"What do you intend him for?"

"We have no present intentions about his future destination," said Charles. "He will remain at school till he is fifteen; so we need be in no hurry about it."

"Then your sister will continue on her present plan till that time?"

"Yes," replied Charles; "for Harriet will not be old enough to go out before five years from this time. Isabella wishes to be independent in two years, and I think she will be well qualified; but it will be a grievous thing to Jane to part with her."

"It must, indeed," said Monteath. "You know I have seen your sister Jane, more than once, and she fixed my attention immediately by the way in which she managed those spoiled children of Mrs Everett's. n.o.body ever had any control over them but your sister; but they are in much better order than they used to be."

"It gives Jane much satisfaction to think so," said Charles.

"But it must be very discouraging work," said Monteath, "to do her best for them, for half of every day, and to be obliged to surrender them to be spoiled for the other half."

"I should find it so," replied Charles: "but Jane makes as little as possible of discouragements. Her temper used to be an anxious one too: but she has had so much to do and to bear, that she has learned not to look from side to side in hope or fear, but to go on, straight forwards, in the road of duty, whether an easy one or not."

"She is an enviable person then," said Monteath.

"All things are by comparison," said Charles, rather confused when he recollected what he had said about his sister. "I do not mean that she never flags: I was only speaking of her in comparison with myself, and with her former self."

"Nothing but religious principle could enable her to do this," said Monteath. "This is the secret of her superiority, is it not? Without this her trials would have produced depression, instead of renewed energy."

"Certainly," replied Charles. "There are many who pity her under her weight of cares, and who are grieved when they think that she is an orphan, and that she has more arduous duties to perform than many can get through under the guidance and with the a.s.sistance of parents or experienced friends. But Jane knows that she is guided, though invisibly, by the best and wisest of Parents, and the Bible is to her as His manifest presence: she has recourse to it on all occasions of difficulty, and can never want confidence or feel forlorn, while such a director is at hand."

"Those whose reason is matured enough, and whose religious affections are cultivated enough to attach their heart and soul to such a guide, may well do without other support," said Monteath. "'The integrity of the upright shall guide them!' But there are few of your sister's age who are thus advanced in the ways of wisdom."

"If so," said Charles, "her superiority is to be ascribed to the peculiar circ.u.mstances in which the Father of her spirit has placed her.

And, surely, trials which produce such an effect should be endured with submission and remembered with grat.i.tude."

"That comes home to my conscience," said Monteath: "_I_ am now under trial, and such ought to be its effect upon me. But your sister's circ.u.mstances have been such as to draw her attention from herself, to carry out her affections and fix them on various objects: but I am afraid the direct tendency of personal suffering is to produce selfishness."

"It may either do that or the reverse, I believe," said Charles: "I have known instances of both. I have heard of a cousin of my mother's, who was a cripple from disease. She pa.s.sed through life very quietly. She never complained of her deprivations: her temper was placid, and she found employment for her cultivated intellect in studies of various kinds: but n.o.body was ever the better for them. She did no good, though she never did any harm: she never seemed to love any one person more than another, and of course n.o.body was particularly attached to her.

She lived to the age of sixty, and went on with her own pursuits to the very last, but she left no trace behind her of beneficent deeds, and she lived in the memory and not in the affections of those around her. I have always grieved over the wasted talents of this lady. Half her learning communicated to those less informed than herself, half her time (of which she had abundance) devoted to the a.s.sistance of her neighbours, half her affections exchanged with those who were disposed to love her, would have made her wise instead of learned, useful instead of harmless, beloved rather than served, and mourned rather than merely remembered."

"But she could not have been a pious woman," said Monteath. "A life of selfishness is inconsistent with piety."

"n.o.body can say that she was not religious," replied Charles; "because n.o.body knew what she felt and thought: some say that she must have been pious, or she could not have been placid and contented under her deprivations. I should therefore suppose that she had just enough reliance upon Providence to prevent a naturally cheerful mind from being corroded by discontent: but it is easy to see that she had not those comprehensive views, which teach that the very best of selfish pleasures, those of intellectual cultivation, are to be pursued as a means only, not as an end, and that the grand design for which we are created is to diminish continually our concern for ourselves in an increasing love of G.o.d and our neighbour."

"I cannot help," said Monteath, "applying cases like these to myself, just now. I want to place as many guides and as many warnings before me as possible. I hope it is not selfish to think of these things with a reference to myself, and to tell you that I do so."

