Saturday, October 28th.
The funeral services of Squire Lee are to take place on Monday afternoon. Joseph has not yet arrived. Allen is not at all sure that he did not immediately leave the country as they heard, for fear his father would refuse to pay the note he had forged under the false signature of agent of the firm. But Lucy feels sure he would not be willing to leave until their father died, and the estate was settled. Poor girl! she has wept until she can weep no longer. She now begins to realize the trial of leaving her dear home, and all the associations connected with her mother and father.
Mr. Mansfield, Allen's father, has expressed his earnest desire to have them leave the house directly after the funeral, and make their home with him. But Lucy will not consent to leave until Joseph arrives, or until she is forced to do so. Emily thinks she secretly hopes that her brother will wish to share the estate with her, when he knows his father's dying wishes. Her husband has no idea of this kind, and says he is only too happy in the possession of such a treasure as his Lucy. He is now in business with his father; and though not able to live in the splendor she did before her father's sickness, yet he can give her every comfort, and he is sure he can make her happy.
Monday, October 30th.
I was exceedingly disappointed in not being able to attend the funeral, but I will give you Emily's account of the services. Mother accompanied Frank and sister to the house of mourning. Being the members of the family of the attending physician, they were shown into the room with the relatives. This is the common usage here. The adjoining rooms, hall, and stair way, were filled to overflowing with neighbors and friends. Our pastor commenced the solemn services of the occasion by reading a few select, and very appropriate passages of Scripture. These were followed by remarks, in which he alluded to the change in the character of the deceased, and to his peaceful death. He stated, that during the past year, he had enjoyed many conversations with him upon the subject of personal religion. He had always exhibited at such times, a humble, penitent spirit, and a deep sense of gratitude to a long suffering God, who had not cut him off in the midst of his sins; but had allowed him space for repentance. He then closed with an appropriate and impressive prayer.
When he had concluded, an opportunity was afforded for all who desired to take their last look at the marble countenance of the departed. After this a long procession followed his remains to the place of sepulchral rest.
During all this mournful scene, Joseph, who had arrived an hour before the obsequies, exhibited the most astonishing indifference. Not a tear evinced sorrow at the loss of his only parent; though his affectionate sister was bitterly weeping at his side. He sat a loathsome, bloated form, gazing abstractedly about the room, or yawning as if already weary of this last poor respect to the memory of his deceased father.
In compliance with the request of Allen and Lucy, the Doctor and Emily returned to Lee Hall, to be present at the reading of the will. As Joseph, the executor, had but just arrived, he was not in possession of the document, and sent Jacob to Mr. Colby to procure it. He soon returned, and after Lucy had summoned Mrs. Burns to the room, Joseph proceeded to read it. This legal document, you will remember, was dated on the very day Lucy refused to marry William Arnold, and had no doubt long been keenly regretted by the testator. By this unrighteous instrument, his affectionate daughter was cut off from any portion of her father's estate, which was all bequeathed to his son Joseph Lee, Jr.
This brought so vividly to the remembrance of the weeping daughter the trials which had long been forgotten, or thought of but as a troubled dream, that she could scarcely support herself. Emily besought her to be comforted, reminding her of the words of a favorite poet,
The Doctor had long determined, if an opportunity presented itself, to tell Joseph what he knew to be the wishes of his father; and to state his conviction that he had intended to provide for his daughter in a later will. This he now did, and appealed to him as a son and brother to perform the oft repeated wish of his father toward his sister. He was proceeding to say that Mrs. Burns, who had been present on some of these occasions, could corroborate this testimony when he was interrupted by Joseph, who had waited with ill-concealed impatience for him to finish.
"It's of no use wasting words in this matter," said he, trying to control his angry feelings, "If she whom you call my sister, had acceded to the wishes of her father, (whom she now pretends to mourn) in the choice of a husband, this will would never have been executed. If she had remained single, I, as the executor, and only heir, should have set it aside, and shared the property equally with her. But as she has chosen her path, so she must walk in it; as she has married a mean rascal," (for the first time letting his eye rest upon Allen, and with the look of a fiend,) "she must take the consequences."
At the first mention of his wife in this insulting manner, Allen had started to his feet; but the Doctor put his hand gently upon his arm, and he sank back into his seat.
Poor Lucy was spared the pain of hearing his insolent mention of her husband; she had fainted in Emily's arms.
All was now confusion. Mrs. Burns was flying for restoratives. Emily and Allen chafing her cold hands, while the servants alarmed at the noise were running in from every direction. Joseph walked deliberately into another room, slamming the door after him. The Doctor proposed taking the unconscious bride to her own apartment. Emily indignantly refused, and said, "I will not leave her in the house another moment." But neither her husband nor her physician would consent to have her leave in that condition. Beside the latter, determined to leave nothing undone, meant secretly to make one more appeal to Joseph in his sister's behalf.
After a few moments, the sufferer drew a long sigh, and becoming conscious, stared wildly about the room, and then burst into a passionate fit of weeping.
The Doctor, who knew this scene ought not to be prolonged, sat down by her side, and gently tried to soothe her. He soon drew from her the fact of her strong desire to carry with her the portraits of her parents.
Emily began to urge her afflicted friend to hasten her departure. In truth she says that she feared every moment a fresh outrage; and Lucy left the room feebly, as if the weight of years had fallen upon her. She wished to go through the house and take a sorrowful leave of the home of her childhood, and more especially of the apartment where she had spent two years in the society and care of her father; now hallowed by the remembrance of his peaceful death. Mrs. Burns supported her on one side, and Emily on the other, while she thus took her sad farewell of places and objects so dear to her heart.
