Monday, July 6th.
This afternoon, I rode out with Frank to visit an elegant residence, about three miles distant. The house stands on an elevation, and has a beautiful lawn in front, descending toward a small lake or pond; on the shore of which stands a neat but tasteful boat-house, with accommodations for boating or fishing.
I saw a young girl rowing herself in a light skiff. She appeared to me to be about to upset every minute; but Frank told me it was an Indian canoe, which, being very light, can be paddled about with great ease and safety.
On our return, a woman came to the door of her house and requested the Doctor to call at Jones's, where a child was sick, intimating that she wished to say something more, but did not like to do so in my presence. I immediately proposed to alight from the carriage and proceed to the house of the patient, which was but a few steps distant.
Both the outer and inner doors were open, and nothing could be more appalling than the sight presented to my view. The room itself was capable of being made comfortable, if proper care had been bestowed upon it. But at present poverty and filth ruled without restraint.
The sick child lay upon a tottering bedstead, which was covered with pieces of carpet, torn quilts, or anything which could be procured from the floor or elsewhere. A part of an old rag-mat was fastened by two forks to the window at the side of the bed, to serve the double purpose of keeping out the wind and light, as there was hardly a whole pane of glass.
Chairs without backs, and a table under which a barrel had been pushed to serve in the place of a missing leg, made up the inventory of the furniture. On the floor, in the farther corner, lay the remnant of an old straw bed, and upon it was stretched in brutal unconsciousness of all around him the father of the family; the husband of the woman who was weeping over the sick child.
I announced myself as the wife of their physician, and was received by her in a way which led me to suppose she had seen better days. I felt of the little hand, lying over the side of the bed, and found it burning with fever. The sufferer lay with her eyes and mouth partly open, and her hair in a tangled mat about her face and neck.
"How long has she been in this stupor?" I asked, as the child took no notice of me.
"Since early in the morning."
"And have you given her no medicine?"
"Oh, yes! I have tried to force down a little spirit; but her teeth seemed set, so that she could not swallow."
I was never more rejoiced than to see Frank enter, as he did at this moment. He bid the woman get him a clean cloth, and some warm water. The latter she procured from a neighbor's kitchen, while a part of an old apron sufficed for the former.
The Doctor then proceeded to bathe the face, neck, and arms of the child. Afterwards he administered a cooling draught, which the poor, parched mouth eagerly swallowed. He forbade Mrs. Jones to give her any spirit, and left, promising to bring powders for the night.
As we rode home, my heart was full of admiration of my husband, while shame, that disgust had rendered me useless, and pity for the suffering family, alternately occupied my mind. At length, sympathy prevailed, and I said, "Frank, I shall watch with that sick child to night."
"Not for the world!" he replied, quickly; and then continued, more calmly, "The child will do well enough; or rather, she will not be the one to require most attention. I wish she were away from there; but I hardly think," he added, after a pause, "it will do to remove her."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Did you not see the man lying in the corner? He is a poor drunken fellow; and, if I'm not mistaken, will require more care than the child. I shall engage Mr. Ferris, a kind neighbor, to watch with them."
Perceiving my interest, my husband gave me a short account of the family, which he had known from childhood. "When Esther Holmes was married, her father furnished everything necessary for comfortable housekeeping. She had received a good common education, had been a few terms to an academy, and every one thought her well and happily settled in life.
"Her husband, Thomas Jones, is the son of pious parents; a capable man at his trade, and fully equal to supporting his family in comfort. He earns, at times, a good deal of money; but it is all spent for rum. Never was slave more under the influence of a tyrannical master, than he is under the power of his incessant appetite for intoxicating drink.
"In his Bacchanalian revels and fits of fury, he has broken and destroyed the furniture until now scarcely a piece remains. Sometimes, after an attack of delirium tremens, he endeavors to reform, and works steadily for two or three months. But then he is again overcome, and drinks worse than ever. His wife has gradually lost all hope, and seems to give up and let everything go. I fear she does not try to make home comfortable and pleasant to him, when he is himself. Everything is filthy in the extreme. It is only as a matter of stern duty that I can sit down in the house.
"For a day or two Jones has been sick, but he drinks all the time, he is awake; and I fear he will be wild to-night. It makes me sick at heart to think of him. He has some noble traits; but rum, rum, has changed him from a kind husband and a tender father into a creature worse than a brute."
Tuesday, July 7th.
About midnight a messenger came for the Doctor to hasten to Jones. The watchers could do nothing with him. He raved and swore that devils were at the foot of the bed, waiting to catch his soul, and carry it to hell. Frank went at once and did not return until near daylight. At breakfast, he relieved my anxiety for the sick child, by saying, she had been removed to a room in the other part of the house, and was now much better. But Thomas, he said, had passed a dreadful night. He had seemed to suffer the torments of the lost. He enumerated his sins from his childhood, disobedience to his parents, Sabbath breaking, profanity, intemperance, and almost every form of iniquity. These came up to his remembrance with the distinctness of the judgment. Then he told how he had turned from the Saviour, refused His offers of mercy, quenched the Spirit's influence, ruined his own soul, and the souls of his wife and children, all, ALL for RUM!!
This he screamed out; and when those around tried to soothe him, he said that he would scream so loud that every drunkard in town could hear. "If ten thousand devils pursue me," shrieked the insane man, "I will warn all to beware of RUM!!"
