THE RESOLUTION.
FOR several days and nights Mrs. Champlin continued very ill, and her
life was almost despaired of. Edah and Susan took the principal care of
her, though the neighbors were very kind in offering to watch; but Mrs.
Champlin was so unwilling to have any one with her but her own children
that they feared the presence of strangers.
The news soon spread through the little village that Mr. Champlin had
deserted his family, and gone off to California. He had departed in
debt to half the village, and the indignation of the little public was
extreme against him. Edah paid some bills which had been incurred for
necessaries out of her own pocket, but she absolutely refused to have
any thing to do with his tavern and grocery bills, which far exceeded
the others in amount.
Mr. Champlin had not been content with spending all the ready money
he could lay his hands on, but he had also run large scores at the
principal tavern in the place, to pay which, and to raise a little
ready money for his journey, he had given a mortgage upon his household
furniture, and the landlord threatened to levy upon it immediately.
Mr. Willson had come over as soon as he heard of the distress of the
family, and to him Edah confided all her troubles. He did not, at the
time, suggest any remedy. But the next morning, Captain Laurence's
light buggy and young horses were seen stopping at the door of the
Eagle—a very unusual sight—and Captain Laurence himself held a long
private conference with Mr. Scott. Nothing further was heard from that
personage by the Champlin family, who puzzled themselves in vain to
account for the change. But Mr. Scott knew his own interest too well
to disoblige Captain Laurence, and when the latter requested that the
mortgage should be made over to him, Mr. Scott was fain to consent,
making himself amends by some very hard swearing as soon as the old
Captain was well out of hearing.
Mrs. Champlin's bodily health gradually improved, and in about three
weeks she was able to be about for part of the day, as usual. But it
became by degrees apparent that the shock had had its dreaded effect
upon her mind, already somewhat enfeebled by sickness and trouble.
She was not, perhaps, actually insane, and a stranger might sometimes
talk with her for an hour without perceiving any thing out of the way,
but her children saw the difference in her increased irritability,
which made it sometimes utterly impossible to satisfy her in her fits
of nervous fear, when she could not bear to be left alone a moment,
and above all, in her indifference to Eddy, so utterly opposed to the
solicitude with which she had watched over him from his birth. The
girls were now obliged to take the whole care of him, as if he were
left to his mother, she would often forget him altogether.
Susan came out nobly under the trial. She seemed to forget herself
entirely and devoted herself to her little brother with a patience and
wisdom not to be surpassed by Edah herself. Sam, poor boy, was for
a time quite overcome and broken down. He felt keenly his father's
disgraceful conduct and shameful desertion, and it seemed as if he
could hardly endure to look anybody in the face.
In the midst of her grief and perplexity, Edah found some consolation
in the active sympathy of Annie Laurence and her mother, and the
affectionate counsels and prayers of good Mr. Willson. Between Annie
and Edah there had grown up a strong friendship, rendered doubly firm
by their community of tastes and pursuits. Edah could not, of course,
leave home to go to Spring Bank, but there were not many days in the
week when Annie's active little brown horse was not to be seen standing
at the gate of Mr. Champlin's house; or that Mrs. Laurence's black man
Jube—her prime minister as she was wont to call him—did not come over
with a basket on his arm, containing something for the invalid.
But if this friendship was a great comfort to our young heroine, she
had a source of anxiety which altogether outweighed it—this was the
state of her sister's health. Susan had grown up very fast, and, as is
often the case, her strength did not keep pace with her growth, and,
moreover, she had been entirely overburdened with work much too hard
for her, and with anxieties far beyond her years. For some time she had
appeared quite unaffected by her labors, but since Edah's coming had
relieved her of some care, and a great deal of her hard work had been
taken off her hands by Ruby-Anne, she seemed to droop at once. She grew
very thin and pale, and was troubled with a hard, dry cough, and Edah
discovered by accident that she had had two or three slight attacks of
bleeding at the lungs—very slight, indeed, they were, and Dr. Longford
made light of them, when Susan was finally persuaded to consult him;
but Edah was alarmed, nevertheless, and watched her anxiously from time
to time.
One day, after Mrs. Champlin seemed quite to have regained her former
not very high standard of health, and things were going on in the
household pretty much as they had done before the great shock, Edah
received a letter from her friends in New York, pressing her to come to
them immediately.
"I would not urge you," Milly wrote, "while stepmother was so ill, and
while it seemed doubtful how your sister's case would turn out, but
now that she is as well as usual, and the doctor says that Susan is in
no danger, I cannot see what there is to detain you longer among the
stumps and aborigines of Brooksville. They certainly have no particular
right to claim your services, and I think that I have, both on account
of our long-arranged plan, and of our intimate friendship. You can
certainly find no society in Brooksville at all suited to you, except
the Laurences, and they live so far off that I think you cannot see
much of them. Besides, I have another reason to offer as an inducement
for you to come to us speedily. My father has promised, if you get here
in time, to take us on an autumnal trip to the White Mountains. I shall
expect to receive a letter by return of post, saying when you will
come."
