Charles had pledged himself to be in London by Wednesday; and he therefore determined to leave Exeter on the Monday morning, and to spend the half of Monday and Tuesday with his friend. His sisters were grieved to lose a whole day of his society, but they made no opposition to his plan, ready, as they always were, to give up their own wishes when the sacrifice was required. Isabella worked hard to finish her little book; too hard, Jane feared, for she did not look well, and was obliged to acknowledge frequently that her head ached. On the Saturday she set to work as soon as she returned from school, and was busy at the last drawing all the afternoon. She completed it just before dark, and her brother and sisters heartily congratulated her on having put the finishing stroke to her work: but she seemed to feel little pleasure; and as she was putting away her pencils, Jane observed that her hand shook violently, and that her face was flushed. Charles gently reproached her for her too anxious diligence; and she owned that she felt very unwell, but she did not think it owing to her laborious application. Jane urged her to go to bed; but she would not consent to lose so many hours of Charles’s society, and she persisted in sitting up to tea. She was however unable to eat, and her headache became so violent, and was accompanied with so overpowering a sickness, that she could hold up no longer, and was conveyed to her bed. Jane was very uneasy, but Isabella and Hannah both thought it might be a common sick headache, and persuaded Jane not to send for Mr Everett that night.At bed-time she was very feverish, and passed a miserable night, and when Jane went to her bedside at four o’clock the next morning, she was terrified to find her slightly delirious. Of course she remained with Isabella, and before breakfast-time she sent to request Mr Everett’s attendance, as soon as convenient. At six o’clock she gave her patient some tea, and then Isabella spoke sensibly again; but she was restless, and suffering much from headache.This was sad news for Charles when he came down to breakfast; and this last day with his sisters promised to be but a melancholy one. Mr Everett came early, and he was most anxiously questioned about his patient. He said that she was extremely unwell certainly; but whether it would prove a short and sharp attack of fever, or an illness of more serious consequence, he could not at present tell. He advised that no one should go into her room except Jane and Hannah, till they could be quite sure that there was no fear of infection. He desired Jane not to think of resuming her employments at his house for a week at least, both because it would be too painful to her to leave her sister, and because he had rather ascertain the nature of the disorder, before he exposed his children to the least risk of infection. This did not serve to make poor Jane less anxious. She sat by Isabella’s bedside, trying to keep down melancholy thoughts, while Charles took Harriet and Alfred to church. The whole of the day was spent with them, and he scarcely saw Jane at all. In the dusk of the evening, he was sitting by the parlour window, talking to his little brother and sister, when he saw the postman come up to the door. The arrival of a letter was a rare occurrence, and the first idea which entered Charles’s mind was that perhaps a further leave of absence had come to cheer him and Jane, when certainly such a comfort would be most welcome. But his heart sunk when he saw Mr Rathbone’s hand-writing on the letter which Hannah brought in. He reproached himself for his ill-bodings as they arose, and he asked himself why he dreaded a communication from one who had been the kindest of friends to him, and he anticipated the shame he should feel if, as was very likely, the letter should contain nothing but kindness. He requested Hannah to bring candles, and then to sit with Isabella, while Jane came down to read her letter, for it was addressed to her. Jane opened it with a trembling hand, and Charles at once guessed its contents when he saw it consisted of only a few lines. He caught it as it fell from his sister’s hand, and read as follows:“Mr Rathbone is sorry that he was prevented by an unavoidable accident from opening Miss Forsyth’s letter till yesterday. Mr R. would have rejoiced to afford substantial assistance to the children of an old friend; but they who can set the romantic whims of unformed judgments against the knowledge and experience of a friend who has passed a long life in the world, prove themselves incapable of being guided by advice, and of profiting by well-meant and willing kindness. Mr R. has therefore only to regret that he can be of no further service, and to hope that Mr and Miss Forsyth will meet with other friends, and will know better how to value and retain them.”Jane had hid her face in her hands, and was sobbing violently, while Charles read the letter.He was almost choked with emotion.“My poor Jane,” he exclaimed, as he hung over her, “that this cruel letter should have come just now, of all times. What a heart must that man have who could write to you in such a way. I wish he could see you now, that he might repent it as he ought to do.”“O Charles!” said Jane, “remember all his kindness to us.”“Remember it!” cried he, “it will stick in my throat as long as I live. O that I could send him back his bank-notes and his presents, and be free of all obligation!”“Nay, dear Charles, do not let us be ungrateful because he is hasty. His former kindness is not the less noble because of the present misunderstanding. We must be neither ungrateful nor proud.”“It is plain enough that he never saw you, Jane, or he would have blushed to insult such a nature as yours. I wish he could hear you speaking of his kindness just when it is most painful to remember it: he would feel how little he understands you.”“Never mind what he thinks of me,” said Jane, raising her head and attempting to smile. She saw that poor Harriet was in tears, and that Alfred was standing beside her chair with a look of deep concern. They both felt that all seemed to go wrong with them this day, though they knew not the cause of their sister’s unaccustomed tears.Jane threw her arm round Alfred’s neck and kissed him again and again. “Never mind,” she said again, “what Mr Rathbone thinks of us: we have Alfred safe; we have not sacrificed him; we have done what we think is best for our happiness; and shall we not willingly abide by our choice?”“Surely we will,” replied her brother, “and willingly pay the price of our independence, though it be a heavy one.”“It is a heavy one, indeed,” said Jane. “I grieve for you the most, Charles. We can go on living as we have lived, and be only reminded that we once had such a friend by the proofs of his kindness which we see every day. But it is hard upon you, separated from your family as you are, to lose your only friend in London.”“Do not think about that, Jane; I have friends, and can make more. If you are able to get over this pretty easily, we need only be sorry for Mr Rathbone: it must give him great pain to think us really ungrateful. Harriet, dear, come and tell me what is the matter. What makes you cry so?”“Because you are going away, Charles; and Isabella is ill; and Jane cried so; I am sure something is the matter.”“But Isabella will be better to-morrow perhaps, and Jane is not unhappy now; look at her, she is not crying now. Go and kiss her.”“All will come right again soon, I dare say,” said Jane. “Charles will come again some time when we are all well.”“And I shall not go to-morrow now,” said Charles. “I cannot leave you so full of care.”“O, Charles! you will, you must go,” said Jane. “You have promised, and you must go.”“I could not tell when I promised, that Isabella would be ill, and you so anxious. I cannot turn my back on you at such a time.”“You can do us no good, if you stay, indeed. I must be with Isabella, and Harriet and Alfred will be at school; so you would be of no use, and it would make me uncomfortable to think you were breaking your promise. O, indeed, Charles, this is mistaken kindness.”Charles did not know what to think: he proposed to consult Mr Barker.“Do,” said Jane, “he will tell us what is right.”Charles put on his hat.