Chapter XVI: Stella's Confession

MRS. ASBURY was sitting at work in her room when she heard the outer door open and a quick step on the stairs.

"Who can that be?" she asked, somewhat surprised.

"No one but Mr. Angus has a key, ma."

"He never steps like that, Annie. Open the door and see."

Before she could do so, the step came down again and Mr. Angus came into the sitting-room holding out his hand as he greeted them.

Both mother and daughter started up to meet him, and Ethel, hearing his voice, came running in, and stood for a moment gazing in wonder. In her childish way she gave expression to their thoughts.

"It's a new Mr. Angus."

"Yes, it is, darling," he said, catching her in his arms. "That other Mr. Angus has gone away, and I hope never to see him any more."

Turning to Mrs. Asbury, he said, "God has been very good to me, and sent me the best of news from an absent friend. I have long mourned her as dead; now I learn that she died in faith, trusting in the blood of Christ to wash away all her sins."

"I am truly glad for you," was her earnest reply.

"The intelligence I have received renders it necessary for me to go to England for a short time. I want to ask your husband's advice concerning arrangements for my pulpit during my absence."

"How long shall you be away?"

"Probably three months."

"You have six weeks' vacation. Why not include those, and get a supply for the rest?"

"Thank you for the suggestion. It is my wish to leave as soon as possible."

This was all the explanation he gave as to the change in his conduct, a change recognized by every one in the parish. His voice, his step, his manner, were cheerful even to buoyancy. His smile was more frequent, and had lost forever the sadness which formerly often accompanied it.

The very boys in the street watched and wondered. Formerly, when he passed the play-ground, he gazed at them, but in so serious a manner that they felt almost guilty; now it was very different. He stood one day at the entrance to a large field, given up to the use of the boys for base-ball, watching the game with great interest.

"No, that is not the way," he shouted at last, leaping at one bound over the high fence. "This was the way when I was a boy." He gave the ball a kick, which sent it to the farther corner of the field, and stood laughing at the loud cheers which rent the air, then saying,—

"Play fair, boys; cheating don't pay," he gave another leap and passed on, taking off his hat and waving it high in the air as they cheered again.

A supply for the pulpit was readily obtained from a theological school, and passage engaged in a Cunarder; but, as the reader may not understand the necessity which called him to leave Grantbury, I will take the liberty to insert here extracts from the letters in the recovered package.

These were now in the hands of Marion, and he was to receive them when he went to New York to take the steamer. It is unnecessary to say that the young lady, having listened to the story of the brother, devoted her first leisure to reading the confession of the sister.

The very first lines deeply moved her, recalling, as she did, Stella bolstered up in her bed at the Home as she wrote, her curtain drawn closely to shut out the sight of her companions.

The letter began:—

If I have a brother, and these words ever meet his eyes, let him read them as coming from one who has deeply sinned against him, but who has also deeply repented.

Judge her as charitably as you can, my brother, even as I trust God will judge me; and remember that my prayers have gone up to God continually for you, and my loving thoughts reach far away across the waters, where, if still among the living, I suppose you are now.

"How strange!" reflected Marion, "that when she wrote that her brother was in an adjoining ward, and that one minute's walk would have taken him to her side."

Later.—I had to lay aside my pen and rest, and now my hands tremble with weakness; but justice to one who has never received justice at my hands urges me to make my confession. Harold, I cannot remember the time when I did not feel jealous of you. As a child, you were loving in nature, winning your way without effort to every heart. You were mother's pet and pride. Father could scarcely see a fault in his big, brave, and beautiful boy. When Aunt Sarah came, all that I could say to prejudice her against you had no effect. She loved and trusted you. She said you would love me if I would let you. She said few had so forgiving a nature. She tried to persuade me to be at peace and allow Will, my idol, to love you. I will say that when we used to walk into church, I was proud of you. All my companions envied me and my brother. This made me hate you more than ever. If you had been plain and unattractive, I think it would have been different with me,—but perhaps not, for my heart was full of envy and jealousy. Now you know the secret of all my conduct. I was possessed with a devil and, instead of trying to cast him out, I cherished him.

Harold, before you reached home to see father die he begged me to love you as I loved Will. He gave Will into your special care. He wrote you a loving letter, telling you his plans and wishes for your future, that he left the care of Will's education and his little property to you. If he died, it was to be yours. If you died, Will was to inherit what you left. How I hated him for this! I had a legacy from Aunt Mary which, with my share, would be enough for me, he said. How I hated him for writing this! The breath had scarcely left his body before I tore the paper to pieces. Will you forgive me, brother?

