RIGHT AT LAST.
"Sibyl," said Aunt Faith, the day after the picnic, "have you
completed all your preparations for Saratoga?"
"You speak as though my going was a matter-of-course, Aunt," said
Sibyl slowly.
"Is it not, dear? I supposed your decision was made several weeks
ago," said Aunt Faith, thinking of the written paper which Sibyl had
given her to read.
"I think I shall go," said Sibyl, after a pause. "Everything is ready
but the pearls; I can buy them any time."
"I hope you will enjoy the summer, my dear," said Aunt Faith, taking
her niece's hand affectionately.
"Then you approve of my going, Aunt?"
"You must make your own decision, Sibyl. No one can aid you in such a
question as this," replied Aunt Faith gravely.
Sibyl sat awhile in silence; then she rose and left the room.
An hour or two afterwards, Bridget came upstairs to tell Aunt Faith
that Mr. Leslie wished to see her; she went down, somewhat surprised
at so early a call, and found the young clergyman waiting for her in
the parlor.
"Mrs. Sheldon," he said, after the first words of greeting, "poor
Margaret Brown is in great trouble. You remember our conversation
about her yesterday? Calling in to tell her of it this morning, I
found two of the children stricken down with fever, seriously ill, the
doctor says; and I have come directly to you for aid; to you and Miss
Warrington."
"Sibyl has gone out, Mr. Leslie, but I shall be glad to do anything I
can. Shall I go there at once, or send a nurse?"
"I hardly know yet; I came to talk the matter over with you. I do not
like to ask you to go there, for the fever may be dangerous, and yet
Margaret needs sympathy as much as money. Perhaps if they could all be
moved into a purer air,--into the country, for instance,--away from
that crowded neighborhood, it would be the wisest course."
"But can the sick children bear a journey now?"
"I think they could go a few miles in an easy carriage, but, as they
are growing worse every hour, it must be done at once if done at all.
Do you know of any farm-house where they could be received for a
time?"
"Mr. Green might take them," said Aunt Faith; "he would probably
expect ample payment, however. Mr. Leslie, I am sorry I cannot give
you _carte blanche_; but owing to outside circumstances, I have but a
small sum at my disposal at present."
"We will put our means together, Mrs. Sheldon. I have something laid
by, and perhaps Miss Warrington will assist us."
"Sibyl has other uses for her money, I fear."
"Surely none more worthy than this, Mrs. Sheldon."
Aunt Faith grew somewhat impatient. "Mr. Leslie," she said
emphatically, "you do not understand my niece."
"I think I understand Miss Warrington's character, and I think she
will help Margaret Brown," replied the young clergyman gravely.
At this moment a step on the gravel-walk was heard, and Sibyl herself
crossed the piazza and entered the hall.
"Have you been down town, Sibyl?" asked Aunt Faith.
"Yes, aunt," replied Sibyl, coloring slightly, as she returned Mr.
Leslie's greeting.
"Have you made any purchases?" continued Aunt Faith, glancing at an
oblong box in her niece's hand.
Sibyl hesitated; then, as if impelled by a sudden impulse, she took
off the wrapping-paper and opened the case. "I have bought my pearls
at last, Aunt Faith. Are they not beautiful?" she said.
The fair jewels lay on a velvet bed, white and perfect, and looking
from them to Sibyl's blonde beauty, one could not help noticing their
adaptation to each other.
"They are very lovely, my dear," said Aunt Faith, passing the case to
Mr. Leslie. He took the jewels, looked at them a moment, and retaining
the case in his hand, said, "I came here this morning to ask your
assistance in a case of distress, Miss Warrington. Margaret Brown is
in need of instant aid; two of the children are ill, and I wish to
have them removed into the country, if possible, before they grow
worse. I rely upon you to help us."
Sibyl sat with downcast eyes a moment. Then she said in a low voice,
"I am sorry, Mr. Leslie; but I have just spent all my spare money upon
those pearls."
"The jeweller will take them back; I will arrange it for you, if you
wish," said the clergyman, looking at her intently.
The color deepened painfully in Sibyl's cheeks, and the tears came
into her eyes, but she did not speak. Aunt Faith saw the struggle, and
came to her niece's assistance with her usual kindliness. "You must
not expect young ladies to give up their pretty ornaments so easily,"
she said to Mr. Leslie, trying to shield Sibyl's embarrassment.
