EUNICE.

Eunice Marsh might well say that the first seventeen years of her life

had been happy years. Her father, a man useful and much beloved, had

during that time been minister of the only church in Hopeville, a town

in the southern part of the state. She had lost her mother when she was

a little child, but her loss had been well supplied by the love and care

of her mother's mother, with whom she had lived, in the house that was

now her home, till the time of her father's second marriage.

Her new mother did not love her own little daughter, when she came, more

dearly than she loved Eunice, and so the happy years moved on to a

sorrowful ending. Suddenly, in the midst of happiness and usefulness,

with no warning which those who loved him could understand, the minister

died. Then Eunice returned to her grandparents home on the hill, and

her stepmother, with her little daughter, came there also, to stay for a

little while; and they never went away again.

It was not a very large house, and the old people were far from being

rich, but they offered the widow a home while she needed one. She did

not need it long. She never quite recovered from the shock of her

husband's death, and she died within the year, leaving her little girl

to her sister Eunice, "to love and care for always--to be her very own."

"And, dear, I am not afraid to leave my little darling with you," said

the dying mother with a smile.

After a while happy days came again to Eunice. Why should she not be

happy? Those who had gone from her had only "gone before," and those

who remained were very dear; and life was before her--a mystery!--but a

mystery of gladness and blessing, as she believed.

Dr Everett had been the minister's classmate in college, and his

life-long friend; and when the minister died, he became the guardian and

the life-long friend of his daughters. In his house they found a second

home, and from him Eunice had the counsel and the guidance which in

their old age, and with their failing powers, her grandparents could no

longer give her.

Strong, eager, ambitious, it would have pleased the girl well to be

allowed to choose her own lot and work, and to make her own way in the

world. But she was dutiful, and she loved her little sister dearly, and

so she was willing to be restrained and guided, and to give herself to

work which seemed at first very humble work, which almost any one might

do, but which was God-given work--a blessing to others and to herself,

as time went on.

Happy? Looking back over those first years, Eunice told herself that no

one could have been happier than she was then. Yes, and afterwards

also. For that which made much of the happiness was not taken from her

at a single blow, nor was she called upon to choose between her duty and

her happiness all at once. She knew there was no choice for her.

When Justin Everett, the doctor's youngest brother--and, like him, a

physician--saw his way open to go West to an uncle, to establish himself

with him in his profession, Eunice might have gone with him as his wife,

if circumstances at home had been different. But it was impossible.

There was no choice to be made, and nothing to be said.

Her grandfather had been stricken helpless, with little hope of ever

being otherwise than helpless. Over her grandmother, younger than him

by many years, hung an awful dread. She too must die, but she might be

years in dying. Some one would have to watch by her dying bed, as she

in her youth had watched by the dying bed of her own mother, till the

slow months wore on to years, before her tired eyes closed at last in

painless rest.

No one needed to say to Eunice that she could not leave her grandmother

to be cared for by others while she went away to find her own happiness.

She never even paused to consider the matter. It was impossible. Her

lover thought quite otherwise, and pleaded with her with words which

made her glad, and which hurt her sorely, but which did not move her

from her purpose. Over one thing only she hesitated. Should she give

him back his word before he went away?

"No," said Dr Everett; "you are both young. Wait."

And so she waited, and was not unhappy. No woman can be unhappy whose

life is lived not to herself but to others. Her service was truly

willing service, and was its own reward. She had cares many and heavy,

weary nights and anxious days, but she had kind friends who took care

for her and helped her; and her cares, and labours, and daily

self-denials, and the hourly sight of her grandmother's faith and

patience, and of her joyful release at last, did for heart and soul more

than many prosperous years of untroubled happiness could have done.

The long suffering came to an end at last. Her grandmother died, and

Eunice was left so spent with doing and watching, and so glad for the

blessed release of her whom she loved so well, that she hardly seemed to

feel the pain of the bitter blow that smote her afterwards--at least

that was what her friends whispered among themselves. Even Dr Everett

took comfort in the thought that she might have outgrown her girlish

fancy during these long years that had changed her into a woman. But

Dr Everett did not know then that the news of his brother's engagement

and approaching marriage had come to her two days before it had reached

him, and that during these two days no one but her paralytic grandfather

had seen her face and heard her voice. Even the child Fidelia had been

sent away "for a change," as she had more than once been sent away

during the last months of the grandmother's life; and Eunice's battle

with herself--if there was a battle--had been fought alone.

But, whichever way it was, it was not a matter about which many words

could be spoken. She made no moan and she claimed no sympathy. She was

"just as usual," as far as he could tell, Dr Everett said, in answer to

his wife's questions when he returned from his first visit to the house

after the news had been received. Even to her old friend she had made

neither complaint nor confession; but he knew that she suffered, though

she kept silence.

"It will make it easier for Eunice in one way," the neighbours said to

one another. "Eunice could hardly have gone away while her grandfather

lived, and this has made the path of duty plain before her."