His attendants listened in wonder, and even Frank was astonished, as he had never heard him talk in this way before. Nor could he understand it until this morning, when Mrs. Jones told him that they had been to hear the new minister preach; and it appears their consciences had been aroused by his faithful presentation of truth.
Afternoon.
As Frank would not consent to my visiting little Susan, I contented myself with making her some nice porridge which Ann carried to her. My husband came in soon after, and told me two men could not hold Thomas in bed; and they had been obliged to confine his arms. He knows no one but his physician; and this afternoon appealed to him in a hoarse whisper, "take them off," pointing to the men who stood at the side of the bed. "Oh, hide me! Hide me! they tear my soul!"
The Doctor motioned them out of sight, and tried to soothe him. "Thomas," said he in a calm voice, "do you remember when you and I went to the Sabbath school?"
"Yes, oh yes!" gasped the poor fellow.
"Where did Mr. Goodrich tell us to flee for safety?" Thomas looked up eagerly, but made no reply.
"He told us to go to Christ. He would save us from all our enemies."
"If he would but take me; but oh, he wont; he wont! I've been too wicked ever to expect that," and hiding his head under the clothes, he cried aloud. Frank succeeded in persuading him to take some medicine, which the attendants could not do, because he thought they meant to poison him. He was calmer before Frank left.
Thursday, July 9th.
Last evening, my dear husband hurried through his calls, and took Mr. Munroe with him to see poor Thomas. He found him so exhausted by the violence of his fits, that, unless soon relieved, he cannot live long. The agony of his mind makes him much worse than ever before. When they went in, he had fallen asleep, and they sat down quietly to wait until he awoke. Frank says, as he sat by the bed and looked at the miserable man, so haggard and ghastly, he prayed that God would have mercy upon his soul, even at the eleventh hour.
When Jones awoke, he stared around him a moment, as if trying to remember where he was, while the Doctor quietly liberated his right hand, with which he immediately covered his face. After he had taken some gruel, he sighed, but would not speak.
Frank told him Mr. Munroe had come in as a friend to see him. He suddenly pulled away the clothes, and said, "No, he'll mock me! He knows how wicked I am! The last time I went to meeting he told over all my sins. He knows I can't be saved, and he'll only mock me." Here the poor creature burst into loud crying.
Mr. Munroe moved nearer, and took Thomas's hand in his; "My poor friend," said he, in a very gentle voice, "It would ill become me, a sinful creature as well as yourself, to make a mock at one for whom Christ died. I have come to remind you of his love, of his desire for your salvation. He has knocked at the door of your heart again, and again, and you have turned away from his pleading voice. Will you?—dare you turn from him now? When the Holy Spirit is striving with you, will you resist his gracious influence?"
He was interrupted by loud sobs, and Mrs. Jones, whom they had not perceived, hastened from the room, holding her apron to her face. Thomas had not noticed the interruption, but was looking so intently at Mr. Munroe that the Doctor almost feared the excitement, and placed his fingers on the brawny wrist.
But our good pastor perceived the workings of the spirit, and hoped and prayed that peace and joy might take the place of the dark despair which was killing body and soul.
No one spoke, but still Thomas gazed. His whole mind was filled with wonder. At length, he gasped, rather than spoke, "I will, I will receive Him as my Saviour, but oh, it is too late!"
The last words were spoken in such a tone of utter wretchedness and despair, that his hearers could not refrain from tears.
"Thomas," asked Mr. Munroe, "Do you remember the thief on the cross? Up to the moment of his conversion he had probably reviled his Lord. Take care then that you do not limit the power of the Almighty, whose voice of mercy saith 'He will save to the uttermost all that come unto Him.' He also adds for your encouragement, 'though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'"
The poor man looked from one to the other, as if exhausted by the dreadful conflict within him, and said in a broken voice, "you will not deceive me with hope, when God has left me to despair."
Frank said, "While there is life, there is mercy if you will believe;" and not wishing to prolong the interview, they knelt in prayer. The poor wife came in and threw herself down at the foot of the bed. Mr. Munroe in a fervent manner commended them to God.
He prayed that from eternity they might look back upon this hour as the most blessed of their lives, as the hour when they had chosen Jesus for their Saviour, and heaven for their everlasting home. Before he arose from his knees, the poor humble penitent said, in a voice choking with tears, "Lord, I believe. Have mercy upon my guilty soul!" Mrs. Jones sobbed aloud.
Friday, July 10th.
This morning Doctor Frank has been to see Thomas. I waited with no little impatience for his return. He found his patient decidedly better, though very weak. He had but one fit during the night, and that much less severe in its character. He had a touching expression of humility which made him look like a different man. He has most clear views of the sinfulness of his own heart; and of the abounding grace of God in providing a Redeemer for one so vile.
Frank was much pleased with one expression he used; "I dare not hope that God has accepted me; but I feel willing to be in his hands. He knows what is best for me. I feel safe to trust him, and think when he sees how strong my desire is to do right, he will help me."
Oh, that Thomas may be able to withstand temptation, and to bring forth fruits meet for repentance. I hope Christians will encourage him and pray for him. I was grieved this morning to hear a professing Christian speak distrustfully of the change in poor Thomas, and say, "persons in delirium tremens, are often very pious, but when they recover, their goodness vanishes like the morning cloud, and early dew."
Surely it is infinite condescension in God to visit the abode of drunkenness and filth with the rich blessings of salvation; but who can doubt his ability, and willingness to do it?
Monday, July 13th.
