Chapter Eleven.
A Sad Reality.
So one afternoon, when Eunice had gone to her room to rest, Fidelia followed her softly. As she paused a moment at the door, wondering if she were asleep, Eunice said—
“I see you, Fidelia; come in.” So Fidelia went in, and, as she stood over her sister, her trouble showed in her face. “What is it, dear? Are you not well?”
“Yes, I am well. But I am naughty, Eunice, and discontented, as I used sometimes to be when I was a little girl, and you used to send me away for a change.”
“Well, I am going to send you away again—too soon for my own pleasure; but, since it will be for your good, my darling, I must let you go.”
“I hope it may be for my good, Eunice. I am not good, but I will try to be good.”
“Fidelia, what is it? Something troubles you. Why, you are trembling! Are you cold? Sit down here beside me, and tell me what is the matter.”
“Well, we must speak softly, or we shall have Mrs Stone in upon us. Yes, I want to speak to you, and I have been trying to ‘dodge’ her all day. I hardly ever get you to myself now—not at the right time, when I have something to say.”
Fidelia spoke rapidly, as though she hardly considered what she was saying.
“Is that the trouble, dear? I am sorry,” said Eunice, gravely.
“You needn’t be sorry. Aunt Ruby is not the trouble. I am glad she is here.”
“Well, dear, tell me. You are making me anxious.”
“Something is the matter, Eunice. I do feel troubled. I feel as if there were something—something that I ought to be told. If you say there is nothing, Eunice, that will be enough.”
Eunice sat for a long time without a word, and Fidelia was saying to herself—
“When she has told me, I shall be able to forget these last few miserable days, and be as I was before. It is a bad dream, that is all, and I must forget it.”
“Yes, I will tell you. I have always wished to tell you. It is best, I am sure; and, though I may give you pain, you will be glad afterwards.”
“Yes,” said Fidelia faintly—“glad afterwards.”
“Fidelia, I may tell you now how unhappy I was for a time last year. Not unhappy exactly, but anxious and afraid—”
“And you sent me away?”
“Yes, dear, as was best. And when you came home, the worst was nearly over. Dr Everett came next day and gave me hope, and then Dr Justin came, and I was not afraid any more. He seemed to know—to understand better even than Dr Everett. Oh, Fidelia, I never can tell you the thankfulness of my heart! I wonder I didn’t sing it out to you a hundred times. But they seemed to think it was best not to say anything to you, as I had not spoken before. But I am glad to speak now, though I am afraid you will be startled.”
Fidelia rose and placed herself with her face turned from the light.
“Well?”
“Fidelia, you remember grandmother—how very patiently she suffered, and how long? Oh, no one but Dr Everett and myself knows what she suffered! It was a long and terrible time. Every night we used to pray together—she and I—that she might be patient to the end, and that, if it were God’s will, the end might be hastened. And so, when I thought—when the awful fear first came to me that I had all that to go through—well, for a while my faith failed me. I did not tell any one, not even Dr Everett. That was last year. Then you went away, and the winter was long and lonesome; but I was helped, and strengthened, and comforted, even at the worst time.
“It was not all fancy, dear. I had some cause for fear, but the danger for me is not that. I shall have no long time of suffering, they say; and, though I can never hope to be very strong again, I may live and have such health as I have now for years. And, Fidelia, you must not say that I should have told you, and that I should not have let you go away. I could not have you suffer in seeing my suffering as long as I could keep it from you; and you see it was better so. You must have known after a time, if my fears had been realised, but not too soon.”
Fidelia had listened like one in a dream. Her fears had touched nothing like this. All the time she had been thinking of quite other things. She sank down on her knees, and laid her face on her sister’s lap with a cry.
“Oh, my Eunice—my Eunice!” Eunice laid her hand on her bowed head, but she did not speak for a while. By-and-by she said, gently—
“Fidelia, listen to me. There is nothing to grieve for. Think how different it might have been, and what a happy summer I have had! Neither pain, nor fear of pain—only a quiet mind, and rest, and peace. Tell me, dear, have you not sometimes been afraid of me, that I might have long suffering before me? And are you not glad and thankful with me? There is nothing to grieve for—nothing. Fidelia, have you never been afraid?” Fidelia raised her head.
“Yes, I have been afraid that perhaps, when you came to be an old woman like grandmother, you might have to suffer; but—”
“Well, you need not be afraid any more,” said Eunice, leaning back as though there was nothing more to be said.
“And are you well, Eunice? And have you nothing else to tell me?”
