Chapter XVI: The Telegram

A LETTER from Cecilia arrived the next week, stating that she had at last reached home and that her happiness would be complete, if Emily were with her to share the eager welcome extended to herself and Frederic, from parents, neighbors and friends.

She stated, as an item of news, which was exciting great attention in their western world, that Frederic had carried up an important patent case to the Supreme Court, where, according to the newspapers, he had argued for five hours with such power and skill that he carried all before him.

"The best part of it was," added his sister, "that he won and received thirty thousand dollars for his services, though to be sure he has been engaged for a year in looking it up; all the time indeed that poor unsuspecting 'I' thought he was such a devoted brother travelling solely for my benefit. If you could be present at one of our western parties, and see how he is toasted and feasted and made much of, you would be surprised, considering, I mean, the stupid way in which he conducted himself in U—.

"I have told my father and mother all about my pet friend, and they cordially unite with me in the wish that you may take a trip out west, and make us a real good visit, at no distant day.

"CECILIA.

"P. S. I have read the letter to Frederic at the request of his Honor. But when I asked him whether he had any message, he paused a full minute, then said, gravely, 'No, I think not.' You can easily imagine that I gave his ears a frightful reminder of my indignation in your behalf."

The young teacher was very busy in preparing her classes for the quarterly examination, and practicing new pieces for the Commencement Levee, at Mr. Duxbury's particular request. In this manner, day after day flew by, until less than one week intervened before the twenty-second of November, the time appointed for the Council.

Mrs. Washburn kept her daughter informed of every thing connected with the case, at Emily's request, writing such items on separate sheets, which the young girl would show to the Judge. Nothing of importance had occurred since the reading of the quarterly report by the Treasurer, when a warm debate took place in reference to past accounts, except a visit from the Bishop, who passed the Sunday with them, and confirmed six persons, who had been presented for that purpose by Mr. Whiting, the new Rector.

On this occasion, Mrs. Washburn inquired in reference to the manner of conducting the trial, and announced her determination to be present during all its sessions. The Bishop smiled and said, "Such a course is unusual, but I see no objection to it." After this, he took an opportunity to inform the Rector what would be expected of him. The conversation soon became so free that Mrs. Washburn informed him that as her husband knew far more about laying out a sermon, and looking up authorities on different topics connected with it than he did the technical terms of law, or the management of his own case, she had wished him to employ a lawyer to assist him, and that a friend had voluntarily offered to act as his Counsel, but he had refused.

"Why so?" he asked. "There is no objection to such a course."

The Rector then had stated the reasons which had prevented him from accepting legal advice, at which the Bishop had seemed much moved, merely adding,—

"God never disappoints the expectations of those who put their trust in Him."

This letter reached Emily on Thursday. The trial was appointed to commence on Tuesday of the next week. It was expected to last two or three days. On Friday night, Emily sat with one of her German pupils, correcting an exercise, when a servant entered requesting her to step to the door. She found Mr. Duxbury signing his name in a book, while a boy, with an envelope in his hand, stood waiting to deliver it.

"A telegram for you, Miss Washburn."

She seized it with a sinking heart, and read,—

"Come home immediately. Father dangerously ill."

"Mr. Duxbury, what time does the next train start?" The voice was so strained and unnatural that the gentleman would not have known from whom it came had not he seen Emily, pallid and ghastly, with her hands firmly pressed to her heart, gazing in his face with her pitiful eyes.

He took out his watch. "If you must take the night train to Albany, you have nearly an hour. Joseph shall go with you so far, and see you safely on board the train going east."

She tried to speak, but no sound came from her white lips.

At this moment Mrs. Duxbury came hurrying in, and took Emily in her arms.

"My precious child," she whispered, "what can I say to comfort you?"

"Pray for him and for me."

"I will go and pack your travelling bag; whatever you need after, shall be sent by express." She then directed a servant to pack lunch for two or three meals, and followed the poor girl to her chamber.

"Oh, Mrs. Duxbury, will God let him die before his name is vindicated?" The eyes were tearless, but the tone was agony.

"My dear child, God loves your father with a deeper, better love than yours. If it is His will to take him to dwell with Himself, He will surely vindicate him in His own good time. My poor friend's name shines clear now, though he lies in his grave."

Emily groaned, but went on hurriedly to arrange her dress for the sad journey.

"Don't try to keep back your tears, my poor child," urged the lady, almost frightened at the wild glance in Emily's eyes.

She only shook her head, but said presently,—

"I want to ask Mr. Duxbury to send, in the morning, to Judge Wilson. They must know, without fail, that I have gone home, and why."

"He will go with you to the station, and call there on his way back."

"Thank you; now I am ready." She stood one moment gazing around the room where she had passed so many happy hours, then with a deep sigh, went down stairs.

The girls were all in the hall. They had begged to be allowed to give their loved teacher a parting embrace, promising not to say one word. As she passed through them, she lifted her veil and gave every one a silent kiss, put her arms around Mrs. Duxbury's neck, whispering the petition,—

"Pray that I may have the heart to say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'"

Joseph was already at the door with the carryall. Mrs. Duxbury repeated Emily's request concerning the message to Judge Wilson, and they drove away.

