Mrs. Van Horn always kept up a good appearance, even when she had no spectator but her husband,—perhaps because hypocrisy had become a second nature. Having despatched her household affairs, she dressed herself in her usual taste, and prepared to do her duty (as she said), by calling on her former friend, in whose India shawl she felt such a warm interest.
Prince met her at the door with no friendly face. He had become devoted heart and soul to his mistress, and did not look upon Mrs. Van Horn with any great favour.
"Missis is too sick to see any one," said he grimly, keeping his hand upon the door. "The doctor has prohibited any one from going up-stairs, and says she mustn't be flustrated on no account whatever."
"But she will see me," said Mrs. Van Horn, in her most insinuating manner. "I am an old friend of hers, you know; and I have been wanting to see her this long time."
"Seems to me you have stood it so long, you can stand it a little longer," replied Prince, totally unmoved by these blandishments. "Doctor said Missis wasn't to see no one."
"But you can go and ask, Prince," said Mrs. Van Horn, seeming not to hear the first part of the remark. "Mrs. Emerson sent me word, a day or two since, that she particularly wished to see me but I have been too unwell to go out of the house."
Prince wavered a little.
"I'll go and ask," said he, at last; "though I know she won't see anybody."
Mrs. Van Horn, as we know, was famous for carrying her points, and did not suffer from the restraints of delicacy. She followed Prince up-stairs, and her silvery voice was heard speaking over his shoulder.
"You really must let me in, dear Agnes. I will not tire you by talking; but I positively cannot pass another night without seeing you."
And, taking advantage of the man's astonishment, she pushed him aside, and entered the chamber, saying, "I am sure, dear, you must want some one to cheer you up—"
She stopped short, dismayed, in spite of her effrontery, partly by finding herself face to face with the two people she most dreaded to meet,—Letty and Dr. Woodman,—and partly at the change in Agnes. However, she recovered her voice in a moment.
"My poor child, how ill you look!" she cried, advancing to the bed. "I had no idea you were confined to your room. How dull you must be here, shut up from everybody! Your servant was not going to let me in; but I was determined to see with my own eyes that you were comfortable,—though of course you must be so, with such an excellent nurse as your cousin. My dear Mrs. Caswell, how remarkably well you are looking!—Positively younger than you did ten years ago! And how are the dear children?"
Letty was silent. She could not make up her mind to reply. The doctor's lip was compressed and his brows contracted. With all her impudence, Mrs. Van Horn was somewhat taken aback by her reception.
"Mrs. Van Horn," said Agnes, raising herself upon her pillow, "I cannot pretend to guess what has brought you here; but, as a dying woman—"
"Oh, my dear, don't talk about dying!" said Mrs. Van Horn, in a soothing tone. "I am sure you have no need to entertain such gloomy thoughts."
"They are not gloomy thoughts," said Agnes. "I thank Heaven I am ready to be gone. But do not interrupt me. You have seen fit to come unasked into my sick-room, and you must submit to hear the truth for once. Celia Van Horn, you and your husband have been the ruin of me and mine. I say it in all soberness. You have ruined my husband, body and soul; and it is not your fault nor your husband's if you have not done as much to me.
"I was weak and silly enough when you found me; but I was beginning to learn better. You took advantage of my weakness, prejudiced me by your lies against my best friends, alienated my heart from my duties, and made me your instrument in your vile schemes for living on the sins of others. That I have been a thousand times worse is no thanks to you: you did what you could to bring it about.
"You are a wicked woman; and, unless you repent, you have nothing but eternal woe before you. It is not too late; but it soon will be. I have tried hard to forgive you and to pray for you, and I trust I have done so; but, if you have any thing of the woman left about you, you will go away, and trouble my dying hours no more."
"Poor child! You don't know what you are saying!" interrupted Mrs. Van Horn, soothingly. "I would not talk in that way. Your mind is wandering a little, my dear!—That is all. Now, positively, I shall take off my bonnet and stay a while. I am sure you need some one to cheer you up and drive these gloomy thoughts out of your head."
"Celia! Celia! What are you made of?" said Agnes. "How dare you come here and talk to me in this way? You know that I speak the truth. For Heaven's sake, leave the house and let me alone. My hours are numbered. Let me die in peace; and remember that your own time is coming,—you know not how soon. My eyes are opened now to see things as they are; and I tell you that heaven and hell are awful realities. Your feet are standing on slippery places," she stopped, exhausted, and looked imploringly at the doctor, who made one step forward and laid his hand on the intruder's arm.
"Go!" said he, briefly and sternly. "Go quickly, or I shall find means to make you. I will not suffer any patient of mine to be disturbed in this way. Go; and repent, if haply the mercy of God may be extended even to you; but beware how you enter this house again."
