All through that day, with only the respite of some ten or fifteen minutes, when she retired to eat alone the frugal repast of bread and cold meat that she had brought with her for her dinner, did Anna stand behind the shop-man's counter, attending to his customers with a cheerful air and often a smiling countenance. She spoke to no one of the pain in her breast, back, and side; and none of those around her dreamed that, from extreme lassitude, she could scarcely stand beside the counter.
To her, suffering as she did, the hours passed slowly and heavily away. It seemed as if evening would never come—as if she would have to yield the struggle, much as she strove to keep up for the sake of those she loved.
But even to the weary, the heavy laden, and the prisoner, the slow lingering hours at length pass on, and the moment of respite comes. The shadows of evening at last began to fall dimly around, and Anna retired from her position of painful labour, and took her way homeward. But not even the anticipation of speedily joining those she loved, had power so to buoy up her spirits, that her body could rise above its depressed and weakened condition. Her weary steps were slowly taken, and it seemed to her that she should never be able to reach home. Many, very many depressing thoughts passed through her mind as she proceeded slowly on her homeward way. The condition of her sister Ellen troubled her exceedingly. About one-third of her own and Mary's earnings were required to keep her and her little ones from absolute suffering; and Mary, like herself, she too plainly perceived to be rapidly sinking under her burdens.
"What is to be done when we fail, heaven only knows!" she murmured, as a vivid consciousness of approaching extremity arose in her mind.
As she said this, the idea of her brother presented itself, with the hope that he would now exert for them a sustaining and supporting energy—that he would be to them at last a brother. But this thought, that made her heart leap in her bosom, she put aside with an audible—
"No,—no,—Do not rest on such a feeble hope!"
At last her hand was upon the latch, and she lifted it and entered.
"I am glad to see you home again, Anna," Alfred said, with an expression of real pleasure and affection; as she came in.
"And I am glad to see you sitting up and looking so well, brother," Anna replied, her gloomy thoughts at once vanishing. "How do you feel now?"
"O, I feel much better, sister. In a few days I hope I shall be able to go out. But how are you? It seems to me that you do not look well."
"I do feel very much fatigued, Alfred," Anna said, while her tone, in spite of her effort to make it appear cheerful, became sad. "We are not permitted in our store to sit down for a moment, and I get so tired by night that I can hardly keep up."
"But surely, Anna, you do not stand up all day long."
"Yes. Since I left this morning, I have been standing every moment, with the exception of the brief period I took to eat my dinner."
This simple statement smote upon the heart of the young man, and made him silent and thoughtful. He felt that, but for his neglect of duty—but for his abandonment of himself to sensual and besotting pleasures, this suffering, this self-devotion need not be.
Anna saw that what she had said was paining the mind of her brother, and she grieved that she had been betrayed into making any allusion to herself. To restore again the pleased expression to Alfred's countenance, she dexterously changed the subject to a more cheerful one, and was rewarded for her effort by seeing his eye again brighten and the smile again playing about his lips.
Instead of sitting down after tea and assisting Mary with her embroidery, as she usually did, Anna took a book and read aloud for the instruction and amusement of all; but most for the sake of Alfred-that he might feel with them a reciprocal pleasure, and thus be enabled to perceive that there was something substantial to fall back upon, if he would only consent to abandon the bewildering and insane delights to which he had given himself up for years. The effect she so much desired was produced upon the mind of her brother. He did, indeed, feel, springing up within him, a new-born pleasure,—and wondered to himself how he could so long have strayed away from such springs of delight, to seek bitter waters in a tangled and gloomy wilderness.
When the tender good-night was at last said, and Mary stretched her wearied limbs in silent thoughtfulness beside her sister, there was a feeble hope glimmering in the dark and gloomy abyss of doubt and despondency that had settled upon her mind—a hope that her brother would go forth from his sick chamber a changed man. On this hope, fancy conjured up scenes and images of delight, upon which her mind dwelt in pleased and dreamy abstraction, until sleep stole upon her, and locked up her senses.
When she awoke, it was with the same sinking sensation that she had experienced on the morning previous, and, indeed, on every morning for many months past. The remembrance of the rebuke she had received on the day before for being late at her place of business, acted as a kind of stimulant to arouse her to exertion, so as to be able to get off in time. It was, however, a few minutes past the hour when she entered the store, the owner of which looked at his watch, significantly, as she did so.
