His countenance fell; he looked disappointed, even pained.
"I shall probably see your mother," he said, turning to go; "your aunt wishes me to call on her; have you any message?"
"No," I said.
Another pained, disappointed look made me begin to recollect myself. I was sorry, oh! so sorry, for my anger and rudeness. I ran after him, into the hall, my eyes full of tears, holding out both hands, which he took in both his.
"Don't go until you have forgiven me for being so angry!" I cried. "Indeed, Dr. Elliott, though you not be able to believe it, I am trying to do right all the time!"
"I do believe it," he said earnestly.
"Then tell me that you forgive me!"
"If I once begin, I shall be tempted to tell something else," he said, looking me through and through with those great dusky eyes. "And I will tell it," he went on, his grasp on my hands growing firmer-"It is easy to forgive when one loves." I pulled my hands away, and burst out crying again.
"Oh, Dr. Elliott this is dreadful!" I said. "You do not, you cannot love me! You are so much older than I am! So grave and silent! You are not in earnest?"
"I am only too much so," he said, and went quietly out.
I went back to the nursery. The children rushed upon me, and insisted that I should "play die." I let them pull me about as they pleased. I only wished I could play it in earnest.
MOTHER writes me that Dr. Cabot is out of danger, Dr. Elliott having thrown new light on his case, and performed some sort of an operation that relieved him at once. I am going home. Nothing would tempt me to encounter those black eyes again. Besides, the weather is growing warm, and Aunty is getting ready to go out of town with the children.
JUNE 29.-Aunty insisted on knowing why I was hurrying home so suddenly, and at last got it out of me inch by inch. On the whole it was a relief to have some one to speak to.
"Well!" she said, and leaned back in her chair in a fit of musing.
"Is that all you are going to say, Aunty?" I ventured to ask at last.
"No, I have one more remark to add," she said, "and it is this: I don't know which of you has behaved most ridiculously. It would relieve me to give you each a good shaking."
"I think Dr. Elliot has behaved ridiculously," I said, "and he has made me most unhappy."
"Unhappy!" she repeated. "I don't wonder you are unhappy. You have pained and wounded one of the noblest men that walks the earth."
"It is not my fault. I never tried to make him like me."
"Yes, you did. You were perfectly bewitching whenever he came here.No mortal man could help being fascinated."
I knew this was not true, and bitterly resented Aunty's injustice.
"If I wanted to 'fascinate' or 'bewitch' a man," I cried, "I should not choose one old enough to be my father, nor one who was as uninteresting, awkward and stiff as Dr. Elliott. Besides, how should I know he was not married? If I thought anything about it at all, I certainly thought of him as a middle-aged man, settled down with a wife, long ago.
"In the first place he is not old, or even middle aged. He is not more than twenty-seven or eight. As to his being uninteresting, perhaps he is to you, who don't know him. And if he were a married man, what business had he to come here to see as he has done?"
"I did not know he came to see me; he never spoke to me. And I always said I would never marry a doctor."
"We all say scores of things we live to repent," she replied. "But I must own that the doctor acted quite out of character when he expected you to take a fancy to him on such short notice, you romantic little thing. Of course knowing him as little as you do, and only seeing him in sick-rooms, you could not have done otherwise than as you did."
"Thank you, Aunty," I said, running and throwing my arms around her; "thank you with all my heart. And now won't you take back what you said about my trying to fascinate him?"
"I suppose I must, you dear child," she said. "I was not half in earnest. The truth is I am so fond of you both that the idea of your misunderstanding each other annoys me extremely. Why, you were made for each other. He would tone you down and keep you straight, and you would stimulate him and keep him awake."
"I don't want to be toned down or kept straight," I remonstrated. "I hate prigs who keep their wives in leading-strings. I do not mean to marry any one, but if I should be left to such a piece of folly, it must be to one who will take me for better for worse; just as I am, and not as a wild plant for him to prune till he has got it into a shape to suit him now, Aunty, promise me one thing. Never mention Dr. Elliott's name to me again."
