"So would I," cried Margaret.
"So would I, you dear old geese!" said Laura, laughing. "But I have to put up with what comes to me."
"I want a bit of talk with you, Frank," Mrs. Grey took an opportunity to whisper on the way to the dinner-table.
"All right," he replied. "Shall it be in the library, after the rest have gone to bed? Or right after dinner, in your dressing-room?"
"Right after dinner," she replied; and as soon as the meal was over, they disappeared.
"Now for my curtain-lecture," he said, as they seated themselves by the fire.
"I want to speak a word for your poor Lily," she said. "You began by loving her extravagantly, and educated her into expecting this sort of thing could last; now you are transferring your attentions to Gabrielle, in a way that must hurt your wife."
"Gabrielle has grown charming," he replied, "and it is delightful to have her again."
"That may be; but you may depend upon it, I understand my sex better than you do, and that no woman wants to see a girl put into the place once hers, even though the girl is her own child."
"Lily never complains of it."
"No; but she droops under it."
"I don't like the idea of her being jealous of Gabrielle."
"That's not the way to put it. It is not jealousy. You lavish on Gabrielle, by the hour together, caresses you used to lavish on Lily, and she would have to be made of stone not to feel it. You must bear with me, my son, when I say that I don't like it. Whatever defects you may find in her, you cannot undo the past. You fell desperately in love with her, and married her; now you owe it to her to keep up that affection."
"Our affections are not under our control."
"True; but they are under God's control, and He can make all right between you twain."
"It never crossed my mind to ask Him to do that. But, mammy dear, who says I am alienated from Lily? Loving Gabrielle does not involve indifference to my wife."
"You ask who says it?Isay it, and say it with pain. I did hope to see my sons loyal to the wives they themselves chose, however they might be disappointed in them. Lily has never wilfully annoyed you, and she gives you all the affection she is capable of giving, and wants yours in return."
Frank sat thoughtfully looking into the fire, and at the same time searching his own heart. At last he said:
"I thank my dear mother for her timely faithfulness. I see now that I must have wounded Lily in many ways. I shall ask her pardon, and start afresh. She little knows her indebtedness to you."
"What's going on here; secrets?" said Fred, who had knocked and been admitted.
"I have had my dressing, and now you may come and have yours," said Frank, rising.
"There's hardly a chance to get in a word edge-wise, when Frank is at home," said Fred, taking possession of the seat he had vacated. "And I'm sure he doesn't love and admire you more than I do. I want to tell you, as I could not in a letter, what a happy family you have made of us. We took all your lessons to heart, and the improvement in Kitty is marvelous. She is a very interesting little creature, and a great amusement to us. Hatty keeps a journal, and records all her bright speeches."
"I am glad of that. You must let me see it. Every mother ought to keep one, if she can."
"Did you keep one about me?"
"No. You never said anything bright enough. It wasn't your forte to make smart speeches. Frank and Belle made enough to cover anything wanting in the rest of you. Tell me all about the baby now. Do you know Hatty has never written me once since it was born, and that all I know of it is that it is a boy?"
"Is that so? Why, I took it for granted Hatty had written. Well, he's a magnificent fellow, exactly like me."
"Shall I ever get the conceit out of you, you foolish boy?" she said, looking up at him with loving eyes.
"Yes, a magnificent fellow! Almost as big as Kitty, but not at all like her. He has a thick head of hair, dark eyes, and the prettiest little dumpling of a chin, with a dent in it. Kitty nearly eats him up. He's a good-natured chap, too, always laughing and crowing, and kicking up his heels. I tell you what, mother, it's great fun to have a dear little wife and two splendid children. Hatty says she means to have ten."
"I don't see but I shall have to add a large wing to this house if that is the case," she said, much amused and pleased.
"But they must all be getting together in the library, and we had better join them."
"Yes, I suppose so. What were you and Cyril talking about at dinner? I only caught a word or two."
"Oh, I was consulting him on a series of articles I was requested to write for a magazine."
"Didn't I hear something about editing one?"
"I dare say. That was one out of dozens of similar propositions."
"They keep you as busy as ever, it seems. And Laura is following in your footsteps. Wasn't it a little tall in her to read her own story, though?"
"No; there's nothing tall about her. She's just as fresh and unspoiled as a rose-bud."
"I'm glad you think so. I can't bear to think of either of the girls as being like the common feminine run."
They descended to the library, and found them all prepared to play some game of wits, with pencil and paper.
"Oh, here come mamma and Fred," said Belle, gaily, "and they are two of the brightest at this game. Where are the pencils? I have no pencil."
"I bought a box last Christmas," said Frank. "Surely they can't all be gone."
"Oh, I'll get them," said Margaret. "I remember putting them in one of the drawers in the library table. Yes, here they are. But they need sharpening."
Thereupon, out came half a dozen penknives, and the gentlemen prepared the pencils with great zeal. They were all, from Mrs. Grey down to Gabrielle, fond of these innocent little games, and some of the inspiration of the moment was so bright that Laura provided herself with a blank-book, and took copies of them, that years later were read, with great applause, at one of the Christmas gatherings.
"I want Belle to hold a Bible-reading some evening," said Cyril Heath.
"Oh, I couldn't," cried Belle, shrinking back.
"What's a Bible-reading?" asked Frank, interested at once.
"Belle has learned the English system, and holds two every week; one on Sunday afternoon for myself and the children and servants; one for a company of from twenty to thirty ladies; both in our own house; and they are delightful. I believe that if they were held all over the land, our country would be revolutionized. I never enjoyed the study of the Bible as I have since we began it in this way. The children enjoy it, too."
"Let us have one to-morrow evening, by all means," said Frank. "And that will be something you can join in, Lily," he said, turning kindly to his wife; "you who dislike games so."
Lily felt the unaccustomed tones, and gave a grateful look.
