from him with such force that it was broken into a hundred pieces, and, as if relieved by the action, added, more calmly, "Beckman's bank has failed. Why don't you say, 'I told you so'?" he added, bitterly.
Letty was one of those peculiarly constituted persons with whom there is no medium between entire calmness and extreme agitation. She was aware of this; and it had given her a habit of self-control, and of enduring in silence any sudden blow or discomfort. This peculiarity had its disadvantages, and more than once had she been called sullen or cross, for going about with compressed lips when her heart was overwhelmed with grief or with a sense of injury. At present she sat quite still, with her eyes fixed on the western sky, for some minutes.
"Are you sure? Who told you?" she asked, presently.
"Of course I am sure. Should I bring you such a piece of news if I were not sure?" asked John, in a tone of irritation. "It is all over town. His office is shut; and they say he has run off."
"Well," said Letty, after another interval of silence, "if it is gone, it is gone; that is all. It might have been worse: there is that about it."
"I don't see how."
"You might have deposited all the money, instead of using part of it to pay our debt. What is in the house is safe. You acted for the best, and that is all any one can do."
"That is what cuts me to the heart, I did not act for the best. I knew all the time that there was a risk in it; but I was so greedy after the few additional dollars of interest that I would not consider it. Mr. Trescott advised me against it, too. He said he did not believe Beckman understood his business. But no:—I must have the last penny; and now I have lost your money as well as my own. If it had been only mine, I would not care; but to rob you—"
"Well, then, John, we will at least get a lesson out of the trouble," said Letty, trying to speak cheerfully. "Perhaps we have both been growing too fond of money,—too careful for the things of this world. 'Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,' you know," she added, in a lower tone; "and, after all, he has left us far more than he has taken away. We can never be very poor so long as we have each other."
John took her hand and kissed it; and Letty nestled close to his side. They were still sitting in silence, when Mrs. De Witt came through the garden-gate, her eyes red with crying. Mrs. De Witt was one of those who cry easily and find great comfort in it.
"Are you talking about Beckman's failure?" said she. "Of course you are: no one can think of any thing else. A'n't it a shame, though? And such a man as he was thought to be! He was a member of your church: wasn't he?"
"That's the worst of it," said Letty; "and people talk so about such things."
"Exactly," said John, rousing himself; "and they have a right to talk. People talk about this and that hurting the cause of religion. I do verily believe that the thing which hurts it most and is the greatest hindrance to the conversion of sinners is the downright dishonesty, in such matters, of people who pass for Christians. How many do we know, active in the church and at prayer-meetings, who have made failures which no stretch of charity can call any thing but dishonest!"
"What do you call a dishonest failure?" asked Letty, glad of the chance to effect a little diversion.
"I call it a dishonest failure when a man puts his property out of his hands to save it from his honest creditors. I call it a dishonest failure when a man goes on living in all the comfort and luxury to which he has been accustomed, when he owes money to tradespeople and merchants which he does not try to pay, or with whom he has compounded for fifty cents on a dollar. I call it the meanest kind of dishonesty when a man pleads usury to get off from paying back money which he has borrowed and used. And I say that these things, happening as they do among members of the church, are a shame and a disgrace, and put a stumbling-block in the way of really sincere people; while they make a ready excuse for hardened sinners. And I do not believe God looks with more favour upon the prayers of such a man than if he had come to meeting with his pockets full of counterfeit bills which he meant to pass."
"That is just the way my husband talks," said Mrs. De Witt. "He feels worse than you do about this matter, I can tell you. He says he led you into it, and that you would never have gone to Beckman's but for him, and that he has robbed you and your child. I never saw him go on so. You would not think it was in him. I feel really concerned about him, lest he should get a brain-fever, or something. It a'n't his own loss he thinks of,—though that is enough,—but yours. He declares he shall be ashamed ever to look you in the face again."
"Nonsense!" said John, rising. "He mustn't talk like that. Where is he?"
"At home, in the kitchen," replied his wife, wiping her eyes. "I tried to make him come over here; but he wouldn't."
"Then I must go to him: that's all," said John. He looked round for his pipe; and, not seeing it, turned inquiringly to Letty, who silently pointed out the pieces lying on the door-stone.
John smiled, nodded, and went his way.
"There! That's just what I wanted!" said Mrs. De Witt. "I thought, 'If I can only get them two men together, they will smoke and talk, and kind of comfort each other.' Mr. De Witt does feel dreadful bad; but I tell him we are young yet, and don't owe a cent, and, with the Lord's blessing, we will make it up somehow to ourselves and you too. Has your gladiolus blowed out yet?"
"I really don't know," replied Letty. "It had not opened early this morning; and I have been so busy since, I have not looked at it."
"Let us go and see," said Mrs. De Witt.
Letty did not feel as though she cared much about flowers just then; but she felt the intended kindness, and rose to follow her friend to the spot where the valued lilies (six varieties) stood in a cluster, lifting their stately spikes of exquisitely shaped flower-buds. Two of them were expanded, and shone in full beauty.
"A'n't they lovely, though?" exclaimed Mrs. De Witt, with all the enthusiasm of a florist. "Just look at the colour of those large leaves! Mr. De Witt tries to make me say petals; but I never can remember. Do you call it crimson, or scarlet, now?"
"I should say it was between the two," said Letty, interested in spite of herself. "See the beautiful turn of the lip and the shape of the half-opened bud! How perfect!"
"The things that God makes are always perfect, seems to me," said Mrs. De Witt. "He don't slight any of his work. Think of the beautiful things deep down in the sea and hid away in lonesome places of the earth, where no man will ever see them! It seems as though he must take pleasure in them himself: don't it?"
"'The Lord shall rejoice in his works,' the Bible says," observed Letty.
