CHAPTER THREE.

Few events worth recording happened during the next summer, autumn, and

winter. The return of Mr Rathbone to London, which did not take place

till the month of May, was the first remarkable circumstance which I

have to relate. He asked Charles to dine at his house the Sunday after

his arrival at home, and various and most kind were the enquiries he

made about the whole family. He saw some specimens of Isabella's

drawings, which pleased him much, and he expressed great satisfaction

when he heard that Harriet was making excellent progress in music. He

listened with benevolent interest when Charles spoke of Jane's

exertions, of the mother's care which she bestowed on those who stood

almost in the place of children to her. This was a subject on which

Charles loved to speak, when he could find an auditor who could

comprehend and would sympathise with his feelings. Such a listener he

was aware that he now had, and his heart warmed more and more towards

his benefactor with each moment in which he was allowed to dwell on a

sister's praises. At length Mr Rathbone enquired how he who was so

ready to make known the exertions of others, was himself going on in the

world. "If you do not object to give me your confidence, Charles," said

he, "I am as much interested in your concerns, as in your sisters."

Charles thanked him, and said there was but little to tell; and that

little he communicated at once. He told Mr Rathbone the amount of his

salary, and that of his expenditure. He told him how he was

endeavouring to qualify himself for a higher situation, and what were

the hopes which he ventured to indulge of affording his sisters some

substantial assistance in time. At present he could do but little: the

first year he had by great self-denial saved three pounds. This year he

hoped to send Jane a five pound note on Midsummer Day, and in a year or

two he had the prospect of a large salary.

Mr Rathbone questioned him closely as to his manner of living, and his

plans of economy. Accustomed as he was to a very lavish expenditure,

such economy as Charles's struck him with wonder; and he was surprised

to find that so far from being despised by the young men among whom he

was thrown, Charles was regarded with respect by all, with affection by

some. He did not live in close, grudging solitude: he had lost none of

the spirit of generous sociality which he brought with him to London,

and preserved there, in spite of its chilling and counteracting

influences. He was benevolent; he was generous. His purse he could in

conscience open to none but his sisters; but his heart was open, his

head was busy, and his hands were ready, whenever an opportunity of

doing good occurred. Some of the young men with whom his situation

connected him, gave entertainments to their friends, or made parties to

go to places of public amusement. Charles could not do this; nor did he

wish to offer, or accept, obligations of this kind; but all his

companions readily acknowledged, from their own experience, that Charles

had both the power and the inclination to do good. One had been ill,

and had been nursed by Charles night and day, or as much of the day as

he could call his own, so carefully and tenderly, that he owed his

recovery in part, and the whole of what alleviation his disease

admitted, to his benevolent care. Another had displeased Mr Gardiner,

it was feared irremediably; and the young man would have gone to ruin,

if Charles had not with indefatigable patience brought down his high and

perverse spirit to the tone of apology and due humiliation; and,

moreover, ventured to moderate his master's somewhat unreasonable anger.

He got no thanks from either of them at the time: but he did not want

thanks, and gained his end, which was, to see the youth re-established

in his respectable situation. The hour of gratitude came at last, and

Charles now knew that he might command every possible service from the

youth whom he had obliged, and who was now proud to call him friend. He

had rendered Mr Gardiner an essential service by informing him of the

malpractices of some of the inferior people on the premises, which no

one else had the courage to expose; and the widow with whom he lodged

was obliged to him for her release from the oppression of a tyrannical

landlord, who dared not trouble her, when he found that a spirited youth

was her friend, who would not sit still and see her ill treated, while

courage and activity could procure a remedy.

When we think that to these important services were added hourly

kindnesses, most acceptable in the intercourses of social life; when we

remember that where Charles was, there was cheerfulness, kindness, an

open heart, a quick eye, and a ready hand to do good; we shall not

wonder that he was beloved, though poor, and respected, though humble.

Mr Rathbone was not, could not be, aware of all these things, but he

heard Charles speak of the kindness that he experienced, and then it was

easy to guess that it was earned by kindness shewn.

"I forget," said he, "how long it is exactly, since you came to London."

"Two years next month, Sir."

"And have you not seen your sisters in all that time?"

"No, Sir; nor have I any near prospect of seeing them. I do not venture

to wish it, for fear of growing discontented. The girls are happy, and

so am I; and we do not repine because we cannot reach an unattainable

pleasure."

"I will try, Charles, whether it be unattainable. Two years of industry

and self-denial deserve a reward. I will call on Mr Gardiner

to-morrow, and beg for a fortnight's holiday for you. If I can obtain

it, we will send you down to Exeter in a trice."

Charles's gratitude was inexpressible. In spite of his struggles, the

tears started from his eyes. In a moment, his home and its beloved

inmates rose up to his memory, and awakened his affections with an

energy and vividness which he had never experienced before, in the

deepest of the many reveries in which they had been presented to his

fancy. Mr Rathbone understood his feelings, and so little doubted of

being able to obtain this favour, that he tried to work up still more

the ecstasy of hope which he had excited. "I have no doubt Mr Gardiner

will spare you, Charles: you can be off by to-morrow night's coach."

But Charles had not so far forgotten common things in his joy, as to be

unmindful that Jane would lose half the pleasure of his visit, if it was

paid while she was engaged for the greater part of the day with her

pupils. He knew that she was to have a fortnight's holiday at

Midsummer, and he felt that it would be but justice to her, and the best

economy of pleasure for himself, to defer his visit till that time, if

possible. He did long, to be sure, to be off at once, and to take them

by surprise, and he was afraid the intervening month would appear

dreadfully long; but he felt that this was childish. He stated the case

to Mr Rathbone, and begged that the request might be for the last week

of June and the first of July.

He was much surprised to see a dark cloud pass over Mr Rathbone's brow

while this explanation was being made: he could not believe it caused by

any thing he had said, and therefore took no notice of it. The reply

was, "It is not likely, _Sir_, that Mr Gardiner should let you choose

your own time. I will mention it, however, and see what he says. I

suppose you will not refuse to go now, if you cannot be spared

afterwards?"

Poor Charles said what he thought best; but he was so astonished and

grieved to have given offence, that his words did not come very readily.

He tried in vain to forget Mr Rathbone's look and words; but, in spite

of himself, he could not help endeavouring to account for what was

unaccountable, and watching his benefactor's looks with intense anxiety.

The coldness passed off, and Mr Rathbone dismissed Charles with his

usual kindness. Mrs Rathbone desired him not to trouble himself to

call, if he should go the next night; but that, if his departure should

be delayed for a month, she should wish to see him again. He would find

her at home any morning before one o'clock.

The next day, about noon, Charles received a note, the contents of which

were as follows.

"Dear Charles,--

"I have called on Mr Gardiner this morning, and he grants you leave

of absence from the moment you read this till Wednesday fortnight; so

that you have two clear weeks' holiday, and two days for going and

coming. Mr G. can better spare you now than afterwards; so I hope

you and your sister will find or make time for what you have to say to

each other. I do not intend that this journey should break your five

pound note. Let your sister have it, as you intended, and pay your

expenses with that which is inclosed. I hope you will get a place in

this night's coach, and that all will go well with you till we meet

again.

"Mrs Rathbone wishes you much pleasure, and requests you to take

charge of the accompanying letter to Jane.

"I am yours very sincerely,--

"Francis Rathbone."

The inclosure was a ten pound note. Charles stood bewildered. The

pressure of the time, however, made him collect his thoughts, and

determine what was to be done. He first ran to the counting-house to

thank Mr Gardiner briefly, but gratefully, for his indulgence. He next

wrote a note, warmly expressive of his feelings, to Mr Rathbone: one of

his friends in the warehouse engaged to leave it at the door that

evening. Then Charles ran as fast as possible to secure a place in the

coach. After some doubt and anxiety, he succeeded. He then bid his

companions good-bye, and went to his lodgings to pack his little trunk

and pay his bill. He then dined at a chop-house, and found that he had

a clear hour left before it was time to depart. He did not hesitate how

to employ it. There was a poor, a very poor family, who lived a little

way from his lodgings, whose misery had caused Charles many a

heart-ache. The mother was a daughter of the widow who was Charles's

landlady, and it was through her that he knew any thing of them. Some

trifling services he had been able to render these poor people, but with

money he had not been able to assist them. Now, however, he felt

himself so rich, from Mr Rathbone's bounty, that he thought he might

indulge himself by bestowing a small present before his departure. He

knew that one of the children was ill, and required better nourishment

than their poverty could afford. He went to them, saw the child, sat

with it while the mother went out to buy food with the half-crown which

he had put into her hand, and left them with a light heart, followed by

their blessings.

Who was ever happier than Charles at this moment? Whichever way his

mind turned, it met only thoughts of peace and hope. The novelty of a

journey, the freshness and beauty of the country in the brightness of a

sweet evening in spring, the thought of two whole weeks of leisure, and

of the sweet family intercourse which was to endear it, gratitude for

benefits received, the sweet consciousness of benefits bestowed, all

conspired to make him inexpressibly happy. His imagination represented

to him all the possible situations in which the meeting with his family

might take place. He was well enough acquainted with the house to fancy

what the interior looked like; and he planned, in his fancy, where each

of the family would be sitting, what each would be doing, and how each

would express the astonishment and pleasure which his arrival must

excite.

At length he fell asleep, and continued so, except for the occasional

intervention of some pleasant dreamy thoughts, till the sunrise again

roused him to the observation of the exquisite beauties of the fresh

morning. The hours now passed less rapidly away, and he found his

emotions becoming so tumultuous, that he tried to turn his thoughts upon

indifferent subjects, and to enter into conversation with his

fellow-passengers. As the day advanced, he became impatient of being

shut in, so that he could catch only a confined view of the beautiful

country through which he was passing, and he therefore took his seat on

the roof of the coach. He sat next to a young man, who soon made

acquaintance with him, and whom he found a very agreeable companion.

His name Charles could not ascertain, but he found that he lived at

Exeter, and it was interesting to them both to talk of persons and

places with which both were familiar. In the afternoon, when they were

still busy talking, and reckoning that four hours more would bring them

to their journey's end, the coach stopped at a public-house by the road

side, which the coachman entered, leaving a man at the horses' heads to

take care of them. Some one called the man, and he left his charge, and

the passengers did not for some moments perceive that he had done so,

till something passed which caused the horses to start. Several men ran

at once to catch the reins: this frightened the leaders yet more, and

they set off at full gallop. Charles was sitting in front, and his

companion, with much presence of mind, got over and seated himself on

the box, and caught the reins. He attempted to pull in, but the screams

of some of the passengers were enough of themselves to terrify any

horses, and the young man's strength began to fail before they relaxed

their speed at all. Still there was a wide road before them, with no

apparent obstruction, and Charles, who tried to keep himself calm, hoped

that the horses would soon be tired, and slacken their pace. He saw his

companion's strength failing, and he leaned over and said, "Keep on one

minute more and we shall do," when, most unfortunately, a waggon turned

out of a field by the road side. The leaders turned sharp round, and

upset the coach close by the hedge. Charles's fall was broken by the

hedge, and he rose in a moment, with no other hurt than a few scratches

from the briars; but such a dreadful scene of confusion met his view,

that, though his first thought was to give help, he knew not where to

turn. He looked for his companion, but could not see him, and hearing

the most dismal screams from the inside of the coach, he entreated one

or two persons, who were standing shaking their limbs, and apparently

unhurt, to help him to get out the passengers. It was some time before

they comprehended what he meant, and longer still before they could

collect their senses sufficiently to be of any use. At length, however,

Charles and another man climbed on the body of the coach, and pushed

down the window. Two young ladies and a Quaker gentleman were inside.