I have not been quite well for a day or two, and have only received permission to write a few lines. Frank blames himself for allowing me to do so much; but I have really done nothing which could injure my health. The weather was very warm yesterday. I lay upon the bed the greater part of the day. Frank insisted upon staying from church to nurse me in the afternoon. He was obliged to visit his patients in the morning. It is quite sickly now in the town, especially among children. May God preserve our dear little Pauline!
After her return from church in the afternoon, madam Phebe came to my room to make inquiries about my health.
"Well, Phebe," I asked, "Did you enjoy the sermon?"
"Oh, yes, missus, ole Phebe hab blessed time. Mass'r Munroe quite undo hisself dis yer day."
"Out do you mean," said I laughingly.
"Laws missus! dere aint no kinder difference. He go long farder in the broad road dan I eber heard him afore. I 'spects, I'se can stand de meanin if I'se don't use de right words."
"What was the text?"
"Dere now, I'se can't jist tink ob de text all in a minit. It has popped right off all in a suddent, but 'twas a blessed un, all bout God."
"Well, Phebe, if you can't remember the text, you can tell me about the sermon,—it pleased you so much."
"Oh, yes, missus, pleased me berry much, powerful good discoors dat ar. Wall now, how kinder curis dis yer chile, can't jist tink ob nothing, only jist when don't want ter. Now I declar," said the perplexed woman, putting her hand to her head, "when I'se getting de supper de hull discoors 'ull come pouring into my ole brain, when I can't no way stop to 'tend to it."
"Can't you tell me the subject?" I asked, trying to repress my mirth.
"Oh, laws, yes, missus, 'twas all bout piousness, and serousness, dat's de idee. I'se glad," she added complacently, "I'se got some o' my senses left, 'twas a blessed discoors dat ar."
Tuesday, July 16th.
Dear Mother, I am up and dressed for the first time since Monday. I feel a general prostration of the system. My husband ascribes it to over excitement. Nothing could surpass the kindness of every one in the house. I fear Frank will make himself sick from anxiety. He returns home once or twice in the forenoon, runs to my chamber for a few minutes, and then off again to another part of the town. Phebe does wonders in her line, trying to make something "Missus will relish a bit." She complains that I do not eat enough to keep a canary bird alive, and indeed I have not much appetite. Frank would not allow me to arise until after dinner, when Ann came in with a dish which would be very tempting to a person in health. I readily recognized the kind hand which selected it for me. The breast of a fat pigeon, with a nice slice of crisp toast, and an excellent cup of tea. I almost relished it.
While I sat in bed bolstered by pillows with the waiter before me, madam Phebe came from the kitchen to pay me a visit. She wished to see with her own eyes why I did not eat.
Friday, July 17th.
I feel a little stronger to-day. My husband came in yesterday while I was writing, and put his lordly veto upon my penning another word. I asked him if he had heard anything more from Lucy, or had received an answer from Mr. Benson.
He shook his head and said, "your first business is to get well." I think Emily is disappointed in not hearing from him; and she must be surprised that he does not write, as she supposes him to be only three miles distant. She asked me in a whisper yesterday if I had sent her letter. I told her, I sent it at once, and asked, "Has he replied?"
She shook her head.
"He may be away, and not have received it," I suggested. "I think," I added with hesitation, "I remember to have heard he was going on a journey." She brightened at once, and I turned away from fear lest she should ask more. I am glad to have escaped her scrutiny.
Friday, July 24th.
It is a week since I wrote you, dear mother. How I have longed to have you with me! I shall soon begin to expect another packet of letters. I desire to tell you about poor Emily; but my hand trembles so much, I don't know that I ought to enter upon it.
On Monday last I felt stronger than I had done for a week or two. Frank lifted me in his arms, and carried me down stairs for a short drive. The air was delightful, and I returned much refreshed, and invigorated. I wanted to walk up stairs, for fear Frank would injure himself carrying me. Cæsar stepped eagerly forward; but the Doctor only laughed, and said, "No, Cæsar, I claim this privilege, I can carry her as easily as I could carry a child."
I felt quite an appetite for my dinner, and was resting in my easy chair after it, when Emily came up to my room and walked toward me in such a calm, unnatural manner, I looked at her in alarm.
She seemed to be changed into marble, so colorless and rigid were her features. She silently put an envelop in my hand. I did not recognize the writing, but opened it, and took out a note, which, though written almost illegibly, either from emotion or haste, I saw was from Mr. Benson. It contained but few words, which were exactly these:—
"Miss Lenox,
"Beloved Emily,—
"I have this minute received your note, which has completely unmanned me.
"I am already on my way to Europe, where I shall probably stay several years; and where, until the last few minutes, I had hoped to spend the remainder of my life. It is only by the kindness of Captain B—— I am permitted to detain the pilot, while I write these few words.
"We are already out of the channel. May God bless and forgive us both! Dearest, farewell!
"Frederic Benson."
Saturday, July 25th.
I must finish telling you about my dear sister. Frank told mother as he came into my room, he should have thought that I was the one who had received sad tidings; for I sat holding Emily's hand tightly in mine, while the tears were streaming down my cheeks. Emily was calm and unmoved. I don't know how she feels; but she appears to be petrified. This appearance made such an impression upon me, that I had a dreadful dream after it. I sprang out of bed with a horrible shriek, thinking my distressed sister was insane, and I was trying to save her from some impending danger.
The next morning Frank looked very grave, and I heard his voice in the next room conversing with mother. The result of which conversation is, that she and Emily have gone for a few weeks to a town about a hundred miles distant, to visit some relatives.