After they went to their room that night, Belle said to her husband:
"How could you propose my holding a Bible-reading with all those men?"
"Because I think you do it so nicely. Still, if you prefer it, I will conduct it as long as the boys are at home. After they go I hope you will take it."
The next evening they all gathered around the library-table, each with a Bible in hand. Old Mary came, with her spectacles, very curious to know what was to be done.
Mr. Heath chose the sixty-third Psalm, and called upon Frank, Jr., who sat next him, to read the first verse. But Frank had not found his place, and Gabrielle read for him.
"Now, in the ideal Bible-reading," said Mr. Heath, "the reader makes a remark, or asks a question."
"I should like to ask, then, why David and others put the word 'my' before the name of God, so often?"
"I think there are two reasons. In those days a large number of gods were worshipped, and it was natural enough for men to distinguish between them through the possessive case. Besides, the old saints all had assurance of faith. They not only loved God, but they knew they loved Him."
"The moment we put the possessive case before a thing, it assumes a new interest for us," said Belle. "In prayer we say 'my' and 'our', and I don't know that it would not be more reverent if we did it in conversation. Some people have a flippant way, or what seems like it, of saying, 'I told the Lord thus and so, and He said so and so.' Wouldn't it sound less familiar if they put it 'my Lord'?"
"Perhaps so," said Mrs. Grey. "At any rate we must have assurance of faith, if we are to grow in grace."
"Why must we, grandmamma?" asked Gabrielle.
"Because, if we keep digging up our seeds to seeif they've sprouted, or how many roots they have, we are in danger of destroying what vitality they have."
The children all looked at each other with conscious smiles.
"I lost all my beans that way," said Frank, Jr. "Shall I read the next verse, uncle?"
"Oh, no, we have only touched a corner of the first one yet."
As it turned out, this one verse served them for study an hour; an hour enjoyed by the children as well as the elder ones; and all who engaged in this exercise for the first time, were delighted with it. Mrs. Grey resolved to start a reading among her neighbors; Laura said she should do the same for hers; Margaret wondered if she could get courage to hold one with half a dozen young girls of her acquaintance, and found she could.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Grey received a note from Mrs. Grosgrain, imploring her to come to her as soon as possible next morning.
"How fortunate that I have kept up the acquaintance," she said, running over the note. "Now comes a chance to do them good."
"Grandmamma," said Gabrielle, "you are not going to see those kind of people, and leave us, when we are having such nice times together?"
"That kind of people, not those kind. And of course I am going, for they are in trouble."
"It's too bad. Everybody thinks you are made to look after them. And I was in hopes you would finish reading that German story to me."
"I suppose you don't include yourself among the 'everybody'?" said Frank, laughing.
"But, papa, we had just got to the most exciting part."
"I'll read the rest of it," said Margaret.
"You'll want to be painting."
"No; I don't paint in the holidays."
"Oh, no, you don't."
"I wonder if mamma ever thinks of herself one minute at a time," said Belle, as her mother retired to make preparations for the early expedition of the morrow. "It is a real sacrifice to her to lose a whole day of our visit; but she has trotted off to get ready, like a girl. And she'll be thrown away on those Grosgrains."
"Yes, just thrown away," repeated Laura. "I wonder she doesn't see it."
"I dare say one of them has put her thumb out of joint," said Margaret, feeling like anything but an angel towards the Grosgrains. "To think of leaving all of you to go to see such people. However, I don't know that it's any stranger than the way she lets herself be interrupted when she is writing."
"Writing isn't her profession, you know," said Belle. "It never was. She used to write as long agoas when we were babies, and yet did not neglect us."
"I am doing the same," said Laura. "I mean to go on writing, but Pug and Trot won't suffer from it. Of course scribbling is a mere recreation. My profession is to be a good wife and mother, as I am sure mamma's was. As to you, Margaret, you are a genius, and must make up your mind never to marry."
"Thank you," said Margaret, dryly.
"Why, you don't mean to say that it isn't enough to be an artist!" cried Laura, a little dubious as to what the dry tone meant.
"If by being an artist I have got to kill off my heart, and live for fame, then an artist I won't be," returned Margaret. "I am in no hurry to be married; and if I decide to be an old maid, it won't be without children, I can tell you."
"And where do you expect to get them?"
"By begging, borrowing, buying, or stealing them," said Margaret, her good humor returning at the thought.
"What, and bring them here to live?" asked Gabrielle.
"No, indeed. I must earn a home of my own first."
"Papa says you will make a great name for yourself," pursued Gabrielle.
"What do I want of a great name?" cried Margaret. "It is the very last thing in the world a woman ought to seek."
"So I think," said Belle.
"But suppose she gets it without seeking?" asked Laura.
"Look here, Laura," said Margaret, springing up, "let me feel if you have a pair of wings sprouting. It is my private opinion that you have, and that it is you, not I, who is to be famous. And how stupid I was, the first time I saw you, to fancy you just—just—"
"A goosey-gander? Yes, I was perfectly delighted to see how you measured me after the first ridiculous talk we had together."
"I don't think it's nice to belie one's self as you do, Laura," said Belle. "Even your own mother never knew you till this story of yours opened her eyes."
Laura shrugged her shoulders.
"I shouldn't care to be so shallow that people could read me at a glance," she said.
"One is not necessarily shallow because transparent," said Belle.
"Margaret, how nearly done is mamma's book?" asked Laura.
"So nearly that I think I hear it ringing the doorbell now. I saw an expressman just drive up. Yes, here comes the parcel. Might we open it, think?"
Laura replied by cutting the cord and throwing it upon the floor, whence Belle picked it up and wound it around her fingers, and put it away in her mother's string-box.
"How beautifully it is got up," said Laura. "But why wasn't it out at Christmas?"
