"Thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died."
They buried her beside her kinsfolk in the little graveyard of Halsey;
and her memory still lives in the hearts of her friends and neighbours
who knew and loved her so well.
Then, for a time, life and all its interests seemed to stand still for
Fidelia. She was weary and spent, and they left her alone to rest and
grow strong again. By-and-by, with no word of appeal or entreaty from
any one, she came back to her old ways, and tried to take up her work
again. It was not easy for her to do this, but it was easier than it
would have been had her loss come a year sooner.
"It is God's will that I should go first; and, dear, though you cannot
see it now, God's will in this, as in all things, is best," Eunice had
said to her many times; and she knew in her heart that it was true.
"And, oh, how much the best for my Eunice!" she said with many tears,
yet with submission also.
But her occupation was gone; and, though friends and neighbours did what
kind friends and neighbours may do at such a time, to cheer her, the
days passed slowly and heavily, till one night Jabez came up "to have a
little talk" with her. She had not seen much of him since her sister's
death. He had kept away, he told her, "because it hurt him dreadfully
to see her in trouble that he could not help." It cannot be said that
she had missed him much, but she was glad to see him when he came.
Jabez's "little talk" was about himself, and nothing could have been
farther from his thoughts than a desire to give a lesson to his teacher.
But she got her lesson all the same. They sat for awhile in the front
porch, which was bright with the glory of the sunset. Mrs Stone was
there as well as Fidelia, and they spoke about various matters at first;
and a few words were said about Eunice. When Mrs Stone rose to go
about some household duty, the others rose also, and went through the
house into the garden, and down the walk between the tall hollyhocks, to
the fence, where there was an opening between the apple-trees--a spot
where Fidelia always stood a minute or two whenever she came there.
They lingered for awhile in silence, looking down over the river flowing
softly between wide irregular meadows, and over to the broken hill
country beyond, beautiful now in the glow that fell on it from the west.
Something--perhaps it was the familiar voice of White Star coming
suddenly to her ear--brought back to Fidelia the remembrance of the time
when she stood there petting the pretty creature, the day after her
first return from the seminary--the day when Jabez came up to speak
about the garden. It came back so vividly that when Jabez began to
speak his first words were lost in the surprise which seized her when
she turned towards him.
What had happened to the lad since then? He was a boy no longer, for
one thing. As he stood there regarding her with grave eyes, speaking
quietly and earnestly, he was very different from the lad who had come
whistling up the field, with his hoe over his shoulder, to greet her
that day. A man? Well, hardly that yet; but with the promise of
manhood on his good and pleasant face, to which, though she was tall
herself, she had to look up now! A shadow passed over his face, and he
ceased speaking and looked away, as a smile, of which she was quite
unconscious, parted Fidelia's lips.
"I thought maybe you would like to hear about it," said he in a little,
without turning round.
"Of course I shall like to hear about it. Excuse me; I was thinking
about something else. You must begin again. Do you know, Jabez, that
you are changed lately. You are not a boy any longer; you are a man,
and I have only just found it out."
"A man! No, not quite; but I mean to be a man one of these days," said
Jabez gravely. "And I think now I can see my way."
"Well! Tell me all about it."
There was not much to tell, but it took some time to tell it. A letter
had come from an uncle of Jabez--his mother's only brother--written in
answer to one sent to him by Deacon Ainsworth, asking advice about the
future career of his grandson. The uncle was a minister, living in the
far West. He could do nothing for Jabez as to money, for he was a poor
man, but he believed that he could better help the lad to help himself,
in the part of the country where his home was, than could be done for
him in New England. His own son, he said, with but little help from any
one, had paid his way through college; and he did not doubt that Jabez,
if he were the bright boy his grandfather described him to be, could do
the same.
"And so," said he, "you had better send him on. This is a good country
for head-work and for handwork too--whichever he may prove himself best
fitted for--and we shall all be glad to see him when he comes."
"And," said Jabez gravely, "I think I'll go and have a try at it."
"But surely your grandfather might help you a little? And Amhurst or
Harvard is the right place for you, Jabez. Why do you wish to go so far
away?"
"About grandfather's help--no. If I go I suppose Cousin Calvin will
come and take my place, and have the farm by-and-by, which is all right.
