"It is easy for people who have no feeling to be forgiving," said Mrs. Van Horn.
"That is not the case with Letty, at any rate," returned Agnes. "She may not feel things as deeply as I do,—indeed, few people are like me in that respect,—but it is not right to say that she has no feeling. She has always been very kind to Madge."
"Oh, yes, because she could make use of her as a spy to find out what was going on in the family," said Mrs. Van Horn. "But I am surprised that you should talk of her being forgiving, Agnes. You don't mean to say, I suppose, that she was in the right all along, and that you and your husband were in the wrong?"
"No; of course not," replied Agnes. "But there were hard things said, and Joe treated her very improperly, that must be confessed: and, right or wrong, it shows a good spirit in her that she should be willing to make the first advances. And then the blanket is so very pretty!" she added, spreading it out. "I never, in all my life, saw any thing in more perfect taste. It is much prettier than the one Mrs. Booth had made in New York."
"Pretty or not, it is rather a pity that you should sacrifice your dignity to such a trifle," said Mrs. Van Horn; "and, I must say, you will do so most decidedly if you accept a present from such a source."
"I can take care of my own dignity, thank you," said Agnes, with some asperity.
"Oh, very well. I am sure I don't want to interfere,—only I don't think Mr. Emerson will be very well pleased with what you are doing."
"It is not absolutely necessary that Mr. Emerson should know all about my baby-things," said Agnes, considerably vexed, and determined to hold her own, as she said. "I don't want any one telling me how to behave to my husband."
"Oh, well, you mustn't excite yourself," said Mrs. Van Horn, soothingly: "that would be very bad both for you and the baby. I am sure it is very amiable in you to accept this present,—a very pretty one it is, to be sure,—and, as you say, Mr. Emerson need not know about it."
Nevertheless, Mrs. Van Horn was fully determined in her own mind that it should not be her fault if Mr. Emerson did not know all about the matter directly. Accordingly, she made an errand to the counting-room, as Joe called a little glass case with a private entrance at the back of the store.
"I have been spending the morning with your good wife, Mr. Emerson," she began "How nicely she is getting on! And what a splendid little fellow the baby is getting to be! He will look just like you: that is plain to be seen already."
"Yes; I flatter myself there is not a nicer boy of his age in town," replied Joe. "And how is Aggy? Do you think she is going on pretty well?"
"Oh, yes, indeed: I left her very happy over a present she had just received from her cousin,—the prettiest thing of the kind I ever saw!"
"From her cousin!" said Joe, with a darkening brow. "You don't mean to say that Mrs. Caswell has had the impudence to send her a present, and that she has been fool enough to accept it?"
Mrs. Van Horn shrugged her shoulders a little.
"Dear me! What a forgetful creature I am! I quite forgot that I was to say nothing about it. Dear Agnes is so placable and so forgiving: she thought she would accept the present and say nothing to you. And here I have let the cat out of the bag the very first thing: you see I am so unused to having secrets. But, pray, Mr. Emerson, don't tell Agnes that I betrayed her. It certainly is a beautiful present, and must have been very expensive,—rather too much so for Mrs. Caswell's means, I should say; but, then, I presume, she thought she could afford to stretch a point for the sake of gaining her ends."
"She will find that she has not gained her ends this time," said Joe, angrily.
"Oh, I don't know. She always had a great knack of gaining an influence over people. She has always regularly hoodwinked Mrs. Trescott, and even Mrs. Campion, who fancies herself so shrewd; and she can turn poor, dear Madge round her finger, you know. But, pray, Mr. Emerson, don't betray me!" Then she said to her husband, after Joe was out of hearing, "I flatter myself that was rather well done."
"Yes, it was; and it will never do to let Emerson come under Caswell's influence just now. He is restive as it is; was talking this very morning about conscience and honour and all that, because I wanted him to bring young Haskins to our house to-night; but soon brought him to terms. He is the easiest person in the world to manage, if you only go to work right."
Joe's previous dispute with his partner had no tendency to make him more amiable. He went directly up to Agnes's room and demanded at once to see that rag Mrs. Caswell had had the impudence to send her, and asked her how she dared receive a present from that woman. Agnes prevaricated and cried, and finally went into hysterics; but Joe was inexorable. With his own hands, he wrapped up the blanket in a newspaper and sent it back to Mrs. Caswell with an insulting message,—which, however, the man had the discretion not to deliver.
On returning to his wife's room, he found he had done no little mischief. Agnes was in hysterical convulsions, and the nurse was frantically sending all the people in the house after the doctor, and declaring that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife and his child too.
The doctor looked very grave when he came, turned Joe at once out of his wife's room, and stayed so long that he began to be thoroughly scared and to wish he had let the matter alone. The most profound quiet was enjoined, the doctor declaring that he would not answer for the consequences of another attack.
It was several days before Joe was allowed to enter his wife's room; and when he did so, he brought with him a peace-offering,—a silver cup for the baby and an Indian shawl for Agnes, the object of her lifelong ambition: so that he was received again into favour.
Agnes had a pretty sharp quarrel with Mrs. Van Horn upon the occasion; and, though a peace was finally patched up by their husbands, they were never so intimate afterwards.
There was some excuse for Joe's irritable temper. He was, in fact, a very unhappy man; and he was growing more and more so every day. He was, as John Caswell said, a man of good impulses and of a kind and amiable disposition. He could not shut his eyes to the difference between right and wrong. He knew that his business was an injurious one; that it was doing great harm in the community,—even the open and avowed part of it, and much more that branch which was concealed. He knew that his fine house and his good-looking wife and his pleasant little suppers were used by Van Horn as "pits to catch vain-glorious fools withal," as John Bunyan says; to attract that prey which furnished the best part of their profits. His pride, as well as his better feeling, revolted against such a use; and he and his partner had had more than one dispute, in which he was always conquered by Mr. Van Horn's superior coolness.
That very morning there had been a sharp altercation between them on the subject of young Haskins, the only son of Joe's former employer at the chemical works,—a somewhat weak-minded young man, too well supplied with money, but quite deficient in brains. George Haskins had just come from college, where he had been rather "fast," and where he had acquired a decided taste for wine and cards.
Mr. Van Horn insisted that Joe should renew his acquaintance with this lad, and bring him to one of Mrs. Van Horn's card-parties. Joe resisted, well knowing how the matter would end, and feeling bound by former kindness received from the elder Mr. Haskins. He resisted, and was conquered as usual; and very mean did he appear in his own eyes, as he did the bidding of his partner and called upon the poor victim to invite him to his house,—so mean that an extra glass of brandy was required to quiet the twinges of conscience and restore him to the place he desired to hold in his own esteem. These extra glasses were becoming every-day matters with Joe; and Van Horn had more than once cautioned him that he was drinking too much.
"You will get the horrors some day, if you are not careful. You will by-and-by think you can't do without it, and then you will go to the dogs."