"Aunty thought it would be," said Margaret, "but there was unexpected delay. Oh, are you each going to read it to yourselves?" she added, in a disappointed tone, as she saw each take possession of a volume. "I thought we should read it aloud. Aunty, your books have come," she cried, as Mrs. Grey here entered the room.
"Indeed? Just in time for me to take one to Mrs. Grosgrain."
"Pooh! Always Grosgrain!" thought Margaret; but took one of the volumes and folded it carefully in a fresh sheet of paper, and placed it on the library-table, and the next morning reminded Mrs. Grey to take it with her.
Mrs. Grey proceeded on her way, on a bitterly cold day, when so much ice had formed in the harbor that crossing the ferry occupied hours instead of minutes. Foreseeing that return before the morrow would be impossible, she sent a dispatch home to that effect, and at last, weary and benumbed, presented herself to the Grosgrains.
She found them too absorbed in tribulation to concern themselves about her condition, and all talked together with briny tears, telling an incoherent story, out of which she at last got at these facts:
A young man, to whom Miss Grosgrain had engaged herself on board the steamer that brought them from England, had so won their confidence that they were gradually led to put their entire business affairs into his hands. He conducted them, for a time, so well that they congratulated themselves that their fortune had ceased to be a care to them. Recently he had received letters from his mother summoning him to take possession of a large property, to which he had become heir through his father's death, and had urged to have the marriage celebrated at once, and that they should all accompany the happy pair to Europe, there to live in almost regal splendor. Charmed with the prospect, they sold their palatial residence, their horses, plate, furniture, and prepared for a grand flight. But when all was in trim, one little item disappeared—namely, the foreign lover—who forgot to refund the sums in his hands, the result of the sale, and had also contrived to possess himself of their whole fortune. Whither he had disappeared they failed to learn; and here they were, huddled together in a house no longer theirs, as miserable a group as one need to see.
Why had they sent for Mrs. Grey in particular? Well, with a vague hope that she would help them in some way; she had the reputation of being everybody's right hand. And she had come to help them, and listened with real sympathy to their story.
"Have you done everything that can be done to arrest the fugitive?" she asked.
"Yes; he has fled to some country where he will be safe, and live in luxury while we starve here."
"You have your jewels left; they will carry you along till you have time to bethink yourselves what to do next."
"Oh!" groaned Miss Grosgrain, "our jewels aregone too. Our seamstress, Jane, whom we trusted as we did each other, disappeared at the same time with—with that wretch, whose name I never will speak as long as I live—and took almost all our valuables with her. No doubt she was his accomplice, and has left the country with him."
"It will be necessary, then, to seek remunerative employment," Mrs. Grey said, as cheerfully as she could; "now let me see what gifts you have."
"Employment!" shrieked the girls. "What a disgrace!"
"Why call it disgrace, when thousands of women are engaged in it? Refined and well-educated women, too."
"So I tell the girls," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "If we set still and do nothing, we shall starve."
The quartette was too full of dismay to correct the maternal grammar, and listened in gloomy silence.
"We never had to work for our living," pursued Mrs. Grosgrain, "but the girls' marmer had to, and she was a master-hand at tailoring. And they've all took after her. Mary can make as handsome a bonnet as any milliner, and so can Flora; and the others can cut and fit beautifully."
"But there was a deal of money spent on your education," said Mrs. Grey, turning to the young ladies; "could you not open a school?"
She knew they could not, but thought it best to make them face the situation for themselves.
"They never took to their books," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "And they never thought to come to this. But they're all handy, like their marmer."
"Then the hands must come to the rescue," said Mrs. Grey, looking brightly into the sad faces around her.
"What a disgrace!" cried Miss Grosgrain. "We who were born to so much better things!"
"I think we were all born to the lot in which we find ourselves," said Mrs. Grey, kindly. "Poverty is no disgrace, nor is work; I would rather see one of my daughters employed as a housemaid, than living a life of ease and luxury and pleasure. In the one case I should hope to see her forming a useful character; in the other I should expect to see her a mere cumberer of the ground. Now, you have asked me to advise you, and I will try to do it. Have you any friends who will aid you until you begin to support yourselves?"
They shook their heads mournfully. Their money had plenty of friends; personally, they had none.
"We have to leave this house in a week," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "The party that owns it is going to pull it all to pieces."
"I would as lief die, as to work for my living!" cried Miss Grosgrain.
"Providence has not given you the choice," said Mrs. Grey, gravely. "And all that looks so distressing now, may, through Him, become a benediction."
"I had a little money hid away," said Mrs. Grosgrain, brightening up. "I always mistrusted that our luck wouldn't always last, and now and then I hid gold pieces away. But my memory has failed of late years, and I don't remember exactly where I put it. 'Twa'n't all in one place, and when we sold out I forgot all about it. If we could stay in the house long enough, I guess I could find some of it."
"To whom did you sell out?"
"To James J. Sheldon."
"Ah! He is a friend of mine. I can easily persuade him to allow you to stay. He could do nothing to the house in this cold weather."
"Still, it isn't likely if we find the money that it will amount to anything; and, for my part, I wish I was dead."
Hereupon ensued fresh bursts of tears all around.
"My dear," asked Mrs. Grey, seriously, "where should you be if you were dead?"
"I could not be worse off than I am now," was the sullen answer.
"You must excuse the way she talks," said Mrs. Grosgrain. "She never had no trouble before, and it sets her ag'inst everything. I'm older, and don't feel so bad. If it wasn't for seeing the girls so full of trouble, I should say I hadn't felt so comfortable these twenty year."