The latter said to Charles, "Lend me thy hand, for I am uppermost, and

then we will rescue the others: there is not much harm done, I hope."

One of the ladies continued to scream so loud, that it was difficult to

make her understand that she must use her own limbs in getting out. By

main force, however, she was hauled through the window, and set on her

feet. The Quaker gentleman said to her, "I recommend thee to be more

quiet, if thou canst; if not, thou hadst better go a little out of the

way, that we may know what we are doing. There is a stile yonder: sit

there, and I will bring thy friend to thee."

The lady was able to comprehend this, and she accordingly moved away.

There was more difficulty in rescuing her companion, who was really

hurt: her arm was injured, and she was in great pain. She was quiet,

however, and exerted what strength she had. Charles led her to some

grass at a little distance: he hastily spread her cloak, and laid her

down, and called her companion to her. When he reached the scene of

disaster again, he was shocked to find that an outside passenger was

killed. He was a dreadful object, and nothing was to be done, but to

move him out of sight as quickly as possible. Still Charles looked

round in vain for his companion; but when the noise had a little

subsided, he thought he heard a faint groan from beneath the huge

box-coat which was lying close by. Charles lifted it, and saw his

companion lying with a large trunk upon one leg. He seemed in great

agony, and unable to move. Charles called the Quaker gentleman. They

gently lifted the trunk, and saw a sickening sight. The leg was

dreadfully crushed. Charles for a moment turned away, but, ashamed of

his weakness, he, with the Quaker's approbation, loosened the shawl

which he wore round his neck, and wrapped it about the injured leg.

They then raised the poor youth, and seated him on the trunk, and tried

to ascertain whether he had received any other injury. They could not

detect any, but the sufferer was in so much pain, that they could not be

sure. Charles beckoned to the waggoner, who was assisting the other

passengers, and enquired whether there was any house nearer than the

public-house which they had left, where the wounded passengers could be

taken in for the present.

The man answered that there was none, and that they were three miles

distant even from that.

Charles engaged him to convey the ladies and the young man in his

waggon, which was filled with straw, and the people from the

public-house having by this time reached the scene of disaster, the

Quaker gentleman was able to accompany them. They therefore looked out

their luggage, deposited the young man and the two ladies in the waggon,

and returned to the public-house on foot. By the way they agreed what

was further to be done. The Quaker thought the two ladies would be able

to reach Exeter that night, and would prefer doing so to remaining in

the inconvenient and crowded public-house. If the coach was able to

proceed, so much the better; if not, a chaise could probably be

procured. As for the young man, he must certainly remain; he was in no

condition for travelling.

"I do not know," said Charles, "how you are circumstanced. We must not

leave this poor youth; one of us must take charge of the ladies, and the

other remain with him. Will you take your choice?"

"My wife is ill," replied the Quaker, "and I fear would be in terror, if

she should hear of the accident, and not see me, even if I assured her

of my welfare by my own hand. I should therefore prefer returning. But

perhaps thou hast calls equally pressing?"

"No, I have not," replied Charles. "No one expects me: my family do not

know that I am on my way to them: the matter therefore is decided."

"Not quite," said the Quaker. "The one who remains will have some

painful scenes to go through. Thou art young: canst thou bear them?"

"I will _try_ to bear them," replied Charles. "My heart aches for this

young man, but it will be a comfort to be of service to him. We must

learn his name, and you will call at his house as soon as you arrive,

and inform his family; and some of them had better return in the chaise

with a surgeon; for I suppose there is no medical advice to be had

hereabouts."

"Probably not," replied the Quaker. "It is now nearly six: if we can

procure a chaise without delay, in nine or ten hours hence his friends

may be with him, and thou wilt be in part relieved from thy charge."

"He will be able to command himself," said Charles, "at least, if I may

judge from his presence of mind at the time of the accident; and I shall

therefore know better what to do, than if he were as unmanageable as

that young lady."

"Her agony was so great," replied the Quaker, "that it would make one

think that fear is, for the time, a greater evil than actual pain. Her

sister (for I conclude they are sisters) was quiet enough; but it was

beyond my power to stop her screams. Tell me how thy companion acted,

for, being inside, I do not know."

Charles related how the youth had endeavoured to stop the horses.

"He indeed shewed self-command," said the good man, "and I am afraid he

will have occasion to exercise all his resolution. I have no hope that

that leg can be cured; but I hope his life is not in danger!"

"Can you," said Charles, "give me any directions respecting his

treatment? Is there any thing to be done besides making him as easy as

I can?"

"Nothing, that I am aware of," replied the Quaker. "I think thou wilt

not have much need of thy purse for these few hours, or I would ask thee

whether it is well filled?"

Charles thanked him, and assured him that no assistance of that kind was

wanted.

By this time they had reached the public-house, and the young man was

soon laid on a bed, in a decent though not very quiet apartment. On

enquiry being made, it was found that no chaises were to be had there,

but that a return chaise would probably pass very soon. The ladies were

so incapable, one from pain, the other from terror, of judging what was

best to be done, that the Quaker gentleman decided every thing for them.

He directed the lady's arm to be bathed and hung in a sling, and

advised them to accompany him in the chaise to Exeter, as soon as it

should pass. Charles meanwhile was sitting by the bedside of the

injured man, trying to ascertain the necessary particulars of his name,

place of residence, etcetera. He was now able to speak, and said his

name was Monteath, that his father and mother lived in -- Street,

Exeter, and that Mr Everett was the surgeon whom he wished to attend

him. He said, "Are you going directly? must you leave me now?"

"I shall not leave you till your friends arrive," replied Charles.

"Some of our fellow-passengers will carry our message to Exeter."

"Thank you! God bless you!" were the only words in answer. Presently

he said, "Who are you? You have not told me your name."

Charles told his name.

"Forsyth!" exclaimed Mr Monteath; "surely you are the brother of Miss

Forsyth, whom I have seen at Mr Everett's!"

"I am," said Charles.

"Then do not stay with me," said the youth; "your sister will be

terrified when she hears of the accident."

Charles explained that his sisters did not expect him. He then enquired

whether he did not suffer less than at first.

"Yes, I am rather easier," replied Monteath, "but still it is dreadful

pain. However, I shall have worse to go through before I am better. I

see what is before me: I do not wish to be blind to it."

"I am glad you are not blind to it," replied Charles. "You have

strength of mind and self-command, and if you can keep up for a few

hours, the worst will be over. Your present calmness assures me that

you will keep up."

"I know not," replied Monteath. "Thoughts come crowding upon me faster

than I can bear. This pain is not the worst: yet Oh! how it weakens me!

I ought to feel, even at this moment, that all is right, that this

suffering is for my good."

"It is," said Charles; "and it is this thought which has comforted me

for you. In a few hours you will, I trust, be at ease, and, after that,

all will come easy to you. In the mean time, think whose hand has

brought this evil upon you, and remember that he is pitying your pain.

He also gives strength and courage to those who ask for them."

"I will seek for them," replied Monteath. "Leave me for a while: I will

try to compose my mind, and strengthen myself for these hours of pain."

Charles drew the curtains round the bed, and sat down in the

window-seat. He did feel sick at heart. His head throbbed, and his

heart beat thick, when he thought of the agony he had witnessed, of what

was yet to be undergone by his companion, and of the dreadful disclosure

which must be made to the father and mother, who were now probably

counting the minutes as they flew, in the hope of a joyous meeting with

their son. By degrees, he became aware that he was looking only at the

dark side of the picture. He reproached himself for overlooking the

mercies which had attended this dispensation. His own preservation,

that of many besides, that only one life was lost among so many, that

the suffering had fallen upon those who were apparently the best able to

bear it; and he was not forgetful that the warning which was afforded

them all of the uncertainty of life, and health, and peace, was of

itself a great mercy. He now remarked the sun disappearing behind the

hills, and remembered how he had watched it declining in the heavens,

with the confident expectation that the hours of succeeding darkness

would be spent in the home of his sisters; that, before the sun should

rise again, he would have embraced them, have looked on their faces, and

heard their voices, and exchanged affectionate greetings with them. Now

the night was to be passed beside the bed of pain, and the sunrise would

find him, probably, exhausted and spiritless, and still far from those

he loved. "What a little way can we see!" thought Charles: "how

uncertain should we ever feel of the future! how prepared for whatever

may happen! how grateful for every exemption from suffering! I am not

happy now; I cannot be happy while one is near me who is suffering

severely: but let me be grateful: let me remember my preservation from

personal injury, and let me trust that those who suffer will find

strength and comfort from Him who has blessed and preserved me."

While these thoughts passed through his mind, tears coursed each other

down his cheeks. He did not check them, for he found relief from these

quiet tears. He was, meantime, not forgetful of his charge: he listened

to his breathing; it was, at first, loud and irregular, as of one in

pain, and now and then a deep sob could be heard. Still Charles sat

quiet, for he judged rightly that Monteath would be better able to

compose himself, if left undisturbed. By degrees, his breathing became

more regular, and all was so quiet, that Charles hoped he was at ease,

if not asleep. Meanwhile it was becoming dark, and as night advanced,

the public-house was more quiet, and Charles entertained the hope that

his friend might be strengthened for his approaching suffering, by a few

hours of repose. When the last tinge of brightness had faded from the

clouds, and was succeeded by total darkness, Charles still remained in

the window-seat: he would not procure a light for fear of noise; and he

continued to look out, though nothing was to be seen, but a servant

occasionally crossing the yard with a lantern, which cast a dim gleam

through the room. The ticking of his watch was the only sound that he

heard. It was too dark to see what time it was, but when he imagined he

had been sitting about two hours, the loud ringing of a bell broke the

silence, and disturbed poor Monteath, who had really been asleep. He

attempted to move, but the attempt extorted a deep groan. Charles

sprang to the bedside, and spoke to him. "You are in pain again," said

he, "but you have been easier, and will be so again soon."

Monteath could not answer him.

Charles rang for a light. It was brought, and Monteath asked what

o'clock it was. It was near eleven. "No more!" said he, and he

enquired how soon his father and mother could be with him. Charles

thought in four or five hours, and he told his friend that if he would

be prevailed on to take a little refreshment, he thought he might sleep

again.

