CHAPTER XVI.

MRS. VAN HORN AGAIN.

LETTY did not fail to do Agnes's errand, sending her a Testament and Psalms in large print and in soft light binding, which would be easy for her to read while lying down. She repeated to John her conversation with her cousin, concluding with,—

"Now, are you not glad that I went?"

"I am indeed," said John. "It shows that one ought never to be weary in well-doing. I little thought, the last time you left that house, that you would ever enter its doors again."

"Agnes spoke of that," said Letty. "I could not remember it against her, when I saw how she felt about the matter. Indeed, I always regarded Agnes as living in a sort of dream, from which she would awake some time to see things as they really are. I am deeply thankful that the awakening has come before it is too late."

"I trust it may indeed be an awakening," remarked John, "and not a mere passing emotion."

"But even that is better than no feeling at all," replied Letty. "It shows there is life and sensibility remaining; and where there is life there is hope. Even a convulsion may be an encouraging sign, in some circumstances.

"But I cannot help thinking it is more than that with Agnes. For one thing, she seems to take such a rational view of matters. She does not accuse herself in extravagant generalities; but she sees that she has special sins to repent of, such as her neglect of her mother and Madge, and her treatment of her husband. She feels that she is in a great degree responsible for Joseph's present position."

"And so she is," said John. "Joe would never have left Mr. Haskins if Agnes had thrown her influence upon that side; but she was not satisfied till she had him engaged in some genteel business, as she called it. Joe might have been Mr. Haskins's partner, and a respectable man to this day, if they had known when they were well off."

"Agnes feels all that now," said Letty; "and they have gained nothing by the change. From what Agnes tells me, I can see that they have very few respectable visitors; though they have a great deal of company, such as it is. Poor Agnes! She will have a hard path to walk in, if she should turn to the right way. I do not at all wonder that she is discouraged at the prospect before her. She has need of all our prayers."

"The path may be made easy for her in some way that we do not now see," remarked John. "God's ways are not as our ways, and there are no impossibilities with him."

How often we say and hear and think over and over all these things, till they become trite, and we attach no meaning to them, and then all at once they become earnest, vivid realities to us, even the very anchors by which we hold fast to life!

Poor Agnes's path was indeed to be made plain to her,—but not in the way Letty had imagined. She pictured to herself Agnes with active health, going humbly about her life's work, fulfilling the long-neglected duties of a mother to her unfortunate child,—perhaps becoming the means of her husband's conversion,—and using her influence for good to all around her. Such was not God's plan.

Two or three days after Letty's visit, as she and John were at their late tea with some strawberries from their own garden, Dr. Woodman came in. He had opened a health-establishment—a sort of private hospital—in one of the large, fine old places with which the neighbourhood of T— abounded, and had his hands so full with his in-door cases that he seldom visited any but his old patients in the city.

"Here you are with your teapots!" was his first salutation. For an inveterate prejudice against "the cup that cheers but not inebriates" was one of the good doctor's harmless superstitions. "Teapots, and water-pitchers, and milk-jugs! Why don't you have some coffee and chocolate into the bargain?"

"I can make you some coffee and chocolate in a moment, doctor," said Letty, mischievously. "I would have had them ready if I had known you were coming."

"I have just been to see your cousin Agnes," said he, after a few minutes of desultory conversation. "She tells me you spent some time with her the other day."

"I am very glad," said Letty. "I very much wished Agnes to have advice, and tried to make her send for you at that time. How did you find her?"

"She is very ill," replied the doctor, gravely.

"She complains very much of pains in her chest and side, and seems to have quite made up her mind that she has a cancer," said Letty. "I thought the pain might proceed from some other cause. Agnes was always subject to neuralgia, you know."

"It is not a cancer," said Dr. Woodman. "There is an internal abscess. She may live a few weeks longer, or she may die at any moment; but her death-warrant is signed. There is no possibility of doing any thing for her. Her strength has been wonderfully kept up by opium and other stimulants; but she is past even that now."

"Is she at all aware of her condition?" asked John.