Poor Mrs. Grosgrain, do you know the reason? You have been snubbed more than "twenty year" by these four young women, and now they let you alone, and you are jogging on in such English as you please; and what a relief it is! Take an old hat, and the more you brush it, the worse it looks. No amount of labor could make a real lady out of one whose instincts were not refined. It was not going to be the hardship to her to descend to what she sprang from, as to these girls who had never been there with her. To make a long story short, however, Mrs. Grey never rested till she had found employment for them all. At first their pride fell flat, and they struggled against their fate in a way that put all her energy to the test; but contact with her strong and steadfast nature at last told upon them all. In the strictest sense of the word, she rescued them from the ruin to which prosperity was leading them; or, rather, she fell in with the Providential plan for their rescue, and helped carry it out.
Now, why all this self-sacrifice and labor for five ill-bred, ill-tempered women, with whom she had not five thoughts in common?
Well, she saw in them now what she always had seen—human beings to be saved or to be lost; she had kept up an acquaintance with them for years, on the mere chance of sometime finding an entrance to their souls; and she found it "after many days."
Even most of her children did not understand this; they loved and respected her too much to call her Quixotic, yet fancied such people as the Grosgrains unworthy so much long patience, such journeys to and fro, such letters, such lines upon line. But they could have found ample explanation for all she did in the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew. The fact is, the Grosgrains err in their way; but we err in ours when we draw our sanctified garments about us and pass by on the other side. An eagle may have a more ruinous fall than a butterfly, because he flies higher.
Meanwhile, there fell a shadow upon Greylock, and everybody in it. Belle's devoted little lover, Margaret's little pearl, fell sick. Only the mother observed the change in her at first, it was so nearly imperceptible; but as time passed, all had to own that there was a mysterious change, with no marked symptom of disease, except increasing silence and lassitude. Everybody's virtue came to the front now. They told her stories, they sang to her, her father and uncles walked the floor with her by the hour together when a strange restlessness was soothed by it. The elder children moved about the house on tiptoe; the younger ones, not quite up to the situation, but impressed by it, whispered to each other that they would play the "softest plays" they knew. The physician, early called in, was puzzled and helpless. Yet all were full of hope save Mrs. Grey and Belle. They did not telleach other what they feared, yet each saw it in each other's eyes. As the little creature became increasingly nervous and sensitive to noise, it was obvious that the household must be reduced in numbers, and, very reluctantly, most of them departed for their own homes.
Margaret's inexperience with children kept her long free from grave anxiety. There were days when Mabel would brighten and become as animated as ever; a new toy would give her pleasure, and she would take it to bed with her. Such days encouraged her inordinately.
"How strange it is that the doctor does not give her a tonic, when he sees how weak she is!" she kept saying. "Nothing ails her but want of strength."
She and Belle divided the nursing between them, and the one was as tender and devoted as the other, with this difference: Margaret was full of hope, and Belle full of misgivings.
"Whereare you sick, my darling?" she asked, again and again, and the plaintive, weary little voice invariably answered: "Nowhere; onlysotired,sotired."
"Cyril, I can't bear this suspense any longer," Belle said, at last. "As soon as I know what God wants of me, He shall have it, if it breaks my heart. You must make the doctor tell what he thinks."
"He seems completely puzzled," was the reply. "But I will ask him; and if it would be any relief to you, request a consultation."
"It would be a great relief. Cyril, Mabel isveryill."
"My dear, you exaggerate the matter. I have seen any number of sicker children, and known them to get well. I don't see, as Margaret says, why no tonic is given her."
"You will find out, if the doctor is frank with you. If my fears are well founded I know the reason."
"I did not know you had any definite fear."
"I have; and so has mamma, though she has not said so. We think there is some insidious disease on the brain."
"The brain!" he repeated. "Oh, Belle, what would you do without your devoted little worshipper?"
"What every one does who believes in Christ," said Belle, bursting into tears.
"Yes; you would give her to Him without a word," he said, earnestly, almost reverently; for while he loved his wife for her own sake and for her love to himself, he loved her far more for her whole-souled devotion to Christ.
He went out now to find the doctor and to propose a consultation.
The doctor caught at the suggestion eagerly.
"The case is an obscure one," he said. "The child's debility is very great, but I find no explanation of it unless there is some insidious disease upon the brain."
"So her mother thinks."
"Indeed? I am surprised at that. Yet I ought not to be surprised either, after knowing her all her life. She has her mother's quick intuitions. Well, I will arrange about the consultation, immediately."
"Could not I do that?"
"Why, yes, I will give you the address of the physician I call in for children. You will find him at his office to-morrow morning, at ten."
Mr. Heath was thankful to go. Men are generally as out of place in sick-rooms as steam engines; twenty times he had banged the door and made Mabel cry out, and Belle had shuddered again and again, at the sound of his newspaper, which he could have read just as well in the library.
The word "consultation" sent a chill to Margaret's heart. She rushed away to her own room, locked the door, threw herself on her face across the bed, and cried with that bitter, heart-breaking cry which had won the love and sympathy in which she had been revelling.
"God wouldn't do such a dreadful thing!" she at last said to herself. "Never was a child adored as Mabel is. There is not one among them all, half so sweet. Why should He take her? He won't! I know He won't! What a fool I am for crying so! And there is auntyslavingover the twins!"
She flew to the washstand and tried to remove thetraces of her tears; then hurried to the nursery, where she found both babies fretting dismally, and Mrs. Grey doing her best to comfort them.
"I have been dreadfully selfish, aunty," she said, taking one of the twins from her. "I must have a very contracted mind, for it can only hold one thing at a time. I am as brimful of Mabel as a nest is full of birds."
"It isn't so much a contracted mind, as an exaggerating heart," was the reply. "You magnify every one you love, and every pursuit you engage in."
The nurses, who had been having their breakfasts, came now to the nursery, and Margaret drew Mrs. Grey away, to see if she could find comfort in her.
"God wouldn't do such a thing as to take away Mabel, would He, aunty?"