This day passed, as the previous one had, in pain and extreme weariness—and so did the next, and the next, the poor girl's strength failing her too perceptibly. During this time, Alfred's coat had been repaired, a pair of pantaloons and a vest bought for him, and also a second-hand hat of very respectable appearance—all ready so soon as he should be strong enough to venture out. How anxiously, and yet in fear and trembling, did the sisters look forward to that period, which was to strengthen their feeble hopes, or scatter them to the winds!
"I do really feel very ill," Anna said, sinking back upon her pillow, after making an attempt to rise, one morning some four or five days after that on which Mary has been represented as endeavouring to get an advance from Mrs.—.
"What is the matter?" Mary inquired kindly.
"My head aches most violently—and grows confused so soon as I attempt to rise."
"Then I would lie still, Anna."
"No, I must be up, and getting ready to go to the store."
"I wouldn't go down to the store, if I were you, Anna. You had better rest for a day."
"I cannot afford to lose a day," Anna said, again rising in bed, and sitting upright, until the swimming in her head, that commenced upon the least motion, had subsided. Then she got out upon the floor, and stood for a few moments, while her head seemed reeling, and she every instant about to sink down. In a little while this dizziness went off, but her head throbbed and ached with aggravated violence.
At breakfast, she forced herself to swallow a small portion of food, although her stomach loathed it; and then, with trembling limbs and a feeling of faintness, she went out into the open air, and took her way to the store. The fresh breeze, as it fell coolingly on her fevered forehead, revived her in a degree; but long ere she had reached the store her limbs were sinking under her with excessive fatigue.
"Late again, miss—" said her employer, as she came in, with a look of stern reproof.
"I have not been very well, sir," Anna replied, lifting her pale, languid face, and looking appealingly into the countenance of the store-keeper.
"Then you should stay at home altogether, Miss," was is cold response, as he turned away, leaving her to proceed to her accustomed station at the counter.
The day happening to be one of unusual activity in business, Anna was kept so constantly busy, that she could not find a moment in which to relieve the fatigue she felt by even leaning on the counter. Customer after customer came and went, and box after box was taken from, and replaced again upon the shelves, in what seemed to her an endless round. Sometimes her head ached so violently, that it was with difficulty she could see to attend correctly to her business. And sometimes she was compelled to steady herself by holding to the counter to prevent sinking to the floor, from a feeling of faintness, suddenly passing over her. Thus she held bravely on, under the feeble hope that her indisposition, as she tried mentally to term it, would wear off.
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon that the fever which had been very high all through the day, began to subside. This symptom she noticed with an emotion of pleasure, as indicating a healthy reaction in her system.
It was but half an hour after, that she sunk, fainting, to the floor, at her place beside the counter. When the fever abated, exhausted nature gave way.
For nearly an hour she remained insensible. And it was nearly two hours before she had so far recovered as to be able to walk, when she was suffered to go away unattended. It was seven o'clock, when, with a face almost as white as ashes, and nearly sinking to the ground with weakness, she arrived at home, and opening the door, slowly entered.
"O, Anna! What ails you?" exclaimed her mother.
"I feel very sick," the poor girl replied, sinking into a chair. "But where is Alfred?" she asked, in a quicker tone, in which was a strong expression of anxiety, as she glanced her eye about the room, in a vain search for him.
"He has walked out," Mary said.
"Has he!" ejaculated Anna. "How long has he been away?"
"It is now nearly four hours,'" Mary said, endeavouring to conceal the distress she felt, in pity for her sister, who was evidently quite ill.
"Four hours!" exclaimed Anna, her face blanching to still whiter hue. "Four hours! And do you not know where he is?"
"Indeed we do not, Anna. He went out to take a short walk, and said he would not be gone more than ten or twenty minutes."
Anna did not reply, but turned slowly away, and entering her chamber, threw herself exhausted upon her bed, feeling so utterly wretched, that she breathed an audible wish that she might die. In about ten minutes a carriage stopped at the door; and in a moment after, amid the rattling of departing wheels, Alfred entered, looking better and happier than he had looked for a long, long time. A single glance told the mother and sister that all was right.