"I am not speaking to a young lady; I am speaking to a fellow
Christian," said Mr. Leslie, gravely. "Miss Warrington and I have
often spoken of the duty of giving. Only last evening we had a very
serious conversation on that and kindred subjects. Mrs. Sheldon has
said that I do not understand her niece. But I am unwilling to believe
myself mistaken. I still think I understand her better even than her
own aunt does,--better even than she understands herself."
Still Sibyl did not speak. Aunt Faith looked at her in surprise. Could
it be that her worldliness was conquered after all? "Sibyl," she said,
gently, "you must decide, dear. Shall Mr. Leslie take back the
pearls?"
"No," replied Sibyl, rising and struggling to regain her composure, "I
wish the pearls, and there is no justice in asking me to give them up.
I shall keep them, and as I have to write to Mrs. Leighton that I will
meet her next week as she desired, my time is more than occupied, and
I will ask Mr. Leslie to excuse me."
She left the room, taking the pearls with her, and not a word more did
Mr. Leslie say in allusion to her. He turned the conversation back to
Margaret Brown, discussed the various arrangements for removing the
family into the country, and then took his departure.
"I was very sorry about the money, Aunt Faith," said Sibyl, after he
had gone, standing at the sitting-room window and watching the tall
figure disappearing in the distance.
"Sincerity first of all, my dear," replied Aunt Faith.
"How will he get the money, aunt?"
"He is going to apply to Mrs. Chase, I believe. Although she has never
attended the chapel-services, he knows her to be generous and
kind-hearted."
"Rich, too, Aunt Faith. It is very easy to be generous when one is
rich," said Sibyl, with a shade of bitterness in her tone.
"Riches are comparative, Sibyl. Mrs. Chase is rich, but she has very
many depending upon her assistance."
"Mr. Leslie had no right to make such a demand of me," said Sibyl,
after a pause.
"Perhaps he thought you had given him the right to guide you," said
Aunt Faith.
"I have never given him any right," said Sibyl, hastily. "I presume he
thinks I am a selfish, hard-hearted creature," she added in another
tone.
"He thinks more highly of you than your own aunt did, Sibyl; he said
so himself. He believes, or has believed, firmly in the purity of your
religious faith and firm principle. I have several times been
surprised to see how sure he was of you."
"He asked too much," said Sibyl; "he is too severe with me."
"Not more severe than he is with himself, my dear. He has taken all
his little savings for Margaret Brown, and I presume those savings
represent comforts, not luxuries like pearls."
"Mr. Leslie should not try me by the same test he uses for himself; I
cannot stand it."
"That is where he made his mistake, my dear. He thought you could."
Sibyl colored angrily. "Mr. Leslie is an enthusiast," she said; "he
expects people to throw down all their treasures at his feet."
"Not at his feet; at the foot of the cross, dear."
"Aunt Faith, do you really believe people can be happy in such a
life?" said Sibyl vehemently.
"Mr. Leslie is happy, my child."
"He is a single man with few cares. I am alluding to married people,
burdened with responsibility and anxiety."
"If they are so burdened, my dear, so much the more reason why they
should seek help from Him who said 'come unto me all ye that are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"But in every-day life there are so many petty annoyances, aunt."
"Will they be any the less annoying without His aid, dear?"
"They will be less annoying if people are rich, Aunt Faith."
"Some of the most unhappy women I have ever known, have been rich,
Sibyl."
"But I would not be one of those, aunt. I would be rich and happy at
the same time."
"If you could, my dear. But wealth brings with it its own troubles;
sometimes in the shape of the donor; I trust you would not marry for
money?"
"Not for money alone, aunt. But I see no reason why a rich man might
not be loved for himself as well as a poor man. It does not follow
that because a man is rich he must therefore be selfish or
ill-tempered."
"Certainly not, my dear; but we will not discuss it any longer, at
present. You are young, and I wish you to understand yourself
thoroughly. Take no rash steps, and remember that wealth is as nothing
compared to a true heart, and that this world's best treasures are
perishable, while religious faith abides with us through life and
death into eternity."
In the afternoon Mr. Leslie came again to the old stone house, and
inquired for Mrs. Sheldon. "I have come to ask for your horses," he
said, as Aunt Faith entered the parlor; I have secured a large
carriage that will take all the family, and now, if you will send
Jonas down with the horses, we can hope to have Margaret safely
established at Mr. Green's before night."
"Certainly, Mr. Leslie. Is there nothing more I can do?"
"Not to-day, thank you. I shall go out with them myself."
"How are the children?"
"Worse, I fear; but I have large faith in country air."
"I shall be anxious to know how they bear the ride."
"I will stop on my way home as I must come back with the carriage,"
said the young clergyman as he went away.