It was not the thought of leaving the gorgeously furnished parlors, where the brilliant-hued carpets gave back no echo of the foot-step—where were mirrors the height of the rooms—chandeliers where the light was caught and reflected from innumerable hanging crystals—crimson velvet lounges and divans whose outstretched arms invited repose; it was not the thought of leaving these which overpowered her. No; it was the nursery of her childhood,—the cradle of her infancy—the closet, in which kneeling by her gentle mother, she had first learned to pray—the private sitting-room where her willing ears first drank in vows of affection from her Allen—the chamber in which both father and mother had breathed out their souls to God. These were the places and objects over which she yearned in agony of spirit as she gazed her long farewell.
Then came her separation from the old servants who had many of them remained for years solely out of affection for her. And who, when her sorrow for herself was changed to care for her stricken father, had shared her duties and attentions to him during the long period of his sickness. She assured them she should never forget their faithfulness or affection. Mrs. Burns, who had long been regarded as a friend and companion, was to accompany her, and for the present to remain in the house of her father-in-law. The rest crowded around her and wept aloud.
In the mean time the Doctor had taken advantage of their absence to venture into the presence of Joseph; when he asked him if it was indeed his intention to drive his only sister from her home.
The unnatural brother coldly replied, "she must leave, and the sooner the better for all concerned."
Frank then begged for her the portraits of her parents.
"No, not an article shall she—" but seeing an awful look of indignation on the Doctor's face he checked himself, and said, "well, I won't object to that; they're no use to me. You may tell her she may take them,—and stay," he added as Frank was leaving the room, "tell her that she may send a servant for all her gewgaws and finery; I shall want them out of the way."
His indignant hearer deigned not a word of reply, but left the room, and told Allen to take the portraits, which with a few articles for immediate use were put into the carriage, and with grateful, though sad adieus to their sympathizing friends they drove away.
Emily would not remain a moment longer. "Get me away! I can't breathe here!" she exclaimed to her brother, as they were waiting for the carriage.
Tuesday, October 31st.
Mrs. Burns returned to-day to Lee Hall, and found it indeed desolate. Not a servant remained but the porter; and he had only been detained for a few days, by a promise of great wages. While Mrs. Burns was packing, he came stealthily to her room, and told her what had taken place after she left. Shutting himself in his own apartment to avoid the disagreeable scenes around him, the new owner of this princely mansion hastened out when all was quiet to order brandy and cigars to be brought in with supper. He rang the bell. There was no response. He rang again. He then walked angrily to the kitchen, but all was deserted. He stamped and swore until the maid servants clung together in their affright, and only wished themselves safely out of the house. Each one of them would far sooner have given up the wages due them, than to have ventured into the presence of this monster in human form.
At length he was heard coming up stairs, and Jacob came out of his room dressed to leave; when really pitying his frightened companions, he determined to turn Joseph's anger against himself. After hearing the most abusive language unmoved, Jacob told his master, he would follow him to the parlor, and there receive his directions.
Joseph appeared to remember that he was compromising his dignity by condescending to follow a servant to his room, and he went below.
With a whispered word to his companions to leave their effects with him, and depart, the kind hearted Jacob waited upon his master, though he will not call him such; and there was persuaded to remain a short time as mentioned above.
Mrs. Burns told the good man that she would see that every cent of their wages was paid to them, and then with his assistance loaded the wagon with the trunks, and took her leave of the place where she had passed nearly twenty years.
Saturday, November 18th.
We have heard nothing from the proprietor of Lee Hall, except the fact from Jacob, that Mr. Colby has completely domesticated himself in the family; and the new servants brought from the city, have all given notice of their intention to leave. Two of the girls were indignant at their employer on account of his insulting familiarity.
Jacob says the house is seldom quiet until long after midnight; and that alarmed by the uproarious noise in the parlors, he has sometimes ventured below and heard violent altercations between Joseph and the lawyer. But the next morning, when they had slept off the effects of their wine, they appeared as friendly as ever.
Sister Emily went with Allen and Lucy to-day to look at a pretty cottage, with a view to house-keeping. The distance from Allen's business was the only objection, as they do not intend to keep a carriage. The bride has not yet recovered from the effects of the excitement and sorrow through which she has passed. We all think the novelty of furnishing her house will occupy her attention and be of use to her.
Thursday, November 23d.
After breakfast this morning Frank showed me the following notice in the Crawford Advertiser.
"Probate Court Notice."
"At a court of Probate held in the town of Crawford, county of ——, and commonwealth of Massachusetts, November 22d, 1837, whereas there and then appeared Joseph Lee, gentleman, to set up what he claimed to be the last will and testament of one Joseph Lee, deceased, and whereas objections were filed with this court by his brother-in-law, Allen Mansfield, against this instrument from a belief that it was not the last will and testament of the testator, therefore notice is hereby given to all parties and persons interested to appear before me at 10 o'clock, A. M., Thursday, the 30th of this month, and show cause if any there be, why said will should not be set up and executed.
—— ——, Judge of Probate.
November 22d."
Monday, November 27th.
The Doctor was notified to-day to appear before the Probate Court as a witness for Allen Mansfield against Joseph Lee. His sympathies are of course with Lucy and Allen, and he will testify to what he is sure were the intentions of the father. But he feels quite confident that there is no legal testimony in the case, sufficient to prove that he ever did make a will according to his intentions. It appears extremely improbable that if such a document had been in existence previous to the marriage of his daughter, that he should not have mentioned the fact to Allen. But he only said, "You will not have a portionless bride." That such a document did not then exist is almost certain from the fact it could not have been made without the knowledge of some one in the house, since though the old gentleman was perhaps capable of drawing up a legal document, and had the perfect use of his right hand, yet such document being drawn up, would not be admitted in court without witnesses.