"I shall make no such promise," she replied, laughing. "I like him, and I like to talk about him and the more you hate and despise him the more I shall love and admire him. I only wish my Lucy were old enough to be his wife, and that he could fancy her; but he never could!"
"On the contrary I should think that little model of propriety would just suit him," I exclaimed.
"Don't make fun of Lucy," Aunty said, shaking her head. "She is a dear good child, after all."
"After all" means this (for what with my own observation, and what Aunty has told me, Lucy's portrait is easy to paint) The child is the daughter of a man who died from a lingering illness caused by an accident. She entered the family at a most inauspicious moment, two days after this accident. From the outset she comprehended the situation and took the ground that a character of irreproachable dignity and propriety became an infant coming at such a time. She never cried, never put improper objects into her mouth, never bumped her head, or scratched herself. Once put to bed at night, you knew nothing more of her till such time next day as you found it convenient to attend to her. If you forgot her existence, as was not seldom the case under the circumstances, she vegetated on, unmoved. It is possible that pangs of hunger sometimes assailed her, and it is a fact that she teethed, had the measles and the whooping-cough. But these minute ripples on her infant life only showed the more clearly what a waveless, placid little sea it was. She got her teeth in the order laid down in "Dewees on Children"; her measles came out on the appointed day like well-behaved measles as they were and retired decently and in order, as measles should. Her whooping-cough had a well-bred, methodical air, and left her conqueror of the field. As the child passed out of her babyhood, she remained still her mother's appendage and glory; a monument of pure white marble, displaying to the human race one instance at least of perfect parental training. Those smooth, round hands were always magically clean; the dress immaculate and uncrumpled; the hair dutifully shining and tidy. She was a model child, as she had been a model baby. No slamming of doors, no litter of carpets, no pattering of noisy feet on the stairs, no headless dolls, no soiled or torn books indicated her presence. Her dolls were subject to a methodical training, not unlike her own. They rose, they were dressed, they took the air, they retired for the night, with clock-like regularity. At the advanced age of eight, she ceased occupying herself with such trifles, and began a course of instructive reading. Her lessons were received in mute submission, like medicine; so many doses, so many times a day. An agreeable interlude of needlework was afforded, and Dorcas-like, many were the garments that resulted for the poor. Give her the very eyes out of your head, cut off your right hand for her if you choose, but don't expect a gush of enthusiasm that would crumple your collar; she would as soon strangle herself as run headlong to embrace you. If she has any passions or emotions, they are kept under; but who asks for passion in blanc-mange, or seeks emotion in a comfortable apple-pudding?
When her father had been dead a year, her mother married a man with a large family of children and a very small purse. Lucy had a hard time of it, especially as her step-father, a quick, impulsive man, took a dislike to her. Aunty had no difficulty persuading them to give the child to her. She took from the purest motives, and it does seem as if she ought to have more reward than she gets. She declares, however, that she has all the reward she could ask in the conviction that God accepts this attempt to please Him.
Lucy is now nearly fourteen; very large of her age, with a dead white skin, pale blue eyes, and a little light hair. To hear her talk is most edifying. Her babies are all "babes"; she never begins anything but "commences" it; she never cries, she "weeps"; never gets up in the morning, but "rises." But what am I writing all this for? Why, to escape my own thoughts, which are anything but agreeable companions, and to put off answering the question which must be answered, "Have I really made a mistake in refusing Dr. Elliott? Could I not, in time, have come to love a man who has so honored me?"
JULY 5.-Here I am again, safely at home, and very pleasant it seems to be with dear mother again. I have told her about Dr. E. She says very little about it one way or the other.
JULY 10.-Mother sees that I am restless and out of sorts. "What is it, dear?" she asked, this morning. "Has Dr. Elliott anything to do with the unsettled state you are in?"