"That's true." She stooped once more to look at the flowers, and added, "There's a verse about these very lilies that you and I ought to take to heart at this present time:—'Consider the lilies of the field,' you know. Mr. De Witt says some of our most beautiful flowers come from Palestine."
"Every thing puts you in mind of something in the Bible: doesn't it?" said Letty.
"To be sure. As I was telling Agnes, you know, that's what it is for. But there was a good while, when I was young,—about Gatty's age,—that I was very fond of reading; and the Bible was almost the only book we had. My parents died when I was a baby, and left me to my grandmother's care. She was old and almost blind; and I used to read the Bible to her over and over again, till I came to know it almost by heart; and I can repeat whole chapters. Grandmother used to point out these very things to me,—how that nothing ever did or could happen to us that we did not find something just to match it in the Bible. So I got into the habit of it, you see."
"I am sure it is an excellent habit," said Letty. "Aunt Eunice was just so. The Bible was her daily food. Didn't I hear our gate shut?"
The new-comers were Agnes and Joseph, who had heard the news down-town, and now came to sympathize with their cousins in their trouble. Agnes, as usual, began on the wrong tack. Priding herself on her tact and management, she was sure to say the wrong thing, or to say the right thing in the wrong place, simply because she had no capacity for entering into the feelings of other people.
"How vexed you must be, Letty! If John had only taken your advice, all this would not have happened. But I believe all men are alike about that: they would rather be influenced by anybody else than their own wives."
"You are much mistaken, Agnes," said Letty, with more spirit, perhaps, than was absolutely called for. "I gave no advice on the subject, simply because I knew nothing about the matter, one way or the other. John said he would do as I wished; but I preferred to leave it to him. He acted for the best, however it has turned out; and that is all any one can do."
"Then you didn't say, 'I told you so'?" said Joe, with a tone of great interest.
"Of course not! How should I? I did not tell him so; and, even if I had, I should not be apt to cast it up to him, now that he is in trouble."
Joe clapped his hands. "There, Agnes! You have lost your bet. You will have to hand over. I made a bet with Aggy that you wouldn't say so, and she bet you would. You have lost your new dress this time, Aggy."
"I will thank you not to make me the subject of any more bets," said Letty, good-humouredly. "I don't believe in betting: it is entirely against my principles."
"Well, I won't," said Joe. "But this was too good. But, Letty, I am very sorry about this matter. Can nothing be done? Is it a dead loss?"
"I suppose it is."
"Where is John? How does he bear it?"
"Why, as well as you could expect. He blames himself for not putting the money in the savings-bank; but I tell him there is no use in that now. He has gone over to see Mr. De Witt, who feels much worse than we do."
"So he ought!" exclaimed Agnes. "If I were you, I would never speak to him again."
"Oh, Agnes!"
"Indeed I would not; nor his wife either. I always knew that no good could come of your intimacy with such low, vulgar people. He has gained such an influence over John that he can wind him round his finger; and he has just drawn him into a trap,—that is all. It is just what you might expect from a psalm-singing man like him."
"Agnes, stop!" said Letty, with emphasis. "Mr. and Mrs. De Witt are among the kindest friends we have; and I will not hear them spoken of in that way. Mr. De Witt made a mistake by which he has lost fully as much as my husband, if not more. What possible object could he have in such a course as you impute to him? What could he gain by it?"
"None so blind as those that won't see!" said Agnes, significantly. "I don't believe his losses will hurt him much. We have all heard of decoy-ducks."
"Let me advise you not to repeat any such remarks," said Letty. "You do not know any harm of the De Witts; and you would look rather silly if they should call for your proof in court, some day."
"Dear me! What did I say?" returned Agnes, rather alarmed. "You do make such a fuss about nothing! However, scold away, if it does you any good. I suppose you are afraid to give it to your husband, and so you take it out on me. I am used to it: that is one thing. I have never in my life tried to sympathize with and console any one, without meeting ingratitude in return."
"I don't wonder at it, if that is your usual style of consolation," said Joe. "Come, Letty; never mind! We all know Agnes has her ways. But I am sorry for your loss. You might better have taken the comfort of this money as you went along, like us. Now it is all gone, and you have had no good of it at all."
"Oh, yes, we have,—a great deal of good," replied Letty, recovering her good humour. "What we gave for the house and our improvements is safe, you know; then John has just paid his life and fire insurance, and we owe no man a cent: so we are in no one's power."
Joe winced a little at this. He had been dunned that very day by Carr the builder, who declared that he would wait on him no longer.
"There is Mr. Trescott coming in," said he, willing to change the subject. "Shall I call John?"
"Do!" said Letty. "And Joe, don't say a word to De Witt: he feels badly enough now."
"Not I," said Joe. "I am no hand to shy stones at a lame dog."
He went off whistling, and came back with John before Mr. Trescott had done greeting Letty and Agnes.
"I want to tell you one thing, Caswell," said Mr. Trescott, at once. "I don't believe Beckman has intended to act dishonestly. He is a thick-headed man, and utterly unfit for the business he undertook; but I do not believe he meant to wrong any one."
"I don't see what difference that makes," said Joe. "If the money is lost, it is lost; and that is all about it."
"I beg your pardon, Emerson; it does make a great deal of difference," said John. "One of the hardest things to me in the whole affair was the thought that a man who was a member of the church, and so active too, should have laid a plan to rob others. I felt like David:—If it were an enemy, 'I could have borne it.' You have taken a great load off my mind, Mr. Trescott. But is it true that he has gone to Europe?"
"No: he is at home, sick in bed with jaundice. He sent for me to come and talk with him this afternoon; and really, Caswell, if you had seen him, I don't think you would find it hard to forgive him. The man is completely broken down. All his old pompous way is gone. He cried like a little child when I spoke to him; and when I came away, he grasped my hand and sobbed,—
"'Trescott, if you see any of those poor people, beg them to try and forgive me.'
