Strong, eager, ambitious, it would have pleased the girl well to be allowed to choose her own lot and work, and to make her own way in the world. But she was dutiful, and she loved her little sister dearly, and so she was willing to be restrained and guided, and to give herself to work which seemed at first very humble work, which almost any one might do, but which was G.o.d-given work--a blessing to others and to herself, as time went on.

Happy? Looking back over those first years, Eunice told herself that no one could have been happier than she was then. Yes, and afterwards also. For that which made much of the happiness was not taken from her at a single blow, nor was she called upon to choose between her duty and her happiness all at once. She knew there was no choice for her.

When Justin Everett, the doctor's youngest brother--and, like him, a physician--saw his way open to go West to an uncle, to establish himself with him in his profession, Eunice might have gone with him as his wife, if circ.u.mstances at home had been different. But it was impossible.

There was no choice to be made, and nothing to be said.

Her grandfather had been stricken helpless, with little hope of ever being otherwise than helpless. Over her grandmother, younger than him by many years, hung an awful dread. She too must die, but she might be years in dying. Some one would have to watch by her dying bed, as she in her youth had watched by the dying bed of her own mother, till the slow months wore on to years, before her tired eyes closed at last in painless rest.

No one needed to say to Eunice that she could not leave her grandmother to be cared for by others while she went away to find her own happiness.

She never even paused to consider the matter. It was impossible. Her lover thought quite otherwise, and pleaded with her with words which made her glad, and which hurt her sorely, but which did not move her from her purpose. Over one thing only she hesitated. Should she give him back his word before he went away?

"No," said Dr Everett; "you are both young. Wait."

And so she waited, and was not unhappy. No woman can be unhappy whose life is lived not to herself but to others. Her service was truly willing service, and was its own reward. She had cares many and heavy, weary nights and anxious days, but she had kind friends who took care for her and helped her; and her cares, and labours, and daily self-denials, and the hourly sight of her grandmother's faith and patience, and of her joyful release at last, did for heart and soul more than many prosperous years of untroubled happiness could have done.

The long suffering came to an end at last. Her grandmother died, and Eunice was left so spent with doing and watching, and so glad for the blessed release of her whom she loved so well, that she hardly seemed to feel the pain of the bitter blow that smote her afterwards--at least that was what her friends whispered among themselves. Even Dr Everett took comfort in the thought that she might have outgrown her girlish fancy during these long years that had changed her into a woman. But Dr Everett did not know then that the news of his brother's engagement and approaching marriage had come to her two days before it had reached him, and that during these two days no one but her paralytic grandfather had seen her face and heard her voice. Even the child Fidelia had been sent away "for a change," as she had more than once been sent away during the last months of the grandmother's life; and Eunice's battle with herself--if there was a battle--had been fought alone.

But, whichever way it was, it was not a matter about which many words could be spoken. She made no moan and she claimed no sympathy. She was "just as usual," as far as he could tell, Dr Everett said, in answer to his wife's questions when he returned from his first visit to the house after the news had been received. Even to her old friend she had made neither complaint nor confession; but he knew that she suffered, though she kept silence.

"It will make it easier for Eunice in one way," the neighbours said to one another. "Eunice could hardly have gone away while her grandfather lived, and this has made the path of duty plain before her."

But whether "the path of duty" was rough or smooth to the weary feet of Eunice no one ever knew from her lips. She was not unhappy, that was certain. She had the daily and hourly care of her grandfather to fill her thoughts and occupy her hands, and when he died she had an easier time and could rest. And she had Fidelia.

She had an easier life; but she could not sit idle at home, or go elsewhere for change or pleasure, as others might who had not their daily bread to earn. The means which her grandparents had provided for their old age had been nearly spent during their long illness. There was the house and garden and a field or two, and that was almost all; and Eunice chose to stay at home and make the best of them, rather than do any of the things which her friends were so ready to advise, and which she might have done. She might have nursed the sick, or taught a school, or worked with her capable hands or her clear head in one of the many ways open to New England girls; but she would not be separated from her sister, and she chose to stay at home.

"I will stay for awhile at least," she said to Dr Everett when he spoke to her about her plans, and hinted that a change might be desirable for various reasons. "There is no hurry about it, I think; and just for the present I would rather stay at home."

And the time had never come for her to go elsewhere, or to change her manner of life in any way, and it had lately been gradually revealing itself to her that the time could never come. She was beginning to say to herself: "That which I greatly feared has come upon me."

All the long suffering through which she had seen her grandmother pa.s.s seemed to lie like a thick darkness upon her. Even before the departure of her sister for school she had felt or imagined symptoms, which she thought she could not mistake, of the terrible disease which had appeared at intervals in some member of her mother's family for several generations; and there is no wonder that for a time her courage, and even her faith, failed her.

She was wrong to conceal her fears from Dr Everett. But she said to herself: "He cannot help me. If I am mistaken--if I am only nervous and over-anxious, it will pa.s.s away in time, with suffering to no one but myself. If the danger is real, nothing--no one can help me, not even my dear old friend."

Even more than she dreaded the long suffering she dreaded the helplessness and weariness of illness, and the dependence upon others which it must involve. She shrank morbidly from the thought of becoming a centre of painful interest to her friends and to the neighbourhood; and she resolved to say nothing either of her suffering or her fears while concealment was possible. So, during the first months of winter, making an excuse of the cold, she stayed at home, and, when chance visitors came to her, exhausted herself with efforts to seem well and cheerful in their presence, and bore the long suffering of suspense alone.