"I used to think Hecouldnot do these agonizing things; but He can, He does, and He knows why I have trembled for Belle when I have seen that steadfast little lover of hers follow her as the needle does the pole. It is Maud and her mother over again—only—"
She broke down now, but only for a moment, and asked Margaret's pardon as meekly as a child.
"Is it wrong, then, to cry?" asked Margaret, bewildered.
"It depends on the time and place, and how old one is. I don't think people of my age ought to indulge themselves by giving way to grief in which the spectator cannot share.
"'Burythysorrow, let others be blest,Give them the sunshine, tell Jesus the rest.'"
It was now Margaret's turn to feel humbled.
"How could I forget, even for a moment, how you had been afflicted?" she cried, passionately. "But you are so strong, and so patient, and so cheerful, and hide your scars away so carefully, that it is hard to realize that you ever had a sorrow. But, aunty, what will Belle do if she loses Mabel?"
"'She will behave and quiet herself as a child weaned of his mother.'"
Just then the door opened, and Mabel came quietly in. Both were startled, for she rarely moved about the house now. She saw that they had been crying, and came and put an arm around each.
"What makes everybody cry?" she asked. "Is anybody dead?"
Even Margaret was astonished at the sunny smile with which Mrs. Grey instantly diverted the child's attention.
"See," she said, opening a drawer, "what I forgot to give you at Christmas."
Mabel looked in and saw a snow-white dove nestled there.
"Oh!" she said, "when I get well I will dance forjoy! Grandmamma, I am not so tired to-day as I was yesterday. May I hold my baby a little while and show him this lovely dove?"
"You may try, darling."
They carried her up to the nursery and put the baby in her arms, but she could not hold him, and burst into tears. They were the last she ever shed.
The doctors came in the course of the day, and examined her from head to foot carefully.
"Does your head ache even a little?" they asked.
"No."
"Where are you sick, then? Put your hand on the place, dear."
"There isn't any place."
"How are her nights?"
"Very restless," said Belle, whose eye was reading every thought of the physicians, as if the faces they fancied so well-trained were open books. "She talks and moans in her sleep, and sometimes has painful dreams."
Mabel, nearly as keen as her mother, though in a different way, detected a tender, almost mournful glance between her physicians, at this answer, and reached out a little hand to each. They had to fight to keep back the tears, as their fingers closed over her wasted ones. All her life the child had had these touching ways which it is not possible to describe; one of the secrets of the peculiar way in which she attracted every one.
After a few more questions the physicians withdrew, promising to return on the following day. Mr. Heath followed them, but learned nothing definite. Mabel had a dreadful night; all the symptoms of water on the brain, hitherto wanting, came on with great force. How they lived through the next harrowing two weeks they hardly knew. Many whom Mrs. Grey had blessed in similar scenes, came now, full of tender sympathy to help support them through the fortnight in which the patient little lamb died daily, so distressing was her exhaustion. They were prayed for by hundreds some of them had never seen; and their faith failed not.
For a week the bright eyes remained open, and there was no sleep. They had ceased asking for her life, but prayed for the mercy of rest.
And at last it came, and the weary eyes were closed. They knelt around the bed and gave thanks. Then came one of those quick decisions on Margaret's part, that dotted her whole life as with stars. She put off her tears, went quietly to her room, and on a wide white ribbon, with teeth set hard together, began to paint. So, when Belle went to take her parting look at her darling before the funeral, there lay upon the coffin, within the ribbon, delicate flowers and green sprays, with the words:
"NowI lay me down to sleep."
It was an inexpressible comfort, and Margaret wasrewarded by the most loving embrace she had known for years.
"You are entering on mamma's mission of sympathizer very early," said Belle. "God bless you for it. After this you will be associated with every thought of my darling."
"I think God has special love for those He takes so early," said Mrs. Grey. "Dear little Mabel's character was unusually lovely, and now it will never be anything else."
Belle struggled to speak, but could not. At last she said:
"I cut this epitaph from a newspaper when quite a young girl. How little I then thought how it would come home to me!
"'Oh!' said the gardener, as he passed down the garden-walk, 'who plucked that flower? Who gathered that plant?' His fellow-servant answered, 'The Master!' and the gardener held his peace.'"
Mrs. Grey went home with the sorrowing family, taking Margaret with her, but leaving Gabrielle and the two boys at Greylock. They were too inexperienced to understand that a sublime joy is perfectly consistent with deep grief, and shrank from witnessing pain they believed to be without alleviation. The thought of a funeral was very repugnant to them, as was everything connected with the subject of death. They had yet to learn how Christ has conquered that last enemy, and how the soul may be cast down, yet always rejoicing.
It is hard to lay away in the grave a form we have loved, on a smiling, sunny day, under the green grass; but to put it under the snows of winter is harder still. It needs faith and patience of no common sort to tear the nursling from the breast, and leave it out in the cold. But neither Mrs. Grey's nor Belle's was of the common sort, and in the midst of their tears they could look away from the grave and see the "folded lamb" in green pastures and beside still waters, never so full of life as now.
Loving letters came to Belle from every member of the family, which were a great comfort to her; many precious and comforting books were sent her which she was willing to let do their mission to her soul. But the constant, sympathizing presence of Christ was her chief solace. It has been truly said that the best cure for sorrow is an increased, personal love for Him; Mrs. Grey learned this secret long ago, but Belle first learned it now.
Margaret had not their consolations. Every thought of Mabel lacerated her, and her health began to suffer.
"Poor child, it is her nature to take life hard," said Mrs. Grey to Belle, "and her love for Mabel was a passion."
"Everythingis a passion with her," Belle replied. "If you had not adopted her and toned her down, and she had been left uneducated and unrestrained, she would have rushed headlong to destruction."
"I do not feel sure how she will come out in the end," said Mrs. Grey. "If anything happens to me I shall want you to look after her."
"Anything happen to you, mamma?" cried Belle; "do you think anythingisgoing to happen? Why, it isn't living not to have a mother."
