University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MISS GILBERT RECEIVES A LESSON WHICH SHE NEVER FORGETS,
AND WHICH DOES HER GOOD ALL THE DAYS OF HER LIFE.

The winter that followed these events was a severe
one, and restrained the occupants of the Gilbert mansion
within the walls of home. Fanny missed the variety
and vivacity of her old New York life. The same duties,
the same amusements, the same faces, the unvarying,
dreary scene, tired her. Never in her life had she
indulged so deeply in reverie. It seemed to her that
she had lived her life out—that she had either come to
its end, or had exhausted all its grateful significance.
She looked backward, and saw that the freshness of
youth was gone, and that she had achieved the highest
good she had labored for. She examined the present,
and found herself in the maturity and full strength of
her powers without an object of life that laid hold upon
the coming years, and without satisfying companionship.
She looked forward, and the future spread itself
before her, a dark and meaningless blank.

A nature like hers could not sleep. Vitality is a

restless principle, and she had it in abundance. Sometimes
she would issue forth in the wildest storms, simply
for the pleasure of excitement—the excitement of
struggling with fierce winds and overcoming obstacles.
Occasionally she and Arthur were thrown into one
another's society, always accidentally. By some strange
influence, they found it impossible to maintain a distant
reserve in one another's presence. There was no disguising
the hearty pleasure with which they took each
the other's hand on every unsought opportunity.
Fanny wondered why Arthur did not oftener call upon
her. She was piqued by his apparent desire to shun
her, for her woman's heart told her that he was happy
in her presence, and her woman's heart longed for his
manly society.

There had been a long winter storm—not the storm
of a day or a night, but of a week—not heavy, covering
fences and filling the highway with drifted piles—but
intermittent, coming down in sleet and snow, from low,
gray clouds that hid the mountain-tops, and hung chill
and hard, with discouraging persistency, over the valleys.
Morning after morning had broken upon the inmates
of the Gilbert mansion in dismal gloom, and day
after day twilight had descended upon mid-afternoon.
The same bleak landscape, the same muffled sleigh-riders—their
heads bent to break the blast—the same
gray sky, the same dull life from day to day, had
wearied and chafed Fanny Gilbert until she began to
feel that winter life in Crampton was unendurable. At
last, the storm broke up. In the night, the wind
chopped about, and came down from the north-west in
a long, hard blow, that bellowed in the chimneys, and

slammed the blinds, and whistled through the leafless
maples, and roared on the distant hills, as if it were rejoicing
in its own rough way over the great victory it
had won from the grim spirit of the storm.

As the sun rose, the wind fell; and very blue was
the sky, and very dazzling and inspiring the light, that
greeted the eyes of the Crampton people, as they looked
out of their windows that morning. Fanny Gilbert
declared at the breakfast-table that she would have a
sleigh-ride, and that Fred should accompany her. The
doctor informed her that the family horse would be
in use for other and more necessary purposes. Then
she would take the colt. She had already driven him,
and would be delighted to drive him again. Her father
expostulated, and Aunt Catharine prophesied evil; but
they made no impression on Fanny, who had determined
upon her ride.

Accordingly word was sent to the stable, immediately
after breakfast, to have the colt and sleigh brought
to the door; and Fred was muffled in the warmest
clothing by Aunt Catharine, while Fanny rigged herself
for the drive. The colt was led around, and seemed to
be in quite as good spirits, under the influence of the
bracing morning air, as his mistress. She went out,
patted him upon the head, caressed him, and kept him
quiet while Fred was taking his seat, and then quietly
stepped into the sleigh and took the reins. His head
was released by the groom, word was given to go, and
off flew the spirited creature like a bird.

Arthur Blague stood at his window while this scene
was in progress, and witnessed it with vague uneasiness
and apprehension. As the gay turn-out passed his window,

he felt moved to take his hat and go forth to see
the progress of the riders as they passed out of the
village. He followed them with his feet and his eye, as
they rapidly vanished in the distance, and then walked
on for his own quiet enjoyment.

Wrapped in his thoughts, and exhilarated by the
influences of the morning, he had left the village half a
mile behind, when he caught a view upon a distant hill
of a horse flying toward him at a frantic pace. He
stood still, and as it approached, he felt sure that it was
no other than the half-broken creature that Fanny had
driven off with. He heard no outcry, but he saw people
run out, after the horse and sleigh had passed, and lift
their hands in helpless fright.