"I went to the dogs when I first went into this business," said Joe, with an oath. "I wish the whole concern had been sunk before I ever saw it! There is poor little Mrs. Hazel turned out of her boarding-place this morning,—so Williams tells me. All her pretty things and bridal presents kept by the landlord to pay for their board."
"That is a pity; but such things will happen," replied Mr. Van Horn, coolly. "Hazel has no moderation. I suppose he lost every cent of his pay, and more besides, the last time he was here. He had a run of bad luck; but he would keep on playing till he was cleaned out."
"Yes, and we got it all; and there is that poor little woman left without a home."
"She can go to her father's," said Mr. Van Horn. "The old man is rich enough. However, it is none of our business, that I know of. But I tell you it will be your business—and a bad business, too—if you don't let that brandy alone."
But Joe could not let the brandy alone. It had already become necessary to him. Every morning he awoke with a throbbing head and a heavy heart, loathing the day's work before him, loathing himself for submitting to it, feeling himself disgraced in his own eyes and condemned before God. For, however much he might wish it, Joe had never been able to make himself an unbeliever. He might laugh as he pleased at Parson Williams's fire-and-brimstone stories (as he called them) and Dr. Woodman's pious speeches; but in his heart of hearts he knew the future they spoke of was an awful reality, to which every day brought him nearer. Van Horn, while he professed great respect for religious observances, and attended public worship once every Sunday, really succeeded in putting the matter entirely out of his thoughts and acting as if there was no God.
Joe, though he never went to church, and professed himself an utter skeptic, lived in constant dread of that unseen Being whose existence he all-but denied, and whose interference in the affairs of men he treated as a ridiculous fable. Every morning he awoke with a load upon his mind and conscience which made him wretched and morose; and it was not till he had taken his glass of spirits—conveniently disguised with aromatics, and going under the name of somebody's "bitters"—that he was at all easy or comfortable.
Agnes herself was almost afraid to speak to him till he had taken his morning dram. She was, as we know, neither very wise nor very clear-sighted; but even she began to be seriously uneasy, as she watched the growth of her husband's evil habit, and perceived that he was falling into the snare that he had been so long setting for others. She even ventured to speak to him about the matter, but was met with such a torrent of abuse and reproach that she never ventured to repeat the experiment.
"If I ever am a drunkard, it is you who will have made me so," were Joe's concluding words. "You would not let me alone till you dragged me into this business; and now you may take the consequences."
Her infant, who was really a beautiful boy, had waked up something of the mother in her heart. Madge had never been a favourite with her mother. She knew that she had not done her duty by the child, whose helpless condition was a perpetual reproach; and she disliked her accordingly. It annoyed her when people asked for Madge; and she would never allow her to be seen, if she could help it. While little Herbert was produced for admiration on every occasion, and all the money his mother could procure was lavished upon his dress and equipage, poor Madge seldom stirred from her room on the third floor, except when kind-hearted Mary carried her down into the back veranda, for a little air, while her mother was out shopping or visiting.
But Madge had found a friend in Fanny Cutler, who lived next door and took a warm interest in the poor, lonely little sufferer, from the first day that she made her acquaintance over the back fence. The Cutlers were by far the richest and most fashionable people in the neighbourhood, and Agnes did not care to offend them: so Fanny was allowed free access to the nursery, as Madge's room continued to be called.
Fanny was a kind-hearted, sensible girl, who had been well brought up by a painstaking mother. She understood all sorts of needlework, plain and ornamental; and she taught Madge the use of needles and knitting-pins, with which the poor child beguiled many a weary hour. Fanny had lately become interested in a sewing-school established by the directresses of the "Home;" and Madge was never weary of hearing of the sayings and doings of the children.
"How I wish I could do something for the poor little things!" said she, one day. "I would not so much mind being sick, if I could only do any thing to help other people."
"Suppose we let Madge prepare the patchwork," said Mrs. Cutler, when her daughter repeated Madge's remark. "You can soon show her how. It will be easy work for her, and will really take a great deal off our hands, while at the same time it will afford her the pleasure of making herself truly useful."
Badge was delighted with the idea, and soon learned to fit and baste the pieces with required accuracy. A great deal of patchwork was needed; for the school was large and contained many new beginners.
It happened one day that Madge received the now rare pleasure of a morning visit from her father. She was surrounded by piles of pieces of all sorts and qualities, and had no time to put them away.
"And what is all this for?" asked Joseph. "Have you grown tired of your worsted-work and taken to piecing bed-quilts?"
"It is for the sewing-school," replied Madge, not without fear and trembling; for she was never certain of her father's mood. "Mrs. Cutler and Fanny have classes, and I am basting the patchwork for them. The children are all very poor, and have no work of their own, you know," she continued, timidly watching her father's face as she spoke; "and it is so nice to feel that I am helping somebody."
"Poor child!" said her father, abruptly. "I wonder where you got your disposition?"
"You don't mind: do you, father?" asked Madge.
"Mind! No, child! Any thing to amuse you. You may have this to buy something for your poor children," said he, throwing a ten-dollar note into her hands. "Better it should go that way than in buying things to—" He did not finish his sentence.
image005
Opposite Neighbours."Poor child! I wonder where you got your disposition?"
"There! I have at least done one good thing to-day," he said, as he descended the stairs.
Agnes grudged every penny bestowed upon Madge, regarding it as so much taken from Herbert, who, she declared, had hardly decent clothes to wear. If Madge was so fond of sewing, she might work for her little brother. She was sure embroidering and braiding his dresses and petticoats was prettier work, and ought to be much more agreeable to her sisterly feelings, than sewing for a parcel of children who were no-way related to her.
And, besides, Agnes had a special spite towards the Home because Letty was one of the managers. Madge's charitable labours would have come to an untimely end but for her father's interference. He declared the child should work at what she liked and for whom she liked.
A REMOVAL.
JOHN CASWELL'S business was by this time greatly extended, and he began to be favourably known outside of his native city. The Sisters' Hospital, the new wing of the Old Ladies' Home, and the new High-School building, were all models in their way; and people who were planning similar structures came from a distance to see them.
Beginning life as a simple carpenter's apprentice, John had put his whole heart and soul into his business, and never lost an opportunity of acquiring knowledge upon subjects connected with it. By the time he was out of his apprenticeship, he had accumulated quite a little library of books upon architecture, and some very rare and valuable illustrated works.
John was known as an architect of taste and science, as well as an honest and reliable builder; and so it came to pass that he was offered the contract for certain costly public buildings in a flourishing Western city, which would keep him busy for at least a year.
A good many things inclined John to accept the offer. Business was rather dull in T— just at that time; he was not unwilling to travel and see a little more of the world; he had an opportunity of renting his place advantageously to a careful tenant; and he believed the change would be good for Letty, who had never been quite strong since the death of her little boy.
