THE TELEGRAM.
A LETTER from Cecilia arrived the next week, stating that she had at
last reached home and that her happiness would be complete, if Emily
were with her to share the eager welcome extended to herself and
Frederic, from parents, neighbors and friends.
She stated, as an item of news, which was exciting great attention in
their western world, that Frederic had carried up an important patent
case to the Supreme Court, where, according to the newspapers, he had
argued for five hours with such power and skill that he carried all
before him.
"The best part of it was," added his sister, "that he won and received
thirty thousand dollars for his services, though to be sure he has
been engaged for a year in looking it up; all the time indeed that
poor unsuspecting 'I' thought he was such a devoted brother travelling
solely for my benefit. If you could be present at one of our western
parties, and see how he is toasted and feasted and made much of, you
would be surprised, considering, I mean, the stupid way in which he
conducted himself in U—.
"I have told my father and mother all about my pet friend, and they
cordially unite with me in the wish that you may take a trip out west,
and make us a real good visit, at no distant day.
"CECILIA.
"P. S. I have read the letter to Frederic at the request of his Honor.
But when I asked him whether he had any message, he paused a full
minute, then said, gravely, 'No, I think not.' You can easily imagine
that I gave his ears a frightful reminder of my indignation in your
behalf."
The young teacher was very busy in preparing her classes for the
quarterly examination, and practicing new pieces for the Commencement
Levee, at Mr. Duxbury's particular request. In this manner, day
after day flew by, until less than one week intervened before the
twenty-second of November, the time appointed for the Council.
Mrs. Washburn kept her daughter informed of every thing connected with
the case, at Emily's request, writing such items on separate sheets,
which the young girl would show to the Judge. Nothing of importance had
occurred since the reading of the quarterly report by the Treasurer,
when a warm debate took place in reference to past accounts, except a
visit from the Bishop, who passed the Sunday with them, and confirmed
six persons, who had been presented for that purpose by Mr. Whiting,
the new Rector.
On this occasion, Mrs. Washburn inquired in reference to the manner of
conducting the trial, and announced her determination to be present
during all its sessions. The Bishop smiled and said, "Such a course
is unusual, but I see no objection to it." After this, he took an
opportunity to inform the Rector what would be expected of him. The
conversation soon became so free that Mrs. Washburn informed him that
as her husband knew far more about laying out a sermon, and looking
up authorities on different topics connected with it than he did the
technical terms of law, or the management of his own case, she had
wished him to employ a lawyer to assist him, and that a friend had
voluntarily offered to act as his Counsel, but he had refused.
"Why so?" he asked. "There is no objection to such a course."
The Rector then had stated the reasons which had prevented him from
accepting legal advice, at which the Bishop had seemed much moved,
merely adding,—
"God never disappoints the expectations of those who put their trust in
Him."
This letter reached Emily on Thursday. The trial was appointed to
commence on Tuesday of the next week. It was expected to last two or
three days. On Friday night, Emily sat with one of her German pupils,
correcting an exercise, when a servant entered requesting her to step
to the door. She found Mr. Duxbury signing his name in a book, while a
boy, with an envelope in his hand, stood waiting to deliver it.
"A telegram for you, Miss Washburn."
She seized it with a sinking heart, and read,—
"Come home immediately. Father dangerously ill."
"Mr. Duxbury, what time does the next train start?" The voice was so
strained and unnatural that the gentleman would not have known from
whom it came had not he seen Emily, pallid and ghastly, with her hands
firmly pressed to her heart, gazing in his face with her pitiful eyes.
He took out his watch. "If you must take the night train to Albany,
you have nearly an hour. Joseph shall go with you so far, and see you
safely on board the train going east."
She tried to speak, but no sound came from her white lips.
At this moment Mrs. Duxbury came hurrying in, and took Emily in her
arms.
"My precious child," she whispered, "what can I say to comfort you?"
"Pray for him and for me."
"I will go and pack your travelling bag; whatever you need after, shall
be sent by express." She then directed a servant to pack lunch for two
or three meals, and followed the poor girl to her chamber.
"Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, will God let him die before his name is vindicated?"
The eyes were tearless, but the tone was agony.
"My dear child, God loves your father with a deeper, better love than
yours. If it is His will to take him to dwell with Himself, He will
surely vindicate him in His own good time. My poor friend's name shines
clear now, though he lies in his grave."
Emily groaned, but went on hurriedly to arrange her dress for the sad
journey.
"Don't try to keep back your tears, my poor child," urged the lady,
almost frightened at the wild glance in Emily's eyes.
She only shook her head, but said presently,—
"I want to ask Mr. Duxbury to send, in the morning, to Judge Wilson.
They must know, without fail, that I have gone home, and why."
"He will go with you to the station, and call there on his way back."
"Thank you; now I am ready." She stood one moment gazing around the
room where she had passed so many happy hours, then with a deep sigh,
went down stairs.
The girls were all in the hall. They had begged to be allowed to give
their loved teacher a parting embrace, promising not to say one word.
As she passed through them, she lifted her veil and gave every one a
silent kiss, put her arms around Mrs. Duxbury's neck, whispering the
petition,—
"Pray that I may have the heart to say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'"
Joseph was already at the door with the carryall. Mrs. Duxbury repeated
Emily's request concerning the message to Judge Wilson, and they drove
away.