"Why, no, mother," I answered. "My going away has broken up all my habits; that's all. Still if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care much, and was beginning to forget it, I dare say I should feel better."
"If you were perfectly sure that you could never return his affection," she said, "you were quite right in telling him so at once; But if you had any misgivings on the subject, it would have been better to wait, and to ask God to direct you."
Yes, it would. But at the moment I had no misgivings. In my usual headlong style I settled one of the most weighty questions of my life, without reflection, without so much as one silent appeal to God, to tell me how to act. And now I have forever repelled, and thrown away a heart that truly loved me. He will go his way and I shall go mine. He never will know, what I am only just beginning to know myself, that I yearn after his love with unutterable yearning.
I am not going to sit down in sentimental despondency to weep over this irreparable past. No human being could forgive such folly as mine; but God can. In my sorrowfulness and loneliness I fly to Him, and find, what is better than earthly felicity, the sweetest peace. He allowed me to bring upon myself, in one hasty moment, a shadow out of which I shall not soon pass, but He pities and He forgives me, and I have had many precious moments when I could say sincerely and joyfully, "Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none upon earth that I desire besides Thee."
With a character still so undisciplined as mine, I seriously doubt whether I could have made him who has honored me with his unmerited affection. Sometimes I think I am as impetuous and as quick-tempered as ever; I get angry with dear mother, and with James even, if they oppose me; how unfit, then, I am to become the mistress of a household and the wife of a good a man!
How came he to love me? I cannot, cannot imagine!
August 31.-The last day of the very happiest summer I ever spent. If I had only been willing to believe the testimony of others I might have been just as happy long ago. But I wanted to have all there was in God and all there was in the world, at once, and there was a constant, painful struggle between the two. I hope that struggle is now over. I deliberately choose and prefer God. I have found a sweet peace in trying to please Him such as I never conceived of. I would not change it for all the best things this world can give.
But I have a great deal to learn. I am like a little child who cannot run to get what he wants, but approaches it step by step, slowly, timidly-and yet approaches it. I am amazed at the patience of my blessed Master and Teacher, but how I love His school!
September.-This, too, has been a delightful month in a certain sense. Amelia's marriage, at which I had to be present, upset me a little, but it was but a little ruffle on a deep sea of peace.
I saw Dr. Cabot to-day. He is quite well again, and speaks of Dr. Elliott's skill with rapture. He asked about my Sunday scholars and my poor folks, etc., and I could not help letting out a little of the new joy that has taken possession of me.
"This is as it should be," he said. "I should be sorry to see a person of your temperament enthusiastic in everything save religion. Do not be discouraged if you still have some ups and downs. 'He that is down need fear no fall'; but you are away up on the heights, and may have one, now and then."
This made me a little uncomfortable. I don't want any falls. I want to go on to perfection.
OCT. 1.-Laura Cabot came to see me to-day, and seemed very affectionate.
"I hope we may see more of each other than we have done," she began."My father wishes it, and so do I."
Katy, mentally.-"Ah! He sees how unworldly, how devoted I am, and so wants Laura under my influence."
Katy, aloud.-"I am sure that is very kind."
Laura.-"Not at all. He knows it will be profitable to me to be with you. I get a good deal discouraged at times, and want a friend to strengthen and help me."
Katy, to herself.-"Yes, yes, he thinks me quite experienced and trustworthy."
Katy, aloud.-"I shall never dare to try to help you."
Laura.-"Oh, yes, you must. I am so far behind you in Christian experience."
But I am ashamed to write down any more. After she had gone I felt delightfully puffed up for a while. But when I came up to my room this evening, and knelt down to pray, everything looked dark and chaotic. God seemed far away, and I took no pleasure in speaking to Him. I felt sure that I had done something or felt something wrong, and asked Him to show me what it was. There then flashed into my mind the remembrance of the vain, conceited thoughts I had had during Laura's visit and ever since.