But whether "the path of duty" was rough or smooth to the weary feet of

Eunice no one ever knew from her lips. She was not unhappy, that was

certain. She had the daily and hourly care of her grandfather to fill

her thoughts and occupy her hands, and when he died she had an easier

time and could rest. And she had Fidelia.

She had an easier life; but she could not sit idle at home, or go

elsewhere for change or pleasure, as others might who had not their

daily bread to earn. The means which her grandparents had provided for

their old age had been nearly spent during their long illness. There

was the house and garden and a field or two, and that was almost all;

and Eunice chose to stay at home and make the best of them, rather than

do any of the things which her friends were so ready to advise, and

which she might have done. She might have nursed the sick, or taught a

school, or worked with her capable hands or her clear head in one of the

many ways open to New England girls; but she would not be separated from

her sister, and she chose to stay at home.

"I will stay for awhile at least," she said to Dr Everett when he spoke

to her about her plans, and hinted that a change might be desirable for

various reasons. "There is no hurry about it, I think; and just for the

present I would rather stay at home."

And the time had never come for her to go elsewhere, or to change her

manner of life in any way, and it had lately been gradually revealing

itself to her that the time could never come. She was beginning to say

to herself: "That which I greatly feared has come upon me."

All the long suffering through which she had seen her grandmother pass

seemed to lie like a thick darkness upon her. Even before the departure

of her sister for school she had felt or imagined symptoms, which she

thought she could not mistake, of the terrible disease which had

appeared at intervals in some member of her mother's family for several

generations; and there is no wonder that for a time her courage, and

even her faith, failed her.

She was wrong to conceal her fears from Dr Everett. But she said to

herself: "He cannot help me. If I am mistaken--if I am only nervous and

over-anxious, it will pass away in time, with suffering to no one but

myself. If the danger is real, nothing--no one can help me, not even my

dear old friend."

Even more than she dreaded the long suffering she dreaded the

helplessness and weariness of illness, and the dependence upon others

which it must involve. She shrank morbidly from the thought of becoming

a centre of painful interest to her friends and to the neighbourhood;

and she resolved to say nothing either of her suffering or her fears

while concealment was possible. So, during the first months of winter,

making an excuse of the cold, she stayed at home, and, when chance

visitors came to her, exhausted herself with efforts to seem well and

cheerful in their presence, and bore the long suffering of suspense

alone.

Alone? Well, she thought so for a time. She wrote herself down as "a

woman desolate and forsaken," and it went ill with her--but only for a

time. Even in her darkest moments she had never quite forgotten the

refuge to which she might betake herself, and she found it at last.

After a time light broke through the darkness, and she caught a

glimpse--not of the way--but of His face whose hand was leading her.

The way mattered little. He knew every step of it, and its ending and

the rest to which it led, and why should she fear?

It cannot be said that she no longer shrank from the thought of the

long, slow suffering that might be before her; but she could after this

leave it all with Him "who loved her and gave Himself for her," and who

would give her strength to bear His will.

When the sharpest winter weather was over, and the days began to grow

long, she fell into her old cheerful ways again. She busied herself

with her housework and her needlework, and went to church and to the

sewing-circle, as the man at the station had said. She saw her friends

more frequently; and the neighbours, seeing the sweet content on her

face, "guessed likely that she was having a good time all by herself up

there on the hill." And so she was; and neither friend nor neighbour

imagined that she had anything to conceal. Nor did Dr Everett himself,

until the day when he met Fidelia, and brought her home. Then he lost

no time in finding out all there was to know.

That morning, as he went slowly down the hill to his home, he more than

once repeated to himself the words he had spoken to Eunice,--

"I see no special cause for anxiety,"--but each time he added

gravely--"as yet." And then he lost himself in musing on the terrible

mystery of inherited disease and suffering, and only came back to Eunice

again when he caught sight of the bright face of Fidelia standing at his

own gate.

"Poor soul! Poor Eunice! So good and wise and lovely! What a fate is

to be feared for her! And yet I am not sure that her strong and

beautiful sister is so happy as she."

And Eunice was smiling a little over the words which the doctor had

tried to make so hopeful, scarcely taking from them the comfort which he

meant her to take.

"No anxiety!" repeated she. "Well, it is quite true. Why should I be

anxious? It will be all right. I am glad he came, and that the visit

is well over."

And then she put away the last of her warm white loaves, and went slowly

upstairs to rest for awhile.

When Fidelia came home in the afternoon she found her sister sleeping,

and she saw something which she had rarely seen before--the traces of

tears upon her cheeks. But as she stood looking down upon her--even

before her eyes opened--a smile came to her lips.

"Well," she said softly, as Fidelia stooped to kiss her, "have you had a

good time?"

"Don't you feel well, Eunice?"

"Just as usual. Why have you come home so early?"

"It is not so very early. We had tea sooner than usual, because--Lie

still awhile, and I will make your tea."

"I must have slept long, if it is time for tea. Oh, yes, I feel quite

well! You must tell me all about your visit when I come down."

Fidelia went to the window, and as she rolled up the blind and let the

light of the sunset into the room, she said, without looking round,--

"Eunice, who do you think has come to Dr Everett's? His brother

Justin."