"I am going," said Mrs. Van Horn, meekly. "I came here in the spirit of Christian charity, to—"
"Never mind how you came," interrupted the doctor, sharply. "I suppose you came to see what you could pick up, like other vultures under the same circumstances. What I want of you is to leave; and I propose to see you out of the house myself;" which was forthwith done.
Burning with rage, she went to her husband to complain of the way in which she had been treated.
"Actually turned out of the house by that wretch, Dr. Woodman!"
"Pocket the affront, Cilly," said Mr. Van Horn, philosophically. "It won't do to make a fuss about it just now. We shall make the place too hot to hold us, if we are not careful. I wouldn't go there again, if she didn't like it," he added. "It isn't lucky to quarrel with dying folks. I'll get you something prettier than any thing of hers, the next time I go to New York."
"I wonder what Emerson will say to all these goings-on when he comes home?" said Mrs. Van Horn, spitefully. "See if I don't stir him up a little: that's all!"
"Oh, no: I wouldn't," replied her husband. "Let the poor thing die in peace, and have her friends about her, and her prayers and her psalm-singing, if they are any comfort to her. You will only make a fuss, and perhaps bring some ill luck upon us. Better let her alone."
PEACE AT LAST.
IT was not appointed that Agnes should see her husband again. As the days passed on, and nothing was heard from Joseph, she grew very anxious. She busied herself, as she was able, in writing a letter to her husband, in which she stated her wishes concerning Madge, and entreated him to consent that the child should be given to her cousins. She read this part of the letter to Letty, and also a paragraph relating to the disposition of her clothes and trinkets.
"I want your boy to have my Herbert's silver cup," said she; "and there is a gold necklace for Una; and, Letty, I should like you to take all Herbert's clothes. They are in that camphor-wood box. You can use them for your child. Let Madge have all the rest of my things as she needs them. I have written all about it to Joseph; and I do not think he will object.
"Give him the letter some morning when he is sober, and tell him that I died praying for him. Oh, how different he and every thing else might have been, if I had only done my duty! But we were all wrong from the first. I had no idea what I was about when I married. I thought I was going to be rid of all trouble and have some one to wait upon me and take care of me for the rest of my life. How I used to laugh at you and John for your sober ways of thinking and acting! But you were far wiser than we were."
"I have to thank Mrs. Trescott for most of my wisdom," remarked Letty. "I have always been grateful that, by a kind providence, I fell into such hands when I was obliged to leave home."
"Yes: if all ladies were like her!" said Agnes.
"It is not all the fault of the ladies," returned Letty. "I believe a great many employers would be glad to do all in their power for those who work for them. But suppose a girl takes up the common idea that her mistress has no business with her after her work is done,—that she has a right to go where she pleases, and associate with whom she likes, and give an account of herself to nobody: what can her mistress do? That is the trouble with most of the young girls who go wrong. They set up for independence and will not submit to be guided by anybody.
"Do you remember Jenny Green, who lived at the Daltons'? She was in our Sunday-school class a while. Miss Dalton took her in, more from charity than any thing else, because she had actually no place to which to go. She did pretty well till she fell in with Cornelia Beadle, who lived with Mrs. Garland. Cornelia was a bold, impudent thing, who cared for nobody. She led Jenny into going out at night and staying late, and persuaded her that it was a fine thing to be independent, and Miss Dalton had no right to restrain her.
"Of course she fell into undesirable company; and the end of it was that she and Cornelia went off to the Springs with two young men, and were gone all night and all day. Miss Dalton tried all ways to reclaim her, but it was of no use; and the end of the matter was that Jenny died in the poor-house hospital, a poor, abandoned wretch. You see, as long as ladies have no power over those they employ, they cannot be accountable for them. What teacher would undertake to be responsible for a child whom he was not allowed to control?"
"I suppose that is one reason why so many girls prefer sewing or working at trades to living in families," said Agnes. "They like to be independent. A good many women earn a poor and precarious living in that way, who might have good wages and comfortable homes in respectable families. I believe, as you say, that the idea of independence and freedom from control leads away more girls than almost any thing else."
"It leads away a great many: I have no doubt of that," said Letty. "In the very nature of things, young girls cannot know, and ought not to know, the nature of the restrictions laid upon them. They ought to be willing to take them upon trust. But, instead of doing so, they make up their minds that all these restraints are unjust and tyrannical, and go on their own wilful way, till they are led to take some step which ruins their character forever. I don't suppose Jenny had the least idea what she was doing when she went away to the Springs in that fashion. She only thought it would be a fine thing to have frolic and do as she liked.