How perfectly contemptible! I have had a fall indeed!
I think now my first mistake was in telling Dr. Cabot my secret, sacred joys, as if some merit of mine had earned them for me. That gave Satan a fine chance to triumph over me! After this I am determined to maintain the utmost reserve in respect to my religious experiences. Nothing is gained by running to tell them, and much is lost.
I feel depressed and comfortless.
WE have very sad news from Aunty. She says my Uncle is quite broken down with some obscure disease that has been creeping stealthily along for months. All his physicians agree that he must give up his business and try the effect of a year's rest. Dr. Elliott proposes his going to Europe, which seems to me about as formidable as going to the next world. Aunty makes the best she can of it, but she says the thought of being separated from Uncle a whole year is dreadful. I pray for her day and night, that this wild project may be given up. Why, he would be on the ocean ever so many weeks, exposed to all the discomforts of narrow quarters and poor food, and that just as winter is drawing nigh!
OCT. 12.-Aunty writes that the voyage to Europe has been decided on, and that Dr. Elliott is to accompany Uncle, travel with him, amuse him, and bring him home a well man. I hope Dr. E.'s power to amuse may exist somewhere, but must own it was in a most latent form when I had the pleasure of knowing him. Poor Aunty! How much better it would be for her to go with Uncle! There are the children, to be sure. Well, I hope Uncle may be the better for this great undertaking, but I don't like the idea of it.
OCT. 15.-Another letter from Aunty, and new plans! The Dr. is to stay at home, Aunty is to go with Uncle, and we-mother and myself-are to take possession of the house and children during their absence! In other words, all this is to be if we say amen. Could anything be more frightful? To refuse would be selfish and cruel. If we consent I thrust myself under Dr. Elliott's very nose.
OCT. 16.-Mother is surprised that I can hesitate one instant. She seems to have forgotten all about Dr. E. She says we can easily find a family to take this house for a year, and that she is delighted to do anything for Aunty that can be done.
Nov. 4.-Here we are, the whole thing settled. Uncle and Aunty started a week ago, and we are monarchs of all we survey, and this is a great deal. I am determined that mother shall not be worn out with these children, although of course I could not manage them without her advice and help. It is to be hoped they won't all have the measles in a body, or anything of that sort; I am sure it would be annoying to Dr. E. to come here now.
Nov. 25.-Of course the baby must go on teething if only to have the doctor sent for to lance his gums. I told mother I was sure I could not be present when this was being done, so, though she looked surprised, and said people should accustom themselves to such things, she volunteered to hold baby herself.
Nov. 26.-The baby was afraid of mother, not being used to her, so she sent for me. As I entered the room she gave him to me with an apology for doing so, since I shrank from witnessing the operation. What must Dr. E. think I am made of if I can't bear to see a child's gums lanced? However, it is my own fault that he thinks me such a coward, for I made mother think me one. It was very embarrassing to hold baby and have the doctor's face so close to mine. I really wonder mother should not see how awkwardly I am situated here.
Nov. 27.-We have a good many visitors, friends of Uncle and Aunty. How uninteresting most people are! They all say the same thing, namely, how strange that Aunty had courage to undertake such a voyage, and to leave her children, etc., etc., etc., and what was Dr. Elliott thinking of to let them go, etc, etc., etc.
Dr. Embury called to-day, with a pretty little fresh creature, his new wife, who hangs on his arm like a work-bag. He is Dr. Elliott's intimate friend, and spoke of him very warmly, and so did his wife, who says she has known him always, as they were born and brought up in the same village. I wonder he did not marry her himself, instead of leaving her for Dr. Embury!
She says he, Dr. Elliott, I mean, was the most devoted son she ever saw, and that he deserves his present success because he has made such sacrifices for his parents. I never met any one whom I liked so well on so short acquaintance—I mean Mrs. Embury, though you might fancy, you poor deluded journal you, that I meant somebody else.