“I wonder whether we shall see you again?” said Alfred. “Harriet and I are going to bed presently.”Charles kissed them tenderly. “I dare say I shall see you at breakfast to-morrow,” said he: “if not, you will remember all the better what I have been saying to you this evening. You will be grown and altered much before I see you again. I hope I shall be able to love you then as well as I do now, or even better.”Mr Barker was much concerned to hear Charles’s little tale of anxieties. He advised him, however, to adhere to his promise respecting his return to London. Charles acquiesced at once in the decision of his friend, and was relieved by the kind promises he received that his sisters should be watched over with as much care as if their brother were beside them; especially that Jane should not be allowed to try her strength too much, in case of Isabella’s illness proving long or dangerous. Charles with much emotion bid farewell to his good friend, who said, “I cannot do for you what Mr Rathbone would have done: but you may depend on me as asurefriend at least. I hope, for his own sake, that he will come round again: in the mean time we must be more sorry than angry.”“Iwasangry,” said Charles, “but Jane made me ashamed of myself: she is as grateful to him as ever, and I will try to remember only his past generosity.”“Jane is a good girl, and will be made all the better by these rubs,” said Mr Barker. “However, we will smooth things for her as well as we can.”Charles called at Mr Monteath’s to say farewell, and to take a parcel from the young ladies to their brother. He said nothing about his sisters, as he knew Jane had rather be left in quietness, than have her attention to her patient interrupted, even by the kind enquiries of friends. Mr Monteath took down Charles’s address, and said he hoped to call on him in London before long; and he earnestly desired that any of the family would apply to him in any case where his advice or assistance could be of service.As Charles went home he thought with pleasure how his circle of friends appeared to be widening. He who was poor, and could only do good by seizing accidental occasions, he who had, in his own opinion, nothing to recommend him to the notice of his superiors, had gained friends whose present kindness was delightful to him, and on the steadiness of whose regard there was every reason to rely. He and his sister agreed, before they separated for the night, that, though they had some cares, they had peculiar blessings; that, though one friend was unhappily estranged, new and valuable supports were gained: and that valuable as these supports were, there was One infinitely more precious, whose love no error can overcloud, no repented sin alienate; who in sorrow draws yet nearer than in gladness, and sheds his own peace over the hearts which humble themselves under his chastening hand.It had been arranged that Hannah should sit up with Isabella for the first half of the night, and that Jane should take her place at three o’clock in the morning: as by this means she might see Charles before his departure at five o’clock.Mr Everett had called again in the evening. He saw no signs of improvement in his patient, and was sorry to observe the great reduction of strength which had taken place within a few hours. He was now pretty sure that the fever would prove a serious one. What he said had given Jane no comfort; but she endeavoured to brace up her mind to meet her cares, and she found, as most in her situation do find, that her strength proved equal to her trial. In a melancholy, but not a restless state of mind, she laid her head on her pillow, and having enjoyed the relief of expressing her cares and fears to Him who alone could remove them, she fell asleep, and continued so, till Hannah called her at four o’clock, instead of three, as she had been desired. Jane afterwards asked her the reason, and good Hannah declared that she could not find in her heart to disturb so refreshing a repose, till it was time to call Mr Charles also.“Thank you, Hannah,” said Jane; “but the next time we divide the night, I must take the first half, and you the last.”Isabella had slept but little, and though not delirious, was restless and uncomfortable. Her mind was full of Charles’s departure, and of her wish to see him again. She even wished to get up and meet him at the room door, if Jane would not allow him to breathe the air of the sick chamber. Jane was more prudent, however, than to expose Charles to the risk of infection, and she brought Isabella to be content with a cheerful message of love, which she knew Charles would send. Charles was yet more grieved than his poor sister to depart without exchanging a word or a kiss; for he could not keep off the thought that he might perhaps see her no more. There was no knowing; she might perhaps be no nearer death than the others; but it was a great grief to leave her so ill, and without saying farewell. He sent her a note, however, and promised to write frequently to her, and with this she was obliged to be satisfied.Never had poor Jane felt the trial of separation so much: the trial itself was greater, and she had no liberty to indulge her feelings. She could not leave Isabella, and she could not give way to tears before her, nor even speak to her of her sorrow. She smiled and spoke cheerfully, though her heart was heavier than it had ever been. Charles was not much happier; but they had both the consciousness of being useful to cheer them, and Charles really expected much pleasure from intercourse with Henry Monteath. He arrived at the well-known public-house by breakfast-time: he had recognised the very spot on the road where the coach was upset, and was himself surprised at the involuntary shudder which the sight of it caused.Mrs Monteath met him on the stairs, and welcomed him kindly. She said that her son was impatient to see him, and would be on his sofa, and prepared for a long day of pleasure, by the time Charles had finished his breakfast. In the mean time she conveyed to Henry the parcel which Charles had brought from the young ladies.In answer to his very anxious enquiries, Mrs Monteath said that her son’s recovery had been as favourable as possible: this was partly owing to the cheerful state of his mind, of which, she said, Charles would be able to judge when he conversed with him. She said she was surprised every day to find how easy she herself was: but she supposed that the pleasure of witnessing his daily progress, made her unmindful of what her son had gone through, and of the trials and deprivations he yet had to encounter. Charles thought this a very natural and happy thing, and he told Mrs Monteath, what he himself believed, that these deprivations would be much less formidable in reality than in anticipation. Mrs Monteath was an anxious mother, and she asked Charles many particulars about her family: how they were in health and spirits; how they spoke respecting their brother; and many other things. Charles told her all that had passed the evening before, during his visit, and observed that when he mentioned Miss Auchinvole, the friend of the young ladies, Mrs Monteath’s countenance expressed peculiar interest. Charles had not much to say about her, for she had scarcely spoken, but he could not help saying how much he had been struck by her appearance and manner. She looked pale and anxious, but she smiled occasionally; and there was a sweetness in that smile which Charles thought must make its way to any heart. He freely told Mrs Monteath what he thought, and far as he was from wishing to learn from her manner any family secrets, he could not help believing from the tears which rose to her eyes, and the mournful smile with which she listened to the praises of Margaret Auchinvole, that the friendship between her and Henry Monteath was of a dearer nature than that in which his sisters bore their part. Charles earnestly hoped that this might be the case, and that when restored to health, a happiness, to which this accident need, he thought, oppose no impediment, might be in store for his friend.Charles observed that there was much more appearance of comfort in the little parlour now than when he saw it before. Mrs Monteath told him that the people of the house were willing and obliging, and that she had contrived by various means to collect comforts round them, and to make their two rooms fit for the accommodation of an invalid, in preference to hazarding a removal, which might have been dangerous, and which her son dreaded more than any thing. She hoped in another week to remove him to lodgings in a farm-house, about four miles off, and in a month or five weeks to take him home.When Charles entered Monteath’s chamber, he saw him lying on his sofa, looking very pale and weak, but with a cheerful countenance. He eagerly held out his hand to Charles, and welcomed him with a smile and words of great kindness. Mrs Monteath left them together.