"Yes: she guessed at once, and would have me tell the exact truth. She seemed much relieved to find that the disease was not what she had supposed. Her great desire seems to be that she may live to see her husband again: and I have telegraphed for him. I shall send Mary in to stay with her; for she should not be left alone a moment, and their servants, I imagine, are not of the sort to be useful in a sick-room."

"I will go to her to-morrow,—or to-night, if it is best," said Letty.

"I would not go to-night," said the doctor. "She has had excitement enough; and I shall send Mary back directly. The coloured waiter—who seems the most civilized person about the house—promised to stay with his mistress till Mary came."

"How does she seem to feel?" asked John.

"She is very humble and penitent,—poor child!" replied the doctor. "She seems bowed down with the burden of her past offences, and hardly dares to think she can be forgiven; but I think she was more hopeful before I left her. She had her Testament on the bed; and the servant told me, with tears, that she had been reading, or making him read to her, all day. She said to me, 'You may think it strange that I should like to have him about me; but he is a handy, kind-hearted creature, and the only person in the house over whom I have any influence; and I should like to feel that I have done some good in the world before I leave it.'"

"That seems a hopeful sign: does it not?" said John. "It seems as though she were in earnest."

"She is sufficiently in earnest:—there is no doubt about that," returned the doctor. "I have strong hopes for her so far as another world is concerned; and really, all things considered, one can hardly wish to detain her in this. She would have but a sad prospect, poor thing! She seemed much impressed by your kindness, Letty, and said to me,—

"'When she looked at me in Williams's shop, I thought she knew me and did not wish to speak; but I was entirely taken by surprise when she put out her hands and spoke to me. I thought I was past feeling any thing; but her voice and manner went to my heart: it seemed to loosen some chain which had kept me from breathing for ever so long.'"

"I wonder if Joseph will come home," said Letty. "I almost hope he will not, she seems so much afraid of him. He must be greatly changed."

"He is possessed with a devil,—the brandy-devil," said the doctor. "He will not live long, unless he changes his course. Van Horn has been the ruin of him, as he and his wife have been of so many others. She had the impudence to accost me in a store the other day, to ask about Madge, and took occasion to remark that she was very sorry: she had once seen a good deal of poor Mrs. Emerson; but, as things were now, she could not possibly think of going there. There were sad reports; and she feared Mrs. Emerson had been very imprudent, to say the least."

"The hypocrite!" exclaimed Letty. "The whole mischief is more of her doing than that of any one else. What did you say to her?"

"I gave her a piece of my mind," said the doctor, with grim significance. "I don't think she will speak to me again very soon. I have seen a good deal of wickedness and its effects among men in my day; and it is my firm conviction that no man on earth can be so wicked or so mischievous as a bad woman."

"She did Agnes more harm than any one else," said Letty. "Agnes was brought up to think dress and fashion and outside show of more consequence than any thing else in life. I remember when we were children and went to Sunday-school together, poor Aunt Train could never find time to see that Agnes had her lessons, though she could spend hours in ruffling and working her drawers and petticoats and flouncing her dresses, that she might look as nicely as Bessie and Jenny Dalton.

"My stepmother spent very few hours in ornamenting my clothes; but she always found time to go over my lessons with me and to be sure that I understood every word; and she was always ready to answer my questions, as far as she was able. Aunt used to say she neglected me, because I went so plainly dressed, and that it was very hard upon me to require a certain amount of work and sewing from such a little thing every day. Sometimes I thought so too, and envied Agnes her idleness; but, after all, I loved Mother Esther far better than Agnes did her own mother.

"But Agnes was much more serious about the time that Madge was born. She really seemed to wake up, in some degree, to the true meaning of life. And I think she might have been very different if Mrs. Van Horn had not got hold of her."

"I shall send Mary back to take care of poor Agnes to-night; and you had better go and see her to-morrow."

"I suppose Agnes ought not to talk a great deal?" said Letty.

"Talking will not hurt her, unless she grows too much excited," replied the doctor. "She will be the better for relieving her mind. What I most dread for her is her husband's return. I really wish he would stay away; but she was so anxious to see him once more, and her life hangs on such a thread, I could not deny her request to send for him. After all, nothing can make much difference. Good-night."