Alone? Well, she thought so for a time. She wrote herself down as "a woman desolate and forsaken," and it went ill with her--but only for a time. Even in her darkest moments she had never quite forgotten the refuge to which she might betake herself, and she found it at last.

After a time light broke through the darkness, and she caught a glimpse--not of the way--but of His face whose hand was leading her.

The way mattered little. He knew every step of it, and its ending and the rest to which it led, and why should she fear?

It cannot be said that she no longer shrank from the thought of the long, slow suffering that might be before her; but she could after this leave it all with Him "who loved her and gave Himself for her," and who would give her strength to bear His will.

When the sharpest winter weather was over, and the days began to grow long, she fell into her old cheerful ways again. She busied herself with her housework and her needlework, and went to church and to the sewing-circle, as the man at the station had said. She saw her friends more frequently; and the neighbours, seeing the sweet content on her face, "guessed likely that she was having a good time all by herself up there on the hill." And so she was; and neither friend nor neighbour imagined that she had anything to conceal. Nor did Dr Everett himself, until the day when he met Fidelia, and brought her home. Then he lost no time in finding out all there was to know.

That morning, as he went slowly down the hill to his home, he more than once repeated to himself the words he had spoken to Eunice,--

"I see no special cause for anxiety,"--but each time he added gravely--"as yet." And then he lost himself in musing on the terrible mystery of inherited disease and suffering, and only came back to Eunice again when he caught sight of the bright face of Fidelia standing at his own gate.

"Poor soul! Poor Eunice! So good and wise and lovely! What a fate is to be feared for her! And yet I am not sure that her strong and beautiful sister is so happy as she."

And Eunice was smiling a little over the words which the doctor had tried to make so hopeful, scarcely taking from them the comfort which he meant her to take.

"No anxiety!" repeated she. "Well, it is quite true. Why should I be anxious? It will be all right. I am glad he came, and that the visit is well over."

And then she put away the last of her warm white loaves, and went slowly upstairs to rest for awhile.

When Fidelia came home in the afternoon she found her sister sleeping, and she saw something which she had rarely seen before--the traces of tears upon her cheeks. But as she stood looking down upon her--even before her eyes opened--a smile came to her lips.

"Well," she said softly, as Fidelia stooped to kiss her, "have you had a good time?"

"Don't you feel well, Eunice?"

"Just as usual. Why have you come home so early?"

"It is not so very early. We had tea sooner than usual, because--Lie still awhile, and I will make your tea."

"I must have slept long, if it is time for tea. Oh, yes, I feel quite well! You must tell me all about your visit when I come down."

Fidelia went to the window, and as she rolled up the blind and let the light of the sunset into the room, she said, without looking round,--

"Eunice, who do you think has come to Dr Everett's? His brother Justin."

"Has he come already? The doctor told me this morning that he expected him, but he did not say when."

She came forward to the gla.s.s and began to arrange her hair, which had fallen down, with the full light of the evening sunshine on her face.

Fidelia made herself busy about the room for a minute, and then, turning to the window, stood regarding her sister.

Eunice was just as usual, except for the traces of tears upon her cheeks; and Fidelia was not even sure of the tears now.

"And did you see him? Has he changed much? Do you like him?" asked Eunice, busy still with her hair.

"Yes, I saw him. Changed? I can't say. I don't remember him. No; upon the whole, I don't think I shall like him much."

Eunice turned and looked at her, smiling.

"Oh, you'll like him! I am not afraid of that."

"Eunice, did you know that Justin Everett was coming home?"

"His brother told me this, morning. Of course I knew that he would come some time. I shall be glad to see him."

"Will she be glad?" Fidelia was saying to herself, while she made ready her sister's tea. "Will she truly be glad? Has she forgiven him, or has she forgotten him? I would give a great deal to know her thoughts this minute. Oh, I hope I shall be with her when he comes to see her first!"

A single word had done this--her sister's name, spoken by Mrs Everett, when her husband told her that his brother was coming home. They did not know that she heard it. She was greatly startled and a little angry, though she could not have told why. In that friendly neighbourhood she could hardly have lived so many years without hearing some hint of the trial through which her sister had pa.s.sed in her youth; and imagination came to the help of memory, and made her more angry still. She would not have remained to give the new-comer welcome if he had not taken them all by surprise. She only saw him at the tea-table, where he sat, grave and almost silent, scarcely raising his eyes from his plate. She had not lingered a moment after the tea was over.

She was present at the first meeting between Eunice and Justin Everett, as she had hoped she would be, but it did not tell her much. It took place in unfortunate circ.u.mstances. He came up next morning, and, finding no one in the house, pa.s.sed through into the garden, where he found Deacon Ainsworth and his grandson Jabez discussing with the sisters the important question, "Should Jabez have the garden?"

Jabez had intimated to his grandfather that Miss Eunice would like to see him about business if he could "step up" there some morning pretty soon; and the deacon had lost no time, and Jabez "had thought best to happen along so as to see the thing through," as he told Fidelia in confidence. They had "talked the matter over" in the house without his help; now they were talking it over with it in the garden. In the house the deacon had got so far as to acknowledge that he saw no vital objection to Miss Eunice letting her garden to his grandson. In the garden he was not so certain. It would need steadiness and perseverance, and these Jabez might fail in, even with himself to keep the boy up to the mark.