Nov. 30.-I have so much to do that I have little time for writing. The way the children wear out their shoes and stockings, the speed with which their hair grows, the way they bump their heads and pinch their fingers, and the insatiable demand for stories, is something next to miraculous. Not a day passes that somebody doesn't need something bought; that somebody else doesn't choke itself, and that I don't have to tell stories till I feel my intellect reduced to the size of a pea. If ever I was alive and wide awake, however, it is just now, and in spite of some vague shadows of, I don't know what, I am very happy indeed. So is dear mother. She and the doctor have become bosom friends. He keeps her making beef-tea, scraping lint, and boiling calves feet for jelly, till the house smells like an hospital.
I suppose he thinks me a poor, selfish, frivolous girl, whom nothing would tempt to raise a finger for his invalids. But, of course, I do not care what he thinks.
Dec. 4.-Dr. Elliott came this morning to ask mother to go with him to see a child who had met with a horrible accident. She turned pale, and pressed her lips together, but went at once to get ready. Then my long-suppressed wrath burst out.
"How can you ask poor mother to go and see such sights?" I cried. "You must think her nothing but a stone, if you suppose that after the way in which my father died-"
"It was indeed most thoughtless in me," he interrupted; "but your mother is such a rare woman, so decided and self-controlled, yet so gentle, so full of tender sympathy, that I hardly know where to look for just the help I need to-day. If you could see this poor child, even you would justify me."
"Even you!" you monster of selfishness, heart of stone, floating bubble, "even you would justify it!"
How cruel, how unjust, how unforgiving he is!
I rushed out of the room, and cried until I was tired.
DEC. 6.-Mother says she feels really grateful to Dr. E. for taking her to see that child, and to help soothe and comfort it while he went through with a severe, painful operation which she would not describe, because she fancied I looked pale. I said I should think the child's mother the most proper person to soothe it on such an occasion.
"The poor thing has no mother," she said, reproachfully. "What has got into you, Kate? You do not seem at all like yourself."
"I should think you had enough to do with this great house to keep in order, so many mouths to fill, and so many servants to oversee, without wearing yourself out with nursing all Dr. Elliott's poor folks," I said, gloomily.
"The more I have to do the happier I am," she replied. "Dear Katy, the old wound isn't healed yet, and I like to be with those who have wounds and bruises of their own. And Dr. Elliott seems to have divined this by instinct."
I ran and kissed her dear, pale face, which grows more beautiful every day. No wonder she misses father so! He loved and honored her beyond description, and never forgot one of those little courtesies which must have a great deal to do with a wife's happiness. People said of him that he was a gentleman of the old school, and that race is dying out.
I feel a good deal out of sorts myself. Oh, I do so wish to get above myself and all my childish, petty ways, and to live in a region where there is no temptation and no sin!
DEC. 22.-I have been to see Mrs. Embury to-day. She did not receive me as cordially as usual, and I very soon resolved to come away. She detained me, however.
"Would you mind my speaking to you on a certain subject?" she asked, with some embarrassment.
I felt myself flush up.
"I do not want to meddle with affairs that don't concern me," she went on, "but Dr. Elliott and I have been intimate friends all our lives. And his disappointment has really distressed me."
One of my moods came on, and I couldn't speak a word.
"You are not at all the sort of a girl I supposed he would fancy," she continued. "He always has said he was waiting to find some one just like his mother, and she is one of the gentlest, meekest, sweetest, and fairest among women."
"You ought to rejoice then that he has escaped the snare," I said, in a husky voice, "and is free to marry his ideal, when he finds her."
"But that is just what troubles me. He is not free. He does not attach himself readily, and I am afraid that it will be a long, long time before he gets over this unlucky passion for you."
"Passion!" I cried, contemptuously.
She looked at me with some surprise, and then went on.
"Most girls would jump at the chance of getting such a husband."
"I don't know that I particularly care to be classed with 'most girls,'" I replied, loftily.
