From this time, Clyde Farm became wholly a place of business. No regard was now paid to the beauty of the place. Iron-manufactories, nail-manufactories, and saw-mills, were projected, and all was hurry and bustle. One more pang, however, remained for Frances. The sequestered nook she had selected, where her little Charlotte’s remains were deposited,—that spot, so still, so tranquil, so shaded by trees, and so sheltered by valleys, so removed apparently from the tumult of business,—over that very spot, it was found necessary for the rail-road to pass! Strange as it may seem, the worldly father appeared to feel more deeply this innovation than the mother.

Twice he repaired to the spot to give his directions for the removal of the remains, and twice an impetuous burst of sorrow drove him from it.

“It is only a temporary resting-place, even for the body,” said Frances; “the spirit is not there.” She looked calmly on, and gave those directions for which the father was unable.

Another winter was now advancing, and the house in the city was ready for occupancy. Mrs. Draper made her preparations to return, but they were often interrupted by a pain in her side. The cough had entirely changed its character; it was now deep and hollow. She certainly looked remarkably well; her complexion seemed to have recovered the delicacy and transparency of early youth, and her eyes their lustrous brightness. As for the color of her cheek, her husband sometimes playfully accused her of extracting rouge from her carnations.

Charlotte spoke to him doubtingly of his wife’s health, and Lucy said she “was afraid she would not stand the frosty nights when they came on.” But Mr. Draper was sanguine that Clyde had been her restoration.

When she arrived at the city, there were arrangements to be made, and new furniture to be procured. Her husband gave her full permission to do just as she pleased, only begged of her not to call upon him, for he had not one moment to spare.

Frances exerted all her strength, but it became evident that she drooped. Her nights were restless; and though some thought it encouraging, that she coughed so much stronger, it was exhausting to her frame.

Mr. Draper at length perceived that she had rather lost than gained; he went for her physician, and requested him to recommend quiet to her. “I think,” said he, “she has over-fatigued herself.”

Dr. B. came to see her, conversed with her, counted the throbbings of her pulse, and made a minute examination of her case. The conference was long; when he entered the parlor, he found Mr. Draper waiting. He received him with a smile; but there was no responsive smile on the doctor’s face; it was solemn and thoughtful.

Mr. Draper grew alarmed. “You do not think my wife very sick, I hope,” said he. “Her cough is troublesome; but you know she has long been subject to it. Indeed, I think it is constitutional, like my own. You recommended the white mixture to her last year: it did her good.”

“I recommended a voyage and a warm climate,” said the physician.

“Yes, I remember you did; but it was impossible for me to go away then. In the spring we took that unlucky journey; however, it was of benefit to her, and if you think it necessary, I will go the same route now.”

“I do not,” replied Dr. B.

“I am glad of it; it would be particularly inconvenient to me just now to leave the city. Times are perplexing: bills come back protested—bad news from England—sudden and unlooked-for failures—no one can tell where it will end. We have been obliged to stop our works at Clyde Farm, and there are from ninety to a hundred laborers thrown out of employment. This is peculiarly vexatious to me, as they made out before to earn a living in their own humdrum way, and they now accuse me of having taken the bread from their children’s mouths, to promote my own speculations, though, while I employed them, I gave them enormous wages. But this, sir, is the gratitude of the world.”

The doctor still remained silent. It seemed as if Mr. Draper began to tremble for something dearer than money, for he grasped the hand of the physician.

“You do not think my wife dangerously ill, I trust,” said he.

The doctor replied, in a low voice, “I fear she is.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Draper; “she was remarkably well when we left Clyde. But what do you prescribe? I will do any thing, every thing, say but the word. I will take her to Europe—I will go to any part of the world you recommend.”

The physician shook his head.

“My dear doctor, you must go with us. I will indemnify you a thousand times for all losses; you can save her life; you know her constitution. When shall we go? and where? I will charter a vessel; we can be off in three days;”—and he actually took his hat.

Dr. B. said impressively, “Pray be seated, and prepare yourself to hear, like a man, what you must inevitably learn. It will not answer any useful purpose to go to a milder climate; it is now too late!”

“You do not mean to say,” said Mr. Draper, impetuously, “that if she had gone last year she would have been restored?”

“No, I do not mean to say that; but then, there would have been a chance; now, there is none.”

“Why did you not tell me so, sir?” said Mr. Draper, angrily.

“I said all that I was authorized to say. When I urged the step as necessary, you replied that it was impossible.”

“It is too true!” exclaimed he, striking his forehead; “and yet she is dearer to me than my own life;”—and, unable to suppress his feelings, he burst into an agony of tears. Suddenly starting up, he said, “Doctor, I have the highest respect for your skill; but you are fallible, like all men. It is my opinion, that a sea voyage and change of climate will restore my wife. If you will go with us, so much the better; if not, I will seek some other physician to accompany her.”

“It is but right to inform you,” said Dr. B., “that there is no chance of restoration. I suggested to her, that there might be alleviation in a warm climate; but she positively declines seeking it, and says her only wish is to die quietly, at home. She fully estimates the strength of your affection, and entreats of you to spare her all superfluous agitation. ‘Tell him,’ said she, ‘there is but one thing that can unsettle the calmness of my mind; it is to see him wanting in Christian resignation.’”

