Eunice. Margaret M. Robertson
wide open and sat down in the porch, for the day was as bright and warmer than yesterday had been. She had much to think about. It did not take her long to decide that Jabez should have the garden, if his grandfather did not object. She had not strength for the garden now, and Fidelia would have a better visit. How bright and eager the child was, and how much she had accomplished!
“I knew she would do well; and I must not be discouraged, though she has not yet caught the spirit of the place. She has been so intent on her work, that she has given herself no time to think of higher things. But His time will come. ‘One thing have I desired of the Lord’ for my darling, and He will grant it, that I know, whether I shall see it in this world, or wait till we meet in the next, where her mother and mine await us both.”
She closed her eyes, and sat motionless till the sound of wheels reached her ears.
“The doctor! I will not go down with him, and I hope he will be willing to wait till Fidelia goes before he speaks. I will go out to the gate, and he may not come in to-day.”
She rose and stood waiting for him at the gate.
“Well, Miss Eunice, what do you think about going down with me? Do you feel like it?”
Eunice smiled, and shook her head.
“I think not, doctor. My bread is not all baked yet.”
“What is this I hear about the garden? Are you going to let Jabez have it, as he wishes it so much?”
“Hadn’t I better, doctor? Without Fidelia it would be too much for me, I am afraid. I could work in it a little for exercise, even if Jabez had it.”
“Yes, I see. I should not wonder,” said the doctor; but his eyes were turned to the clouds that hung over the distant mountains, and he was thinking not at all of Jabez and the garden. His face was very grave.
“What a good face it is!” thought Eunice, as she watched it—“a true friend’s face!”
It was a good face, strong and kindly—a face to inspire confidence. It was brown and weather-beaten, and showed many wrinkles, and the soft waving hair above it was as white as snow. But it was not an old face. The eyes were soft and bright, and the smile that came and went so readily upon it gave it a look of youth. Eunice could not remember the time when he had not been good and kind to her, and she loved him dearly. But she was a little afraid of him to-day. In a little, his eyes returned to her, standing at the gate.
“Miss Eunice, what am I thinking about? You must not stand there in the wind. I will go in with you. I am not in haste to-day. What is this I hear about your garden?”
But Eunice knew that it was not of Jabez or the garden he was thinking, as he followed her into the house. She went out of the room, and returned with a glass of milk on a tray, and her hand trembled as she set it down.
It was of Jabez and the garden that they spoke first, however. Eunice told all that he had said, and the good reason he had for wishing to make money during the summer.
“And he’ll do it too—school and college and all—I should not wonder!” said the doctor. “There seems to be a terrible hunger for knowledge among our young people these days. I am not sure that I like it. I am afraid of it.”
“Oh, doctor, you do not mean that?” said Eunice.
“In a way I do. Knowledge! No, I don’t object to the knowledge. But I have a great respect for many of the tanned faces about us, and for the hands that have been hardened by the plough and the axe. ‘The profit of the earth is for all. The king himself is served by the field.’ And I have no respect at all for those lads who take to their books and to a profession because it seems a step upward, or because such a life seems to promise an easier time. I don’t like to see our farmers’ boys turning their backs on the fields their fathers have tilled.”
“But there are more boys than there are farms, I doubt,” said Eunice, with a smile.
“Yes, that is so. But there are farms enough in the country for them all. And there is no one to take the deacon’s farm but Jabez. However, we may hope that ‘the profit of the earth’ will seem more to him after he has sowed and reaped for his own benefit.”
“I think Jabez would make a scholar. It is in him to succeed.”
“Possibly. Oh, yes, he is a smart boy! If he has got the notion, he’ll go ahead with it. He’s not a bad boy either, though the grandfather has had—or rather has dreaded—trouble with him!”
And so they talked on for a while about the garden and other things, till the doctor rose as if to go away; and then he said, speaking very gently, just what Eunice had all along known that he came to say—“Do you think you had better wait any longer, Eunice?”
“I suppose it will make me no worse to know just how it is,” she said faintly.
“It will be far better to know all that can be known. I cannot but think you may be dreading what will never come to you. You have had a lonesome winter. And you have had a hard life, dear.” Eunice smiled, but shook her head. “I don’t think I have been very lonesome. And I have not had a hard life—taking it all together. Think how happy my life was till I was twenty!”
“Yes, dear, I know. And since then it has been more than happy. It has been a blessed life of help to others. But it has been a hard life too, in one way. Let us see now how it is with you.”
“But first let me say one word,” said Eunice, laying her hand on the doctor’s arm. “I don’t think I am afraid. I think I am willing that it shall be as God wills. But it may be long; and I will not, while I can help it, have my Fidelia know what is before me. And, doctor, I shall need your silence and your help—”
“To deceive her?”
The doctor sat down again and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment.
“To deceive her,” repeated he, “and to break her heart afterwards with unavailing regret?”
“Oh, she will have to know after a while, but—not as long as we can keep it from her!” There was silence for a minute or two. “Well, we will wait and see. I will not speak to her till you shall give me leave to do so.”
Then there were a few grave questions, and a few quiet replies; and then the doctor said—
“Take courage, Eunice! I would say to almost any one else, ‘There is no cause for anxiety.’ But having known so well the last years of your grandmother’s life, I can hardly say you have nothing to fear from the disease that was fatal to her; but I do say that, as far as I can judge from your present condition, you may reasonably hope for a good many years of comfortable health. You should have spoken to me sooner, and spared yourself a time of anxiety.”
He did not see the look of relief on which he had counted—at least he did not see it for a moment.
“Thank you, Dr. Everett,” she said at last. “And now nothing need be said to Fidelia.”
“Why do you fear for Fidelia? Your sister is braver and stronger than you think.”
“Oh, I think she is brave and strong! It is not that. But I want her to have two or three untroubled years before the work of her life begins; and then—”
“And what is the work of her life to be? Is she to choose it for herself, or is it to be chosen for her, as your work has been? Eunice, don’t you think you may be too tender with your sister? Don’t you think that the Lord has her and her life in His keeping, and that you need not take that burden on you?”
Eunice smiled. “We are bidden to ‘bear one another’s burdens,’ you know.”
“Yes; and we are told that ‘every one shall bear his own burden.’ You cannot shield your sister from all the troubles of life, and it is not well that she should be so shielded. However, all this will keep for another time; and I am more than thankful