"O, no, do not ask me to move," replied Monteath.

"You need not move," replied Charles. "I will give it you, while you

lie still: but indeed you need it."

"I will," said Monteath. "But have you been beside me all this time,

without any refreshment? You must be quite exhausted. Pray go down and

have some supper: I shall not want you just now: why did you not leave

me?"

Charles, though little inclined to eat, consented to have some supper

brought up, but he would not leave his friend. He asked Monteath if he

had not enjoyed his repose.

"It was a great rest," was the reply; "but I believe I have had my poor

mother in my mind almost all the time. I am afraid she is more unhappy

than I am at this moment."

"But when she hears that you have slept, and when she sees you able to

speak, and even to comfort her, as I think you will, she will be

relieved."

"They will have Mr Everett with them," said Monteath, "and he is a kind

and judicious friend. It is he who must free me from this pain," added

he. "I hope I shall not hate him for the office, as I have heard that

some people hate their surgeons, in spite of themselves."

"No fear of that," said Charles.

"I hope they will not delay it," said Monteath. "I would fain hope that

in twelve hours, it will be over. I almost think it cannot be worse

than what I suffered when I was lying on the road, before you found me."

"Probably not so bad, and most probably much sooner over. Some people

would think me wrong in letting you speak of this, but I think it will

do you no harm. You would think about it at all events, and it makes

anticipated evils less, to talk rationally about them."

"You are right," said Monteath. "I have been looking steadily at the

whole matter, and I want to ask you one thing. Mr Everett will perhaps

bring no assistant. If he does not, will you, can you, stand by, and

prevent my father from being present? I know he will insist on it, if

no friend is at hand but Mr Everett."

"I can, and I certainly will," replied Charles. "I have never attempted

any thing of the kind, but I think I can make my resolution equal to the

occasion. If I can be of use, I shall not think of myself."

"Thank you, thank you," replied Monteath. "Things might have been worse

with me yet. There might have been no one who would have had compassion

on me, no friend who would have comforted me as you are doing."

"I can do little," said Charles. "There is a better friend with you,

who can yield support when earthly friends are far away, or too feeble

to give comfort. I hope you feel this."

"I do now, more than ever in my life before. Just now, I was in too

much pain to think of any thing: but I am easy enough to think, and

speak, and listen, at present. Have you a Bible with you?"

Charles instantly produced his Bible, and asked his friend what he

should read.

"The forty-second and forty-third Psalms first," said Monteath.

Charles read them, and afterwards chose a chapter in the New Testament,

and with pleasure he perceived that Monteath appeared more and more

tranquil, and in a little time he enjoyed the repose which his exhausted

frame required.

He slept till three o'clock, and was then too anxious for the arrival of

his father and mother to rest again. Charles attempted to interest him

in conversation, and he was interested; but he started at every little

noise, and to say the truth, Charles was little less nervous than

himself. At length, almost before they could reasonably expect it, they

distinctly heard a chaise drive up.

"O, go, go!" cried Monteath. "Go and bring them to me!"

"Not yet," said Charles, firmly. "I will go to them, but they must not

see you till I can tell them that you are more calm. Compose yourself,

and remember that the best comfort you can give them is to see you

tranquil. I will tell them that you have slept, and in a few minutes

you shall see them; in the mean time compose yourself."

Charles went down stairs, and the first meeting with Mr and Mrs

Monteath was very painful. He was glad, however, to give them some

comfort, and he spoke as cheerfully as he could of the night which his

friend had passed. Presently he conducted them to their son's chamber,

and left them at the door. Mr Everett enquired the particulars of the

accident, and the extent of the injury, as far as Charles could judge of

it. He shook his head, when he had heard the particulars, and said he

feared there was no help for it, but that the leg must be amputated.

"Thinking this would be necessary," he said, "I brought an assistant

with me; and I am glad I did, for delay would be dangerous; and I

suppose there is no surgeon near. Is your friend prepared for it?"

"Perfectly," replied Charles: "and he thinks the sooner it is done, the

better. How soon will it be, Sir?"

"Directly, if it has to be done," replied Mr Everett, "but you know I

have not seen him yet, and therefore cannot be sure that it will be

necessary."

Mr and Mrs Monteath came down presently, and told Mr Everett that

their son wished to see him. Before he went, he told them that he

should recommend their trying to get some rest.

"Now that your son has seen you, he will sleep again," said he, "and I

wish to remain alone with him for two or three hours. He will not rest

if you are beside him, so you must trust him with me, and our young

friend will bring you news of him from time to time."

The father and mother were obliged to consent: they retired, and Charles

took his station in the next room to his friend. In a few minutes Mr

Everett's assistant came out of the chamber, and soon after returned

with a servant, and there were signs of preparation which were sickening

to poor Charles. He made a great effort to forget himself, however, and

gently opening the chamber door, asked if he could be of use.

"You can, Sir, if you think yourself able," replied Mr Everett. "I

believe we may trust you, for you are aware of the importance of

self-command just now. I advise you to take a glass of wine, and then

go and speak to your friend, and we will call you when we want you."

Charles did so.

"Your mother has gone to lie down," he whispered; "by the time she

wakes, we shall have comfort to give her, and you will be better able to

see her."

Monteath pressed his hand. "I am better than I was," said he; "stronger

in mind, too. I do believe I dreaded seeing my mother more than any

thing else."

Mr Everett now approached the bed, and in a short time, which, however,

appeared to Charles as if it never would be over, the painful thing was

done, and Monteath was in bed again. Charles remained beside him, and

in an hour the patient was once more in a sound sleep. Mr Everett went

then to tell his father and mother what had been done. They were

dreadfully agitated at first, but the sight of their son in deep repose

calmed them, and every thing was soon so comfortably arranged, that

Charles thought his assistance was no longer needed. He went to bed,

rested till the middle of the day, and in the afternoon proceeded with

Mr Everett to Exeter, the assistant being left behind with the patient,

and Mr Everett promising to return the next day but one. Monteath did

not | know how to express his gratitude, and his parents'

acknowledgments were painful to Charles, who felt that in common

humanity he could not have done less than he had done. They however

thought differently, and were grateful, not only for what he had done,

but for the manner of doing it; and felt very sure, that, painful as

that night had been to Charles, every recollection of it would bring

pleasure as long as he lived. He promised his friend that he would not

return to London without seeing him, and then set off, wondering when he

thought that his acquaintance with Monteath had been of only twenty-four

hours' standing, and that, in that time, he had been called on to

perform more painful offices of kindness, than generally devolve upon

intimate friends during a connexion of many years.

"At this hour yesterday," thought Charles, "we met for the first time,

and now we are perhaps friends for life. It has been proved, by a fiery

trial, that Monteath has many virtues. I know, beyond a doubt, that he

is religious, that he is attached to his family, that he is considerate

to others, that he is courageous and patient. This is a great deal to

have learned in twenty-four hours. If I were to consider myself alone,

I might rejoice in this accident. I have gained a valuable friend, and

received a lesson which I shall never forget, at the expense of only a

few hours of salutary pain. But I am the last person to be considered.

Better fruits even than these may spring from this calamity, to those

who have at present suffered more from it."

The journey with Mr Everett was cheerful and pleasant. Charles had now

the opportunity of learning a great deal about his sister Jane; and all

that he heard gave him pleasure. His home and its inmates had been

forgotten for some hours, but now he began again to anticipate the

pleasures of meeting, though with much less confidence than before. At

first he felt almost sure that something would yet happen to delay their

meeting; but when they were within five miles of the city, he began to

recognise some well-known object at every step, and to feel a quieter

hope that at length he should reach his journey's end in peace. He

started up at the first sight of the Cathedral towers, and gazed at them

till he actually passed them. Then he looked for familiar faces, and as

the chaise turned the corner into the market-place, a boy looked up from

the foot pavement, who, tall as he was, could, Charles was sure, be no

other than Alfred. "It _is_ Alfred," said Mr Everett, "going home to

tea, I guess. You will find them just sitting down to tea, the lessons

all learned, the business all done, and nothing to do but to talk and

listen."

The chaise stopped, and Charles was soon on his way home, with his

little trunk under his arm. When Hannah answered his knock, she knew

him instantly, and started back, calling, "Miss Jane, Miss Jane!"

Miss Jane rose from the tea-table, and she and Charles met at the

parlour door. "Charles! my dear, dear Charles! What can have brought

you? What are you here for?"

"I am come to see you, my dearest; and you, and you," added he, turning

to the others, as they pressed round him. "I am come for a whole

fortnight. Now, dearest, I have taken you too much by surprise," for

Jane's tears flowed fast. "Come, come, compose yourself. Look up, and

smile at me."

Jane hung on his shoulder. He led her to a chair, Isabella seated

herself on the other side, and Harriet sprung on his knee. "I should

not have startled you so," said Charles, "but I had no time to write,

and give you notice. I did not know myself, till a few hours before I

left town, that I was coming."

"But _how_ did you come?" asked Isabella. "This is not the time when

any of the coaches arrive."

"My dear, I must explain all that by and by: there is a long and sad

story connected with that."

"I am glad we knew nothing about your coming," said Alfred; "for the

London coach was overturned yesterday, and we should have been afraid

that you were in it."

"It _was_ overturned, and there was a man killed," said Charles; but he

said no more about it, for he did not feel inclined to enter at once

upon that sad subject.

"I am afraid, Jane, I am not come at the pleasantest time for you: your

mornings are, I suppose, fully engaged, but we must make long evenings."

"And here is one to begin with," said Jane. "We have you all to

ourselves for this evening at least. But how very tired you look! Are

you quite well?"

"Perfectly," replied Charles, "I am only tired."

"Come and have some tea," said Isabella. "Let me make tea to-night,

Jane, and do you sit beside Charles."

So the happy party gathered round the table, and it would be in vain for

us to attempt to follow them through the variety of subjects which they

touched upon, or to record half that was said. After tea, Charles went

into the kitchen to speak to Hannah, and to delight her by his

affectionate remembrance. Then Jane and Harriet had to settle the

important affair of where Alfred was to sleep. He was to give up his

bed to Charles, and a little bed was made up for him, in a corner of the

same room. He declared that he would sleep on the floor rather than

that Charles should seek a lodging out of the house.

Late in the evening a note arrived from Mrs Everett: an unusually

gracious one for her. It said that, as Miss Forsyth and her brother had

not met for so long, Mrs Everett would be sorry to keep them asunder,

for the few first days of his stay, especially as Mr C. Forsyth must

require cheering and relaxation, after the melancholy circumstances of

his journey. Mrs Everett therefore would not require Miss Forsyth to

resume her daily charge till the next Monday, and in the mean time

wished her much enjoyment of her brother's society.

"How very kind!" exclaimed Jane.

"How perfectly delightful!" said Charles.