Accordingly, the furniture was safely stored, and the books were left in care of Mrs. De Witt and Gatty, who also took charge of Ginger. He was now a veteran among cats, and growing very infirm; but Letty would almost as soon have thought of parting with a child as of having Ginger put out of the way. He had been little Alick's first and favourite playfellow, and was a memento of the last visit of Aunt Eunice; and Gatty promised that he should never want for meat so long as she had any herself. The new tenants—a middle-aged clergyman and his wife, without children—promised to take care of the garden; and the lady assumed the charge of Letty's poor-district and Sunday-school class.
Letty would gladly have gone to see poor Madge, to bid her good-by; but she knew it would be vain to attempt such a thing, and contented herself with sending her, through Fanny Cutler, a great many loving messages, and a calico frock to be converted into patchwork.
Letty found herself very pleasantly situated in her new home. She had letters to some friends of the Campions, who were cultivated people and interested in all sorts of charities; and she soon found herself engaged much as she had been before, in visiting the sick poor and teaching a class in a large mission-school. Her health improved by the change; and her little girl grew stout and rosy every day.
Gatty proved an excellent correspondent, giving all the news of the town and neighbourhood, the Home and the church.
And Letty was not sorry when John asked her if she would be willing to remain another year.
"It would be an advantage to me in every way," said he. "I should not only have my jobs here, but I should be able to take a large contract in M—, where they want me to build a church and some school buildings. Dr. Marvin will be glad to keep the house, and the furniture is as safe as possible."
"Oh, I am quite satisfied," replied Letty. "I don't know but I feel as much at home here as though I had lived here all my life. The only thing that I miss is my house and garden. I must confess I am growing tired of boarding."
"I have been thinking about that," replied John; "and I have been making some inquiries. I find we can rent a furnished house in the suburbs, where there is a nice old garden, at a very reasonable rate. It is an old-fashioned place both in fittings and furnishing; but it is roomy and sufficiently convenient."
"I should not mind the fashion, if it is only comfortable and pleasantly situated," remarked Letty. "I have rather a fondness for old-fashioned houses."
"Let us go and see it," said John.
It proved to be a large brick house, with upper and lower verandas, commanding a fine view and possessing a spacious garden overrun with vines and large old shrubbery and filled with all sorts of flowers, both rare and common. Letty fell in love with it at once.
"This is charming!" said she. "How I shall enjoy putting the garden in order! There is every thing here, and nothing is needed but to reduce it to some kind of system."
"You will hardly care to do much to a rented place," remarked the next door neighbour, who had charge of the keys. "One cannot take much interest in a garden which one expects soon to leave."
"As to that, we are all tenants at will," said John. "If the place were my own, I should have no assurance of keeping it a single week."
"True," said Letty, thoughtfully; "and yet one does feel differently about a place of one's own. It is pleasant to think that we can leave the work of our hands to our children."
"And how many people in this country do so?" asked John. "Our improvements will go to somebody's children, if not to our own; and, meanwhile, we have the pleasure of seeing them."
The house was taken; and Letty, rejoiced to find herself once more with a house and garden of her own, set herself to work in earnest to remedy, by all sorts of contrivances, the deficiencies of the furniture, and to weed and put in order the neglected flower-beds. The place soon assumed a pleasant, cheerful aspect; and here Letty's third child was born,—a fine, stout boy.
It was when the new-comer was two or three months old that John one day brought in a paper directed in Gatty's handwriting.
"There must be something special in it," said Letty. "Look and see if there is any place marked."
John looked, and uttered an exclamation of horror as the paragraph met his eye. Letty read over his shoulder:—
"FRIGHTFUL ACCIDENT AND LOSS OF LIFE.—We are grieved to announce the death of the infant son of our well-known townsman, Mr. Joseph Emerson. It appears that Mr. and Mrs. Emerson had been out late at a party, and on coming home went, as usual, to the nursery to see their boy. They were horror-struck at seeing the room full of smoke, and, rushing to the crib, found their little one almost reduced to a cinder. Terribly injured as he was, the child survived several hours. There was a small open fire in the room; and it is supposed that during the momentary absence of the nurse a spark must have fallen into the crib."
Letty sat down, too much shocked to speak.
"What a frightful accident!" said John. "But does it not seem very strange that the child's clothes should have been set on fire that way?"
"I do not believe that is the true story," said Letty. "There has been some horrible carelessness, you may depend upon it. Poor Agnes! What will become of her?—She was so bound up in that boy. Mrs. Cutler told me she hardly ever saw a child so idolized."
"Perhaps her heart may be turned towards poor Madge," remarked John. "I am afraid, from all I hear, that she has a great deal of trouble before her. I met Mr. Williams on the cars the other day, and he told me that Van Horn's establishment is gaining a very bad character, and that they are hardly considered respectable. He says Joe lives very hard."
"I believe I will write to Agnes," said Letty, after some further conversation. "It can, at any rate, do no harm; and her heart may be softened by her troubles. Oh, if she might only be led to the true source of consolation!"
Letty wrote accordingly; but she received no answer, and remained in doubt whether Agnes ever received her letter. She heard indirectly that they were increasing their expenses and making more and more show in dress and equipage, and that Mrs. Cutler had removed from the neighbourhood,—a circumstance which she very much regretted, on account of poor Madge. Of Madge herself she could learn nothing whatever.
At the end of two years, John decided to sell out all his property in T— and remove permanently to his Western home. It was not without some pangs that Letty made up her mind to this step. Her affections had taken very deep root in the little place in Myrtle Street, where her married life began and where her Alick was born and died; but she saw that her husband's heart was set upon it, and she could not but own that it was best. She was obliged to admit that her own health was improved by the change to a milder climate; the children were very well, and she had now no special ties to their old home.
So it was finally decided that they should return to T— for two or three months, to settle to their affairs, sell the place and superintend the packing and removal of the furniture. And, as Dr. and Mrs. Marvin were going away for a few weeks, they took up their quarters in their own house for that length of time.
Letty could not but admit that the house seemed very small and confined, and the garden very little, after the place to which she had been lately accustomed. And, though she refused to confess as much to John, she was obliged to own to herself that she should be very glad to find herself back again.
It chanced, one day shortly after her arrival, that she went with little Eunice—or Una, as she was called—into Williams's grand restaurant of the little city of T—. She noticed a lady standing at the counter as she entered, but did not observe her particularly.
As she paused at the counter and ordered some ice-cream and sponge-cake for herself and Una, the stranger turned quickly round. She was dressed in the height of the fashion; but her countenance was careworn and haggard, and her complexion was of a dead, livid paleness.
After a few moments' apparent hesitation, the stranger spoke to her.
Letty started and turned round. The voice was surely familiar.
"Agnes! Is it possible this can be you?"
"Even so," replied Agnes, returning the greeting with some appearance of affection. "I thought you did not mean to speak to me, Letty."
"I did not know you," said Letty, "you are so thin and pale. Are you ill?"
"I am as usual, thank you," said Agnes. "I know I am very much altered, but I did not think of your not recognizing me. I could hardly expect you to speak to me, after all that has passed."
"Let by-gones be by-gones," said Letty. "I am very glad to have met you. I have asked about you several times, but could hear nothing. How is Madge?"