Then if executed the day after the marriage took place as was at first hoped, where is it? What motive could there be for concealing it? and for allowing one of former date to be presented and set up?
Friday, December 1st.
Yesterday the Doctor attended the Probate Court. Mr. Willard appeared for Allen Mansfield. After the will had been read, and proved by the witnesses, to be both genuine and authentic, Mr. Willard asked leave to call for the witnesses to the deed of gift to widow Churchill; and endeavored in vain to prove by them that a subsequent will had been made.
One of the witnesses to the latter instrument was not living, being the young man who was so suddenly killed. The other testified that no farther business, except signing the deed was transacted in his presence.
Lawyer Colby corroborated this testimony, while Joseph Lee after being sworn, testified that although Mr. Willard's statements might be true as to his father's intention to make a second will, he had yet to learn that such a will had actually been made.
For want of proof of the existence of a second will, the one then before the court was set up and Joseph Lee duly appointed executor upon his deceased father's estate.
Friday, March 16th, 1838.
My dearly loved mother,—With a heart borne down with sorrow, I take my pen to communicate the sad intelligence which even as I write my heart refuses to believe. My sweet little Walter, my first-born son; your only grandchild, is, alas! no more on earth!
Evening.
I could go no farther this morning; the dreadful reality overwhelmed me; and I could only weep afresh. My dear, doubly dear husband came and wept with me. Then he took that precious book which contains so many words of comfort to poor broken hearts, and read passage after passage. We knelt together, and told Jesus all our sorrow and grief at the loss of our darling; that our hearts were like to burst that we should see his face no more,—no more hear his merry laugh, or his shout of delight. And Jesus, our elder brother, seemed to stand by us, and weep with us as he did with Mary and Martha of olden time. But at length he pointed to the beautiful azure sky above, while his tender notes fell like low sweet music upon our ears, hushing into peace the waves of sorrow which were roaring and dashing over us. "Beyond those bright aerial regions is the throne of the eternal. Before him are a multitude whom no man can number, of little ones who were early transplanted from this cold and sinful earth to the pure air of heaven. While sinful nations in affright hide their faces from the searching glance of him who sitteth upon the throne, yet upon these little ones he lifts the light of his countenance, and bestows his constant smiles. Your child washed in my blood, purified and sanctified by my spirit, is among them swelling with his infant voice the choir who are ever singing, 'worthy the lamb that was slain for our sins.'"
Those gracious words from our sympathizing Saviour, soothed our grief, and were balm to our wounded hearts. When we arose from our knees, we felt a new attraction to our home beyond the skies. We were the parents of an angel.
Saturday, March 17th.
I feel a painful pleasure in thinking over every circumstance connected with the sickness and death of my sweet child. While I write, my little Pauline, who has wept herself sick at the loss of her dear brother, is sitting on a cricket at my feet with her head resting in my lap. She is trying to restrain the sobs which ever and anon burst out afresh, from her tender, affectionate heart.
"Mamma," says the trembling voice, "will you please tell me more about that happy place where my brother has gone? Is he playing on his harp now?" I have quieted her by the promise that when I have written a letter to her grandmamma in England, I will read it to her.
On Thursday, the eighth of this month, our beautiful boy appeared perfectly well. The weather, which had been very windy and bleak, was unusually mild, and the children could hardly contain their joy at being able to be out of doors. Walter was warmly clad and placed in his wagon, while Pauline was only too happy in helping Ann to draw him round the garden. About ten o'clock the sun was so warm that the walks became damp from the melting of the frost, and I called them in. Walter was put into his crib for his nap, which was undisturbed. When he awoke I gazed at him with pride. His eyes were perfectly brilliant with beauty, his lips were red as coral and his cheeks rivalled the blush of the rose. As I held him in my arms and pushed back the curls from his broad, noble brow, so like his father's, my heart said, "what a beautiful boy, and he is my own." I was astonished to find him so ready to sit quietly in my lap while Pauline, by every art of which she was capable, was trying to decoy him away. He laughed aloud at her antics as she danced about the room, hiding behind the door, and then with a merry shout bursting out upon him; but when she said "brother, hide now," he would lay his head on my breast, and lisp, "tay with mamma." He sat thus nearly an hour, which was so unusual that I began to feel a little alarm. Frank laughed at me for indulging such a feeling, merely because he was quiet; and certainly one could hardly realize danger as they looked upon his face, which was the very picture of health and beauty.
After dinner Ann brought him to me in her arms, saying "he wants to lie quiet, and will not eat his bread and milk." Frank then felt his pulse, and said it was too quick. He gave me a powder for Walter to take if he was no better; but in the course of the afternoon, he slid from my lap, and played an hour or two with his sister. He was not as boisterous as usual, and seemed disposed to yield in everything to Pauline's wishes.
When I was putting him into bed she said several times, "Isn't brother a nice boy, mamma?"
When my husband came home, he went directly to the crib, and found him in a gentle perspiration, but still with a feverish pulse. I told him I had bathed his feet in warm water, which he approved, but thought it best to give the powder. When I retired he appeared no worse, and feeling more easy about him, I soon fell asleep.
I was awakened by a loud, shrill noise from the crib, such as I had never before heard. With one bound I was at his side, screaming "Frank, Oh, Frank! what can that noise be?"