"Think of such a speech as that coming from Beckman!"
"Poor man!" said Letty, with tears in her eyes. "I am sure we will forgive him: won't we, John?"
"I should have tried to do so, at any rate," replied John. "If you think it will do him any good, Mr. Trescott, please tell him so."
"I will: All his property, without exception, has been placed in the hands of Street & Brothers, to see if any thing can be done towards satisfying the creditors. They will clear matters up, if any one can; and perhaps it will not be a dead loss, after all; though Mr. Street tells me he never saw such confusion as the accounts and papers are in. There is the trouble.
"Beckman would not be content to go on quietly in a business which he thoroughly understood: he must make money fast. And, moreover, what I think influenced him even more than the desire of making money,—he wanted to be fashionable. Mr. Beckman the banker sounded much better in his ears than Mr. Beckman the soap and candle maker."
"Any thing to be genteel," said John. "I hate the very sound of it. I wish there wasn't any such word in the language."
"They say his wife was very extravagant," observed Agnes. "Mrs. Van Horn says she never saw such lace as she wears; and I have noticed that myself," she added, hastily, as a smile went round the circle.
"I do not think she has been greatly to blame," said Mr. Trescott. "Mr. Beckman never allowed his wife or daughter to know any thing about his affairs. I heard him say, once, it was a maxim of his that no woman should know any thing of his business. His wife doubtless supposed him to be immensely rich, and regulated her expenses accordingly."
"It will be hard for her to come down if they have to give up every thing," said Agnes.
"I do not think she will mind it so much. She was sensibly brought up; knows how to work, and is strong and active. I fancy she will lay down all these fine things as easily as she took them up. She said to me this afternoon,—
"'For myself I do not care. I shall be glad to go back to my little house in Green Street. We were happier there than we have ever been since; and if my husband's credit is saved, I shall have nothing to regret.'
"But, Caswell, I want to talk over a little business with you. Are your hands full of work?"
"Not at present. Indeed, I am doing very little."
Mr. Trescott entered at once upon his business. He wanted three first-class houses built upon some lots belonging to his wife, and if John would undertake them, he should be very glad to give him the job.
"And I shall be glad to take it," said John; "but I shall have to ask you to advance part of the money, as all my capital is swept away."
"That I shall do, of course. Come up to my office early to-morrow morning, and we will talk about it. Meantime, Letty, think of what you have left, more than of what you have lost."
"Oh, I do," said Letty, smiling. "I tell John we are richer than when we were married, by a house and a baby."
"That is the right way to look at it. Good-night; and God bless you!"
BABY.
BUT a greater trial than the loss of money was hanging over the homes in Myrtle Street. The summer had been an unhealthy one for children. At many a door the black crape tied with white ribbon (as was the custom of the place) announced that there were aching hearts within, and drew a sigh from many a mother who saw the token. Myrtle Street had thus far escaped better than most parts of the city; but its time was to come; and one morning in September it was told among the neighbours that the Wilbur children had the scarlet fever.
Letty had the greatest horror of this disorder. She had seen enough of its effects in the Trescott family to make her regard it as more to be dreaded than the plague. She kept Alick closely within the limits of her own premises, and watched him with a vigilant eye, that the malignant disease, if it appeared, might at least be taken in time; but as yet the little boy seemed as well as a mother could wish.
There were two or three deaths in the neighbourhood, and then the cloud seemed to pass away.
One cold, raw, damp day towards the end of October, Agnes came into Number Nine, bringing Madge, who was now considerably grown.
"I wish you would let Madge stay here while I go down-town," she said. "I don't know how it is, but she has been so fractious the last two or three days that there is no living with her. I know if I leave her with Mary there will be trouble all the time; but she is always good with you."
Letty made no objections, and Madge was soon playing on the floor with Alick. She was usually a merry child, and as active as a kitten; but to-day she seemed tired and languid, and when Alick was taking his usual noonday nap, she crept up and lay down beside him, and was soon asleep.
Letty glanced at the children two or three times as she went about her work, and thought what a pretty picture they would make.
After a long nap, Madge awoke, crying. Her hands were hot and dry, her lips parched, and her eyes bloodshot and heavy. Letty took her up without waking Alick, and, as she still complained of being thirsty, set her in the rocking-chair, while she went for some cool water. When she came back, Madge was dozing again. Presently Agnes came in, full of all she had seen.
"Do look at this child," said Letty. "Isn't her throat swollen?"
"Yes, I know," replied Agnes, warming her feet composedly. "It was so yesterday; but she did not seem to be sick,—only cross."
"Yesterday!" repeated Letty, in amazement. "You don't mean to say that her throat was so yesterday, when you had her out in the damp and cold half the afternoon? Why, you are crazy!"
"Nonsense!" said Agnes, lightly. "She is used to the open air, and as tough as a knot. I suppose it is the mumps."
"Well, I should think that was enough to call for more care; for if a child takes cold with them it goes very hard, I can tell you. I must say, Agnes, it was presumption to take Madge out under such circumstances. At any rate, you might have reflected before you exposed Alick to the disease. You would not be very well pleased if I had done so by you."
Agnes looked a little ashamed. "Well, Letty, to say the truth, I forgot all about it, I know she was out of sorts yesterday; but she seemed well enough this morning, only that she was fretful. They say children never are very sick when they are cross, you know."
"I believe that is a great mistake," said Letty. "A pleasant child like Madge seldom or never becomes cross and fretful without some good reason."
"Oh, I don't know. Children take all sorts of fits. Mrs. Van Horn wanted me to go down-town with her and see Rosenblatt's opening of fall fashions,—the loveliest bonnets you ever saw, only so very small: they hardly come on the head at all, and are perfectly covered with lace and flowers; you never saw any thing so pretty."
