Chapter Fourteen.
“So He Giveth His Beloved Sleep.”
And so the spring days passed, and the summer days shone over a happy homestead. Many a time Fidelia said to herself that she desired no other work and no other pleasure than just to live as they were living now. And it did seem as though God was going to permit it for a time. Her “bad dream” had vanished; if the thought of it came back now and then, the sharpness had gone out of the pain which still touched her a little. She had not forgotten altogether. Dr Justin had not allowed her to forget.
He had written frequently—not to her, but to her sister—kind, pleasant letters; the excuse for the first being to send her tidings of the friend whose address had been asked and given on that last day, and whom he had visited at her request.
He had found her a cripple and nearly helpless, but striving to do her part still in the great educational institution to which her health and strength had been given in her youth. Then he added a few good and true words about the hope and the help which had sustained this friend amid all her labours and suffering—“as they are doubtless sustaining you, dear Eunice, in the quiet of your favoured home.”
Then he sent his respects to Mrs Stone, and added—“I was not surprised to hear that Miss Faithful had chosen to remain at home with you; and may the comfort and joy which her presence must give you be given to her by the best Comforter when her day of trial shall come!” In a little while he wrote again, sending also a book which he was sure Eunice would like; and after that he wrote with no excuse at all.
He told them about his new work in the college to which he had been appointed professor, and about his friends, and his pleasant social relations, and his outside work. Eunice did not answer all his letters, but she took pleasure in receiving them. Kind brotherly letters they were, which Fidelia read, and which they discussed a little, as they might have discussed the letters of Dr Everett himself, if he had been away from and had written, to them.
So the spring passed, and the summer wore on, till August came with burning days and sultry nights, which told on the strength of Eunice, already failing, so slowly that the eyes that watched her so lovingly did not see it for a time. Even Dr Everett saw no cause for alarm, nor Mrs Stone, who watched her more closely than he did.
But Eunice knew that the end was drawing near. Afterwards they all wondered that they had not seen more clearly, remembering looks and words which they might have taken for a sign that the joy of heaven was not far away. But so quietly passed the days, with so little to disturb or tire her, that she herself did not know how rapidly her strength was passing from her.
The close days of early August oppressed her, and made the change for the worse suddenly visible to them all. The end did not come without a warning, as Dr Everett had thought it might come. There were days and nights of waiting before her still, when even Fidelia saw the tokens of the last change. There was no great suffering, only weariness and exhaustion, borne sweetly and patiently, and a joyful waiting for “the rest which remains.”
There was a word spoken now and then to console or to encourage her sister, who waited quietly beside her.
“You know all I wish for you, dear; I am not afraid for you. You are in a Father’s loving hand, and by-and-by, when your work is done, you will come to me there,” she said to her, murmuring the sentences at intervals, as she had the strength to speak; and Fidelia could answer firmly and smile brightly. For so deep was the peace and so sure the trust of the dying, and so near the glory awaiting her, that no thought of herself or her loss, or the lonely days that were before her, could move her from the calm which had fallen upon her. All was peace with her also.
Once, at the beginning of these last days, a word was spoken by Mrs Stone.
“About Fidelia, Eunice? The time may come when she will long to know what your wish would have been—have you ever said a word to her about—Justin Everett?”
“No; I think there is nothing to be said. Yes, I know—afterwards she would give heed to any word of mine. But it might not be the right word. No; I can leave this, with all else that concerns her, in the hands of a loving Father. He will guide her in this as in all things.”
And so no care nor shadow of care came to darken these last days. Truly her eyes said to them, when her lips could not utter the words: “I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” And, waiting and watching beside her, Fidelia was for the time lifted above all fear or care or sorrow for herself, and rejoiced in her sister’s joy.
Thus quietly one summer morning she passed away. So quietly, they—
“Thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.”
They buried her beside her kinsfolk in the little graveyard of Halsey; and her memory still lives in the hearts of her friends and neighbours who knew and loved her so well.
Then, for a time, life and all its interests seemed to stand still for Fidelia. She was weary and spent, and they left her alone to rest and grow strong again. By-and-by, with no word of appeal or entreaty from any one, she came back to her old ways, and tried to take up her work again. It was not easy for her to do this, but it was easier than it would have been had her loss come a year sooner.
“It is God’s will that I should go first; and, dear, though you cannot see it now, God’s will in this, as in all things, is best,” Eunice had said to her many times; and she knew in her heart that it was true.
“And, oh, how much the best for my Eunice!” she said with many tears, yet with submission also.
But her occupation was gone; and, though friends and neighbours did what kind friends and neighbours may do at such a time, to cheer her, the days passed slowly and heavily, till one night Jabez came up “to have a little talk” with her. She had not seen much of him since her sister’s death. He had kept away, he told her, “because it hurt him dreadfully to see her in trouble that he could not help.” It cannot be said that she had missed him much, but she was glad to see him when he came.