“I rejoice to see you so much better and happier than when I left you,” said Charles.“Much better and much happier,” replied he. “I am glad that you have seen me again; for I am sure all your thoughts of me must have been melancholy thoughts; and I wish that my friend should see me in other hours than those of weakness and misery.”“So far from having none but melancholy thoughts about you,” said Charles, “I have been drawing a very fine picture of your future usefulness and happiness, for your sisters’ consolation.”“And did they believe you?”“I hope so, for I am sure I said nothing unreasonable.”“And did they all hear you?”“No, only two of them that evening. Last night, however, I saw the whole party, and they were all well and happy, as I dare say they have told you themselves.”“They have. When we get to our lodgings in the country next week, some of them will come to us. Much as I long to see them, I almost dread stirring.”“O you will recover much faster when you are in quiet, and when you can go out every day. You can hardly feel here the delight of returning health. I know from experience that the first sight of the face of nature, in a season like this, after days and weeks of illness, is one of the most exquisite pleasures that life can afford.”“Ibelieve it,” said Monteath. “I expect to enjoy it much; though, with me, all cares will not be over when health returns. I have already made up my mind to every thing, however, and am determined to make the best of my lot. It is astonishing how soon one’s mind becomes reconciled to circumstances. At this hour, a fortnight ago, I should have shuddered at the very thoughts of what I have yet to go through: but I am pretty well reconciled to it now, and do not see why I should not be tolerably happy. To be sure, this fortnight has seemed longer than any year of my life before.”“I do not see,” said Charles, “why you should not beveryhappy, when you have once got into the round of your occupations again. In the mean time you will meet with some painful circumstances no doubt; but then you have consolations which have supported you in a far worse trial than any you are likely to meet with again.”“True; those consolations are worth any thing: it makes me quite ashamed to set my fears and troubles in opposition to such comforts.”“If it is not painful to you,” said Charles, “I should like to know what your fears and troubles are; and perhaps by bringing yourself to speak frankly of them, you may find that your imagination has magnified them.”“It is selfish to talk so much about myself,” replied Monteath.“I came on purpose to hear you,” said Charles, “and nothing can interest me so much.”“Well, then,” said Monteath, “I have been thinking how far my usual pursuits will be hindered by this accident. I am afraid that my father will not allow me to take on myself, as I used to do, the most laborious part of our business concerns. I have, to be sure, spent a great part of my time in the counting-house; but there is a great deal of active business to be done besides, and journeys to be performed; and I am afraid that my father will take more upon him than at his age he can do without fatigue.”“I do not see,” said Charles, “why you should not be almost as active as you have ever been; and as to journeys, unless this accident has made a coward of you, which I do not believe, you seem to me just as able to take them as ever. If not, it is no difficult matter to procure a traveller. Depend upon it, your father will spare himself for his children’s sake. So you see business may go on as well as ever. Now for pleasure. Do you keep a horse?”“No, but I mean to do it now; that is no difficulty. There is one more, which I am almost ashamed to mention; but I will. I never could bear to be conspicuous, to be unlike other people, to attract notice; in short, to be stared at.”“Do not be ashamed of feeling that,” said Charles: “in my opinion, this is the worst evil of all.”“Is it, really?” said Monteath. “Worse than having one’s usefulness and independence impaired?”“No,” replied Charles. “But I see no reason why your usefulness and independence should be impaired. If you had lost an arm, the case would have been different: but art affords such helps in your case, that it is only on occasions of extraordinary danger that you would not be able to exert yourself as well as ever.”“I hope you are right,” replied Monteath. “You think, then, that I am not wrong to dread being made an object of curiosity for the first time in my life?”“I do not wonder at it, certainly,” said Charles: “but, remember, it will be only a temporary inconvenience: your acquaintance will soon get accustomed to the sight of you; and, if you will condescend to take pains at first with your manner of walking, there will be nothing remarkable in your appearance. I conclude you will throw aside your crutches as soon as you can?”“Of course,” replied Monteath. “You will see me in London for that purpose as soon as I am allowed to go. Now do you think me weak for dwelling on these trifles, as some people call them?”“Trifles they are not,” said Charles: “and therefore it is any thing but weakness to bring them out, to face them, and make up your mind how they are to be met. In my opinion, a great deal of mischief is done by calling these things trifles, and putting them out of sight as fast as possible, instead of affording that help to those who suffer under them which is largely dispensed on occasions which have not nearly so great an effect on happiness.”“That is exactly what I have often thought lately,” said Monteath. “In how many books, where the loss of fortune is described, the minutest difficulties which such a loss occasions are detailed at length! but if, as seldom happens, the loss of a limb is mentioned, we never get beyond the first part of the story, and the little daily difficulties and privations, which are of more importance than the lesser evils of poverty, are quite left out of sight. I imagine there are some ideas of ridicule attached to them.”“Perhaps so,” replied Charles; “but such associations are false, and ought to be broken through. Blindness is frequently made interesting in books: deafness seldom or never. There are interesting and poetical associations connected with blindness; ridiculous, low, or common ones only with deafness. A blind heroine is charming; but would not all the world laugh at the very idea of a deaf one? And yet this seems to me unjust: for I question whether, in daily life, both would not have an equal chance of appearing ridiculous on some occasions, and interesting on others.”“Do you mean partial or total blindness and deafness? A heroine totally blind is certainly thought more interesting than one partially deaf: but would not a deaf and dumb person make a better figure than one extremely short-sighted?”Charles laughed. “They are both as far from picturesque as need be, certainly,” said he: “but still I think blindness has the advantage in exciting interest.”“Well,” said Monteath, “nobody is likely to make a hero of me. I am in no danger of finding my own likeness in a novel or on the stage.”“No,” replied Charles, “nor yet in books of any other kind. If you had lost a friend or your fortune, you might find the most exact directions how to comfort yourself, and plenty of medicine of the soul to suit your particular case. As it is, you must look in books for general consolation, and elsewhere for what more you may need.”“This is no desperate condition to be in either,” said Monteath. “I think I could do without the general consolations you speak of. I have been on my sofa here this fortnight, with only one book (which of course you mean to except) and my own mind to draw consolation from, and I have found enough for my need. I expect, however, to be in greater need hereafter.”“Surely not,” said Charles. “Surely you have gone through the worst!”“I know not,” said Monteath. “The colour of my whole future life has perhaps been changed by this accident; and I must expect this conviction to come upon me painfully from time to time.”“What do you mean?” said Charles. “The whole colour of your future life! You surely do not mean that you will not marry?”“That is what I was thinking of, certainly,” said Henry, in a very low voice.