In all the arrangements, sister was entirely passive, exhibiting neither unwillingness, nor interest. I hardly thought she could have left me so coldly. Not a muscle in her face moved as she kissed her farewell. Her hand remained passive in mine, and was cold and clammy. I know her brother is very anxious about her; and I expressed my fear that he had sent her away on my account.
"The journey will do her good," he replied.
Monday, July 27th.
Pauline is taking nice care of me, while Ann is busy about her morning work. The dear little thing is so proud to do anything for mamma. Sometimes she tries to help too much. After Ann curled her hair this morning, she accidentally left the brush on the dressing table. Pauline soon espied it, and stepping softly across the room made herself look like a fright. Her hair needs to be wet before it can be combed, and now being brushed when dry, it stood out like a broom all over her head. I told Ann not to laugh so much, lest the child should be encouraged to do it again, and should give us great trouble.
I asked Frank this morning, if he thought Lucy would come and sit with me. I feel rather lonely without mother or Emily, as I can neither read nor write but a few minutes at a time. He answered, "No!" decidedly.
"I want to see somebody," I said.
"How should you enjoy a visit from Aunt Susy?"
I almost jumped from my chair. This made him decide at once that she would not do. He said "You must rest, mind and body, in order to get well."
Tuesday, July 28th.
Yesterday afternoon I had arisen from my bed after a refreshing nap, and was seated in my easy chair by the window, when Frank came up stairs talking with some one whose voice I did not recognize, until she said, "I had hoped ere this to see thee at our house. Thee must come before Elizabeth goes;" and Friend Estes kindly advanced toward me, "I am truly sorry to see thee ill, my dear."
I tried to rise, and take her bonnet; but Frank said, she was his company, and he would do the honors. He took the friendly "poke," and carried it to the bed, where he spread a napkin carefully over it.
I looked in surprise; but the good lady smiled as she said, "Thy husband is well acquainted with friendly ways."
"I am sorry to leave such good company," he said, "but I have work enough for the afternoon." He was just leaving the room, when she detained him a moment, to ask whether Thomas Jones had recovered, and whether his family were in need of assistance. Frank replied that Thomas would soon be able to go to his work; until then, they were supported by charity.
There is something composing and soothing in the very voice and manner of the Friends. Certainly this is true with regard to my dear Friend Estes.
"Does thee like to have thy hair smoothed, my daughter? because I should love to do it for thee."
I said, I should like it very much, if she would let me sit before her, as I used to sit before my dear mother. She brought me a cricket, and I sat down and laid my head in her lap, where, for nearly an hour she passed her smooth hand lovingly across my forehead and hair. At the same time she discoursed so sweetly, that the afternoon passed too quickly away. If her conversation had not been so interesting, I should certainly have been lulled to sleep.
She told me of her daughter Elizabeth, who is soon to be married to a worthy young man every way approved by her parents, and the meeting.
"Is she to marry a Quaker?" I asked.
"Yes. He is now of our persuasion; but he was not educated so. He became a Friend by 'convincement.' The wedding is to take place in P——." And she invited us to be present, kindly offering me a seat in her carriage, if Frank could not spare the time to accompany me.
Before she went, she said something which sent the blood to my cheeks, but which makes me so happy I must tell you about it. I was sitting with my head in her lap, looking up into her kind face, when she remarked, "Thee has a kind, loving husband."
"O yes! I cannot think of one thing in which I should wish him to be different." She smiled a moment, and then said, "I am pleased thou art so well suited. Would thee like to hear what he said of thee?"
"O, please tell me!" I said, before I thought, and then my cheeks burned. I hid my face and added, "If you think it would be proper, and he would like it."
She laughed merrily at my embarrassment, as she said: "I presume, dear, he has told thee the same, many times. He said, 'If I had searched the world through, I couldn't have found one so exactly suited to my idea of a true wife.' He concluded, being quite warmed with his subject, 'She is a perfect little darling, and I thank God for her every day of my life.'"
O, mother, you can't tell how happy she made me. I couldn't lift up my head for a long time, for fear she would see the blissful tears. She kissed me tenderly, and when she left, my mind was fully determined on one point,—if I ever am sick and need a nurse, I shall desire of all others a Friend, if I can get one anything like her.
I know, dear mother, you will be glad that your Cora has not so far, disappointed the expectations of her husband.
Friday, July 31st.
Miss Proctor is here, spending a few days with me. I enjoy her society exceedingly. As we sat together in my room, I did not like to spend the time in writing. This afternoon Cæsar has driven her in the carriage to Lee Hall, and Pauline accompanied them.
I sent Lucy a magnificent bouquet, which Cæsar made me for the occasion, with a little note expressing my affection and sympathy.
I had a call from Mrs. Jones this morning. Frank sent her here to see Miss Proctor, who is making some clothes for the children.
She appears truly humble and devout. Thomas has not tasted a drop of spirit since he recovered, and is now beginning to work. She took Miss Proctor's advice very kindly with regard to neatness and economy; that her husband might feel that he had a respectable and decent home. She said, "I have now more heart about him than I have had for many years, because he distrusts himself and looks above for help and strength."
Monday, August 3d.
Lucy Lee sent by Miss Proctor a note requesting me, if able, to call upon her in the course of a few days; and if unable, begging me to ask the Doctor to call. He went early this afternoon, when she showed him a letter, she had received from Allen, and asked him what she should do.