"Well, well, never mind the bonnets," said Letty, a little impatiently. "What are you going to do about Madge?"
"Dear me, Letty, you need not be so short! One would think I had made the child sick on purpose. I am sure I think as much of my children as you do of yours, if I don't make quite such a parade about it. What had I better do?"
"Take her home and send for your physician at once."
"Come, Madge; come with mother," said Agnes, rising,—"your naughty mother, who don't care any thing about her children."
But Madge would not come. She cried, and declared she could not walk; and Agnes was obliged to carry her. Towards evening she came over again, looking very much frightened.
"Madge is really sick. I wish you would come and look at her."
Alick was playing with Gatty; and Letty ran across the road with Agnes. Madge was crying and very restless; and the moment Letty looked at her, she felt as though she should drop.
"It is scarlet fever!" said Letty, in a trembling voice. "Oh, Agnes, how could you be so careless? And she was playing with Alick all this morning!"
"How could I tell?" said Agnes, the impulse to blame some one else being uppermost, as usual. "You ought to have known yourself. You had seen scarlet fever, and I never had. But you cannot think of a thing but yourself and your baby! So selfish!"
Letty could not trust her voice to answer.
"And what will Joe say?" pursued Agnes. "It will all be my fault, of course: every thing always is! And I dare say she will die, and the baby too. I am the most miserable woman on earth!" And Agnes burst into tears, thereby frightening Madge, whose sobs became shrieks.
"Listen to me, Agnes," said Letty, who by this time had regained in some measure her usual self-control. "Madge is very sick, and you must put by every thing else and take care of her: keep her quiet, and let Joe go for the doctor as soon as he comes home."
"But don't go, Letty!" sobbed Agnes. "Do stay all night. I am sure you ought to. I never can take care of Madge alone."
"You forget that I have Alick to attend to. He has been exposed just at the worst time to catch the disease; and I must be careful that he takes no cold, and does not eat any thing improper for him. If the fever cannot be kept off, at least it may be lightened by proper care."
"Yes; that is always the way," said Agnes. "Every one thinks of herself, and no one thinks or cares what becomes of me. I never saw such selfishness."
"Of whom did you think when you ran off with Mrs. Van Horn, looking after millinery, and left Madge to any one who chose to take care of her?" asked Letty, thoroughly exasperated. "Of whom did you think when you exposed my delicate little boy to the chance of mumps,—to say nothing of scarlet fever,—merely to gratify your own senseless curiosity about the fashions? You have always gone on, pleasing yourself and caring for nothing and nobody else, ever since you were born; and now you reap the consequences. It will be well if your self-pleasing does not cost the lives of two innocent children; for, to say nothing of this morning, it was nothing short of murder to expose Madge as you did yesterday."
Never, since Letty was a passionate little girl, had Agnes seen her so roused.
"I will do what I can for you," continued Letty, speaking more calmly; "but you must not expect me to leave my own boy to attend upon you. You had better send for your mother to come and stay with you."
"I know she won't come; and it won't do any good if she does," said Agnes, recovering herself. "I know she will die, and the baby, too; and Joe will say it is all my fault."
But Letty was beyond the reach of her voice; and she found herself compelled to attend to Madge.
When Joe came home, there was the usual scene of recrimination,—which, however, was cut shorter than common by his going after the doctor and Mrs. Train.
Madge was very ill from the first; and Dr. Woodman looked very grave when he saw her. In a few days the baby sickened. He had always been a sturdy little fellow; and every one hoped he might have the disease lightly; but the hope was destined to disappointment. The fever ran its course in a wonderfully short time; and in four days the little boy was in his coffin. On the same day with the baby, Alick came down, and was pronounced very ill.
For once, Letty had neither thought nor feeling for another's trouble. She would not leave Alick for a moment,—not even when Agnes's baby died. Indeed, it was not easy for her to do so; for he cried after her the moment she left the room, and would hardly take food or medicine from any one else. She went about her duties outwardly calm, but with a heavy burden on her heart and with one thought in her mind:
"I can never forgive Agnes!—Never! Never!"
She could not think. She could not pray. She could not rest in any of those divine promises which had heretofore been her stay in times of trouble. She walked in darkness and saw no light. She felt that the whole universe was cruel to her,—even God himself. For once she was self-willed. Mrs. De Witt would have persuaded her to lie down and take some rest while the child slept; but she would, not go,—not even for John's entreaty. She had naturally a strong, passionate nature; and its whole force rose in rebellion against the threatened stroke. She could not and would not submit.
Of course this could not go on. Little Alick died after some days' illness,—died on Thanksgiving-day, which seemed to make the trial harder to endure. Letty went through the funeral service with the same outward composure which had alarmed her friends from the beginning; but on returning from the grave, she fainted away several times, and the next day was too ill to sit up.
In this emergency, Mrs. De Witt came out in all her strength. If ever a woman contrived to be in several places all at once, she was that woman. Her own house was as orderly as ever, and her husband's meals always ready and comfortable: yet she contrived to find time for the care of Letty and her house. She was nurse, housekeeper and mistress to both families at once; and she did it all well.
She had an efficient help in Gatty, who had been trained in ways of usefulness from her cradle. Mrs. De Witt had thought at one time of sending her into the country, to be out of harm's way; but she changed her mind, and contented herself with keeping the child away from Alick during his illness. The reasons she gave for her course were characteristic:—
"You see, it a'n't as if she hadn't been exposed already. She has; and she may come down any time. If she is here, I can keep watch of her; and I know what's what. I sha'n't think she has got the fever every time she sneezes, and I sha'n't send her out in the cold for a walk because her head aches with the rash coming out. Garrett's wife is like enough to do either, or both. Besides, if she is here, she can see to the dinner and wait upon her father, while I am taking care of Alick and helping Mrs. Caswell."