It would be painful to dwell on the anguish that followed this communication. Mr. Draper realized, for the first time, the tenderness and watchfulness that a character and constitution like his wife’s required. In the common acceptation of the word, he was an excellent husband; yet, in his eager pursuit of wealth, he had left her to struggle alone with many of the harassing cares of life. He had, by thinking himself unable to accompany her, denied her the necessary recreation of travelling; he had deprived her of her favorite residence in the city, and when she turned her affections to Clyde, even there they found no resting-place.

He recollected their unpropitious journey—the exposure to cold and rain—that he had hurried on the invalids, till he had accomplished his own purposes. One had already gone; the other was fast following. Speculators have consciences and affections, and his were roused to agony.

Frances shrunk not from the hour of death, which rapidly approached. Howard and Charlotte were constantly with her. There was nothing gloomy in her views. She considered this life as a passage to another; and saw through the vista immortality and happiness. To Charlotte, she bequeathed her daughter, and this faithful friend promised to watch over her with a mother’s care.

Many and long were her conversations with her husband—not on the subject of her death, or arrangements after it should take place; but she was earnest that her serenity, her high hopes, might be transferred to his mind. She had often, in the overflowings of her heart, endeavored to communicate to him her animated convictions of a future life. Those who live constantly in the present think but little of the future. Mr. Draper usually cut short the conversation, with the apparently devout sentiment,—“I am quite satisfied on this subject;

‘Whatever is, is right.’”

Now, however, when he realized that the being he most tenderly loved was fast retreating from his view, he felt that there was a vast difference between the reasonings of philosophy and the revelations of Christianity; and, in the agony of his soul, he would have given worlds for the assurance of a reunion. On this subject Frances dwelt; and he now listened patiently, without once looking at his watch, or being seized with one of his paroxysms of coughing. Still, however, he doubted; for how could he trust without bonds and contracts? No one had come back to tell him individually the whole truth.

“I acknowledge,” said he, somewhat reproachfully, “that this conviction is earnestly to be desired. If saves you from the agony that at this moment rends my heart.”

“My dear friend,” replied Frances, in a voice interrupted by deep and solemn emotion, “religion is not given us for an opiate to be used at a last extremity, merely to lull the sense of pain. The views I express are not new to me; they have been for many years my daily food; they have supported me through hours of bodily anguish; . . . the human frame does not decay as gradually as mine without repeated warnings; . . . they will conduct me through the dark valley of death, when I can no longer lean upon your arm . . . Their efficacy does not merely consist in soothing the bitterness of parting; they have a health giving energy that infuses courage and fortitude amidst the disappointments and evils of life.”

“Henceforth,” exclaimed Mr. Draper,—and at that moment he was sincere,—“every thing of a worldly nature is indifferent to me!”

“All men,” continued Frances, without replying to his exclamation, “are subject to the reverses of life, but particularly men of extensive business connections. They are like the spider in his cobweb dwelling; touch but one of the thousand filaments that compose it, and it vibrates to the centre, and often the fabric is destroyed that has been so skilfully woven. There is a divine teaching in religion, which at such times restores equanimity to the mind, gives new aspirations, and proves that all in this life is not lost, and nothing for that to come.”

New scenes were opening upon Mr. Draper. It became evident that a dark cloud hung over the business atmosphere. Unexpected failures every day took place. Some attributed the thick-coming evils to the removal of the deposits, others to interrupted currency; some to overtrading, and some to extravagance. Whatever was the cause, the distress was real. Mr. Draper’s cotton became a drug in the market; manufactories stopped, or gave no dividends. Eastern lands lost even their nominal value, and western towns became bankrupt. Ships stood in the harbor, with their sails unbent and masts dismantled. Day laborers looked aghast, not knowing where to earn food for their families. The whirlwind came; it made no distinction of persons. “It smote the four corners of the house,” and the high-minded and honorable fell indiscriminately with the rest. Well may it be asked, Whence came this desolation upon the community? No pestilence visited our land; it was not the plague; it was not the yellow fever, or cholera. Health was borne on every breeze; the earth yielded her produce, and Peace still dwelt among us.

Mr. Draper felt as if “his mountain stood strong,” yet it began to totter. Frances was ignorant of the state of public affairs. Who would intrude the perplexities of the times into a dying chamber? Softly and gently she sank to rest, her last look of affection beaming upon her husband.

The next morning, the bankruptcy of Mr. Draper was announced. No blame was attached to him, though the sum for which he became insolvent was immense, and swallowed up many a hard-earned fortune. Where was Howard’s little capital?—Gone with the rest—principal and compound interest!

“I am a ruined man!” said Mr. Draper to Howard; “I have robbed you, and beggared my child; but one resource remains to me;”—and he looked around with the desperation of insanity.

Howard grasped his hand. “My dear brother,” said he, “your wife, with an almost prophetic spirit, foresaw this hour. ‘Comfort him,’ said she, ‘when it arrives, and lead his mind to higher objects.’ Your child has an ample provision, by the sum settled on her mother. I have lost property which I did not use, and, with the blessing of God, may never want. Come home with me; I have means for us both. You will have all the indulgences you ever coveted. No one has led a harder life than you have. You have labored like the galley-slave, without wages; come, and learn that, beyond what we can use for our own or others’ benefit, wealth has only an imaginary value.”

Perhaps it was an additional mortification to Mr. Draper, to find that, a few days after his failure, the banks concluded to issue no specie. Many were kept along by this resolution; while others stopped, with the conviction, that, had they been contented with moderate gains, they might, in this day of trouble and perplexity, have been rich enough.

finis