Edah read this letter once and again, and felt that the time was come
when she must make a final decision. It was true, as Milly said, that
they had a strong claim upon her. She had promised to be with her
friend through the winter, and her guardian did not object to the
plan. She could not tell what he would say to her spending the winter
in Brooksville. It was true, as Milly urged, that she would have no
society where she was. There were the Laurences, but she could not
expect to spend much time with them, even if they remained at Spring
Bank through the winter, which Annie had told her was very uncertain.
The winters in that region were very severe, and Louisa's lungs had
been delicate for some time. There was talk of their going South, and
in that case they would be away from Spring Bank till late in the
spring.
Edah had no fears for her own health; she had scarcely been sick a
day in her life, and her strength, instead of diminishing, seemed
to grow with what she had to do; but she thought of the long dreary
winter, the absolute want of any companionship or sympathy such as
she had been accustomed to, of books, of every thing, in short, which
she had usually looked upon as rendering life desirable. She thought
of the trials of temper and patience she would have to endure; of
the daily and hourly tax upon her strength, her time, her income;
of the few and vulgar people who would constitute her only society.
She did not think—no, scarcely at all—of the good profession she had
professed before so many witnesses; of the resolution she had made at
the beginning of her Christian course—to live no more to herself, but
to devote her time, her talents, her means to the service and glory
of God. She did not remember the sign of her baptism—the sign of the
Cross—the symbol of self-denial and disinterestedness. She thought
only of her own trials and perplexities, on the one hand, and of the
enjoyments promised her, on the other. She looked at the matter, not
through the eyes of prayer, but of her own self-love and self-interest,
and in this view she had almost resolved to return to her friends in
New York.
While she was yet pondering, afraid to decide irrevocably, and
conscious in her own heart that something was wrong, she was aroused
by the sound of a horse's feet, and looking out, she saw Mr. Willson
fastening his horse to the post before the gate. She was always glad to
see Mr. Willson, and now hastened to meet him. He shook hands with his
usual cordiality, and entered the sitting-room, where Edah's desk was
lying open, with writing materials ready for use.
"So you are writing letters," said he.
"Not exactly," replied Edah; "only thinking of writing. I have just
received a letter from my friends in New York, urging me to come to
them directly, as they are planning a tour through New England for next
month."
"And have you decided to go?" asked Mr. Willson, looking, as Edah
thought, a little grave.
"Why, no, sir—not exactly; but it is an old plan of ours, and I have
never thought of it in any other way than as entirely settled."
"Do your friends in New York 'need' you?" asked Mr. Willson, with a
little emphasis on the word "need."
"Oh, no," said Edah; "they are as pleasantly situated as people can be."
Mr. Willson listened quietly, while Edah went on urging all the reasons
by which she had almost convinced herself that it was her duty to go,
and when she seemed to have arrived at the end, said quietly—
"You seem to have considered one side of the question, at any rate, but
now what of the other? What will they do here when you are gone?"
This was just the side which Edah did not wish to consider, and she
said, rather hastily—
"I do not know, Mr. Willson, that I am called upon to renounce all my
own pleasures and engagements for the sake of the family here. I gave
up a good deal in coming at first."
"Very true," said Mr. Willson; "so you did! Perhaps you gave up as much
as could reasonably be expected of any Christian. I confess, however, I
did not think so much of pleasures and enjoyments as of usefulness and
duties. I thought these were the chief concern of the children of God,
and not enjoyments and pleasures."
Edah felt keenly the tone and look with which these words were
accompanied, and the rebuke contained in them came home with power to
her conscience. She colored deeply, and was silent.
Mr. Willson went on in a milder tone:
"Your Christian principles have had, as yet, very little to try them.
Your trials and temptations have been comparatively small. It remains
now to be seen how much they are worth!"
"Do you think, then, Mr. Willson, that a Christian has no place in
society, or that there is any thing wrong in her taking such a place?"
"I think the place of a Christian is where there is the most work to
be dons in his or her Master's service. We are to do our duty in that
state of life to which it pleases God in His providence to call us, and
if we would fight under His banner, it must be in the station which He
assigns us. But permit me to ask you, Miss Edah, have you made this
subject—this decision—a subject of prayer?"
"No, sir."
"Then let me urge it upon you not to decide upon any course till you
have done so. Ask counsel, not of your own erring judgment, or still
more erring will, but of the oracles of God. Ask with a determination
to submit to the will of God, as it shall be made known to you. Do not
answer this letter now. It will do your friend no harm to wait another
post, and in the mean time, seek the enlightenment of the Holy Spirit
in humility and sincerity, and, trust me, you will find some new light
thrown upon your course. Promise me that you will do this."