"But how should Mrs Everett know that you are here, Charles?" said

Isabella. "News must fly faster than I thought it did, if any body has

told her that you are come."

"I will explain it all in the morning," said Charles, "it is too long a

story to tell now."

"I wish," said Harriet, "_we_ had a holiday till Monday. If the news

has got to Mrs Everett's, it might as well spread a little further:

just as far as Mrs --'s ears."

"I should like a holiday very well," said Isabella, "but Charles and

Jane had rather be alone, I suppose; and I had rather they should, for

part of the time."

Charles thanked her by a kiss, for her consideration.

It was with a deep feeling of gratitude and delight that he this evening

joined in family worship for the first time for two years. Jane read

the Psalm and chapter with a somewhat tremulous voice this evening, and

sweet and touching was that voice to her brother's ear, and he deeply

felt the words of thanksgiving which were uttered by it. "_Bless the

Lord, O my soul; and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless

the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits: who forgiveth all

thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases; who redeemeth thy life

from destruction; who crowneth thee with loving-kindness and tender

mercies_."

What words could be so apt as these to express thankfulness for the

preservation of life, and for the subsequent bestowment of the sweetest

blessings which endear it to the pure and uncorrupted heart? Sweet was

it also to join with his best friends in a prayer for the continuance of

these mercies, and for the blessing of their Giver upon their enjoyment.

The weight of sadness which had still pressed upon Charles's mind, and

which nothing else had availed to lighten, was now removed by the

exercise of prayer, and with a light as well as thankful heart he

retired to rest. He awoke from refreshing sleep when Alfred rose the

next morning; and when they were assembled at breakfast, he told his

promised tale of the extraordinary events of his journey. The name of

Monteath was not unknown to the Forsyths, and Jane had seen this very

youth at the Everetts' more than once, and knew that he was a great

favourite in their family. Charles expressed his intention of calling

on his Quaker friend, if he could find him, and also at Mr Monteath's

house, to learn if any further account of his friend had arrived. Mr

Barker also was to be seen, and plans were to be laid for the employment

of the precious days of Charles's stay. Before these were half

arranged, it was time for the younger ones to be off to school; and when

the brother and sister found themselves really alone, Charles produced

Mrs Rathbone's letter, which he rightly judged must be partly on

business. It was indeed of considerable importance.

Mrs Rathbone wrote in her husband's name, as well as her own. She said

that Jane had probably heard through Mr Barker that they hoped to be of

use to Alfred whenever it should be time to think of placing him out:

that it was time the boy should have some idea of his future

destination, and that his family should know what to look forward to.

She went on to say,--

"Mr Rathbone has influence in India, and if Alfred's talents are what

we understand them to be, there can be no doubt of his distinguishing

himself in the Company's service, and of procuring solid advantages to

his family. Our views for him are these. We shall take the charge of

his education at the Company's military schools, where he will be

qualified for being a military engineer in the forces in India. In

five years he will be sent out, and then he will only have to exert

himself to get forward, to distinguish himself, and probably to enrich

his family, for there are perhaps no other means by which wealth can

be so easily acquired. It appears to us that there is no other way in

which we can so effectually assist you as this; and few things can

give us more pleasure than the anticipation of the time when you will

be easy and prosperous, and look back on your present labours and

cares as on a long past dream. Alfred will rejoice to promote the

prosperity of that kind sister who devoted herself to his welfare when

he was too young to repay her cares, and that sister will rejoice in

the honour and wealth which his well directed exertions will be the

means of conferring on his family.

"As you are all bound together by even closer ties of affection than

usually unite those of the same family, it is natural that you should

grieve at the prospect of a separation from Alfred of many years.

These separations are certainly sad things; but I have too good an

opinion of your sense and your self-command to suppose that you will

set the gratification of even your dearest and most cherished feelings

against the solid interests of the family who depend upon you, and of

whom you are the head. This is the only objection to our plan which

we anticipate from you, unless it be the consideration of health. But

this is a thing so entirely uncertain, so many die at home, and so

many sustain the trial of a foreign climate, and live to old age in

it, that we cannot foresee and calculate, and therefore should not

suffer our plans to be deranged by too much regard to this

consideration, but should trust, that, whether at home or abroad, all

will be well with those whom we love. You will let us know soon what

you think of our plan, and you will make up your mind to part with

Alfred at the end of a year from next Midsummer. In the mean time, he

had better continue at the school where he now is, and the only

direction we have to give is, that he will continue to devote his

attention to mathematics. If tolerably advanced in this branch of

study, he will set out with the more advantage in his new studies next

year.

"We should like to see Alfred, and form our own judgment of him; and

for this purpose, and also to afford him some pleasure, we hope you

will not object to his spending a fortnight with us in the approaching

holidays. Charles will let us know when to expect him, and we will

make him as happy as we can. We have chosen the present opportunity

of developing our plan to you, as we thought you would like to have

Charles by your side to talk to concerning it. Wishing you much

enjoyment together, and assuring you of our interest in all your

concerns, I am, my dear young friend,--

"Most truly yours,--

"Sarah Rathbone."

Charles and Jane looked at each other when they had finished reading

this letter. "Well, Jane," said Charles, "what is your opinion of it?"

"O, Charles, I do not at all like it. But we cannot judge till we have

thought about it."

"Let us think about it then," said Charles.--"In the first place, could

you part with Alfred for many years, if you were thoroughly convinced

that it would be for his good and ours?"

"I could, I hope, _if_ I were convinced of that. But what good could

counterbalance all the evils of such a separation to him and us?"

"Let us consider the good first, Jane, and then we will weigh the evil

against it. This is not a new idea to me; I had some suspicion of Mr

Rathbone's plans, and so I have thought a little about the matter. If

Alfred goes, we may have it in our power to repay our friends here the

obligations we are under to them now; (I mean, of course, the pecuniary

part of the obligation;) and we may be able to place Isabella and

Harriet in a situation in society where their talents and virtues may be

exercised with as much benefit to others, and without such painful

labour and care as will probably be their lot, if, as we have hitherto

expected, they have to work for their own subsistence. Are not these

real, solid advantages?"

"I believe they are," replied Jane. "And you too--"

"O, I am out of the question just now, and so are you, Jane. We must

now forget ourselves, and even each other, if we mean to decide coolly

for the good of those who depend on us. Are there any other advantages?

Is honour, fame, or whatever else we call it, a good?"

"What kind of honour will it be?" asked Jane. "The honour of bravery, I

suppose--a soldier's glory."

"More than that," said Charles. "He may have the reputation of talent,

of industry, and of general honourable principle."

"This kind of reputation is valuable in many respects," said Jane; "but

it may be had at home as well as in India, better perhaps: for I do not

know how to reconcile the rapid acquisition of wealth with honourable

principle."

"Nor I," said Charles. "Well, do you reckon this honour an advantage?"

"I think not," said Jane. "I do not desire a mere soldier's glory for

any one I love, since it is bought by violence, and must therefore

harden the heart: and honour of a better kind may be had, as far as it

is desirable, at home."

"I quite agree with you," said Charles. "Then again, the increase of

knowledge, and enlargement of mind, which is obtained by travelling, and

intercourse with foreign nations, is, in my opinion, a real advantage,

though Mrs Rathbone does not mention it. We are not considering how it

is counterbalanced; but is it not in itself a good?"

"It is," said Jane; "and now I fancy we have come to the end of the

list. For power, influence, high connexions, the ability to exercise

beneficence, all come under the heads of wealth and honour: and as to

the benefit to Alfred of exerting himself for his family, that also may

be had at home, and may be all the more beneficial for the wealth not

being got so easily as in India. But _health_ is the grand objection.

I do wonder at the way in which Mrs Rathbone speaks of this. She

speaks of many who die in England as well as in India: but who does not

know the difference in the proportions? And she speaks of _trust_ too,

as if foresight and precaution were inconsistent with it."

"And of those who live," said Charles, "how few, if any, return in

health! Mr Rathbone himself is rich: but who would take his riches in

exchange for the health he has sacrificed?"

"Have we any right to consent to such a probable sacrifice for Alfred?"

said Jane.

"Certainly not, in my opinion," said Charles. "But there is another

question of greater importance still--Alfred's moral welfare. His early

separation from his family would be a sad thing; but not half so fearful

as the risk of sending him into the society of the dissolute, or, at

best, the careless, where his duty will lie in scenes of bloodshed and

devastation, where his employment will be to contrive and execute plans

for spreading ruin and wasting life. Can we devote him to an employment

like this? Some may represent the matter in a different light, and say

that he is promoting the prosperity of his country and the extension of

commerce by his services. But I say, let him, if he serves his country,

serve it by innocent means; by means reconcileable to the law of God,

and to the duty which man owes to man: let him do this, even if he live

and die in hardship and poverty, rather than corrupt his mind, and

harden his heart, and become such a one as we could not love, though he

were to make himself and us as rich and powerful as the most worldly

could desire."

"Oh, Charles, if this is all true, who could doubt for a moment? How

could Mr Rathbone think of such a plan for a moment?"

"Different people," said Charles, "see things in a different light. Mr

Rathbone has not experienced these dangers, because he has made his

fortune by commerce, not by war. Besides, I must think Mr Rathbone a

very rare instance of the power of principle against temptation. There

are few indeed who spend their Indian wealth so generously for others,

though every one who goes out with any principle to direct him, hopes

that _he_ shall be able to hold a straight course, though almost all

others have gone astray. I could not, neither, I am sure, could you,

encourage this confidence with respect to Alfred. If he were to be

separated from us for five years before he left England, and were to

have no prospect of seeing us again for twenty or thirty years, how weak

would be the family ties, and how easily chilled the family affection on

which we should wish to depend as a safeguard to higher principles! And

as to those higher principles, _we_ could have little influence in

forming or strengthening them: we must, at the end of one other year,

commit them to the care of strangers. How little knowledge we could

have of them; how little confidence that they could be firm enough to

resist the attacks of temptations, renewed from day to day, under which

the strong have sunk, and before which the fortified have given way."

"But Charles, my dear Charles, is this all true? Are you sure there is

no mistake? If but one hundredth part were true, I would not hesitate

for a moment."

"Ask those who know, dear Jane: let us ask Mr Barker. Let us tell our

thoughts to Mr Rathbone himself. This is too important a matter to be

decided on our own judgments, without further knowledge; but Mr

Barker's knowledge of the fate of many youths who have been sent out to

India, will, I believe, lead him to encourage us in declining Mr

Rathbone's offer. Whatever we may think of the offer itself, Jane, we

must not forget the generosity which has been shewn in making it."

"Certainly," said Jane, "it will be very difficult to express our sense

of such kindness; and more so still to decline it: but I hope they will

understand and even approve our feeling about it."