"She is about the same. There is very little change in her, that I can see," replied Agnes, in an indifferent tone. "She has been at Dr. Woodman's establishment for the last year, and seems very happy there. You know he has bought the old Bingham place and set up a sort of private hospital."
"Yes; so I heard. I am very glad Madge is under his care, as I have the greatest faith in his skill."
"Is that your little girl? A fine child: isn't she?"
"She is very healthy," said Letty. "She has never known a day's illness in her life. Una, this is the mother of Cousin Madge, of whom I have so often told you."
"You have another child, have you not?" she asked, after another interval of silence.
"Yes; a fine little fellow, over a year old."
"I suppose you heard how I lost my boy?" said Agnes.
"Yes; Gatty De Witt sent us a paper containing the account. I wrote to you as soon as I heard of it."
"I never received the letter," said Agnes. "I had a feeling that you would write if you heard; though I hardly know what reason I had to expect it."
"It was a terrible accident, and seemed a very mysterious one," said Letty, thinking she saw a desire on the part of Agnes to continue the conversation. "Did you have a wood-fire in the nursery?"
"There was no fire of any kind," said Agnes, abruptly. She paused, looked around, and then drew close to Letty. "Letty, that child was murdered!—Murdered by his own father!"
"Agnes! What do you mean?" said Letty. "You don't know what you are saying!"
"It is true!" said Agnes. "Just as I say. We came home late, and Joseph was half drunk, as usual. I was detained down-stairs, looking for a ring; which I drew off with my glove. He went straight to the nursery, lighted a cigar at the lamp, and threw the burning paper into the baby's cradle. It was a warm night; the child was covered only with a cotton spread, and the mosquito-bars were partly down. I caught a sight of the blaze from the stairs; but before I could get to him, the whole crib was a sheet of flame;—it was too late! He recognized my voice, and stretched out his arms to me. He lived six hours afterwards; but they gave him chloroform, and he never knew me again!"
Letty did not know what to say. Agnes spoke rationally,—too rationally for her to doubt the truth of the narrative, even if it had not been in itself quite probable. Nothing astonished her more than the change in Agnes herself. There was nothing of the old fretful excitability and emphatic manner of talking even about trifles. She spoke in a low, dull tone, almost as if she were talking in her sleep.
"Joseph told his own story," she continued, "and I was too much occupied with the child to contradict him, even if it had been worth while. He is very much changed,—more than I am. He is mad with brandy half the time. Even Madge had lost her influence with him, and he was glad to get her out of the house."
"Poor Madge!" said Letty.
"Oh, she is happy enough," returned Agnes, indifferently. "She had no love for her home, and they take very good care of her. It seemed cruel that she should be spared, while my noble, healthy boy was destroyed. If she had been the one—"
"Oh, Agnes, don't say so!" interrupted Letty. "Madge is your own child, your first-born, and has a double claim upon your affection in her helplessness. She might be a great comfort to you, if you will only feel it so."
"Perhaps so," said Agnes; "but I am past all feeling. I think I should like to see your boy, Letty."
"Why will you not come home and spend the day with me, Agnes?" asked Letty. "You need see no one,—not even John, if you do not wish it."
"I cannot go to-day; though I should like it," said Agnes. "But Joseph is going to New York to-night, to be away some days, and I may come while he is gone,—that is, if you care to have me."
"What has become of Mrs. Van Horn?" asked Letty.
"I never see her," replied Agnes. "We quarrelled long ago, and we do not speak when we meet. You were quite right in your estimation of those people, Letty. It was an evil day for us when we first saw them."
"So I rather supposed; but we will let that go with the rest, Agnes. There is no use in recalling old grievances. I wish I could see you looking better. I am sure you must be suffering. Do you have that cough all the time?"
"Whenever I am tired, or take a little cold. But good-by! I have stayed too long here."
AGNES.
IT was with a sad heart that Letty returned to her home.
The more she thought of the story she had heard, the more probable it appeared. But the change in Agnes herself was what weighed most painfully upon her; and the more she reflected, the more she was struck with the alteration. It hardly seemed possible that the pale, emaciated phantom she had seen could be the blooming creature she once knew. Then Agnes had always been so hasty, so eager, so excitable upon the smallest occasions. Now she seemed, as she herself had said, almost without feeling: whether she talked of her child's tragical death, her altered position in society, or the change in her husband, all was spoken in the same dull, even tone and with the same look of utter apathy. It almost seemed to her that the real Agnes who used to live in Number Ten was dead, and that this was some strange spirit which had assumed her form.
When John came home to dinner, Letty told him the story of her meeting with her cousin.
John looked a good deal disturbed.
"I suppose it cannot be helped," said he; "but I almost wish you had not encountered her. People tell terrible stories about them. No one visits them but the most dissipated set in town; and the establishment in Gay Street is becoming infamous. I am very sorry for Agnes, however."
"You could not help pitying her if you should see her," said Letty. "I never saw such a change in any one in my life. I had not the least idea who she was, till she spoke to me; and the alteration in her manner is as great as that in her face. It seems as though she had lost all hope or interest in life."
"Did she say any thing about Madge?" asked John.
"Only that she was at Dr. Woodman's, and quite happy. I can imagine that she finds the change a pleasant one from her lonely, neglected state at home. Agnes seemed to think there was no improvement in her health, and that none was to be looked for; but she spoke in the same indifferent tone of Madge as of every thing else."
"Well," said John, "they are our own relations, after all, and we cannot help it; and I am sure I shall be glad to do any thing I can to help Agnes."
The next day Letty stayed at home, expecting her cousin; but Agnes did not make her appearance.
About one o'clock a carriage came to the door, and the driver gave Letty a note. Agnes was too unwell to venture out, but would be very glad to have Letty come and see her, and had sent the carriage for that purpose.
John demurred a little at letting her go, but yielded at last to her earnest desire; and Letty was taken to her cousin's house at the South End.
The door was opened to her by a smart coloured waiter, who showed her at once to her cousin's room, saying that Mrs. Emerson had not been down-stairs that day.
Letty, glancing into the parlours in passing, saw that the rooms were furnished in the height of the fashion, and apparently in the most expensive manner possible; but the furniture was all in confusion, and a slatternly-looking housemaid was just beginning to put it in order.
Letty found Agnes lying on a couch in her own room, which was as lavishly decorated as the rest of the house.
"It was very good in you to come and see me," said Agnes. "I hardly expected it when I sent for you. I did not believe John would let you come. Now take off your bonnet, that I may see how you look."
Letty complied, and sat down by her cousin's couch.
Agnes regarded her earnestly.
"You are very little altered," said she. "You look as if you had been very happy."
"I have," replied Letty. "God has been very good to me."
"Those very words show that you are not altered," said Agnes. "You are just as religious as ever."
"More so every day, I hope," said Letty, earnestly. "The things belonging to God and heaven become more and more realities to me the longer I live and the more I see of the world."