"But if you only knew him as well as I do. He is so noble, so disinterested, and is so beloved by his patients. I could tell you scores of anecdotes about him that would show just what he is."
"Thank you," I said, "I think we have discussed Dr. Elliott quite enough already. I cannot say that he has elevated himself in my opinion by making you take up the cudgels in his defence."
"You do him injustice, when you say that," she cried. "His sister, the only person to whom he confided the state of things, begged me to find out, if I could, whether you had any other attachment, and if her brother's case was quite hopeless. But I am sorry I undertook the task as it has annoyed you so much."
I came away a good deal ruffled. When I got home mother said she was glad I had been out at last for a little recreation, and that she wished I did not confine myself so to the children. I said that I did not confine myself more than Aunty did.
"But that is different," mother objected. "She is their own mother, and love helps her to bear her burden."
"So it does me," I returned. "I love the children exactly as if they were my own."
"That," she said, "is impossible."
"I certainly do," I persisted.
Mother would not dispute with me, though I wished she would.
"A mother," she went on, "receives her children one at a time, and gradually adjusts herself to gradually increasing burdens. But you take a whole houseful upon you at once, and I am sure it is too much for you. You do not look or act like yourself."
"It isn't the children," I said.
"What is it, then?"
"Why, it's nothing," I said, pettishly.
"I must say, dear," said mother, not noticing my manner, "that your wonderful devotion to the children, aside from its effect on your health and temper, has given me great delight."
"I don't see why," I said.
"Very few girls of your age would give up their whole time as you do to such work."
"That is because very few girls are as fond of children as I am.There is no virtue in doing exactly what one likes best to do."
"There, go away, you contrary child," said mother, laughing. "If you won't be praised, you won't."
So I came up here and moped a little. I don't see what ails me.
But there is an under-current of peace that is not entirely disturbed by any outside event. In spite of my follies and my shortcomings, I do believe that God loves and pities me, and will yet perfect that which concerneth me. It is a great mystery. But so is everything.
Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Crofton:
And now, my dear friend, having issued my usual bulletin of health, you may feel quite at ease about your dear children, and I come to a point in your letter which I would gladly pass over in silence. But this would be but a poor return for the interest you express in my affairs.
Both ladies are devoted to your little flock, and Miss Mortimer seems not to have a thought but for them. The high opinion I formed of her at the outset is more than justified by all I see of her daily, household life. I know what her faults are, for she seems to take delight in revealing them. But I also know her rare virtues, and what a wealth of affection she has to bestow on the man who is so happy as to win her heart. But I shall never be that man. Her growing aversion to me makes me dread a summons to your house, and I have hardly manliness enough to conceal the pain this gives me. I entreat you, therefore, never again to press this subject upon me. After all, I would not, if I could, dispense with the ministry of disappointment and unrest.
Mrs. Crofton, in reply:
. . . . So she hates you, does she? I am charmed to hear it. Indifference would be an alarming symptom, but good, cordial hatred, or what looks like it, is a most hopeful sign. The next chance you get to see her alone, assure her that you never shall repeat your first offence. If nothing comes of it I am not a woman, and never was one; nor is she.
MARCH 25, 1836.-The New Year and my birthday have come and gone, and this is the first moment I could find for writing down all that has happened.
The day after my last date I was full of serious, earnest thoughts, of new desires to live, without one reserve, for God. I was smarting under the remembrance of my folly at Mrs. Embury's, and with a sense of vague disappointment and discomfort, and had to fly closer than ever to Him. In the evening I thought I would go to the usual weekly service. It is true I don't like prayer-meetings, and that is a bad sign, I am afraid. But I am determined to go where good people go, and see if I can't learn to like what they like.
Mother went with me, of course.
What was my surprise to find that Dr. E. was to preside! I had no idea that he was that sort of a man.