"By no means," replied Charles; "for I imagine that you feel the present time as a kind of crisis in your character. I think you must enter the world from a bed of pain, either better or worse than when you left it, and you are right to make use of all the helps you can."

"Then give me," said Monteath, "some instances of benevolence promoted, of hearts and hands opened by personal suffering. It will do me good to hear them."

Just as Charles was beginning to speak, Mrs Monteath came into the room, and the conversation was turned into a different channel. Charles regretted this, but she had something quite different to ask her son about. The greater part of the day was spent in cheerful chat, and in reading aloud, which Mrs Monteath proposed, that Henry might not exert himself too much in talking. In the evening the young men were again left alone for awhile, and Monteath asked his friend to read a little to him from the Bible. Charles did so with much satisfaction, and after he had done, Henry tried to express to him what comfort and support their religious exercises had afforded him on his night of suffering. Charles rejoiced to hear him say so, but stopped him when he wished to speak of his obligations and his grat.i.tude. They parted for the night with as warm feelings of interest and esteem as one day could produce, and another confirm.

In the morning they met only for a few moments. They agreed to correspond occasionally, and to look forward to a time, not very far distant, when Monteath's visit to London might give them an opportunity of meeting again. Charles then mounted the coach, and sighed when he thought of the friends he had left behind, and of the small number who would greet him with pleasure on his return to London.

CHAPTER FOUR.

When Charles returned to his usual employments, and mixed again with companions who had no peculiar interest in his concerns, he could scarcely for an instant keep his thoughts from dwelling on the home he had left, and his anxiety to know more of Isabella became painful.

He received a letter from Jane the day after his arrival, but the tidings were not pleasant. Isabella was in great danger: her fever ran high, and for many hours she had been delirious. Charles was to hear again by the next post. The next post brought a letter from Mr Barker.

Isabella was not better, and Mr Everett thought that if a great change for the better did not take place in forty-eight hours, she could not live. After giving these particulars, the letter continued:

"Do not be too anxious about Jane: she is surrounded by kind friends; who are willing to help her, but she needs no a.s.sistance. She will relinquish the care of her sister to none but Hannah, and never even to her, except when a few hours of rest are absolutely necessary to her. She seems strong in mind and body, quite aware of the danger, and quite prepared for every thing. She has allowed her friends to take charge of Harriet and Alfred: they are with us just now. Mr Monteath and his daughters are much concerned at this illness, and so are the Franklins. Mrs F. shews her kindness in a very acceptable manner. She has sent a dinner ready cooked, every day, to your sister's house, that Jane may have as much of Hannah's a.s.sistance as possible. Mr Monteath sent some excellent Madeira, on hearing that wine was ordered, and his daughters have procured foreign grapes and various other luxuries for the invalid. I mention these things to prove to you that your sisters will want no a.s.sistance that friends can give, and even at this time it will be a great pleasure to you to be convinced that their worth is appreciated, and that their claims to esteem are allowed.

"We are very sorry for you, Charles, that you must be away just now: but you did right in going at the time you promised, and we will still hope that you will be rewarded by hearing better tidings than I am able to communicate to-day. You shall hear by every post. All your friends here send their love to you, and so do I, my dear boy.

Farewell.

"P.S. My wife has just been to your sister's. Mr Everett was there, and he thought he perceived a slight improvement in the state of the pulse and skin. May he be right!"

Charles longed to write to Jane, and this postscript encouraged him to do it. He wrote cheerfully, earnestly hoping that before his letter should arrive, such an improvement might have taken place as should render his expressions of hope not ill-timed. Mr Barker wrote again the next day. Isabella was not worse, perhaps a little better, but in a state of such extreme weakness, that there were yet but very slight hopes that she could get through. After this, the accounts were better for a day or two; the fever was gone, and she had gained a little strength. In two days more, Jane wrote herself, as follows.

"At length, dearest Charles, I can write to you again with my own hand. I could not till yesterday leave Isabella's bedside for an hour. Now, however, she sleeps a great deal, and therefore does not require such constant watching. She is certainly better, much better; but still so weak, that she cannot move a limb. O! I was so glad when her delirium ceased. Weak as she was, she was incessantly attempting to rise, and was never quiet for an instant. Now she lies quite still, generally with her eyes closed, so that we can scarcely tell when she is asleep; but I think she dozes for many hours in the day. She takes very little nourishment yet, but we have got down more to-day than yesterday. Our friends have sent all kinds of delicacies to tempt her, but I do not think she knows one thing from another yet.