“My dear friend,” said Charles, “this is the scruple of a sick man’s brain. Put it out of your head for the present, I advise you, and I will answer for it that, six months hence, you will feel very differently. The woman would but little deserve you who could raise such an objection; and you have just as much power now as ever to make a wife happy.”Charles wished to turn the conversation, for he saw that his friend was agitated; but he could think of nothing to say at the moment, except about Miss Auchinvole, and that was the only subject which would not do. At length he said, “You must not let me weary you with talking. You know I cannot tell what you are equal to, and Mrs Monteath will never forgive me if I set you back in the least. Had I not better leave you?”“O no! do not go!” said Monteath; “you do not know how strong I am. I shall sleep in the afternoon, but I hope to have you with me all day besides. I do not scruple saying so, for I cannot conceive that you will find amusement elsewhere in a place like this.”“If I could,” said Charles, “I am not much inclined for it to-day. Conversation with a friend is a great cordial in times of anxiety, and I own that I am anxious now.”He said this for the purpose of drawing his friend’s attention from a subject which appeared to agitate him too much. Charles was not wrong in expecting his ready sympathy. Isabella’s illness was mentioned, and Monteath forgot himself in his anxiety for Charles. He asked many questions about the girls and Alfred.“How old is Alfred?”“Nearly eleven.”“What do you intend him for?”“We have no present intentions about his future destination,” said Charles. “He will remain at school till he is fifteen; so we need be in no hurry about it.”“Then your sister will continue on her present plan till that time?”“Yes,” replied Charles; “for Harriet will not be old enough to go out before five years from this time. Isabella wishes to be independent in two years, and I think she will be well qualified; but it will be a grievous thing to Jane to part with her.”“It must, indeed,” said Monteath. “You know I have seen your sister Jane, more than once, and she fixed my attention immediately by the way in which she managed those spoiled children of Mrs Everett’s. Nobody ever had any control over them but your sister; but they are in much better order than they used to be.”“It gives Jane much satisfaction to think so,” said Charles.“But it must be very discouraging work,” said Monteath, “to do her best for them, for half of every day, and to be obliged to surrender them to be spoiled for the other half.”“I should find it so,” replied Charles: “but Jane makes as little as possible of discouragements. Her temper used to be an anxious one too: but she has had so much to do and to bear, that she has learned not to look from side to side in hope or fear, but to go on, straight forwards, in the road of duty, whether an easy one or not.”“She is an enviable person then,” said Monteath.“All things are by comparison,” said Charles, rather confused when he recollected what he had said about his sister. “I do not mean that she never flags: I was only speaking of her in comparison with myself, and with her former self.”“Nothing but religious principle could enable her to do this,” said Monteath. “This is the secret of her superiority, is it not? Without this her trials would have produced depression, instead of renewed energy.”“Certainly,” replied Charles. “There are many who pity her under her weight of cares, and who are grieved when they think that she is an orphan, and that she has more arduous duties to perform than many can get through under the guidance and with the assistance of parents or experienced friends. But Jane knows that she is guided, though invisibly, by the best and wisest of Parents, and the Bible is to her as His manifest presence: she has recourse to it on all occasions of difficulty, and can never want confidence or feel forlorn, while such a director is at hand.”“Those whose reason is matured enough, and whose religious affections are cultivated enough to attach their heart and soul to such a guide, may well do without other support,” said Monteath. “‘The integrity of the upright shall guide them!’ But there are few of your sister’s age who are thus advanced in the ways of wisdom.”“If so,” said Charles, “her superiority is to be ascribed to the peculiar circumstances in which the Father of her spirit has placed her. And, surely, trials which produce such an effect should be endured with submission and remembered with gratitude.”“That comes home to my conscience,” said Monteath: “Iam now under trial, and such ought to be its effect upon me. But your sister’s circumstances have been such as to draw her attention from herself, to carry out her affections and fix them on various objects: but I am afraid the direct tendency of personal suffering is to produce selfishness.”“It may either do that or the reverse, I believe,” said Charles: “I have known instances of both. I have heard of a cousin of my mother’s, who was a cripple from disease. She passed through life very quietly. She never complained of her deprivations: her temper was placid, and she found employment for her cultivated intellect in studies of various kinds: but nobody was ever the better for them. She did no good, though she never did any harm: she never seemed to love any one person more than another, and of course nobody was particularly attached to her. She lived to the age of sixty, and went on with her own pursuits to the very last, but she left no trace behind her of beneficent deeds, and she lived in the memory and not in the affections of those around her. I have always grieved over the wasted talents of this lady. Half her learning communicated to those less informed than herself, half her time (of which she had abundance) devoted to the assistance of her neighbours, half her affections exchanged with those who were disposed to love her, would have made her wise instead of learned, useful instead of harmless, beloved rather than served, and mourned rather than merely remembered.”“But she could not have been a pious woman,” said Monteath. “A life of selfishness is inconsistent with piety.”“Nobody can say that she was not religious,” replied Charles; “because nobody knew what she felt and thought: some say that she must have been pious, or she could not have been placid and contented under her deprivations. I should therefore suppose that she had just enough reliance upon Providence to prevent a naturally cheerful mind from being corroded by discontent: but it is easy to see that she had not those comprehensive views, which teach that the very best of selfish pleasures, those of intellectual cultivation, are to be pursued as a means only, not as an end, and that the grand design for which we are created is to diminish continually our concern for ourselves in an increasing love of God and our neighbour.”“I cannot help,” said Monteath, “applying cases like these to myself, just now. I want to place as many guides and as many warnings before me as possible. I hope it is not selfish to think of these things with a reference to myself, and to tell you that I do so.”“By no means,” replied Charles; “for I imagine that you feel the present time as a kind of crisis in your character. I think you must enter the world from a bed of pain, either better or worse than when you left it, and you are right to make use of all the helps you can.”“Then give me,” said Monteath, “some instances of benevolence promoted, of hearts and hands opened by personal suffering. It will do me good to hear them.”Just as Charles was beginning to speak, Mrs Monteath came into the room, and the conversation was turned into a different channel. Charles regretted this, but she had something quite different to ask her son about. The greater part of the day was spent in cheerful chat, and in reading aloud, which Mrs Monteath proposed, that Henry might not exert himself too much in talking. In the evening the young men were again left alone for awhile, and Monteath asked his friend to read a little to him from the Bible. Charles did so with much satisfaction, and after he had done, Henry tried to express to him what comfort and support their religious exercises had afforded him on his night of suffering. Charles rejoiced to hear him say so, but stopped him when he wished to speak of his obligations and his gratitude. They parted for the night with as warm feelings of interest and esteem as one day could produce, and another confirm.In the morning they met only for a few moments. They agreed to correspond occasionally, and to look forward to a time, not very far distant, when Monteath’s visit to London might give them an opportunity of meeting again. Charles then mounted the coach, and sighed when he thought of the friends he had left behind, and of the small number who would greet him with pleasure on his return to London.