The brother and sister then talked over other circumstances connected

with their affairs. Charles asked whether any new plan was in view for

the girls to earn a little more money. Jane smiled, and said that

Isabella had not been idle, but that what she had attempted was yet

unfinished, and that if Charles had not visited them, he would have

known nothing of the matter till the work was completed. The thing was

this: a French lady who had been staying at Mr Everett's in the autumn,

had shewn Jane an elegant little French work on plants. A variety of

flowers were arranged according to various peculiarities, which had

caused them to be adopted as emblems, some of royalty, others of natural

or moral qualities, etcetera. There were plates of many of the flowers,

some well executed, others very indifferently. It struck Jane at once

that Isabella might translate this work, and she borrowed it of the

French lady, that they might examine it at home. They thought, on close

examination, that the work might be improved in the translation: that

various floral emblems might be added, and that drawings, very superior

to the plates of the work, might increase its value. When Jane returned

the book, she asked its owner whether it had been translated into

English. The reply was, that the original work had only been published

a few weeks, and could not yet be well known in England. This

determined Isabella at once to make the trial. The drawings were the

most important and the most difficult part; but by the interest and

assistance of a few friends, Isabella obtained access to some excellent

botanical works and plates. Many, indeed most of the flowers, she was

able to draw from nature during the eight months that the work was in

progress; and where the flowers were so rare as to be out of her reach

altogether, there was nothing to be done but to copy from the plates of

the original work. With the translation she took great pains, and here

Jane helped her. Jane had an excellent and well-cultivated taste, and

she was therefore well fitted to judge of style, and she assisted

Isabella to re-write and polish her translation, till no foreign idiom

could be detected, and till there was no trace of the stiffness or

poverty which characterises most versions from the French. When this

was done, Jane, who wrote a much better hand than Isabella, transcribed

it, by degrees, as the drawings were finished, one by one, so that the

work was complete as far as it went. At this time, only four drawings

and about twelve pages of copying remained to be done, and then it was

to try its fate in the hands of a London bookseller.

Charles was delighted with the plan, as Jane described it; but she would

not let him see the work till Isabella was present. She said that if it

did not answer she should be quite grieved, for that it had been the

object of chief interest to Isabella for many months, and she had been

unwearied in her application to it during all her leisure hours in that

time. They could form no idea of the sum it ought to bring them; but

Jane said she would not take less than ten guineas, and she hoped for

more. Charles shook his head, and was afraid she expected too much; but

he promised to take charge of it when he returned, if it could be

finished by that time, and to do all in his power to dispose of it

advantageously. He then enquired whether the five guineas which they

had already earned remained untouched; and on being told that it was to

lie by till they were rich enough to purchase a piano, or till some

unforeseen emergency should call it into use, he presented his own five

pound note to Jane to add to the little fund.

Jane was most unwilling to receive the fruits of his labour and

self-denial; but she knew that he spoke the truth when he said that no

other use to which he could apply it would give him half so much

pleasure. It gave him pleasure, he said, to think that they had a

little sum of their own to go to, instead of having to apply to their

friends in case of sickness, family mourning, or any other incidental

expense likely to occur in a family consisting of several members, and

widely, though distantly, connected with many more. "It is not being

over-prudent, Jane; it is not being worldly-minded, I hope, to think in

this way, is it?"

"I think not," replied Jane. "I am often afraid of becoming so, I

assure you, and I try to keep this fear in mind from day to day. At

present, however, we have been led on so easily, our path has been so

smoothed for us, that it seems hardly possible that we should be

unmindful _who_ it is that has disposed all things for us. _Now_ I am

reminded, day by day, how grateful I ought to be: if I become worldly,

it will more probably be when I have greater labours and anxieties to

undergo. If we can meet in this way, dear Charles, from time to time,

it will be as strong a safeguard against worldliness as we can have."

In the course of the morning Charles called on his Quaker travelling

companion, and gave him an account of the night which he had passed with

poor Monteath, and of the circumstances under which he had left his

charge. The excellent man was much interested, and said he wished that

he could himself have remained, and saved Charles the pain of these

anxious hours.

"My wife," said he, "was saved much fear by my speedy arrival, I hope

thy friends had no fear for thee?"

"My sisters," replied Charles, "were not aware of my journey, as it

fortunately happened."

"And thy father and mother: hadst thou not a father and mother to await

thy arrival?"

Charles shortly explained his family circumstances.

"Thy sister must have a strong mind, like thine, to conduct a household,

and to employ herself in another responsible situation also; considering

that she is yet young. Thou wilt come again?" said he, seeing that

Charles was preparing to depart, "thou wilt come again? Uncommon

circumstances have made us acquainted, and I should be unwilling to

discontinue our acquaintance, as it may be pleasant to both of us."

Charles promised to call again.

"My wife, as I told thee, is ill," said Mr Franklin, (for that was his

name,) "and therefore cannot go to see thy sister; but if thou wilt take

thy tea with us to-morrow, and if thy sister will disregard ceremony,

and come with thee, we shall be glad."

Charles accepted the invitation with great pleasure, as he thought that

this respectable family might prove pleasant and valuable friends to

Jane.

He next called on Mr Barker, who was not a little astonished at the

sight of him. Charles told him that Jane and he were anxious to have

his advice on the important subject of Mrs Rathbone's letter. Mr

Barker promised to devote the first leisure time he had to them.

Charles next called at Mr Monteath's door, to enquire concerning his

friend; but no account had arrived, or was expected before the evening.

When the messenger arrived, he brought a favourable report. The patient

was easy, and all was going on right. He sent, by his mother's letter,

an affectionate message to Charles, and said, he hoped by the time his

father returned to Exeter to be able to write a note himself to his

friend.

Mr Barker called in the evening to see Mrs Rathbone's letter

respecting Alfred, and to consult with Jane and her brother on the

subject. They plainly told him their feelings upon it, their dislike to

the military profession, especially.

Mr Barker was silent, and looked thoughtful.

"Are we wrong, Sir?" asked Charles. "Have we got high-flown or mistaken

notions about this? or is it presumptuous in us, who are so poor, and

under great obligations, to affect a choice for our brother?"

"No, my dear boy; none of these. I was silent because I was thinking of

a sad story, and wondering whether I should tell it you. Have you quite

made up your minds to reject Mr Rathbone's offer?"

"That depends on your opinion," said Jane. "If you shew us that

Charles's ideas of the hazard and probable misery of such a destination,

are mistaken, we must deliberate further: but if what I have heard be

true, I would as soon see Alfred in his coffin as incur so fearful a

responsibility."

"I think what Charles has said is all true: but, my dears, you must

prepare yourselves for something which will be to you very terrible."

"Mr Rathbone's displeasure," said Charles. "I feared that: but

grateful as we are and ought to be for his most disinterested generosity

to us, we ought to look on his gifts as curses, if they take from us the

liberty of unbiassed choice, where the moral welfare of a brother is in

question."

"Say so in your reply to him, Charles."

"But it may be," said Jane, "that he will not be displeased. We take

for granted much too readily, I think, that he will misunderstand us."

"Mr Rathbone's temper is peculiar," replied Mr Barker. "A somewhat

haughty spirit was rendered imperious by the power and rank he possessed

in India. Considering this, it is wonderful that he should retain so

generous a disposition as his is; but every one knows, and Charles

himself must have observed, that he cannot bear to be opposed,

especially in any scheme of benevolence."

Jane sighed. "At any rate," said she, "he cannot prevent our being

grateful for what he has done, and for his present kind intentions. It

is hard to be obliged to estrange such a friend, but it would be harder

still to devote Alfred to danger, and to temptations stronger than we

dare encounter ourselves."

"The estrangement will not be your work, but his own, Jane: that is, if

you write such a letter as I expect you will. Do not let your fear of

offending cramp your expression. Speak your gratitude freely, and also

your resolution of independence. Write as freely as you have been

speaking to me."

"May I shew you my letter, Sir, and have your opinion of it?" asked

Jane.

"By all means," replied Mr Barker, "and the sooner it is done the

better."

"We have been saved much pain," said Charles, "by your entire agreement

with us. I thought you would think as we did; but yet it is generally

believed a very fine thing to get a young man out to India."

"It is," said Mr Barker: "and in my young days a brother of my own was

sacrificed to this mistaken belief. So you will not wonder that I view

the matter in the same light as you do. It is a very common story. He

left home as good and promising a youth as could be, but too young.

Fine visions of wealth and grandeur floated before him: poor fellow! he

desired them more for his family than for himself when he set out on his

career; but his affections gradually cooled as time rolled on, and the

prospect of seeing his home again was still very distant. As he thought

less of his family he thought more of himself, and gave more and more

into habits of self-indulgence. He got money very fast, and

occasionally sent some home, but squandered much more on his own

pleasures. Then, as might be expected, his health failed: he dragged on

a miserable existence for many months, till an attack of illness, which

would formerly have been overcome in two days' time, carried him off, a

feeble and unresisting prey. He was thought to have left a large

property, but it could never be got at; and I have heard my poor father

say that he was glad we never had a farthing of it, for it would have

seemed to him the price of blood. It was a mistake, however, and only a

mistake; for his welfare was the object of his parents: but it was a

mistake whose consequences weighed them down with sorrow to their dying

days."

After Mr Barker was gone, this little family gathered together to close

the day with an hour of pleasant intercourse. Isabella's work was

produced, and extremely did Charles admire it. "Will it bring her ten

guineas?" asked Jane.

"Twenty, or nothing," said Charles. "Only, I am no judge of these

things. You must get it done for me to take back with me, Isabella."

Isabella thought it was impossible she could have earned twenty guineas

so easily. Not very easily, Charles thought: the leisure hours of eight

months had been spent upon this, and great efforts of perseverance and

resolution had been required. Add to this, the uncertainty and delay

and hazard which she yet had to encounter, and he thought that twenty

guineas was no more than a sufficient recompense. He told her that all

would not be over when the work was finished, but that she might have to

wait many months before she knew its fate, and it was even very possible

that it might remain on her hands. Isabella, however, had made up her

mind to be patient and to hope for the best.

When they separated for the night, Jane whispered to her brother,--"Yes,

we will keep together and be happy. Better is poverty in this house,

than wealth in India." Charles kissed her in sign of agreement.

The next morning Jane sat down to write her letter, with her brother by

her side. He approved the simple account which she gave of their

feelings and opinions upon the important matter, and made her add, that

she and her brother had the sanction of Mr Barker's experienced

judgment. Mr Barker had given her permission to say this, and when

Charles shewed him the letter, he approved the whole of it, and it was

therefore sealed and dispatched. Jane endeavoured to forget her fears

about the answer, and determined to bear it patiently, whatever it might

be, knowing that she had acted to the best of her judgment. During the

walk which she afterwards took with her brother she forget this subject

and every other, for he told her over again, and more completely, the

history of the night he had passed with poor Monteath. On their return

home they made enquiry again at Mr Monteath's door, and heard that the

young man was going on so well, that his father would return to Exeter

in two days.

