ANNIE'S LETTER.
THE third week of Marion's sickness there came a crisis and hope.
Yes, it was evident to all there was hope now, where fear had
prevailed. The doctor's mouth, which had been so firm and rigid,
relaxed; and there was a suspicion of a smile. Hepsey's eyes were
less watery, James opened and shut the outer door in a jubilant
manner, proud of being the one to say to the anxious inquirers,—
"The doctor begins to hope."
On Annie Leman's pale face had come beams of light, which made her
beautiful. Scarcely conscious of her own action, she went forward
to the physician, caught his hand and pressed it in both hers.
"How can I thank you sir," she said, softly.
"Pshaw, Miss Annie! She owes more to you than to me. We can both
thank God. She has been so close to the open gates, I think she can
tell us something of what is inside."
One Thursday morning, twenty-six days from the time she left
Grantbury, Marion opened her eyes and the light of consciousness
dawned in them.
For one instant there was a bewildered expression as she gazed at her
faithful watcher, who sat by her side; then she smiled, and said
faintly,—
"It's Annie."
"Yes, dear."
"How came I in bed? I remember I felt ill in the cars."
"You have been sick, but you are much better now. Take a spoonful
of this, dear, and go to sleep again."
"Lie down by me, Annie, and I'll try to sleep. You look pale and
tired."
Annie smoothed the pillow, changed Marion's position, and then lay
down on the outside of the bed, as she had done so many times during
the last weary weeks.
"Miss Howard's excellent constitution is doing wonders for her,"
remarked Dr. Ross, as, after the crisis, she seemed to make a leap
into the arms of health. "No more drugs: Nature will do her own work
now."
This was Marion's first experience of severe illness, and it was
difficult to make her understand that for a time she must be
economical of her newly gained energies.
"I feel so strong," she insisted, "that I ought to be waiting on
Annie, instead of her waiting on me."
"Speaking of Miss Annie," said the doctor, "I have two little girls
old enough to learn music. By-and-by, when you are well, I shall ask
her to take them into her care."
"How do you know she is competent, Doctor? You ought to consult me,"
urged Marion, with her old beaming smile, as she saw that her
favorite pupil had difficulty in controlling her gratitude at this
unexpected offer.
"I'll test her capabilities now. Come, Miss Annie, into the parlor,
and give me a piece offhand."
With many blushes she obeyed, and, seating herself at the piano,
played from memory an accompaniment to a simple ballad, which she
sang with so much sweetness that the physician was delighted.
"Teach my girls to play and sing like that," he exclaimed, "and your
fortune is made. Teach them another accomplishment, too,—to play
when they are asked, without excuses, as you did. I more than half
expected you would say, 'I'm all out of practice, Doctor'; or,
'I'm far from strong.' Teach them all that, and you'll win the
gratitude of one father."
Before Marion was able to drive out herself, she insisted that Annie
should spend several hours every day in the open air. Indeed, she
contrived so many errands which it was imperative must be attended
to immediately that the young girl could not refuse.
She early learned that Mary Falkner came to the city soon after the
place in the Home for the Sick had been secured for her, that
Dr. Moore had seen her safely in the bed in her ward, and had
afterward had a consultation visit on her own case with Dr. Ross.
She seemed to have forgotten all about her new protégés,
Mrs. Douglass and Mrs. Cheriton; but one day, on looking over the
cards left during her sickness, she found one which brought the
crimson tide back to her pale cheeks.
It was a card with the name in print,—Harold Angus; and underneath,
in a fine hand, was written Juliette Cheriton, with the street and
number of her boarding-place.
"Oh, how much I have to do!" Marion said. "I forgot this lady
entirely."
Annie wondered what caused the pained voice and firmly set lips of
her friend, but she only said soothingly,—
"Don't worry, dear. Tell me if there is any thing I can do to help
you."
Marion put her hand wearily to her head, and in answer to Annie's
earnest remonstrance, pleading that she would think of nothing about
business now, she only asked,—"How soon will the doctor be here?"
"Not for some hours yet. You will have time for a good nap."
"Please give me my pen and paper: I must write a few words, then I
will try to rest; and, Annie dear, will you leave me alone a few
minutes?"