The letter stated that Allen, feeling a strong desire to know the character of the man, rumor had affianced to his Lucy, had placed himself in the way of one of Joseph's associates, an old schoolmate, who had told him some astonishing facts. These, Frank only related to me in brief, and, indeed, would have wholly kept from me if possible.
When Mr. Arnold was first introduced to Lucy, it had not occurred to her brother to force him upon her acquaintance. But when that gentleman told him of his love for his beautiful sister, and solicited his cooperation and influence in winning her hand, he had willingly consented, out of hatred to Allen. While, however, Arnold's passion increased, her aversion became every day more evident, until, in a fit of exasperation, he had made a contract with her brother, that on the day she became his wife, he, as her husband, would make over to him one half of his property. This contract Allen's informant was called upon to witness.
The reason of Joseph's cruel determination to force Lucy to a marriage with his friend was now evident. Allen begged her to be firm in refusing to be sold in so vile a manner.
The Doctor requested to see Joseph, being determined to appeal to his affection as a brother, and his honor as a gentleman, if, indeed, he had any such feelings. But he was informed that he had gone with Mr. Arnold to the city. Frank then advised her to embrace this favorable opportunity to impart to her father her decided refusal to marry Mr. Arnold. With this advice poor Lucy, with a shudder, promised to comply. She is too fearful.
Tuesday, August 4th.
I long to hear from Lee Hall. If I do not in a day or two, I will try to persuade Frank to allow me to call there.
To-day we received wedding cards from Dr. and Mrs. Clapp. I shall take an early opportunity to visit them. We also received a letter from mother, and can you believe it? Frank almost refused to let me read it. I felt so hurt, I could only say, "Dear husband, would you like me to conceal anything from you?"
Without another word, he read it aloud. Emily remains exactly as she was when they left; neither better nor worse; she talks, walks, and acts like an automaton.
Mother fears insanity. She says this state cannot last much longer,—a reaction must take place. She closed with the kindest messages to me, and particular inquiries about my health.
"Frank," I said, when he had finished, "will you please to do me a great favor?"
"Certainly, my love, I shall be most happy to do so."
"Well then, please write to mother at once, and ask her to bring Emily home. I know she longs to do so; and I am almost well now." He hesitated what to reply. "You have promised," I said.
"Well, be it so," he answered, "but I am convinced that it is not safe for a man to promise so blindly."
"Blindly!—a wife! oh, Frank! I would promise to do any thing in the world, you might ask. I have such entire confidence in you, I know you would not ask me to do wrong."
He looked very, very much pleased and drew me to his side. "Dear Cora, you have unconsciously given me the strongest proof of entire love; but I do not deserve it, though I shall endeavor not to forfeit so precious a token of your affection. This is the feeling, sweet wife, we should cultivate toward our heavenly Father. He knows what is best for us; and it is safe for us to confide in him. He sometimes leads us through dangerous paths. Let us trust Him, though clouds gather and break over our heads."
Thursday, August 6th.
We were aroused from sleep last night by a thundering knock at the door. Frank threw up the window, when a man called out, "Doctor, won't you come as quick as you can to Squire Lee's. He's had a fit, and they think he is dying." Frank dressed and was gone in a moment. I could not sleep, but lay revolving in my mind Lucy's situation. I thought how I should love to offer her a home, where Allen Mansfield could come to see her. I went through all the marriage ceremony, thinking what a lovely bride Lucy would make when the heavy cloud had passed away, and her heart was free from sorrow or care.
Frank did not return until after I was seated at the breakfast-table. He looked very serious and only shook his head in answer to the question, whether the old gentleman was better. "He will probably never be better." I was shocked. "And Lucy?" I inquired.
"She has passed from one fainting to another."
"Horrible! But how is she now?" I really shuddered at the thought that she might not be living.
"She is conscious, but very much exhausted." After prayers he took my hand as he sat by me on the sofa. "Cora," he asked, "can you control your feelings?"
I quickly answered that I could, and would.
"Squire Lee received a letter from his son which so enraged him against his poor innocent daughter, that he sent for a lawyer to his office and disinherited her unless she would consent to marry Arnold, and that too without delay. With this legal document in his hand he summoned her into his presence, where with horrible oaths, he told her what he had done.
"She begged him to allow her to take care of him in his old age. She would promise never to see her dear Allen; but she could not consent to marry Arnold. She had rather die. She threw herself at his feet, when he cursed her and spurned her from him with scorn. A heavy fall caused Mrs. Burns to rush into the room. She had followed her dear young mistress to the door and had heard all that passed.
"The sweet girl was insensible. The kind woman rang for Jacob the porter; and they lifted her gently, and carried her to her bed. Her father soon after was seen going to his room.
"About eleven o'clock, one of the servants was passing through the apartment next that which he occupied, when she was startled by loud snoring. She stopped to listen, when finding it continue, she hastily called the housekeeper, and together they entered the room. The Squire lay in what seemed to them a heavy slumber; but they could not arouse him. The sound was like the snorting of a brute, more than like the breathing of a human being.
"By this time they were thoroughly frightened, and sent in haste for the Doctor."
Immediately after he had told me this, he returned to the wretched house, wretched in the midst of luxury and splendor! I waited in vain for him to return to dinner, but received a note toward night, telling me not to be alarmed, if he did not return until morning. Lucy was rather better, but would not consent to his leaving the house, while her father lived. He would probably not survive many hours.
