We were all pretty tired the next morning. The children slept late, and
Fanny was unusually languid for her.—Stuart was the only one who did
not appear to feel the effects of dissipation, for he was off bright
and early on another excursion with the boys.
It seemed so strange to think of Fan having had two offers of marriage;
at least, one we knew was made in good faith. The other mamma was not
decided about.
“Poor little girl;” said papa kissing her. “Your troubles are beginning
early in life.”
“You think like the old lady in the couplet—
‘Wires and briars, needles and pins,
When you are married your trouble begins.’”
and Fan laughed with a trifle of the old archness.
“Not exactly. Your mamma and I have been very happy.” Still there was
a perplexed expression on papa’s face as if he could not quite explain
the puzzle.
“But then no one ever could be as good or as splendid or as lovely as
you!”
“Any more adjectives, Fanny!” and he smiled.
“Yes, a host of them, but I am generous and spare your blushes. Mamma—”
in a sort of absent, thoughtful way, “there is one man who, I think,
would make a royal husband.”
“Are you quite sure you understand the requisite qualities?”
Fanny blushed.
“It is Stephen Duncan. I don’t know what put it in my mind. But he
seems so tender and thoughtful and patient.”
“He must have taken all the family virtues,” I made answer.
“He was different in his boyhood from the others;” said papa. “He is a
fine and noble man.”
“But what troubles me most now,” began Fanny with a certain funny
lugubriousness, “is how I am to meet all these people again. What will
the Churchills think? And oh, if Dick had not—”
“Such matters have to settle themselves,” returned mamma. “In all
probability the Churchills will know nothing about it. Try and be a
little careful in the future. You are no longer a child.”
“Must I wear a veil or enter a convent? Papa, suppose you lock me up in
the study? Then they will all flock to Rose, and it will be the same
trouble over again. What _are_ we to do?”
“Just now you had better find some employment. I cut out half a dozen
aprons for Daisy yesterday;” said mamma.
“Then I will open my beloved machine, so good-bye to romance. Work and
you are adversaries.”
I wondered how she could take events so coolly. She sang with her
sewing as if her heart was as light as thistle-down.
Nelly in the meanwhile was made ready and sent off to visit an old
parishioner, living on a farm thirty miles away. One of the children
went for awhile every summer.
Louis improved rapidly. He had fretted somewhat about accepting the
Churchills’ carriage, and begged papa to hire one for him, which had
been done. He went out nearly every morning now, or if it was too warm,
late in the afternoon. I think he was getting a little humanized, too.
Occasionally he joined our circle and would often play with baby Edith,
who laughed and talked her fashion if you looked at her. She was just
as good and sweet as she could be.
Mr. Ogden did _not_ come over, and went away on Saturday. That somehow
stamped the episode as pastime. With all her gayety Fan _did_ feel
badly over it—a trifle mortified, I think, that he should have ventured
upon such a freedom.
It was to make no change with the Churchills however. Indeed, we
received quite a handsome compliment from them the next week. Mr.
Churchill invited papa to go up in the mountains with him. He had some
business with a tract of woodland that the railroad company wanted
to purchase, and thought it would be a nice trip. They were to start
Tuesday night and return Saturday noon.
The house always appeared so strange without him. Not but what mamma
was quite capable of carrying it on, yet we missed him sadly. Ann
lamented Nelly’s absence, and declared “there wasn’t a childer too
many”. Fan and I sewed and had peculiar talks with Louis. I never could
tell what he thought or what he believed, or whether he advanced these
opinions for arguments’ sake. He had a great deal of morbid pride, and
a way of putting all the briary parts outside. Everybody was selfish,
he averred.
And he did have a fearful temper. Beside the quickness, it had in it
a brooding vindictiveness. He couldn’t seem to forgive injuries or
slights, and he was very jealous of Stuart, though he affected a lofty
indifference to those bright engaging qualities.
Stuart on the other hand did get into a good deal of mischief. He
headed raids on the farmers’ trees and melon-patches, and one night the
water was let out of the dam, which caused a great commotion. Of course
he was an immense favorite with the boys.