Early the next morning, Letty hastened to her cousin's bedside. She found Mary reigning supreme over the sick-room, which had greatly improved under her administration. The perfume-burner was banished, and the air came in fresh and sweet from the open window; while a look of order and tidiness had replaced the former crowded condition of the apartment.

Agnes was in bed, raised high with pillows; for she could no longer lie down: There was a great change in her appearance. Her face was even paler than before, and her features were shrunken and sharpened as if with great pain; but the hard, mask-like look was gone; her eyes had lost their fixed, vacant expression; and she welcomed Letty with a sweet, natural smile.

"I am glad you have come again," said she, as Letty kissed her. "I wanted to see you once more; but I know you must be very busy."

"My business can wait," replied Letty. "I mean to stay with you as long as you want me."

"You are very good," said Agnes; and then, after a pause, "Have you seen the doctor?"

"Yes: he came to our house last night on his way home," said Letty, wishing to spare Agnes the repeating of his opinion. "He told me what he thought, and that he should send Mary."

"He was very gentle and kind," said Agnes. "It was a great relief to hear his opinion. I have so dreaded a long illness, such as I must have endured if my opinion had been correct! Now the way seems made so plain and easy before me! I feel so peaceful, so satisfied! I am sometimes afraid it must be wrong."

"I don't think it can be wrong," said Letty. "When God sends peace, no one can give trouble."

"Nothing disturbs or troubles me now but the harm I have done to others," continued Agnes, "I do hope—I cannot help hoping—that God has accepted me. But oh, Letty, when I think of my poor husband and the mischief I have done him, I think I can hardly be happy, even in heaven. He would never have been engaged in this vile business but for me. He was very much impressed by what John said to him about the matter, and came home almost persuaded to give up the whole affair and remain where he was. I believe a word from me would have turned the scale; and I did turn it,—the wrong way. My insane desire to be genteel—how I do hate the word!—pushed me on. I thought it would be so grand for Joe to be engaged in a wholesale business."

"That is something I never could understand," said Letty. "Why should it be more genteel to sell by the piece or bale than by the yard?"

"I am sure I do not know,—nor any one else, I suspect. But my head was full of such notions. Aunt Eunice might well call me silly. And, then, Celia Van Horn pushed me on. I do not want to speak unkindly of any one; but she is a wicked woman,—far worse than you know. She has drawn more than one poor, silly young man on to his destruction. It was a long time before I had my eyes fairly opened; but I did at last, and then we quarrelled. But I won't think about her now. Oh, if I could but live to undo some of the mischief I have done, I should be content!"

"You must not excite yourself, Agnes," said Letty, gently. "That is bad for you; and you will need all your strength."

"True," said Agnes. "I have something to do yet, and I must keep what little force I have for that purpose. I seem to have drooped very much within a day or two. I suppose I miss the stimulants I have been taking. The doctor would not let me give up ale; but I could not take opium any longer. I have hated it this long time; but I could not keep up without it. Oh, Letty, after the life I have been leading, you don't know the blessed relief it is just to give up and be sick!"

"I can imagine it," said Letty; "but you must not talk any more now. Let me read to you, and perhaps you may fall asleep."

"One thing more I must say, and then I will rest," returned Agnes. "Letty, I have a great favour to beg of you and John,—a favour so great that I should not dare to ask it if you were any other than yourselves. I want you to take Madge for your own. Carry her home with you, away from here, and keep her. I hardly think her father will object: he seems to have taken a dislike to the child, though he used to be so fond of her. I think he feels her presence in the house a kind of reproach; though she never says a word of the sort, so far as I know. She loves you dearly, and will be very happy with you; and I don't think she makes a great deal of trouble, for one so helpless. Still, I know it is asking a great deal."

"John and I were talking the matter over last night," said Letty, eager to set the poor mother's mind at rest, "and we agreed, if you and Joseph were willing, we would take charge of Madge. We can give her a pleasant room on the ground-floor, opening on a veranda, where she can have plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and be more like one of the family than if she were away up-stairs. I think we can make her very happy. I am glad you do not object; for we have quite set our hearts upon having her."