"Joseph said you would get over all that when you moved West and went into society and into business," remarked Agnes. "He said John would not find the pious dodge—as he called it—answer with Western folks; but I think it seems to have answered pretty well with both of you."
"If it had been only a dodge, as you say, it would not have answered either there or here. John's religion is no mere question of expediency: it is a part of himself."
"I believe you speak the truth, Letty, far as you and John are concerned; but a great deal of religion does seem to me as much a matter of fashion as the clothes that people wear. I have often wished I had been differently brought up in these matters, even if it is all a delusion. Not that I think it all a delusion," she added. "I believe in a God; but I believe he is a very different God from yours. However, we won't enter into a theological discussion: the subject is not a pleasant one to me. Madge will talk to you about it by the hour together. She is more religious than ever since she fell into Dr. Woodman's hands. I sometimes think she is a little wild upon the subject; but it is, at any rate, a more amiable derangement than some others. But you have had no luncheon, Letty. If you will be so kind as to ring the bell, they will send up something."
Letty complied, wondering and grieving more and more over the change in her cousin.
Agnes was dressed in a plain white wrapper, which showed still more plainly her extreme thinness. Her hair, which was combed carelessly back from her face, showed many white threads; her cheeks and temples were sunken and wrinkled, and the skin seemed to hang loosely on the bones; while cheeks and lips were alike destitute of colour. She spoke in a hollow, forced tone, as though every word cost her an effort; and in her appearance, as in all she said and did, there was an indescribable expression of real heart-suffering.
The luncheon was served with great elegance upon a silver tray, with abundance of the most beautiful glass and china. The waiter brought Agnes a glass of ale, into which she dropped some medicine from a bottle which stood upon her dressing-table.
"Do you take medicine all the time?" asked Letty, when the waiter was gone.
"Yes," replied Agnes, drinking her ale: "it is all that keeps me alive."
Letty took up the bottle.
Agnes made a movement as if to prevent her; but she had already read the label.
"Black drop!" she exclaimed. "Surely, Agnes, you do not take this every day, and in such doses?"
"Two or three times a day," said Agnes. "It is a bad habit, perhaps; but there is no help for it now. I must keep up, at any price."
"But you will not keep up long, at that rate," said Letty. "You are killing yourself as fast as you can."
"Well, I suppose I am; but what can I do? I must keep up, as I said; and it is the only thing which gives me any ease. Don't talk of it now, Letty: it is of no use. You cannot judge for me, any more than I can for you."
"This is just such a room as you used to plan for yourself when we were little girls together, Agnes," said Letty, looking around her. "Do you remember how we used to sit under the trees in our back-yard, and talk about what we would have when we grew up? I recollect your saying that you would have plenty of pretty little bottles with sweet things in them, and a bed with worked-muslin curtains lined with pink. It is not often that a castle in the air is so literally built."
"Yes; I have been filled with the fruit of my own desires," said Agnes. "'He has given me my heart's desire, and sent leanness withal into my soul.' I have learned several things since then:—among others, the fact that beds with worked curtains are just as disagreeable to lie awake in, as beds with patchwork coverlets, and that something more is necessary to one's happiness than the mere having no sewing to do,—which I remember used to be your idea of perfect felicity."
"What do you do, Agnes?" asked Letty, anxious to get at some particulars of her cousin's life. "How do you employ your time?"
"Oh, one day is very much like another. We rise late to a late breakfast, and I go out and do shopping, or order things for dinner and supper, as the case may be, or make some calls; though my calling acquaintance has grown very small since you went away. Joseph never comes home till dinner, and not always then unless we have company; and I take a nap in the afternoon, whenever the pain in my chest will let me sleep. We always have company in the evening, and then Joe expects me to entertain them. You would be surprised, Letty, to see how well I look when I am up for the evening."
"But what company do you have?"
"No one that you would care about meeting," said Agnes, with a strange laugh. "They are men and women who come to play cards and eat game-suppers and drink wine and brandy punch,—women whom your friend Mrs. Trescott would not admit within her doors or see in the street, but who are very merry and jolly nevertheless.
"I wish you could see my husband when the people are gone and he has lost money, or has not won quite as much as he expected. Would you like a specimen of his language at such times? Look here!" Agnes turned back her loose sleeve as she spoke, and showed her arm, black and bruised from the shoulder to the elbow. "That is his parting gift to me," she said. "I expect he will kill me, some time. What do you say? Will you change places with me?"
"God forbid!" said Letty, shuddering. "But I always thought Joseph was kind-hearted and fond of you, whatever else he might be."
"So he was," said Agnes: "I will do him that justice, at least. He was naturally amiable and easily influenced; and if I had been any thing else than the fool I was, I might have done any thing with him. But it is too late now. Brandy and remorse together have made a devil of him. I dare not cross him in the least, and do not know when to fear him most,—at night, when he is drunk, or in the morning, when he is sober.
"Add to all this that I suffer night and day with the tortures of a growing cancer, and that, sleeping or waking, the image of my murdered child is never out of my mind for ten minutes at a time, and then wonder, if you can, that I take opium."
"But how is all this to end, Agnes?" said Letty, finding her voice at last. "This cannot go on forever."
"Not exactly in the same shape, perhaps," replied Agnes. "I don't suppose there will be any opium or brandy THERE," she added, with a fearful smile and a tone which was almost too much for Letty's firmness. "My children will at least be happy, though I shall never see them:—that is my only comfort. Madge's infirmity has kept her out of the way of contamination, and my baby was an angel even in this life. I only wonder how such a child ever came to be given to a creature like me."
"He was sent to lead you back to God," said Letty, with tears. "Oh, Agnes, don't reject God's mercy. Your treasure has been taken to heaven, as you say; let your heart go there also. Repent and turn to God, and he will have mercy upon you. Oh, believe me, he will!"
"It's too late," said Agnes.
"No! No! It is never too late,—never in this life. Agnes, all may yet be well."
"I tell you it can never be well," said Agnes. "My life has been all one sin, one steady rebellion against God, from beginning to end. I have destroyed myself and my husband. I have murdered one child, and all-but murdered the other. I have hardened my heart against all the reproofs and warnings I have had, till my conscience is dead,—dead, and I cannot even feel. It's too late!"
"Agnes, it is never too late while life lasts," said Letty. "I do not deny that you have been a great sinner; but that does not shut you out of the hope of God's mercy. The blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin. He died for such as you,—for you; and he now lives in heaven to intercede for you. Christ will save you, if you will but consent to be saved. He gave his only Son to die for you."
Agnes looked at her for a moment, and then burst into a passionate fit of tears and sobs.
Letty rose in some alarm; but Agnes put out her hand to detain her.
"Don't," said she. "Let me cry! Oh, it is such a blessed relief!"
Letty knelt on the floor beside her cousin's couch, speaking all the tender and endearing words she could think of, repeating promises of Scripture and broken sentences of prayers, while Agnes wept on as though her tears would never cease.