She opens her eyes: I must go to her. O, dear Charles, she has spoken for the first time since her delirium ceased! I could scarcely understand her. 'Are you writing?' she said. 'Yes, I am writing to Charles, to tell him you are better.'--'My love to him: I _am_ better.' 'May I say you are comfortable now?'--'O yes!'

"My hopes have risen much since yesterday; but we must beware of too early hope: there is much to be done yet. I have _trusted_ throughout. I have tried to be hopeful, even while I contemplated the danger. Now that things look brighter, let us hope yet more; I need not say, let us be grateful; I am sure you are, and my own heart is now full of grat.i.tude. Farewell.

"Jane Forsyth.

"P.S. You shall certainly hear, in a day or two: if not to-morrow, you may conclude that we go on well."

Slowly, very slowly, Isabella continued to gain strength, and in three weeks from Jane's last letter, Charles allowed himself to dismiss all apprehensions. At that time, Isabella added two lines to a letter of Jane's, to shew that she _could_ write, though the almost illegible character of the writing shewed how much even this exertion cost her.

This was the signal for Charles to write to her, but he wished first to know the opinion of the bookseller to whom he had taken Isabella's little volume. He called at the shop, accordingly, but could obtain no decided answer. The bookseller approved it, on the whole, and thought it might make a very pretty volume, if he could be certain that it would answer the expense of printing handsomely, and so forth. Charles asked him how soon he could make up his mind: he really could not tell, but Charles might call again in a week. Charles agreed to do so, and said that he should wish to have the ma.n.u.script back at that time, or a decisive answer. He was sorry not to be able to give Isabella a more satisfactory account of her book; but he had previously warned her that she would probably have need of much patience.

At the end of another week Charles went again. The bookseller had thought no more of the matter; and Charles, not choosing to be any longer put off in this way, insisted on the ma.n.u.script being restored to him, and he could not help sighing as he pocketed it. It was not in the most cheerful mood that he left the shop, and his eyes were bent on the ground as he walked. On turning the corner of a street, however, he looked up, and saw at a little distance, on the opposite pavement, a gentleman approaching, who, he was pretty sure, could be no other than Mr Rathbone. A second look convinced him that it was, and he could not resist the impulse which the sight of his old friend inspired, to run towards him. Mr Rathbone looked full at him, and then turned quickly off the pavement, crossed the street, and pursued his way up another street. Charles was quite certain that Mr Rathbone had seen and known him, and had deliberately avoided him, and with this conviction a flood of bitter feelings came over him which almost overwhelmed him. He struggled against them, but tears would force their way, and his knees even bent under him. There was a print-shop behind him, and he turned round and leaned against the window, while he tried to recover himself.

This was indeed bitter enmity in return for what he could not even allow to be an offence. This thought--that there was, in reality, no offence, helped to restore his courage, and he was just dashing away the last tear that remained upon his cheek, and turning away from the picture-shop, on the beauties of which he had not bestowed a single glance, when a person at his elbow spoke to him. Charles looked up. It was Mr Blyth, who had purchased Isabella's work-bags and boxes.

"It is a curious thing, is it not?" said he to Charles, "that they should have got that sketch up at a print-shop. You see it is the very same as your sister's drawing, that group of people and all."

Charles looked again, and saw a beautiful print of his favourite landscape, the Bubbling Spring. It was the very same indeed, and the figures exactly copied from Isabella's drawing. They could not be mistaken: there were Jane and Harriet seated on the bank, and Alfred kneeling on a stone, and looking into the basin which was formed a little way below the fountain-head.

Charles uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Why, did not you see it till I pointed it out?" said Mr Blyth.

"No, indeed," replied Charles.

"Where were your eyes, man? But are you sure that your sister did not copy from this print? You told me it was her own sketch, but you might be mistaken."

Charles explained that the figures represented his sisters and brother.

"Well, it is a singular thing: but if her sketches are thought so good, it is a pity she should waste her drawings on workboxes, which hundreds of people can make as well. I think she might turn her talents to greater advantage. May I ask, whether she has been doing any thing of the kind lately?"

Charles hesitated for an instant whether he should confide to Mr Blyth his anxieties about Isabella's little volume. A moment's thought decided him to be open about it. He knew Mr Blyth very well: he thought he might obtain directions and a.s.sistance from him better than from any one else in London. He accordingly said, "I have some of my sister's handiwork now in my pocket. I do not quite know what to do with it. If we were not in the street, I would shew it you and consult you."