"You are very good," said Agnes. "It is the greatest possible relief to my mind to think she will be safe with you. But, Letty, I dare not promise that Joseph will do any thing towards her maintenance. Things are going badly with him; and, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a grand crash before long."

"Never mind that," said Letty. "We are rich enough and to spare. John has prospered in every thing he has put his hand to. The land we bought with our house has proved a fine investment, and we have already sold building-lots enough to pay for the whole. C— is a very growing place, and whole streets seem to spring up in a night, like mushrooms. I am almost afraid the place will become too valuable for us to keep. So do not let any such consideration trouble you, but think of the matter as settled, so far as we are concerned. Now let me read you to sleep."

The days passed on, and Agnes continued to grow weaker and to suffer more and more as the disease advanced. She talked very little, but lay quietly, sometimes reading a few words or listening to Letty's repetitions of hymns and passages of Scripture.

Nothing was heard of Joseph, though both John and the doctor telegraphed again and again to the address he had given in New York. Agnes seemed very anxious to see him, at the same time that she dreaded his coming home. She watched daily; and a ring at the door, or any unusual noise in the house, produced a degree of agitation as distressing as it was dangerous.

Madge had been brought home, at her mother's request, and spent many hours of every day lying on her mother's bed or sitting in a great chair by her side. She had improved so far as to be able to sit up a good part of the time.

It was touching to see how in the last hours of her life the mother's heart turned towards her long-neglected child. It seemed as though she could not bear to lose one of those precious minutes still accorded to them; and Letty had to use a little gentle authority to prevent them from injuring each other. Her heart swelled with thankfulness as she thought how precious these last hours with her mother would become, in the retrospect, to the orphan child.

"They say Emerson's wife is dying, Cilly," said Mr. Van Horn to his wife. "The Caswells have got hold of her again, and old Woodman is going there every day. Hadn't you better call and see her?"

"I don't think I could venture to go where I shall be likely to meet Dr. Woodman and the Caswells," replied the lady. "They have really been too insulting."

"Still, it might be worth your while. She has lots of handsome things, you know," said her husband.

"Yes, poor thing!—She was always extravagant. She bought that onyx-and-pearl set that I wanted so much; and she must have a great many ornaments besides. And, then, there is that splendid India shawl. Well, I don't know, after all, but it is my duty, as you say, to overlook every thing and visit her in her affliction."

Mrs. Van Horn always kept up a good appearance, even when she had no spectator but her husband,—perhaps because hypocrisy had become a second nature. Having despatched her household affairs, she dressed herself in her usual taste, and prepared to do her duty (as she said), by calling on her former friend, in whose India shawl she felt such a warm interest.

Prince met her at the door with no friendly face. He had become devoted heart and soul to his mistress, and did not look upon Mrs. Van Horn with any great favour.

"Missis is too sick to see any one," said he grimly, keeping his hand upon the door. "The doctor has prohibited any one from going up-stairs, and says she mustn't be flustrated on no account whatever."

"But she will see me," said Mrs. Van Horn, in her most insinuating manner. "I am an old friend of hers, you know; and I have been wanting to see her this long time."

"Seems to me you have stood it so long, you can stand it a little longer," replied Prince, totally unmoved by these blandishments. "Doctor said Missis wasn't to see no one."

"But you can go and ask, Prince," said Mrs. Van Horn, seeming not to hear the first part of the remark. "Mrs. Emerson sent me word, a day or two since, that she particularly wished to see me but I have been too unwell to go out of the house."

Prince wavered a little.

"I'll go and ask," said he, at last; "though I know she won't see anybody."

Mrs. Van Horn, as we know, was famous for carrying her points, and did not suffer from the restraints of delicacy. She followed Prince up-stairs, and her silvery voice was heard speaking over his shoulder.

"You really must let me in, dear Agnes. I will not tire you by talking; but I positively cannot pass another night without seeing you."

And, taking advantage of the man's astonishment, she pushed him aside, and entered the chamber, saying, "I am sure, dear, you must want some one to cheer you up—"

She stopped short, dismayed, in spite of her effrontery, partly by finding herself face to face with the two people she most dreaded to meet,—Letty and Dr. Woodman,—and partly at the change in Agnes. However, she recovered her voice in a moment.