Charles heard from Mr Franklin that evening some further particulars

respecting Monteath's family, and respecting himself. He was in

business with his father, and had lately become a partner. They were

not supposed to be rich, but were universally esteemed for their

integrity. There were several sisters, one older, and the rest younger

than their brother; but he was the only brother, and the pride and

delight of the family. The good Quaker was evidently affected when he

spoke of the sorrow which this sad accident had brought among them, and

yet more when he spoke of an attachment which was supposed to exist

between Monteath and a young lady who was at present staying with his

sisters. Mr Franklin had been at the house that morning, and the young

ladies had expressed in strong terms their gratitude to Charles, and the

desire they had to see this friend of their brother. When their father

returned they hoped to be able to shew that they were not insensible and

ungrateful. Mr Franklin told them that Charles was to be at his house

that evening, and he promised to take him to call, if he would be

induced to go. Charles only thought himself too much honoured for what

he believed any one of common humanity would have done in his

circumstances, and he accordingly left Jane with Mrs Franklin, and

accompanied his friend to Mr Monteath's. He saw the two eldest ladies,

but not their friend, which he was glad of, for he would have found

himself tongue-tied before her.

The wish of the young ladies was to learn, as distinctly as possible,

every thing that passed on that terrible night; and Charles related,

with perfect simplicity, every circumstance, except one or two, which he

thought would affect their feelings too deeply. He could not help

expressing his admiration of the rational and manly courage with which

his friend had met so sudden a misfortune.

"We were not surprised at this," said his sister: "we always believed

that our brother's strength of mind would prove equal to any occasion,

however he might be tried."

"And now," replied Charles, "it has been proved that you were right; and

you have the comfort of knowing that he is equal to any trial, for none

can now befall him more sudden and more terrible."

"No, indeed," replied Miss Monteath; and she passed her hand over her

eyes, as if the thoughts of her brother's misfortune were too painful to

be borne.

"I mean," continued Charles, "more terrible _at the time_: for though

you will not now be inclined to agree with me perhaps, I do not think it

will prove a very great lasting misfortune. I have known many instances

of similar deprivations, where usefulness and activity have been very

little if at all impaired."

Miss Monteath shook her head.

"I incline to think that my young friend is right," said Mr Franklin.

"I believe that the worst is over with thy brother and with his friends.

When he becomes accustomed to his new feelings, when he finds that art

affords valuable helps to repair an accident like this, when he finds

that he can pursue his usual employments without impediment, and that

the affection of his friends, especially of the nearest and dearest, is

enhanced by sympathy and approbation, I will even say admiration, dost

thou not think that he will be happy? I think he may be quite as happy

as he has ever been."

"There is one thing more that you have not mentioned," said Miss

Monteath, "the acquisition of a new friend."

"True," said the Quaker, "of a friend whose faithfulness was singularly

proved during the first hours of intercourse."

Charles became anxious to change the subject, and asked Miss Monteath

whether she had any idea how soon her brother would be able to return

home.

"Not for five or six weeks at the soonest," she said; and, after a few

more enquiries, Charles rose to take his leave.

Meantime, Jane had enjoyed a very pleasant hour with Mrs Franklin.

This good lady expressed some fear lest Jane should think her

impertinent; but she was really so much interested in her situation and

circumstances, that she could not help informing herself, as fully as

her young friend would allow, of their manner of living. Jane made no

mysteries, for she was well enough acquainted with Mrs Franklin's

character to be very sure that it was not idle curiosity which made her

take so deep an interest in herself and her brothers and sisters. Mrs

Franklin ended by saying, "When I am well, I will come and see thee; but

in the mean time, thou wilt bring thy sisters here, I hope. I wish to

see them, and we have some fine prints, which will perhaps please

Isabella, as she likes such things."

Charles and Jane congratulated each other, as soon as they were alone,

on the acquisition of such friends as the Franklins appeared inclined to

be.

The following week passed away happily and quietly. The only remarkable

circumstance which occurred was a call from Mr Monteath and his

daughter. Jane was gratified by this mark of attention from Miss

Monteath, and Charles was no less pleased by receiving a short note from

his friend. It was as follows.

"My dear Friend,--

"It is with some difficulty that I have obtained permission to write a

few lines to you. The purpose of them is to entreat you to spend a

day or two with me on your return to London, if you can spare the time

to one who has so slight a claim in comparison with your family. On

many accounts I wish to see you; but especially that I may express

something of the gratitude and friendship which I feel, but cannot

write, and which will remain a weight on my mind, unless you will come

to me. Do give me the greatest pleasure I can now enjoy. I hope I am

not selfish in urging it. Farewell.

"Ever your grateful friend,--

"Henry Monteath."

Charles had pledged himself to be in London by Wednesday; and he

therefore determined to leave Exeter on the Monday morning, and to spend

the half of Monday and Tuesday with his friend. His sisters were

grieved to lose a whole day of his society, but they made no opposition

to his plan, ready, as they always were, to give up their own wishes

when the sacrifice was required. Isabella worked hard to finish her

little book; too hard, Jane feared, for she did not look well, and was

obliged to acknowledge frequently that her head ached. On the Saturday

she set to work as soon as she returned from school, and was busy at the

last drawing all the afternoon. She completed it just before dark, and

her brother and sisters heartily congratulated her on having put the

finishing stroke to her work: but she seemed to feel little pleasure;

and as she was putting away her pencils, Jane observed that her hand

shook violently, and that her face was flushed. Charles gently

reproached her for her too anxious diligence; and she owned that she

felt very unwell, but she did not think it owing to her laborious

application. Jane urged her to go to bed; but she would not consent to

lose so many hours of Charles's society, and she persisted in sitting up

to tea. She was however unable to eat, and her headache became so

violent, and was accompanied with so overpowering a sickness, that she

could hold up no longer, and was conveyed to her bed. Jane was very

uneasy, but Isabella and Hannah both thought it might be a common sick

headache, and persuaded Jane not to send for Mr Everett that night.

At bed-time she was very feverish, and passed a miserable night, and

when Jane went to her bedside at four o'clock the next morning, she was

terrified to find her slightly delirious. Of course she remained with

Isabella, and before breakfast-time she sent to request Mr Everett's

attendance, as soon as convenient. At six o'clock she gave her patient

some tea, and then Isabella spoke sensibly again; but she was restless,

and suffering much from headache.

This was sad news for Charles when he came down to breakfast; and this

last day with his sisters promised to be but a melancholy one. Mr

Everett came early, and he was most anxiously questioned about his

patient. He said that she was extremely unwell certainly; but whether

it would prove a short and sharp attack of fever, or an illness of more

serious consequence, he could not at present tell. He advised that no

one should go into her room except Jane and Hannah, till they could be

quite sure that there was no fear of infection. He desired Jane not to

think of resuming her employments at his house for a week at least, both

because it would be too painful to her to leave her sister, and because

he had rather ascertain the nature of the disorder, before he exposed

his children to the least risk of infection. This did not serve to make

poor Jane less anxious. She sat by Isabella's bedside, trying to keep

down melancholy thoughts, while Charles took Harriet and Alfred to

church. The whole of the day was spent with them, and he scarcely saw

Jane at all. In the dusk of the evening, he was sitting by the parlour

window, talking to his little brother and sister, when he saw the

postman come up to the door. The arrival of a letter was a rare

occurrence, and the first idea which entered Charles's mind was that

perhaps a further leave of absence had come to cheer him and Jane, when

certainly such a comfort would be most welcome. But his heart sunk when

he saw Mr Rathbone's hand-writing on the letter which Hannah brought

in. He reproached himself for his ill-bodings as they arose, and he

asked himself why he dreaded a communication from one who had been the

kindest of friends to him, and he anticipated the shame he should feel

if, as was very likely, the letter should contain nothing but kindness.

He requested Hannah to bring candles, and then to sit with Isabella,

while Jane came down to read her letter, for it was addressed to her.

Jane opened it with a trembling hand, and Charles at once guessed its

contents when he saw it consisted of only a few lines. He caught it as

it fell from his sister's hand, and read as follows:

"Mr Rathbone is sorry that he was prevented by an unavoidable

accident from opening Miss Forsyth's letter till yesterday. Mr R.

would have rejoiced to afford substantial assistance to the children

of an old friend; but they who can set the romantic whims of unformed

judgments against the knowledge and experience of a friend who has

passed a long life in the world, prove themselves incapable of being

guided by advice, and of profiting by well-meant and willing kindness.

Mr R. has therefore only to regret that he can be of no further

service, and to hope that Mr and Miss Forsyth will meet with other

friends, and will know better how to value and retain them."

Jane had hid her face in her hands, and was sobbing violently, while

Charles read the letter.

He was almost choked with emotion.

"My poor Jane," he exclaimed, as he hung over her, "that this cruel

letter should have come just now, of all times. What a heart must that

man have who could write to you in such a way. I wish he could see you

now, that he might repent it as he ought to do."

"O Charles!" said Jane, "remember all his kindness to us."

"Remember it!" cried he, "it will stick in my throat as long as I live.

O that I could send him back his bank-notes and his presents, and be

free of all obligation!"

"Nay, dear Charles, do not let us be ungrateful because he is hasty.

His former kindness is not the less noble because of the present

misunderstanding. We must be neither ungrateful nor proud."

"It is plain enough that he never saw you, Jane, or he would have

blushed to insult such a nature as yours. I wish he could hear you

speaking of his kindness just when it is most painful to remember it: he

would feel how little he understands you."

"Never mind what he thinks of me," said Jane, raising her head and

attempting to smile. She saw that poor Harriet was in tears, and that

Alfred was standing beside her chair with a look of deep concern. They

both felt that all seemed to go wrong with them this day, though they

knew not the cause of their sister's unaccustomed tears.

Jane threw her arm round Alfred's neck and kissed him again and again.

"Never mind," she said again, "what Mr Rathbone thinks of us: we have

Alfred safe; we have not sacrificed him; we have done what we think is

best for our happiness; and shall we not willingly abide by our choice?"

"Surely we will," replied her brother, "and willingly pay the price of

our independence, though it be a heavy one."

"It is a heavy one, indeed," said Jane. "I grieve for you the most,

Charles. We can go on living as we have lived, and be only reminded

that we once had such a friend by the proofs of his kindness which we

see every day. But it is hard upon you, separated from your family as

you are, to lose your only friend in London."

"Do not think about that, Jane; I have friends, and can make more. If

you are able to get over this pretty easily, we need only be sorry for

Mr Rathbone: it must give him great pain to think us really ungrateful.

Harriet, dear, come and tell me what is the matter. What makes you cry

so?"

"Because you are going away, Charles; and Isabella is ill; and Jane

cried so; I am sure something is the matter."

"But Isabella will be better to-morrow perhaps, and Jane is not unhappy

now; look at her, she is not crying now. Go and kiss her."

"All will come right again soon, I dare say," said Jane. "Charles will

come again some time when we are all well."