"I give you my word, sir, that I will. I will not answer Milly's letter
till the day after to-morrow."
"That is well; and now let us talk of something else. How is your
mother?"
"She is pretty well to-day; as well, I suppose, as we can hope to see
her."
"Do you think she will see me?"
"I presume she will be glad to do so," replied Edah; "she has several
times asked when you were coming again."
She left the room to speak to her mother, and found her descending to
the parlor.
"I was just coming to look for you," said Edah, pleasantly. "Mr.
Willson is here, and asked for you."
"I was coming to see him, at any rate," replied Mrs. Champlin. "I
concluded of course that he would ask for me, though you seem inclined
to take his visits, as you do Miss Laurence's, entirely to yourself.
No, thank you," declining Edah's proffered arm to help her down the
steps; "I am not quite as feeble as you and Susan would wish to make
out. I am not quite superannuated yet."
Edah saw that her mother was in one of her fits of irritability and
suspicion, and made no reply.
Mrs. Champlin entered the parlor, and seating herself, conversed with
the Rector in a tone and manner which would certainly never incline
a stranger to think her mind affected. She was very polite to Mr.
Willson, urged him to stay to tea, and inquired after the health of
his family, all with perfect propriety, and Mr. Willson could not help
believing that the children must be mistaken in thinking her at all
deranged. He declined the invitation, much to Edah's regret, and as
soon as he was gone, Mrs. Champlin resumed her complaining tone, not
only to Edah, but to Susan, who had entered with the baby in her arms.
"Yes, when Miss Laurence or Mr. Willson comes, you take their visits
entirely to yourself, and never seem to think of referring them to me.
You make me a perfect nobody in the house, both of you. Susan spends
her whole time waiting on that baby, who is perfectly spoiled with so
much tending."
"I am sure, mother," said Susan, "I do not attend to the poor little
fellow more than he needs. You would not have me leave him to cry,
would you?"
"Hush, Susy!" whispered Edah.
"What shall I hush for?" returned Susan, turning quickly upon her. "I
have as much right to speak as yourself."
"Certainly she has!" joined in Mrs. Champlin. "And it is very
unbecoming in you, Edah, to stop her. You take great airs upon yourself
in ordering Susan about so: it is very improper in you;" and so on,
till Edah was able to make some excuse for escaping from the room.
She paused in the hall, to try and check the tears which flowed in
spite of herself; and a moment after, Susan came out.
"Don't cry, Edah!" she said, going up to her kindly. "I am sorry I
spoke so, but I can't bear to have any one order me so."
"I did not mean to order you," replied Edah; "only I think when mother
gets into that way of complaining, it is best not to make her any
answer. You know she would not do it if she were herself."
Susan sighed.
"What shall I do when you are gone?" said she. "I shall never get on as
you do."
"I am not gone yet," said Edah; and then wishing to change the subject,
she asked, "how is your cough to-day?"
"Oh, it is well enough: I don't think it was any thing but a cold after
all."
Edah felt uncomfortable and ill at ease all the evening, and it
was harder than ever to have to listen to Mrs. Champlin's peevish
complaints. She was glad when she said she was tired, and announced her
intention of retiring early, for Edah felt a strong desire to be alone.
At last all was quiet in the house. Pauline was fast asleep, and Edah
was at liberty to sit down with her candle and her Bible, to think
about what Mr. Willson had said, and to make a final decision. But
before considering the subject of her return to New York, she fulfilled
her promise to Mr. Willson, by kneeling in prayer, and entreating the
influence of the Holy Spirit to guide her in the decision she was about
to make. She prayed in faith, truly believing that her thoughts would
be rightly directed, and then, with a very different spirit from that
in which she had first read her friend's letter, she sat down to think
the matter over again from beginning to end.
"I need not think of the advantages of going to New York," she thought,
"as Mr. Willson says I have considered that thoroughly enough. Now let
me look at the other side, and think where I can do the most good. I
suppose I might find something to do in New York. I could take class
in Sunday School for one thing. But there is no Sunday School at all
here, and perhaps I might get up one like Annie's at the Mills. Mr.
Willson said something about it when I first saw him. That, however, is
a secondary consideration; I must think about them here at home first.
"What would they do without me? In the first place, what would they
have to live on? Sam says he has about fifty dollars beforehand, and
that he means to try and get a place to earn something; but it is
doubtful how much he could earn. Mr. Liston has left me an allowance of
three hundred a year, and that would go a good way towards supporting
the family, if they could have the whole of it; but if I were to be
in New York at Mr. Amory's, I should be obliged to dress somewhat as
they do, and that and other expenses would use up every cent. If I stay
here, I can make all my last winter's dresses answer, cloak and bonnet
and all; and the fifty dollars that I shall receive at Christmas, with
what little we have now, would almost carry us through the winter, I
think.