Dr. Clapp called in the evening, and told me he had received a hasty note from the Doctor, requesting him to take the care of his other patients, with a list of those upon whom it would be necessary to call.
Friday, August 7th.
Contrary to the Doctor's expectations, Squire Lee is still living; and there is slight hope that he may be better. Frank pursued the most vigorous course of treatment; applying cups to the temples, and blisters to the back of the neck. He left him in a natural sleep.
Lucy has been carried to the room where she sits near the bed. She wishes to be near him when he recovers his consciousness, hoping before his death that he may revoke his dreadful curse.
Tuesday, August 11th.
Mother and Emily returned last Saturday, and as mother feared, a terrible reaction has taken place. Sister is now as excitable as she was impassive. She laughs so merrily that the sound rings through the house. Then with as little reason, she weeps violently. I led Pauline to the cottage to try and amuse the poor girl; but the little creature was afraid of her aunt, and clung convulsively to me, if Emily tried to force her from my arms. There is a dreadful wildness in her eye, which alarms me.
Squire Lee is so much better, Frank is of opinion that, if he has no relapse, he will soon be able to leave his bed. Lucy is with him constantly; indeed he cannot bear her out of his sight a moment. Sometimes he mistakes her for her mother, and calls her "wife," and "Mary!"
The Doctor has insisted that he shall have watchers, so that she may have regular sleep; and that she shall take exercise in the open air, at least an hour every day. Joseph returned Saturday, but as the Doctor would not allow him to go into the sickroom, telling him he would not be responsible for the consequences, the young man left again for the city early Monday morning.
Frank also told him, Lucy had informed her father of her determination not to marry Arnold. Joseph swore dreadfully, that she would be the death of her father yet. All his object now was to see if "the old fellow," as he called him, had acted upon his suggestion.
Mrs. Burns had picked up the paper which lay upon the floor, after the dreadful interview between father and daughter, and having glanced at its contents, and seen that he had indeed left every cent of his property to Joseph, was strongly tempted to destroy it; but knowing she had no right to do this, she carefully locked it in a private desk where she had sometimes seen her master put his papers, and kept the key. She told Frank of the fact, who strengthened her in the resolution to restore it to no one but her master.
After Joseph's departure on Monday, however, it was ascertained beyond a doubt, that he had taken the desk with him.
Thursday, August 13th.
Dear Mother,—Yesterday was a fearfully exciting day. About noon mother Lenox came over from the cottage to go back with Emily.
I asked where sister had gone. She looked at me with fright and wonder. "Emily," she exclaimed, "started for the house early this morning, purposely, as she said, to see her brother before he went out upon his calls."
"She has not been here to my knowledge," I replied. We instantly went to the kitchen to ascertain whether Phebe or Cæsar had seen her. Cæsar was absent; but neither Ann nor Phebe had seen anything of their young mistress. We were now really alarmed, and waited with impatience for Frank's return, while the women searched the house and grounds.
Cæsar was soon heard coming up the hill with the wagon, when his wife ran to meet him. He stopped the horse to hear what she was in such a hurry to say, but mother beckoned for him to come to the door. He said "I'se heb seen missus 'bout seven or it might be nigh upon eight. She be all dressed out for de walk, and was g'wine down de hill. I'se stopped de wagon, and axed missus if I'se go back and take de carriage and carry her where she was g'wine. But missus say no, she only g'wine on a piece for ole missus. She 'peared in mighty hurry," ended the old man.
Mother went back to the library, sat down in a chair, and covered her face with her hands. "I will send Cæsar to find his master," said I, earnestly.
Phebe, however, had anticipated me, for when I heard Cæsar, as I thought, drive to the barn, he had only turned back and gone to the office in the village. In a very few moments, we heard Frank's welcome voice. I sprang to meet him and led him to our distressed mother.
"Emily is gone!" she repeated after me; but oh! I cannot describe the mournfulness of the tone.
"Dear mother, don't be alarmed," he said, in a cheerful voice, "I will soon find the runaway and bring her back." I looked earnestly at him to see if he really were so hopeful, but could detect nothing to make me think otherwise, except that he was very pale about the mouth. He then ascertained from Cæsar the direction she had taken, and rode hastily away.
In about two hours, which had seemed equal to a whole day, I received the following hasty note by a messenger:—
"Dear Cora,
"I regret to say that I have so far been unsuccessful in my search. Let Cæsar procure men and horses from the village, and start off in every direction. I am on my way to Waverley, where I have slight encouragement to hope I may find her. A young woman was seen hastily running in that direction, and was observed to look frequently behind her, as if apprehending pursuit.
"May God in mercy grant this to be our dear distracted sister. Pray for us; but this I know you will do. I am stopping for ten minutes to rest and water my horse. Sweet wife, take care of yourself and our dear mother.
Your Frank.
I instantly rang for Cæsar, and gave him his master's orders, directing him to send in every other direction except that taken by the Doctor, and make inquiries at every house. Mother was so distressed, I felt that I must not give way to my feelings. So I walked the room holding Pauline tightly in my arms, or leading her by my side.
Not a tear did mother shed. She knelt by the sofa, with her face buried in her hands, for half an hour at a time. At the least noise, she would start up and look eagerly for a moment, and then relapse into her former state.
I tried to pray, but could not command my thoughts; I could only lift up my heart, as I walked the room. "O God! restore unto us our dear, lost one!"