"My poor child, how ill you look!" she cried, advancing to the bed. "I had no idea you were confined to your room. How dull you must be here, shut up from everybody! Your servant was not going to let me in; but I was determined to see with my own eyes that you were comfortable,—though of course you must be so, with such an excellent nurse as your cousin. My dear Mrs. Caswell, how remarkably well you are looking!—Positively younger than you did ten years ago! And how are the dear children?"

Letty was silent. She could not make up her mind to reply. The doctor's lip was compressed and his brows contracted. With all her impudence, Mrs. Van Horn was somewhat taken aback by her reception.

"Mrs. Van Horn," said Agnes, raising herself upon her pillow, "I cannot pretend to guess what has brought you here; but, as a dying woman—"

"Oh, my dear, don't talk about dying!" said Mrs. Van Horn, in a soothing tone. "I am sure you have no need to entertain such gloomy thoughts."

"They are not gloomy thoughts," said Agnes. "I thank Heaven I am ready to be gone. But do not interrupt me. You have seen fit to come unasked into my sick-room, and you must submit to hear the truth for once. Celia Van Horn, you and your husband have been the ruin of me and mine. I say it in all soberness. You have ruined my husband, body and soul; and it is not your fault nor your husband's if you have not done as much to me.

"I was weak and silly enough when you found me; but I was beginning to learn better. You took advantage of my weakness, prejudiced me by your lies against my best friends, alienated my heart from my duties, and made me your instrument in your vile schemes for living on the sins of others. That I have been a thousand times worse is no thanks to you: you did what you could to bring it about.

"You are a wicked woman; and, unless you repent, you have nothing but eternal woe before you. It is not too late; but it soon will be. I have tried hard to forgive you and to pray for you, and I trust I have done so; but, if you have any thing of the woman left about you, you will go away, and trouble my dying hours no more."

"Poor child! You don't know what you are saying!" interrupted Mrs. Van Horn, soothingly. "I would not talk in that way. Your mind is wandering a little, my dear!—That is all. Now, positively, I shall take off my bonnet and stay a while. I am sure you need some one to cheer you up and drive these gloomy thoughts out of your head."

"Celia! Celia! What are you made of?" said Agnes. "How dare you come here and talk to me in this way? You know that I speak the truth. For Heaven's sake, leave the house and let me alone. My hours are numbered. Let me die in peace; and remember that your own time is coming,—you know not how soon. My eyes are opened now to see things as they are; and I tell you that heaven and hell are awful realities. Your feet are standing on slippery places," she stopped, exhausted, and looked imploringly at the doctor, who made one step forward and laid his hand on the intruder's arm.

"Go!" said he, briefly and sternly. "Go quickly, or I shall find means to make you. I will not suffer any patient of mine to be disturbed in this way. Go; and repent, if haply the mercy of God may be extended even to you; but beware how you enter this house again."

"I am going," said Mrs. Van Horn, meekly. "I came here in the spirit of Christian charity, to—"

"Never mind how you came," interrupted the doctor, sharply. "I suppose you came to see what you could pick up, like other vultures under the same circumstances. What I want of you is to leave; and I propose to see you out of the house myself;" which was forthwith done.

Burning with rage, she went to her husband to complain of the way in which she had been treated.

"Actually turned out of the house by that wretch, Dr. Woodman!"

"Pocket the affront, Cilly," said Mr. Van Horn, philosophically. "It won't do to make a fuss about it just now. We shall make the place too hot to hold us, if we are not careful. I wouldn't go there again, if she didn't like it," he added. "It isn't lucky to quarrel with dying folks. I'll get you something prettier than any thing of hers, the next time I go to New York."

"I wonder what Emerson will say to all these goings-on when he comes home?" said Mrs. Van Horn, spitefully. "See if I don't stir him up a little: that's all!"

"Oh, no: I wouldn't," replied her husband. "Let the poor thing die in peace, and have her friends about her, and her prayers and her psalm-singing, if they are any comfort to her. You will only make a fuss, and perhaps bring some ill luck upon us. Better let her alone."