And so the winter wore away. January, February, March, passed; and when
April came in there were only here and there, on the hillocks, bits of
bare ground to tell that the spring was coming.
"And to think that all my father's fields are sown and growing green by
this time--and the violets and the primroses out in all the dales!" said
Mrs Morely, with a sudden rush of homesick tears.
Mrs Grattan was with her, paying a long day's visit; for they had been
all the morning talking cheerfully of many things.
"Our winter is long," she said.
"Oh, so long and dreary!" sighed Mrs Morely. "No, you must not think
me discontented and unthankful," she added, meeting Mrs Grattan's grave
looks. "Only a little homesick now and then. If I were sure that all
was well with--" She hesitated.
"`I will trust, and not be afraid,'" said Mrs Grattan, softly.
They had not spoken much to one another about their troubles,--these two
women. Mrs Morely's reserve, even at the time of little Ben's death,
had never given way so far as to permit her to speak of her husband's
faults and her own trials. And Mrs Grattan's sympathy, though deep,
had been silent--expressed by deeds rather than by words. She knew well
how full of fear for her husband the poor wife's heart had been all the
winter; but she could not approach the subject until she herself
introduced it.
"`I will trust, and not be afraid,'" said Mrs Morely, repeating her
friend's words. "I can do naught else; and not always that."
"`Lord, increase our faith!'" murmured Dolly.
There was a pause, during which Mrs Morely went about, busy with some
household matter. When she sat down again, she said:
"You must not think I am pining for home. If I were sure that it is
well with my husband, nothing else would matter."
"You have good hope that it is well with him," said Mrs Grattan.
"Oh, I do not know. I cannot tell. I can only leave him in God's
hand." But she did not speak very hopefully.
"And surely there's no better thing to do for him than that," said Mrs
Grattan.
"I know it. But I have hoped so many times, and so few of the poor
souls who have gone so far astray as he has done come back to a better
life. I fear no more than I hope."
There was a long pause after that, and then, in a voice that seemed
quite changed, Mrs Grattan said, "I never told you about Stephen and
me, did I?"
"No. I know that you have had some great trouble in your life, like
mine--indeed, your husband has told me that: that is all I know."
"Well, it's not to be spoken of often. But, just to show what the Lord
can do when He sets out to save a poor creature to the uttermost, I will
tell you what He has done for Stephen and me. It must be told in few
words, though. It shakes me to go back to those days.
"We were born in Vermont--as good a State as any to be born and brought
up in. It was quite a country place we lived in. My father was a
farmer--a grave, quiet man. My mother was never very strong; and I was
the only one spared to them of five children. We lived a very quiet,
humble sort of life; but, if ever folks lived contented and happy, we
did.
"Stephen was one of many children--too many for them all to get a living
on their little stony farm; and his father sent his boys off as soon as
they were able to go, and Stephen, who was the second son, was sent to
learn the shoemaker's trade in Weston, about twenty miles away.
"We had kept company, Stephen and me--as boys and girls will, you know--
before he went; and it went on all the time he was learning his trade,
whenever he came home on a visit. When his time was out, he stayed on
as a journeyman in the same place; but he fell into bad hands, I
suppose, for it began to come out through the neighbours, who saw him
there sometimes, that he wasn't doing as he ought to do; and when my
father heard from them that they had seen him more than once the worse
for liquor, he would let him have nothing more to say to me.
"You will scarcely understand just how it seemed to our folks. There
was hardly a man who tasted liquor in all our town in those days. To
have been betrayed into taking too much just once would have been to
lose one's character; and when my father heard of Stephen's being seen a
good many times when he was not able to take care of himself, it seemed
to him that it was a desperate case. I think he would as lief have laid
me down in the graveyard beside my little brothers, as have thought of
giving me to Stephen then.
"I didn't know how much I thought of him till there was an end put to
his coming to our house. I believe I grew to care more about him when
other folks turned against him. Not that I ever thought hard of my
father: I knew he was right, and I didn't mean to let him see that I was
worrying; but he did see it, and when Stephen came home and worked,
sometimes at his trade and sometimes on his father's farm, a year quite
steady, he felt every day more and more like giving it up, and taking
him into favour again. He never said so, but I am sure my mother
thought so, and sometimes I did too.
"My mother died that fall, and we had a dreadful still, lonesome
winter--my father and me; and when after a while Stephen came to see me,
as he used to do, my father didn't seem to mind. And pretty soon
Stephen took courage and asked the old man for me. He said that I would
be the saving of him, and that we would always stay with him in his old
age--which came on him fast after my mother died. So, what with one
thing and what with another, he was wrought on to consent to our
marriage: but I do believe it was the thought of helping to save a soul
from death, that did more than all the rest to bring him round.
"Things went well with us for a while--for more than two years--nearly
three; but then one day Stephen went to Weston, and got into trouble;
and the worst was, having begun, he couldn't stop. It was a miserable
time. My father lost faith in Stephen after that, and Stephen lost
faith in himself, and he got restless and uneasy, and it was a dreadful
cross to him to have to stay at father's, knowing that he wasn't trusted
and depended on as he used to be. And I suppose it was a cross to
father to have him there; for when I spoke of going away, though he said
it would break his heart to part from me, his only child, he said, too,
that it would not do to part husband and wife, and perhaps it would be
better to try it, for a while at least. So we went to live in Weston,
and Stephen worked at his trade.
"Then father married again. He was an old man, and it never would have
happened if I could have stayed with him. But what could he do? He
couldn't stay alone. The woman he married was a widow with children,
and I knew there never would be room for me at home any more.
"We had a sad time at Weston. I had always lived on a farm, and, though
Weston wasn't much of a place then, it seemed dreadful close and shut-up
and dismal to me. I was homesick and miserable there, and maybe I
didn't do all I might have done to make things pleasant for Stephen, and
help to keep him straight. It was a dreadful time for him, and for me
too.
"Well, after a while our children were born--twin boys. Stephen was
always tender-hearted over all little children; and over his own--I
couldn't tell you what he was. It did seem then as though, if he could
get a fair start and begin again, he might do better, for his children's
sake. So, when I got well, I made up my mind that I would ask a little
help from father, and we'd go west.
"I knew I never could go home to stay now. But, when I saw the old
place for the last time, I thought my heart would break. It wasn't much
of a place. There were only a few stony fields of pasture-land, and a
few narrow meadows; but, oh, I thought, if my babies had only been born
when we were in that safe, quiet place, it might have been so different!
And my father was so feeble and old, and helpless-like, I could not
bear to think of going so far away that I could never hope to see him
again.
"But there was no help for it. It would give Stephen another chance;
and so, with the little help my father could give us, we went out west
and settled.
"So we left the old life quite behind, and began again. We had a hard
time, but no harder than people generally have who go to a new country.
Stephen kept up good courage, and stuck to his work; and I helped him
all I could; and if I was sometimes a little discouraged and homesick,
he never guessed it. And I never _was_ much of either; for I was busy
always, and there was my babies--" Dolly's voice broke into a shrill
wail as she spoke the word, and she sat with her face hidden a little
while before she could go on again.