"Miss Concklin would say they have no claim on me for support; but
what of that, so long as they need it? I should not feel that I
had any right to be living in luxury, while they wanted even the
common necessaries of life. Then, if I stay here, I can be educating
Polly, and training her, I hope, in the right way, and influencing
Sam. Perhaps my being here may make all the difference between his
growing up a Christian or not. I am certain that he takes more and
more interest in such things now, and I am afraid if I go away, he
will return to his former carelessness. I cannot feel that I have any
influence over Susan in that way. Sometimes I think her jealous lest I
should rule her in some way, which makes her more opposed to religion
than she would be if I were not here. Still I know she depends upon me
in a great many ways, and a great deal more than she is aware of, and I
am afraid she would get on at all with mother as she is now, if I were
not here to keep the peace between them. I do not think she is very
well either, and if I were away, the work she would have to do might be
quite too much for her. Then there is mother—she has learned to depend
entirely on me, especially since father went away; no one else can do
any thing to suit her, when she has one of her fretful turns, and she
cannot bear me out of her sight. What would she do with no one but poor
Susan to depend upon?
"I wonder what Mr. Wardwell would say? I have a great mind to write to
him; but I know very well what he would think. How many times I have
heard him say that a Christian has no right to live to himself, or to
seek for pleasures of any kind out of the path of duty! Could I say or
think that I was in the path of duty, if I went to New York to enjoy
myself in Milly's society, and that of her friends, knowing all the
time that I was needed here? But what would Mr. Liston say? I know very
well, he did not much want me to go to Amory's, or into society at all,
till he came home: he spoke of my going to Miss Anderson's again, but
after all, he told me to act according to my own judgment. I do not
think he would be displeased. No, my place is here! I wonder now, that
I could ever think of going anywhere else. Milly will be disappointed,
but I am sure she will see on consideration that I am right."
The next morning Mrs. Champlin had slept off her ill-humor, and was in
excellent spirits: every thing was as it should be—the breakfast was
excellent—Ruby-Anne was the best of girls—Susan the most excellent of
nurses, and nothing went wrong or could go wrong in the whole world.
Edah knew by experience that this mood would not last long, but she
was thankful for even this short respite, and made the most of it, by
keeping her mother amused and diverted as much as possible.
After breakfast, Mrs. Champlin went into the kitchen to have a gossip
with Ruby-Anne, and Edah sat down to answer her friend's letter.
"They are expecting you in New York, I suppose," said Susan; "when do
you go?"
"I do not go at all," said Edah; "that is, if you will keep me here."
"Not going!" exclaimed Sam and Susan in a breath, while Pauline uttered
a scream of joy. "Why, I thought you had decided to go long ago!"
"So I did," said Edah; "but I have undecided again, and now I am
decided the other way. I have a great desire to see how these hills
look in winter."
"That isn't the reason you stay, though," remarked Pauline; "it is
because you think we can't do without you; and you are the dearest girl
in the world: isn't she, Sam?"
"To be sure she is, Poppet! Every one knew that long ago."
"I am sure," Susan said, with some constraint, "I don't want you to
give up all the pleasure of your winter in New York, for the sake of
staying with us here. I am sure you would much rather be there; and
I don't want you to be feeling all the time as if you were making a
sacrifice for us."
"Now, Sue," exclaimed Sam, "that is downright ungracious. Of course it
is a sacrifice for Edah to stay here, but if she is willing to make it,
I think the best return we can make is to take it kindly."
"I am not fond of being sacrificed to," said Susan. "If Edah is going
to feel all the time how much rather she would be there than here, and
how good she is in staying here instead of going there, I would rather
she went."
Edah could not help feeling very much annoyed at this speech, but she
controlled herself, and said gently—
"If I made up my mind to stay here, I hope I should be more sensible
than to spend my time thinking how much better off I should be
somewhere else; and as to feeling good," she added laughing, "I will
try not to show it, if I do. But I am almost afraid you don't want me,
after all."
"I should be very glad to have you, I am sure," replied Susan,
apparently ashamed of what she had said. "I do not know, as Sam says,
what we should do without you, especially mother, for I can do nothing
to suit her lately."
Thus it was decided finally that Edah was to stay, and she dispatched
an answer to Milly to that effect. She also wrote to Miss Anderson to
send her her clothes and other matters she had left at W., and began to
consider herself settled for the winter. Mr. Willson smiled approvingly
when he heard her decision, and told her he had felt no doubt how she
would conclude, if she took time enough.
"You must now begin to consider how you can make yourself most useful,
and do the most good. I think I must constitute you my curate in this
place, and let you lay the foundation of a church here."
These words were not lightly spoken, nor lightly heard. From that
moment, Edah began to consider what she could do towards establishing a
church in the hitherto destitute village of Brooksville.