"Was not that Mr. Leslie?" asked Hugh, coming in from the dining-room
a few moments afterward.
"Yes," replied Aunt Faith; "he came to see me on business."
"Didn't he ask for Sibyl?" said Hugh.
"No," replied Aunt Faith, with a warning look at her nephew, as Sibyl
came in. But Hugh was not to be warned. "Sibyl," he said, "Mr. Leslie
has been here and did not ask for you."
"Is that so very surprising?" said his sister coldly; she had regained
all her composure and her face was calm and quiet.
"Of course it is surprising," said Hugh bluntly. "He has been in the
habit of coming here to see you for months, and, let me tell you,
Sibyl, he is one in a thousand; he is a hero, every inch, and I
heartily respect and like him."
"I have said nothing to the contrary, Hugh."
"Don't be a hypocrite, Sibyl," said Hugh with brotherly frankness. "I
am not good at splitting hairs, but there is no more comparison
between Mr. Leslie and Graham Marr, than there is between an eagle and
a sickly chicken."
"I have never thought of comparing them, Hugh. I do not like
comparisons, and yours is entirely unjust. But even supposing it was
correct, _I_ have no taste for standing on a mountain-peak, in the icy
air of unknown heights, and gazing at the sun all day as an eagle
does," said Sibyl, as she crossed the hall into the parlor. In a few
moments the Spring-Song sounded forth from the piano, and under cover
of the music, Hugh said to Aunt Faith, "There is nothing wrong between
them I hope?"
"There is nothing between them either right or wrong," replied Aunt
Faith with a sigh. "Sibyl is not suited to Mr. Leslie."
"Then it is her fault," said Hugh warmly. "There is no doubt in my
mind that John Leslie is deeply interested in her, and I should be
proud and glad to have him for a brother. He is the truest, most
honest man I know."
"That is because he is such a sincere, earnest Christian."
"I know it, aunt. He works hard, and he thoroughly believes in his
work. He really thinks there is nothing in the city so vitally
important as that little chapel, and those workmen."
"He is right, Hugh. To _him_ there should be nothing so important as
their welfare."
"Yes, I suppose so; that is, if I could look at it with his eyes. But
it is rare to see practice so consistent with theory in every-day
life."
"It is, as you say, rare indeed; but he is a rare man, Hugh."
"He is, truly. That is the reason why I feel Sibyl's manner. Can it be
possible that she really prefers Graham Marr?"
"I do not know, Hugh. Graham will be rich some day."
"That is the worst of it, aunt. Who would have thought Sibyl could be
so mercenary!"
"Do not judge her harshly, dear. She has none of that impulse which
you admire, but her heart has always been true,--at least so far,"
said Aunt Faith gently. Then, after a pause, she continued in a lower
tone, "Hugh, if you like and admire Mr. Leslie so much, why are you
not willing to follow his example?"
"What! Become a clergyman, Aunt Faith?"
"Not that, unless you feel an inward call towards the blessed
vocation," replied Aunt Faith reverently; "but why do you delay to
come forward and make your open profession of faith? Is it honest, is
it manly, to hang backward?"
"Oh, Aunt Faith, I am not good enough!" said Hugh quickly.
"Goodness is not required of any of us, Hugh; only repentance, and an
earnest endeavor to improve. My dear boy, I never see you come and go,
without an aching desire to have you enrolled under His banner, to
have you a soldier of the Cross, openly, before all men. Have you
thought over our last conversation on this subject?"
"Yes, aunt, many times; but I have such a high idea of a professing
Christian. It seems to me that such an one ought to be like Mr.
Leslie, working with all his might for the salvation of souls."
"It is not required that all professing Christians should be ministers
of the word, Hugh. There are many other spheres of action, and many
qualifications, varied according to our varied temperaments and
positions. The Bible makes that point very clear. You read it, I
hope?"
"Yes; but I always read the same part, the Gospel of St, John. I like
it best of all. There are so many beautiful verses in it which are
found nowhere else, so much love and warm faith! For instance; 'Let
not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.' And 'I will not
leave you comfortless, I will come unto you.' And, 'woman, behold thy
son; behold thy mother;' to me one of the most touching incidents in
the Gospel. Then there is the story of Lazarus, and the verse 'Jesus
wept.' _He_ sorrowed for the mourners, too! Oh, I cannot understand
how true Christians can mourn so bitterly for their dead, when they
believe that this loving Saviour cares for them."
"It is not always so much for their lost ones as for themselves, Hugh;
their own loneliness, their crushed hopes, and perhaps their remorse
that in the lifetime of those they mourn they did not do more for
their happiness."