At the end of a week Letty was able to sit up and come down-stairs; but when she tried to take up her household work again, she found it out of her power. She could not work. She had overtaxed her strength, and was now paying the penalty. She struggled in vain against her weakness.
Her strength was becoming less every day; and she could do little but lie on the sofa and think. The doctor came to see her, and prescribed tonics; but nothing seemed to do any good; and every one began to fear that she would soon follow her child.
One day Dr. Woodman came in and found her alone, weeping. A Testament was lying by her, but she was not reading. After a few inquiries, the doctor went to the door, sent away his horse, and then came back and sat down by Letty's side. After a few minutes' silence he took up the Testament.
"You have a good companion here," said he. "I hope you find comfort in it?"
Letty involuntarily shook her head, and the tears started afresh.
"My dear Letty," said the doctor, "it may appear like a strange remark to make to a woman who has just lost her only child, but it seems to me that you are suffering from something more than grief for your little one. Tell me: do you feel that God is with you in this sorrow?"
"No," replied Letty. "He is not. I am alone. God has forsaken me, and refuses to hear my prayers. I am all alone, and must be alone. There is no comfort for me anywhere, and I can never look forward to seeing my child again: I have no hope, and am without God in the world!" Her voice was lost in sobs.
"God can never forsake or forget us, though we forsake and forget Him," said the doctor. "Tell me: have you not given yourself to God to be entirely his?"
"I thought I did, once," said Letty.
"Never mind what you did once. Very likely you did; but you can no more live upon past religious experience than you can upon what you ate last year. Can you give yourself to him NOW?"
"What do you mean by giving myself to him, doctor?" asked Letty.
"I mean that you should put yourself, your hopes and fears, your troubles, sorrows and sins,—all, in short, that goes to make up yourself,—into God's hands. Submit yourself to his will. Lay yourself as it were on the altar before him, and trust that he will accept you. That is what I mean. Can you do that?"
"I have tried," said Letty, sorrowfully; "but—"
"But what?"
"It makes no difference. I cannot feel that I am accepted. I know that I am not."
"How do you know it? Excuse me if I ask very close questions," continued the doctor, as Letty did not answer. "We are old friends, and I want to help you if I can. Let me ask you if you are sure that no cherished sin is keeping you from God?"
"That is it," said Letty. "I know there is." She paused a moment, and then added, abruptly, "I cannot forgive Agnes! I feel as though she had murdered my Alick. I would not forgive her, at first. I would not even go to see her when her child died, though my conscience upbraided me and I felt that I ought to overcome that feeling. And now I cannot forgive her!—I cannot!"
"Do you wish to forgive her?" said the doctor, with one of his penetrating looks. "Would you do so if you could?"
"I don't know."
"But you do know," returned the doctor, in a kind but decided tone; "or you can know if you will. Don't try to deceive yourself. You know that God can give you the power to forgive Agnes. Observe, I don't say that you feel it or realize it; that is quite another matter. But you do know it, because you know that he can do all things."
"Yes," said Letty: "I know it, certainly."
"Well, now, are you willing he should do it? Are you willing to forgive Agnes if he gives you the power to do so?"
Letty was silent for a few minutes.
The doctor saw the struggle, and prayed, inwardly, that grace might conquer.
At last she spoke.
"Yes," said she: "I think I am willing."
"God be praised for that!" said the doctor. "Now think whether there is any thing else."
"I do not know that there is," replied Letty; "but still I do not feel that God will accept me."
"Do you believe that God speaks the truth?"
"Of course," said Letty,—surprised at the question.
"And that the Bible is his word?"
"Yes; certainly."
"Well, then, listen," said the doctor, with energy. "Here is just one brief, simple promise of his, which is all you want:—
"'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'
"That ought to be enough for you. But here is another:—
"'If two of you shall agree on earth as touching any thing that they shall ask, it SHALL be done for them of my Father which is in heaven.'
"Those are God's own words. Cast yourself upon the veracity of God. Pray for yourself, and I will pray for you. There are two of us agreed. Come to God just as you are. Give yourself wholly to him, and then believe that he has accepted you. I must leave you now; but I will pray for you, and do you pray for yourself; and be sure that, as there is a God in heaven, so surely he will accept you and make you his own."
A day or two after, the doctor came again. He found his patient more comfortless than ever.
"No light yet?" said he.
Letty shook her head. "No," said she. "I have no light. I have tried to give myself up to him, as you say. I have done it. If I know myself at all, I have done it; but I have no evidence in myself that I am accepted of him."
"Are you not refusing to believe what God has spoken? God says in his word that he will receive you; and that should be enough to satisfy you that he has received you, whether you feel it or not. It is because the way is so easy that you miss it. Why, suppose I tell you that a certain medicine is good for you: you believe me,—don't you?—although you do not feel any immediate effect. Well, just believe God in the same way,—because he says so."
"I am afraid that I do not forgive Agnes, after all. I went over to see her last night."
"Good!" said the doctor. "That shows that you are in earnest; and it ought also to show you that God is with you. Well?"
"But, when I came back, I felt just as hardly towards her as ever. She did not appear glad to see me at all; and it really seemed that she was more distressed at my coming across the road in my 'coloured calico dress,' as she said, than at any thing else."
"Agnes is bound up in dress and fashions; and more's the pity. But you say you found you had all your work to do over again?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, do it over again; or, rather, be quiet, and let God do it for you. You can no more make yourself forgiving than you can make one hair white or black; but, if you are willing, God will do it for you. Only just believe,—that is all. The inward witness will come in God's own time, if you are content to take his simple word: never in any other way. Now, tell me, cannot you do this?"
Letty was silent.