The hymns they sang were beautiful, and did me good. So was his prayer. If all prayers were like that, I am sure I should like evening meetings as much as I now dislike them. He so evidently spoke to God in it, and as if he were used to such speaking.
He then made a little address on the ministry of disappointments, as he called it. He spoke so cheerfully and hopefully that I began to see almost for the first time God's reason for the petty trials and crosses that help to make up every day of one's life. He said there were few who were not constantly disappointed with themselves, with their slow progress, their childishness and weakness; disappointed with their friends who, strangely enough, were never quite perfect enough, and disappointed with the world, which was always promising so much and giving so little. Then he urged to a wise and patient consent to this discipline, which, if rightly used, would help to temper and strengthen the soul against the day of sorrow and bereavement. But I am not doing him justice in this meagre report; there was something almost heavenly in his expression which words cannot describe.
Coming out I heard some one ask, "Who was that young clergyman?" and the answer, "Oh, that is only a doctor!"
Well! the next week I went again, with mother. We had hardly taken our seats when Dr. E. marched in with the sweetest looking little creature I ever saw. He was so taken up with her that he did not observe either mother or myself. As she sat by my side I could not see her full face, but her profile was nearly perfect. Her eyes were of that lovely blue one sees in violets and the skies, with long, soft eye-lashes, and her complexion was as pure as a baby's. Yet she was not one of your doll beauties; her face expressed both feeling and character. They sang together from the same book, though I offered her a share of mine. Of course, when people do that it can mean but one thing.
So it seems he has forgotten me, and consoled himself with this pretty little thing. No doubt she is like his mother, that "gentlest, meekest, sweetest and fairest among women!"
Now if anybody should be sick, and he should come here, I thought, what would become of me? I certainly could not help showing that a love that can so soon take up with a new object could not have been a sentiment of much depth.
It is not pleasant to lose even a portion of one's respect and esteem for another.
The next day mother went to visit an old friend of hers, who has a beautiful place outside of the city. The baby's nurse had ironing to do, so I promised to sit in the nursery till it was finished. Lucy came, with her books, to sit with me. She always follows like my shadow. After a while Mrs. Embury called. I hesitated a little about trusting the child to Lucy's care, for though her prim ways have given her the reputation of being wise beyond her years, I observe that she is apt to get into trouble which a quick-witted child would either avoid or jump out of in a twinkling. However, children are often left to much younger girls, so, with many cautions, I went down, resolving to stay only a few moments.
But I wanted so much to know all about that pretty little friend of Dr. E.'s that I let Mrs. Embury stay on and on, though not a ray of light did I get for my pains. At last I heard Lucy's step coming downstairs.
"Cousin Katy," she said, entering the room with her usual propriety, "I was seated by the window, engaged with my studies, and the children were playing about, as usual, when suddenly I heard a shriek, and one of them ran past me, all in a blaze and-"
I believe I pushed her out of my way as I rushed upstairs, for I took it for granted I should meet the little figure all in a blaze, coming to meet me. But I found it wrapped in a blanket, the flames extinguished. Meanwhile, Mrs. Embury had roused the whole house, and everybody came running upstairs.
"Get the doctor, some of you," I cried, clasping the poor little writhing form in my arms.
And then I looked to see which of them it was, and found it wasAunty's pet lamb, everybody's pet lamb, our little loving, gentleEmma.
Dr. Elliott must have come on wings, for I had not time to be impatient for his arrival. He was as tender as a woman with Emma; we cut off and tore off her clothes wherever the fire had touched her, and he dressed the burns with his own hands. He did not speak a word to me, or I to him. This time he did not find it necessary to advise me to control myself. I was as cold and hard as a stone.