Already the running horse was near him. He saw,
in a moment, that it would be impossible to stop him
by standing before him; so he chose the only practicable
alternative for helping and saving his friends.
The colt dashed madly toward him, while he kept his
eye fixed upon the sleigh. As it came up, he grasped
the dasher by a motion quick as lightning, and threw
himself by desperate force into the vehicle. A vague
impression that he was hurt upon the head, and a wild
sensation of flying through the air, were the subjects of
his first consciousness. The next moment he was upon
his feet, the reins were jerked out of Fanny's hands, and
then the frightened colt felt the strength of a man upon
his mouth. Fanny said not a word: not a word was
spoken by any one. The animal struggled desperately,
but tired at last under the steady powerful check, and
subsided into a short, broken canter, then came down to

a trot, and then stopped, trembling and reeking, before
Dr. Gilbert's door.

Arthur stepped out of the sleigh, while the stableboy,
who was near, took the colt by the head; and then
he lifted Fanny to the ground, so weak and faint that
she could hardly stand.

When both had seen Fred safely on his way to the
house, they looked in each other's eyes. She could not
speak. She gazed in the face of her preserver, down
which, from beneath his hat, the blood was flowing
freely, and was as dumb as if her lips were frozen.

“Fanny Gilbert,” said Arthur, with a firm voice,
“do not be guilty of this foolhardy business again!
Allow me to conduct you to the house.”

She answered not a word, turned upon her heel, and
left him. Arthur then went to his home and attended
to his wound—his two wounds, in fact—the wound upon
his head, and the wound upon his feelings. He knew
he had spoken strongly; but he felt that the risk of his
life had given him warrant for it.

Fanny entered the house, mortified and offended.
She was but a woman, with a woman's strength after
all. It had been demonstrated to her by one whose
strength, presence of mind, and courage had humiliated
her, and shown to her her inferiority. Not only this,
but he had assumed toward her a tone of command,
such as no man—not even her father—had assumed for
many years.

In the course of the morning, these thoughts passed
away. Then came shame for her lack of consideration
for one whose flowing blood testified to her how much
she was indebted to him. She had shown neither magnanimity

nor gratitude. She had not even exhibited
good breeding. She knew that she must make amends;
and, though her pride restrained her, she determined
that she would. The doctor had already walked over,
and ascertained that Arthur's wound was a superficial
one; but that could not satisfy Fanny. Her personal
duty in the matter must be done, or she could never
meet him again without shame.

In the afternoon, Fanny dressed herself with more
than her accustomed care, for a formal call upon the
young clergyman. It was such a visit as she had never
undertaken before. It was a visit to which she felt
urged by every sentiment of honor and of self-respect.
She knew that Arthur could misconstrue no call from
her that would cost her humiliation and a confession of
wrong. She even went so far as to con the phrases of
her confession and her prayer. The feeling of a culprit
destroyed her self-possession, and her heart beat heavily
with excitement as she lifted the knocker at Mrs.
Blague's door.

The smile of glad surprise with which Mrs. Blague
greeted her, assured her, at once, that Arthur had not
mentioned the unpleasant manner in which they had
parted from each other in the morning; and the fact
made her still more ashamed of herself. Mrs. Blague
was so happy to think that no one had been hurt. Arthur's
injury was nothing. It would heal in a few days.
After a few minutes' chat, Fanny inquired for Arthur,
and expressed a wish to see him.

Mrs. Blague left the room, and Fanny was alone. The
doors were left ajar as the mistress of the house went
upon her errand; and coming down through the silence

Fanny heard the terrible breathing of little Jamie—
heard it until every sympathy of her nature was bleeding.
Mrs. Blague was absent for some minutes, and, in
the mean time, Fanny grew nervous and sick at heart.
It seemed to her as if she could not remain in the house.
She rose and closed the parlor door, but still that same
stertorous respiration pierced her ears, and haunted her
impatient consciousness.

At length Mrs. Blague descended the stairs and reappeared.
She brought a troubled expression upon
her features, and an embarrassed manner. Arthur, she
said, nervously and blushing, would see Fanny in his
study. Fanny hesitated—then said, “Very well;” and
rose and followed Mrs. Blague up stairs. The latter
led the way to a distant door in the back part of the
house, opened it, turned Fanny in, and retired.

Fanny found herself in a strange place. There was
a small library upon one side of the room, in an open
case, and upon another a couch of singular construction.
A bright fire was burning upon the hearth, and there
was an air of quiet comfort in the apartment; but the
sound of that terrible breathing pierced her very soul.