Charles had pledged himself to be in London by Wednesday; and he therefore determined to leave Exeter on the Monday morning, and to spend the half of Monday and Tuesday with his friend. His sisters were grieved to lose a whole day of his society, but they made no opposition to his plan, ready, as they always were, to give up their own wishes when the sacrifice was required. Isabella worked hard to finish her little book; too hard, Jane feared, for she did not look well, and was obliged to acknowledge frequently that her head ached. On the Saturday she set to work as soon as she returned from school, and was busy at the last drawing all the afternoon. She completed it just before dark, and her brother and sisters heartily congratulated her on having put the finishing stroke to her work: but she seemed to feel little pleasure; and as she was putting away her pencils, Jane observed that her hand shook violently, and that her face was flushed. Charles gently reproached her for her too anxious diligence; and she owned that she felt very unwell, but she did not think it owing to her laborious application. Jane urged her to go to bed; but she would not consent to lose so many hours of Charles’s society, and she persisted in sitting up to tea. She was however unable to eat, and her headache became so violent, and was accompanied with so overpowering a sickness, that she could hold up no longer, and was conveyed to her bed. Jane was very uneasy, but Isabella and Hannah both thought it might be a common sick headache, and persuaded Jane not to send for Mr Everett that night.
At bed-time she was very feverish, and passed a miserable night, and when Jane went to her bedside at four o’clock the next morning, she was terrified to find her slightly delirious. Of course she remained with Isabella, and before breakfast-time she sent to request Mr Everett’s attendance, as soon as convenient. At six o’clock she gave her patient some tea, and then Isabella spoke sensibly again; but she was restless, and suffering much from headache.
This was sad news for Charles when he came down to breakfast; and this last day with his sisters promised to be but a melancholy one. Mr Everett came early, and he was most anxiously questioned about his patient. He said that she was extremely unwell certainly; but whether it would prove a short and sharp attack of fever, or an illness of more serious consequence, he could not at present tell. He advised that no one should go into her room except Jane and Hannah, till they could be quite sure that there was no fear of infection. He desired Jane not to think of resuming her employments at his house for a week at least, both because it would be too painful to her to leave her sister, and because he had rather ascertain the nature of the disorder, before he exposed his children to the least risk of infection. This did not serve to make poor Jane less anxious. She sat by Isabella’s bedside, trying to keep down melancholy thoughts, while Charles took Harriet and Alfred to church. The whole of the day was spent with them, and he scarcely saw Jane at all. In the dusk of the evening, he was sitting by the parlour window, talking to his little brother and sister, when he saw the postman come up to the door. The arrival of a letter was a rare occurrence, and the first idea which entered Charles’s mind was that perhaps a further leave of absence had come to cheer him and Jane, when certainly such a comfort would be most welcome. But his heart sunk when he saw Mr Rathbone’s hand-writing on the letter which Hannah brought in. He reproached himself for his ill-bodings as they arose, and he asked himself why he dreaded a communication from one who had been the kindest of friends to him, and he anticipated the shame he should feel if, as was very likely, the letter should contain nothing but kindness. He requested Hannah to bring candles, and then to sit with Isabella, while Jane came down to read her letter, for it was addressed to her. Jane opened it with a trembling hand, and Charles at once guessed its contents when he saw it consisted of only a few lines. He caught it as it fell from his sister’s hand, and read as follows:
“Mr Rathbone is sorry that he was prevented by an unavoidable accident from opening Miss Forsyth’s letter till yesterday. Mr R. would have rejoiced to afford substantial assistance to the children of an old friend; but they who can set the romantic whims of unformed judgments against the knowledge and experience of a friend who has passed a long life in the world, prove themselves incapable of being guided by advice, and of profiting by well-meant and willing kindness. Mr R. has therefore only to regret that he can be of no further service, and to hope that Mr and Miss Forsyth will meet with other friends, and will know better how to value and retain them.”
“Mr Rathbone is sorry that he was prevented by an unavoidable accident from opening Miss Forsyth’s letter till yesterday. Mr R. would have rejoiced to afford substantial assistance to the children of an old friend; but they who can set the romantic whims of unformed judgments against the knowledge and experience of a friend who has passed a long life in the world, prove themselves incapable of being guided by advice, and of profiting by well-meant and willing kindness. Mr R. has therefore only to regret that he can be of no further service, and to hope that Mr and Miss Forsyth will meet with other friends, and will know better how to value and retain them.”
Jane had hid her face in her hands, and was sobbing violently, while Charles read the letter.
He was almost choked with emotion.
“My poor Jane,” he exclaimed, as he hung over her, “that this cruel letter should have come just now, of all times. What a heart must that man have who could write to you in such a way. I wish he could see you now, that he might repent it as he ought to do.”
“O Charles!” said Jane, “remember all his kindness to us.”
“Remember it!” cried he, “it will stick in my throat as long as I live. O that I could send him back his bank-notes and his presents, and be free of all obligation!”
“Nay, dear Charles, do not let us be ungrateful because he is hasty. His former kindness is not the less noble because of the present misunderstanding. We must be neither ungrateful nor proud.”
“It is plain enough that he never saw you, Jane, or he would have blushed to insult such a nature as yours. I wish he could hear you speaking of his kindness just when it is most painful to remember it: he would feel how little he understands you.”
“Never mind what he thinks of me,” said Jane, raising her head and attempting to smile. She saw that poor Harriet was in tears, and that Alfred was standing beside her chair with a look of deep concern. They both felt that all seemed to go wrong with them this day, though they knew not the cause of their sister’s unaccustomed tears.
Jane threw her arm round Alfred’s neck and kissed him again and again. “Never mind,” she said again, “what Mr Rathbone thinks of us: we have Alfred safe; we have not sacrificed him; we have done what we think is best for our happiness; and shall we not willingly abide by our choice?”
“Surely we will,” replied her brother, “and willingly pay the price of our independence, though it be a heavy one.”
“It is a heavy one, indeed,” said Jane. “I grieve for you the most, Charles. We can go on living as we have lived, and be only reminded that we once had such a friend by the proofs of his kindness which we see every day. But it is hard upon you, separated from your family as you are, to lose your only friend in London.”
“Do not think about that, Jane; I have friends, and can make more. If you are able to get over this pretty easily, we need only be sorry for Mr Rathbone: it must give him great pain to think us really ungrateful. Harriet, dear, come and tell me what is the matter. What makes you cry so?”
“Because you are going away, Charles; and Isabella is ill; and Jane cried so; I am sure something is the matter.”
“But Isabella will be better to-morrow perhaps, and Jane is not unhappy now; look at her, she is not crying now. Go and kiss her.”
“All will come right again soon, I dare say,” said Jane. “Charles will come again some time when we are all well.”
“And I shall not go to-morrow now,” said Charles. “I cannot leave you so full of care.”
“O, Charles! you will, you must go,” said Jane. “You have promised, and you must go.”
“I could not tell when I promised, that Isabella would be ill, and you so anxious. I cannot turn my back on you at such a time.”
“You can do us no good, if you stay, indeed. I must be with Isabella, and Harriet and Alfred will be at school; so you would be of no use, and it would make me uncomfortable to think you were breaking your promise. O, indeed, Charles, this is mistaken kindness.”
Charles did not know what to think: he proposed to consult Mr Barker.
“Do,” said Jane, “he will tell us what is right.”
