Eunice Part 24

Not only was she able to throw off the sadness and depression which had fallen upon her when she had been told of the state of her sister's health, but she advanced a good many steps towards real womanhood.

Before the winter was over, the neighbours "expected that there was considerable more in Fidelia Marsh than folks had generally thought,"

and gave themselves leave to hope that the softness of Miss Eunice in bringing her up had not altogether spoiled her. She was going to do some good work in the world, it was owned, if the work she was doing in Halsey was a fair sample.

And Fidelia herself began to think this possible.

"I like it, Eunice. I feel that I can teach those things that I know well. And, when I have learned more, I hope I shall be successful in higher teaching."

"If there is any teaching higher, in the best sense, than the teaching of the little children," replied her sister. "Remember, it is easier to bend the twig than the tall sapling; and what you teach them out of their school-books makes but a small part of what they must learn from you."

"Yes, if I were good--like you," said Fidelia gravely.

But she did try to be faithful in all her teaching. To do their work well and honestly, to hate a lie, to live by the "golden rule," and to remember everywhere and always, "Thou G.o.d seest me!" was the sum of her moral teaching as given to the school. Now and then a word was spoken quietly to one and another who seemed to need it, which went deeper than that, though Fidelia was not sure that she had a right to urge on others the duty and privilege of living up to the teaching and spirit of the Gospel, when she was not sure that she was so living herself.

But she came to surer and happier knowledge as the months went on. In her troubled moments, before she came home, she had said to herself that she needed Eunice, and she was right. And now she had Eunice, and her sweet words, dropped only now and then, did her good, and her beautiful life day by day did more. Her full content in that which G.o.d's will had a.s.signed to her, though it had brought loss and pain in the past, and involved now a daily expectation of death, wrought, with higher teaching still, to bring Fidelia to clearer light and stronger faith than she had ever yet enjoyed. And with these came first submission, and then joy in G.o.d's will, for them both. But this came later, when her school-keeping days were over; and to the end, so greatly to be desired, Jabez helped a little, as well as Eunice.

For three whole months school life had gone on "without a hitch," as Jabez said triumphantly, and the pupils and teacher together were beginning to discuss the propriety of giving a little time to special preparation for the closing examination, when something happened. A thaw came--a sudden fall of warm rain, which lasted a day and a night, and covered the ice on the mill-pond with water, and the neighbouring meadows as well. And then the frost came again strong and sharp, making mill-pond and meadows sheets of s.h.i.+ning silver; and for once everything happened just right, for it was full moon, with clear skies--the brightest of moonlight.

Of course every scholar in the school was bound to be on the ice, and a great many besides; and Jabez and a few others voted themselves into the office of a safety committee to see to the rest, to keep the naughty ones out of mischief and the heedless ones out of danger. There were not skates enough in the town of Halsey for half who were there, but there were a good many pairs, and there were sleds, and those who had neither skates nor sleds could slide on their own feet; and all expected a good time, and most of them had it.

Fidelia was not there the first night, but, yielding to entreaty, she came the second night, and enjoyed it as well as any of them all. But she was not there on the third night, when something happened. No one else ought to have been there, for the frost had gone, and there was water over the ice on some parts of the pond. The meadow ice was safe enough, but on the pond, where the water was not, the ice was like gla.s.s, and thinner than they knew.

Especially was this the case where the weir brook fell into the pond, a little below the bridge, at the place where the boys had taken their sleds to "coast" down the hill and over the sloping bank with an impetus which sent them flying over to the other side of the pond. Young Van, preferring to-night his sled to his skates, was there with the rest, and either through bravado or want of skill, steered, or let his sled take its own way, to the open water where the brook came in. A cry from his companions came too late to warn him, but it warned the others at a distance that some one was in danger; and several were on the spot in a minute or two, and among the rest Jabez.

"Who is it? Young Van? Yes, he is just the fellow for such a job,"

said he, taking off his skates and plunging into the water where the boy's sled was floating, the ice cracking and crumbling beneath his feet as he ran. The water was not very deep, and young Van, gasping and s.h.i.+vering with terror and cold, was pa.s.sed over to the hands waiting for him.

"And I say, you boys, keep back. The ice at the edge is none too strong to bear the half of you. Be off home, or your mothers will be here before you know it. I mean to go the other way, if I can, and save a journey."

All this time Jabez was struggling, and always into deeper water, with the ice that would not bear his weight when he let himself rest upon it.

He could land easily on the other side, he knew, but then he must go home by the bridge, a good half-mile and more, which he did not care to do. He struggled awhile, cheered by the voices of his companions; but he had to give it up at last, as he owned afterwards he should have done at first; and he was chilled to the bone before he reached home.

The next day young Van was at school--"as smart as ever," the boys declared--and so was Jabez, but Jabez was not as smart as ever. He s.h.i.+vered and burned alternately till noon, and then he went home; and that was the last that was seen of Jabez in the school that winter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

GOOD SEED AND GOOD FRUIT.

There was a hard time before Jabez. Rheumatic fever was among the least of the troubles suggested as possible in his case by his grandfather, when he came s.h.i.+vering home from the mill-pond that night. But that was happily averted by the prompt and skilful treatment of Dr Everett, after just enough of suffering to make Jabez ever for the future rather more sympathetic with the aches and pains of his grandfather.