Arthur was seated at a window with something in
his lap—something that had the face of a human being
on which were traced deep lines of distress, but the
form and proportions of nothing that she had ever seen.
She knew it must be Jamie; but it seemed impossible
that it could be. He was dressed like a girl; but from
the bottom of his skirt protruded a pair of feet, misshapen,
dwarfed, and stiff, hanging to ankles that were
no larger than her two fingers. One emaciated hand
and arm hung at his side, as loose and lifeless as the

sleeve that half hid it. The other was swaying wildly
in the air with its curled fingers and stiff joints, under
the excitement produced by the presence of a stranger.
Nothing half so sickening—nothing half so revolting—
had ever met her eyes before.

She nerved herself to meet the repulsive vision, and
approached nearer, trembling with excitement. The
little fellow's head, or, rather, his neck, lay upon his
brother's arm, and not a breath filled his chest that was
not drawn into it by a spasm that thrilled Fanny with
sympathetic pain. She did not see Arthur's look and
smile of greeting at all. Absorbed by the vision of the
afflicted child, and harrowed in all her sensibilities by
its efforts for the vital air upon which its terrible existence
fed, she could not remove her eyes from the sad
and distressed little face. Her eyes filled with tears,
and she wiped them, and wiped them again. Her bosom
heaved with convulsive sobs which only her most powerful
efforts could control.

“Is he dying?” whispered she at length.

“Oh, no!” replied Arthur; “he is very well to-day,
and enjoying the sunlight very much.”

“Very well? Why! how long has he been like
this?”

“Ten years.”

“Breathing like this?”

“Oh! no. He has breathed like this only five
years.”

“Five years! My God! My God!” and Fanny
sat and looked into Arthur's eyes with vague incredulity;
her face as pale as that of the poor child before
her.

At this moment the child indicated by a motion of
his lips that he wished to change his position, and Arthur
brought him forward so that he could lean upon
his hand.

“What did you mean, when you said that he was
enjoying the sunlight very much to-day?” Fanny inquired.
“Do you mean to say that he really enjoys
any thing?”

“Certainly he does,” replied Arthur, with a full,
cheery tone, that went straight to the heart of the little
boy, and straight from his heart into his face, illuminating
it with a smile as full of love and heaven as earthly
smile can be.

Arthur put him back upon his arm again, and looked
fondly into his eyes. The emaciated chest struggled on
for its coveted breath, but the heart looked up through
those soft, dark eyes with unutterable love and gratitude.

“He knows his friends,” said Arthur, in his strong,
cheerful way; and the words called out the same sweet
smile, and the same look of unutterable gratitude—certainly
unutterable by him, for his lips had never spoken
a word since the accident which befell him ten years
before.

“He's one of the happiest little fellows in all
Crampton,” Arthur continued. “He sits here with his
brother, and looks out of the window, and sees the
horses go by and the children at play, and keeps me in
the house, and makes me study, and warms my heart
with his precious smiles, and pays me ten thousand
times for all I do for him. He's one of the noblest and
happiest little fellows in the world.”

As Arthur said this, the boy repeated the old smile
—his sole return for all the care that brotherly or
motherly love could lavish upon him. Fanny looked
on with wonder—almost with awe. No such unselfish
love—no such devotion—had she ever seen or dreamed of.

“He is more quiet at night?” said Fanny, interrogatively.

“No.”

“Who takes care of him?

“I do.'

“How can you? How can you sleep?”

“Miss Gilbert, I have not slept more than an hour
at a time for ten years.”

“Arthur Blague!”

“Not more than an hour at a time for ten years.”

“And yet you are cheerful and happy.”

“So happy that it seems to me sometimes that I
must be dreaming, and that, by and by, I shall wake to
life's sterner realities.”

The proud woman sits before the humble man vanquished.
She can imagine how, in the din and heat of
battle, even she could face death at the cannon's mouth.
She can imagine how, for a great cause, strong men can
suffer hardships for many years—for a whole lifetime;
but this patient subjection of a great life to the wants of
a suffering child, for a whole decade, away from the eye
of the world, not only uncomplaining but abundantly
happy, rises in her apprehension into an unapproachable
heroism. She thinks of her own impatience with the
dull realities of her Crampton home, of all the selfish
pursuits of her life, and she sinks down into a sickening
self-contempt.

It was easy now for her to ask Arthur to forgive
her for the rudeness of the morning; and she did it,
forgetting all her nicely-trimmed phrases, and losing all
her reluctant shame. She thanked Arthur for the lesson
he had taught her, and in the fulness and impulsiveness
of her heart she told the young man how much she respected
and admired his self-abnegation.