Charles put on his hat.
“I wonder whether we shall see you again?” said Alfred. “Harriet and I are going to bed presently.”
Charles kissed them tenderly. “I dare say I shall see you at breakfast to-morrow,” said he: “if not, you will remember all the better what I have been saying to you this evening. You will be grown and altered much before I see you again. I hope I shall be able to love you then as well as I do now, or even better.”
Mr Barker was much concerned to hear Charles’s little tale of anxieties. He advised him, however, to adhere to his promise respecting his return to London. Charles acquiesced at once in the decision of his friend, and was relieved by the kind promises he received that his sisters should be watched over with as much care as if their brother were beside them; especially that Jane should not be allowed to try her strength too much, in case of Isabella’s illness proving long or dangerous. Charles with much emotion bid farewell to his good friend, who said, “I cannot do for you what Mr Rathbone would have done: but you may depend on me as asurefriend at least. I hope, for his own sake, that he will come round again: in the mean time we must be more sorry than angry.”
“Iwasangry,” said Charles, “but Jane made me ashamed of myself: she is as grateful to him as ever, and I will try to remember only his past generosity.”
“Jane is a good girl, and will be made all the better by these rubs,” said Mr Barker. “However, we will smooth things for her as well as we can.”
Charles called at Mr Monteath’s to say farewell, and to take a parcel from the young ladies to their brother. He said nothing about his sisters, as he knew Jane had rather be left in quietness, than have her attention to her patient interrupted, even by the kind enquiries of friends. Mr Monteath took down Charles’s address, and said he hoped to call on him in London before long; and he earnestly desired that any of the family would apply to him in any case where his advice or assistance could be of service.
As Charles went home he thought with pleasure how his circle of friends appeared to be widening. He who was poor, and could only do good by seizing accidental occasions, he who had, in his own opinion, nothing to recommend him to the notice of his superiors, had gained friends whose present kindness was delightful to him, and on the steadiness of whose regard there was every reason to rely. He and his sister agreed, before they separated for the night, that, though they had some cares, they had peculiar blessings; that, though one friend was unhappily estranged, new and valuable supports were gained: and that valuable as these supports were, there was One infinitely more precious, whose love no error can overcloud, no repented sin alienate; who in sorrow draws yet nearer than in gladness, and sheds his own peace over the hearts which humble themselves under his chastening hand.
It had been arranged that Hannah should sit up with Isabella for the first half of the night, and that Jane should take her place at three o’clock in the morning: as by this means she might see Charles before his departure at five o’clock.
Mr Everett had called again in the evening. He saw no signs of improvement in his patient, and was sorry to observe the great reduction of strength which had taken place within a few hours. He was now pretty sure that the fever would prove a serious one. What he said had given Jane no comfort; but she endeavoured to brace up her mind to meet her cares, and she found, as most in her situation do find, that her strength proved equal to her trial. In a melancholy, but not a restless state of mind, she laid her head on her pillow, and having enjoyed the relief of expressing her cares and fears to Him who alone could remove them, she fell asleep, and continued so, till Hannah called her at four o’clock, instead of three, as she had been desired. Jane afterwards asked her the reason, and good Hannah declared that she could not find in her heart to disturb so refreshing a repose, till it was time to call Mr Charles also.
“Thank you, Hannah,” said Jane; “but the next time we divide the night, I must take the first half, and you the last.”
Isabella had slept but little, and though not delirious, was restless and uncomfortable. Her mind was full of Charles’s departure, and of her wish to see him again. She even wished to get up and meet him at the room door, if Jane would not allow him to breathe the air of the sick chamber. Jane was more prudent, however, than to expose Charles to the risk of infection, and she brought Isabella to be content with a cheerful message of love, which she knew Charles would send. Charles was yet more grieved than his poor sister to depart without exchanging a word or a kiss; for he could not keep off the thought that he might perhaps see her no more. There was no knowing; she might perhaps be no nearer death than the others; but it was a great grief to leave her so ill, and without saying farewell. He sent her a note, however, and promised to write frequently to her, and with this she was obliged to be satisfied.
Never had poor Jane felt the trial of separation so much: the trial itself was greater, and she had no liberty to indulge her feelings. She could not leave Isabella, and she could not give way to tears before her, nor even speak to her of her sorrow. She smiled and spoke cheerfully, though her heart was heavier than it had ever been. Charles was not much happier; but they had both the consciousness of being useful to cheer them, and Charles really expected much pleasure from intercourse with Henry Monteath. He arrived at the well-known public-house by breakfast-time: he had recognised the very spot on the road where the coach was upset, and was himself surprised at the involuntary shudder which the sight of it caused.
Mrs Monteath met him on the stairs, and welcomed him kindly. She said that her son was impatient to see him, and would be on his sofa, and prepared for a long day of pleasure, by the time Charles had finished his breakfast. In the mean time she conveyed to Henry the parcel which Charles had brought from the young ladies.
In answer to his very anxious enquiries, Mrs Monteath said that her son’s recovery had been as favourable as possible: this was partly owing to the cheerful state of his mind, of which, she said, Charles would be able to judge when he conversed with him. She said she was surprised every day to find how easy she herself was: but she supposed that the pleasure of witnessing his daily progress, made her unmindful of what her son had gone through, and of the trials and deprivations he yet had to encounter. Charles thought this a very natural and happy thing, and he told Mrs Monteath, what he himself believed, that these deprivations would be much less formidable in reality than in anticipation. Mrs Monteath was an anxious mother, and she asked Charles many particulars about her family: how they were in health and spirits; how they spoke respecting their brother; and many other things. Charles told her all that had passed the evening before, during his visit, and observed that when he mentioned Miss Auchinvole, the friend of the young ladies, Mrs Monteath’s countenance expressed peculiar interest. Charles had not much to say about her, for she had scarcely spoken, but he could not help saying how much he had been struck by her appearance and manner. She looked pale and anxious, but she smiled occasionally; and there was a sweetness in that smile which Charles thought must make its way to any heart. He freely told Mrs Monteath what he thought, and far as he was from wishing to learn from her manner any family secrets, he could not help believing from the tears which rose to her eyes, and the mournful smile with which she listened to the praises of Margaret Auchinvole, that the friendship between her and Henry Monteath was of a dearer nature than that in which his sisters bore their part. Charles earnestly hoped that this might be the case, and that when restored to health, a happiness, to which this accident need, he thought, oppose no impediment, might be in store for his friend.
Charles observed that there was much more appearance of comfort in the little parlour now than when he saw it before. Mrs Monteath told him that the people of the house were willing and obliging, and that she had contrived by various means to collect comforts round them, and to make their two rooms fit for the accommodation of an invalid, in preference to hazarding a removal, which might have been dangerous, and which her son dreaded more than any thing. She hoped in another week to remove him to lodgings in a farm-house, about four miles off, and in a month or five weeks to take him home.