"O, brother! How could you stay away so long?" Mary said, springing to his side, and grasping tightly his arm.
"I did not expect, when I walked out, that it would be so long before I returned, Mary," he replied, kissing her cheek affectionately. "But I met with an old, though long estranged friend, who seeing that I had been ill, and needed fresh air, insisted on taking me out into the country in his carriage. I could but consent. I was, however, so weak, as to be obliged to go to bed, when about three miles from the city, and lie there for a couple of hours. But I feel well, very well now; and have some good news to tell you. But where is Anna?"
"She has just come in, and gone up to her chamber. I do not think her at all well to-night," Mary said.
"Poor girl! She is sacrificing herself for the good of others,"
Alfred remarked, with tenderness and interest.
"Shall I call her down?" Mary asked.
"O, yes,—by all means."
Mary went up and found her sister lying across the bed, with her face buried in a pillow.
"Anna! Anna!" she said, taking hold of her and shaking her gently.
Anna immediately arose, and looking wildly around her, muttered something that her sister could not comprehend.
"Anna, brother's come home."
But she did not seem to comprehend her meaning.
The glaring brightness of Anna's eyes, and her flushed cheeks, convinced Mary that all was not right. Stepping to the head of the stairs, she called to Alfred, who instantly came up.
"Here is Alfred, Anna," she said, as she re-entered the chamber, accompanied by her brother.
For a moment or two, Anna looked upon him with a vacant stare, and then closing her eyes, sunk back upon the bed, murmuring
"It is all over—all over."
"What is all over, Anna?" her sister asked.
"What is all over?" the sick girl responded, in a sharp, quick tone, rising suddenly, and staring at Mary with a fixed look. "Why, it's all over with him! Havn't I drained my heart's blood for him? Havn't I stood all day at the counter for his sake, when I felt that I was dying? But it's all over now! He is lost, and I shall soon be out of this troublesome world!"
And then the poor half-conscious girl, covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.
"Don't do so, dear sister!" Alfred said, pressing up to the bedside, and drawing his arm around her. "Don't give way so! You won't have to stand at the counter any longer. I am Alfred—your brother—your long lost, but restored brother, who will care for you and work for you as you have so long cared for and worked for him. Take courage, dear sister! There are better and happier days for you. Do not give up now, at the very moment when relief is at hand."
Anna looked her brother in the face for a few moments, steadily, as her bewildered senses gradually returned, and she began to comprehend truly what he said, and that it was indeed her brother who stood thus before her, and thus appealed to her with affectionate earnestness.
"O, Alfred," the almost heart-broken creature, said—as she bent forward, and leaned her head upon his bosom—"Heaven be praised, if you are really and truly in earnest in what you say!"
"I am most solemnly in earnest, dear sister!" the young man said, with fervency and emphasis. "Since I saw you this morning, I have signed my name to the total abstinence pledge, and I will die before that pledge shall be broken! And that is not all. I met Charles Williams immediately after that act, and have had a long interview with him. He confessed to me that he had often felt that he was much to blame for having first introduced me into dissipated company, and that he now desired to aid me in reforming and assisting my mother and sisters, if I would only try and abandon my past evil courses. I responded most gladly to his generous interest, and he then told me, that if I would enter his and his father's store as a clerk, he would make my salary at once a thousand dollars per annum. Of course I assented to the arrangement with thankfulness. Dear mother! Dear sisters! There is yet, I trust, a brighter day in store for you."
"May our Heavenly Father cause these good resolutions to abide for ever, my son!" Mrs. Graham, who had followed her children up stairs, said, with tearful earnestness.
"He will cause them to abide, mother, I know that he, will," Alfred replied.
Just at that moment some one entered below—immediately after quick feet ascended the stairs, and Ellen bounded into the room.
"O, I have such good news to tell!" she exclaimed, panting for breath as she entered. "My husband has joined the reformers! I felt so glad that I had to run over and let you know. O, aint it good news, indeed!" And the poor creature clapped her hands together in an ecstacy of delight.
"It is truly good news, my child," Mrs. Graham said, as she drew her arm about the neck of Ellen. "And we too have glad tidings. Alfred has joined them also, and has got a situation at a thousand dollars a year."