The table was drawn nearer, materials for writing placed within
reach, and Annie, after a wistful glance at her friend, left the
chamber. If she could have looked back and seen the weary, tired,
pained expression which came over her friend's face as she seized the
pen, she might have doubted whether she was acting wisely to leave
her.
The note was quickly written, indeed the words were dashed off with a
fierce energy, as though she doubted her ability to finish, unless at
once. It read thus:—
Mr. Harold Angus:—
Life is uncertain. I hope to live to restore to you a packet from one
whom I strongly suspect was dear to you. To find this package drove
me home from Grantbury, where I first heard that which connected you
in my thoughts with a young girl called Stella. I am not aware of its
contents, and can only say now that Stella died of consumption at the
Home for the Sick, loving and forgiving and blessing all those who
had been dear to her.
MARION HOWARD.
Having sealed this, and written the address, she added this
direction: "If I should die, please deliver this at once;" then,
enclosing the whole in a blank envelope, she touched her hand-bell
and requested Annie to place it in her desk.
"I must rest my head now," she said; "but first, I want you to
promise me that, in case anything should happen to me, you will
forward any letters you may find in my desk. Don't look so
frightened, dear. I shall try to get well, for I have a great deal
to do, and life is so pleasant; but there are duties which I dared
not defer."
At this moment James knocked at the door, and passed in a letter just
delivered by the postman.
"It is Annie Asbury's handwriting," explained Marion, in a glad
voice. "It will soothe me to sleep, perhaps. Annie is a dear child."
The letter read thus:—
DEAR MARION,—
Imagine me sitting by the east window, where I can
look out on the great elm-tree, and hear the robin-redbreasts as they
are calling their mates to join them in a morning song. I wish you
could see the grass. It looks greener than green, now that the sun
is touching it. I guess somebody else is feasting his eyes on the
emerald greensward (that's quoted), for I hear a curtain rolled up
and window-sash raised, so I am going to quit this highfalutin style,
and let my pen run on as it will; but, before I forget it, I must
tell you that ever since Mr. Angus ran up to town the day he called
to inquire for you there has been a change in him. Before that he had
one of his worst attacks of depression, or dyspepsia, as Aunt
Thankful calls them; but now he seems to have made up his mind not
to give way. I don't mean that he is cheerful, and I don't know as
I can explain what I do mean. You must see him, before you will
understand. Last night, after prayers, ma must have noticed something
different in him, for she went to him and held out her hand in that
kind way of hers.
"I thank you for your prayer," she said: "it has done me good."
All the answer he made was to repeat these words,—
"God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble."
As he stood with his eyes fixed full on hers, I saw a new light
in them, as though he had said to himself, "I'm going to take courage
and go ahead."
If he had seen you, and you had talked to him as you did to pa and ma
after dear Helen died, I should have expected to see just such a
look.
I suppose you know, dear, that those foreign people went away the
week after you did. Ma went with Mr. Angus and brought Eugene here.
He is so beautiful he almost took my breath away; but I am sorry
to say he is so far from good in Ethel's meaning of the word that she
considers it necessary to pray for him very often. Not a soul would
he obey but Mr. Angus. I laughed so much I had to go out of the room:
there was that boy with eyes flashing, defying everybody to make him
stop teasing the cat, and holding her up by the tail; and there was
Ethel perfectly dumb with astonishment, eyes wide open, pale cheeks,
and that little quiver of her lips she has when grieved. Mr. Angus
took in the situation at once and said,—
"Come to me, Eugene."
The boy did not stir.
If I were an artist I would try to sketch Mr. Angus's eyes, as he
fixed them on the defiant little fellow. There was power in them.
I think Ethel would be frightened into fits if he looked at her in
that way. Eugene endured it a minute and then ran, throwing his arms
around the neck of the conqueror, who looked lovingly enough then.
I only waited to see whether Ethel would be jealous; but the precious
child went up and held up her sweet lips to kiss Eugene and show him
she forgave him; then I ran to my room and had a hearty laugh all to
myself.
Mr. Angus told ma that Eugene was a Spanish Creole, and that it is
natural for him to be hot-blooded.
Ma said you wanted me to write a whole letter about Ethel,—all her
funny sayings and doings. I'm sorry now I didn't begin with these,
for I fear my letter will be too long.
First, she is a darling. Yesterday she came running in from the
garden, her hair all in a friz about her forehead, her cheeks of a
brilliant color.
