CHAPTER IV.

BRIGHTER DAYS.

MR. SAUNDERS, in the mean time, had not been unmindful of his nieces' interests, and having heard of a respectable business about to be disposed of, he secured the premises and the good-will of the resigning person, and then went to inform them of their future prospects.

To his regret and surprise he was informed that Ellen had been taken seriously ill, and had been removed by Jane's desire. Following Miss Baylis's directions, he soon found himself at the neat little cottage of a respectable widow, whose manners indicated the far superior station of her former days. Here he was received with respect and pleasure by Jane, who explained her reasons for the removal to his entire satisfaction.

"And what has made her ill; do you know, Jane?" he asked.

Jane was silent, and Mrs. Davis relieved her by simply stating the truth. "Late hours in the damps of autumn evenings, with too little care in the matter of suitable clothing."

"Very foolish, indeed," said Mr. Saunders; "but I should have thought you had too much to do to admit of getting out often in an evening. You don't mean Sundays, I hope?" and he looked again at Jane, who was silent and embarrassed. "Really, Jane," said he gravely, "I see now how it is, but I thought better of you; your letters have been so sensible of late that it seemed time to trust you according to my promise; but who can expect giddy, thoughtless Sabbath-breakers ever to do any good for themselves in the world? It is not respectable to go holiday-making instead of minding your church and your Bible on a Sunday. I wonder Miss Baylis has not seen to it for you, if you can't judge for yourselves."

Jane replied that Miss Baylis usually went out of town on Saturday night, and knew very little of her young people's habits on a Sunday.

"Well, then, she ought to know them; I can't see how she can shirk the responsibility. I see after the doings of my shopmen and servants, and put them in the right way."

Mr. Saunders's "right way," however, was not precisely the winning, loving way that tends, under God's blessing, to make "the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, and honorable." His views were those of a respectable formalist, connecting God's blessing with human obedience, in higher subjects, besides those of temporal interests, which, it may readily be admitted, are usually benefited by such outward respect.

Mrs. Davis took an opportunity of exculpating Jane from her uncle's condemnation; and though it seemed to make Ellen's conduct still more reprehensible, yet he spoke with kindness and forbearance to the suffering girl, and told her of his plans for their future welfare.

Ellen was, indeed, seriously ill. She had paid no regard to Jane's warning concerning her dress or the evening damp, and after taking tea out on the grass with her young friends, at a place of public resort in the country, had returned by water at a late hour, and the next day was so ill from severe cold, that Miss Baylis gladly acceded to the earnest request of Jane and Mary, that she might be removed to the care of one who had been too sadly experienced in attendance on the sick.

Ellen had declared that she should not like Mrs. Davis at all; but in vain she tried to nourish her prejudices against the kind and gentle hand that ministered to her wants, and the mild voice that spoke only of sympathy and interest, and at last ceased to expect the severity and lecturing which she had persisted in associating with the religion of the Christian widow. She did not know that the weapons of Christian love become polished by constant use, and that the mellowing influence of its principles softens down the roughness or the severity which sometimes tinges the efforts or the judgment of zealous spiritual youth.

But, to the deep regret of her kind friends, she studiously evaded every attempt to lead her mind to any serious thought, and employed Fanny Ashton to retail to her the news of the town, and to supply her with frivolous novels, with which she beguiled her time when able to read. After recovering in some degree from the severer symptoms of her illness, it became evident that no further progress was made, and Ellen grew impatient of her incessant cough, her restless nights, and continued weakness; and at last her medical attendant intimated to Mrs. Davis, that his irritable patient was probably far gone in rapid decline.

It was a severe shock to the affectionate sister, whose spiritual life and growth in grace and knowledge had only refined her love for this nearest earthly relative; but to break the intelligence to the invalid herself, became a source of the deepest and most painful anxiety.

Fanny Ashton had begged Ellen to be prepared for a treat her brother intended to give them, at a beautiful spot a few miles up the river. He had obtained the loan of a pretty little sailing-bunt, manageable either with canvas or oar, and the first fine Sunday was appointed for the excursion. Fanny promised that instead of taking refreshment out of doors, it should be prepared for them at the small inn, kept for the accommodation of parties of pleasure, and that they should return home before sunset.

The day arrived, and Ellen attempted to dress for the excursion, notwithstanding Jane's assurances that her strength was unequal to the effort. She insisted on trying, and protested that the air would revive and refresh her. She looked up with envy into the healthy countenance of her sister, who stood before her ready dressed for church, and whose serenity was clouded only by anxiety for her.

