CHAPTER XV.

AGNES.

IT was with a sad heart that Letty returned to her home.

The more she thought of the story she had heard, the more probable it appeared. But the change in Agnes herself was what weighed most painfully upon her; and the more she reflected, the more she was struck with the alteration. It hardly seemed possible that the pale, emaciated phantom she had seen could be the blooming creature she once knew. Then Agnes had always been so hasty, so eager, so excitable upon the smallest occasions. Now she seemed, as she herself had said, almost without feeling: whether she talked of her child's tragical death, her altered position in society, or the change in her husband, all was spoken in the same dull, even tone and with the same look of utter apathy. It almost seemed to her that the real Agnes who used to live in Number Ten was dead, and that this was some strange spirit which had assumed her form.

When John came home to dinner, Letty told him the story of her meeting with her cousin.

John looked a good deal disturbed.

"I suppose it cannot be helped," said he; "but I almost wish you had not encountered her. People tell terrible stories about them. No one visits them but the most dissipated set in town; and the establishment in Gay Street is becoming infamous. I am very sorry for Agnes, however."

"You could not help pitying her if you should see her," said Letty. "I never saw such a change in any one in my life. I had not the least idea who she was, till she spoke to me; and the alteration in her manner is as great as that in her face. It seems as though she had lost all hope or interest in life."

"Did she say any thing about Madge?" asked John.

"Only that she was at Dr. Woodman's, and quite happy. I can imagine that she finds the change a pleasant one from her lonely, neglected state at home. Agnes seemed to think there was no improvement in her health, and that none was to be looked for; but she spoke in the same indifferent tone of Madge as of every thing else."

"Well," said John, "they are our own relations, after all, and we cannot help it; and I am sure I shall be glad to do any thing I can to help Agnes."

The next day Letty stayed at home, expecting her cousin; but Agnes did not make her appearance.

About one o'clock a carriage came to the door, and the driver gave Letty a note. Agnes was too unwell to venture out, but would be very glad to have Letty come and see her, and had sent the carriage for that purpose.

John demurred a little at letting her go, but yielded at last to her earnest desire; and Letty was taken to her cousin's house at the South End.

The door was opened to her by a smart coloured waiter, who showed her at once to her cousin's room, saying that Mrs. Emerson had not been down-stairs that day.

Letty, glancing into the parlours in passing, saw that the rooms were furnished in the height of the fashion, and apparently in the most expensive manner possible; but the furniture was all in confusion, and a slatternly-looking housemaid was just beginning to put it in order.

Letty found Agnes lying on a couch in her own room, which was as lavishly decorated as the rest of the house.

"It was very good in you to come and see me," said Agnes. "I hardly expected it when I sent for you. I did not believe John would let you come. Now take off your bonnet, that I may see how you look."

Letty complied, and sat down by her cousin's couch.

Agnes regarded her earnestly.

"You are very little altered," said she. "You look as if you had been very happy."

"I have," replied Letty. "God has been very good to me."

"Those very words show that you are not altered," said Agnes. "You are just as religious as ever."

"More so every day, I hope," said Letty, earnestly. "The things belonging to God and heaven become more and more realities to me the longer I live and the more I see of the world."

"Joseph said you would get over all that when you moved West and went into society and into business," remarked Agnes. "He said John would not find the pious dodge—as he called it—answer with Western folks; but I think it seems to have answered pretty well with both of you."

"If it had been only a dodge, as you say, it would not have answered either there or here. John's religion is no mere question of expediency: it is a part of himself."

"I believe you speak the truth, Letty, far as you and John are concerned; but a great deal of religion does seem to me as much a matter of fashion as the clothes that people wear. I have often wished I had been differently brought up in these matters, even if it is all a delusion. Not that I think it all a delusion," she added. "I believe in a God; but I believe he is a very different God from yours. However, we won't enter into a theological discussion: the subject is not a pleasant one to me. Madge will talk to you about it by the hour together. She is more religious than ever since she fell into Dr. Woodman's hands. I sometimes think she is a little wild upon the subject; but it is, at any rate, a more amiable derangement than some others. But you have had no luncheon, Letty. If you will be so kind as to ring the bell, they will send up something."