"In the nature of things you ought to outlive me, my child. And it is well to familiarize yourself to the thought."
Belle's eyes filled with tears.
"You know what Mabel's death has cost me," she said, "but it is nothing to what yours would."
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Grey, trying to smile away this almost reproachful tone, "I do not expect to die at present, and may live to be a trial to you all. I hope not, though. I should like to live as long as I can work for Christ; not longer, nevertheless not my will."
"Nor mine!" said Belle. "I spoke in a cowardly moment, dreading any more suffering. It was most ungrateful after all God's goodness to me."
Margaret now came in with a photograph of Mabel she had been coloring.
"Oh, this is a great improvement!" cried Belle. "Thank you, ever so much."
"What a mercy that you had it taken so recently!" said Mrs. Grey.
"Yes; there has been nothing but goodness and mercy from beginning to end."
Poor Margaret could not see it, and her face showed that she could not.
"Things that look like unmitigated evils now will appear differently as you advance into life. You are only on the outskirts now," said Mrs. Grey, kindly. "Belle, my dear, let Margaret read your Mabel-journal."
Belle rose and brought the book. It had been kept from the day of the child's birth till that of her death.
Margaret took it to her room and read it eagerly, and amid a rain of tears. Even she had not realized what a lovely character the little one possessed, and every little detail interested her.
"This book ought to be published!" she said, as she returned it.
"It would not touch the public as it does you," replied Belle.
"It would touch anybody who had a heart," said Mrs. Grey.
Belle caught it nervously, and locked it up. Mrs. Grey smiled, and said she never meant to urge its publication.
At the end of a fortnight she and Margaret returned to Greylock, sent the boys back to Mr. Heath, and everything went on as usual till spring; Mrs. Grey going hither and thither on all sorts of Christian work; Margaret eagerly engaged in painting a portrait of Mabel, partly from a photograph, partly from memory, and busy with her studies also. And now a long-promised visit to Laura was to be made as soon as Gabrielle's vacation should begin, when she was to go home for a visit.
Laura lived on the beautiful banks of the Hudson, and so near to the city that her husband could attend to his business there, and go home every afternoon. Since Mrs. Grey had been there, they had built a new house, and Laura was full of delight in the prospectof exhibiting it to her mother and Margaret. She charged the latter to bring her painting-materials, so as to make sketches of some of the fine views in the neighborhood.
"I don't know about that," said Margaret. "I doubt if I ought to do anything of that sort till Mabel's portrait is done. That will be such a delightful surprise to Belle."
"On the other hand, it would be running some risk to take it with you," Mrs. Grey replied.
"Do you mean from the children?"
"Not exactly. I don't know what I do mean. I only know that I have an impression that it is best to leave it at home. You have put a great deal of work in it, and it would take months to replace it."
"I don't think I could forgive Pug and Trot if they bedaubed this as they did the only other large picture I ever took. I'll leave it."
On a beautiful afternoon in. June they met Harry on the steamboat, on their way to his home. He was in splendid health and spirits, and seemed delighted at the prospect of their visit. They sat upon deck, read a little, looked at the blue sky and green banks, and talked when they felt like it.
"We shall soon be there," Harry said, at last. "You'll get a glimpse of the house as we skirt this island. Hollo! what's that?" he cried, starting to his feet and running forward.
"It's fire!" said Margaret, putting out her hand for Mrs. Grey's.
"We are near the shore; there is no danger," said Mrs. Grey.
"Why doesn't Harry come back?" asked Margaret. "He ought not to expose himself for Laura's sake. Oh, aunty, see how the flames are rushing between us and him!"
There was great rushing to and fro, the flames spread rapidly; orders were given in a loud voice, above which could be heard the cries of the terrified passengers.
An attempt was made to make for the shore, but the steamer ran aground. Harry made his way through the flames and came to them now, hardly looking like a human being. His hair was singed, his face black and grimy, and at first they did not recognize him or his voice, as he said, hoarsely:
"There isn't a moment to lose! Jump overboard, both of you! I'm a good swimmer; I can save you!"
"I have a son on board!" replied Mrs. Grey. "I cannot seek my own safety till I am sure of his! But if you will kindly take charge of this young lady—"
"Don't you know me, mother?" cried Harry, impatiently. "I tell you there's not a moment to lose!"
The two women kissed each other.
"Good-bye, darling, darling aunty, if he doesn't save us!"
"Good-bye, my precious child! Good-bye, Harry! Tell Laura—"
He almost pushed them into the water, jumped in himself, bade them hold him fast, and began to strike out for the shore. The distance was greater than he supposed, and his strength began to fail; what should he do? which life should he sacrifice? Margaret's, of course, not that of Laura's mother. But Margaret was so young, it was dreadful to die young; and Mrs. Grey at best could not live many years. The conflict was painful, and so was every stroke of his arms. Neither should die, if it killed him! One more heroic stroke and we are there! No, a wave has beaten us back!
With a groan of anguish he cried, "I cannot save you both! One of you must loose your hold! Which shall it be?"
"Not aunty!" said Margaret, instantly loosing her grasp.
"Not Margaret!" said Mrs. Grey, as instantly relinquishing hers.
Harry uttered a cry of horror, and watched to see them rise; but his over-taxed frame had made its last frantic effort; he felt himself going down, down; there was a faint thought of Laura, waiting for him inher white dress, a faint sense of God waiting for him too, and then he knew no more, till he awoke, and found it was all a dream; Laura was there, very pale, but smiling; the doctor was there, and many others.
"He's all right now," said the doctor, "and as soon as I've set this arm you may take him home."
For reply, Laura, waking also as from a dream, cried, "Where is mamma? Where is Margaret?"
"I did my best," Harry said, faintly. "This arm was broken before we took to the water."
"You don't mean to tell me that you let my motherdrown?" Laura hissed in his ear.
