PEACE AT LAST.
IT was not appointed that Agnes should see her husband again. As the
days passed on, and nothing was heard from Joseph, she grew very
anxious. She busied herself, as she was able, in writing a letter to
her husband, in which she stated her wishes concerning Madge, and
entreated him to consent that the child should be given to her cousins.
She read this part of the letter to Letty, and also a paragraph
relating to the disposition of her clothes and trinkets.
"I want your boy to have my Herbert's silver cup," said she; "and there
is a gold necklace for Una; and, Letty, I should like you to take all
Herbert's clothes. They are in that camphor-wood box. You can use them
for your child. Let Madge have all the rest of my things as she needs
them. I have written all about it to Joseph; and I do not think he will
object.
"Give him the letter some morning when he is sober, and tell him that I
died praying for him. Oh, how different he and every thing else might
have been, if I had only done my duty! But we were all wrong from the
first. I had no idea what I was about when I married. I thought I was
going to be rid of all trouble and have some one to wait upon me and
take care of me for the rest of my life. How I used to laugh at you and
John for your sober ways of thinking and acting! But you were far wiser
than we were."
"I have to thank Mrs. Trescott for most of my wisdom," remarked Letty.
"I have always been grateful that, by a kind providence, I fell into
such hands when I was obliged to leave home."
"Yes: if all ladies were like her!" said Agnes.
"It is not all the fault of the ladies," returned Letty. "I believe a
great many employers would be glad to do all in their power for those
who work for them. But suppose a girl takes up the common idea that her
mistress has no business with her after her work is done,—that she has
a right to go where she pleases, and associate with whom she likes, and
give an account of herself to nobody: what can her mistress do? That is
the trouble with most of the young girls who go wrong. They set up for
independence and will not submit to be guided by anybody.
"Do you remember Jenny Green, who lived at the Daltons'? She was in
our Sunday-school class a while. Miss Dalton took her in, more from
charity than any thing else, because she had actually no place to which
to go. She did pretty well till she fell in with Cornelia Beadle, who
lived with Mrs. Garland. Cornelia was a bold, impudent thing, who cared
for nobody. She led Jenny into going out at night and staying late,
and persuaded her that it was a fine thing to be independent, and Miss
Dalton had no right to restrain her.
"Of course she fell into undesirable company; and the end of it was
that she and Cornelia went off to the Springs with two young men, and
were gone all night and all day. Miss Dalton tried all ways to reclaim
her, but it was of no use; and the end of the matter was that Jenny
died in the poor-house hospital, a poor, abandoned wretch. You see, as
long as ladies have no power over those they employ, they cannot be
accountable for them. What teacher would undertake to be responsible
for a child whom he was not allowed to control?"
"I suppose that is one reason why so many girls prefer sewing or
working at trades to living in families," said Agnes. "They like
to be independent. A good many women earn a poor and precarious
living in that way, who might have good wages and comfortable homes
in respectable families. I believe, as you say, that the idea of
independence and freedom from control leads away more girls than almost
any thing else."
"It leads away a great many: I have no doubt of that," said Letty. "In
the very nature of things, young girls cannot know, and ought not to
know, the nature of the restrictions laid upon them. They ought to be
willing to take them upon trust. But, instead of doing so, they make up
their minds that all these restraints are unjust and tyrannical, and
go on their own wilful way, till they are led to take some step which
ruins their character forever. I don't suppose Jenny had the least idea
what she was doing when she went away to the Springs in that fashion.
She only thought it would be a fine thing to have frolic and do as she
liked.
"Mrs. Trescott made it an absolute condition with all her girls that
they should be accountable to her for all their comings and goings. She
always said she would not have a young person in her house upon any
other terms,—whether it were a young lady in the parlour or a domestic
in the kitchen."
"She is a good woman," said Agnes. "It would have been much better for
me if I had fallen into such hands. I remember very well how mother and
I used to fret about your living out, and how mother used to tell every
one that you only did sewing and taught the children. I remember, too,
how distressed we were when you went into the kitchen to work."
"It was an excellent thing for me," remarked Letty. "If I had a dozen
girls, they should all be taught to work."
"Have you begun in that way with Una?" asked Agnes.
"Oh, yes: she is quite a housekeeper already," replied Letty, smiling.
"You would be amused to see her flourishing her little duster and to
hear her remarks upon the subject. If I am spared to teach her, I mean
she shall learn to do all sorts of housework in the best manner. It is
much easier to learn before one is married than afterwards."
"I fully believe that," remarked Agnes. "I remember what a difference
there was between you and me when we were first married. Your work did
not take up half your time,—indeed, I never could tell when you did it;
while mine was under my feet all day. I worked hard and tired myself
out, and, after all, nothing was ever done as it ought to be."
"My own work was so light, in comparison with what I had been used to,
that it seemed as nothing to me," replied Letty; "and there was Mrs. De
Witt always at hand to help me in any emergency."
"She was always a good soul," said Agnes. "I remember the biscuits she
baked and carried over to you the night you were married. It was a
curious wedding present: wasn't it? No one but Mrs. De Witt would ever
have thought of such a thing."
"It was a most acceptable present," said Letty, and laughing. "We had
plenty of cake, preserves, and all that; but no one had thought of the
bread. I well remember John's blank face when I asked about the flour."