"Oh, my!" she cried, throwing off her hat. "I'm all in a
sweatperation."
"A what?" repeated Gardner, trying not to laugh.
"A sweatperation. Isn't that right?" she asked quickly, as he burst
out laughing.
"It's perspiration, dear," I explained. She was a little mortified.
She has begun to learn the Commandments, and applies them to herself
and her dolls on all occasions.
Do you remember that habit she used to have of twirling a piece of
her dress or apron when she was talking? She made a clean dress look
so mussed, ma told her she mustn't do it.
A few days ago I heard her talking to her favorite doll, Frances.
"You have been a very naughty girl: you have broken the Commandments.
Don't deny it, Frances. I saw you do it."
"What has poor Frances done?" I asked.
"Mussed her nice dress all up, so she can't go to the party."
"It wasn't pretty for her to do it; but I don't think it was breaking
the Commandments, dear."
"Why, yes, it is, Annie, because I forbid her to do it."
"Oh! it comes under obedience, then."
"Yes, she is very naughty."
Two weeks ago Mr. Angus asked ma to let Ethel and I go on the lake
with him. Ma is afraid of the water, you know, and so she asked,
anxiously,—
"Are you used to rowing?"
He seemed very much amused as he said, "Yes, Mrs. Asbury."
Pa laughed as he explained, "Our pastor is a regular sailor, ma:
I'll trust him."
When we were getting into the boat I was a little afraid myself,
it tipped so; and there stood dear little Ethel shaking from head
to foot.
"Will it tip over?" she asked, as Mr. Angus lifted her carefully in.
"No, dear. I think God will take care of us." He looked very lovingly
at her as he put her down on the cross seat in the centre, while I
sat at one end and he at the other. There was not a sign of fear
after that. She sat up straight, looking at him, but not saying a
word till he asked,—
"Do you like it, Ethel?"
"Yes, sir."
The next day she was in his room, and he saw her take her five
dollies out of the locker and make them all kneel down by her doll's
bedstead. She was just going to kneel too, when he asked,—
"What are you doing, Ethel?"
She came right up to him and said, "Ma is going to take me to
New York when my Marion is well enough, and I'm going to ask God
to make the boat go softly."
"That's right," he told her; and then he heard her whisper a little
prayer.
He told ma that she seemed perfectly sure after this that the boat
would go softly, as she said. He often says, "She is a blessed
child." He never praises her, as so many do; but I know he thinks her
beautiful, from the way he spoke one day when a lady was comparing
her with another child. He said, "There can be no comparison.
For purity and sweetness of expression, she is beyond any child
I ever saw."
I must tell you one thing more about our pet, and then I think you
will credit me with four letters of common length.
You know we have always wondered that Ethel should remember so much
about her nurse Bridget, who died a year ago. She always seemed
troubled about her, and used to look up and say, "Can't you speak
to me out of heaven? Can't you just whisper a little?"
A few days ago she went into the kitchen and sat down very soberly.
"It's very bad," she began, "to have naughty legs go into heaven.
Naughty legs had better be cut off than to try to get into heaven."
Cook told ma, and we all thought she had heard somebody read about;
"If thy right hand offend thee," etc.; but she came to ma the same
day, sat down, and began to sigh.
She looked anxiously in ma's face as she said,—
"I suppose Bridget has told God by this time that I kicked her."
Ma says she was very much surprised, as she never knew Ethel to kick
any one; but she answered calmly,—
"If Bridget told God, she told him also that you didn't mean to."
"But I did mean to." She held her finger up to emphasize it, and
repeated, "I did mean to."
"Well, then, dear, she told him that you were sorry."
"Yes," sighing. "I'm sorry now. I wasn't sorry then, when she went
away."
"I'll tell you, darling, what you can do,"—ma saw she was really
troubled and conscience-stricken,—"you can kneel down and tell God
yourself that you are sorry. He will forgive you."
She knelt for some time by her little chair, whispering her prayer in
God's ear. Since that she has never mentioned Bridget's name.
She must have suffered all that time from the pricks of her tender
conscience. I'm sure I saw tears in Mr. Angus's eyes when ma told him
about it.
Good-by, dear Marion. The breakfast-bell is ringing, and I'm sure
Gardner is doing it, for it is done with a will. He's hungry,
I suppose. From
COUSIN ANNIE.