"Yes," said Letty, with a tone and look of decision. "Yes; I can believe him. I am his. I am not alone or cast-off. Oh, yes; I do believe his word."
"Remember, from this time, that it is only the sense of God's presence that you lose,—not his real presence. God never forsakes his children. Have faith; and do not think of faith in God as some strange, mysterious thing. It is simply believing in God just as you believe in any one else. Take all his promises to yourself, just as if there were no other person in the world to whom they can apply. Don't be too anxious after inward evidence and consolation. Let God send that in his own time. It is a blessed thing when it comes; but it is not the ground of your assurance: that is found in God's word."
CHANGES.
WHEN John came home that night, he saw at once that there was a change in Letty. Her eyes were still heavy and her face pale; but the expression of her face was altered; the hard look of stubborn endurance was gone. Other little signs showed a change in Letty's state of feeling. Her hair was again neatly and becomingly arranged; the blinds of the sitting-room were thrown open once more; and a bouquet of the latest lingering flowers was on the table in Alick's little silver cup,—a gift from Mr. Trescott. The supper-table was again set in inviting order, instead of having the dishes thrown on anyhow, as was Jane's fashion. Moreover, Letty met him at the door,—a thing she had not done before since Alick's death.
John felt the change. He was not a man of many words at any time; and any strong feeling only made him more silent. He kissed Letty.
"God bless you, my darling!" said he.
That was all; but Letty felt she was understood.
After supper, John sat down by the window, as usual; but he did not take his pipe.
"Where's the pipe?" asked Letty.
"Well," replied John, "I have about come to the conclusion, Letty, that I shall not smoke any more. It is an expensive habit, and, they say, not a very healthy one,—though I don't know that it has ever hurt me; but I don't want to make myself a slave to any sensual indulgence: so I have a mind to see how I can do without tobacco, just for the trial's sake. I suppose you will not be very sorry to miss the pipe?"
"Why, no," said Letty. "I did not wish to interfere with your pleasures; but I never did like the pipe; and I used sometimes to think how I should feel to see—" she pauses a moment, and then went bravely on,—"to see Alick, perhaps, at thirteen or fourteen, sucking a cigar or smoking a pipe."
"True," replied John; "I thought of that, too. Have you seen Agnes to-day?"
"Yes; I went over there a few minutes after Dr. Woodman had gone. I am afraid they have a great deal of trouble before them, John."
"I am afraid they have, in more ways than one," replied John. "Joe is making up his mind to give up his present situation."
"That seems a pity, just as he has received such an advance," remarked Letty. "I thought his position at the chemical works was all that could be desired. He is foreman: is he not?"
"Yes; and with a good salary. With a little economy, he might easily clear off the encumbrance on his house and lot; but the business is not genteel enough to suit him. He talks of going into the cigar and liquor business with Mr. Van Horn."
"Well, it seems to me, making harmless perfumes and useful chemicals and medicines is a much more respectable business than selling liquors."
"So it seems to me; but in the one case he is only foreman in a manufactory, while in the other he will be a partner."
"But such a business, John! And I don't suppose Joseph knows any thing about it."
"No,—no more than I; but he says Van Horn does. He has been engaged in it before."
"I don't like that man," said Letty. "I cannot exactly say why; but I have no confidence in him. Besides, it is such a calling!—Making money out of the sin and misery of one's fellow-mortals; for that is what selling liquor amounts to."
"So I told Joe; but he thinks my notions very old-fashioned and narrow. He says some one must sell liquor, and it may as well be him as any one else; and, besides, they will only sell at wholesale,—never by the glass."
"What nonsense!" exclaimed Letty. "How would the dram-sellers obtain their supplies, if not from the wholesale dealers?"
"I am afraid they will make a bad business of it in more ways than one," said John. "I don't like to have a man give up the work he is used to, for that which he does not understand, unless there is some very good reason for it. People much more commonly lose than gain by such a course."
"But how can he do it?" asked Letty. "Joe has no capital."
"Not a penny; but Van Horn has some part of what is needed, and they mean to borrow the rest,—upon what security I do not know; for Joe's house is mortgaged for all that it will carry already, and Van Horn has no real estate that I can hear of. Joe did not seem inclined to be very communicative. He appeared to be wonderfully lifted up, I thought, and was quite inclined to be condescending."
"So was Agnes this afternoon. You should have heard her advising me about my dress, and talking of the usages of good society," said Letty, with a little of her old playfulness. "I did not tell her so, but I could not help thinking that I had seen quite as much good society as herself. Aunt Train was lamenting again that she had no control over her own property. She is going to give up her house and live with Agnes altogether."
"I am sorry for that," said John. "I know how it will end,—in her having all the work of the household thrown upon her shoulders."
"There is likely to be work enough for everybody," said Letty, sighing. "I am very much troubled about Madge. Dr. Woodman told me, he thought there was something the matter with her back; and I have been observing her closely this afternoon. She has no use of her lower limbs at all."
"May not that be mere weakness?"
"I think not. She can use her arms and hands when she is lying down. She was playing with her doll this afternoon; but I tried her in various ways, and she does not move her feet in the least, nor can she hold herself upright. Agnes does not seem to see that there is any thing wrong, and I did not talk to her about the matter; but I cannot help fearing that she will be helpless a long time,—if she ever walks again. Aunt Train said she was coming over this evening to ask your advice on some matter of business. She did not tell me what."
"I hope she is not thinking of selling her house and putting the money into Joe's new business," said John. "I certainly shall not advise her to do that. But I am sorry to hear such an account of the little girl. What does the doctor say?"
"It was he who first spoke to me of her being in a bad way," said Letty. "He asked me to observe her. What will they do if Madge should turn out like Emily Trescott?"
"It would be very hard upon them, no doubt, and hard also for the child," said John. "Agnes does not seem like the woman to devote herself to a helpless child."