Poor Ellen tried her shawl, and declared it was too heavy, she could not wear it; her bonnet hurt her head, everything went wrong, her hands trembled with weakness and excitement; and at last, throwing aside her preparations, she sank down upon her bed and burst into tears.

"You are right, Jane," she sobbed, "I am not strong enough yet; you must call and tell them I cannot go to-day."

Jane turned tearfully away from the thin pale form of the lately blooming girl, and went to do her bidding.

That day, which had so painfully impressed the invalid with the first real consciousness of her weakness, was passed in repining and discontent, and when the hour for the assembling of Mrs. Davis's reading party had arrived, and Jane still remained at her bedside, she desired her to go down, and drawing a book from under her pillow, said she preferred to read alone.

The next day a trying task devolved on Jane, who was considered the most fit person to break to her sister news which must almost overwhelm her, but which could not long be withheld. Several times during the day Ellen had impatiently inquired for Fanny, who, she said, ought to have been to see her.

"But she will come in the evening, I am sure, to tell me all about the party, and who went, and who was sorry that I could not go. Fanny is a nice girl, Jane; I am surprised that you never liked her. I must go there as soon as I can get out; Mr. Ashton won't call me vain and silly now, since I've had this illness to make me so steady and quiet." And she tried to smile at the bitter recollection.

Jane made no reply, and Ellen looked again in her face.

"Why, Jane," she exclaimed, "I hope you are not going to be ill too; you really look dreadful, and as if you had been crying all night. What is the matter with you?"

"It was a very good thing you could not go out yesterday, dear Ellen," said Jane, tenderly.

"I don't think so at all; but that is not an answer to my question, you have not been crying about me surely, Jane?" And again she gazed inquisitively, and with some rising alarm, upon her sister.

"Mr. Ashton called last night," said Jane.

"Mr. Ashton? How very kind! I'm sure I did not expect him to come and inquire after me."

"He came to see if Fanny had been here."

"Why? Did not Fanny go straight home after the party came back?"

"The boat was very late in leaving to return, I believe," faltered Jane; "and Henry Ashton, and the other young men had taken too much to drink."

"O Jane! Go on—what else?" whispered Ellen, turning deathly pale, and trembling violently. "Tell me quickly, what else?"

"The boat upset; Henry was picked up, and five of the others; but poor Fanny—"

Ellen heard no more; she sank back, apparently lifeless, and remained so for some time.

The unhappy young people, to the number of nine, having delayed their return too late for the idle efforts of four half-intoxicated young men, embarked hastily, in the hope of reaching a river steamer, which might tow them easily along. The effort to catch the rope which was to connect them with the steamer, caused a lurch, which frightened the female portion of the party, and they rushed to one side; this upset the boat, and in an instant they were all struggling in the water for their lives.

Fanny clung to her brother, who, in a moment of sobriety, might have saved her; but now, stupefied with drink and fear, he was intent only on self-preservation, and though the steamer hovered for a considerable time about the fatal spot, three of the young women were seen no more.

The wretched father had returned home after eager inquiries at the river side, whence nothing could be seen of the boat, and was again on his way, in almost frantic despair, when he was met by the bearers of his son, and the news of his daughter's fate.

Henry was seized with brain fever, and his struggles to reach his sister, whose cries for help seemed to ring in his ears, were frightful and distressing to his broken-hearted parents, who mourned too late their negligence of parental duty.

Ellen's lamentation for Fanny Ashton's unhappy end was mingled with thankfulness for her own escape. "It would have killed me quite," said she shuddering; "for had I been saved from drowning, I must have died from the effects of such fright and cold."

"And you feel you would not have been prepared for such a summons to another world, dear Ellen," said Jane, when, after a time, her sister thus recurred to the event.

"O, I don't know about that; it did not come you know, so I need not think about it!"

"But it must come some day, and by some means. If not by sudden accident, by sickness and—"

"Well really, Jane, I wonder how you ever expect me to get well, talking about such things," said Ellen, with irritation; "but I want you to write to uncle, and ask for me to have a change of air directly; I'm tired of being here, and I want some companions with more life and spirit than you have, to rouse me out of melancholy thoughts. Poor Fanny, she always had something pleasant to talk about." And Ellen wept herself to sleep, with her hand upon the last novel that her friend had brought, and which Jane softly drew away, leaving her Bible in its place.

When Ellen awoke she discovered the exchange, and felt annoyed; but suddenly her thoughts took a new turn. What if Jane's fears were really excited about her health? What if all this excessive weakness, and distracting cough, meant something more than temporary indisposition? She had observed the looks of tender pity with which all seemed to regard her, and the increased desire to guide her mind to heavenly things. Could it be that her life was really in danger, and they wished to make her aware of it without any sudden shock? Then she burst into passionate weeping, burying her face in the pillow, against which she leaned, until roused by the gentle hand of her kind nurse.