"Indeed, madam, my patient is in no state to be excited," said the doctor. "Rejoice that Providence has given you back your husband, and only taken your mother."
"Onlytaken!" repeated Laura, almost beside herself. "Only taken my mother! Why, she was one of ten thousand! She waseverybody's mother! And Margaret! That noble girl! And I am to rejoice, am I!"
"There will be little to rejoice over if you go on in this way, madam," said the doctor, pointing to Harry, who had again become insensible.
This silenced her, and she spoke no more, but almost the coldness of death steeled her heart to her husband. She did not realize the self-possession hehad displayed, the difficulties in his way; she did not know that if the women she lamented had been less heroic one of them might have been saved; all she knew was, they lay dead in the embrace of the river she had once thought beautiful.
"What news for poor Belle! What a shock to Frank! What consternation among mother's friends!" she thought, and tried to cry, but not a tear would come.
Slowly, when Harry came to himself, and his arm had been set, they drove home. There was the table, set for tea; there was mother's chair; there was the plate of strawberries, and the vase of flowers she had gathered with such delight. She went to the window and threw them out; who cared for fruit and flowers now?
Meanwhile, Harry had been taken up-stairs, and laid upon a couch, falling asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. She went and looked at him, and saw how the fire had singed his hair, how death-like he looked; how blistered were his hands. "But he let my mother drown," she thought.
All night she sat by him, and when he woke and needed attention, she gave it; but that was all. She gave no kiss, no caress, no loving word, but steeled herself with the thought, "He let my mother drown."
Harry was so exhausted that he did not notice this at first; when he did, he was disappointed and grieved,but not surprised. His conscience was clear, and he knew that as soon as he had strength to tell his story, Laura would see her injustice. Then he fell asleep again, and again woke and saw her sitting there, pale, and silent, and stony. He thought she had sat there a week; wondered if she would speak to him again; if she ever ate, or drank, or moved; and then, feeble as a child, he slept again.
It was only one night and part of a day after all, and if Laura neither slept or ate during that time, it was because she had too much else to think of and to do. Vigorous measures must be taken to recover the bodies; that was the first thing. Then to get into communication with her brothers. They would see the news in the daily papers, but that would not be like authentic intelligence from herself. Frank would come to her immediately; she was sure of that; later, if—she could not trust herself even to think there could be an if—they would all be together at Greylock. Dear old Greylock! With mamma and Margaret gone what a mockery it would be!
Messages kept coming in from those who were at work at the scene of the disaster, but they all told of defeat. And so, too, did the constant booming of cannon. In this agony of suspense, she was thankful to have neighboring friends gather around her. She clung to them as the drowning cling to the arm that is trying to rescue them. This was due to her youth.In later years she bore her sorrows unaided by human support. Many of Mrs. Grey's friends came up from the city, full of grief and full of sympathy, and uttering words of hope they hardly felt. Frank was the first of the family to arrive, though he lived farthest off; Mr. Heath and Belle came next, and the group waiting in suspense, grew larger every hour. Belle was a marvel to herself; her treble sorrow, far from crushing her, lifted her up to a calm and dignified height where she had such glimpses of the glory of God that she was almost fain to shut her eyes. They all leaned upon her as upon a rock.
"Why do you stand at the window all the time?" asked Laura.
"To catch the first sight of them when they come," she said, simply.
"Are you still hoping? I have given them up."
"I think God has heard our prayers and that He will grant us the favor of knowing that their precious dust is spared to us. Still, heaven is as easy to reach from the river as from the dry land; we must remember that. Oh, Laura, look!"
A little procession was coming in sight; they bore one body on their shoulders; as they drew near, the sound of heavy boots fell like footsteps on their hearts.
"It is our mother," said Frank, who had been all day by the side of the river. "Look!"
He removed the covering from her face, and there she lay, the last heroic purpose written there, the eyes closed, the attitude one of perfect rest.
"Let us give thanks!" said Cyril Heath.
They knelt around her, but he could not master his voice, and it failed him; Frank tried, and broke down. Then a woman's gentle, calm tones were heard; gentle and calm, but strong and victorious; they almost saw the gates of heaven opened, and the triumphant entrance of a glad and glorified spirit into the presence of Christ.
Laura's tears came now in floods; as they rose from their knees she threw her arms around Belle, and said:
"You are on the wing; we shall lose you next!"
"You are mistaken," Belle said, quietly.
"Poor Margaret!" sighed Laura. "What a short, eventful career!"
"I do not feel sure that Margaret is not living," said Belle. "Mamma was so ripe for heaven that it seemed natural to think of her as being called home without a moment's preparation. She desired to die suddenly; I have heard her say so, repeatedly. But dear Margaret was full of vitality and very human, and while I think she was nobly 'planned,' I also think the plan was not fully carried out."
"She was one to suffer intensely."
"Yes, and to enjoy intensely."
"But if she is alive, where is she? Why don't we hear from her?"
"I do not know, but God does. I pray for her; and I never knew Him to let me pray for the dead. Again and again I have been restrained from praying for those for whom I was in the habit of praying daily. It was so in the case of Maud. Just before the telegram came, announcing her death, I prayed for all the rest of you, but when it came to her turn I was speechless."
"Dear little Maud! Now she and mamma are together again."
This conversation took place amid many interruptions, while the two sisters prepared their mother's form for the grave with their own hands. She had often alluded to the event of her death, and expressed herself as very weak on the point of being handled by strangers. They nerved themselves, therefore, to render all the last services unaided.
Some one tapped at the door. Laura opened it, and a weeping figure tottered in.
It was old Mary, bent with grief. No one had thought to send her a dispatch, and she was not in the habit of reading the papers. She had heard the disaster spoken of at market, and come away in her working-dress, just as she was, her basket of provisions in her hand.