"Oh, it is such a comfort to cry!" said she, at last. "Do you know, Letty, I have hardly shed one tear since my baby died! My tears seemed all turned to fire."
"How you have suffered!" said Letty. "But, Agnes, the worst may be over now, if you will. Do but turn to God and cast your heavy burden on him. He will not reject you. He will sustain and comfort you."
"I cannot believe it," said Agnes; "and yet, when I see you here by me, Letty, and remember how you were treated the last time you were in this house, it does not seem so very incredible. But don't deceive me with vain hopes, Letty."
"I would not do so for the world," said Letty, earnestly. "I do not give you one promise or invitation that is not in the Bible. But, as truly as I know that you are alive, I know that God is ready and willing to receive you, if you are willing and repent. You need not be in this despair one moment longer. Only pray for yourself; only ask him, from the bottom of your heart, to have mercy on you and receive you through Jesus Christ,—and then believe."
"How could I break off my present life?" asked Agnes.
"God will open a way for you," replied Letty. "He will make your path plain before your face, even though it be beset with thorns and briers. Oh, Agnes, don't grieve the Holy Spirit by rejecting him again! Don't harden your heart, Agnes! Think of your child in heaven, and of your mother—"
"Hush, Letty!" exclaimed Agnes. "You bring my sins to remembrance when you talk of mother. I was a wicked and undutiful child. I believe she might have lived till this time if she had had decent care; but I let her work herself to death for me, and disregarded her complaints. Oh, it can never be that such a creature as I can be forgiven! It is only mocking God to ask it,—only adding awful presumption to my other sins!"
"It would indeed be awful presumption in any of us to come to God as we do, if he had not expressly invited us,—if he did not call us individually to come," said Letty; "but, since he does, the presumption is in doubting his word and refusing to believe his promises."
"It may be so," said Agnes.
"Try him," said Letty, with animation. "Only take him at his word, and see. Ask him to give you repentance and his Holy Spirit."
"But, if I should ask him, how shall I know that I have an answer?"
"Because he has said he will answer," replied Letty. "Just believe his plain words in the Bible, without waiting for any special sign. Try him, and see. Promise me, Agnes, that you will."
"Ask him for me, Letty," said Agnes, in a low tone. "I can believe that he will hear you."
Letty knelt by her cousin's side and poured out her whole heart in prayer for the poor wanderer—that she might be led back to the Father's house whence she had strayed; that the eyes of her understanding might be opened to see, and her heart to receive, the Son of God crucified for her; that she might have true repentance and faith to accept the mercy which is so freely promised.
Agnes wept, and answered with an earnest "Amen."
When Letty rose after an interval of silent supplication, she could not but think that the expression of her cousin's face was changed and softened. It might be the mere physical relief of weeping.
Presently a carriage stopped, and a ring was heard at the door.
Agnes started nervously.
"I cannot see any one," said she, hurriedly. "Tell Prince not to let any one in."
"It is nobody but John," said Letty, peeping through the blind. "He promised to call for me at four, and take me up to Mount Faith. I wish you were able to go."
"I wish I were; but it would not do," replied Agnes. "Do you know, Letty, I have never seen my child's grave since he was buried? I could not bear it. It seemed like looking at the wall which separated us forever."
"But you will not look at it any more in that way," said Letty. "Think of it now as a closed door, which indeed divides you for a time, but which will open to let you in to the same peace and glory which he is enjoying."
"If I could but think it possible!" said Agnes. "I believe I could endure any thing if I had but the hope of seeing my child once more. But I cannot believe that such a sinner as I am can turn round and be good all at once. I have always laughed at sudden conversions."
"That is because you confound two separate things," said Letty. "You cannot be good all at once; but you can turn round all at once. Suppose a man, walking over a prairie on a cloudy day, loses his way and among sloughs and quagmires: presently the sun comes out and shows him that he is going exactly in the wrong direction. It may take him a long time to get out of the quagmire upon firm ground and to retrace the steps he has taken amiss; but the turning round is the work of a moment."
"That sounds like one of Dr. Woodman's Sunday-school illustrations," said Agnes.
"It may be so," replied Letty, smiling. "I have been indebted to him for so many ideas, that it is not strange if I do not always know which are his and which are my own. Have you consulted him about the pain in your chest, Agnes?"
"No: I have never consulted any one,—partly, I believe, from a dread of hearing the truth, and partly because I had no particular desire to get well. I have little doubt myself of the true state of the case."
"I think, however, you should have advice," said Letty. "You may be making matters worse than they are. At all events, you might have something for that cough. Let me send Dr. Woodman up to see you: we can easily drive out there from Mount Faith."
"Not to-day," said Agnes. "I want to be quiet, and think. But, Letty, if you will do one thing for me,—stop somewhere down-town and send me up a Bible or Testament. I am ashamed to say I do not know where to put my hand upon one. Let it be in large print; for my eyes are very weak. God bless you for coming to see me! Joseph will not be at home till the last of next week, and I shall be quite alone. Do come again."
"I will come, to be sure," said Letty. "But, Agnes, don't depend upon me. Go to God! Oh, I feel as if so much depended on the present hour! Pray don't put this subject away till you have settled it once for all. Oh, Agnes, don't forget that there is such a thing as being too late!"
"I will not, Letty. I feel myself as though this were the turning-point. I have tried hard to make myself an unbeliever; but the old Sunday-school and Bible-class lessons would stick to me in spite of myself. After my child died, however, I did not try any longer. I could not bear to think that he had ceased to exist,—that there was no longer any Herbert. I liked to think of him as happy in heaven, even though I should never see him there."
"But you will see him there," said Letty. "You may make that sure this hour,—this moment,—if you will. You have only to accept of God's mercy in Jesus Christ, give yourself to him, and believe, on the authority of his word, that he accepts you, and all will be well. Why should you delay? It is not as if you wanted to be convinced of the truth of these things: you believe them already. Why not make them yours?"
"Mr. Caswell is waiting, ma'am," said Prince, opening the door.
"I forgot to ask you about Mary," said Letty.
"She is at Dr. Woodman's," replied Agnes. "She went with Madge; and I understand they make her very useful. Poor Madge! She is another monument of my insane folly. Do you remember how I blamed you for her misfortune?"
"That is another of the by-gones. And now I must be a by-gone myself, and not try the patience of my much-enduring husband one moment longer."
MRS. VAN HORN AGAIN.
LETTY did not fail to do Agnes's errand, sending her a Testament and Psalms in large print and in soft light binding, which would be easy for her to read while lying down. She repeated to John her conversation with her cousin, concluding with,—
"Now, are you not glad that I went?"
"I am indeed," said John. "It shows that one ought never to be weary in well-doing. I little thought, the last time you left that house, that you would ever enter its doors again."
"Agnes spoke of that," said Letty. "I could not remember it against her, when I saw how she felt about the matter. Indeed, I always regarded Agnes as living in a sort of dream, from which she would awake some time to see things as they really are. I am deeply thankful that the awakening has come before it is too late."