"And do you recollect Aunt Eunice's visit? I always believed the state
of my kitchen and myself that unlucky day was the real cause of the
good old lady's will. I remember how kindly she talked to me that day
when I told her my grievances. I recollect your dinner, too, Letty, and
how jealous I was because they all praised your cooking, and how Mrs.
De Witt washed up the dishes, and how vexed I was when you asked her
to tea, until I saw the little silver jug with the coat-of-arms. Your
mother was a silly woman in those days, Madge."
Letty could not help fearing that Agnes was talking too much; but she
seemed to find so much pleasure in recalling old scenes, and telling
Madge about her early life, that she had not the heart to check her.
Indeed, Dr. Woodman himself had said that nothing could make any great
difference, and that she might as well be allowed her own way.
At last, towards sunset, Agnes fell asleep.
But it was but an hour or two afterwards that her breathing became
oppressed, and alarming tokens of approaching death were given. Letty
rang the bell for Prince, that she might send for John; but, before she
had time to give the message, all was over.
She gasped for breath once or twice; a look of repose came over her
face, and her eyes closed on all things below the sun.
"What is it?" asked Madge, bewildered, and but half comprehending.
"Your mother is in a better world, I hope, my child," said Letty,
taking her in her arms. "God has taken her to himself."
The grief of Madge was very bitter. She had always loved her mother,
despite her neglect and coldness; and the last few weeks had greatly
deepened the affection. It seemed as if she could not let her mother go
without her.
"Oh, if I could only go too!" she sobbed. "What is the use of my
staying here when they are all gone,—grandmother, and mother, and
little Herbert, and all? Why can't I go with them?"
"My love," said Letty, "God will let you go when his time comes. If he
keeps you in this world, it is because he has work for you to do which
no one else could do as well."
"But I cannot do any thing," said Madge. "Such as I am are of no use to
any one."
"That is a mistake," said Letty. "A great deal of good has been done by
just such as you. I expect you will help me in teaching Una and Jack,
if your father allows you to come and live with us."
"I hope he will," said Madge. "But what will father do when he comes
home and finds that mother is dead?"
Letty could not guess what he would do. She had a presentiment of a
terrible scene, and exerted herself to get Madge to bed and to sleep,
at the top of the house, before there was a possibility of her father's
arrival. She succeeded better than she expected. Madge was worn out
with grief and excitement, and her year at Dr. Woodman's had taught her
to be docile to authority: so that Letty soon had the satisfaction of
seeing her sound asleep.
Mary and the servants had by this time finished the last solemn duties
to the dead. Letty was preparing to go home to her children; and she
and John were standing looking at the quiet sleeper who would never
again be disturbed, when the front door was noisily opened, and some
one was heard speaking in a thick, indistinct way.
"It is Joseph, and he is drunk," said Letty. "What shall we do?"
"He seems in a good-natured mood for once," said John, going towards
the stairs, where Prince had already met his master and was trying to
keep him from going up; but he made his way somehow to the side of the
bed, where the body lay.
The moment the wretched man entered the apartment, he seemed to have a
dim idea that all was not right.
"Is she sick? Is she dead?" he asked, in an awe-struck whisper. "You
don't mean to say she is dead and I not here?"
"She died only a few hours since," replied John. "We telegraphed for
you several times, but could hear nothing of you. She was very anxious
to see you once more, and wrote you a long letter. She died happily,
Joseph,—the death of a true child of God, repenting of her sins and
trusting in her Saviour."
"She had nothing to repent of," said Joseph, fiercely. "She was as good
a wife and as good a woman as ever lived. They told me stories about
her, and I was fool enough to believe some of them. I was cruel to her!
I abused her! Oh, Aggy, Aggy! Only once come back, and see how happy we
will be!"
"She is happy where she is," said Letty. "She has suffered very much
for some time past; but her death was without a struggle. She will
never know pain or sorrow again."
"Oh, if I had only been here!" he exclaimed, with violent sobs. "If I
could only have told her how sorry I am! I ill-treated her in every
way. The very day I went away, I was cruel to her; and now she is gone,
and I shall never see her again!"
John persuaded him to go to his own room; and after a while he got him
to bed, promising to stay all night in the house.
The next day John found Joseph altogether sober and rational; but
though perfectly friendly with his wife's relations, and apparently
pleased to have them in his house, he was not disposed to talk. He
asked some questions about his wife's illness, and expressed his
gratitude to Letty for her care, saying it was more than he had a right
to expect; but he was very silent, for the most part.
Directly after the funeral, Joseph packed, with his own hands, all
Agnes's valuables, including their very handsome china and silver, and
sent them to Mr. Caswell's address in C—. He then leased his house,
sold all his furniture at auction, and went to board at a hotel.
John and Letty, having finished their arrangements, returned to C—,
taking with them Madge and Mary, who was delighted with the idea of
living with Mrs. Caswell and taking care of her poor darling, as she
always called Madge.
John had laboured in vain to penetrate the reserve in which Joseph
had wrapped himself, so as to find out what he intended to do, and
whether he had any thought of abandoning his present business; but
Joseph, though always friendly enough, absolutely declined any such
conversation: so that his relatives were left entirely in the dark as
to his future prospects.