As she spoke, Arthur's eyes sank to the floor, and
tears filled them. When she closed, he lifted them to
her face, and said: “I thank God for giving me the discipline
with which he favors almost exclusively your
sex. I do not wonder that women are so much purer
and better than men. They have opportunities which
few men have. Of all the heroisms this world has ever
known, those wrought out in rooms like this are the
greatest and the noblest—wrought out by patient, self-denying
women. God has singularly favored me from
my birth. He has kept my heart close to the suffering
always, and my hands busy in humble service; and before
Him, to-day, I declare that I would not exchange
what I have won in this sympathy and service for the
wealth of a thousand worlds like this. This cup, of
which I have been drinking daily and almost hourly for
many years, and which seems so bitter to you, has become
inexpressibly sweet to me. God help me when I
shall be called to put it away from my lips forever!
Always, in the presence of this little painful life, my
heart is melted down into the tenderest love and pity.
I take it to my arms; and all my resentments, all my
pride, all my own little trials, fade out; for I know that
in this little suffering boy—this pure and patient spirit—

I hold against my heart the form of Jesus Christ—of
Jesus Christ! Oh my God! what a privilege!”

As Arthur said this, his eyes were full of the light
of a dawning heaven in his soul. Fanny looked at him
in awe and wonder. She had caught a glimpse of something
divine. The glories of great secrets shone out
upon her. Transcendent motives of life revealed themselves
dimly to her quickened moral vision. The sublime
melody of another sphere breathed in the young
man's voice; and she faintly apprehended the immortal
harmonies into which the discords of time were swiftly
resolving themselves. In the strange excitement of the
moment, she dropped upon her knees before Arthur
and the child, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed
convulsively. The gifted, the famous, the courted, the
imperious Fanny Gilbert bowed humbly in the presence
of a consecrated life, under the shadow of great thoughts
that seemed to be let down from the heaven above her.

Jamie's little misshapen arm waved wildly back
and forth as he looked up into Arthur's face, with an
anxious, inquiring gaze; and his breath came harder
under the strange excitement. Arthur could have wept
like a child over the scene before him. He longed to
drop at her side, and pour out his soul in prayer. His
firm lips quivered, and there rose to them, from a soul
profoundly moved, the words: “Father in Heaven!
Our hearts, and the issues of our lives, are in Thy hands.
Make us children whom Thou shalt delight in; engage
our hearts and our hands in Thy service, eradicate from
us all our selfishness, and lead us into Thy perfect
peace!”

The room was silent. The little boy's breath came

easier for the moment, and then there rose from Fanny's
lips a whispered “Amen!”

There was a sound of feet in the passage, and Fanny
rose, and resumed her seat. Mrs. Blague came in.
She saw the marks of excitement and of tears upon the
faces before her, and started back. The question—
“What, mother?” from Arthur, arrested her. Mrs.
Blague had a story of destitution to tell. There were
two little boys down stairs—children of a widow who
had only managed to live through the long storm—and
the little boys had trudged through the snow three
miles for help.

“Go,” said Miss Gilbert.

“Give them something to eat, and tell them to wait
for me,” said Arthur. Then he added: “It is almost
time for Jamie to sleep, and then I can go.”

Fanny sat for a moment thinking. Then she rose,
removed her hat and cloak, drew off her gloves, and,
coming forward to Arthur, handed him a bank note as
her portion of the afternoon's charity. “Little Jamie,”
said Fanny, “will sit with me while you are absent.”

Little Jamie seemed to understand it all, and looked
up into her face with that old precious smile, which had
repaid so many kindnesses rendered him by others, and
which went straight to her heart with its freight of
pleasure. Arthur saw the smile, and it pleased him,
but he had at the moment a pleasure that rose above
even that. He uttered no expostulation, and made no
objection. There was something in this prompt adoption
of a painful task on the part of Miss Gilbert that
thrilled him with a new and strange delight.

Fanny took her seat, and Jamie, heavier than she

had supposed, was laid in her arms. Arthur received
Fanny's direction to call and inform her family that she
should not be at home until evening, and then departed
upon his long walk and his errand of mercy.

Mrs. Blague took a hint from Arthur, and retired
from the room, leaving Fanny and the poor little patient
to each other's society. The painful respiration of
little Jamie made her heart bleed. The door was
closed, and she was alone with the little one whom God
for some great purpose had smitten—alone—how the
thought thrilled her!—with Jesus Christ, in the person
of that sick child. Inasmuch as she gave her sympathy
and her service to this little one—this little unknown
one—the least important of all the children around her
—she served and sympathized with him! The Lord of
Heaven and Earth was in her arms! The place where
she sat was holy.

