CHAPTER XIII.

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.

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV.

THE LOST PACKAGE.

 

"DON'T wake her; I'll call again."

 

"I think, Doctor, she wished to see you specially."

 

"Yes, I do," called out Marion, awaking from a refreshing nap, with Annie's letter still in her hand. "Doctor, I'm almost well."

 

"Decidedly. Are you dismissing me?"

 

"No, indeed; but I want to ask you something."

 

She waited a moment, as though uncertain how to state her business. "Doctor, I have something on my mind that troubles me. I feel sure I should be well at once if it were decided."

 

"Is it a case of blasted affections, or—"

 

"Don't joke, Doctor: it's a serious affair. It's a breach of trust on my part, and I can't rest until I have done all in my power to remedy the injury."

 

"Why do you tell me this?" he asked, evidently startled. "Go to your lawyer, or—perhaps your clergymen would do better."

 

"Because you were my father's friend, and you are my friend. I only tell you now to get your consent to my doing what my conscience tells me is my duty."

 

"I can't give advice on such general information. I must know particulars."

 

"I will state a case.  Suppose a very sick and dying girl confided to your care a letter or letters containing her last words to a dear friend, name unknown. Suppose that years passed and you never thought of the trust, and at last, when you had reason to suspect you had found the right person, the letters were lost. Suppose that this person was a dreadful sufferer for want of the words which are probably in those lost letters. What would you do, Dr. Ross?"

 

"I am very sorry for you, my dear child, if you are in such trouble as that. Can't you inform the person of the contents of the letters?"

 

"If I only knew what the contents are, and that he is the right one to receive them. Years had passed since she had heard from her friend, and she often said it would be a relief to know that he had repented and died. I inferred that he had done her some great wrong, and she had told him she never would forgive him. Before she died she did forgive him with all her heart, and with almost her last breath left him her love and her blessing."

 

"Tell the person that."

 

"How can I be sure he is the one, without the packet? It is enclosed in a business envelope, directed to me. It is very aggravating that I cannot recollect her name—but that I could find at the Home for the Sick. I knew her as Stella."

 

"Have you made a thorough search?"

 

"Oh, no! I have not thought of it for years. Just before I was taken sick, something occurred of a confidential nature, which led to a suspicion that he is the one I ought to give it to. I began to search at once for it among papers I sent to the country when I left Uncle Williamson's.  I have not looked for it here. I cannot recollect seeing it for years. Now I want you to consent that I go to work in earnest. If I don't find it," sighing heavily, "what shall I do?"

 

"Let me think a minute." He rose and paced the floor, while she gazed at his knitted brows, clenching her hands in impatience for him to speak.

 

He came back to his seat, and counted her pulse.

 

"Well," he said, with a grave smile, as he glanced into her eager, wistful face, "if you feel pretty sure you have a clew to the right individual, ask him some leading questions. Has he ever heard of such a lady, naming her? If he is ignorant, or pretends to be, you are relieved from that responsibility. If he should prove to have known her, you can state the circumstance: of her sickness and death, and the messages she left for a dear friend."

 

"But, Doctor—"

 

"Yes, I know; and I am trying to choose between two evils. You are recovering from a dangerous illness, and are not fit for any excitement. On the other hand, it is possible that the worry of mind, while waiting for strength, will do you equal harm; so I will make a compromise. Your pulse is pretty steady. You may have as many papers as you please brought here, where Miss Annie can help you search, if you will promise to stop at once if you feel tired, take one of those sweet-tasting pills, and go to bed."

 

"Thank you, Doctor. I promise. Will you please ring the bell?"

 

He laughed as he complied. Then saying, "I wish you great success," left the room.

 

In ten minutes Marion was dressed and seated in an old-fashioned armchair, while within her reach was a drawer of papers, pamphlets, etc., etc. Annie Leman sat on a cricket near by, while James was bringing drawers and boxes from the storeroom.

 

Having explained what she wanted to find, the work proceeded in silence, occasional sighs from Marion being the only interruption. In less than two hours every paper had been handled and thrown back.

 

"Are you sure, James, that you have brought all?" The tone was sharp and decided.

 

"Yes, miss. Mrs. Mitchell came to the attic and told me which to take, and she says there are no more in the house."

 

"Take them all away, again."

 

She sank back and covered her face with her hands, but starting presently, she said,—

 

"I am not keeping my promise to the doctor, Annie. I must take one of those horrid pills, and go to bed. I want to sleep and forget everything."

 

The next day was so pleasant that Mrs. Mitchell proposed she should take a drive; but Marion had no heart for anything, unless, indeed, "I could go to the Home for the Sick and see Mary Falkner,—and I don't believe the doctor would let me do that. I could ask Dr. B— to examine the record too. If Stella's name was Angus, I—" she stopped suddenly on hearing the doctor's step.

