"Well, if you can possibly get it done to-night, Ellen, you must do
so. It would never answer in the world not to have all the dresses
done by to-morrow night."
"I will have it done," was the brief reply, made in a low tone.
Jane's dress was taken home that night, unfinished by full six or
seven hours' work. As Ellen had feared, she found Margaret suffering
much from her cough. After preparing some food for her sister, whose
appetite still remained good, she drank a cup of tea, and then sat
down to work upon the mourning garment. Towards midnight, Margaret,
who had fallen asleep early in the evening, began to grow restless,
and to moan as if in pain. Every now and then, Ellen would pause in
her work and look towards the bed, with an anxious countenance; and
once or twice she got up, and stood over her sister; but she did not
awake. It was three o'clock when the last stitch was taken, and then
Margaret's cough had awakened her, and she seemed to suffer so much
from that and from difficult breathing, that Ellen, even after lying
down, did not go to sleep for an hour. It was long after sunrise
when she awoke.
"Must you go to-day, too?" inquired Margaret, looking into her
sister's face anxiously, on seeing her, after the hastily prepared
breakfast had been eaten, take up her bonnet and shawl.
"Yes, Margaret, I must go to-day. There is one more dress to be
made, and that must be done. But after to-day, I won't go out
anywhere again until you are better."
"I don't think I shall ever be better again, Ellen," said the sick
girl. "I am getting so weak; and I feel just as if I shouldn't stay
here but a little while. You don't know how strange I feel
sometimes. Oh, I wish you didn't have to go out to-day!" And she
looked so earnestly into the face of her sister, that the tears
sprung into Ellen's eyes.
"If I can persuade them to put this last dress off until next week,
and then get some one else to make it, I will," said the sister:
"but if I can't, Margaret, try and keep up your spirits. I'll ask
Mrs. Ryland, down-stairs, to come and sit with you a little while at
a time through the day; and so if I can't; get off, you won't be
altogether without company."
"I wish you would, sister, for I feel so lonesome sometimes,"
replied Margaret, mournfully.
Mrs. Ryland consented, for she was a kind-hearted woman, and liked
the sisters, and Ellen hurried away to Mrs. Condy's.
"You are very late this morning, ain't you?" said Mary Condy, as
Ellen entered with Jane's finished dress.
"I am a little late, Miss Mary, but I sat up until three o'clock
this morning, and overslept myself in consequence."
"Well, you'll finish my dress to-day, of course?"
"Really, Miss Mary, I hardly know what to say about it. Sister is so
very poorly, that I am almost afraid to leave her alone. Can't you
in any way put yours off until next week? I have been up nearly all
night for two nights, and feel very unwell this morning." And
certainly her pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and haggard countenance
fully confirmed her statement.
"It will be impossible, Ellen," was Mary's prompt and positive
response. "I must go to church to-morrow, and cannot, of course, go
out, without my black dress."
With a sigh, Ellen sat down and resumed her needle. After a while
she said--
"Miss Mary, I cannot finish your dress, unless you and your sister
help me a good deal."
"Oh, we'll do that, of course," replied Mary, getting up and leaving
the room.
It was nearly eleven o'clock before Mary thought of helping Ellen
any, and then two or three young ladies came in to pay a visit of
condolence, and prevented her. Tears were shed at first; and then
gradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded, and so much
interested were the young ladies in each other's company, that the
moments passed rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to the
dinner hour. It was full three o'clock before Mary and Jane sat
themselves down to help Ellen. The afternoon seemed almost to fly
away, and when it was nightfall, the dress was not half finished.
"Will it be possible to get it done to-night?" asked Mrs. Condy.
"It will be hard work, madam," said Ellen, whose heart was with her
sister.
"Oh, it can be finished," said Mary, "if we all work hard for two or
three hours. The fact is, it must be done. I wouldn't miss having it
for the world."
With a sigh, Ellen turned again to her work; though feeble nature
was wellnigh sinking under the task forced upon her. It was past
eleven o'clock when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to go
home to her sister.
"But you are not going home to-night?" said Mr. Condy, who was now
present.
"O yes, sir. I haven't seen sister since morning, and she's very
ill."
"What is the matter with your sister?" asked Mr. Condy, in a kind
tone.
"I'm afraid she's got the consump--" It vas the first time Ellen had
attempted to utter the word, and the sound, even though the whole of
it remained unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst into
tears.
Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and cane, and as he saw
Ellen recover, by a strong effort, her self-possession, he said--
"It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, and as we cannot
ask you, under the circumstances, to stay all night, I will go with
you."
Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really afraid to go into the
street alone at that late hour. As they walked along, Mr. Condy, by
many questions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost compelled to
work day and night to make up mourning garments for his family, and
to absent herself from her sick sister, while she needed her most
careful attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his benevolent
feelings prompted him to ascertain truly the condition of Margaret,
for his heart misgave him that her end was very nigh.
On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ryland, the neighbour who
lived below, supporting Margaret in the bed, who was gasping for
breath as if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen sprung
forward with a sudden exclamation, and, taking Mrs. Ryland's place,
let the head of her sister fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condy
looked on for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon as he
reached home, he despatched a servant for the family physician, with
a special request to have him visit Ellen's sister immediately. He
then went into his wife's chamber, where the daughters, with their
mother, were engaged in looking over their new morning apparel.
"I'm afraid," said he, "that you have unintentionally been guilty of
a great wrong."
"How?" asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with sudden surprise.
"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, at
this moment dying."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks of
alarm.
"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to try
and make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put on
your bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be done
for poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor."
On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and the
former put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, and
handed it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour,
to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, they
found no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter still
reclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to have
fallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked up
on the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw that
her eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood upon
her cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did not
rise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement of
her body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearly
fifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout the
chamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost held
their breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemed
audible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end of
this time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness.
But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanations
which necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparent
consciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said--
"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but if
she becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning I
will see her early," and he made a movement to go.
"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell me
truly--is she not dying?"
For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl,
and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painful
struggle.
"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly.
"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly.
"If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it."
"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is,"
he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life,
there is hope."
Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and the
doctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remained
some minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned he
found his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaret
exhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her head
upon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a few
minutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a little
while her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name of
Ellen quickly.
"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her.
"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking up
into her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe the
presence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night I
waited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away any
more--will you, Ellen?"
"No--no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly,
her tears starting afresh.
The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose great
eagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go out
on Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from her
sick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seated
herself by the window, As she sat there, the image of her
baby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it the
feeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions.
And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind a
distinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had become
interested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, she
had felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmed
her, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she sat
thus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceive
that, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire to
commemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, than
to appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She saw
that the black garments were not to remind herself of the dear
departed one, but to show to others that the babe was still
remembered and still mourned. In her present state of keen
perception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled,
and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out for
the too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just as
this resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at the
bedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the group
there.
Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eye
fell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it;
death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand its
import. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just as
the day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep that
knows no earthly waking.
After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy and
Mary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return and
remain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condy
so directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they had
been called to witness its true impression upon the minds of his
family. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Mary
should go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with her
through the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of which
Mr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanent
home.
The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy's
family. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited her
to come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfully
accepted.
During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was at
work on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condy
came into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand.
"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece of
bombazine.
Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her face
flushed an instant, and then grew pale.
"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and I
have bought you one."
"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightly
embarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembled
and was hardly audible.
"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy.
"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it would
do no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reason
struck her on the instant as being an insufficient one.
"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly and
with emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't take
it."
Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bent
silently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched by
her simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each one
respected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestation
of the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And never
did they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought of
Ellen's unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them.