“I am well—for me. You must see that yourself, dear. I don’t expect ever to be very strong. I don’t think I was ever one of the strong women; and the strain of nursing and anxiety told more on me than it would on some women. But if I take care of myself now, I shall have strength to do a great deal; and now that Mrs Stone is here, to take the housekeeping when you are away, I shall have leisure for reading and other pleasant things. And I have my Sunday-school class, and I can visit my friends, and, though I can never do much at nursing again, I can go to see sick and sorrowful people, and help and comfort them a little perhaps. And I can always speak a word for my Lord and Master. My darling, I can see such a happy, restful life before me!”
“Oh, my Eunice—my Eunice!” Fidelia’s face was hidden again. “A happy life before her!” repeated she; and the thought of her own impatience and discontent, her envyings and her small ambitions, made her ashamed. “Oh, I am not a good girl! I am all wrong, all wrong!”
All thoughts of her “bad dream” had passed out of her mind till Eunice spoke again.
“Have I nothing else to tell? Nothing, I think, which you have not guessed already. And it may not come so soon as they think. But I think it need not trouble you. The thought of it does not trouble me any more except for your sake. And even to you the sorrow will only be for a little while, and the gladness will come after.”
Fidelia raised her head, and looked with beseeching eyes into the face of her sister.
“Eunice, tell me!”
Eunice stooped and kissed her with a smile on her lips, though they trembled a little.
“Dear, do you remember our father, and how he died? Well, it may be that the end will come to me as it came to him. That is what Dr Everett thinks, and Dr Justin. They cannot tell me when. I may live for years—but, there, I may not. Is it cruel to tell you? But afterwards you would grieve not to have known. And you are a woman now, my darling, and you know that our life is not given just to take our pleasure in, but that the world is meant to be a place of discipline and of work for our fellow-creatures and for the Lord.”
Eunice paused a moment.
“I hoped to work too, and at first I murmured, but I am quite content now, as you will be by-and-by. And you will never forget me, in the happy life which I hope—which I believe lies before you.”
Fidelia put up her hands with a cry. “Hush!” she cried. “I cannot bear it; I cannot believe it. Oh, Eunice, how can you say it, smiling like that, when you know that I have no one in the world but you?”
“Does it seem so to you, dear? You have no other sister; but so many love you—and—you have our Lord and Saviour, whom you love, and whom you seek to serve; and you will not forget me. I shall be something in your life always, and to your children; and, dear, we will not speak any more—I am very tired.”
Fidelia rose without a word. She made her sister lie down, and brought her water to drink, and bathed her face; and then Mrs Stone’s step was heard on the stairs, and Eunice said—
“Go away for a little while. Go out for a walk through the woods, and think it all over, and ask our Father to give you a little glimpse of all the blessing He intends to give you through your sorrow. My darling, I have gone through the suffering. Yes, I know that parting is not so hard for the one who goes. But it is all as good and right as God can make it for His children, and you will see it so in a little while.”
“Oh, Eunice, I am not good! You do not know—”
“But He knows, dear. Tell it all to Him, who loves you even better than I love you.”
There was no time for more, and Fidelia went out at one door as Mrs Stone came in at the other. She was bewildered and helpless for the moment. Her first impulse was to throw herself on the bed in an utter abandonment of sorrow, and, alas! of rebellion, under the hand that touched her. But Eunice had said—“Go out into the woods,” and she must go. So she rose and bathed her face, and, wrapping herself in her shawl, went out through the garden to the fields, and then to the woods, walking rapidly.
It was not grief alone which worried her. She was amazed and rebellious, and sought to see nothing beyond the desolation of being left without her sister. She was very selfish in the first shock of surprise and pain, and it was an hour of bitterness that she passed beneath the cedars by the brook; and, alas for her! she took both pain and bitterness home with her again.
Remembering her own time of trouble, Eunice had patience with her, knowing that light and help would come. She waited long, but she waited patiently, and help came at last.
“Fidelia,” said Mrs Stone, one night soon after this, “are you thinking of going to conference meeting to-night?”
“No; I can’t say I am. Mr Runkin is not at home.”
“Unless he came this morning, which is not likely. But there’ll be somebody there to lead the meeting, I expect.”
“Deacon Ainsworth, I guess,” said Fidelia, with a shrug. “I don’t feel as if it would pay to go to hear him.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would pay to go to hear him, if that were all you went for, or to hear anybody else. But don’t you know that to ‘two or three gathered together’ in His name the promise is given?”
“There will be two or three and more there, without me; and I shouldn’t help much, Aunt Ruby.”
“But you might be helped if the Lord Himself were there. I’d guess you’d better go. If you go, you’d better take down this book to the doctor. He left it here by mistake, I expect, since it is in a strange tongue. I presume he thinks he lost it out of his chaise, and he’ll be glad to get it again. If you do go, Jabez’ll be along at the right time to come home with you.” All this Mrs Stone said, seeing, but not seeming to sea, the cloud that lay darkly on Fidelia’s face.