When papa came home there was a letter from Stephen, answering the one
announcing the illness. He had been very much perplexed in the business
and found it necessary to go to Paris. He would not be able to return
until late in the Fall. As school began the tenth of September it
would be best to send Stuart immediately. Would Mrs. Endicott see that
his clothes were in order? If Louis preferred, when he was well enough
to resume his studies, to board in some quiet family and take the
lessons he needed, Stephen considered it a better plan.
“Not that I mean this to be construed into a desire for you to keep
him, my dear friend,” he wrote. “You have too much on your hands
already, and I feel as if I had added a great burthen. But if he
decides upon this course will you make some inquiries for him, and help
him to find a suitable person? I do not think him strong enough to be
regularly in school.”
Louis made no comment for several days, then declared that he did not
mean to be buried alive in a country village through a dreary winter.
He would go back to Wilburton, but not enter the school. There were
plenty of families who would take him to board, and he liked it there.
Just at this juncture one of his cousins, a year or two older than
himself, invited him to go to Canada to recruit his health. He was to
start early in September and would call for him.
He accepted the invitation at once, without even consulting papa.
“I suppose it is as well, though,” papa said thoughtfully. “He does
need bracing up, and the change will be just the thing for him. We can
hear meanwhile from Stephen about this Wilburton arrangement.”
The boys both went to Westburg with papa to get some new clothes. Mamma
packed Stuart’s trunk, and then he was frantic to return to the boys.
Monday would be the tenth but he insisted upon starting on Friday. He
wanted to get a good room, to see old friends and feel settled before
school began. He had enjoyed himself splendidly, to be sure, and there
were lots of jolly fellows in Wachusett, to say nothing of the girls.
He meant to come back some time and have it all over. But since he
couldn’t go to Canada, which he thought rather rough, he might as well
march off at once. The sooner a thing was well over, the better.
He spent a day and evening saying good-bye to his friends in the
village. The stage was to come at eight Friday morn. He had his trunk
strapped and out on the porch; ate his breakfast in a hurry, kissed the
children and bade Ann a laughing farewell accompanied with a new calico
gown, which she thought an immense favor.
Papa gave him a little counsel in a low tone of voice, but I do not
think he listened very attentively. He was a boy without a bit of
sentiment or tender regard. He merely sang out—“Good-bye, old chap,” to
Louis, and though he thanked us for our kindness, it was only from a
gentlemanly instinct. Then he sprang into the stage and was off.
“I do not know whether I should like to have such a son or not,” mamma
said slowly, as we entered papa’s study. “He is bright and manly and
entertaining, but he leaves you with a feeling that out of sight is out
of mind.”
“I have tried to sow a little good seed;” yet papa shook his head
gravely.
“But you are afraid it is in sandy ground;” Fan added, with a touch of
comforting sweetness in her voice. “I haven’t much faith in its bearing
fruit, and yet I do believe he has come to have more consideration for
Louis. He has not tormented him half as much lately. That would be one
point gained.”
“Yes. After all, I have more hope of Louis. The struggle will be much
harder, for his temperament and his health are against him, but he will
be steadier in anything he undertakes. I have become deeply interested
in both of them, and I do not feel as if it was going to end here.”
It seemed as if the day was to be rendered memorable for us. In the
midst of the talk came a sudden hard ring. I answered it and found Mr.
Fairlie’s man with a frightened look in his face.
“If you please, Miss—is your father in?” he asked.
“Papa!”
He came at the summons.
“The master is—very bad, sir. They want to see you right away. Mister
Dick is taking it very hard.”
“Mr. Fairlie!” exclaimed papa in amaze.—“Why, I saw him yesterday, and
well.”
“He’s been rather queer in his head for two or three days. It was the
sun or something.—And about midnight he was taken. The Doctor has given
him up now.”
“Yes,” said papa, bewildered. “I’ll be there directly.”
“I’ve the wagon here for you, sir.”
He just kissed mamma and went without another word. Such calls left no
room for discussions.
“It cannot be possible!” ejaculated Fan.
“Mrs. Fairlie and Kate away!” said mamma. “How very sad.”