 

He came in while they were discussing the subject, and ended it by saying she was to go and drive around the park for an hour.

 

He contrived to send every one from the room, and then asked,—

 

"What success?"

 

"None at all. I have no hope, now, and have made up my mind to be as patient as I can till I am well enough to see the one to whom I referred, and tell him what I know. I think he will forgive me, but I can never forgive myself."

 

After this, she went out every pleasant day for a week, and gained strength rapidly, notwithstanding her abiding regret in regard to the lost packet. Then came a few days of wet weather, when she was obliged to keep in-doors. She sent for her pupils, gave them lessons, and heard them sing and play. She sent for new music for Annie, and tried to interest herself in it. She purchased flowers and sent them to Mrs. Douglass, who, under the care of an experienced physician, was gaining strength daily. The first pleasant day she resolved to go to Grantbury, taking James with her. Annie Leman had returned to her aunt, and was giving lessons to her first pupils.

 

One morning she stood watching the cloud, which seemed to be blowing over, and said to herself, "To-morrow, if it clears up, I shall be off. What a relief it will be to tell him, and be forgiven for my neglect of so sacred a trust!"

 

She heard the bell ring, and then James's voice asking whether she would see Mr. Belknap.

 

"Certainly; ask him up at once." She advanced eagerly to the door to meet her father's aged friend, and her own legal adviser.

 

Marion's manner was always charming in its heartiness, but towards her aged friends there was almost a filial warmth, which made them feel that they were special favorites. She seated the white-haired old man in her most comfortable chair, putting an ottoman near him, where she could sit and look in his face.

 

"You have been near death, I hear," he said tenderly.

 

"Yes, sir; but all that time was lost to me. I was not conscious of danger."

 

"God has been good to you, my child. He has raised you up to new duties. You must be thankful for all His mercies."

 

"I must, indeed. I want to be better for this sickness, more helpful of others not so favored as I am, more humble and charitable."

 

"That's right, dear child. Ask for grace to improve each day's joys and sorrows, and you will get it."

 

He then talked to Marion of business, saying, "There are some papers which it will be necessary for you to sign."

 

He had made a long call, when the doctor came in, and, seeing Mr. Belknap, telegraphed to Marion to speak to him in the hall. When there he only said,—

 

"Tell your story to him: he's a good friend to you."

 

And she did tell him, relating the death scene in the hospital more in detail than she had done before. She told him also that she had accidentally met a person who was burdened with a heavy grief, whose name, as nearly as she could recollect, was the same. She had always called her friend by her first name, and the belief grew stronger and stronger in her mind that he was the one to whom her dying friend referred. An expression on the gentleman's face had first startled her and carried her back in mind to her friend, and the recollection of the letters left in her care.

 

He listened attentively, not saying a word till she had finished the recital.

 

"You say she died in the Home, in the year 18—."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"And that he also was in the same Home for months,—that he told the chaplain his story, as she had told hers, probably."

 

"Yes, sir; but I didn't think"—she stopped abruptly, staring in his face, and then exclaimed, "Oh, if I could find that packet of letters! I begin to think he cannot be the one after all. Perhaps her friend has long been dead."

 

"Where did you keep the packet?"

 

"I must have put it where I considered it safe at the time; but her story was so vague,—and she never mentioned the relation in which this person stood to her. I fancied he might have been her lover. I was young, and thought I was to keep it till called for. I remember thinking as she was a foreigner it was not likely it would ever be delivered to any one. When I left Uncle Williamson's, I kept some papers here and sent the rest to Grantbury."

 

"Except the green box of deeds, etc., etc., we keep in our safe."

 

Marion started to her feet, exclaiming, "It is there! It is there! Let us go and get it."

 

She rang the bell, told James to have the carriage round as quickly as possible, hurried on her hat and sacque, looking so eager and hopeful that her old friend said, cautiously,—

 

"Don't be too sure, my child."

 

She turned to him, her whole face dimpled with smiles.

 

"I'm almost as sure," she said, "as though I had it in my hand."

 

In a few minutes she stood at the lawyer's table, while a clerk was sent for the green box. One minute more, papers tied with red tape, worth thousands of dollars, and nicely filed receipts were scattered over the table. Near the bottom lay the missing packet, which, with a scream of joy,—"That's it,"—she caught and held to her breast.

 

"I can't sign anything to-day," she answered, as the younger partner requested her to wait a few minutes. "If you will send the papers round, I'll do it: I'm too excited now."

 

She ran down the stairs, whispering over and over,—

 

"God has been very good to me"; then to the coachman,—