"I trust it may indeed be an awakening," remarked John, "and not a mere passing emotion."
"But even that is better than no feeling at all," replied Letty. "It shows there is life and sensibility remaining; and where there is life there is hope. Even a convulsion may be an encouraging sign, in some circumstances.
"But I cannot help thinking it is more than that with Agnes. For one thing, she seems to take such a rational view of matters. She does not accuse herself in extravagant generalities; but she sees that she has special sins to repent of, such as her neglect of her mother and Madge, and her treatment of her husband. She feels that she is in a great degree responsible for Joseph's present position."
"And so she is," said John. "Joe would never have left Mr. Haskins if Agnes had thrown her influence upon that side; but she was not satisfied till she had him engaged in some genteel business, as she called it. Joe might have been Mr. Haskins's partner, and a respectable man to this day, if they had known when they were well off."
"Agnes feels all that now," said Letty; "and they have gained nothing by the change. From what Agnes tells me, I can see that they have very few respectable visitors; though they have a great deal of company, such as it is. Poor Agnes! She will have a hard path to walk in, if she should turn to the right way. I do not at all wonder that she is discouraged at the prospect before her. She has need of all our prayers."
"The path may be made easy for her in some way that we do not now see," remarked John. "God's ways are not as our ways, and there are no impossibilities with him."
How often we say and hear and think over and over all these things, till they become trite, and we attach no meaning to them, and then all at once they become earnest, vivid realities to us, even the very anchors by which we hold fast to life!
Poor Agnes's path was indeed to be made plain to her,—but not in the way Letty had imagined. She pictured to herself Agnes with active health, going humbly about her life's work, fulfilling the long-neglected duties of a mother to her unfortunate child,—perhaps becoming the means of her husband's conversion,—and using her influence for good to all around her. Such was not God's plan.
Two or three days after Letty's visit, as she and John were at their late tea with some strawberries from their own garden, Dr. Woodman came in. He had opened a health-establishment—a sort of private hospital—in one of the large, fine old places with which the neighbourhood of T— abounded, and had his hands so full with his in-door cases that he seldom visited any but his old patients in the city.
"Here you are with your teapots!" was his first salutation. For an inveterate prejudice against "the cup that cheers but not inebriates" was one of the good doctor's harmless superstitions. "Teapots, and water-pitchers, and milk-jugs! Why don't you have some coffee and chocolate into the bargain?"
"I can make you some coffee and chocolate in a moment, doctor," said Letty, mischievously. "I would have had them ready if I had known you were coming."
"I have just been to see your cousin Agnes," said he, after a few minutes of desultory conversation. "She tells me you spent some time with her the other day."
"I am very glad," said Letty. "I very much wished Agnes to have advice, and tried to make her send for you at that time. How did you find her?"
"She is very ill," replied the doctor, gravely.
"She complains very much of pains in her chest and side, and seems to have quite made up her mind that she has a cancer," said Letty. "I thought the pain might proceed from some other cause. Agnes was always subject to neuralgia, you know."
"It is not a cancer," said Dr. Woodman. "There is an internal abscess. She may live a few weeks longer, or she may die at any moment; but her death-warrant is signed. There is no possibility of doing any thing for her. Her strength has been wonderfully kept up by opium and other stimulants; but she is past even that now."
"Is she at all aware of her condition?" asked John.
"Yes: she guessed at once, and would have me tell the exact truth. She seemed much relieved to find that the disease was not what she had supposed. Her great desire seems to be that she may live to see her husband again: and I have telegraphed for him. I shall send Mary in to stay with her; for she should not be left alone a moment, and their servants, I imagine, are not of the sort to be useful in a sick-room."
"I will go to her to-morrow,—or to-night, if it is best," said Letty.
"I would not go to-night," said the doctor. "She has had excitement enough; and I shall send Mary back directly. The coloured waiter—who seems the most civilized person about the house—promised to stay with his mistress till Mary came."
"How does she seem to feel?" asked John.
"She is very humble and penitent,—poor child!" replied the doctor. "She seems bowed down with the burden of her past offences, and hardly dares to think she can be forgiven; but I think she was more hopeful before I left her. She had her Testament on the bed; and the servant told me, with tears, that she had been reading, or making him read to her, all day. She said to me, 'You may think it strange that I should like to have him about me; but he is a handy, kind-hearted creature, and the only person in the house over whom I have any influence; and I should like to feel that I have done some good in the world before I leave it.'"
"That seems a hopeful sign: does it not?" said John. "It seems as though she were in earnest."
"She is sufficiently in earnest:—there is no doubt about that," returned the doctor. "I have strong hopes for her so far as another world is concerned; and really, all things considered, one can hardly wish to detain her in this. She would have but a sad prospect, poor thing! She seemed much impressed by your kindness, Letty, and said to me,—
"'When she looked at me in Williams's shop, I thought she knew me and did not wish to speak; but I was entirely taken by surprise when she put out her hands and spoke to me. I thought I was past feeling any thing; but her voice and manner went to my heart: it seemed to loosen some chain which had kept me from breathing for ever so long.'"
"I wonder if Joseph will come home," said Letty. "I almost hope he will not, she seems so much afraid of him. He must be greatly changed."
"He is possessed with a devil,—the brandy-devil," said the doctor. "He will not live long, unless he changes his course. Van Horn has been the ruin of him, as he and his wife have been of so many others. She had the impudence to accost me in a store the other day, to ask about Madge, and took occasion to remark that she was very sorry: she had once seen a good deal of poor Mrs. Emerson; but, as things were now, she could not possibly think of going there. There were sad reports; and she feared Mrs. Emerson had been very imprudent, to say the least."
"The hypocrite!" exclaimed Letty. "The whole mischief is more of her doing than that of any one else. What did you say to her?"
"I gave her a piece of my mind," said the doctor, with grim significance. "I don't think she will speak to me again very soon. I have seen a good deal of wickedness and its effects among men in my day; and it is my firm conviction that no man on earth can be so wicked or so mischievous as a bad woman."
"She did Agnes more harm than any one else," said Letty. "Agnes was brought up to think dress and fashion and outside show of more consequence than any thing else in life. I remember when we were children and went to Sunday-school together, poor Aunt Train could never find time to see that Agnes had her lessons, though she could spend hours in ruffling and working her drawers and petticoats and flouncing her dresses, that she might look as nicely as Bessie and Jenny Dalton.
"My stepmother spent very few hours in ornamenting my clothes; but she always found time to go over my lessons with me and to be sure that I understood every word; and she was always ready to answer my questions, as far as she was able. Aunt used to say she neglected me, because I went so plainly dressed, and that it was very hard upon me to require a certain amount of work and sewing from such a little thing every day. Sometimes I thought so too, and envied Agnes her idleness; but, after all, I loved Mother Esther far better than Agnes did her own mother.