"Mrs. Trescott made it an absolute condition with all her girls that they should be accountable to her for all their comings and goings. She always said she would not have a young person in her house upon any other terms,—whether it were a young lady in the parlour or a domestic in the kitchen."
"She is a good woman," said Agnes. "It would have been much better for me if I had fallen into such hands. I remember very well how mother and I used to fret about your living out, and how mother used to tell every one that you only did sewing and taught the children. I remember, too, how distressed we were when you went into the kitchen to work."
"It was an excellent thing for me," remarked Letty. "If I had a dozen girls, they should all be taught to work."
"Have you begun in that way with Una?" asked Agnes.
"Oh, yes: she is quite a housekeeper already," replied Letty, smiling. "You would be amused to see her flourishing her little duster and to hear her remarks upon the subject. If I am spared to teach her, I mean she shall learn to do all sorts of housework in the best manner. It is much easier to learn before one is married than afterwards."
"I fully believe that," remarked Agnes. "I remember what a difference there was between you and me when we were first married. Your work did not take up half your time,—indeed, I never could tell when you did it; while mine was under my feet all day. I worked hard and tired myself out, and, after all, nothing was ever done as it ought to be."
"My own work was so light, in comparison with what I had been used to, that it seemed as nothing to me," replied Letty; "and there was Mrs. De Witt always at hand to help me in any emergency."
"She was always a good soul," said Agnes. "I remember the biscuits she baked and carried over to you the night you were married. It was a curious wedding present: wasn't it? No one but Mrs. De Witt would ever have thought of such a thing."
"It was a most acceptable present," said Letty, and laughing. "We had plenty of cake, preserves, and all that; but no one had thought of the bread. I well remember John's blank face when I asked about the flour."
"And do you recollect Aunt Eunice's visit? I always believed the state of my kitchen and myself that unlucky day was the real cause of the good old lady's will. I remember how kindly she talked to me that day when I told her my grievances. I recollect your dinner, too, Letty, and how jealous I was because they all praised your cooking, and how Mrs. De Witt washed up the dishes, and how vexed I was when you asked her to tea, until I saw the little silver jug with the coat-of-arms. Your mother was a silly woman in those days, Madge."
Letty could not help fearing that Agnes was talking too much; but she seemed to find so much pleasure in recalling old scenes, and telling Madge about her early life, that she had not the heart to check her. Indeed, Dr. Woodman himself had said that nothing could make any great difference, and that she might as well be allowed her own way.
At last, towards sunset, Agnes fell asleep.
But it was but an hour or two afterwards that her breathing became oppressed, and alarming tokens of approaching death were given. Letty rang the bell for Prince, that she might send for John; but, before she had time to give the message, all was over.
She gasped for breath once or twice; a look of repose came over her face, and her eyes closed on all things below the sun.
"What is it?" asked Madge, bewildered, and but half comprehending.
"Your mother is in a better world, I hope, my child," said Letty, taking her in her arms. "God has taken her to himself."
The grief of Madge was very bitter. She had always loved her mother, despite her neglect and coldness; and the last few weeks had greatly deepened the affection. It seemed as if she could not let her mother go without her.
"Oh, if I could only go too!" she sobbed. "What is the use of my staying here when they are all gone,—grandmother, and mother, and little Herbert, and all? Why can't I go with them?"
"My love," said Letty, "God will let you go when his time comes. If he keeps you in this world, it is because he has work for you to do which no one else could do as well."
"But I cannot do any thing," said Madge. "Such as I am are of no use to any one."
"That is a mistake," said Letty. "A great deal of good has been done by just such as you. I expect you will help me in teaching Una and Jack, if your father allows you to come and live with us."
"I hope he will," said Madge. "But what will father do when he comes home and finds that mother is dead?"
Letty could not guess what he would do. She had a presentiment of a terrible scene, and exerted herself to get Madge to bed and to sleep, at the top of the house, before there was a possibility of her father's arrival. She succeeded better than she expected. Madge was worn out with grief and excitement, and her year at Dr. Woodman's had taught her to be docile to authority: so that Letty soon had the satisfaction of seeing her sound asleep.
Mary and the servants had by this time finished the last solemn duties to the dead. Letty was preparing to go home to her children; and she and John were standing looking at the quiet sleeper who would never again be disturbed, when the front door was noisily opened, and some one was heard speaking in a thick, indistinct way.
"It is Joseph, and he is drunk," said Letty. "What shall we do?"
"He seems in a good-natured mood for once," said John, going towards the stairs, where Prince had already met his master and was trying to keep him from going up; but he made his way somehow to the side of the bed, where the body lay.