Jabez’s “little talk” was about himself, and nothing could have been farther from his thoughts than a desire to give a lesson to his teacher. But she got her lesson all the same. They sat for awhile in the front porch, which was bright with the glory of the sunset. Mrs Stone was there as well as Fidelia, and they spoke about various matters at first; and a few words were said about Eunice. When Mrs Stone rose to go about some household duty, the others rose also, and went through the house into the garden, and down the walk between the tall hollyhocks, to the fence, where there was an opening between the apple-trees—a spot where Fidelia always stood a minute or two whenever she came there. They lingered for awhile in silence, looking down over the river flowing softly between wide irregular meadows, and over to the broken hill country beyond, beautiful now in the glow that fell on it from the west.
Something—perhaps it was the familiar voice of White Star coming suddenly to her ear—brought back to Fidelia the remembrance of the time when she stood there petting the pretty creature, the day after her first return from the seminary—the day when Jabez came up to speak about the garden. It came back so vividly that when Jabez began to speak his first words were lost in the surprise which seized her when she turned towards him.
What had happened to the lad since then? He was a boy no longer, for one thing. As he stood there regarding her with grave eyes, speaking quietly and earnestly, he was very different from the lad who had come whistling up the field, with his hoe over his shoulder, to greet her that day. A man? Well, hardly that yet; but with the promise of manhood on his good and pleasant face, to which, though she was tall herself, she had to look up now! A shadow passed over his face, and he ceased speaking and looked away, as a smile, of which she was quite unconscious, parted Fidelia’s lips.
“I thought maybe you would like to hear about it,” said he in a little, without turning round.
“Of course I shall like to hear about it. Excuse me; I was thinking about something else. You must begin again. Do you know, Jabez, that you are changed lately. You are not a boy any longer; you are a man, and I have only just found it out.”
“A man! No, not quite; but I mean to be a man one of these days,” said Jabez gravely. “And I think now I can see my way.”
“Well! Tell me all about it.”
There was not much to tell, but it took some time to tell it. A letter had come from an uncle of Jabez—his mother’s only brother—written in answer to one sent to him by Deacon Ainsworth, asking advice about the future career of his grandson. The uncle was a minister, living in the far West. He could do nothing for Jabez as to money, for he was a poor man, but he believed that he could better help the lad to help himself, in the part of the country where his home was, than could be done for him in New England. His own son, he said, with but little help from any one, had paid his way through college; and he did not doubt that Jabez, if he were the bright boy his grandfather described him to be, could do the same.
“And so,” said he, “you had better send him on. This is a good country for head-work and for handwork too—whichever he may prove himself best fitted for—and we shall all be glad to see him when he comes.”
“And,” said Jabez gravely, “I think I’ll go and have a try at it.”
“But surely your grandfather might help you a little? And Amhurst or Harvard is the right place for you, Jabez. Why do you wish to go so far away?”
“About grandfather’s help—no. If I go I suppose Cousin Calvin will come and take my place, and have the farm by-and-by, which is all right. And grandfather will pay my way out there, he says. And, as I expect my life’s work will be done out West, the preparation for it may as well be done there too. There is a good chance out there, uncle says.”
“Why should your life’s work be done in the West? And what is it to be?”
Jabez answered the last question first.
“Maybe you will think it presumptuous in me to talk of going in for the highest work of all. But I talked with Miss Eunice about it, and she said she was glad. If it hadn’t been for Miss Eunice I shouldn’t have thought of it. ‘Entire consecration to the highest work of all.’ That was her idea, and it is mine.”
There were tears in Fidelia’s eyes, but there were smiles on her face as well. She did not speak, however, and Jabez went on.
“I don’t just know what I’m fit for yet, but I do know that I don’t feel like holding back; and the Master will see about the rest. He has all kinds of work to be done in His world, and I will find something to do.”
“Yes; and He has work to be done here in New England. Why are you so glad to go away?”
“Oh, I am not glad to go away! But I am glad that I see my way to make a beginning; and I mean to do my best. It may not be a great deal that I can ever do, but the Lord will accept the best I have to give.”
“Yes; I am not afraid for you.”
“And about going West. A great country is being opened up there, and it is being filled with all sorts of people in a wonderful way. New towns, and even cities, are springing up everywhere; and my uncle says that what this wide land needs for true greatness is that the light of the glorious Gospel of the blessed God should shine through every corner of it. I shall like uncle, I am sure,” said Jabez.
“And you want to have a share in making the country great?”