"You have lost many dear ones, Aunt Faith," said Hugh thoughtfully.
"Yes; my husband, my parents, and among my intimate friends, all my
generation."
"Do you often think of them, aunt?"
"Yes, Hugh, very often. At first with tears and sadness, but gradually
with hope, and a certain looking forward instead of backward. At first
I kept all my anniversaries sacred, the many days hallowed by
associations with my dear ones; but gradually I tried to break up the
habit, and now I only think of their heavenly birthdays,--the days
when they left the earth,--and even these have come to be pleasant. I
have always been fond of autumn. There is something that charms me in
the hazy air and colored foliage. It is not sadness,--it is not
joy,--but a sweet peace. Then, my dead always seem near to me. If you
like, I will give you something I once wrote on the subject,
expressing this _feeling_."
"Do, aunt!" said Hugh, earnestly: for so seldom did Aunt Faith allude
to her past life and its sorrows, that all the cousins held it in
reverent respect, and although they often spoke of it among
themselves, they never broke through the bounds of Aunt Faith's
silence. In her own room hung the portrait of her husband, Lester
Sheldon, a young man's face, with blue eyes, and thick golden hair,
tossed carelessly back from the white forehead, while below, the firm
mouth told of decision and self-control beyond his years. Once, when
Bessie was a child, she sat looking at this portrait for some time in
silence. Then she said, "Aunt Faith, if that is your husband, what
makes him so young when you are so old?"
"He died when he was a young man, little Bessie."
"But he won't know you when you go to heaven, I'm afraid," continued
the child, looking anxiously at her aunt's gray hair.
"Oh, I shall be young then, too, Bessie. Here is a picture of me when
I was eighteen," said Aunt Faith, taking a box from her drawer, and
drawing out a miniature. It was one of those lovely, old-fashioned
ivory pictures, showing a fresh young face with dimples, and a sunny
smile.
"Oh, auntie, _that_ isn't you!" Bessie had exclaimed, and the other
children having come into the room, the picture was shown to them
also. Since that day they had never seen it, but Hugh retained a vivid
remembrance of the picture, and, as Aunt Faith looked through her desk
to find the paper, something in her face recalled it to his mind, and
there came across him, like a revelation, a vision of what she was at
eighteen. Faith Warrington at eighteen! Faith Warrington, who had long
been Mrs. Sheldon with her gray hair and pale face. Going up to his
room, Hugh seated himself by the window, and opening the paper, read
the following lines:--
"Far back within the cycles of the past,
A train of centuries rolls,
From out whose cloudy borders came the day
Of memory for all souls.
How long it seems, a thousand years ago!
How dark and weary, if we did not know
A thousand years are but as yesterday within His
sight,
Seeing that it is past like one brief watch within the
night!
Could they have known, those men of childlike faith,
Half ignorant, half sublime,
The fitness of the souls' memorial day
Falling within the time
Of Nature's holy calm, her blest repose,--
When all the land with loving fervor glows,
And from the naked woods, the empty fields, through
the soft haze,
Her work well done, her garners full, she offers up
her praise.
A stillness fills the consecrated air,--
The blustering winds that swept
The red and yellow leaves in giddy rounds,
By mighty hands are kept
In their four corners, while the liquid gold
And purple tints over the earth unrolled,
And full of mystery and heavenly peace, as though
the skies
Had opened, and let out the atmosphere of Paradise.
Departed souls! Their memory may _come_
With grief in Spring's soft hours,--
With weary, lonely sadness when our hands
Are gathering summer flowers,--
With wild despair in winter: when the graves
Are white with drifted snow, and wildly raves
The wind among the stones and monuments, in
accents dread,
Calling in vain the sculptured names of our beloved
dead.
But in this golden dream-time of the year,
Our bitter murmurs cease;--
We seem to feel the presence of the dead,
Their shadowy touch of peace;
We seem to see their faces as we gaze
Longingly forth into the purple haze,
And hear the distant chorus of the happy souls at
rest,--
And catch the well-known accents of the voice we
loved the best."
All Souls' Day, November 2nd.
In the evening, as Aunt Faith was sitting on the piazza with Bessie,
Mr. Leslie came up the walk; Sibyl was in the parlor playing soft
chords on the piano, but she could hear his words as he spoke. Mr.