Later.—I must hasten on, for my life is fast drawing to a close, and I have that to tell you which will relieve you of a great sorrow, —I mean in regard to the last dreadful scene at home. Tears stream from my eyes as I remember your patience with me, your efforts to win my sisterly love. Oh how one expression of yours has rung in my memory!

"Sister Stella, why won't you let me love you? I will try to please you, and we might be so happy?" Oh, why! why!

You asked Will to go to walk. He started, and I ran and forced him back. To punish him, I shut him up in the room, forgetting that you had placed your gun behind the door. In my insane terror I charged you with murdering him, Harold. Before he died he confessed that he had loaded it,—put in the very bullet that was to end his life. Harold, can you forgive me when I say that I knew this when I saw you at his funeral, and did not tell you? Yes, when I saw you so changed that I scarcely recognized you, I kept his dying messages, which would have relieved your sorrow. I charged you with being his murderer, but no one believed me. Aunt Sarah did you justice. She told every one you loved the boy, and that he loved you,—that it was an accident. After Will confessed that he loaded the gun, she repeated this to every one. You were pitied, and I, who so idolized the boy, was looked on with suspicion. Even Aunt Sarah told me that I had ruined Will by indulgence, or he would never have touched the gun contrary to your orders. I hated her for saying it, but I knew that what she said was true.

Later.—I am already relieved by my confession, and, as I feel stronger this morning, I will write while I can. I shall commit this to the care of a dear friend, who first led me to hope for pardon through Christ. I can never tell any one how much she has been to me. Beautiful, accomplished, and rich, she devotes herself and all she has to the divine work of winning others to her Saviour. Dear brother, I wish you could meet such a friend. If you have never sought Christ let a sister's dying words prevail. His love is more precious than all the world beside. If I, with all my load of guilt can receive forgiveness, no one need despair. I told you I would never forgive you. One day I heard a sermon from the young chaplain of the Home, where I was staying. He repeated the words of our Saviour, "If ye forgive not men their trespasses," etc., and explained the wretched, despairing condition of those who cherish a spirit of unforgiveness.

Every word applied to my case. The gracious spirit of God carried home the truth to my heart, and helped me to accept his conditions of mercy. The whole room seemed filled with light. Never had I conceived such joy, such peace, as flowed in upon my soul. From trying to invent excuses for my own base conduct, I saw myself the vilest of the vile. I realize now that murder had been in my heart,—murder of a brother. I love you now. I wonder at your forbearance when I reproached you. How pityingly you used to gaze on me! I seem to see your eyes now,—eyes like our mother's, so sweet, so sad,—looking into mine as though you would say, "Stella, I want to love you. Why can't we be at peace?" O Harold, my brother, would that I could see you once more and ask your forgiveness! Aunt Sarah often said that I had driven you from home and friends. It is true. I grieve over it, and have asked God to forgive me. I pray that we may meet in heaven: you will forgive me there.

Before I close, I must tell you that immediately after Will's death I went home with Aunt Sarah, and remained till she died. In the bank where father left your money, you will find my share and Will's. I have never drawn one pound. I could not, as I had made it over to you. My legacy has sufficed. I want you to accept mine (Will's is yours by right) from a sister who has learned not only to love but to admire you. I found letters from your teachers in the military school to father. They wrote of you in the highest terms. Father used to read them over and over. I did not see them till after his death.

One favor I would like to ask. If you ever receive this, will you repay the faithful friend I have mentioned the amount she has expended for my lot in Greenwood,—she has promised to follow me there,—and any other expense incurred for my sickness beyond the $60 I leave in my purse?

Later.—The end is drawing near. I am not afraid: Christian friends are about me. My own loved Marion will be here presently, and will not leave me till Jesus, my Saviour calls me home. I have an assurance this morning that my prayers for you will be answered. We shall meet father and mother and all our loved ones in heaven. Farewell, dear Harold, farewell!

Afternoon.—God has seen fit to keep me here a little longer. I have not told you that I came to America two years ago,—after Aunt Sarah's death. I was in a boarding house with an acquaintance from home, and taught music when a sudden cold settled on my lungs. Miss Howard heard me sing once at a party given by one of my pupils and afterward called when she learned I was sick. She is a great lover of music. She has been such a friend to me as I cannot describe. This Home for the Sick has proved a paradise to many. Thank God, who sent me here. Once more, brother, farewell! Meet me in heaven.

STELLA ANGUS.