_THE END._
ISA was at first delighted with the news of Rhoda's good fortune, but
presently she grew troubled.
"You won't go away and leave me, will you?" she asked.
"No, dear, of course not. Don't think of such a thing," was Rhoda's
reply.
"Because, really and truly, I don't think I could bear to live if you
did," continued Isa. "You know, Rhoda, pa calls you his other daughter
now, and I can't help thinking, I don't know why, that you will be all
the daughter he has before long."
"Why do you say that, Isa?" asked Rhoda. "Don't you feel as well as
usual?"
"I don't feel a bit strong," answered Isa; "but that isn't the reason.
I can't tell you what it is, but I think so. And I do want you to stay
with me so much."
"Of course I shall stay with you. I never thought of anything else.
You know I am to go home with you for holidays; and won't we get up an
elegant Christmas tree at 'The Home'? I wonder what would be the best
presents for the old ladies? I think shawls would be nice, don't you?"
The diversion of the Christmas tree proved enough for the time, and Isa
was presently quite happy in planning a crochet shawl for Mrs. Josleyn.
But she recurred to the subject more than once, and Rhoda could see
that her mind dwelt a good deal upon it.
Rhoda thought it best to mention the matter to Miss Hardy, who sent for
Dr. Douglass. The doctor came down, examined Isa, and made her happy by
the present of a bird.
"There is no immediate cause for alarm," said he to Rhoda afterward.
"She has certainly lost both strength and flesh since I saw her, and
I think she has a little fever. She is likely enough to go off in a
decline; and you know, my child, that as things are, we could not wish
it otherwise. You can see yourself that her mind fails more and more."
"Yes, sir," answered Rhoda, sadly. "I wouldn't see it for a good while,
but I have had to give it up."
"It was to be looked for," said Dr. Douglass. "The poor child has been
utterly and recklessly sacrificed on the altar of her father's deity,
'Education.'"
"I don't think Isa ever would have made a scholar under any
management," observed Rhoda. "She never liked books. She loved to work
about the house and sew and do little things in the kitchen, but she
never cared even for reading, and she hated the piano. I remember her
saying once that she did not want to go to heaven if it was all music."
"Do you often have such cases, Dr. Douglass?" asked Miss Hardy.
"I have similar ones far too often," replied the doctor. "Usually they
are like this. A girl goes on till she is twelve or fourteen, learning
absolutely nothing that she ought. Very likely she will not be able to
read intelligibly or write a page without misspelling half the words.
All at once the parents wake up to the fact that their daughter is a
dunce. Then they proceed to put on the screws. The girl's own ambition
is awakened, and she works with might and main, and all the work that
ought to be spread over ten or fifteen years is crowded into five.
The girl graduates with great honour—at sixteen, very likely; and the
next thing you hear of her, she has gone to a water-cure, or she is
in a decline, or some slight attack of cold or fever carries her off.
Then everybody but the doctor says, 'What a mysterious dispensation of
Providence!' Very much so! The 'mysterious dispensation' to me is that
which gives children to people who have no sense to take care of them."
"I don't think Isa ever had any easy time," remarked Miss Hardy. "She
has always been driven. I wonder her mother would allow it."
"She could not help it, Miss Hardy," said Rhoda. "Mr. Ferrand had a
system, and that answered for everything. Isa must sleep on a hard bed,
in a cold room, without a fire, with no carpet, and always with her
windows open in all weathers, because the system required hardening.
She must eat porridge for her breakfast, though she could not bear it;
and if her mother remonstrated, Mr. Ferrand had something to say about
the Spartans and their black broth."
"The Spartans were a set of blockheads and ruffians," said the doctor,
very conclusively.
"And the worst of it was there was no 'let up,'" continued Rhoda. "Isa
never had any fun like other girls. I hardly ever heard her laugh
heartily till after she came here. No girls ever came to see her, and
she never visited, because Mr. Ferrand thought their society was not
improving. And yet he meant well; and he is half broken-hearted about
poor Isa now."
"It is not enough, my young friend, that people 'mean well,'" said
the doctor. "They also need a little sense and some capacity of being
taught. As to Isa, there is nothing to be done. Let her have her own
way as far as possible, and try to keep her cheerfully employed. It was
an excellent move of yours to set her to work for the old women, as she
tells me you have done. Get her out as much as you can. Has she had any
attacks lately?"
"Not for five or six weeks but I can't help thinking her general health
is not so good as when she had them oftener."
"Very likely. You are managing her well, for aught I see, but you
must take care of yourself. You look rather tired. Don't let her kill
herself with work, Miss Hardy. She can't be spared just yet."
Rhoda and Isa went home for holidays, and there they found matters
altered indeed. The cold bare cell which Isa had always occupied was
exchanged for one of the best rooms in the house, newly fitted up with
everything that Isa could be supposed to fancy, including a superb
work-table and a most commodious tank for Diogenes, the turtle, which
Isa had brought along. An adjoining room was prepared for Rhoda.