The moment the wretched man entered the apartment, he seemed to have a dim idea that all was not right.
"Is she sick? Is she dead?" he asked, in an awe-struck whisper. "You don't mean to say she is dead and I not here?"
"She died only a few hours since," replied John. "We telegraphed for you several times, but could hear nothing of you. She was very anxious to see you once more, and wrote you a long letter. She died happily, Joseph,—the death of a true child of God, repenting of her sins and trusting in her Saviour."
"She had nothing to repent of," said Joseph, fiercely. "She was as good a wife and as good a woman as ever lived. They told me stories about her, and I was fool enough to believe some of them. I was cruel to her! I abused her! Oh, Aggy, Aggy! Only once come back, and see how happy we will be!"
"She is happy where she is," said Letty. "She has suffered very much for some time past; but her death was without a struggle. She will never know pain or sorrow again."
"Oh, if I had only been here!" he exclaimed, with violent sobs. "If I could only have told her how sorry I am! I ill-treated her in every way. The very day I went away, I was cruel to her; and now she is gone, and I shall never see her again!"
John persuaded him to go to his own room; and after a while he got him to bed, promising to stay all night in the house.
The next day John found Joseph altogether sober and rational; but though perfectly friendly with his wife's relations, and apparently pleased to have them in his house, he was not disposed to talk. He asked some questions about his wife's illness, and expressed his gratitude to Letty for her care, saying it was more than he had a right to expect; but he was very silent, for the most part.
Directly after the funeral, Joseph packed, with his own hands, all Agnes's valuables, including their very handsome china and silver, and sent them to Mr. Caswell's address in C—. He then leased his house, sold all his furniture at auction, and went to board at a hotel.
John and Letty, having finished their arrangements, returned to C—, taking with them Madge and Mary, who was delighted with the idea of living with Mrs. Caswell and taking care of her poor darling, as she always called Madge.
John had laboured in vain to penetrate the reserve in which Joseph had wrapped himself, so as to find out what he intended to do, and whether he had any thought of abandoning his present business; but Joseph, though always friendly enough, absolutely declined any such conversation: so that his relatives were left entirely in the dark as to his future prospects.
A LAST GLIMPSE.
WE need not follow the Caswells far into their subsequent life. A visitor might have found them, not many years afterwards, sitting on their broad veranda, looking down over the pretty suburbs of the city to the great river on which it lay.
Madge, still helpless as far as walking is concerned, but with a look of health in her face which shows how much she has improved, occupies the wheeled-chair, where she sits nearly all day, and in which she goes all over the garden and the ground-floor of the house.
Una and Jack, now a great boy and girl, lean upon the arms of her chair, listening to an interminable account of a certain Prince Arthur, whose adventures have occupied them for many evenings, and whose journeyings extended all over the world. A second little girl, rather more than a year old, is carried off to bed by Mary, who pauses a few minutes to hear the end of a terrific combat with lions and elephants in which the prince is at present engaged.
Letty sits at a little distance, listening, while John reads the papers, and she is knitting,—not, as of old, on an afghan or a shawl, but on a substantial blue sock; for it is the first year of the war, and all hands are busily engaged in furnishing clothes and provisions for the soldiers.
John's hair begins to be a little gray, and he reads his paper with the help of glasses. His business has prospered beyond all expectation; and his purchases of land have turned out so well that he is, beyond all dispute, a rich man. People wonder that he does not pull down that great square pile and erect a handsome Gothic or Italian house in its stead; but John only smiles, and says his wife has old-fashioned notions about houses, and, besides, it is well-known that no builder could ever make a decent house for himself. So the old house remains unaltered, save by the insertion of some modern conveniences in the shape of bathing and heating apparatus.
Madge, as we have said, is much improved in appearance. She is now nearly seventeen. Her general health is good, and she seems to have outgrown her childish predisposition to brooding melancholy; for she is as bright and merry as the day is long. Letty, often calls her the sunshine of the house. She has an insatiable appetite for books of all sorts,—especially books of travel and adventure; and it is necessary to put some check upon the supply, lest she should injure herself by too close application. She has learned to draw, and shows great talent for the art. It is she who taught the two elder children to read and write, and hears their daily lessons; and she has lately occupied some hours of every day with a class of children from the neighbourhood, whose parents do not like to send them to the public school.
Letty at first feared that the work would be too much for her strength; but Madge seems so much to enjoy the occupation, and also the feeling that she is earning something, that she has not the heart to oppose her.
Years have passed since Madge has heard any thing from her father. They had learned from Gatty De Witt (now Mrs. Henry Woodman) that the establishment in Gay Street was broken up, and that the Van Horns had left the city and, it was supposed, had gone South; but they could hear no tidings of Joseph.