Letty complied, wondering and grieving more and more over the change in her cousin.

Agnes was dressed in a plain white wrapper, which showed still more plainly her extreme thinness. Her hair, which was combed carelessly back from her face, showed many white threads; her cheeks and temples were sunken and wrinkled, and the skin seemed to hang loosely on the bones; while cheeks and lips were alike destitute of colour. She spoke in a hollow, forced tone, as though every word cost her an effort; and in her appearance, as in all she said and did, there was an indescribable expression of real heart-suffering.

The luncheon was served with great elegance upon a silver tray, with abundance of the most beautiful glass and china. The waiter brought Agnes a glass of ale, into which she dropped some medicine from a bottle which stood upon her dressing-table.

"Do you take medicine all the time?" asked Letty, when the waiter was gone.

"Yes," replied Agnes, drinking her ale: "it is all that keeps me alive."

Letty took up the bottle.

Agnes made a movement as if to prevent her; but she had already read the label.

"Black drop!" she exclaimed. "Surely, Agnes, you do not take this every day, and in such doses?"

"Two or three times a day," said Agnes. "It is a bad habit, perhaps; but there is no help for it now. I must keep up, at any price."

"But you will not keep up long, at that rate," said Letty. "You are killing yourself as fast as you can."

"Well, I suppose I am; but what can I do? I must keep up, as I said; and it is the only thing which gives me any ease. Don't talk of it now, Letty: it is of no use. You cannot judge for me, any more than I can for you."

"This is just such a room as you used to plan for yourself when we were little girls together, Agnes," said Letty, looking around her. "Do you remember how we used to sit under the trees in our back-yard, and talk about what we would have when we grew up? I recollect your saying that you would have plenty of pretty little bottles with sweet things in them, and a bed with worked-muslin curtains lined with pink. It is not often that a castle in the air is so literally built."

"Yes; I have been filled with the fruit of my own desires," said Agnes. "'He has given me my heart's desire, and sent leanness withal into my soul.' I have learned several things since then:—among others, the fact that beds with worked curtains are just as disagreeable to lie awake in, as beds with patchwork coverlets, and that something more is necessary to one's happiness than the mere having no sewing to do,—which I remember used to be your idea of perfect felicity."

"What do you do, Agnes?" asked Letty, anxious to get at some particulars of her cousin's life. "How do you employ your time?"

"Oh, one day is very much like another. We rise late to a late breakfast, and I go out and do shopping, or order things for dinner and supper, as the case may be, or make some calls; though my calling acquaintance has grown very small since you went away. Joseph never comes home till dinner, and not always then unless we have company; and I take a nap in the afternoon, whenever the pain in my chest will let me sleep. We always have company in the evening, and then Joe expects me to entertain them. You would be surprised, Letty, to see how well I look when I am up for the evening."

"But what company do you have?"

"No one that you would care about meeting," said Agnes, with a strange laugh. "They are men and women who come to play cards and eat game-suppers and drink wine and brandy punch,—women whom your friend Mrs. Trescott would not admit within her doors or see in the street, but who are very merry and jolly nevertheless.

"I wish you could see my husband when the people are gone and he has lost money, or has not won quite as much as he expected. Would you like a specimen of his language at such times? Look here!" Agnes turned back her loose sleeve as she spoke, and showed her arm, black and bruised from the shoulder to the elbow. "That is his parting gift to me," she said. "I expect he will kill me, some time. What do you say? Will you change places with me?"

"God forbid!" said Letty, shuddering. "But I always thought Joseph was kind-hearted and fond of you, whatever else he might be."

"So he was," said Agnes: "I will do him that justice, at least. He was naturally amiable and easily influenced; and if I had been any thing else than the fool I was, I might have done any thing with him. But it is too late now. Brandy and remorse together have made a devil of him. I dare not cross him in the least, and do not know when to fear him most,—at night, when he is drunk, or in the morning, when he is sober.

"Add to all this that I suffer night and day with the tortures of a growing cancer, and that, sleeping or waking, the image of my murdered child is never out of my mind for ten minutes at a time, and then wonder, if you can, that I take opium."