One thought which had a little hope in it had come to Fidelia that day under the cedars—“Dr Everett will know. I will ask Dr Everett.” But she had never done so; and Mrs Stone’s insistence about the meeting and the doctor’s book gave the needed impulse; and she said she would go.
She was a little late; but so were Dr Everett and his daughters, who were just coming out of their own gate when she came in sight.
“It won’t be the deacon, at any rate,” thought Fidelia.
They waited for her, and she gave the book. It was as Mrs Stone had said—the doctor had thought the book lost, and was glad to see it again.
“Thank you, Miss Faithful. You generally do bring pleasant things and thoughts when you come. And how is Miss Eunice?” But, seeing her face, he did not wait for the answer. “Of course she is well, or you would not be here;” and they moved down the street together.
Afterwards, when Mrs Stone asked Fidelia if they had a good meeting, she said—“Oh, yes, I guess so! Dr Everett took the lead.” But that was all she could tell. She did not even remember the hymns that were sung, because she did not sing them. When she left the schoolroom her heart was beating so heavily, that she had to wait till they reached the house before she found voice to say—
“Are you busy, Dr Everett? I should like to speak to you before I go home.”
Dr Everett opened the door of his office, and she went in there. He lighted a lamp, and sat down opposite to her.
“Well, dear, what have you to say to me?”
“You know—Eunice—”
There is no need to go over it all again. What could the doctor say that Eunice had not said before? That they should be glad and thankful that no time of terrible suffering lay before her—that years of happy life might remain to her, though she could never be strong. That was his brother’s opinion, decidedly. And then he added a few words of sympathy and encouragement.
“Eunice was right to tell you. You are no longer a child, Fidelia; and doing God’s will is best, whether we see it now or not;” and much more he said.
Fidelia sat silent and tearless through all, and when he ceased she said—
“You have told me your brother’s opinion, now tell me yours.”
“It is the same as his, only I know better than he could know how great was the strain of the watching, and the anxiety, and the sight of terrible suffering which she bore for years; and I believe that the end may be nearer than he thinks.”
“Yes, Eunice says so. That is what I wished to know,” said Fidelia, rising. “Now I must go.”
“You need not hurry; Jabez has not come.”
Fidelia sat down without a word. All this was not like her. The doctor would have liked to see her tears; but perhaps they might as well wait till she was at home. He had a word to say as to what was best for Eunice.
“Mrs Stone is a good nurse, and she loves your sister, and when you are away—”
“I am not going away,” said she.
“To the seminary? Does Eunice know?”
“I have not told her, but I think she must know that it is impossible.”
“She has greatly desired for you the privileges of the place. She will be disappointed.”
“I cannot go.”
“I think, if I were you, I would leave it to your sister to say. And, remember, she must not be excited or troubled.”
“I know.”
“And you must know that Mrs Stone is not just a nurse, but a friend whom your sister loves and trusts, and you must trust her too.”
“I know,” repeated Fidelia.
“If you were to ask my advice, I should say—Let there be no change in your plans; go as you intended to go, and—”
“But I am not going to ask your advice, nor the advice of any one. You must think me a poor creature, Dr Everett, if you can believe that I could leave my sister, now that I know!”
“My dear, you know better than that.”
“Eunice did not go away when—Oh, Dr Everett, I am so miserable! She is all I have—all I have!”
The tears came now in a flood.
“That is better,” said the doctor to himself. To Fidelia he said nothing for awhile, but let her tears have way. There was no time for more words, for Jabez had come.
Strange to say, there was not a word spoken between Fidelia and the lad till they reached home. Jabez had “thought over” a good many things he meant to ask about, as to his recent reading, but he had caught a glimpse of her face by the light of the doctor’s lamp, and the questions were kept for another time.
“Miss Eunice is not worse, is she, Fidelia?” said he as they entered the gate.
“No, Jabez; but—good-night.”
One word of Dr Everett’s stayed with Fidelia. Eunice must not be excited or troubled. Still many days must not pass before her decision to stay at home was made known to her. Would it grieve and trouble her very much?
In her perplexity Fidelia spoke first to Mrs Stone, who listened in silence to all she had to say.
“Is it that which has been troubling you all these days?” said she, with the air of one relieved. “Let’s talk it over and find out what is best, before we say a word to Eunice about it. Is it of her you are thinking, or yourself? Before we go further you must settle that.”
“It isn’t that I think Eunice needs me at home, if that is what you mean.”