"Oh, you cannot tell. It may change her entirely."
"How does she seem affected by the baby's death?"
"Why, really, John, it seems a hard thing to say, and I would not say it to any one but you, but really Agnes seems to me to think more of her mourning-dress than any thing else. She talked, all the time I was there, about whether she ought to put on crape for so young a child; but concluded by saying that, as there had been two deaths in the family, it would not be out of the way. She gave me quite a lecture about wearing my old coloured calico in the morning, and, as I said, was very superior and condescending. She seems to think, somehow, that she has a great deal to forgive me for:—indeed, she said that if I had not been sick and in trouble, she could not have overlooked my conduct."
"Conduct in what?" asked John.
"I don't know. I suppose, in not going there while the baby was sick."
"A good many women would never have spoken to her again, after what she did," said John. "I confess I find it a good deal easier to forgive her when I don't see her than when I do."
"I shall always feel that she was very much to blame," said Letty. "I hope I have forgiven her; but I never can justify her conduct. The best way is not to think of the matter more than one can help. I told her I thought there was a good deal to forgive on the other side; but she could not see what. I do not think she has the least idea that she has been to blame; and she seems to consider that our trial is nothing to hers. She says I do not feel things as she does, and that—But there is no use in repeating what she says. The simple truth is that Agnes and I do not suit each other. We have different ideas and feelings,—different ways of looking at every thing. I sometimes think we should have been better friends if we lived farther apart."
"It may be so. I have sometimes thought that it was not altogether a good thing for married relations to be settled too near each other. You remember John Burns and his brother-in-law? They were very good friends so long as they lived at opposite ends of the town; but by-and-by they took a fancy to build houses on the same lot, and after that there was no more peace. The families were always in hot water."
"I think it depends a good deal upon the relations," remarked Letty. "You do not think we should ever have quarrelled with Aunt Eunice, do you,—even if we had lived under the same roof?"
"No, probably not; nor will we quarrel with Agnes. If we must come to that, we will simply let her alone. I am glad to hear you say that you forgive Agnes."
"I never could have done it alone," replied Letty. "It was Dr. Woodman who showed me the way out of my trouble."
"And that was—"
"'The Way,'" said Letty, softly. "'The Way, the Truth and the Life.' He showed me how to throw all the burden of my sins on Jesus, and let Him do his own work in saving me from it. I have been very wrong, John; I have been hard and ungrateful to God and you and every one; but I hope things are better now. I have so much left. And my boy is not lost! He is being kept safely for me, where I shall see him never to lose him again. And, oh, John, I can be thankful that he was not left to suffer,—as Emily Trescott did, and as I fear Madge is destined to suffer. Agnes was right,—though she did not know what she was saying:—my trial is nothing to hers. I cannot be angry with her, when I think what is before her."
"These last days have been very dark to me," said John; "but I trust now all is well."
As he saw Mrs. Train coming in, he added, "Here comes Aunt Train. I suppose she has done like other people who ask advice,—made up her mind beforehand, and now wants confirmation in her resolution. She will never get it from me, I am sure of that."
It soon appeared that John was in the right Mrs. Train was evidently dazzled by the prospect of Joe's going into business for himself, and with such a grand person as Mr. Van Horn. She had, as John said, made up her mind before asking counsel; and she looked very much disappointed when he strongly advised her to keep her house in her own hands.
"But what is the use of my keeping the house in my own hands, when I have made up my mind to live with Agnes?" said she, peevishly. "It will only be a burden to me."
"You can easily rent it," said John. "Such houses never go begging. Besides, you may not always wish to live with Agnes. I do not like to have you give up your independence."
"You talk as though you thought my children were determined to cheat me," said Mrs. Train. "I don't like such suspicions: they look as if folks judged others by themselves."
"Not at all," returned John, with unruffled temper, while Letty flushed and looked indignant. "I have a good opinion of Joe's honesty."
"Then it is Mr. Van Horn, I suppose. What do you know to his disadvantage?"
"I know nothing at all about him, except that he and his wife have very expensive habits," replied John. "But the very fact that I know nothing about him is enough to make me uneasy at seeing all your capital put into his hands."
"It is not all my capital," replied Mrs. Train. "There is the money Aunt Eunice left me."
"A life-interest is not capital, exactly," said John, dryly; "and two hundred a year, without your house, is hardly enough to support you."
"It would have been more than a life-interest if I had had my right," said Mrs. Train, sharply. "I shall always think there was something wrong about that affair."
"I do not well see what there could wrong about it," said John. "I suppose Aunt Eunice's will was a surprise to everybody. I am sure it was so to me; and I think it must have been to you; for I remember your telling me, before I was married, that the old lady had only a life-interest in her husband's estate, and that she could not have saved much, for she was always giving away. I see nothing in the will to cause surprise, since Letty was as nearly related to her as Agnes, and had always seen a great deal more of her."
"Well, well, all that does not matter now," said Mrs. Train, rather impatiently. "She had her own way; and that is all about it. The question is, whether I shall put what I have now into Joe's new business. He says he is sure to double the amount in a few years."
"And I have no doubt at all that he thinks so. Joe is naturally sanguine, and apt to be taken with new enterprises just because they are new; but he is going into a business which he does not understand, with a partner of whom he knows little or nothing and about, whom I cannot find out that any one else knows any more. I confess, I have very great fears for his success. Besides, I have another reason. I look upon the business in itself as wrong, and especially dangerous to young men. You would not like to have your money go to help make Joe, or any one else, a drunkard?"
Mrs. Train winced a little. "I do not think there is any danger," said she. "Joe has always been steady."
"If there is no danger to himself, there is plenty to other people," said Letty.
"But some one must sell liquor—"
"I don't see the necessity," interrupted Letty.