"But Agnes was much more serious about the time that Madge was born. She really seemed to wake up, in some degree, to the true meaning of life. And I think she might have been very different if Mrs. Van Horn had not got hold of her."
"I shall send Mary back to take care of poor Agnes to-night; and you had better go and see her to-morrow."
"I suppose Agnes ought not to talk a great deal?" said Letty.
"Talking will not hurt her, unless she grows too much excited," replied the doctor. "She will be the better for relieving her mind. What I most dread for her is her husband's return. I really wish he would stay away; but she was so anxious to see him once more, and her life hangs on such a thread, I could not deny her request to send for him. After all, nothing can make much difference. Good-night."
Early the next morning, Letty hastened to her cousin's bedside. She found Mary reigning supreme over the sick-room, which had greatly improved under her administration. The perfume-burner was banished, and the air came in fresh and sweet from the open window; while a look of order and tidiness had replaced the former crowded condition of the apartment.
Agnes was in bed, raised high with pillows; for she could no longer lie down: There was a great change in her appearance. Her face was even paler than before, and her features were shrunken and sharpened as if with great pain; but the hard, mask-like look was gone; her eyes had lost their fixed, vacant expression; and she welcomed Letty with a sweet, natural smile.
"I am glad you have come again," said she, as Letty kissed her. "I wanted to see you once more; but I know you must be very busy."
"My business can wait," replied Letty. "I mean to stay with you as long as you want me."
"You are very good," said Agnes; and then, after a pause, "Have you seen the doctor?"
"Yes: he came to our house last night on his way home," said Letty, wishing to spare Agnes the repeating of his opinion. "He told me what he thought, and that he should send Mary."
"He was very gentle and kind," said Agnes. "It was a great relief to hear his opinion. I have so dreaded a long illness, such as I must have endured if my opinion had been correct! Now the way seems made so plain and easy before me! I feel so peaceful, so satisfied! I am sometimes afraid it must be wrong."
"I don't think it can be wrong," said Letty. "When God sends peace, no one can give trouble."
"Nothing disturbs or troubles me now but the harm I have done to others," continued Agnes, "I do hope—I cannot help hoping—that God has accepted me. But oh, Letty, when I think of my poor husband and the mischief I have done him, I think I can hardly be happy, even in heaven. He would never have been engaged in this vile business but for me. He was very much impressed by what John said to him about the matter, and came home almost persuaded to give up the whole affair and remain where he was. I believe a word from me would have turned the scale; and I did turn it,—the wrong way. My insane desire to be genteel—how I do hate the word!—pushed me on. I thought it would be so grand for Joe to be engaged in a wholesale business."
"That is something I never could understand," said Letty. "Why should it be more genteel to sell by the piece or bale than by the yard?"
"I am sure I do not know,—nor any one else, I suspect. But my head was full of such notions. Aunt Eunice might well call me silly. And, then, Celia Van Horn pushed me on. I do not want to speak unkindly of any one; but she is a wicked woman,—far worse than you know. She has drawn more than one poor, silly young man on to his destruction. It was a long time before I had my eyes fairly opened; but I did at last, and then we quarrelled. But I won't think about her now. Oh, if I could but live to undo some of the mischief I have done, I should be content!"
"You must not excite yourself, Agnes," said Letty, gently. "That is bad for you; and you will need all your strength."
"True," said Agnes. "I have something to do yet, and I must keep what little force I have for that purpose. I seem to have drooped very much within a day or two. I suppose I miss the stimulants I have been taking. The doctor would not let me give up ale; but I could not take opium any longer. I have hated it this long time; but I could not keep up without it. Oh, Letty, after the life I have been leading, you don't know the blessed relief it is just to give up and be sick!"
"I can imagine it," said Letty; "but you must not talk any more now. Let me read to you, and perhaps you may fall asleep."
"One thing more I must say, and then I will rest," returned Agnes. "Letty, I have a great favour to beg of you and John,—a favour so great that I should not dare to ask it if you were any other than yourselves. I want you to take Madge for your own. Carry her home with you, away from here, and keep her. I hardly think her father will object: he seems to have taken a dislike to the child, though he used to be so fond of her. I think he feels her presence in the house a kind of reproach; though she never says a word of the sort, so far as I know. She loves you dearly, and will be very happy with you; and I don't think she makes a great deal of trouble, for one so helpless. Still, I know it is asking a great deal."
"John and I were talking the matter over last night," said Letty, eager to set the poor mother's mind at rest, "and we agreed, if you and Joseph were willing, we would take charge of Madge. We can give her a pleasant room on the ground-floor, opening on a veranda, where she can have plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and be more like one of the family than if she were away up-stairs. I think we can make her very happy. I am glad you do not object; for we have quite set our hearts upon having her."
"You are very good," said Agnes. "It is the greatest possible relief to my mind to think she will be safe with you. But, Letty, I dare not promise that Joseph will do any thing towards her maintenance. Things are going badly with him; and, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a grand crash before long."
"Never mind that," said Letty. "We are rich enough and to spare. John has prospered in every thing he has put his hand to. The land we bought with our house has proved a fine investment, and we have already sold building-lots enough to pay for the whole. C— is a very growing place, and whole streets seem to spring up in a night, like mushrooms. I am almost afraid the place will become too valuable for us to keep. So do not let any such consideration trouble you, but think of the matter as settled, so far as we are concerned. Now let me read you to sleep."
The days passed on, and Agnes continued to grow weaker and to suffer more and more as the disease advanced. She talked very little, but lay quietly, sometimes reading a few words or listening to Letty's repetitions of hymns and passages of Scripture.
Nothing was heard of Joseph, though both John and the doctor telegraphed again and again to the address he had given in New York. Agnes seemed very anxious to see him, at the same time that she dreaded his coming home. She watched daily; and a ring at the door, or any unusual noise in the house, produced a degree of agitation as distressing as it was dangerous.
Madge had been brought home, at her mother's request, and spent many hours of every day lying on her mother's bed or sitting in a great chair by her side. She had improved so far as to be able to sit up a good part of the time.
It was touching to see how in the last hours of her life the mother's heart turned towards her long-neglected child. It seemed as though she could not bear to lose one of those precious minutes still accorded to them; and Letty had to use a little gentle authority to prevent them from injuring each other. Her heart swelled with thankfulness as she thought how precious these last hours with her mother would become, in the retrospect, to the orphan child.
"They say Emerson's wife is dying, Cilly," said Mr. Van Horn to his wife. "The Caswells have got hold of her again, and old Woodman is going there every day. Hadn't you better call and see her?"
"I don't think I could venture to go where I shall be likely to meet Dr. Woodman and the Caswells," replied the lady. "They have really been too insulting."
"Still, it might be worth your while. She has lots of handsome things, you know," said her husband.
"Yes, poor thing!—She was always extravagant. She bought that onyx-and-pearl set that I wanted so much; and she must have a great many ornaments besides. And, then, there is that splendid India shawl. Well, I don't know, after all, but it is my duty, as you say, to overlook every thing and visit her in her affliction."