I cannot describe to you the intense grief of mother, as hour after hour passed away, and we still heard nothing from the fugitive. By this time, the whole village was aroused, and messengers were continually coming to the house to report their want of success, or to make inquiries whether the poor girl had been found.
From the remark of one of them that they had been "dragging the pond," I for the first time realized what must be the agony felt by my dear, distracted mother, who with a low wail put her hand suddenly to her heart. I sprang to her side, and clasping my arms around her neck, wept bitterly. That dreadful thought had never before entered my mind. But it was what had distracted her.
Alas! what torment in that fear! I trembled at every sound. Dear, kind Miss Proctor, who instantly came to us in our sorrow, begged us to go up stairs, where we could be more retired. She promised to come to us with the first intelligence.
Ann came to put Pauline to bed, and brought tea on a waiter; but I shook my head, I could not swallow. Mother seemed not to see or hear her.
It must have been nearly nine in the evening, when I heard a faint sound in the distance. I listened eagerly, and then again I heard a shout. This time it aroused mother, who looked at me with dreadful apprehension and horror of the cause.
"Hark!" said I, as the sound was again borne on the breeze, "what do they say?" and now, as they approached nearer and nearer, we distinctly heard the words, "She's found! SHE'S FOUND!!"
We stopped but for one convulsive embrace, and then started quickly to go below; but the sudden relief was too great for mother's overborne heart; and she fell prostrate upon the floor. Miss Proctor, with Ann's assistance, raised her, and soon restored her to consciousness, having motioned me to go below.
The carriage stopped at the door. A boy was sitting on a cricket driving, while Frank held his unconscious sister in his arms. With Cæsar's assistance he carried her to her bed, from which I fear the poor girl will not soon rise. She was very wild all night, during which her devoted brother never left her. This morning he pronounces her suffering from the worst form of brain fever. God only knows the result.
Dear mother shared my room with me, and in compliance with Frank's earnestly expressed wishes, forced herself to remain in bed. But I hardly think she closed her eyes. This morning he has procured an excellent nurse, and will himself remain most of the time with her.
He will not allow me to be in the room, and says he has no desire to multiply such patients. He confessed to me this morning that for many hours yesterday he feared a more dreadful result; and added, "God only knows what I suffered in the thought that she had rushed into eternity unprepared."
I will go now and see if I can prevail upon mother to eat something and lie down. "For Emily's sake," is the only successful plea.
Wednesday, August 19th.
This is truly a sad house. Scarcely a sound is to be heard in it from morning to night. The door bells are muffled, and the outer gates are barred; no carriage enters the enclosure, and even neighbors and friends, who come to inquire, tread lightly as they pass round to the back door. We meet and pass each other in the halls, or sit at table one at a time, often in the vain attempt to eat; but we dare not trust ourselves to speak, our hearts are too full. Each of us pour out in secret the overflowings of a burdened heart. We cannot even meet around the family altar. God, who reads our thoughts, knows our only hope is in his rich mercy, and that, from morning till night, our desires go forth to Him in whose hand life and death are.
For several days our darling, precious sister has lain at the point of death; and we have no well-grounded hope of her preparation to meet her God. Oh, dreadful thought! It is this which makes our hearts sink within us. Surely, "the sting of death is sin." If we could feel that Emily, dear Emily, was prepared to die, I think I could say, "it is well;" but my heart cries out with Esther, "How can I endure to see the destruction of my kindred!" O, may God, in infinite compassion, restore our darling to reason, ere she goes hence to be here no more! She has lain for two days unconscious of all around her. I dare not ask Frank whether there is hope. There is none in his pale, mournful face.
Friday, August 21st.
Dearest mother, rejoice with us! We are permitted to hope. My own dear Frank, who had not left the sick room for many weary hours, came noiselessly out of it this morning; advanced toward mother and myself who sat silently hand in hand, awaiting the long feared, and long expected summons.
"Can you command your feelings?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. We bowed our assent. He led us to the bed-side of the pale sufferer, where, with emotions of joy and gratitude which I cannot describe, we saw her, ghastly and pale indeed, but in a calm and natural slumber.
With a finger on his lip, Frank pointed to the sweet expression of the mouth, and the calm serenity of the brow, which had taken the place of the previous signs of intense suffering. Leaving the sympathizing nurse with her, we stole softly from the room. I wanted to get into the air. My heart was swelling within me, and the tears, which I had forced back, were choking me. Frank accompanied us to the library, where we knelt together to express our gratitude and praise.
How easy now to feel submissive to the will of God! When we arose, mother clasped her son's hands in hers, and burst into a flood of tears; the first she has shed. I know they will relieve her poor bursting heart. I feel that if Emily is restored to health and reason, I can never again be unhappy. I love every body. I want to sing—I want to scream for joy! I must have my sweet Pauline home, and relieve myself by embracing her. She has been with Miss Proctor every day for a week, only returning at night.
Saturday, August 22d.
Emily recognizes us. We have been in one at a time. She looked at us sweetly, and smiled. "O, Emily!" I even carried Pauline to her room, who just pointed her little finger at aunty, but did not speak.
The Doctor allows not a word of conversation. Now mother has been in, she will not leave, though Frank tells her the nurse can do much better. Her pale, anxious countenance will do his patient no good.
Monday, August 24th.