Alas, no Frank answered! He had been called away. Whether I had forgotten it or never knew it until that moment I cannot tell. But another sound came, more horrible than the first. I ran to Ann's room and told her to ring for Cæsar and Phebe. Then I flew back to my boy, my darling boy. He seemed to be suffocated. I caught him in my arms, and tossed him to catch his breath. Oh! how frightened he looked. Soon Ann and all came rushing into the room.
"Oh, Cæsar!" I cried, "where is your master?"
Without another word he went in search of him. Ann ran for mother and sister, while Phebe hurried to the kitchen, and brought some olive oil which she succeeded in pouring down his throat.
"Don't be scare missus, it's de croup. Mass'r Frank cures heaps o' chilen sick wid it. Ole Phebe knows God not send for dis chile yet."
I wrung my hands. Before Cæsar could have had time to harness I began to expect him back.
Mother soon came in and took my boy from me, telling me to dress. I forgot that I had only thrown on a wrapper. Mother was so calm I began to hope it was not so bad as I feared. She had already sent Phebe for hot water; telling Emily to go to the medicine chest, and procure a bottle of antimonial wine. This she gave at once, and with his little feet and limbs in very warm water, while he was wrapped in blankets, he appeared better. But he looked at me with such an imploring expression as he said "mamma," that the tone stirred the deepest fountains of my heart.
"Oh, my darling!" I cried, "mamma would help you if she could!" Oh, how the little breast heaved; and he grew worse again,—every minute he grew worse. Mother said not a word, but kept administering to him.
"Where can Cæsar be?" she said at length, and I knew from her looks she feared the worst.
Then I heard a horse come dashing up to the door, and Frank almost flew into the room.
"Thank God!" was all that mother could say. The poor father knelt before his boy. His mother told him in a word what she had done. Oh! the look of indescribable agony that passed over his face as he found he was too late!
Our boy was dying!
Frank would not give up even then, but said "while there is life there is hope." But the breast heaved more feebly—the shrill sound gradually ceased—until lying in the arms of his grandmother, with his father and mother kneeling before him—his precious hand encircling my finger, he gave one last, lingering look at each of the group standing around him, and without a struggle or a sigh—only a slight shudder, he fell sweetly asleep.
After a few moments, so calm, so untroubled was that beautiful brow, so sweetly smiled those ruby lips, that as I gazed, I could not believe the spirit had fled. I could hardly refrain from catching him in my arms.
"Walter! oh, Walter!!" I cried, "can't you speak once more to poor mamma?" I passionately kissed his brow, his eyes, his beautiful lips!—oh, how proud I had been of those pouting, red lips; but they would never speak again.
I felt a strong arm put around me, and a kind voice told me I must not stay. My dear husband led me to the library, while mother, with Emily and Ann, performed the last offices for the dearly loved one.
"Oh, Frank!" said I, "why, why were you gone?"
He hid his face in his hands, and his bosom heaved convulsively. It is dreadful to see a man weep. I put my arms around his neck, and we wept long and bitterly. It was so sudden, the blow staggered me. It was now morning. Only yesterday morning, and my Walter was well; now, where is he?
I started. "Oh! what will Pauline say?"
Frank went softly up stairs, and found her quietly sleeping, and he did not awake her. How I dreaded her awaking! When I looked up, as Frank came into the room, I was shocked at the pallor of his countenance; his lips were closely shut, and I started to my feet, almost fearing he were about to fall. He pressed me tightly in his arms for a moment, and then we silently lifted up our hearts to God for strength to say, "Thy will be done."
After this, I was, myself, astonished at the calmness which stole over me. I went to my chamber, though he would have detained me; and there I saw my little one more beautiful than ever. The impress of heaven was upon his brow!
By his side stood Pauline in her night dress; her long curls hanging carelessly down her back, her eyes distended, her lips parted as if to speak. With one hand she touched the little fingers laid together upon the breast, then started back, awed by the marble coldness. I sprang toward her and caught her in my arms. So quietly had she stepped from her low bed in the adjoining room, and come to see if her brother was awake, that mother and sister who sat weeping at the farther end of the apartment, had not noticed her until I entered.
"Mamma," asked the frightened voice, "what is the matter with my brother? his hands are very cold."
I put a shawl around her, sat down with her in my lap, and began to tell her, but burst into tears. She heard sobbing, and looked from one to another frightened, and wondering.
Emily came and tried to tell her that her dear little brother had gone to God.
She pointed to the crib, as if to say he was there.
Emily said, "his soul has gone to God."
"And has papa's soul gone too?" she asked quickly, "my brother couldn't go alone; he was too little."
Oh, how my tears burst forth afresh!
"Pauline," said Emily, "the angels came from heaven to take dear little Walter's soul up to God. Jesus wanted him there."
"How long will he have to stay there?"
"Oh, Pauline!" I exclaimed, "he will never, never come back, we shall never see him again."
The poor stricken child sobbed aloud. Mother took her from me. "Go to Frank," she whispered, "and I will try to soothe her."
I went below, and softly entered the library, where my dear husband knelt by the sofa, with his face buried in his hands. I went gently to his side, when he put his arm around me. I whispered, "pray for me too." And in a broken voice, interrupted by convulsive sobs, he did pray that we might not murmur at this stroke of our father's rod.
After a while, I heard a gentle knock at the door, and Cæsar's voice asking if mass'r Frank would please eat some breakfast. When he saw me, the poor man cried aloud. Oh! what an idol he had made of his young master! His large faithful heart was swelling with grief, which he had in vain tried to control. I gave him my hand, and found a world of comfort in his sympathizing tears.