When Charles entered Monteath’s chamber, he saw him lying on his sofa, looking very pale and weak, but with a cheerful countenance. He eagerly held out his hand to Charles, and welcomed him with a smile and words of great kindness. Mrs Monteath left them together.
“I rejoice to see you so much better and happier than when I left you,” said Charles.
“Much better and much happier,” replied he. “I am glad that you have seen me again; for I am sure all your thoughts of me must have been melancholy thoughts; and I wish that my friend should see me in other hours than those of weakness and misery.”
“So far from having none but melancholy thoughts about you,” said Charles, “I have been drawing a very fine picture of your future usefulness and happiness, for your sisters’ consolation.”
“And did they believe you?”
“I hope so, for I am sure I said nothing unreasonable.”
“And did they all hear you?”
“No, only two of them that evening. Last night, however, I saw the whole party, and they were all well and happy, as I dare say they have told you themselves.”
“They have. When we get to our lodgings in the country next week, some of them will come to us. Much as I long to see them, I almost dread stirring.”
“O you will recover much faster when you are in quiet, and when you can go out every day. You can hardly feel here the delight of returning health. I know from experience that the first sight of the face of nature, in a season like this, after days and weeks of illness, is one of the most exquisite pleasures that life can afford.”
“Ibelieve it,” said Monteath. “I expect to enjoy it much; though, with me, all cares will not be over when health returns. I have already made up my mind to every thing, however, and am determined to make the best of my lot. It is astonishing how soon one’s mind becomes reconciled to circumstances. At this hour, a fortnight ago, I should have shuddered at the very thoughts of what I have yet to go through: but I am pretty well reconciled to it now, and do not see why I should not be tolerably happy. To be sure, this fortnight has seemed longer than any year of my life before.”
“I do not see,” said Charles, “why you should not beveryhappy, when you have once got into the round of your occupations again. In the mean time you will meet with some painful circumstances no doubt; but then you have consolations which have supported you in a far worse trial than any you are likely to meet with again.”
“True; those consolations are worth any thing: it makes me quite ashamed to set my fears and troubles in opposition to such comforts.”
“If it is not painful to you,” said Charles, “I should like to know what your fears and troubles are; and perhaps by bringing yourself to speak frankly of them, you may find that your imagination has magnified them.”
“It is selfish to talk so much about myself,” replied Monteath.
“I came on purpose to hear you,” said Charles, “and nothing can interest me so much.”
“Well, then,” said Monteath, “I have been thinking how far my usual pursuits will be hindered by this accident. I am afraid that my father will not allow me to take on myself, as I used to do, the most laborious part of our business concerns. I have, to be sure, spent a great part of my time in the counting-house; but there is a great deal of active business to be done besides, and journeys to be performed; and I am afraid that my father will take more upon him than at his age he can do without fatigue.”
“I do not see,” said Charles, “why you should not be almost as active as you have ever been; and as to journeys, unless this accident has made a coward of you, which I do not believe, you seem to me just as able to take them as ever. If not, it is no difficult matter to procure a traveller. Depend upon it, your father will spare himself for his children’s sake. So you see business may go on as well as ever. Now for pleasure. Do you keep a horse?”
“No, but I mean to do it now; that is no difficulty. There is one more, which I am almost ashamed to mention; but I will. I never could bear to be conspicuous, to be unlike other people, to attract notice; in short, to be stared at.”
“Do not be ashamed of feeling that,” said Charles: “in my opinion, this is the worst evil of all.”
“Is it, really?” said Monteath. “Worse than having one’s usefulness and independence impaired?”
“No,” replied Charles. “But I see no reason why your usefulness and independence should be impaired. If you had lost an arm, the case would have been different: but art affords such helps in your case, that it is only on occasions of extraordinary danger that you would not be able to exert yourself as well as ever.”
“I hope you are right,” replied Monteath. “You think, then, that I am not wrong to dread being made an object of curiosity for the first time in my life?”
“I do not wonder at it, certainly,” said Charles: “but, remember, it will be only a temporary inconvenience: your acquaintance will soon get accustomed to the sight of you; and, if you will condescend to take pains at first with your manner of walking, there will be nothing remarkable in your appearance. I conclude you will throw aside your crutches as soon as you can?”
“Of course,” replied Monteath. “You will see me in London for that purpose as soon as I am allowed to go. Now do you think me weak for dwelling on these trifles, as some people call them?”
“Trifles they are not,” said Charles: “and therefore it is any thing but weakness to bring them out, to face them, and make up your mind how they are to be met. In my opinion, a great deal of mischief is done by calling these things trifles, and putting them out of sight as fast as possible, instead of affording that help to those who suffer under them which is largely dispensed on occasions which have not nearly so great an effect on happiness.”
“That is exactly what I have often thought lately,” said Monteath. “In how many books, where the loss of fortune is described, the minutest difficulties which such a loss occasions are detailed at length! but if, as seldom happens, the loss of a limb is mentioned, we never get beyond the first part of the story, and the little daily difficulties and privations, which are of more importance than the lesser evils of poverty, are quite left out of sight. I imagine there are some ideas of ridicule attached to them.”
“Perhaps so,” replied Charles; “but such associations are false, and ought to be broken through. Blindness is frequently made interesting in books: deafness seldom or never. There are interesting and poetical associations connected with blindness; ridiculous, low, or common ones only with deafness. A blind heroine is charming; but would not all the world laugh at the very idea of a deaf one? And yet this seems to me unjust: for I question whether, in daily life, both would not have an equal chance of appearing ridiculous on some occasions, and interesting on others.”
“Do you mean partial or total blindness and deafness? A heroine totally blind is certainly thought more interesting than one partially deaf: but would not a deaf and dumb person make a better figure than one extremely short-sighted?”
Charles laughed. “They are both as far from picturesque as need be, certainly,” said he: “but still I think blindness has the advantage in exciting interest.”
“Well,” said Monteath, “nobody is likely to make a hero of me. I am in no danger of finding my own likeness in a novel or on the stage.”
“No,” replied Charles, “nor yet in books of any other kind. If you had lost a friend or your fortune, you might find the most exact directions how to comfort yourself, and plenty of medicine of the soul to suit your particular case. As it is, you must look in books for general consolation, and elsewhere for what more you may need.”
“This is no desperate condition to be in either,” said Monteath. “I think I could do without the general consolations you speak of. I have been on my sofa here this fortnight, with only one book (which of course you mean to except) and my own mind to draw consolation from, and I have found enough for my need. I expect, however, to be in greater need hereafter.”
“Surely not,” said Charles. “Surely you have gone through the worst!”
“I know not,” said Monteath. “The colour of my whole future life has perhaps been changed by this accident; and I must expect this conviction to come upon me painfully from time to time.”
“What do you mean?” said Charles. “The whole colour of your future life! You surely do not mean that you will not marry?”
“That is what I was thinking of, certainly,” said Henry, in a very low voice.