"Has he come already? The doctor told me this morning that he expected

him, but he did not say when."

She came forward to the glass and began to arrange her hair, which had

fallen down, with the full light of the evening sunshine on her face.

Fidelia made herself busy about the room for a minute, and then, turning

to the window, stood regarding her sister.

Eunice was just as usual, except for the traces of tears upon her

cheeks; and Fidelia was not even sure of the tears now.

"And did you see him? Has he changed much? Do you like him?" asked

Eunice, busy still with her hair.

"Yes, I saw him. Changed? I can't say. I don't remember him. No;

upon the whole, I don't think I shall like him much."

Eunice turned and looked at her, smiling.

"Oh, you'll like him! I am not afraid of that."

"Eunice, did you know that Justin Everett was coming home?"

"His brother told me this, morning. Of course I knew that he would come

some time. I shall be glad to see him."

"Will she be glad?" Fidelia was saying to herself, while she made ready

her sister's tea. "Will she truly be glad? Has she forgiven him, or

has she forgotten him? I would give a great deal to know her thoughts

this minute. Oh, I hope I shall be with her when he comes to see her

first!"

A single word had done this--her sister's name, spoken by Mrs Everett,

when her husband told her that his brother was coming home. They did

not know that she heard it. She was greatly startled and a little

angry, though she could not have told why. In that friendly

neighbourhood she could hardly have lived so many years without hearing

some hint of the trial through which her sister had passed in her youth;

and imagination came to the help of memory, and made her more angry

still. She would not have remained to give the new-comer welcome if he

had not taken them all by surprise. She only saw him at the tea-table,

where he sat, grave and almost silent, scarcely raising his eyes from

his plate. She had not lingered a moment after the tea was over.

She was present at the first meeting between Eunice and Justin Everett,

as she had hoped she would be, but it did not tell her much. It took

place in unfortunate circumstances. He came up next morning, and,

finding no one in the house, passed through into the garden, where he

found Deacon Ainsworth and his grandson Jabez discussing with the

sisters the important question, "Should Jabez have the garden?"

Jabez had intimated to his grandfather that Miss Eunice would like to

see him about business if he could "step up" there some morning pretty

soon; and the deacon had lost no time, and Jabez "had thought best to

happen along so as to see the thing through," as he told Fidelia in

confidence. They had "talked the matter over" in the house without his

help; now they were talking it over with it in the garden. In the house

the deacon had got so far as to acknowledge that he saw no vital

objection to Miss Eunice letting her garden to his grandson. In the

garden he was not so certain. It would need steadiness and

perseverance, and these Jabez might fail in, even with himself to keep

the boy up to the mark.

"And if he should fail in doing well by you, Miss Eunice, I should

rather feel as if you'd expect me to make it good to you. And I don't

know but I should feel as if I ought;" and so on. And then Dr Justin

appeared.

The greetings all round were pleasant and cordial; and then it was

supposed by Fidelia that the deacon would go away. But he had known

Justin Everett all his life, or at least his "youthful years," as he

said, and never doubted that it was his duty and his privilege to give

him welcome in his neighbour's house as if it had been his own. So he

rather took matters into his own hand, and "led the meeting," as Jabez

afterwards said. Fidelia was indignant. Eunice was not indignant. She

was in her heart grateful to the good deacon for "assisting" at the

occasion, though she might not have been quite pleased with his motives.

"I kind o' wanted to know how it was going to be with Eunice, so I

stayed," he told his wife afterwards; but he owned that he didn't know

much about it after all. "If it had been the old doctor himself, I

don't know how she could have talked any other way to him. Friendly?

Oh, yes, she was friendly and cool, but not too cool nor too friendly!

Be you certain that Justin Everett's wife is dead, Asubah?"

"Well, I declare for it! How you talk!" exclaimed Mrs Ainsworth. "As

if you don't know as well as I do that she's been dead these two years

and more! I hope to mercy you didn't go to saying anything of that kind

up there. I _should_ like to see Fidelia Marsh's eyes if she heard any

such insinuations about her sister."

But the deacon, though he had taken the lead in the conversation, said

nothing indiscreet to Fidelia or any one else, and he rose to go at

last, but not until Dr Everett came to take his brother away to see a

patient.

Jabez in the meantime had, by an effective movement on the onion-bed,

taken formal possession of the garden. He did not see, or he did not

seem to see, his grandfather set out for home, and continued his work

then and afterwards to such good purpose, that he had so strengthened

his position as to leave nothing more to be said or done when in a few

days his grandfather "stepped up" again, to talk the matter over.

Fidelia was for many reasons glad that it was in his hands, but she

could not reconcile herself to the deacon for having so utterly spoiled

to them all the first visit of Dr Justin.

And she was not at home when Dr Justin made his second visit, and his

last at that time. One night she came home from a long walk with her

friend, Susie, to find her sister, as she almost always found her in the

twilight, resting on the sofa, and this time again she thought there

were traces of tears on her cheeks. After a little she was not so sure

about the tears, but she was sure of the peaceful brightness of her

sister's smile of welcome, and of the sweet words with which she greeted

her.