When her first wild burst of grief was over, Mary said:
"Sure she's got her wish, and died sudden. She was always ready to go, and now she's gone. Often's the time I've heard her talk about dying, and I mind a time when she thought she was going, and there was a light in her eye, and 'What d'ye think of that?' says she. I declare, it was just as she looked when she says to me, 'Mary, I'm going to be married, and what d'ye think of that?' says she. Well, I bursted right out, and says I, 'We won't be long separated,' says I, 'for I've got the brown creeturs, awful,' says I, 'and all I'll ask is to live to nurse you, and lay ye out, and then there won't be no more need o' me in this world, and the Lord'll say, 'Old Mary, ye'r a poor, ignorant creetur, and you ain't to be trusted without your mistress, and I may as well let you in when I open the gate for her.'"
Indeed, the shattered figure looked as if this blow would be too much for it, as it soon proved to be.
"God has taken her away without pain," said Belle, "and in great mercy. It was quite right in you to come as soon as you heard the news."
"Ye'll let me do her hair with me own hands, Miss Belle," said old Mary. "She always liked me to do her hair. There, now, ain't she a picture?"
She did, indeed, look very beautiful, like one sweetly asleep, not dead. Belle went out to call Frank to see her. He was startled. "Is it not possible that she is living?" he asked.
"Why, Frank! After two days in the water?"
"But she is so like herself, Laura. Harry is very restless; he has asked for you several times."
"I had forgotten there was any Harry!" she said, and moved slowly away.
Harry had slept most of the time during the two days, but was now awake and able to tell his wife all about the fire, and with what difficulty he made his way back to her mother and Margaret. How his arm was broken he did not know, but it was in the struggle to reach them. When he described the moment when they both dropped away from him, she apprehended the whole situation at once, and was down on her knees at his side in a moment.
"And I reproached you!" she cried. "Harry, can you ever forgive me?"
"I knew you would come out all right, at last," he said.
"I did not know you tried to save them, with one arm disabled," she said, very humbly. "Forgive me, Harry."
"There is nothing to forgive, dearie. But there is a great deal I wish I could forget. It was an awful moment when I found I must let one go; but, oh, Laura! when both went! I wonder I did not drop dead."
"You did, nearly, poor boy. But tell me how it was they both dropped?"
"Oh, I was such a fool! Knowing what characters they were, I ought to have known that when I said one must loose her hold, each would resolve to be that one. Margaret was grasping my disabled arm with all her strength, when I spoke; she actually threw it from her, then, as onedisdainingto purchase her life by another's; your mother's last movement was different: she clasped my hand, kissed me, then dropped it gently, or to express it more truly,laidit down, as she would something forever done with; the action symbolized final quiet parting with life. You can't wonder that that awful moment deprived me of my senses."
Some one knocked; it proved to be Frank.
"There is a possibility, a bare possibility, that Margaret is living. There is a rumor that a young woman floated down the river clinging to a board, and was picked up by a fisherman."
"But if it were Margaret she would have sent us some message."
"So it would seem. Still, Cyril is going to see. Belle is very hopeful about it."
"In religion Belle is an enthusiast," was the reply. "Frank, mamma sacrificed her life to Margaret, and Margaret sacrificed hers to mamma. They both had high notions on such points, and I can easily imagine mamma as dying for almost any one she dearly loved; but I did not believe Margaret had such heroism.They diedsublimely! Better such death than a thousand narrow, selfish lives!"
"Yes, yes, indeed. Shall you be able to leave Harry to go with us to-morrow?"
"Yes; I must. George Van Zandt will stay with him. Poor Harry! I have been so unjust to him! Think of his trying to save mamma and Margaret, with one arm broken!"
"Harry is a noble fellow. There goes Cyril. And Belle with him, I declare! I must see to that."
He ran down and overtook them.
"I looked for you everywhere," she said, "and finally left a message for you. If this proves to be Margaret she is in a disabled condition, or she would have sent a message. She knows how careful we are never to leave each other in needless suspense. So I am going to see."
"Do you think she ought to go, Cyril?"
"Certainly. Let her put on her mother's mantle as soon as she likes. I agree with her that we shall find Margaret, and find her disabled."
Very early the next morning Frank received this dispatch:
"Margaret is living, but insensible."
"Ah, what different news this would be if mamma were alive to hear it!" said Laura. "What a tantalizing telegram! They do not say whether her case is alarming or not."
A little later in the day came another dispatch:
"Cyril will join you at Greylock. I cannot leave Margaret.
Bella Heath."
"Belle not at mamma's funeral!" cried Laura, in dismay. "How dreadful! Poor Belle! But she is right; and yet, why could not I go to Margaret and release her? Oh, it would not do to leave Harry. We need another sister."
"Let me go," said Fred's wife. "Belle ought to be at the funeral, and she must."
"Do, Hatty. If Margaret is insensible it cannot matter who takes care of her, if it is only one of the family."
There was no time to lose, and Fred and Hatty hurried off. Fred had only time to land, find the fisherman's cottage where Margaret lay, and almost force Belle away, leaving his wife in her place.
"It was very, very kind in Hatty," Belle said, as the steamer pushed off. "I will relieve her as soon as possible. How often it happens that the tide of grief is partially stayed by a rush of care. I have been so absorbed in Margaret that I have hardly had time to think of myself."
"Can she be made comfortable in that little cottage?"
"They are very kind people who live there; and then as to comfort, she would not know if she wasin a palace. The physician who attends her says the brain has received a severe shock and is very doubtful as to what the result will be. But she has a strong constitution, and I think she will live."
"And where?"
Belle turned upon him a look full of astonishment.
"I had not thought of that," she said. "Why, she would come to me, I suppose."
"It would be a great change for her, and interrupt her studies, and put miles between her and any studio," said Fred.
"Yes. It will be time enough to think of that when she recovers."