"Oh, missus Lenox!" said he sobbing, "I 'spects 'twas God's will."
"Yes, Cæsar, but it's hard for my poor heart to say 'Thy will be done.' You must pray for me, Cæsar."
"Oh, missus!" said he, "we'se all got to pray for dat."
I left Frank walking the room, and went up stairs where mother was dressing Pauline. Ann I found sitting on a trunk in her chamber, with her head upon the bed, weeping bitterly.
"My good Ann," I said, "will you come in and stay by the side of the crib while we are below?" I tried to compose myself, but broke down again.
"I can't, oh, I can't!" she cried, "don't ask me. I can't see him yet." Finding her in such a condition, I left her, and begged mother to allow me to remain with my boy; but she said, it was my duty to go below to my husband. It was in vain for us to try to eat. Pauline sobbed so violently, that her father was obliged to hold her in his arms to soothe her. I severely blamed myself for saying what I said to the sensitive child.
"My little daughter," said Frank in a most touching tone, "when you say your prayers, do not you ask God to make you a good child, so that you can go to heaven? And then you prayed God last night to make your little brother good, so that he could go; did you not ask this?"
She could hardly speak, but she sobbed out, "I didn't ask God to take him so soon, I wanted us to go together."
Her father could but press her to his heart. How often had we prayed that they might be fitted for heaven; but alas! had not dreamed of such a sudden separation.
Tuesday, March 20th.
Our little one lies buried in a shady knoll at the end of the garden, and there, when I have done with time, I hope to be laid beside him. Many times in the day do we bend our steps to the quiet retreat, and weep over the little grave. Pauline weeps less, and by the deep spiritual light in her eyes, I think she begins to understand something of the glory and purity of that world where her beloved brother has gone.
Our good friends Cæsar, Phebe, Ann, and Ruth, have shared so truly in our grief, that I feel as if they were related to us. Poor Ann is almost unfitted for everything. Whenever she sees his clothes or toys she weeps afresh.
With regard to myself, I feel at times a submission to the divine will, and even can realize the blessedness of my child in being with his Saviour, freed from sin and temptation to do evil; and then I am calm. But the merest trifle unnerves me. I have not had the heart to put away his clothes, and his little cap and cloak have hung in the hall as heretofore. A day or two since, I missed the cap from the hook, and going into the library I found my dear husband in an agony of grief over it. I was thankful that I was now able to be the comforter.
Thursday, June 7th.
I suppose ere this you have received the sad intelligence in my last, together with one of later date from Frank.
I have but just arrived at home from a journey to B—— and some other places. I was exceedingly unwilling to leave my husband, whose duty detained him at home. But both on my own account and Pauline's, he thought it best to change the scene.
If it were not for the night, I could control my feelings; but I dream of my boy, and awake to find myself childless. Often he seems to stand by me or float before me in the air, and that dreadful, agonized "mamma" he uttered, rings in my ears, and awakes me in affright.
Of late, however, I have been less disturbed, and my dreams of him are delightful. Frank is unwilling to have me dwell so much upon my sorrow, and when I see him, though pale and suffering, going on quietly with his round of duties, I feel reproved.
I commenced writing of our journey. We went directly to B—— after receiving a very kind invitation from uncle and aunt Morgan. Mother came over to the house to be with her son, and Emily accompanied me. Our journey was shorter than the former one, being all the way by railroad. We found our thoughtful cousin waiting for us at the station. The sight of his smiling face brought my little Walter so forcibly to mind, that I was completely overcome. Poor fellow! he was much distressed, and tried to soothe me. Pauline was delighted to see him, and put her hand in his, as confidingly as of old.
Uncle and aunt received us with parental tenderness. I was glad to hear from them so good an account of their son. He has gone into business in B——, and bids fair not only to be a wealthy, but a useful man. He went unknown to his parents and collected a Sabbath-school in the outskirts of the town, and in a place where the inhabitants had heretofore been regarded as too abandoned to be reclaimed. Here for a year past he has spent all the time he could command from other duties, during the week, as well as on the Sabbath, and now it is called the "Morgan parish."
Many who have known Joseph from babyhood, shook their heads when he commenced this labor of love; and thought, he only intended it for a new frolic,—that the novelty would soon pass away, and he would tire of the confinement. But as they see him more and more interested in his school, comprising now not only children, but parents, they feel a great respect for the young man.
I am quite amused at the way he treats Pauline, a little maiden of five years. He never plays with her, as it would be natural for him to do with a child of her age, but appears to regard her as something sacred; and is as delicate in his attentions as if she had numbered four times five years.
But cousin has not lost his character for fun. He would not be Joseph if he had; but he is very careful in his jokes not to wound the feelings of others. Then his manner of treating his parents is so much more respectful than formerly. Dear uncle and aunt! With what pride do they look upon his fine manly form and his bright happy face. Then they know this is a sure index of his heart. I found out his age while we were there, which was less than I had supposed. But I will keep his secret.
After a delightful visit at B—— we returned by a somewhat circuitous route to visit other relatives, to whom I was not an entire stranger, having met them at mother's. Pauline was very much delighted with travelling, and Emily took pains to point out to her every object of interest.
