CHAPTER VII.

ANNA.

PROMPTLY as Ethel had refused to take charge of the music in her brother's new chapel, she was not at all pleased that her refusal had been so easily accepted. She would have liked to be urged a little more.

That very evening, she opened the neglected instrument and played for an hour, doing her very best, that Henry might see what he was losing.

"How very well Ethel plays," she heard him say to Dr. Ray in the parlour. "It is a pity she cannot turn her talent to good account."

"She does almost everything well that she undertakes," returned Dr. Ray. "It is a pity, as you say, that with all her gifts she should be made worse than useless by her absurd affectations. Not that her fears are all affectations, either, but at least one-half of them are so. It is a great pity, for, as matters are at present, she is likely to be nothing but a torment to herself and every one else. It is the more strange that she does not perceive self-control to be a duty, because she is so conscientious about everything else. I don't think she would tell a lie for the world."

A sharp pang darted through Ethel's heart as she heard these words.

"I have always been fond of the child," continued Dr. Ray. "I was glad to have her come here, thinking she would be a comfort to Emily. It grieves me that I have to leave Emily alone so much, especially since we lost our children; and I hoped Ethel would be company and comfort to her, poor girl! These bereavements are hard enough for us all; but I often think they are far worse for the women, because they have to stay quietly at home in the empty place. But, then, women have to take the hard end of everything, poor souls."

Ethel listened in astonishment, and some annoyance. Having made up her mind that Dr. Ray was an unfeeling bear, she did not quite like to unmake it again, and confess that her judgment had been mistaken and uncharitable.

"I am very much troubled about Ethel, myself," said Mr. Dalton; "but I cannot help hoping that she may overcome these fancies after a while."

"The main thing is to get her attention directed from herself," said Dr. Ray. "As it is, she is in danger of becoming that sad object, a confirmed hypochondriac. Only a little while ago, she was fancying she had a cancer coming; and now she thinks she has disease of the heart. I cannot help thinking she has the root of the matter in her, and all she wants is to have her conscience roused, and get a worthy object in life to take her out of herself."

"So he thinks I am selfish as well as affected," thought Ethel. "I wonder what I shall hear next?"

She was not destined to hear any more just now, for somebody called for the doctor. And Mr. Dalton joined Emily in the parlour, whither Ethel was presently called to play some duets with her sister.

No objection was made to Ethel's going to spend the night with Anna Burger.

"You had better run in and see Mrs. Rose, while you are so near," said Emily. "Juliet will like to hear from the family."

Mrs. Rose had lived next to Mrs. Bayard's for many years, and Ethel was very fond of her. She was a plain person, not very well educated, but a good Christian woman, and always ready to help with hands and purse every one who needed assistance; and everybody in her neighbourhood called upon her, as a matter of course, whenever anything was the matter.

Anna welcomed her friend warmly, as usual, and proceeded to make her comfortable; but Ethel was not quite at her ease. Her head was full of her projects as to serious conversation with Anna, and she was puzzling her head as to the best means of introducing the subject.

"Please to say grace, Ethel," said Anna, when their tea was ready.

She had been used to hear her brothers or her young aunt perform this of in her father's absence, and it never occurred to her that Ethel would be embarrassed.

But Ethel, thinking of herself as usual, blushed and stammered, made but a lame business of it; and then troubled herself all through the meal with wondering what Anna would think of her.

"The Bible-class is filling up again," said Anna, after they had settled themselves with their work. "Five new girls came in last Sunday."

"Who were they?" asked Ethel.

"Nobody that we know. Three of them were shop-girls from Mrs. Randall's. She brought them in herself."

"How disagreeable!" said Ethel.

"Why, I don't know. Why should it be disagreeable?"

"One don't like to be mixed up with everybody."

"There is no great mixing up in just being in the same Bible-class with people; and if there were, I don't see what hurt it would do," said Anna. "They are just the sort of girls one would wish to bring under Bible-class influence, because I suppose they have a good many temptations to do wrong which we know nothing about. Mr. Maverick seemed very much pleased, and asked the girls to try and bring their friends with them. And after all, Ethel, if we are to do people good, I don't see but we must be 'mixed up' with them; mustn't we? We must be acquainted with them, and let them see that we are interested in them for their own sakes, and that we do not feel above them."

"But we 'must' be superior to people, if we are to do them good," said Ethel, doubtfully.

"Possibly; though I don't know that I should agree to that always. We may be superior in some things, but not in others; and anyhow, Ethel, I think the more really superior a person is, the less she will be conscious of her superiority."

Ethel seemed to find something rather unpleasant in this remark, for she worked on some minutes in silence.

"How pleasant it must be to have your brother at home again," said Anna, presently.

Ethel assented with a little sigh.

"I suppose you would hardly remember him?"

"I never saw him before," said Ethel. "He went away before I was born, and has never been at home since. We have always corresponded ever since I could write; and I had his picture: but, after all, we are really strangers," added Ethel, with another little sigh. "One never knows a person from his letters."