The little boy lay gasping upon her lap, looking
wonderingly into her face, but was evidently happy.
He had seen her pass the window, doubtless, many
times, and thought of her as a grand woman to whom
he was nothing. As he found himself in her arms—the
subject of her kind and compassionate smiles and her
tender care—there was a delighted expression upon his
face whenever she looked at him. She did not know
how far he understood her, but she told him long and
beautiful stories that she had repeated many times to
the happy little children in the far-off New York home.
Then she sang to him—low, dreamy tunes that soothed
his poor brain and nerves, and at last he went to sleep
upon her bosom.

Fanny looked around the room, and thought of the

weary, weary years that had been spent there by Arthur
Blague, while she was away, courting the flatteries
of the vulgar, mingling with the rich and the gay, or working
impatiently to win the applause of the public; and
her life shrank into contemptible proportions. Working
for herself, absorbed in the pursuit of a career which
should give significance to her and to her life, she had
run through life into nothingness; while Arthur, with
his heart turned from himself toward others, doing his
first duty with patience and active purpose, stood fronting
God and all God's universe, with a life before him
as rich as heaven, and as broad and long as eternity.

Of the silent prayers breathed that afternoon, of the
resolutions formed, and the projects conceived, her after-life
betrayed the results.

It was dark before Arthur returned. Several times
during the afternoon Mrs. Blague went in and insisted
upon relieving Fanny of her burden, but the proffered
relief was refused. She longed to be tired. She was
happy in her weariness. She desired, above every thing,
that there might, through the ministry of this invalid
boy, come into her heart a meek spirit—a spirit of patient
self-sacrifice. Not till Arthur entered the room,
did she release the little form she had tended so gently
during that long afternoon. Then she gave Jamie to
his mother, resumed her hat and cloak, and, taking Arthur's
arm at the door, walked home, talking of the
happy afternoon she had spent, inquiring for the poor
family whom Arthur had visited, and giving him no
opportunity to utter a word.

That night she was full of her new thoughts, and so
was Arthur, though they were very different from hers.

Ah! if he could see that strong nature and that rich
culture of hers all subordinated and devoted to the purposes
which ruled him, what a companion would she
be for him! Since the memorable evening he spent
with her on the occasion of her return from New York,
he had felt compelled, for the sake of his own peace, to
avoid her society. She had opened to him a mind so
full of treasure—so facile and bright—that he left her
fascinated; but when he calmly remembered that, in
the motives and purposes of his life, she had no sympathy,
he felt compelled to repress his rising interest in
her, and to trample his new thoughts of her under feet.
The moment, however, that her heart was toned up to
the key-note of his own, he was conscious of a sympathy
that thrilled every fibre of his nature. He held little
Jamie all that evening in a dream.

When Fanny entered her home, Fred had gone to
bed, and the doctor and Aunt Catharine were sitting
before the deep wood fire after their usual custom—
Aunt Catharine knitting, and the doctor trying to read
a newspaper and punching the forestick. Fanny sat
down with an exceedingly happy face, and related the
story of her afternoon's experience—bringing tears to
Aunt Catharine's eyes, and interesting her father very
deeply. Neither had seen Jamie Blague for years. He
was felt to be so painful a sight, that he had been persistently
kept from visitors; and they felt that Arthur
had had no idle motive in bringing Fanny into contact
with him.

As she closed her story, the long, shrill whistle of
the locomotive announced the incoming train, and the
delayed mail. The train, owing to the storm, had been

late for several days. Dr. Gilbert fretted with the
thought that he could not get his letters and papers until
the next morning, and Fanny declared her readiness
to go for the mail. This she accordingly did, and did
so quickly, that she returned with her cheeks glowing
with the influence of the air and the exercise. She
handed to her father the letters directed to him, and,
retaining one for herself, bearing the familiar New York
post-mark, sat down to read it.

“Frank Sargent is coming here to spend the next
Sabbath! Good!” exclaimed Fanny with a burst of
delight. “What can bring him here at this time of
year?” she continued. “There are none of his lame
ducks, that he talks so much about, here, I know, for
bookstores are not abundant. What can bring him
here?” and Fanny laid down her letter and said again,
“What can bring him here?”

“Coming to see you,” suggested Aunt Catharine.

“Not he. He never goes anywhere except on business,
and is never from home on Sunday if he can help
it. Something is in the wind.”

Then Fanny read the remainder of the letter, and a
postscript written by Mary, and pondered and wondered
until she went to bed. The doctor knew all about it,
and chuckled over his secret comfortably after Fanny
retired.