I must not omit to mention a circumstance which occurred before we left B——. Joseph was reading various items from a New York paper while we sat around the breakfast table to which we all listened with interest, when he came upon the following. "We learn that the Honorable Mr. Karswell, and family, of the firm of C. M. Karswell and brothers, are about to leave by the packet ship Cambria for Liverpool, where he is to meet his son, who has been travelling for a number of years in company with a distinguished clergyman, formerly settled in Waverley, Massachusetts, when they intend to make the tour of Europe and to visit the Holy Land. Mr. Karswell considers himself very fortunate in having been able to avail himself of the company of Mr. Benson in their travels; he being familiar with the languages of the countries through which they pass; and every way a great acquisition."
I could not tell how Emily looked, for I took particular pains to be occupied with Pauline, but I am sure my own face burned.
"Well," said uncle, "pass on to the next," little aware what an interest that small item had to some of the hearers. Emily soon made an excuse to leave the room, and I thought it best not to revert to the subject. In the course of the day I looked over the paper to see if any part of this communication had been omitted in the reading; when to my astonishment it was nicely cut out.
Aunt looked up at my expression of surprise and said, "O! Emily asked if we had done with the paper, she wanted to cut out a pattern of something." I had my own thoughts, but of course said nothing, and so the subject passed. I may as well say here that on my return, I asked Frank what family Mr. Karswell had, and learned that there were two accomplished daughters. He has been a widower many years, and the eldest daughter has kept house for him. The younger one, Gertrude, Frank says, gave promise of great beauty.
Frank was a little troubled about the cutting out of that "pattern" from the paper, especially as Emily did it so secretly. "If she loves him yet," said he, "she has had a severe punishment for her proud dissimulation."
On our return from New York, and when we were within thirty miles of home, the cars were full, and Emily was separated from us by two seats, Pauline and I being together. A gentleman who was a stranger to me took the vacant seat by sister. He was very much browned, as if he had come from a foreign clime, but altogether a noble specimen of man. After a few moments I was astonished to see them in the full tide of conversation, Emily being more interested than I had seen her for many a day. The burden of the conversation at length devolved upon her, while he grew more and more taciturn, until I saw that he put his handkerchief to his eyes and was much overcome by what she said. As she turned a little toward her companion, I saw that her own eyes were humid with tears; and I wondered at the meaning of this emotion. Fortunately for my curiosity, we soon reached a station, and the persons sitting in front of us left. Emily and her companion immediately arose and availed themselves of this seat.
I was not a little surprised, as well as pleased, when Emily said to me, "Do you remember, Cora, I told you about Edward Ryland, brother to your little Anna's mother?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"Well, this is he, just returned from India. He has not heard from his sister for many years. I have been giving him a sketch of her history."
I cordially gave him my hand, which he grasped so warmly, that I did not recover from the pressure during the remainder of our ride. He begged for all the news, saying, "I am absolutely famished for intelligence from home friends." He was very much affected at hearing of the reformation and peaceful death of Squire Lee; and shocked though not much astonished at the conduct of Joseph. From his frequent inquiries concerning families in Waverley, I more than suspected there was some one in that place whom the thought of meeting thrilled his soul with the sentiment,
We were so much engaged in talking as to be unaware of our near approach to Crawford, and sprang hastily to our feet as the conductor called out the familiar name. Inviting Mr. Ryland to make us an early call, we took a carriage and drove home, where we had no reason to complain of our reception. I went into the house very gently, and pushing open the library door, I saw my own dear Frank sitting, reading with his back to the entrance. I crept softly across the room, and put my arms around his neck. He sprang to his feet letting his book fall, and caught me in his arms.
"My wife, mine own, I will never let you leave me again. If you go, I shall follow. I am good for nothing without you.—
We then went to find mother and all the dear family. I had been dreading the return for fear my grief would overpower me; but I was graciously supported. Frank was very kind, and kept us busily talking. I believe Emily told every circumstance which had happened during our absence, (which I omitted I mean) except the one unimportant fact of her begging and saving as a choice article, an inch of waste paper.
Monday, September 10th.
Allen Mansfield and Lucy are very pleasantly settled near us. Mrs. Burns, and one of the chambermaids from Lee Hall form their establishment, together with a little stranger a week old, who has already received the name of Emily Lenox. Frank says, Lucy is exceedingly happy and grateful for the sweet treasure.
There is one event connected with this family, however, which has cast a gloom over the whole town, at least the sober part of it. The distillery, which was closed very soon after Squire Lee was taken sick, has been started again, and is now in full tide of operation under the energetic management of an agent procured by Joseph. He is absent and Lee Hall is closed. Report says, he has gone abroad in company with his inseparable companion, Mr. Colby. It is really saddening to think of a young man of good talents, as Mr. Colby appeared to be, so entirely led away and ruined by bad company. For many months before they went away, his office was closed, and he made no pretensions to business. He had his home entirely with Joseph, if home it could be called, where there was drinking and fighting both in the parlors and in the kitchen. Many times the man who professedly kept up the establishment, had to call in help to separate Mr. Colby and Joseph. When drunk, they tried to kill each other; but when sober, or partly so, were apparently the best of friends.
"LOVE!—what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear!" Tupper.
Wednesday, June 10th, 1840.
Dearest Mother,—It is a week since sister Nelly sailed for home. I am so lost without her, that I have determined to resume my journal which has been interrupted for nearly two years.
I can never sufficiently thank you for sparing her to me so long. I sent many messages by her which I could not find time to write. If you are as much interested in my friends as she was, she will give you the latest intelligence from them. She would not be contented until she had received an introduction in person. Many of them exceedingly regret her departure.
The family of Mrs. Reynolds, she liked much, though she could not see Anna, as she was adopted by her uncle Edward soon after his marriage, and lives in New York. My suspicions were very soon confirmed with regard to him, by an invitation to a wedding at his sister's, where I was introduced to a Miss Grant, who in a few moments became Mrs. Edward Ryland.