"Not fully; but then we never know our most intimate friends entirely," said Anna. "I should think your brother would make an excellent missionary. I heard him that Sunday he preached for Mr. Verplank, and I never heard a sermon I liked so much. There seemed such a reality about everything he said. I have thought about it ever since. One hears enough about the duty of loving God, but I never thought so much of his loving us."

Here seemed to be just the opening that Ethel wanted, but while she was thinking what to say first, Anna went on.

"Does your brother mean to go back to India?"

"Not to India," replied Ethel. "He is going to stay at home three years, and then he is going to Persia, where he began at first."

"What? Where Miss Beecher is living?" exclaimed Anna. "Oh, Ethel, I should think you would go with him! I would in a moment, if I were situated as you are. It would be so nice to be with one's own brother and with Miss Beecher, and you would feel so much more interest in those girls, because you have done a good deal for them already. Why don't you go?"

"I have thought of it sometimes," said Ethel, sighing again.

"If I were in your place, I would begin studying the languages directly," continued Anna, with enthusiasm. "Why, it would be perfectly delightful! You could learn them pretty well in three years, and be prepared to go to work directly. Then, I would learn all sorts of housework and sewing and contriving, because, of course, every such thing would be useful; and I would practise teaching every chance I had."

"You are very much in earnest about it," said Ethel, smiling, though she felt a little vexed, she hardly knew why. "Why don't you prepare, and go as a missionary yourself?"

"I could not leave home, even if I were a fit person in other respects," replied Anna, sighing, in her turn. "I am the only child, you know; and mother's health is so infirm that it would not be right for me to leave her. But you seem to have no duties to keep you at home."

"No; I don't suppose that I am necessary to anybody," said Ethel, rather sadly; "but, Anna, you know the text: 'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me.'"

"I know," said Anna; "but that is not the point exactly, Ethel."

"Perhaps you think you are not fit in other respects," continued Ethel. "Perhaps you think you do not love Him at all."

"That would not stand in your way at any rate; for I suppose you must think you do, or you would not have joined the church."

Ethel thought Anna meant to evade the subject, and was the more determined to press it upon her. "But tell me, Anna, don't you think you ought to love God and try to serve him?"

"Everybody ought to do so, I suppose," replied Anna. "But now tell me honestly, Ethel, do you really love him? Love him, I mean, as you do Mrs. Bayard, or your brother?"

"Why, yes, I hope so," returned Ethel. "Of course the heart is very deceitful, as the Bible says; and I may be deluded as well as others, but I do hope I love him."

"Well, I can't understand that," said Anna, frankly.

"Understand what?"

"How you can speak in that way. If I love anybody, I know it. There is no chance of delusion in the case. Suppose any one should ask me whether I loved my mother, and I should say, 'Why, yes, I hope so. I may be deceived, but I do hope I love her.' I don't think she would be very much flattered."

"Well, Anna, how would you go to work to prove that you loved your mother?"

"I should not wish to prove it. I think it would prove itself."

"But how?"

"Because I would rather be with her than with any one else in the world," returned Anna, earnestly. "Because I love to do what will give her pleasure, or help her in her work, and nothing makes me so wretched as to see that I have grieved her,—and I know that I do grieve her sometimes: I am so quick-tempered. Because nothing makes me feel so much like doing right as the thought, 'Mother will be pleased.' Because, oh! I can't tell you all, but I would do anything, give up anything, for mother," added Anna, in a trembling voice; "and when I think of losing her, as I have to do sometimes—" Anna was silent, and looked steadfastly out of the window for some minutes.

Ethel was silent also. She felt somehow as though she had been caught in her own trap.

"I don't know whether I make you understand me, Ethel," said Anna presently, in her usual cheerful voice.

"Oh, yes, I understand," replied Ethel.

"Well, if I loved God as—as any one ought to love him, I don't think I should have to examine myself so closely as to find it out. I should 'know' it."

"Well, Anna, why don't you love him?" asked Ethel.

At this moment the conversation was disagreeably interrupted. A young woman opened the door, and came into the parlour without speaking. She was very pale, her lips trembled, and her dress was disarranged. She did not seem to notice any one, though she looked straight before her. Ethel started with her usual little scream.

"Hush!" said Anna. "You will make her worse."

"What is the matter?" stammered Ethel. "Has she been drinking?"

"No: but she has fits sometimes; and I am afraid she has one coming on. I did not think of that, or I would not have let Sarah go out. However, there is no danger. Help me to get her on the sofa; and perhaps it may pass over."