“My dear friend,” said Charles, “this is the scruple of a sick man’s brain. Put it out of your head for the present, I advise you, and I will answer for it that, six months hence, you will feel very differently. The woman would but little deserve you who could raise such an objection; and you have just as much power now as ever to make a wife happy.”
Charles wished to turn the conversation, for he saw that his friend was agitated; but he could think of nothing to say at the moment, except about Miss Auchinvole, and that was the only subject which would not do. At length he said, “You must not let me weary you with talking. You know I cannot tell what you are equal to, and Mrs Monteath will never forgive me if I set you back in the least. Had I not better leave you?”
“O no! do not go!” said Monteath; “you do not know how strong I am. I shall sleep in the afternoon, but I hope to have you with me all day besides. I do not scruple saying so, for I cannot conceive that you will find amusement elsewhere in a place like this.”
“If I could,” said Charles, “I am not much inclined for it to-day. Conversation with a friend is a great cordial in times of anxiety, and I own that I am anxious now.”
He said this for the purpose of drawing his friend’s attention from a subject which appeared to agitate him too much. Charles was not wrong in expecting his ready sympathy. Isabella’s illness was mentioned, and Monteath forgot himself in his anxiety for Charles. He asked many questions about the girls and Alfred.
“How old is Alfred?”
“Nearly eleven.”
“What do you intend him for?”
“We have no present intentions about his future destination,” said Charles. “He will remain at school till he is fifteen; so we need be in no hurry about it.”
“Then your sister will continue on her present plan till that time?”
“Yes,” replied Charles; “for Harriet will not be old enough to go out before five years from this time. Isabella wishes to be independent in two years, and I think she will be well qualified; but it will be a grievous thing to Jane to part with her.”
“It must, indeed,” said Monteath. “You know I have seen your sister Jane, more than once, and she fixed my attention immediately by the way in which she managed those spoiled children of Mrs Everett’s. Nobody ever had any control over them but your sister; but they are in much better order than they used to be.”
“It gives Jane much satisfaction to think so,” said Charles.
“But it must be very discouraging work,” said Monteath, “to do her best for them, for half of every day, and to be obliged to surrender them to be spoiled for the other half.”
“I should find it so,” replied Charles: “but Jane makes as little as possible of discouragements. Her temper used to be an anxious one too: but she has had so much to do and to bear, that she has learned not to look from side to side in hope or fear, but to go on, straight forwards, in the road of duty, whether an easy one or not.”
“She is an enviable person then,” said Monteath.
“All things are by comparison,” said Charles, rather confused when he recollected what he had said about his sister. “I do not mean that she never flags: I was only speaking of her in comparison with myself, and with her former self.”
“Nothing but religious principle could enable her to do this,” said Monteath. “This is the secret of her superiority, is it not? Without this her trials would have produced depression, instead of renewed energy.”
“Certainly,” replied Charles. “There are many who pity her under her weight of cares, and who are grieved when they think that she is an orphan, and that she has more arduous duties to perform than many can get through under the guidance and with the assistance of parents or experienced friends. But Jane knows that she is guided, though invisibly, by the best and wisest of Parents, and the Bible is to her as His manifest presence: she has recourse to it on all occasions of difficulty, and can never want confidence or feel forlorn, while such a director is at hand.”
“Those whose reason is matured enough, and whose religious affections are cultivated enough to attach their heart and soul to such a guide, may well do without other support,” said Monteath. “‘The integrity of the upright shall guide them!’ But there are few of your sister’s age who are thus advanced in the ways of wisdom.”
“If so,” said Charles, “her superiority is to be ascribed to the peculiar circumstances in which the Father of her spirit has placed her. And, surely, trials which produce such an effect should be endured with submission and remembered with gratitude.”
“That comes home to my conscience,” said Monteath: “Iam now under trial, and such ought to be its effect upon me. But your sister’s circumstances have been such as to draw her attention from herself, to carry out her affections and fix them on various objects: but I am afraid the direct tendency of personal suffering is to produce selfishness.”
“It may either do that or the reverse, I believe,” said Charles: “I have known instances of both. I have heard of a cousin of my mother’s, who was a cripple from disease. She passed through life very quietly. She never complained of her deprivations: her temper was placid, and she found employment for her cultivated intellect in studies of various kinds: but nobody was ever the better for them. She did no good, though she never did any harm: she never seemed to love any one person more than another, and of course nobody was particularly attached to her. She lived to the age of sixty, and went on with her own pursuits to the very last, but she left no trace behind her of beneficent deeds, and she lived in the memory and not in the affections of those around her. I have always grieved over the wasted talents of this lady. Half her learning communicated to those less informed than herself, half her time (of which she had abundance) devoted to the assistance of her neighbours, half her affections exchanged with those who were disposed to love her, would have made her wise instead of learned, useful instead of harmless, beloved rather than served, and mourned rather than merely remembered.”
“But she could not have been a pious woman,” said Monteath. “A life of selfishness is inconsistent with piety.”
“Nobody can say that she was not religious,” replied Charles; “because nobody knew what she felt and thought: some say that she must have been pious, or she could not have been placid and contented under her deprivations. I should therefore suppose that she had just enough reliance upon Providence to prevent a naturally cheerful mind from being corroded by discontent: but it is easy to see that she had not those comprehensive views, which teach that the very best of selfish pleasures, those of intellectual cultivation, are to be pursued as a means only, not as an end, and that the grand design for which we are created is to diminish continually our concern for ourselves in an increasing love of God and our neighbour.”
“I cannot help,” said Monteath, “applying cases like these to myself, just now. I want to place as many guides and as many warnings before me as possible. I hope it is not selfish to think of these things with a reference to myself, and to tell you that I do so.”
“By no means,” replied Charles; “for I imagine that you feel the present time as a kind of crisis in your character. I think you must enter the world from a bed of pain, either better or worse than when you left it, and you are right to make use of all the helps you can.”
“Then give me,” said Monteath, “some instances of benevolence promoted, of hearts and hands opened by personal suffering. It will do me good to hear them.”
Just as Charles was beginning to speak, Mrs Monteath came into the room, and the conversation was turned into a different channel. Charles regretted this, but she had something quite different to ask her son about. The greater part of the day was spent in cheerful chat, and in reading aloud, which Mrs Monteath proposed, that Henry might not exert himself too much in talking. In the evening the young men were again left alone for awhile, and Monteath asked his friend to read a little to him from the Bible. Charles did so with much satisfaction, and after he had done, Henry tried to express to him what comfort and support their religious exercises had afforded him on his night of suffering. Charles rejoiced to hear him say so, but stopped him when he wished to speak of his obligations and his gratitude. They parted for the night with as warm feelings of interest and esteem as one day could produce, and another confirm.
In the morning they met only for a few moments. They agreed to correspond occasionally, and to look forward to a time, not very far distant, when Monteath’s visit to London might give them an opportunity of meeting again. Charles then mounted the coach, and sighed when he thought of the friends he had left behind, and of the small number who would greet him with pleasure on his return to London.