"But how is all this to end, Agnes?" said Letty, finding her voice at last. "This cannot go on forever."

"Not exactly in the same shape, perhaps," replied Agnes. "I don't suppose there will be any opium or brandy THERE," she added, with a fearful smile and a tone which was almost too much for Letty's firmness. "My children will at least be happy, though I shall never see them:—that is my only comfort. Madge's infirmity has kept her out of the way of contamination, and my baby was an angel even in this life. I only wonder how such a child ever came to be given to a creature like me."

"He was sent to lead you back to God," said Letty, with tears. "Oh, Agnes, don't reject God's mercy. Your treasure has been taken to heaven, as you say; let your heart go there also. Repent and turn to God, and he will have mercy upon you. Oh, believe me, he will!"

"It's too late," said Agnes.

"No! No! It is never too late,—never in this life. Agnes, all may yet be well."

"I tell you it can never be well," said Agnes. "My life has been all one sin, one steady rebellion against God, from beginning to end. I have destroyed myself and my husband. I have murdered one child, and all-but murdered the other. I have hardened my heart against all the reproofs and warnings I have had, till my conscience is dead,—dead, and I cannot even feel. It's too late!"

"Agnes, it is never too late while life lasts," said Letty. "I do not deny that you have been a great sinner; but that does not shut you out of the hope of God's mercy. The blood of Jesus cleanseth from all sin. He died for such as you,—for you; and he now lives in heaven to intercede for you. Christ will save you, if you will but consent to be saved. He gave his only Son to die for you."

Agnes looked at her for a moment, and then burst into a passionate fit of tears and sobs.

Letty rose in some alarm; but Agnes put out her hand to detain her.

"Don't," said she. "Let me cry! Oh, it is such a blessed relief!"

Letty knelt on the floor beside her cousin's couch, speaking all the tender and endearing words she could think of, repeating promises of Scripture and broken sentences of prayers, while Agnes wept on as though her tears would never cease.

"Oh, it is such a comfort to cry!" said she, at last. "Do you know, Letty, I have hardly shed one tear since my baby died! My tears seemed all turned to fire."

"How you have suffered!" said Letty. "But, Agnes, the worst may be over now, if you will. Do but turn to God and cast your heavy burden on him. He will not reject you. He will sustain and comfort you."

"I cannot believe it," said Agnes; "and yet, when I see you here by me, Letty, and remember how you were treated the last time you were in this house, it does not seem so very incredible. But don't deceive me with vain hopes, Letty."

"I would not do so for the world," said Letty, earnestly. "I do not give you one promise or invitation that is not in the Bible. But, as truly as I know that you are alive, I know that God is ready and willing to receive you, if you are willing and repent. You need not be in this despair one moment longer. Only pray for yourself; only ask him, from the bottom of your heart, to have mercy on you and receive you through Jesus Christ,—and then believe."

"How could I break off my present life?" asked Agnes.

"God will open a way for you," replied Letty. "He will make your path plain before your face, even though it be beset with thorns and briers. Oh, Agnes, don't grieve the Holy Spirit by rejecting him again! Don't harden your heart, Agnes! Think of your child in heaven, and of your mother—"

"Hush, Letty!" exclaimed Agnes. "You bring my sins to remembrance when you talk of mother. I was a wicked and undutiful child. I believe she might have lived till this time if she had had decent care; but I let her work herself to death for me, and disregarded her complaints. Oh, it can never be that such a creature as I can be forgiven! It is only mocking God to ask it,—only adding awful presumption to my other sins!"

"It would indeed be awful presumption in any of us to come to God as we do, if he had not expressly invited us,—if he did not call us individually to come," said Letty; "but, since he does, the presumption is in doubting his word and refusing to believe his promises."

"It may be so," said Agnes.

"Try him," said Letty, with animation. "Only take him at his word, and see. Ask him to give you repentance and his Holy Spirit."

"But, if I should ask him, how shall I know that I have an answer?"

"Because he has said he will answer," replied Letty. "Just believe his plain words in the Bible, without waiting for any special sign. Try him, and see. Promise me, Agnes, that you will."

"Ask him for me, Letty," said Agnes, in a low tone. "I can believe that he will hear you."