“I want to do my part for my country and the world. It is God’s work, and there doesn’t seem to be anything else worth doing in comparison with this ‘holding forth the Word of Life,’ as uncle calls it, does there?”
Jabez spoke with eager voice and shining eyes, and Fidelia listened amazed. And then she asked herself: “Why should she be amazed?”
It was true. Jabez was right and wise in his choice. What else was there worth doing in comparison with the honour and blessedness of having a part in this work?
“And so far,” she said to herself, “I have neither part nor lot in the matter.” Her face grew grave as she stood looking away to the darkening hills. Hitherto she had lived for herself and for Eunice. Now Eunice was gone, what was she going to do with her life? What would Eunice have liked her to do?
“Miss Fidelia,” said Jabez in a little, “you’ll be going back to the seminary this fall, I suppose. It is a good place to go to, I guess. And it would be lonesome here now.”
“Yes, it would be lonesome here. Yes, I think I may go back again. There seems to be nothing better to do than to go there. Eunice always wished me to go.”
But she spoke sadly, and evidently without much interest.
“You will like it when you are fairly there, and have begun at your books again,” said Jabez.
“Yes, I suppose so. It is best to go any way. Eunice wished it.”
“I am glad of one thing—I shall be gone first,” said Jabez.
“Shall you? When do you go?”
“Next week, if grandma can get my things ready. Time is precious.”
“She must let us help her,” said Fidelia; and then there was silence between them. Fidelia was thinking of a letter which she had received a day or two since, which must be answered soon. Miss Kent had written to her, inviting her to visit her in Boston for as long a time as she could stay. It was such a letter as it is good to write and to receive. There were a few words of sympathy in her sorrow for her sister’s loss, and a few more as to the pleasant things to be done and seen and enjoyed during the visit; but the best of it was the evident kindness and sincerity of the writer in all she said.
Fidelia’s desire to accept the invitation had been growing since the day it came. She longed for a change of some sort, and she needed it. The thought of the seminary and her books gave her very little pleasure.
“It is because you are tired,” said Mrs Stone; but she did not, as it was her first impulse to do, remind her that it had been her sister’s wish that the next year should be passed at the seminary. “She will think of it herself by-and-by.”
Fidelia thought of it now. “Time is precious,” Jabez had said. Surely time ought to be precious to her as well! She ought to go to the seminary this year, if ever she meant to go; and, if so, there was no time to lose.
And, besides, she knew on which side temptation lay for her. An easy, pleasant life among people who knew no other kind of existence; a chance to see and hear and enjoy the beautiful and wonderful things of which she knew little, except from books, would be delightful; but would it be good for her? Would it be a preparation for the work of which she and Eunice used to talk and plan?—“the highest of all work,” as Jabez had called it, and “entire consecration to God’s service.”
“I must be a poor creature to have any other desire,” she told herself.
In a little Jabez said—
“Miss Eunice said something to me once. She said it made her glad to think that I might be permitted to do some of the work for the Lord which she would have been so glad to do. Does it seem presumptuous in me to say it, Fidelia? I would not say it to any one but you,” said Jabez humbly; “and I owe everything to Miss Eunice.”
“And what do I not owe to my Eunice?” said Fidelia to herself. To Jabez she said—“Yes, I know it made her last days happy to feel that perhaps she had helped you a little. And we must both honour her memory by trying to do in the world what she would have loved to do. I only wish—”
Fidelia did not put her wish into words for Jabez’s hearing. It was growing dark, and Mrs Stone’s white cap at the porch door had been more than once visible as a reminder that the dew was beginning to fall; and they knew it was time to go into the house.
But Jabez had one thing more to say, over which he hesitated a moment.
“Fidelia, I want to say one thing more, if I may. It was Miss Eunice that made me think more about it, so I hope you won’t be vexed. You haven’t any brother, and I haven’t any sister. Suppose we—adopt one another,” said Jabez, with a laugh which had the sound of a sob in it. “Miss Eunice told me more than once, that if ever the time came when I saw you in trouble I must help you, if I had a chance, for her sake.”
“Oh, my Eunice!” cried Fidelia; and she held out her hand to the lad. And then, to her amazement, he stooped and touched it with his lips before he took it in his own.
There were not many words spoken after that. This was their real parting. They met several times before Jabez went away; but it was this half-hour under the apple-trees that Fidelia always remembered, when the thought of Jabez came back to her, with all the other memories of these last days at home. For these were “last days.”
Fidelia came back again when her year at the seminary was ended. Mrs Stone was still in the old brown house, which in most respects looked just as it had looked when she came home the first time, to find Eunice waiting for her. It was good to see her old friend standing to welcome her at the gate, but her old friend was not Eunice. And, though she wondered that it should be so, and grieved over it, the house in which the greater part of her life had been passed never seemed quite like home again.