"I have consulted the paper," said Mr. Duxbury, "and find you will arrive in Albany at five to-morrow morning. Joseph will see you comfortably seated in the right car; he is used to travelling, and you may safely leave everything to him. We shall follow you through every mile of your journey; but what is of more consequence you will have the companionship and sympathy of your Saviour. He suffered, you remember, that he might share our grief."

"Thank you, sir. I love to think of that. Oh, Mr. Duxbury! What if he—what if I should never see him again! I don't think I could endure it."

"'As thy days, so shall thy strength be.' Here we are at the station. Good-bye, my dear. May God go with you and support you."

It was near dusk the next evening when Emily, worn with suspense and fatigue, reached the city near her home, and leaving the cars, hurried as fast as her strength would allow, toward the street from which the omnibus started for Canterbury. It had been gone about ten minutes. Poor Emily! She stood one minute almost stunned with disappointment.

"Can I endure another hour of suspense?" she asked herself.

She walked on, hesitating what to do, and wondering whether she could walk five miles in the dark, when to her surprise, she heard her name called. It was Mr. Butler, one of their neighbors, who had been to the train with a carryall to meet her, but missing her there, followed her to the omnibus stand.

"How is he?" she gasped out.

"About the same. The doctors have a consultation this evening."

"There is hope, then?"

"I'm afraid there is very little."

"Is it fever?"

"Pneumonia. He took cold attending a funeral, last Wednesday, in a violent storm." No more was said.

Emily had no heart to ask further questions, and he volunteered no information. The poor girl had known him all her life, and was sure if he could give her any encouragement, he would not fail to do so.

In less than an hour from her leaving the cars, she reached home—the dear, dear home where her father's arms had always been outstretched to receive her, but where he now lay unconscious of all about him.

As the carriage stopped, Marion appeared at the door, and the sisters were speedily in a close embrace. Marion's face was pale as marble. There were no traces of tears.

Emily sank into a chair in the familiar room, and with one glance toward her father's writing-table, with papers here and there just as he had left them, she burst into tears.

"Tell me," she sobbed, "tell me all."

"Dr. Monger and his young partner Dr. Rand have just gone. They agreed mostly with our doctor, but Dr. Rand wished to try a new remedy which has been very successful in the hospitals. He is coming back soon, and will remain all night. Dr. Sumner is here now."

"There is hope then?"

"I think Dr. Rand feels that there is a chance for his life. I heard him tell mamma that papa's strict temperance in eating and drinking is a great thing in his favor—that medicines, which have little effect in cases of others, seem to do the desired work with him."

"Does papa know his danger?"

"Oh, yes!" murmured Marion, her whole face assuming an expression of elevation. "He is perfectly happy. The house has been full of people to hear him talk, ministers, and gentlemen from the city, even. It seems like having the gates of heaven open to be in his chamber."

"Mr. Butler told me he was lying in a stupor."

"Yes; that is in consequence of the new medicine Dr. Rand has given him. He has scarcely slept a moment before."

"How is mamma?"

"Perfectly well, and so calm you wouldn't know there was anything the matter. Now take off your hat and get some supper. I'll go up to papa, and then mamma will come down."

A light step came over the stairs, and Emily started up and put her arms around her mother's neck.

"You poor, tired child," said the lady, after one glance into her daughter's face, "You must eat a hearty supper and then go to bed. I suppose Marion has told you that Dr. Rand will be here through the night. I shall get all the sleep I can, so as to have strength for to-morrow."

"I must see him first, mamma."

"So you may, my dear. I'm so glad to have you here. We who have been so privileged as to be in papa's sick room, have witnessed scenes that we can never forget. Now, I'll go to the dining room with you. I have taken nothing yet."

Ruth and Josey started with surprise at the sight of their sister. They were not aware that she had arrived. Josey's eyes were red and swollen. He had been trying to read his Sunday School book, but his heart was evidently with his father.

At nine o'clock, Dr. Rand came and went directly up stairs to his patient. Noticing no one, he passed at once to the bed, bent his ear to the sick man's breast, felt his skin, then sat down with his watch to count the pulse. Finally he took the lamp from the table and held it above the patient where the light would reflect on his face.

Poor Emily, who was present, could not suppress a groan, as, for the first time, she saw the ghastly, deathlike hue.

"Do you perceive any change?" inquired Dr. Sumner, retiring with Dr. Rand a few steps into the entry.

"I must apply my thermometer before I can decide," was the brief reply. "When did he take the quinine last?"

"At eight precisely."

Dr. Rand went back to the bed, stood several minutes thoughtfully regarding the sick and apparently dying man, then taking a piece of rice paper from a box on the table, took a powder from his pocket, folded the damp paper over it, and gently raising the patient's head, skilfully pushed it down his throat without awaking him.

"Now," said he, in a low tone, approaching Mrs. Washburn, "I want the house quiet. You can all go to bed, only tell me where to go to call you if I need anything. He will sleep for several hours."

"Knock at the door opposite," she answered. Then added, "You will find on a waiter, in the entry, some food for yourself."

"I need nothing."

"Can you give me a word of hope, doctor?"

"His strength to-night fully equals my expectations. As for the rest, he is in the hands of a compassionate God."

"Yes, sir; and I thank Him that He gives me grace to say, 'Thy will, not mine, be done.'"