"And I shall not go to-morrow now," said Charles. "I cannot leave you

so full of care."

"O, Charles! you will, you must go," said Jane. "You have promised, and

you must go."

"I could not tell when I promised, that Isabella would be ill, and you

so anxious. I cannot turn my back on you at such a time."

"You can do us no good, if you stay, indeed. I must be with Isabella,

and Harriet and Alfred will be at school; so you would be of no use, and

it would make me uncomfortable to think you were breaking your promise.

O, indeed, Charles, this is mistaken kindness."

Charles did not know what to think: he proposed to consult Mr Barker.

"Do," said Jane, "he will tell us what is right."

Charles put on his hat.

"I wonder whether we shall see you again?" said Alfred. "Harriet and I

are going to bed presently."

Charles kissed them tenderly. "I dare say I shall see you at breakfast

to-morrow," said he: "if not, you will remember all the better what I

have been saying to you this evening. You will be grown and altered

much before I see you again. I hope I shall be able to love you then as

well as I do now, or even better."

Mr Barker was much concerned to hear Charles's little tale of

anxieties. He advised him, however, to adhere to his promise respecting

his return to London. Charles acquiesced at once in the decision of his

friend, and was relieved by the kind promises he received that his

sisters should be watched over with as much care as if their brother

were beside them; especially that Jane should not be allowed to try her

strength too much, in case of Isabella's illness proving long or

dangerous. Charles with much emotion bid farewell to his good friend,

who said, "I cannot do for you what Mr Rathbone would have done: but

you may depend on me as a _sure_ friend at least. I hope, for his own

sake, that he will come round again: in the mean time we must be more

sorry than angry."

"I _was_ angry," said Charles, "but Jane made me ashamed of myself: she

is as grateful to him as ever, and I will try to remember only his past

generosity."

"Jane is a good girl, and will be made all the better by these rubs,"

said Mr Barker. "However, we will smooth things for her as well as we

can."

Charles called at Mr Monteath's to say farewell, and to take a parcel

from the young ladies to their brother. He said nothing about his

sisters, as he knew Jane had rather be left in quietness, than have her

attention to her patient interrupted, even by the kind enquiries of

friends. Mr Monteath took down Charles's address, and said he hoped to

call on him in London before long; and he earnestly desired that any of

the family would apply to him in any case where his advice or assistance

could be of service.

As Charles went home he thought with pleasure how his circle of friends

appeared to be widening. He who was poor, and could only do good by

seizing accidental occasions, he who had, in his own opinion, nothing to

recommend him to the notice of his superiors, had gained friends whose

present kindness was delightful to him, and on the steadiness of whose

regard there was every reason to rely. He and his sister agreed, before

they separated for the night, that, though they had some cares, they had

peculiar blessings; that, though one friend was unhappily estranged, new

and valuable supports were gained: and that valuable as these supports

were, there was One infinitely more precious, whose love no error can

overcloud, no repented sin alienate; who in sorrow draws yet nearer than

in gladness, and sheds his own peace over the hearts which humble

themselves under his chastening hand.

It had been arranged that Hannah should sit up with Isabella for the

first half of the night, and that Jane should take her place at three

o'clock in the morning: as by this means she might see Charles before

his departure at five o'clock.

Mr Everett had called again in the evening. He saw no signs of

improvement in his patient, and was sorry to observe the great reduction

of strength which had taken place within a few hours. He was now pretty

sure that the fever would prove a serious one. What he said had given

Jane no comfort; but she endeavoured to brace up her mind to meet her

cares, and she found, as most in her situation do find, that her

strength proved equal to her trial. In a melancholy, but not a restless

state of mind, she laid her head on her pillow, and having enjoyed the

relief of expressing her cares and fears to Him who alone could remove

them, she fell asleep, and continued so, till Hannah called her at four

o'clock, instead of three, as she had been desired. Jane afterwards

asked her the reason, and good Hannah declared that she could not find

in her heart to disturb so refreshing a repose, till it was time to call

Mr Charles also.

"Thank you, Hannah," said Jane; "but the next time we divide the night,

I must take the first half, and you the last."

Isabella had slept but little, and though not delirious, was restless

and uncomfortable. Her mind was full of Charles's departure, and of her

wish to see him again. She even wished to get up and meet him at the

room door, if Jane would not allow him to breathe the air of the sick

chamber. Jane was more prudent, however, than to expose Charles to the

risk of infection, and she brought Isabella to be content with a

cheerful message of love, which she knew Charles would send. Charles

was yet more grieved than his poor sister to depart without exchanging a

word or a kiss; for he could not keep off the thought that he might

perhaps see her no more. There was no knowing; she might perhaps be no

nearer death than the others; but it was a great grief to leave her so

ill, and without saying farewell. He sent her a note, however, and

promised to write frequently to her, and with this she was obliged to be

satisfied.

Never had poor Jane felt the trial of separation so much: the trial

itself was greater, and she had no liberty to indulge her feelings. She

could not leave Isabella, and she could not give way to tears before

her, nor even speak to her of her sorrow. She smiled and spoke

cheerfully, though her heart was heavier than it had ever been. Charles

was not much happier; but they had both the consciousness of being

useful to cheer them, and Charles really expected much pleasure from

intercourse with Henry Monteath. He arrived at the well-known

public-house by breakfast-time: he had recognised the very spot on the

road where the coach was upset, and was himself surprised at the

involuntary shudder which the sight of it caused.

Mrs Monteath met him on the stairs, and welcomed him kindly. She said

that her son was impatient to see him, and would be on his sofa, and

prepared for a long day of pleasure, by the time Charles had finished

his breakfast. In the mean time she conveyed to Henry the parcel which

Charles had brought from the young ladies.

In answer to his very anxious enquiries, Mrs Monteath said that her

son's recovery had been as favourable as possible: this was partly owing

to the cheerful state of his mind, of which, she said, Charles would be

able to judge when he conversed with him. She said she was surprised

every day to find how easy she herself was: but she supposed that the

pleasure of witnessing his daily progress, made her unmindful of what

her son had gone through, and of the trials and deprivations he yet had

to encounter. Charles thought this a very natural and happy thing, and

he told Mrs Monteath, what he himself believed, that these deprivations

would be much less formidable in reality than in anticipation. Mrs

Monteath was an anxious mother, and she asked Charles many particulars

about her family: how they were in health and spirits; how they spoke

respecting their brother; and many other things. Charles told her all

that had passed the evening before, during his visit, and observed that

when he mentioned Miss Auchinvole, the friend of the young ladies, Mrs

Monteath's countenance expressed peculiar interest. Charles had not

much to say about her, for she had scarcely spoken, but he could not

help saying how much he had been struck by her appearance and manner.

She looked pale and anxious, but she smiled occasionally; and there was

a sweetness in that smile which Charles thought must make its way to any

heart. He freely told Mrs Monteath what he thought, and far as he was

from wishing to learn from her manner any family secrets, he could not

help believing from the tears which rose to her eyes, and the mournful

smile with which she listened to the praises of Margaret Auchinvole,

that the friendship between her and Henry Monteath was of a dearer

nature than that in which his sisters bore their part. Charles

earnestly hoped that this might be the case, and that when restored to

health, a happiness, to which this accident need, he thought, oppose no

impediment, might be in store for his friend.

Charles observed that there was much more appearance of comfort in the

little parlour now than when he saw it before. Mrs Monteath told him

that the people of the house were willing and obliging, and that she had

contrived by various means to collect comforts round them, and to make

their two rooms fit for the accommodation of an invalid, in preference

to hazarding a removal, which might have been dangerous, and which her

son dreaded more than any thing. She hoped in another week to remove

him to lodgings in a farm-house, about four miles off, and in a month or

five weeks to take him home.

When Charles entered Monteath's chamber, he saw him lying on his sofa,

looking very pale and weak, but with a cheerful countenance. He eagerly

held out his hand to Charles, and welcomed him with a smile and words of

great kindness. Mrs Monteath left them together.

"I rejoice to see you so much better and happier than when I left you,"

said Charles.

"Much better and much happier," replied he. "I am glad that you have

seen me again; for I am sure all your thoughts of me must have been

melancholy thoughts; and I wish that my friend should see me in other

hours than those of weakness and misery."

"So far from having none but melancholy thoughts about you," said

Charles, "I have been drawing a very fine picture of your future

usefulness and happiness, for your sisters' consolation."

"And did they believe you?"

"I hope so, for I am sure I said nothing unreasonable."

"And did they all hear you?"

"No, only two of them that evening. Last night, however, I saw the

whole party, and they were all well and happy, as I dare say they have

told you themselves."

"They have. When we get to our lodgings in the country next week, some

of them will come to us. Much as I long to see them, I almost dread

stirring."

"O you will recover much faster when you are in quiet, and when you can

go out every day. You can hardly feel here the delight of returning

health. I know from experience that the first sight of the face of

nature, in a season like this, after days and weeks of illness, is one

of the most exquisite pleasures that life can afford."

"_I_ believe it," said Monteath. "I expect to enjoy it much; though,

with me, all cares will not be over when health returns. I have already

made up my mind to every thing, however, and am determined to make the

best of my lot. It is astonishing how soon one's mind becomes

reconciled to circumstances. At this hour, a fortnight ago, I should

have shuddered at the very thoughts of what I have yet to go through:

but I am pretty well reconciled to it now, and do not see why I should

not be tolerably happy. To be sure, this fortnight has seemed longer

than any year of my life before."

"I do not see," said Charles, "why you should not be _very_ happy, when

you have once got into the round of your occupations again. In the mean

time you will meet with some painful circumstances no doubt; but then

you have consolations which have supported you in a far worse trial than

any you are likely to meet with again."

"True; those consolations are worth any thing: it makes me quite ashamed

to set my fears and troubles in opposition to such comforts."

"If it is not painful to you," said Charles, "I should like to know what

your fears and troubles are; and perhaps by bringing yourself to speak

frankly of them, you may find that your imagination has magnified them."

"It is selfish to talk so much about myself," replied Monteath.

"I came on purpose to hear you," said Charles, "and nothing can interest

me so much."

"Well, then," said Monteath, "I have been thinking how far my usual

pursuits will be hindered by this accident. I am afraid that my father

will not allow me to take on myself, as I used to do, the most laborious

part of our business concerns. I have, to be sure, spent a great part

of my time in the counting-house; but there is a great deal of active

business to be done besides, and journeys to be performed; and I am

afraid that my father will take more upon him than at his age he can do

without fatigue."

"I do not see," said Charles, "why you should not be almost as active as

you have ever been; and as to journeys, unless this accident has made a

coward of you, which I do not believe, you seem to me just as able to

take them as ever. If not, it is no difficult matter to procure a

traveller. Depend upon it, your father will spare himself for his

children's sake. So you see business may go on as well as ever. Now

for pleasure. Do you keep a horse?"