Isa was delighted.
"How good you are, pa!" said she. "I always did want a nice, pretty
room, with an open fire in it, and some plants. You do love me if I am
not awful smart, don't you, pa?"
Perhaps nothing more showed the change in Mr. Ferrand than the fact
that he allowed this expression to pass without criticism, thinking
with a pang, as he received Isa's offered kiss, how easily he might
have let his simpleminded child grow up a happy and useful woman.
Isa's holidays were very pleasant. She helped to get up the Christmas
tree at "The Home," which was a great affair; and they had another at
home which Marion pronounced the very bonniest thing she ever saw.
"Eh, if we had only had such doings before, I'm thinking the dear lass
would have been different the day," said she to Rhoda. "It just breaks
my heart to look at her and her father. Poor gentleman! He has a sore
heart the night."
Isa went back to school in very good spirits and seeming decidedly
better, but she soon began to droop again. Once or twice Rhoda found
her crying, but could not get at the cause of her grief.
"Do you want to go home, dear? Is that it?" ask Rhoda, at last. "Tell
your own Rhoda."
Isa threw her arms around her friend's neck and laid her head down on
her shoulder.
"Oh, Rhoda, I do, I want to go home, where I needn't hear the piano nor
the girls singing. It goes through and through my head, and I hear it
all night long."
"Then you shall go home," said Rhoda. "I will speak to Miss Hardy this
very day."
Miss Hardy was consulted, and in her turn consulted Dr. Douglass. The
result was that Mr. Ferrand was written to and came down as soon as
possible.
"But you won't think of taking Rhoda away?" said Miss Hardy. "She is
doing wonders with her music and mathematics."
Mr. Ferrand looked at Rhoda, who answered quietly for herself:
"I think I shall have to go for the present, Miss Hardy. I don't think
Isa would be happy without me."
"But your music, my child? You know Isa cannot bear the sound of the
piano or singing. It seems to drive her nearly distracted, and there is
nothing one loses so quickly as music."
"I can pick it up again," said Rhoda. "My music is not as important as
Isa's comfort."
"My dear, it is a great sacrifice," said Mr. Ferrand. "I hardly think
we ought to ask it. You have always been so anxious to pursue your
education, and you have just made an admirable beginning."
"My education can wait," said Rhoda. "I don't know any use in educating
people, except to fit them to do their duty in that state of life to
which it has pleased God to call them; and I do feel that he has given
me a clear call to take care of Isa as long as she wants me. Only for
her, I never should have come here at all, you know."
"That is true," said Miss Hardy. "Well, my dear, sorry as I am to lose
you, I shall not urge you against your own conscience. 'Not to be
ministered unto, but to minister,' is the motto on our school seal, you
know."
"So, Mr. Ferrand, unless you utterly refuse to take me, I shall be
ready when Isa is," said Rhoda, smiling. "And if you do, I shall go
back to the home and come asking for a place in the dining-room again."
"Very well, 'my daughter,'" said Mr. Ferrand, not without emphasis.
"Get your sister ready, and we will go to town to-morrow."
Isa bore the journey home pretty well. Once at home, however, she
faded rapidly, and it soon became evident that her days were numbered.
She rarely left her room, though she sat up most of the time. She was
always cheerful and smiling, and suffered very little, though she had
some days and nights of sad restlessness and wandering, her mind always
running upon lessons of impossible length, and, above all, on the
piano. At such times only Rhoda could quiet or control her. Usually,
however, she was very manageable and very happy.
It was most touching to see Mr. Ferrand putting aside all his usual
employments to read the simple stories and play over and over the
simple games in which Isa took pleasure, and to observe the change in
Isa's feelings toward her father.
"Pa, I want to talk to you all by ourselves," said she, one day. "You
will let me say all that comes in my head, won't you?"
"Certainly, my love."
"You never used to call me by such nice names," said Isa. "I used to
get so tired of hearing you say 'Isabella.' But never mind that, pa; I
want to talk to you about Rhoda."
"Well, my darling, what of her?"
"You used to say, a good while ago, that you meant to take me to Europe
some time to finish my musical education with some of the great masters
there," continued Isa. "Didn't you?"
"Yes, daughter; I had such a plan at one time," answered Mr. Ferrand,
with a sigh that was almost a groan.
"Well, pa, I want you to do that for Rhoda when I am gone. I shall
be gone before a great while, you know, and then Rhoda will be your
daughter. I never could learn music, but Rhoda can, and she loves it
dearly, She will play and sing splendidly, I am sure. And it was so
good in her to give up all her lessons and her practising for the sake
of taking care of me, wasn't it?"
"It was indeed, Isa. I shall never forget it."
"Then you will do this for her and me, won't you?"
"Yes, my dear," answered Mr. Ferrand. "I promise you that Rhoda shall
never want any advantages that I can give her."
"And you will let her be your daughter, won't you, pa?"