"I have consulted the paper," said Mr. Duxbury, "and find you will
arrive in Albany at five to-morrow morning. Joseph will see you
comfortably seated in the right car; he is used to travelling, and you
may safely leave everything to him. We shall follow you through every
mile of your journey; but what is of more consequence you will have the
companionship and sympathy of your Saviour. He suffered, you remember,
that he might share our grief."
"Thank you, sir. I love to think of that. Oh, Mr. Duxbury! What if
he—what if I should never see him again! I don't think I could endure
it."
"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' Here we are at the station.
Good-bye, my dear. May God go with you and support you."
It was near dusk the next evening when Emily, worn with suspense and
fatigue, reached the city near her home, and leaving the cars, hurried
as fast as her strength would allow, toward the street from which the
omnibus started for Canterbury. It had been gone about ten minutes.
Poor Emily! She stood one minute almost stunned with disappointment.
"Can I endure another hour of suspense?" she asked herself.
She walked on, hesitating what to do, and wondering whether she could
walk five miles in the dark, when to her surprise, she heard her name
called. It was Mr. Butler, one of their neighbors, who had been to the
train with a carryall to meet her, but missing her there, followed her
to the omnibus stand.
"How is he?" she gasped out.
"About the same. The doctors have a consultation this evening."
"There is hope, then?"
"I'm afraid there is very little."
"Is it fever?"
"Pneumonia. He took cold attending a funeral, last Wednesday, in a
violent storm." No more was said.
Emily had no heart to ask further questions, and he volunteered no
information. The poor girl had known him all her life, and was sure if
he could give her any encouragement, he would not fail to do so.
In less than an hour from her leaving the cars, she reached home—the
dear, dear home where her father's arms had always been outstretched to
receive her, but where he now lay unconscious of all about him.
As the carriage stopped, Marion appeared at the door, and the sisters
were speedily in a close embrace. Marion's face was pale as marble.
There were no traces of tears.
Emily sank into a chair in the familiar room, and with one glance
toward her father's writing-table, with papers here and there just as
he had left them, she burst into tears.
"Tell me," she sobbed, "tell me all."
"Dr. Monger and his young partner Dr. Rand have just gone. They agreed
mostly with our doctor, but Dr. Rand wished to try a new remedy which
has been very successful in the hospitals. He is coming back soon, and
will remain all night. Dr. Sumner is here now."
"There is hope then?"
"I think Dr. Rand feels that there is a chance for his life. I heard
him tell mamma that papa's strict temperance in eating and drinking is
a great thing in his favor—that medicines, which have little effect in
cases of others, seem to do the desired work with him."
"Does papa know his danger?"
"Oh, yes!" murmured Marion, her whole face assuming an expression of
elevation. "He is perfectly happy. The house has been full of people to
hear him talk, ministers, and gentlemen from the city, even. It seems
like having the gates of heaven open to be in his chamber."
"Mr. Butler told me he was lying in a stupor."
"Yes; that is in consequence of the new medicine Dr. Rand has given
him. He has scarcely slept a moment before."
"How is mamma?"
"Perfectly well, and so calm you wouldn't know there was anything the
matter. Now take off your hat and get some supper. I'll go up to papa,
and then mamma will come down."
A light step came over the stairs, and Emily started up and put her
arms around her mother's neck.
"You poor, tired child," said the lady, after one glance into her
daughter's face, "You must eat a hearty supper and then go to bed. I
suppose Marion has told you that Dr. Rand will be here through the
night. I shall get all the sleep I can, so as to have strength for
to-morrow."
"I must see him first, mamma."
"So you may, my dear. I'm so glad to have you here. We who have been
so privileged as to be in papa's sick room, have witnessed scenes that
we can never forget. Now, I'll go to the dining room with you. I have
taken nothing yet."
Ruth and Josey started with surprise at the sight of their sister. They
were not aware that she had arrived. Josey's eyes were red and swollen.
He had been trying to read his Sunday School book, but his heart was
evidently with his father.
At nine o'clock, Dr. Rand came and went directly up stairs to his
patient. Noticing no one, he passed at once to the bed, bent his ear to
the sick man's breast, felt his skin, then sat down with his watch to
count the pulse. Finally he took the lamp from the table and held it
above the patient where the light would reflect on his face.
Poor Emily, who was present, could not suppress a groan, as, for the
first time, she saw the ghastly, deathlike hue.
"Do you perceive any change?" inquired Dr. Sumner, retiring with Dr.
Rand a few steps into the entry.
"I must apply my thermometer before I can decide," was the brief reply.
"When did he take the quinine last?"
"At eight precisely."
Dr. Rand went back to the bed, stood several minutes thoughtfully
regarding the sick and apparently dying man, then taking a piece of
rice paper from a box on the table, took a powder from his pocket,
folded the damp paper over it, and gently raising the patient's head,
skilfully pushed it down his throat without awaking him.
"Now," said he, in a low tone, approaching Mrs. Washburn, "I want the
house quiet. You can all go to bed, only tell me where to go to call
you if I need anything. He will sleep for several hours."
"Knock at the door opposite," she answered. Then added, "You will find
on a waiter, in the entry, some food for yourself."
"I need nothing."
"Can you give me a word of hope, doctor?"
"His strength to-night fully equals my expectations. As for the rest,
he is in the hands of a compassionate God."
"Yes, sir; and I thank Him that He gives me grace to say, 'Thy will,
not mine, be done.'"
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