And grandfather will pay my way out there, he says. And, as I expect
my life's work will be done out West, the preparation for it may as well
be done there too. There is a good chance out there, uncle says."
"Why should your life's work be done in the West? And what is it to
be?"
Jabez answered the last question first.
"Maybe you will think it presumptuous in me to talk of going in for the
highest work of all. But I talked with Miss Eunice about it, and she
said she was glad. If it hadn't been for Miss Eunice I shouldn't have
thought of it. `Entire consecration to the highest work of all.' That
was her idea, and it is mine."
There were tears in Fidelia's eyes, but there were smiles on her face as
well. She did not speak, however, and Jabez went on.
"I don't just know what I'm fit for yet, but I do know that I don't feel
like holding back; and the Master will see about the rest. He has all
kinds of work to be done in His world, and I will find something to do."
"Yes; and He has work to be done here in New England. Why are you so
glad to go away?"
"Oh, I am not glad to go away! But I am glad that I see my way to make
a beginning; and I mean to do my best. It may not be a great deal that
I can ever do, but the Lord will accept the best I have to give."
"Yes; I am not afraid for you."
"And about going West. A great country is being opened up there, and it
is being filled with all sorts of people in a wonderful way. New towns,
and even cities, are springing up everywhere; and my uncle says that
what this wide land needs for true greatness is that the light of the
glorious Gospel of the blessed God should shine through every corner of
it. I shall like uncle, I am sure," said Jabez.
"And you want to have a share in making the country great?"
"I want to do my part for my country and the world. It is God's work,
and there doesn't seem to be anything else worth doing in comparison
with this `holding forth the Word of Life,' as uncle calls it, does
there?"
Jabez spoke with eager voice and shining eyes, and Fidelia listened
amazed. And then she asked herself: "Why should she be amazed?"
It was true. Jabez was right and wise in his choice. What else was
there worth doing in comparison with the honour and blessedness of
having a part in this work?
"_And so far_," she said to herself, "I have neither part nor lot in the
matter." Her face grew grave as she stood looking away to the darkening
hills. Hitherto she had lived for herself and for Eunice. Now Eunice
was gone, what was she going to do with her life? What would Eunice
have liked her to do?
"Miss Fidelia," said Jabez in a little, "you'll be going back to the
seminary this fall, I suppose. It is a good place to go to, I guess.
And it would be lonesome here now."
"Yes, it would be lonesome here. Yes, I think I may go back again.
There seems to be nothing better to do than to go there. Eunice always
wished me to go."
But she spoke sadly, and evidently without much interest.
"You will like it when you are fairly there, and have begun at your
books again," said Jabez.
"Yes, I suppose so. It is best to go any way. Eunice wished it."
"I am glad of one thing--I shall be gone first," said Jabez.
"Shall you? When do you go?"
"Next week, if grandma can get my things ready. Time is precious."
"She must let us help her," said Fidelia; and then there was silence
between them. Fidelia was thinking of a letter which she had received a
day or two since, which must be answered soon. Miss Kent had written to
her, inviting her to visit her in Boston for as long a time as she could
stay. It was such a letter as it is good to write and to receive.
There were a few words of sympathy in her sorrow for her sister's loss,
and a few more as to the pleasant things to be done and seen and enjoyed
during the visit; but the best of it was the evident kindness and
sincerity of the writer in all she said.
Fidelia's desire to accept the invitation had been growing since the day
it came. She longed for a change of some sort, and she needed it. The
thought of the seminary and her books gave her very little pleasure.
"It is because you are tired," said Mrs Stone; but she did not, as it
was her first impulse to do, remind her that it had been her sister's
wish that the next year should be passed at the seminary. "She will
think of it herself by-and-by."
Fidelia thought of it now. "Time is precious," Jabez had said. Surely
time ought to be precious to her as well! She ought to go to the
seminary this year, if ever she meant to go; and, if so, there was no
time to lose.
And, besides, she knew on which side temptation lay for her. An easy,
pleasant life among people who knew no other kind of existence; a chance
to see and hear and enjoy the beautiful and wonderful things of which
she knew little, except from books, would be delightful; but would it be
good for her? Would it be a preparation for the work of which she and
Eunice used to talk and plan?--"the highest of all work," as Jabez had
called it, and "entire consecration to God's service."
"I must be a poor creature to have any other desire," she told herself.