And here our story ends. We have seen Joseph and Agnes Emerson begin their married life under much the same circumstances as John and Letty Caswell. If there was any difference, the first couple had the advantage; for Joseph was earning higher wages than John, and he had better natural abilities. But there was from the first a radical difference between the two families.
John and Letty made the resolution, at the outset, never to run in debt if debt could possibly be avoided. Their house was, as far as practicable, paid for before they went into it; their furniture, when it was purchased. If they had no money to buy what they wanted, they went without. Letty did her own work, and knew, from previous training, how to turn every scrap and crumb to advantage. She did not think it beneath her to save odds and ends of grease and make her own soap, or to weed her own beds of cucumbers, lettuce and tomatoes, thereby saving many a shilling and sixpence which would otherwise have gone to the market-man and the pedlar.
Agnes had little knowledge of household work. Her mother had always taken all such matters into her own hands, in order, as she said, that her daughter might grow up a lady and not a drudge. Agnes thought it mean and stingy to save, and a derogation of her dignity to do the work of her own household.
John and Letty were always thinking what each could do to make the other happy and to lighten necessary toil. Joseph and Agnes were each thinking what the other ought to do, and each trying to throw upon the other the responsibility and the burden. If they fancied any thing, they bought it, and never troubled themselves about pay-day till the bill was actually presented,—when it was always found to be larger than any one supposed. They felt it incumbent on them to maintain as much show in dress and furniture as persons who had twice their income.
And Joseph was always delighted when people noticed the elegance of his wife's dress; but at the same time, she was never fit to be seen while about the house. Letty's nice dresses lasted three times as long as her cousin's, because she did not wear them to work about the stove or in the garden; while at the same time she always looked like a lady, whatever she might be doing. She cared nothing for being thought fashionable, and was not ashamed to wear the same simple straw bonnet two summers running; while the eight or ten dollars saved in this way was much more satisfactorily invested.
But there was a still greater difference,—one which lay at the bottom of all the others. John and Letty Caswell set up their household in the fear and love of God. They acknowledged him in all their ways, and besought him to direct their paths. They had given themselves to God, and he, in return, had drawn nigh to them, according to his covenant. True, they had known sorrow; but that affliction had worked in them comfort and peace, because they looked not at the things which were seen, but at those which were unseen. They had lived for God and for eternity, feeling that they had already entered upon that eternal life which the Son has secured for them that love him; and their path was as the path of the just,—a shining light, shining more and more unto the perfect day.
To Joseph, Sunday was distinguished as a day when he did not have to go to the shop, and might lie abed in the morning as late as he liked; when he had a better dinner than ordinary, and time to read the papers, look over accounts and smoke half a dozen extra pipes. He seldom went to church, because he said he could not afford to buy or rent a pew,—though the cost of the concert and theatre tickets in which he indulged would have more than defrayed it twenty times over. To Agnes it was a day for extra cooking; for sitting behind the blinds and watching the passers-by; for reading any stuff she could lay her hands on, and for an extra long afternoon nap. Once in a great while she went to church when she had any thing new in the way of dress to display, and came home prepared to give a full and particular account of every bonnet, dress and shawl within reach of her eyes. She had no time, she said, to go to church Sundays and weekdays, as Letty did:—she must stay at home and attend to her family. God was not in all her thoughts; and, if she did remember him, it was with an uneasy feeling, as of some one who was spying out her shortcomings, and might one day take her to task for them, unless he was propitiated in time by a better service. When her first child was born, she was much more serious for a while, and Letty began to have great hopes of her; but then the Van Horns came in with their influence, and her last state was worse than the first. Agnes became wholly occupied with the things of this world; in their poorest and most unsatisfactory forms. She withdrew herself from all sacred influences, and seemed actually to forget that there is a God.
And, now, what was the end? Agnes had died,—died in the very prime of life, a brokenhearted woman,—penitent, indeed, and hopeful, but weighed down with a sense of the irreparable mischief she had done to those nearest and dearest to her. Joseph was a wretched fugitive. Their only child was a confirmed crippled invalid, dependent for support upon those whom her parents had once despised; while John and Letty were independent and prosperous, happy in their children and in each other, good and doing good to all about them; and, better still, having the assurance that their present happiness was but the beginning of that eternal felicity which should endure as long as the throne of God in heaven. TRULY, GODLINESS WITH CONTENTMENT IS GREAT GAIN, HAVING THE PROMISE OF THE LIFE WHICH NOW IS, AND OF THAT WHICH IS TO COME.
THE END.