Leslie's voice was deep, but clear, and his pronunciation perfectly
distinct without any apparent effort. He did not obtrude the alphabet
unpleasantly upon his hearers; he was not so anxious to show his
correct pronunciation of "Been" as to force it to rhyme with "Seen;"
he was not so much concerned with "Institute," as to te-u-ute the last
syllable into undue importance; neither did he bombard his hearers
with the arrogance of rolling _rr's_. Although his voice was not loud,
any one occupying even the last seat in the chapel could not only hear
him, but was absolutely invited to listen by the pleasant distinctness
of the words.
"I am pleased to be able to tell you that Margaret and the children
are safe in the farm-house, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, taking a seat on
the piazza. "Poor girl, how glad she was to get there! She sent her
grateful thanks to you."
"How did the children bear the ride?" asked Aunt Faith.
"Better than I expected. Indeed, the novelty, and perhaps the pleasant
country air, seemed to revive them, and lessen the fever. They even
walked about the garden when we arrived there, and began to make
bouquets of flowers, but before I left, the reaction had come and they
looked very tired."
"You look tired, also, Mr. Leslie," said Aunt Faith; the light from
the hall-lamp shone on the young clergyman's face and showed its pale
weariness.
"I am tired," he replied, "but a night's rest is all I need." Then he
leaned back in his chair and sat talking pleasantly with Bessie and
Aunt Faith. "This is a charming old house," he said, "it must have
been built a long time ago."
"Yes," replied Aunt Faith; "for a western town it is quite venerable.
The main portion was built in 1822, and the wings were added as the
family increased, without much regard for architectural regularity.
The stairs were originally out-doors on the back piazza, but father
finally had them enclosed. You may have noticed that the west side has
only two windows, and that those are singularly placed. It is amusing
to think that so implicit was grandfather's belief in the growth of
Westerton, then hardly more than a pioneer village, that he built up
that side without any windows so as not to interfere with the blocks
of dwellings which he was sure would press up against this house as
the town grew into a city. It was only after many years that father
was allowed to pierce the thick wall and with great difficulty insert
those two windows."
"That is something like my old home, a little village in the interior
of New York," said Mr. Leslie. "One old man was so impressed by the
growth of the town, that meeting my father he shook him by the hand
and exclaimed, 'how it do grow, Judge! Please heaven, we'll make a
seaport of it yet!'"
They all laughed at this story. Then Aunt Faith said, "I should like
to think that some of the children would occupy this old house after I
am gone. But in America, and especially in the Western States that is
hardly possible."
"I will live here, if I can, Aunt Faith," said Bessie warmly. "I love
every stone in the old house, and every old flower in the old garden."
"Are flowers ever old, Miss Darrell?" said Mr. Leslie, smiling.
"Oh, yes. Flowers grow old-fashioned and out of date just like people.
We have a genuine old-fashioned garden here, and all the neighbors
laugh at it in comparison with their smooth lawns and choice plants.
We have bachelor's-buttons, lady-slippers, tiger-lilies,
flower-de-luce, hollyhocks, and pinks, besides bushes of lilac and
matrimony; then we have old cedars clipped into shape, and ever so
many little paths and garden-beds edged with box. Oh, we are entirely
behind the times! But for all that, I love the old garden better than
the smoothest trimmed lawn, and I can pick you a bunch of violets
which you cannot match in Westerton; real violets, too, not flaring
pansies."
"I too am fond of old-fashioned gardens, Miss Darrell," said Mr.
Leslie. "My mother had one, not so large as this, but resembling it in
general arrangement. I remember we had a little patch of trailing
arbutus; it grew wild, and I can distinctly recall its perfume as the
snow melted. I have never seen it in the West."
"No, it does not grow here," replied Aunt Faith; "our climate is too
warm for it."
"There is a great difference between the climate of the lake country
and that of New England," said Mr. Leslie; "there is so little snow
here."
"Snow!" exclaimed Bessie. "I scarcely know what snow is; and as for
stories of drifts over the fences, and tunnels cut through them, I can
scarcely believe anything of the kind. They are as much like legends
to me as the fairy tale of little Kay and the Robber Maiden. Once at
Featherton Hall the eastern girls were talking about sleigh-riding,
and I told them that snow was so scarce in Westerton that when a few
snow-flakes actually fell, they were immediately fenced in and guarded
by the police, and then the whole population assembled in sleighs,
cutters, and pungs, to ride over them in alphabetical order. Of
course, as aunt's name began with S, there was not much left of the
snow-flakes when our turn came."
"You ridiculous child!" said Aunt Faith, laughing, "how can you invent
such exaggerations?"
"Oh, Bessie can invent anything!" said Hugh, coming out from the
sitting-room; "if she had charge of even the Patent-Office Reports,
she would gild them into veritable romances."