Miss Grant had waited patiently for her lover all these years; with a woman's true heart refusing to listen for a moment to other proposals of marriage. Even her own parents were not aware of the state of her affections, and had often urged her to give a reason for not wishing to settle in life. All the reason the poor girl could give, was that she did not love the suitor. But her faithfulness is now rewarded, and Mr. Ryland hastened with his bride to New York to become a partner in the firm for which he went to India.
Mrs. Reynolds was very unwilling to part with Anna, more especially on account of her husband's health, who would, she feared, miss the lovely child. At that time William was very feeble, and it was feared that his exposures in his wanderings from home in former years might bring on consumption. But for a year past he has enjoyed perfect health. I suppose, Nelly will tell you that a little miss has come to take Anna's place, and that she is called Cora Lenox Reynolds. I never liked the name better than when I have seen the little creature come shyly up to me, turning her head one side and the other, and looking out from under her curls to take something I had carried; and heard her lisp out her name, "Cowa Lenox." The Doctor makes a great pet of her, and is so much delighted with her name that it would be no wonder to me, if by and by there should be quite a regiment of Cora Lenoxes among his patients. In that case I should find it cheaper to import a quantity of silver cups than to purchase them here.
I have no doubt much as Nelly desired to see the dear home friends, that long ere this she has wished herself back for one more frolic with her little namesake. When I say to the darling, "Baby want to see Aunt Nelly?" she crows and screams with delight. We all think her very like sister; the same deep blue eyes, and fair complexion, so different from her beautiful brother who looked far more like a Lenox. I sometimes smile as strangers notice the striking resemblance of Pauline to her father. I used to fancy the same thing myself when she was a baby.
I long for the return of our dear friends Allen and Lucy, who took sister in charge as far as New York, and saw her safely on board ship. They enclosed me a short note from her, with her last farewell just before she sailed. Emily says, "it seems as if half Crawford were gone." We are all lonely without the lively girl.
Miss Nelly calls and I must obey. Frank says, I am not half as strict with her as I was with Pauline or Walter; and it may be true; I feel so uncertain of her life, since our sweet boy was taken away so suddenly.
Thursday, June 18th.
Allen and Lucy returned yesterday, and we all went in to spend the evening with them. Miss Emily Mansfield was allowed to sit up to welcome her mamma, and could not be persuaded to leave her for a moment. Sister is very proud of her little namesake.
We had been talking of sister Nelly and other topics in a lively manner, when Lucy suddenly started, saying, "Bye the bye, Emily, who do you think we saw on our way to Philadelphia?" and without waiting for a reply, "Mr. Benson, who used to be settled in Waverley. I thought at one time that he was a flame of yours; but he is married now; and to one of the most beautiful creatures I ever saw. She was leaning on his arm and looking up in his face with the most wife-like fondness."
Lucy talked so rapidly, and was so rejoiced to be the first to tell the news, that she did not appear to notice the effect it had on her hearers. If I had done anything, I should have burst out crying. I had woven so many pretty romances about his coming home faithful to sister, and all that, and finding out she did love him.
As no one spoke, Frank said with the utmost calmness, "he married Miss Karswell, I suppose, sister of the young man with whom he has been travelling."
"No, not sister," replied Lucy, "but a cousin, who accompanied his sisters. Our informant who knew the family well, told me that Charles was not altogether pleased, as he wished to marry his cousin himself. She is a Southerner; and they were on their way to the south. He is so much altered that I should hardly have known him, if it were not for his mouth and voice. I stood near them in the boat, and heard him say, he wished her parents were to meet them in Philadelphia instead of Charleston, for it would be extremely warm there at this season. She replied, 'it shall be my endeavor to make it so delightful to you, that you will forget the heat.'"
"Didn't you speak to them?" I asked, recovering my voice.
"Yes, but it was just as we were leaving. He seemed really annoyed that I had not made myself known at once. I told him I was not sure for some time whether it were really he."
"'Am I then so much altered?' said he sadly; but at the same time a beautiful smile played for one instant around his mouth, and vanished."
"Then you were not introduced to his lady?"
"No, though she kept tight hold of his arm, and seemed almost impatient that he stopped even that short space. Altogether he was the most distinguished gentleman on board the boat, always excepting my own husband," she added, with a merry glance at him.
When the conversation turned to another theme, I ventured to look at Emily. To my astonishment, she appeared to be wholly engrossed in a new book, she had taken from the table; but on looking a moment I perceived a deadly pallor about her mouth; and suddenly remembered that we were making a very long call upon persons just returned.
When we were at home, I merely ran to take a peep into the nursery, and finding all quiet, I begged Frank to excuse me for a few moments.
"Where is Emily?" I asked of mother.
"She went to her room to lay aside her bonnet."
I followed, and found the poor girl in the very abandonment of grief. She had tossed her bonnet into a chair, and was kneeling by the bed, with her arms thrown over her head, which was buried in the pillow.
I knelt by her side, putting my arms around her. "Dear sister," I said, "don't weep so. Do let me comfort you." But I stopped; what could I say?
After a few moments, she arose and sat by me. "Oh, Emily!" I said, "if you look so, you will break my heart."
"I believe," she replied in a mournful tone, putting her hand to her side, "that mine is broken. I thought I had schooled myself to hear this. I ought to have expected it; but oh! I have deceived myself."
I was never more embarrassed for words to express sympathy, and was awkwardly silent.