Still encouraging prospects! For the first time since Emily's sickness, Frank passed an undisturbed and quiet night. Strange as it may appear, my mind has been so occupied with sister's immediate danger, I have never thought to inquire of her brother where he found her. It now appears that the young woman, he mentioned in his hurried note to me, was in reality the insane wanderer. But he lost all trace of her after dark, and was about to return home in despair of success in that quarter, when he overheard two women talking earnestly at the door of a house. His attention was arrested by hearing one of them say, "She is every inch a lady." The reply was in a lower tone.
"Well, I can't tell as to that," added the first speaker; "Here she is, away from all her folks, and what is to be done with her?"
Frank says, his heart sprang into his mouth as he rode up to them, and asked if they had seen or heard anything of a lady who had escaped from her friends in a sudden fit of insanity.
"She is here! she is here!!" they both exclaimed.
Frank speedily made arrangements for a driver, and for shawls to wrap around the poor girl, who was alternately shivering with cold or consumed with heat.
Tuesday Morning, September 1st.
The nurse left us this morning. She was summoned to a family where she had been previously engaged, and we could not detain her. Mother, Miss Proctor, and I take her place. We succeed admirably. Each of us take our turn in sleeping on a couch beside the bed. Frank wished to take my place, but I decidedly refused. He is often called out during the night; and though he says he is used to it, yet I know he needs sleep when he can get it.
Emily requires but little attention. Only toast-water or arrowroot once in a while. She sleeps most of the time.
I rode to-day with Frank to see Caroline, who fails very fast. I was shocked to observe the alteration. She longs to depart, and wished the Doctor, when he was about to pray, to ask God to give her patience to wait her appointed time. Her mother appears deeply affected, and when Frank addressed a few words of consolation to her, she wept aloud. Then, after a short pause, "I am willing to give up my beloved daughter, if it is God's will; but it comes so suddenly upon me, I am not prepared for it."
As we passed Squire Lee's, I begged my husband to stop and let me speak to Lucy. Mrs. Burns came to the carriage and said if I would alight and go into the parlor, she would take Lucy's place with her father, and request her to come down. I imagined the dear girl looked happier than she did when I saw her last. She said "Though my sad duty at home has prevented my going to you in your trouble, yet I have constantly thought of you."
Joseph is still away, and the Squire continues about the same; but Lucy hopes he will soon be better, as he takes neither wine, nor brandy. It was melting to me to hear her speak of him with such affection. What a dutiful heart he has trampled upon!
When I returned to the carriage, I asked Frank what he thought of the old gentleman's case.
"If he abstains entirely from the use of stimulants," he replied, "he may live for years. But his mind is very much enfeebled, and probably he will not be able to transact any business, hardly to leave the house. Any sudden excitement would terminate his life. This I have tried to impress upon Lucy and the servants."
"Dear girl," I replied, "she seems perfectly happy in devoting her life to the comfort of her miserable father."
"Yes," added the Doctor, "and God will reward her."
"The peace which passeth all understanding disclosed itself in all her movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed moonlight."
Coleridge.
Thursday, September 3d.
We assisted Emily up into her chair to-day while Ann put fresh linen upon the bed. How she has changed! What a softened, subdued look there is about her! Mother was the first to notice it. Sister is very grateful for every attention, and has asked us to forgive her for causing us so much anxiety. Yesterday she called her brother to the bed, and asked him in a low voice if it would be too much trouble to call the servants to her room, and have prayers there. He was much affected during the service, while Cæsar and Phebe sobbed audibly. She spoke to each one as they passed out of the room in a most affectionate manner.
Sabbath, September 6th.
I have been to church all day. I intended to remain with sister this afternoon, but at her special request her brother staid with her, and I went again with mother. A note was read requesting prayers for Caroline Leighton, lying at the point of death; that she might have the presence of her Saviour through the dark valley, and arrive safely at her heavenly home. This was her own dictation. Such notes are common here, and I think very appropriate and salutary.
When I returned from church and was passing into Emily's room, Frank came out and led me to my boudoir. His eyes were inflamed as if he had been weeping. He sat down by me when I had laid off my bonnet, and said softly, "I know, dear Cora, that you will join me in giving God the praise, for salvation has come to this house." He then told me that soon after we left, Emily requested him to bring the Bible to the side of the bed, and read the parable of the prodigal son. He did so, and read in a low tone until he came to the eighteenth verse, when she interrupted him, and with her eyes closed, and her hands clasped as if in prayer, she repeated the words, "I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy child." She remained in the same attitude for a few moments, when she put her hand into her brother's, saying, "dear Frank, God, my Heavenly Father, has forgiven me." He sank down by her side and buried his face in his hands. "Dear brother," she whispered after a short pause, "will you ask God to enable me to consecrate my life to his service?—My life, which has been heretofore worse than wasted." It was some time before he could pray audibly, though his whole soul was filled with gratitude and praise. He had subsequently some delightful conversation with her, in the course of which she exhibited evidence of a regenerate heart.
Wednesday, September 9th.
I have been with my dear husband this afternoon to attend the funeral of Caroline Leighton, who died on Monday evening full of peace and trust in her Saviour. Her last words were uttered but half an hour before she expired, and were, "For I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day." She had previously left messages of love for all her friends, together with some little parting token of affection. She begged her father to tell the Doctor what comfort and joy she had experienced in her dying hour; and when he suggested that she should send her thanks for all his attention both to her spiritual and temporal wants, she looked up to him with a smile, and said, "tell him no thanks of mine can repay him, but God will reward him." With a true refinement of feeling she presented me with a little collection of hymns which Frank had given her, and in which she had marked those which best expressed her feelings.