Letty knelt by her cousin's side and poured out her whole heart in prayer for the poor wanderer—that she might be led back to the Father's house whence she had strayed; that the eyes of her understanding might be opened to see, and her heart to receive, the Son of God crucified for her; that she might have true repentance and faith to accept the mercy which is so freely promised.

Agnes wept, and answered with an earnest "Amen."

When Letty rose after an interval of silent supplication, she could not but think that the expression of her cousin's face was changed and softened. It might be the mere physical relief of weeping.

Presently a carriage stopped, and a ring was heard at the door.

Agnes started nervously.

"I cannot see any one," said she, hurriedly. "Tell Prince not to let any one in."

"It is nobody but John," said Letty, peeping through the blind. "He promised to call for me at four, and take me up to Mount Faith. I wish you were able to go."

"I wish I were; but it would not do," replied Agnes. "Do you know, Letty, I have never seen my child's grave since he was buried? I could not bear it. It seemed like looking at the wall which separated us forever."

"But you will not look at it any more in that way," said Letty. "Think of it now as a closed door, which indeed divides you for a time, but which will open to let you in to the same peace and glory which he is enjoying."

"If I could but think it possible!" said Agnes. "I believe I could endure any thing if I had but the hope of seeing my child once more. But I cannot believe that such a sinner as I am can turn round and be good all at once. I have always laughed at sudden conversions."

"That is because you confound two separate things," said Letty. "You cannot be good all at once; but you can turn round all at once. Suppose a man, walking over a prairie on a cloudy day, loses his way and among sloughs and quagmires: presently the sun comes out and shows him that he is going exactly in the wrong direction. It may take him a long time to get out of the quagmire upon firm ground and to retrace the steps he has taken amiss; but the turning round is the work of a moment."

"That sounds like one of Dr. Woodman's Sunday-school illustrations," said Agnes.

"It may be so," replied Letty, smiling. "I have been indebted to him for so many ideas, that it is not strange if I do not always know which are his and which are my own. Have you consulted him about the pain in your chest, Agnes?"

"No: I have never consulted any one,—partly, I believe, from a dread of hearing the truth, and partly because I had no particular desire to get well. I have little doubt myself of the true state of the case."

"I think, however, you should have advice," said Letty. "You may be making matters worse than they are. At all events, you might have something for that cough. Let me send Dr. Woodman up to see you: we can easily drive out there from Mount Faith."

"Not to-day," said Agnes. "I want to be quiet, and think. But, Letty, if you will do one thing for me,—stop somewhere down-town and send me up a Bible or Testament. I am ashamed to say I do not know where to put my hand upon one. Let it be in large print; for my eyes are very weak. God bless you for coming to see me! Joseph will not be at home till the last of next week, and I shall be quite alone. Do come again."

"I will come, to be sure," said Letty. "But, Agnes, don't depend upon me. Go to God! Oh, I feel as if so much depended on the present hour! Pray don't put this subject away till you have settled it once for all. Oh, Agnes, don't forget that there is such a thing as being too late!"

"I will not, Letty. I feel myself as though this were the turning-point. I have tried hard to make myself an unbeliever; but the old Sunday-school and Bible-class lessons would stick to me in spite of myself. After my child died, however, I did not try any longer. I could not bear to think that he had ceased to exist,—that there was no longer any Herbert. I liked to think of him as happy in heaven, even though I should never see him there."

"But you will see him there," said Letty. "You may make that sure this hour,—this moment,—if you will. You have only to accept of God's mercy in Jesus Christ, give yourself to him, and believe, on the authority of his word, that he accepts you, and all will be well. Why should you delay? It is not as if you wanted to be convinced of the truth of these things: you believe them already. Why not make them yours?"

"Mr. Caswell is waiting, ma'am," said Prince, opening the door.

"I forgot to ask you about Mary," said Letty.

"She is at Dr. Woodman's," replied Agnes. "She went with Madge; and I understand they make her very useful. Poor Madge! She is another monument of my insane folly. Do you remember how I blamed you for her misfortune?"

"That is another of the by-gones. And now I must be a by-gone myself, and not try the patience of my much-enduring husband one moment longer."