"Cora," said she, looking at me, "there is no human being but yourself whom I would allow to witness my"—she hesitated, "my grief at this intelligence. My poor mother would be so pained, if she knew her daughter loved another woman's husband." This last sentence was spoken in her old bitter tone, and carried me back to past years. "And it shall not be. To-morrow you will see me the same as ever. Please, dear sister," she added, in a softened tone, "never allude to my grief. It will soon be over."
It was only when she spoke of herself that her voice was harsh and severe. I looked with admiration at her as she drew up her form, and revealed the Lenox will, Frank sometimes refers to.
Mother looked very happy as her daughter came in smiling and talking of Lucy's improved appearance since her return. My face was by far the sadder of the two. I have never been able to conceal my feelings. "Dear mother," I thought as I bid her good night, "you would not sleep much if you knew what an aching heart lay beneath that smiling face."
Saturday, June 20th.
Cæsar carried me and my smaller treasures this afternoon to see Aunt Susy, who has been rather failing in health this summer. Pauline has been with me several times, and is always delighted to accompany me there. But now I was going to introduce my little Nelly, though not without some fears that the squeezing she would get, would frighten the timid little thing. Aunt Susy is no longer able to watch at the door to see who goes by; but her heart has not grown cold while sitting in her easy chair. I stepped into the entry and knocked at the inner door.
"Walk right in!" In obedience to this invitation, I opened the door, and with Nelly in my arms, went up to the old lady. She looked over her glasses for a moment as if she did not recognize me with my baby, and before she could say anything, I laid the little miss in her lap.
"Bless its little soul," said Aunt Susy, carefully laying aside her knitting where the needles couldn't hurt the child. "Well Miss Lenox, if that don't beat all. I never know'd you'd got another;" and to pay for being kept in ignorance, she began in good earnest to squeeze it to her large warm heart. The baby crowed with delight, and as oft as she had a kiss, would give a snatch for the glasses. All this time Pauline and her mother stood by unnoticed, while the dear child had her little red lips made up for a kiss.
"Here, Aunt Susy," I said, "give me the baby, this young lady is waiting her turn."
The good woman went into the business fundamentally, and now that she undertook with Pauline, she was in no haste to get through. When they stopped to take breath she looked in Pauline's face. "La! it beats all natur how she grows like her pa."
The dear soul had forgotten the fact which interested her so much years ago, and really supposed the child to be our own.
"There's—what do you call her?"
"Ellen," I answered.
"There's Ellen now, looks more like you, while Pauline is clear father. I'll venture he sets a sight by her."
Pauline laughed, though she didn't know exactly the meaning of the latter phrase.
"Blessed little soul," she resumed with another squeeze, "what made you think o' that?"
"Because," said Pauline, "you are so kind."
I looked inquiringly at the whisperer.
"La!" said Aunt Susy wiping her eyes, "the dear little cretur says she loves me, and I don't know what it's for, if 'taint that I loved your pa long enough afore you was born; and I used to hold him on my lap, and sing 'Ride a jack horse to Banbury cross,' and he'd laugh as hearty as the baby did just now."
At this very moment Mrs. Wilson returned from the garden, when her mother called out, "Darter, did you ever hear tell that Doctor Frank had had another baby?"
"Oh, yes, mother!" she answered, shaking hands with me, "and you knew it too at the time, but you've forgotten."
"Well, p'r'aps I did," she said with a sigh, "my memory's grown very poor; but I haven't forgotten where my Saviour is," she added, her countenance brightening, "nor he wont forget me; though sometimes I'm almost tempted to fear he don't altogether remember how long I've been expecting he'd send for me to go home. Every morning I ask him if it's God's will to take me before night; and every night I pray to go before the sun rises. But he knows best, and I try not to feel impatient o' waiting for him."
I cannot describe the holy expression of the dear old lady as she said this.
Thursday, June 25th.
How little I thought when I wrote the last sentence, that I should never more feel that warm embrace; never meet those eyes beaming with love. The dear blessed woman is now where she so longed and prayed to be. Her Saviour had not forgotten her, but came during the silent watches of the night and took her home.
So silently did she resign her spirit to her beloved Lord, that not even her daughter, whose room joins hers, and who heard her whispering her prayers and hymns after she retired, knew aught of the solemn visitor. But he was not unexpected, or unwelcome to the sleeper. She was so impatient to answer the summons, she could not stop to bid farewell to her earthly friends. Her Saviour called, and she hastened to obey.
In the morning Mrs. Wilson, after waiting beyond the usual time, stepped softly to the bed side of her mother. Struck dumb by the gloriously joyous expression, she went back to the sitting room and beckoned her husband to look before she awoke the sleeper, then leaning forward, said, "mother, mother!"
"Oh! wonder not, motherless daughter, that she is deaf to your call. Her ears are listening to notes of heavenly music which ravish her soul. Her eyes are feasting on her Saviour, and she is satisfied, now that she beholds his face in glory!"
I could not resist the wish to see that beautiful countenance once more before it was forever buried from sight; and my dear Frank went with me to the chamber of death. I felt very sad as we approached the house; but when I entered the room where I had always seen her, and looked beneath the linen cloth which covered her from view, I could not weep. I felt as if I had caught a glimpse of heaven.
"Surely," said I, "that wonderful smile is not of earth."
"Perhaps," said Frank, "it was the smile of welcome to the messenger who summoned her home. Death was a welcome guest to her."
As we gazed we could follow her rapt spirit to the mansions of the blessed, and behold her heart ever more expanding with love to her Saviour and her God.