"No, but I mean to do it now; that is no difficulty. There is one more,

which I am almost ashamed to mention; but I will. I never could bear to

be conspicuous, to be unlike other people, to attract notice; in short,

to be stared at."

"Do not be ashamed of feeling that," said Charles: "in my opinion, this

is the worst evil of all."

"Is it, really?" said Monteath. "Worse than having one's usefulness and

independence impaired?"

"No," replied Charles. "But I see no reason why your usefulness and

independence should be impaired. If you had lost an arm, the case would

have been different: but art affords such helps in your case, that it is

only on occasions of extraordinary danger that you would not be able to

exert yourself as well as ever."

"I hope you are right," replied Monteath. "You think, then, that I am

not wrong to dread being made an object of curiosity for the first time

in my life?"

"I do not wonder at it, certainly," said Charles: "but, remember, it

will be only a temporary inconvenience: your acquaintance will soon get

accustomed to the sight of you; and, if you will condescend to take

pains at first with your manner of walking, there will be nothing

remarkable in your appearance. I conclude you will throw aside your

crutches as soon as you can?"

"Of course," replied Monteath. "You will see me in London for that

purpose as soon as I am allowed to go. Now do you think me weak for

dwelling on these trifles, as some people call them?"

"Trifles they are not," said Charles: "and therefore it is any thing but

weakness to bring them out, to face them, and make up your mind how they

are to be met. In my opinion, a great deal of mischief is done by

calling these things trifles, and putting them out of sight as fast as

possible, instead of affording that help to those who suffer under them

which is largely dispensed on occasions which have not nearly so great

an effect on happiness."

"That is exactly what I have often thought lately," said Monteath. "In

how many books, where the loss of fortune is described, the minutest

difficulties which such a loss occasions are detailed at length! but if,

as seldom happens, the loss of a limb is mentioned, we never get beyond

the first part of the story, and the little daily difficulties and

privations, which are of more importance than the lesser evils of

poverty, are quite left out of sight. I imagine there are some ideas of

ridicule attached to them."

"Perhaps so," replied Charles; "but such associations are false, and

ought to be broken through. Blindness is frequently made interesting in

books: deafness seldom or never. There are interesting and poetical

associations connected with blindness; ridiculous, low, or common ones

only with deafness. A blind heroine is charming; but would not all the

world laugh at the very idea of a deaf one? And yet this seems to me

unjust: for I question whether, in daily life, both would not have an

equal chance of appearing ridiculous on some occasions, and interesting

on others."

"Do you mean partial or total blindness and deafness? A heroine totally

blind is certainly thought more interesting than one partially deaf: but

would not a deaf and dumb person make a better figure than one extremely

short-sighted?"

Charles laughed. "They are both as far from picturesque as need be,

certainly," said he: "but still I think blindness has the advantage in

exciting interest."

"Well," said Monteath, "nobody is likely to make a hero of me. I am in

no danger of finding my own likeness in a novel or on the stage."

"No," replied Charles, "nor yet in books of any other kind. If you had

lost a friend or your fortune, you might find the most exact directions

how to comfort yourself, and plenty of medicine of the soul to suit your

particular case. As it is, you must look in books for general

consolation, and elsewhere for what more you may need."

"This is no desperate condition to be in either," said Monteath. "I

think I could do without the general consolations you speak of. I have

been on my sofa here this fortnight, with only one book (which of course

you mean to except) and my own mind to draw consolation from, and I have

found enough for my need. I expect, however, to be in greater need

hereafter."

"Surely not," said Charles. "Surely you have gone through the worst!"

"I know not," said Monteath. "The colour of my whole future life has

perhaps been changed by this accident; and I must expect this conviction

to come upon me painfully from time to time."

"What do you mean?" said Charles. "The whole colour of your future

life! You surely do not mean that you will not marry?"

"That is what I was thinking of, certainly," said Henry, in a very low

voice.

"My dear friend," said Charles, "this is the scruple of a sick man's

brain. Put it out of your head for the present, I advise you, and I

will answer for it that, six months hence, you will feel very

differently. The woman would but little deserve you who could raise

such an objection; and you have just as much power now as ever to make a

wife happy."

Charles wished to turn the conversation, for he saw that his friend was

agitated; but he could think of nothing to say at the moment, except

about Miss Auchinvole, and that was the only subject which would not do.

At length he said, "You must not let me weary you with talking. You

know I cannot tell what you are equal to, and Mrs Monteath will never

forgive me if I set you back in the least. Had I not better leave you?"

"O no! do not go!" said Monteath; "you do not know how strong I am. I

shall sleep in the afternoon, but I hope to have you with me all day

besides. I do not scruple saying so, for I cannot conceive that you

will find amusement elsewhere in a place like this."

"If I could," said Charles, "I am not much inclined for it to-day.

Conversation with a friend is a great cordial in times of anxiety, and I

own that I am anxious now."

He said this for the purpose of drawing his friend's attention from a

subject which appeared to agitate him too much. Charles was not wrong

in expecting his ready sympathy. Isabella's illness was mentioned, and

Monteath forgot himself in his anxiety for Charles. He asked many

questions about the girls and Alfred.

"How old is Alfred?"

"Nearly eleven."

"What do you intend him for?"

"We have no present intentions about his future destination," said

Charles. "He will remain at school till he is fifteen; so we need be in

no hurry about it."

"Then your sister will continue on her present plan till that time?"

"Yes," replied Charles; "for Harriet will not be old enough to go out

before five years from this time. Isabella wishes to be independent in

two years, and I think she will be well qualified; but it will be a

grievous thing to Jane to part with her."

"It must, indeed," said Monteath. "You know I have seen your sister

Jane, more than once, and she fixed my attention immediately by the way

in which she managed those spoiled children of Mrs Everett's. Nobody

ever had any control over them but your sister; but they are in much

better order than they used to be."

"It gives Jane much satisfaction to think so," said Charles.

"But it must be very discouraging work," said Monteath, "to do her best

for them, for half of every day, and to be obliged to surrender them to

be spoiled for the other half."

"I should find it so," replied Charles: "but Jane makes as little as

possible of discouragements. Her temper used to be an anxious one too:

but she has had so much to do and to bear, that she has learned not to

look from side to side in hope or fear, but to go on, straight forwards,

in the road of duty, whether an easy one or not."

"She is an enviable person then," said Monteath.

"All things are by comparison," said Charles, rather confused when he

recollected what he had said about his sister. "I do not mean that she

never flags: I was only speaking of her in comparison with myself, and

with her former self."

"Nothing but religious principle could enable her to do this," said

Monteath. "This is the secret of her superiority, is it not? Without

this her trials would have produced depression, instead of renewed

energy."

"Certainly," replied Charles. "There are many who pity her under her

weight of cares, and who are grieved when they think that she is an

orphan, and that she has more arduous duties to perform than many can

get through under the guidance and with the assistance of parents or

experienced friends. But Jane knows that she is guided, though

invisibly, by the best and wisest of Parents, and the Bible is to her as

His manifest presence: she has recourse to it on all occasions of

difficulty, and can never want confidence or feel forlorn, while such a

director is at hand."

"Those whose reason is matured enough, and whose religious affections

are cultivated enough to attach their heart and soul to such a guide,

may well do without other support," said Monteath. "`The integrity of

the upright shall guide them!' But there are few of your sister's age

who are thus advanced in the ways of wisdom."

"If so," said Charles, "her superiority is to be ascribed to the

peculiar circumstances in which the Father of her spirit has placed her.

And, surely, trials which produce such an effect should be endured with

submission and remembered with gratitude."

"That comes home to my conscience," said Monteath: "_I_ am now under

trial, and such ought to be its effect upon me. But your sister's

circumstances have been such as to draw her attention from herself, to

carry out her affections and fix them on various objects: but I am

afraid the direct tendency of personal suffering is to produce

selfishness."

"It may either do that or the reverse, I believe," said Charles: "I have

known instances of both. I have heard of a cousin of my mother's, who

was a cripple from disease. She passed through life very quietly. She

never complained of her deprivations: her temper was placid, and she

found employment for her cultivated intellect in studies of various

kinds: but nobody was ever the better for them. She did no good, though

she never did any harm: she never seemed to love any one person more

than another, and of course nobody was particularly attached to her.

She lived to the age of sixty, and went on with her own pursuits to the

very last, but she left no trace behind her of beneficent deeds, and she

lived in the memory and not in the affections of those around her. I

have always grieved over the wasted talents of this lady. Half her

learning communicated to those less informed than herself, half her time

(of which she had abundance) devoted to the assistance of her

neighbours, half her affections exchanged with those who were disposed

to love her, would have made her wise instead of learned, useful instead

of harmless, beloved rather than served, and mourned rather than merely

remembered."

"But she could not have been a pious woman," said Monteath. "A life of

selfishness is inconsistent with piety."

"Nobody can say that she was not religious," replied Charles; "because

nobody knew what she felt and thought: some say that she must have been

pious, or she could not have been placid and contented under her

deprivations. I should therefore suppose that she had just enough

reliance upon Providence to prevent a naturally cheerful mind from being

corroded by discontent: but it is easy to see that she had not those

comprehensive views, which teach that the very best of selfish

pleasures, those of intellectual cultivation, are to be pursued as a

means only, not as an end, and that the grand design for which we are

created is to diminish continually our concern for ourselves in an

increasing love of God and our neighbour."

"I cannot help," said Monteath, "applying cases like these to myself,

just now. I want to place as many guides and as many warnings before me

as possible. I hope it is not selfish to think of these things with a

reference to myself, and to tell you that I do so."

"By no means," replied Charles; "for I imagine that you feel the present

time as a kind of crisis in your character. I think you must enter the

world from a bed of pain, either better or worse than when you left it,

and you are right to make use of all the helps you can."

"Then give me," said Monteath, "some instances of benevolence promoted,

of hearts and hands opened by personal suffering. It will do me good to

hear them."

Just as Charles was beginning to speak, Mrs Monteath came into the

room, and the conversation was turned into a different channel. Charles

regretted this, but she had something quite different to ask her son

about. The greater part of the day was spent in cheerful chat, and in

reading aloud, which Mrs Monteath proposed, that Henry might not exert

himself too much in talking. In the evening the young men were again

left alone for awhile, and Monteath asked his friend to read a little to

him from the Bible. Charles did so with much satisfaction, and after he

had done, Henry tried to express to him what comfort and support their

religious exercises had afforded him on his night of suffering. Charles

rejoiced to hear him say so, but stopped him when he wished to speak of

his obligations and his gratitude. They parted for the night with as

warm feelings of interest and esteem as one day could produce, and

another confirm.

In the morning they met only for a few moments. They agreed to

correspond occasionally, and to look forward to a time, not very far

distant, when Monteath's visit to London might give them an opportunity

of meeting again. Charles then mounted the coach, and sighed when he

thought of the friends he had left behind, and of the small number who

would greet him with pleasure on his return to London.