Later in the evening, Graham Marr came up the garden walk.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Sheldon!" he said; "is Miss Warrington at home?"
"Yes; she is in the parlor," said Aunt Faith. "Will you go in, Mr.
Marr?"
"Thank you, yes. I came especially to see her," replied Graham, taking
off his straw hat, and passing through the group on the piazza.
"Excuse me, Miss Darrell. Is that you, Hugh? Ah!--Mr. Leslie, I
believe. I did not observe you in the darkness. I hope you experienced
no ill feeling after your exposure yesterday?"
"None at all, Mr. Marr. And you?"
"I took cold, as I expected; but, so far, my head has given me no
severe pain," said Graham, passing on into the parlor.
"Is Mr. Marr subject to pain in his head?" inquired Mr. Leslie, as
Graham disappeared.
"Chronic inflammation of the brain, produced by intense study and
seething, poetical thoughts," said Hugh, in a dramatic whisper.
Soon afterwards, Mr. Leslie rose to take leave. "I feel very tired, so
I will say good-night," he said. "I will let you know the condition of
the children some time to-morrow, Mrs. Sheldon."
"Thank you. If it is quite convenient I shall be glad to know,"
replied Aunt Faith.
Graham Marr stayed until a late hour, so late that Bessie and Hugh had
gone upstairs when he took leave, and Sibyl, coming in to the
sitting-room, found Aunt Faith alone.
"You look tired, my dear," said the elder lady kindly.
"I am tired, aunt. Graham talked a long time. He had something to tell
me. His uncle is dead, and he has come into the fortune."
"Ah!--" said Aunt Faith. She made no other comment, but waited for her
niece to speak.
"Graham is going to Saratoga next week," continued Sibyl slowly. "He
thinks of removing to New York for a permanent home; he likes city
life, you know."
"Yes," said Aunt Faith again; but she said no more.
Sibyl closed the windows, replaced the chairs, and fastened the
front-door; then, as she carelessly turned the leaves of a book on the
table, she said at last, "Mr. Leslie was here, I believe?"
"Yes: he came to tell me that Margaret Brown and the children were
safely established in the farm-house."
"Did he ask for me?" said Sibyl, as she extinguished the hall lamps.
"No, my dear," answered Aunt Faith, and Sibyl went to her room without
another word.
Two days came and went, and Mr. Leslie did not appear.
"I say, you people!" said Tom, bursting into the dining-room at
tea-time. "Did you know that Mr. Leslie was sick? Dangerously sick,
Jim Morse says; not expected to live, I believe."
"Thomas!" said Aunt Faith with unusual severity, "what do you mean?
Tell the truth."
"Well, he's sick, any way; and Jim heard his mother say it was a
dangerous fever. Hallo, Sibyl! what's the matter? How pale you are!"
"No more pale than the rest of us," interrupted Bessie, with a quick
glance at Sibyl; "we all like Mr. Leslie, don't we?"
"Of course we do. He's the best man in the world," said Gem fervently.
"I shall go and see him immediately," said Hugh, rising.
"Oh, Hugh, it is probably the same fever the Brown children have!"
said Aunt Faith anxiously. "You must not expose yourself needlessly."
"In this call I consider it necessary, Aunt Faith," said Hugh. "Mr.
Leslie has no near relatives, and although he is loved by his
congregation, dread of the fever will keep most of them away; besides,
they cannot leave their work. He will be left to hired nurses and you
know what Westerton nurses are!"
"Go, then, my boy, and may God be with you," said Aunt Faith, with
tears in her eyes.
The tea-table was soon deserted. Sibyl went to her room, Tom and Gem
took refuge in the back garden with the three dogs to bear them
company, but Aunt Faith and Bessie sat on the piazza waiting for
Hugh's return.
"After all," said Bessie, "we need not feel so anxious. The report has
passed through several mouths; no doubt it is exaggerated."
"I hope so," replied Aunt Faith; "and still I have a strong
presentiment that Mr. Leslie is very ill. His face looked strangely
worn and pallid as he sat there that last evening, and when fever
attacks a man as strong and full of life as he is, the contest is far
more severe than with a more feeble patient."
Eight o'clock struck, but still Hugh did not return. A step sounded up
the walk in the dusky twilight, but it was not his; Graham Marr
appeared, and again asked for Miss Warrington.
"Go and tell Sibyl, my dear," said Aunt Faith to Bessie with an inward
sigh. Then, as Bessie went into the house, she said, "Have you heard
of Mr. Leslie's illness, Mr. Marr?"