"And it is not the wholesale dealers who make the drunkards," pursued Mrs. Train. "It is those miserable little dram-sellers."
"Who supplies the dram-sellers?" asked John. "Is it any better for a man to furnish Weapons which he knows will be used for murder, than it is to do the murder himself?"
"Drinking is not murder," said Mrs. Train.
"Very commonly it is the worst kind of murder," replied John. "Do you remember poor Harry Welles? Would it not have been better for Harry to be killed at once than to run the career he did? The man who kills another has no more that he can do; he cannot hurt the soul of his victim, which may pass at once to God; but he who makes a man a drunkard helps to cast body and soul into hell!
"Can you think with any complacency of seeing at the left hand of God even one poor soul whom your money has helped to send into the place of torment? Suppose that Joe were ever so successful: would any income of capital compensate you for that sight? What will money be to you then? Remember what is said of him who offends one of God's little ones!"
"Then you think every one who deals in liquor is no better than a murderer?" said Mrs. Train. "I think you judge very uncharitably."
"I do not judge at all: it is God's word which judges," replied John. "But, to answer your remark: I do not see how the man who makes a living out of the sin and ruin of his neighbour is any better than a murderer. Is it not much worse to be the means of the soul's death than of the death of the body?"
"But a great many people in the best society both sell and drink liquor."
"There was a time when all the best society went to see women stripped and thrown naked to wild beasts," said John. "Did that make it right? The usage of the world is not the standard of Christians."
"But Joe is not a Christian, you know; he is not a member of any church."
"If he is not, he ought to be. He cannot excuse himself, when he is called to his final account, by saying, 'O Lord, thou knowest I never pretended to serve thee; and therefore I am not to blame.' Neither is there one standard for church-members and another for the rest of the world. What is right is right, and what is wrong is wrong."
"I don't like this new fashion of mixing religion with every thing," said Mrs. Train. "It seems to me too sacred to be used in that way."
"If so, we are not responsible; since we are told, upon the best authority, that even eating and drinking are to be done to the glory of God."
"Well," said Mrs. Train, with an air of superiority, "I shall consider what you have said,—though I think you are entirely governed by your prejudices. I suppose, however, it is only natural that you and Letty should feel a little sore at seeing Joe and Agnes going before you, after all your scrimping and saving. Now, you needn't flash out in a passion, Letty: I am sure that is not very Christian."
"I have not said any thing," said Letty, smiling.
"No; perhaps not: it would be better if you did. I would much rather people would say out what is in their minds than that they should keep it in and brood over it, as you do. But you will always be the same, Letty, to the end of your days."
"I hope so," said John. "I should not like to have any other Letty in her place. As to Joe's going before us, I can honestly say that I should like to see him with a hundred thousand dollars in his purse, provided he acquired it in any lawful business. But, for the reasons I have given you, I cannot look upon liquor-selling in any other light than that I have put it in. I would as soon see Joe keeping a gambling-house as a liquor-store."
"You had better tell him so."
"I have told him so. I felt bound to give him my full and honest opinion when he asked for it. I am glad to say that he was not in the least offended. Joe is naturally an amiable person, I know; which makes me the more anxious that he should not be misled."
As Mrs. Train left, she said, "I am glad to see you looking so much better and more cheerful, Letty. It is a happy thing when people can throw off their troubles and forget them so easily."
"I do not forget," said Letty, gently, while the tears gathered in her eyes. "I have no desire to forget; but I try to remember what I have left, as well as what I have lost for a time. So long as John and myself are left to each other with undiminished love and respect, we should be very wrong to give way to despair. God has been very good to me all my life; and I do believe he is so still,—though I cannot understand the reason of all that he does."
"'What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter,'" said John. "He could not cease to be good, unless he ceased to be God."
"Well," said Mrs. Train, more gently, "I will say for you, and for Letty too, that you seem to take real comfort in your religion. I wish I could do as much."
"Perhaps you could, if you had the right kind," said John. "I should suppose that a religion which will not bear mixing up with the common affairs of life could not give much comfort to anybody. For my own part, I want a religion that I can carry with me to the workshop and the lumber-yard, and build into the new houses I am putting up. I hope you are not offended with my plain speaking?"
"Oh, no; I am not offended," replied Mrs. Train. "I can make allowances."
"And will you not think about what I have said?" urged John, as he went down and opened the gate for Mrs. Train. "Depend upon it, my view is the right one."
"Oh, yes; I will think of it," said Mrs. Train; "but there is no great use in that. Indeed, I all-but told Mr. Gardiner this morning that he could have the house. I suppose he considers it a bargain."
"I told you so," said John, when he returned to the house. "She has made a bargain for her place already. However, I have spoken my mind, and my hands are clear. I am glad you kept your temper."
"Somehow, I did not care," said Letty. "I felt so sorry for her, I could not be angry."
"She is going to make a bad business of it," said John. "I am afraid they will lose all they have in the world; and I shall be glad if that is the worst of the affair."
RESTITUTION.
"WELL, Letty, I have come to make you a farewell call," said Agnes, as she entered. "I don't suppose either you or John will ever have any thing to do with such wicked people as we are."
"How so?" asked Letty.
"Oh, Joe has concluded to go into business with Mr. Van Horn, and, of course, you will never associate with wicked liquor-dealers. They have taken a store on Gay Street,—a splendid place. All the fittings of the bar are of cut glass and silver."
"I thought the business was to be wholesale," said Letty.
"Wholesale and retail," replied Agnes, arranging her veil. "Mr. Van Horn makes the purchases, and Joe sells,—or superintends the sales, at least. I don't suppose he will have very much to do with them otherwise. I am so glad to get rid of that horrid chemical business, which I never did like. I should think you would try to make John go into some mercantile business, it is so much more genteel than a trade."