"O Mrs. Davis!" she cried with broken voice. "Do tell me, am I—am I dying? Is it possible that I cannot get well?"

"Your soul will die, my child, if you do not ask the Lord Jesus Christ to save it. If you had peace in him, you would resign yourself to his will for life or death."

"O! I cannot; I love the world, and I want to live. It is a cruel thing to die so young. O, do send for other doctors, they may think of something to cure me. I will have change of air and scene; I will try everything."

And in restless impatience, poor Ellen waited the arrival of her kind uncle, who came to take her to his house, that she might try the effect of her native air.

Mrs. Saunders was a more rigid formalist than her husband, and carefully attended to all her "duties," under the conviction that her own righteousness and merit must secure her a future heaven. Of a present earnest of its blessedness she had no idea; of the Spirit of adoption she knew nothing; the mighty cost of redemption she had never calculated, and believed that her frigid rules, and unlovely notions of a godly and sober life, fully entitled her to glory in herself, and upbraid all who more manifestly failed in obedience to God's commands.

Ellen had never troubled herself about her aunt's religion before: but she thought it especially disagreeable now, and missed the loving accents of true grace in the friends she had left. She did not understand the difference between her aunt's and Mrs. Davis's religion, but she felt its influence, and began to think that, if people must needs be religious, those who made the Lord Jesus their only hope and example were greatly preferable in temper, humility, self-denial, and Christian charity.

After a short residence in this uncomfortable home, she entreated leave to return to Mrs. Davis; and her request was willingly seconded by Mrs. Saunders, who declared that a more discontented, unchristian invalid had never fallen to her charge.

And so poor Ellen, weaker, and sadder, and more irritable than before, was welcomed again by the kind widow as a daughter, over whom her loving heart yearned with the longing of one who knows what a piteous object is an unsaved sinner in the day of trouble. She felt now that the suffering of the weak body was a small consideration compared with the impending destruction of the soul, and she spoke firmly and solemnly to the dying girl, and, kneeling by her side, spoke for her to Him who can prosper his word on its errand of mercy.

A youthful heart, filled with vanity and worldliness, is a very stubborn thing: habitual disregard of God and neglect of his word are as fatal to such a one as to those whose bold iniquities proclaim their ruin to the world, and must end in the same condemnation.

The "convenient season" anticipated by every one who defers acquaintance with God to some future time, is not often found in the season of sickness. It is painfully inconvenient, when conscience is terrified, the heart full of idols, the body languid through weakness, or tormented by pain, to be groping in confusion and darkness after an unknown and neglected God.

Poor Ellen found it so, and amid her self-reproaches for wasted opportunities, she was often heard to deplore with bitter regret those misspent days, when she had resolutely cast in her lot with those who feared not God, and refused to praise him for his goodness, and to hear of "his wonderful works to the children of men."

Happy are those young people who can spend a Christian Sunday in a Christian home; and deeply to be felt and cared for are those who have only the house of the hireling to shelter them from the temptation to wander in streets or revel in godless pleasures. But a home may be without God; and a hireling's room may be a scene of heavenly affection, when God and the sinner meet, blessing and blessed, in hallowed intercourse, which—

"Wafts the happy soul awhile Far, far away from this low sphere; And in a Saviour's loving smile, Arms it anew for duty here."

After Ellen's death Mr. Saunders very kindly, and in gratitude to Mrs. Davis for her tender care, offered to Mary the partnership with Jane in the business he had wished the two sisters to undertake; and Mary had the satisfaction of once more surrounding her beloved mother with many of the comforts to which she had been accustomed in earlier life.

The friends adorned themselves "in modest apparel, as women professing godliness," and found themselves able to execute expensive or fashionable orders for their customers without commending worldliness, or compromising their own personal consistency; and it was often owing to their judicious and sensible advice, respectfully offered, that advancing age was saved from merited ridicule, and extravagance checked by due regard to means and station.

As employers, they did not forget the experience of their past life in their conduct toward their own dependents; and when Saturday's work was done, it was one of their chief desires and pleasures to provide as far as lay in their power, for the Christian enjoyment of the day of rest. Their home was also their workwoman's home, if they had no other, and maternal kindness and friendly interest made it attractive and happy. And to those who were able to appreciate their many privileges and advantages, the Lord's day became emphatically "a delight," and was anticipated with joy as the workwoman's best and happiest day.

THE END.