We had not the heart to talk about it and separated for our morning’s
employment. School had begun again, so I made the children ready. Nelly
had just entered the Seminary. Then I put my rooms in order while Fan
assisted in the kitchen. Tabby came up stairs followed by her small
gray and white kitten, who was a puffy ball of frolic. She glanced
around the room in a curious, complacent fashion.
“Yes, Tabby,” I said, “the plague of your life has departed. Mrs.
Whitcomb will be here next, and you know she is fond of you, so your
troubles are ending. I don’t believe we have learned to like boys so
_very_ much, after all.”
“No,” returned Tabby, with a grave whisk of the tail, while the kitten
made a vigorous attack on the bits of sunshine quivering through the
great sycamore leaves.
I went down stairs and sewed awhile in the nursery. Dinner came, but
no papa. Louis had returned from his drive and looked very cheerful.
We could not wait on account of the children, and unconsciously his
prolonged absence gave us a little hope.
It was dashed down presently. The church bell began to toll. We glanced
at each other in a startled way.
“Poor Dick!” said Fan, turning her head, and I knew her eyes were full
of tears. I could not help a curious thought. What if this sorrow
should bring them together?
Miss Churchill made us a nice long call in the afternoon, and before
she had gone papa returned. Dick had begged him to stay and go to
the station for Mrs. Fairlie who had just come, and do several other
special errands for him. The ladies had stopped on their homeward way
at the house of a cousin in Bridgeport, and were thus easily reached by
telegraph.
“What a terrible shock!” exclaimed Miss Churchill. “A man in almost
perfect health, too; though Dr. Hawley I believe mentioned his having
some trouble with his heart. Was that the cause?”
“I have no doubt it helped materially. He had complained of a dull,
heavy headache for two or three days, and yesterday he was out in the
sun which appeared to affect him a good deal. At midnight he was taken
with paralysis. But brief as the time was it found him ready. He
seemed to have gleams of consciousness and knew me at intervals. His
trust was staid upon God, and there was no fear, no shrinking.”
“He has been a good, upright man. Kenton always esteemed him highly.”
“He was more than that, Miss Churchill, he was an earnest Christian.
If the household had been of one mind, workers in the vineyard, he
would have lived a fuller and more joyous christian life. But we are to
work our way through hindrances. God gave him grace and strength and
perfected him in good deeds. I feel as if I had lost my mainstay in the
church. He was not a man of many words, but you could rely upon him to
the uttermost. And though I shall grieve for a true and staunch friend,
I shall also rejoice that he has gone to his reward, better far than
any earthly happiness.”
“You loved him very much,” said Miss Churchill, deeply moved.
“I did indeed.”
“The loss is dreadful to his family.”
“My heart ached for Richard. He and his father were tender friends,
and the watching through long hours, the not being able to give him
up, was agonizing in the extreme. Mrs. Fairlie was stunned by the
suddenness.”
“I wonder if I could be any—comfort to her?” Miss Churchill questioned
slowly.
“I wish you would call to-morrow,” said papa. “I don’t know but I shall
have to come to you and your brother now.”
“I am sure I should be glad to give you any assistance in my power. I
have been thinking lately that we live quite too much for ourselves.”
“For the night cometh in which no man can work,” said papa solemnly.
An awe fell over us all. One and another dropped in to wonder at the
occurrence. Sudden deaths always shock a community greatly. Even the
children did not want to play but sat on the porch steps and looked
into vacancy. Louis went up stairs directly after supper, but I heard
him pacing his room restlessly. I had put the little ones to bed and
was going down stairs when he called.
“Did you want anything?” I inquired.
“No—that is—are you busy?”
“Not especially.”
“I am going away so soon;” he said apologetically.
“And if I can do anything for you, I shall be glad to,” I made answer
cheerfully. “Shall I come in and read?”
“Thank you—I don’t care about that, I am in an odd, inconsequent mood
to night. Suppose you talk to me? I believe your voice has a soothing
effect.”
“Let us go down on the porch. It is cooler.”
“Where are the others?”
“Papa and Fanny have gone for a call. Mamma is in the nursery.”
“O, I wanted only you.”
“Come down then.”