“Yes; you know I will take good care of her. I love her, and I have nursed sick folks before. She’ll miss you? Yes; but then she has set her heart on your getting the good of another year at the seminary, and she may feel worse about your having to lose that than about her having to lose your company. And she begins this winter with better health and better courage than she did last winter.”
“And do you think I would have gone away last winter if I had known? I know she has you now. Yes, Aunt Ruby, it is of myself I am thinking. She is all I’ve got, and I must stay with her while she is here. Months or years—what is the difference?”
“I understand your feeling.” There was a long silence, and then Mrs Stone added—“I don’t know that I am capable of realising all the good a year at the seminary would do you. I think you couldn’t fail to get much good for this world, and for the next as well, from the company of your sister. But if she has set her heart on your going away, I don’t see but you must go, dear.”
“I cannot, Aunt Ruby.”
“I know that’s your feeling. But you mustn’t be wilful about it, Fidelia.”
“I cannot go.”
“Have you spoken to Dr Everett?”
“Yes, but he didn’t help me any.”
“Well, I don’t see but you’ll have to talk to Eunice about it. Only you must make up your mind to do just as she says. And you must lay it all before the Lord. It is His will you must seek to know.”
“You will have to do that for me, Aunt Ruby. I don’t seem to have any right to do that.”
“Because you can’t submit. But, child, you may set your heart on getting your own will, and you may get it; and, if you do, it will be bitterness to you. Give up your will to be guided by the Lord, and then you will know what it is to be content.”
“How can it be His will that I should leave her who has been more than a mother to me all my life, now that she is so near—Oh, Aunt Ruby, I cannot go!”
To say that Fidelia was heart-sick these days, is not saying too much. She grieved over Eunice; and all her sorrow and her love were embittered by the memory of the “bad dream” which would return; and she hated it and herself, traitor as she called herself. She did not sleep at night, and she was restless and listless by day; her face grew pale, and her eyes grew large and full of anxious pain; and her sister, who had watched her through it all, could keep silence no longer, and so she spoke.
Fidelia had come down as usual with her book in her hand, but, seated at the window, with her eyes on the fading vine-leaves that fluttered about it, she seemed to have forgotten her book and the reading which Eunice had prepared herself to hear.
“Are you ready, dear?” said Eunice.
“Ready?” repeated Fidelia. “I don’t know. I don’t seem to care much about it to-day, or about anything else.”
“Fidelia, come and sit here by me. Never mind the book, dear. What is it that troubles you? Is it the thought of going away?”
“I don’t think I can go, Eunice. I don’t think I had better go.”
“Will you tell me all about it, dear?” said Eunice, speaking very gently. “Come and sit by me.”
Fidelia rose and went slowly to her sister’s side.
“For one thing, I don’t feel as if I could leave you,” said she, putting great restraint upon herself, that she might speak quietly.
“Well, and what else?”
“I should have to work even harder that I did last year in order to graduate. It is quite doubtful whether I could if I should do my best; and I don’t seem to care about it enough to try.”
“You might feel differently when you were there among the rest of the pupils.”
Fidelia shook her head.
“I think perhaps I should study at home, and perhaps teach awhile, as we first intended; and I might go next year. I don’t seem to have the ambition I used to have about it. Going to the seminary isn’t everything. I guess you had better let me stay at home.”
“I will think about it, dear. I am sorry you feel so,” said Eunice gravely.
Of course Fidelia had her own way. After much consideration of the matter by Eunice and her two counsellors, Mrs Stone and the doctor, it was thought best that it should be so. She was too unhappy and indifferent to appreciate or to profit by the advantages to be enjoyed at the seminary, and for the present she would be better at home. She could still go there later, if the way should open; and so it was left.
Jabez’s plans were not settled for the next summer yet; but, whether he was to rent Miss Eunice’s garden or not, it must be planted and sowed by some one; and the more there was done in the fall the less there would be to do in the spring.
“And I consider that it was in the contract that I should leave it all straight,” said Jabez; and so he worked faithfully, and Fidelia worked with him; and the sharp autumn winds brought a tinge of colour to her pale face, and now and then the sound of her laugh brought a thrill of pleasure to the hearts of the two women sitting within.
She was very gentle and loving with Eunice all this time, watching over her, and anticipating her wishes in many sweet and unexpected ways. She was helpful to Mrs Stone also—indeed, showing a little wilfulness in the constant taking of the least pleasant part of the household work into her own hands. She was trying to be good, but she was not happy. She might have known—she did know, that without submission to the will of God no one could be either truly happy or good; and she was not submissive. Things had gone sadly wrong with their happy life, and for her she saw no chance happiness again.
Poor foolish child!—that she could not see, because she shut her eyes to the light.