"No," replied Graham, as he stood in the doorway carelessly twirling
his hat in his hand; "is he very ill?"
"We do not know; we have heard only a rumor. Hugh has gone to find out
the exact truth."
"Ah--yes. If it is fever, no doubt he caught it in that unpleasant
locality where his chapel stands," said Graham. "I have often wondered
how he could endure the life he leads, but I suppose he is not
fastidious. His nature is not so finely wrought, or his nerves so
delicately strung as those of some other organizations."
"His nature is strong and manly," replied Aunt Faith, with a shade of
indignation in her voice.
"Ah, yes, exactly. A man in his position has need of strength," said
Graham loftily. Then, after a pause, "You have heard of my good
fortune, Mrs. Sheldon?"
"I have heard that your uncle was dead, Mr. Marr."
"Ah--yes. Poor old gentleman! I never knew him well; we were not at
all sympathetic. My grandfather's singular will has now been
fulfilled, and the estate, which has rolled up to double its original
value, will now be divided between my two Southern cousins and
myself."
"I congratulate you, Mr. Marr."
"Thank you. I think I shall not discredit my fortune; I have long
endeavored to cultivate the tastes which belong to wealth," said
Graham with languid pride.
At this moment Bessie returned. "Sibyl is in the parlor, Mr. Marr,"
she said; "will you walk in?"
"Thanks, kind messenger," said Graham, bowing gracefully as he passed
her; "Hebe could not be fairer!"
"How ridiculous he is, Aunt Faith," she said, as the young man
disappeared. "How can Sibyl like him? I do not really think she does
like him, but I cannot make her out. When I went to her room she was
as pale as a ghost, but while she was smoothing her hair, the color
rose, and she began to laugh and talk as gayly as possible. Listen,
now; hear her laugh. How can she be so heartless!"
"Do not be too severe, Bessie. I suspect Sibyl is putting a great
strain on herself to-night. She has so many good traits," said Aunt
Faith with a sigh. "She has so much energy! She only needs to have the
right direction given to it and she will accomplish a wonderful amount
of good work if her life is spared."
"But that right direction, Aunt Faith; is Graham Marr to give it?"
asked Bessie with a tinge of scorn in her voice.
"I do not know, dear. But Sibyl has a true heart at bottom."
"I do believe you are made of charity, aunt. Your name ought to be
Faith, Hope, and Charity, instead of Faith alone," said Bessie warmly.
"I have learned one lesson by the experience of a long life," replied
Aunt Faith, smiling; "the lesson of patience."
"How else could you have brought up such a troublesome set of nephews
and nieces?" exclaimed Bessie. "We must have tried your patience
severely, Aunt Faith. But we do love you dearly, every one of us." And
the impulsive girl threw her arms around her aunt and kissed her
affectionately.
About half-past nine they heard the sound of the gate, and recognized
Hugh's step on the gravel walk.
"How is he, Hugh?" said Bessie, before he came in sight.
"He is a very sick man," replied Hugh gravely, as he came up the
steps. "The doctors are perplexed, for the case is not like ordinary
fever. They think he will either be much better or much worse before
morning."
"Oh, Hugh; you do not mean that he is in any danger?"
"Yes; so the doctors say. There is trouble with the brain,
threatenings of congestion, I believe. As I said before, he will
probably be out of danger before morning, or,--or, gone where he is
fully prepared to go," said Hugh with emotion.
"Then I shall go to see him now,--directly," said a strange, muffled
voice behind them.
"Sibyl!" exclaimed Aunt Faith.
"Yes, aunt," said Sibyl, stepping forward and speaking in the same
muffled voice. "I heard what Hugh said, and I wish to go directly to
see Mr. Leslie; you must go with me."
They all looked at her as she stood in the lighted hall; her face was
deadly pale, and her eyes had a far-off look as though she saw
something terrible in the distance. Behind her was Graham Marr looking
perplexed and angry; he did not know what to do or say, and his usual
graceful manner had given place to confused irritation. As Sibyl spoke
he made an effort to regain his composure.
"Ah!" he said, with studied carelessness, "so Leslie is sick, is he? I
must really send a nurse to take care of him. I will do what I can for
him, poor fellow!"
"I shall be his nurse," said Sibyl, in the same strange, still voice.
"You are joking, Miss Warrington. Of course you would not expose
yourself so foolishly," said Graham angrily.
"_I_ shall be his nurse. I shall go to-night," repeated Sibyl, without
changing her attitude.