Ellen, who had always loved her brother, tenderly, notwithstanding his vile habit of life, turned quickly towards him, and flinging her arms about his neck, said while the tears gushed from her eyes,
"Dear brother! I have never wholly despaired of this hour. Truly, my cup of joy is full and running over!"
It was about eleven o'clock on the next day, as Mary and her mother sat conversing by the side of the bed upon which lay Anna, now too ill to sit up, that a knock was heard below. Mrs. Graham went down and opened the door, when an elegantly dressed lady entered, calling her by name as she did so, at the same time asking for Anna and Mary.
She was shown up stairs by the mother, who did not recognise her, although both voice and face seemed familiar. On entering the chamber, Mary turned to her and exclaimed—
"Mary Williams! Is it possible!"
"And Mary Graham, is it indeed possible that I see you thus!"—(kissing her)" And Anna—is that pale, worn face, the face of my old friend and companion, Anna Graham?" And she bent down over the bed and kissed the lips and cheek of the sick girl, tenderly, while her eyes grew dim with tears. "How changed in a few short years!" she added, as she took a proffered chair. "Who could have dreamed, seven years ago, that we should ever meet thus!"
In a short time, as the first shock and surprise of meeting passed off, Mary Williams, or rather Mrs. Harwood, entered into a serious conversation with Mrs. Graham, and her daughters, in reference to the past, the present, and the future. After learning all that she could of their history since their father's failure, which was detailed without disguise by Mary—Anna was too feeble to converse—Mrs. Harwood turned to Mary and asked suddenly—
"Do you know this cape, Mary?" alluding to one she had on.
"O, yes—very well."
"You worked it, did you not?"
"Yes."
"For what price?"
"Two dollars."
"Is it possible! I bought it of Mrs.—for French, and paid her for it fifteen dollars."
"Fifteen dollars!" ejaculated Mary, in surprise. "How shamefully that woman has imposed upon me! During the last two years, I have worked at least one hundred capes for her, each of which brought me in only two dollars. No doubt she has regularly sold them for French goods, at from ten to fifteen dollars apiece."
"No doubt of it. I, myself, have bought several from her during that time at high prices, all of which may have been worked by you. I saw you in her store a few days ago, but did not recognise you, although your appearance, as it did several times here before, attracted my attention. I had my suspicions, after I had learned from Mrs.—who you were, that you had wrought this cape, and from having overheard you ask her for an advance of six dollars, as the price of three capes, was pretty well satisfied that two dollars was all you received for it. I at once determined to seek you out, and try to aid you in your severe struggle with the world. It was only last evening that I learned from my brother where you lived—and I also learned, what rejoiced my heart, that there was about occurring a favourable change in your circumstances. If, however, your health should permit, and your inclination prompt you to do so, I will take care that you get a much better price for any capes that you may hereafter work. They are richly worth ten and twelve dollars apiece, and at that price, I have no doubt but that I can get sales for many."
"Bless you, Mary! Bless you!" Anna said, smiling through gushing tears, as she rose up in the bed, and bent over towards her old friend and companion. "Your words have fallen upon my heart like a healing balsam!"
Mrs. Harwood came forward, and received the head of Anna upon her bosom, while she drew an arm round her waist, and bent down and pressed her with tenderness and affection.
A better day had truly dawned upon this ruined and deeply afflicted family. Mrs. Harwood and her brother continued to be their steady friends. For a year Alfred remained in his new situation as an efficient clerk, and at the end of that time had his salary advanced. During that period, Mary, and Anna, whose health had become measurably restored, employed all their spare time in embroidery, which, at the excellent prices which, through the aid of Mrs. Harwood, they were enabled to get for their really beautiful work, brought in a handsome addition to their brother's earnings, and this enabled them to live in independence, comfort and respectability. As for Ellen, her husband had become truly a reformed man, and provided for her comfortably.
It is now nearly two years since this happy change took place, and there is every appearance that another and a still happier one is about to occur in reference to Anna. Charles Williams is seen very often, of late, riding out with her and attending her to public places. The reader can easily guess the probable result. If there; is not a wedding-party soon, then appearances, in this case at least, are very deceptive.