"Yes, Isa, if she will. But you know Rhoda has an independent property
of her own now, and perhaps she may prefer some other arrangement."
"No, she won't, pa," said Isa, eagerly. "I asked her, and she said
she loved you and ma dearly, and would rather live with you than with
anybody."
"You and Rhoda seem to have settled it nicely between you," said Mr.
Ferrand, with a sad smile.
"Well, I wanted to have it settled," answered Isa, simply, "because I
know I haven't long to stay. Don't cry, pa. It is all for the best,
I am sure. I never was smart, you know, and, I should not have got
any better. But I shall be very happy in heaven, and we shall all
be together before long. Only, pa, if you finish your book about
education, won't you put in it that people ought to play sometimes and
do nothing sometimes? Because I am sure they ought."
This was Isa's last long conversation with anybody. In a few days she
passed away, smiling and happy to the last.
The evening after her funeral, Rhoda went, after family prayer, to bid
Mr. and Mrs. Ferrand good-night as usual.
"Good-night, Mr. Ferrand," said she.
Mr. Ferrand took her hand and kissed her forehead.
"I think you had better say father and mother, Rhoda," said he. "You
are all the child we have now."
"Good-night, dear father," said Rhoda, softly, and so the matter was
settled.
Three or four years after, Mr. and Mrs. Bowers were attending an
exhibition of flowers at the store of a world-famous florist in
Milby. Mr. Bowers had been very successful in business, "making money
hand over hand," as the saying is, and his wife was quite the most
fashionable lady in Hobarttown. But neither of them looked either happy
or contented. Money and fashion are two things of which people who are
devoted to them do not easily have enough.
As they stood looking at the flowers, Mr. and Mrs. Antis, their old
neighbours at Boonville, came in, and were met and warmly welcomed by
a very handsome and elegant young girl who had been standing near Mrs.
Bowers.
"I ought to know that girl," said Mrs. Bowers to her husband. "I have
seen her, but I don't know where. How very pretty and stylish she is!
And how elegantly her dress sets! I should think she got it in Paris. I
wonder who she is? I would like very much to know."
"The carriage is here, Miss Thurston," said a man-servant, entering the
store.
Mrs. Bowers looked out, and saw a very elegant and comfortable equipage
containing an elderly gentleman.
"I must not keep father waiting," said Miss Thurston to her friends. "I
shall come out to see you as soon as Aunt Harriet comes."
Mrs. Bowers had a little hesitation about speaking to Mrs. Antis, with
whom she had hardly exchanged a word since that little woman spoke
her mind very plainly on the subject of Rhoda's going away, but her
curiosity got the better of her resentment.
"Who was that young girl?" she asked, after the usual greetings had
passed. "It seems as if I had seen her before, but I could not tell
where."
"Didn't you recognize her?" asked Mrs. Antis. "That was Rhoda. I don't
think she is so very much altered."
"What! Not Rhoda Bowers! Not the girl we had, and—"
"And got rid of," said Mrs. Antis, finishing the sentence. "Yes, the
same. She has been abroad, travelling and taking lessons, and she is
called the best educated young woman in Milby."
"I suppose Uncle Jacob's money did it all," said Mrs. Bowers, with a
sour smile.
"Not at all," answered Mr. Antis. "Rhoda has never touched Uncle
Jacob's money. She just lets it accumulate, and means to found some
kind of school or asylum with it as soon as she is of age."
"But how was it, then? And who is this old gentleman she calls
'father'?"
"Oh, it is a romantic story. Rhoda worked out at Mr. Ferrand's, it
seems, and went from there to his sister-in-law, who has a girls'
school. She showed so much talent and such a good disposition that Miss
Hardy took her into the school. There she and Ferrand's daughter struck
up a great friendship—"
"Now you are not quite right, William," said his wife. "They were
attached to each other before that."
"Well, anyhow, when Miss Ferrand was broken down by 'cramming,' Rhoda
left school and everything for the sake of nursing her, and after her
death, the Ferrands adopted Rhoda in her place."
"And I suppose she is stuck up to the skies?" sneered Mrs. Bowers.
"Not a bit of it. She has been to visit us at Boonville since she came
home, and everybody says she is just the same simple, openhearted girl
she always was. She asked about you, and said she had visited your
sister in Scotland."
"I have always felt that we made a mistake in sending Rhoda away," said
Mr. Bowers, who had hitherto been quite silent. "We took her for our
own, and we ought to have kept her, whatever Uncle Jacob might say.
Then we should have had a child to care for us in our old age, instead
of being left alone. Rhoda was always a good girl, and one that would
have turned out well anywhere, and I am right glad she has had such
good luck. Tell her so, Antis, will you? And tell her that, rich as I
am, I would give it all to get back the child I turned away for the
sake of a little more money."
"Why not go and see her and tell her so yourself?" asked Mr. Antis.
"No, it would be only an aggravation. But tell her that I ask her
forgiveness, and that it would be a comfort if she would send it to me."
THE END.