Jabez, however, was not to escape his share of discipline; and his trouble came, as most people's troubles seem to come, in the way which is hardest to bear. He did not have "the long spell of rheumatism"

which his grandfather had predicted, but he had what was worse.

Inflammation settled in the lad's eyes, and for a time he suffered great pain. He could have borne the pain patiently, even cheerfully. That which tried his courage and brought him low was the darkness--the darkness and the horrible doubt whether he was ever to see the light again.

He need not have suffered from this fear. Dr Everett never really feared blindness for him, and always spoke cheerfully to him about soon being well again.

"But that is the way the doctors have of letting a fellow down easy,"

thought Jabez, taking less comfort than he might have done from the doctor's words.

No visitors were admitted except those whom the doctor allowed to come, and every day seemed like a week to Jabez, and the nights were longer still. In the daytime he could hear his grandmother moving about the rooms, and the voices of chance comers and goers to the house. At night there was no sound but the rush of the wind, or the barking of his dog Buff outside; and within the ceaseless tick-tack of the tall clock in the corner, which said to him all manner of solemn things which he could not forget.

His grandmother made him nice things to eat, and his grandfather sat beside him a little while many times a day, and both were as good to him as good could be. His grandfather was faithful as well as kind, and reminded him of past misdeeds--the sins of his youth, he called them-- and warned him of worse things that were in store for him unless he turned from his evil ways. It was "hitting a fellow when he was down,"

Jabez thought, but he listened in silence to all he had to say. Indeed, through all these dark days he lay without a word, fighting his battle with his fears and his rebellious murmurs alone, asking help from no one.

Fidelia came in to see him for a minute or two every night on her way home from school, and gave him a summary of school work and school events generally, and enlarged more than would have been wise at another time on the amusing incidents of the day, for the sake of bringing a smile to his sober face. But even Fidelia got few words from him, and it was a good while before she came to see how miserable the poor fellow was in his solitude; and even when she saw it she did not know how to help him.

"What are you thinking about, Jabez?" said she one night, when she had scarcely got from him even the usual response. Seeing the look on his face, she did not wait for an answer. "To-morrow is Sat.u.r.day. I shall bring down the books and have school here, if doctor will let me. Or shall I bring Eunice? Yes, if it is a fine day I will bring Eunice.

She has wanted to come for ever so long, but she has waited till she should be able to have a good long visit with you. If any one can do you good, Eunice can," added Fidelia, laughing, though, seeing Jabez's sober face, she did not feel much like it.

"I shall be glad to have Miss Eunice come and see me," said Jabez gravely.

A good while after that, Jabez told Fidelia what he had been thinking about that afternoon, and indeed what he had been thinking about most of the time during these sorrowful nights and days.

"The 'blackness of darkness for ever.' Yes, I did feel hard. I thought I was going to be blind; and I would a great deal rather have died, only I was afraid."

Eunice came to see him, but even Eunice did not seem to help him much on her first visit. Before her second visit, something had happened. Mr Swift had paid Dr Everett a visit, and they had had a little talk together.

The doctor owned that he was anxious about Jabez. No, he was not afraid he was going to die. It was his eyes he was in doubt about.

"Blind?" said Mr Swift. "He'd better die."

"Only one can't die till his time comes. Blind? No, I am not afraid of utter blindness. But I almost think it would be easier for Jabez to find himself blind than with just sight enough to potter about and do a little. He is a bright boy, Jabez, and ambitious."

"Dr Everett, do you suppose you know all that is to be known about the eye and its diseases? Hadn't you better have help?"

"I'd be glad to have help. No; I don't know about the eye, as one who has made it the study of his life must know it. If Jabez could only pick up a little strength I would take him to Boston, and hear what Dr Blake would have to say about him. It would be too great a risk just now."

"Send for Dr Blake--why can't you?" said Mr Swift.

Dr Everett shook his head.

"I should like to. But it would cost a good deal; and Deacon Ainsworth is not a rich man."

"Send for him. I'll stand the fee."

"It may be a big one."

"It won't cost more than my boy's funeral would have done," said Mr Swift huskily. "Jabez saved me that, they say."

It was a queer way to put it, Dr Everett thought. Mr Swift went on--

"I'll go on to Boston and fetch him straight on here. Days are precious when a man's eyesight is to be considered."

And he was as good as his word. Dr Everett saw him in a little while driving his sleigh at a great pace, over half-bare roads, in order to catch the afternoon train.

"He is something more than just a rich man," said he to himself, "though I never thought it before."

The next day Dr Blake came. He was an old man to look at, but he spoke like a young man, and had the quick, cheerful ways of youth; and he had wonderful bright eyes of his own. He saw a good deal more in Deacon Ainsworth's house than the eyes of Jabez, which he had come to see, and his prescription went beyond them. He spoke encouragingly of the eyes, and gave a word of advice about other matters.

Jabez was to do his best to get strong and well, and he must be cheerful and hopeful. Nothing was so bad for a fellow as letting himself be downhearted. His eyesight was safe, as the doctor believed, but it would depend on the state of the patient's general health as to how soon and how rapid the change for the better in the eyes would be--and so on.