Graham looked at her a moment as if about to continue the argument,
but something in the set expression of her face convinced him of the
hopelessness of the attempt. Curbing his annoyance under an appearance
of amusement, he smiled and turned to Aunt Faith. "There is no use in
combating a young lady, I suppose, Mrs. Sheldon. Really,--I had no
idea it was so late. I must go. I will bid you good-night, ladies, and
at the same time good-bye, as I shall soon leave Westerton for the
summer." Then he turned again to Sibyl; "I shall meet you in Saratoga
next week, I trust, Miss Warrington?"
"No," said Sibyl, with the same far-off look in her eyes. "Aunt Faith,
are you ready to go with me?"
"Ah!" said Graham lightly; "you ladies change your minds so rapidly
that it is difficult to follow you. But it is your privilege, I know,
Farewell, then, Miss Warrington. Life is long,--we may meet again."
"Good-bye, Mr. Marr," said Sibyl, hardly noticing his departure.
As the young man disappeared, Aunt Faith spoke; "Are you in earnest,
Sibyl? Do you really wish to visit Mr. Leslie to-night?"
"I am in earnest, and I _must_ go, Aunt Faith. Do not try to prevent
it."
"But there may be danger for you, dear."
"Hugh has seen him, and am I to be kept back?" cried Sibyl
passionately. "I must go! I will go! Aunt Faith, do not desert me
now!"
"I am not deserting you, poor child," said Aunt Faith, rising and
putting her arms around her niece with motherly affection. "If you
wish to see Mr. Leslie to-night, I will go with you. You approve of
your sister's wish, Hugh?"
"Yes," said Hugh decidedly. "Sibyl, you are right at last."
They found Mr. Leslie unconscious and breathing heavily; two
physicians were in attendance, and a nurse sat by the bedside.
"He does not know me," whispered Sibyl, clinging convulsively to Aunt
Faith, as the sufferer opened his eyes and looked blankly at them.
"No, dear, he is unconscious," replied Aunt Faith, herself much moved
at the sight of one whom she had so lately seen full of young life,
stricken down almost to death.
The doctors were watching their patient closely; they expected a
crisis before morning.
"I shall stay," said Sibyl, quietly taking off her hat and sitting
down on the sofa.
Aunt Faith spoke a few words of objection, but the mute appeal of
Sibyl's eyes silenced her; she said no more, but sitting down by her
niece, took her cold hand and held it in both her own. She had felt
sorrow herself, and she could feel for others; she knew that in
Sibyl's heart the depths were broken up.
Hugh went back to the old stone house and returned about midnight;
from that time on, there was silence in the sick-chamber, and anxious
eyes watched the unconscious face with painful interest. The night
seemed endless; only those who have watched by a sick bed can know how
minutes can lengthen themselves! As the gray twilight of dawn came
into the room the sick man moved restlessly upon his pillow and
moaned. Sibyl's heart throbbed; any change seemed for the better. But
one of the physicians after bending over the patient, shook his head
gravely.
"Let us pray," said Aunt Faith in a low tone, and, falling upon her
knees, she bowed her head in silent prayer. Sibyl knelt beside her,
and, after a moment, Hugh too joined them, and throwing his arm around
his sister, drew her to his side.
"Oh, Hugh, I cannot bear it!" she murmured; "he will die,--he will
never know,--and I--" here her voice was broken by stifled sobs and
low moans of anguish, strangely touching in the proud, self-reliant
Sibyl.
Hugh held his sister in his arms, and soothed her as one would soothe
a child. From that hour Sibyl's coldness left her never to return.
As the first sunbeams brightened the sky, Mr. Leslie again opened his
eyes, the doctors bent over him, and it seemed to Aunt Faith as if she
could hear all the hearts in the room throbbing aloud in the intense
anxiety of the moment.
"The worst is over," whispered Doctor Gregory, stepping back and
shaking hands with Aunt Faith; "we shall bring him through, now, I
think."
Sibyl sat with her head hidden on Hugh's shoulder; she heard the
doctor's words, but a sudden timidity had come over her. "Let us go,"
she whispered, turning towards the door.
But Hugh had been watching the sick man.
"He is conscious; he knows us!" he said suddenly, and leading his
sister forward, he left her at the bedside, pale and trembling with
joyful emotion.
"Sibyl," said Mr. Leslie in a faint voice, "is it you? Have you come
to me at last, dear?"
"Yes, John," said Sibyl, bending over him with tears in her eyes. "I
have brought myself and my life to you,--if you care for them."
"If?" said Mr. Leslie, with the ghost of a smile on his pale face; "as
if there was any doubt--" but here the doctors interfered, and the
rest of the sentence was postponed.