I brought an easy chair out on the porch, and dropped into my own small
rocker. Tabby came along and crawled in my lap, turning round three
times and settling herself regardless of the welfare of her small
child, though I dare say she was asleep in some one’s slipper. The moon
was nearly at its full and made silvery shadows through the interstices
of the vines. The dewy air was fragrant and the night musical with
chirp and hum of countless insects.
“It is quite a relief to be rid of Stuart,” he began presently. “And
when I am gone you will doubtless feel still more comfortable.”
“I think you are quite comfortable to get on with now;” I said
cheerfully.
“Which implies—there was a time. Miss Endicott, do you think I have
improved _any_?”
“I do not know as it would be hardly fair to judge you by the first
week or two. You were on the eve of a severe illness, with your nervous
system completely disorganized.”
“But since then—be honest?”
“I think you have been pleasanter, more considerate, not so easily
ruffled;” I answered slowly.
“Please don’t fancy me fishing for compliments.”
“Compliments from me would not be so _very_ flattering to one’s vanity.
They do not carry weight enough.”
“You believe that one could overcome—any fault?” after a pause between
the words.
“With God’s help—yes.”
“Without God’s help—what then?”
I was always so afraid of going astray in these talks. I could feel
what I meant, but I could not explain it clearly.
“‘Every good and perfect gift cometh from God,’” I made answer. “And
the desire to be better or stronger, to overcome any fault, must
proceed from Him.”
“Then why doesn’t he make Christians perfect?”
“God gives us the work to do. He says, ‘My grace shall be sufficient
for thee.’ Therefore we are to strive ourselves. He shows us the right
way, but if we seek out other paths, or if we sink into indolence
waiting for an angel to come and move our idle hands or stir up our
languid wills, can we reasonably blame Him?”
“I had not thought of that, I must confess. I had a fancy that—religion
did all these things for you.”
“What then is the Christian warfare? You know that grand old St. Paul
had to fight to the last, that he might not be a cast-away. Yet I think
no one ever doubted the genuineness of his conversion.”
“But if a man of his own determination, resolved, he could do a great
deal.”
“I should be weak to deny it. People have achieved heroic victories,
suffered pain and shame and death bravely for pride, or some chosen
idea. Only when it is done for the sake of Him who saved us, it becomes
so much the more noble. It is obeying Him.”
“Is it an easy thing to be good, Miss Endicott?”
“Not for every one,” I said.
“You admit that natures are different?”
“I do, cheerfully. Some people have very little self-control, others a
great deal. But it is strengthened by use, like a limb.”
“I have very little?”
“I did not say that.”
“But you know I have.”
“Papa said your temperament and your health were against you!”
“Did he say that?” was the eager question. “Well there _are_ a hundred
things—I sometimes have such headaches that I can hardly tell where I
am, and if anything bothers me I feel as if I could stamp on it, crush
it out of existence. And if it is a person—”
“Oh,” I cried, “don’t please! That is murder in one’s heart.”
“And when any one annoys Stuart he laughs at him, flings, jeers and
exasperates. It is his way, yet every one thinks he has a lovely
temper. He makes others angry. I have seen him get half a class by the
ears, and in such a mess that no one knew what was the matter.—I do
not believe I ever in my life set about making another person angry.
But I cannot stand such things. They stir up all the bad blood in me.”
“So you need patience, first of all.”
“But I _can’t_ stop to think.”
“Ah, that is just it. Stopping to think saves us. And when we have our
great Captain to remember, and are endeavoring to walk in the path He
marked out for us, it makes it easier. We are trying for the sake of
one we love.”
“What else do I want?”
“Don’t ask me, please,” I entreated.
“Yes. I shall not let you evade me. Write me some copies to take with
me. Patience—what next?”
“Cheerfulness;” seeing that he compelled me to it. “Your nature is
morbid and melancholy. Just try to think that people will like you.
“But they do not.”
“Then you must give them something to like. Suppose we all hid away our
brightness?”
He laughed.
“It would be a rather blue world. But to try for admiration.”
“You don’t try for _admiration_. You give freely of the very best you
have. You remember about the little boy who hid his cake away until it
was mouldy and spoiled?”
“I believe you always give of the best here. And you never seem to have
any lack.”