At this moment the poor girl began to make a distressing sound, between a moan and a cry, while her face grew visibly disturbed. Ethel waited for no more, but catching her hat and shawl, which lay on the piano, she flew out of the house, and never stopped till she had reached the next corner, where a street-car was just preparing to start. Ethel jumped in, and was well on her way home before she had time to consider what she had done, or what account she could give of herself to her sister. The ride was rather a long one, and before she reached home, Ethel began to feel heartily ashamed and very much embarrassed. She knew that Anna was alone in the house with the sick girl, for she had heard Anna give the other servants permission to go out. What would Anna do, and what would she think of Ethel's conduct? What would Emily say to her? Oh, if she had only had the wit to run over and call Mrs. Rose!

"I will send Matthew over directly," said she to herself; "and they will think I came home for that purpose. But then it will be just the same as telling a lie; and, besides, he will not be at home, for he had a meeting to attend. Oh, dear! I wish I had not run away. I was just coming to the point with Anna; and now I shall never dare to say a word about it again."

Usually, when Ethel wanted to escape from a disagreeable subject of thought, she diverted herself by crying; but she did not quite like to begin weeping in a street-car: so she was forced to think till she found herself at home.

The door was fastened as usual in the evening, and Emily opened it for her.

"Why, Ethel, what brings you home?" she exclaimed. "Has anything happened?"

"Do let me come in, Emily," said Ethel, in a faint voice, and with her hand on her side, for, as Dr. Ray had said, it was one of her favourite delusions to imagine that she had disease of the heart. She dropped into a chair as she spoke, and made a feeble attempt to undo the buttons on her dress.

"What's the matter now?" said a hearty voice—the last Ethel would have desired to hear under the circumstances—and Matthew came out of the parlour in his dressing-gown. "What is it, Ethel?"

"Oh, my heart!" gasped Ethel, now really ready for a hysterical paroxysm, and pressing her chest with her hand. "Oh, my heart!"

"Nonsense, child! That isn't your heart; that's your stomach," said the doctor. "Emily, bring me the bottle of valerian and ammonia I prepared for you the other day."

Now every one who has taken it knows that valerian and ammonia is not at all a nice preparation. The first taste was enough for Ethel, and she pushed it away.

"Don't give me that horrid stuff: you will poison me," said she, with sufficient energy to show that she was in no present danger of dying. "Oh, dear! I was so frightened."

"But what, brought you home this time in the evening?" asked Emily. "I thought you were to stay all night."

"Well, I did; but Mrs. Burgers' girl had a fit; and it frightened me so I could not stay."

"Ah, poor thing! So she is sick again?" said Dr. Ray. "But did not Mrs. Burgers tell you there was no danger? I should think she would have kept you from running off in this wild way; or did she send for me?"

"Mrs. Burgers is not at home, nor Sarah," said Ethel, rather reluctantly. "Anna and I were alone in the house with her; and the girl came into the room moaning, and making up faces: oh, it was dreadful! She looked as if she were possessed."

"Oh, Ethel, you didn't run away and leave Anna alone!" exclaimed Emily, in a reproachful tone. "How could you do so?"

"I could not do her any good by staying; and I thought I could send Matthew over there," replied Ethel.

"But why didn't you call Mrs. Rose?"

"I don't know. I didn't think—"

"You did not think of anything or anybody but yourself, as usual, I suspect," said Dr. Ray, more sternly than Ethel had ever heard him speak to anybody. "I had better go over after all, Emily. Anna is there alone, and sometimes these attacks are very alarming to inexperienced people."

"But you are not fit to go out, Matthew," said Emily, anxiously. "You stayed at home from the society meeting because you were sick."

"Not sick so much as very tired," returned the doctor. "There comes the car now." And seizing his hat and hailing the conductor, Dr. Ray rushed out, swinging himself into his coat as he went.

"You had better go to bed, Ethel," said Emily, somewhat sharply, for her patience with Ethel began to wax threadbare. "It would certainly be a good thing, as the doctor says, if you could learn to think of somebody besides yourself."

"Why, Emily!" exclaimed Ethel, beginning to cry.

"Now don't begin to cry. That will not mend matters. I must say, I think you are very much to blame; and I am heartily ashamed of you. I don't know what Mrs. Burgers will think, or what apology I shall make to her for your conduct. I know one thing, and that is, if you keep on in your present course, indulging yourself in all sorts of absurd fancies and giving way to all sorts of petty and nonsensical terrors, no human being will be able to live with you. I must tell you that you bring great discredit upon your Christian profession, and do more harm than you can ever hope to do good."

Ethel stood silenced and astounded; for Emily was usually the gentlest of women, and reproved, when she felt obliged to do so, with a soft reluctance which took away all sting from her words.

Perhaps some of her sharpness on this occasion was due to a special personal disappointment.

Dr. Ray had had a very hard day. He had been out all the morning. He had been called away from his dinner, and sent for to perform an operation some six miles out of town; and he had come home at last, too tired to think of attending the scientific society to which he belonged. Emily had made fresh coffee for her husband, and then piled him up luxuriously on the sofa to rest, while she read a new book to him; and it was very hard that he should be turned out again: so it was no wonder she was not a little vexed.