“Did you ever break off a sprig of lemon verbena? Three new shoots
come in its place. When I was a little girl mamma explained it to me,
and said that if you nipped off one bit of pleasantness for a friend
or neighbor, something grew instantly for the next one. You never give
away all your joy and good feeling.”
He sighed a little, and said slowly—
“I believe I shall begin with my temper. I have always known that it
was bad, and expected to keep it all my life, but if it could be made a
little more reasonable!”
“I am sure it can, if you will try. It _is_ hard work to be fighting
continually, to be on your guard against surprises, and sometimes to
have your best efforts misunderstood, yet it seems to me a grand thing
to gain a victory over one’s self.”
“You make it so;” he replied in a half doubtful tone.
“I wish you could be good friends with papa. He is so much wiser, and
can explain the puzzles. When you came to know him well you would like
him, you couldn’t help it.”
“Sometime—when I want such a friend;” he answered a trifle coldly.
The voices sounded on the walk just then, and in a few moments they
came up. We had no special talk after that.
Mamma went over to Mrs. Fairlie’s the next day and met Miss Churchill
there. Kate had been in violent hysterics all night. They appeared so
utterly helpless. What should they do about black? There wasn’t any
thing decent in Wachusett! And could Mrs. Fairlie find a long widow’s
veil any where? There would not be time to send to the city.
“I am quite sure that Mrs. Silverthorne has one. Hers was very
beautiful and she never wore it but a little; and a plain bonnet will
do.”
“Thank you, Miss Churchill. How kind you are. But I cannot understand
_why_ this grief should come upon me.”
“God’s ways are not as our ways;” said mamma.
“But Mr. Fairlie was needed so much. I don’t know how I can live
without him!”
Mamma and Miss Churchill soothed and tried to comfort. Each took a few
orders on leaving.
“My objection to mourning is just this,” said Miss Churchill, when they
were seated in her basket phaeton. “In the midst of your grief you have
to stop and think wherewithal you shall be clothed. Dress-makers and
milliners are your constant care for the first month.”
“The fashion of this world;” mamma replied a little sadly.
That afternoon Louis received a telegram from his cousin. He would
meet him the next noon at the station in a through train, that there
might be no lost time. He only packed a valise, as his trunk would be
sent to Wilburton. We said our good-byes in quite a friendly fashion.
He appeared really grateful and sorry to leave us. Papa went to the
station with him and returned in an unusually grave mood.
We kept up to the tense point of excitement until after Mr. Fairlie’s
funeral. It was largely attended, and very solemn and affecting.
Indeed, nearly every heart ached for Kate and her mother.
“But I do believe Dick suffers the most;” Fanny said. “I never saw any
one so changed in a few days.”
Afterward the will was read. The farm was bequeathed to Richard.
Stocks, bonds and mortgages were divided between Mrs. Fairlie and Kate,
who were thus made quite rich women. They could go to Europe now.
I found myself wondering a little what Mr. Fairlie’s life would have
been with different surroundings. The Fairlies in their way were as
old and as good a family as the Churchills, only they did not happen
to settle at the West Side, and had gone a little more into active
business. But they did not lay claim to any special position or
grandeur. This had always seemed to mortify Mrs. Fairlie somewhat. “Mr.
Fairlie is so old-fashioned,” she would say complainingly. “There was
no getting him out of the one groove.” She wanted to make a show, to
have people admit that she was somebody.—She went to church regularly
and would have been much offended not to have been considered an
important member. She gave to the Christmas and Easter feasts and
adornings, but for the poor or the needy sick she rarely evinced any
sympathy. Her duty stopped at a certain point, the rest of her time,
money, and interest was distinctly her own. So the husband and wife
lived separate lives, as it were.
Would Richard’s fate repeat the same confused and tangled story? No
doubt his mother would desire him to marry well in worldly point of
view. She might even object to Fan on the score of money. Would he have
the courage to suit himself? For what he needed was a sweet, domestic
woman with the culture that did not disdain every day matters. His
tastes were simple and homelike, yet he was by no means dull. He wanted
a woman to honor him, to put him in his true position as head of the
family.
Would Providence bring him happiness, or discipline only?