But when poor little Emma's piercing shrieks began to subside, and she came a little under the influence of some soothing drops he had given her at the outset, I began to feel that sensation in the back of my neck that leads to conquest over the most stubborn and the most heroic. I had just time to get Emma into the doctor's arms, and then down I went. I got over it in a minute, and was up again before any one had time to come to the rescue. But Dr. E. gave Emma to Mrs. Embury, who had taken off her things and been crying all the time, and said in a low voice,
"I beg you will now leave the room, and lie down. And do not feel obliged to see me when I visit the child. That annoyance, at least, you should spare yourself."
"No consideration shall make me neglect little Emma," I replied, defiantly.
By this time Mrs. Embury had rocked her to sleep, and she lay, pale and with an air of complete exhaustion, in her arms.
"You must lie down now, Miss Mortimer," Dr. Elliott said, as he rose to go. "I will return in a few hours to see how you both do."
He stood looking at, Emma, but did not go. Then Mrs. Embury asked the question I had not dared to ask.
"Is the poor child in danger?"
"I cannot say; I trust not. Miss Mortimer's presence of mind in extinguishing the flames at once, has, I hope, saved its life."
"It was not my presence of mind, it was Lucy's!" I cried, eagerly. Oh, how I envied her for being the heroine, and for the surprised, delighted smile with which he went and took her hand, saying, "I congratulate you, Lucy! How your mother will rejoice at this!"
I tried to think of nothing but poor little Emma, and of the reward Aunty had had for her kindness to Lucy. But I thought of myself, and how likely it was that under the same circumstances I should have been beside myself, and done nothing. This, and many other emotions, made me burst out crying.
"Yes, cry, cry, with all your heart," said Mrs. Embury, laying Emma gently down, and coming to get me into her arms. "It will do you good, poor child!"
She cried with me, till at last I could lie down and try to sleep.
Well, the days and the weeks were very long after that.
Dear mother had a hard time, what with her anxiety about Emma, and my crossness and unreasonableness.
Dr. Elliott came and went, came and went. At last he said all danger was over, and that our patient little darling would get well. But his visits did not diminish; he came twice and three times every day. Sometimes I hoped he would tell us about his new flame, and sometimes I felt that I could not hear her mentioned. One day mother was so unwell that I had to help him dress Emma's burns, and I could not help saying:
"Even a mother's gentlest touch, full of love as it is, is almost rough compared with that of one trained to such careful handling as you are."
He looked gratified, but said:
"I am glad you begin to find that even stones feel, sometimes."
Another time something was said about the fickleness of women. Mrs.Embury began it. I fired up, of course.
He seemed astonished at my attack.
"I said nothing," he declared.
"No, but you looked a good many things. Now the fact is, women are not fickle. When they lose what they value most, they find it impossible to replace it. But men console themselves with the first good thing that comes along."
I dare say I spoke bitterly, for I was thinking how soon Ch——, I mean somebody, replaced me in his shallow heart, and how, with equal speed, Dr. Elliott had helped himself to a new love.
"I do not like these sweeping assertions," said Dr. Elliott, looking a good deal annoyed.
"I have to say what I think," I persisted.
"It is well to think rightly, then," he said, gravely.
"By the bye, have you heard from Helen?" Mrs. Embury most irreverently asked.
"Yes, I, heard yesterday."
"I suppose you will be writing her, then? Will you enclose a little note from me? Or rather let me have the least corner of your sheet?"
I was shocked at her want of delicacy. Of course this Helen must be the new love, and how could a woman with two grains of sense imagine he would want to spare her a part of his sheet!
I felt tired and irritated. As soon as Dr. Elliott had gone, I began to give her a good setting down.
"I could hardly believe my ears," I said, "when I heard you ask leave to write on Dr. Elliott's sheet."
"No wonder," she said, laughing. "I suppose you never knew what it was to have to count every shilling, and to deny yourself the pleasure of writing to a friend because of what it would cost. I'm sure I never did till I was married."
"But to ask him to let you help write his love-letters," I objected.
"Ah! is that the way the wind blows?" she cried, nodding her pretty little head. "Well, then, let me relieve your mind, my dear, by informing you that this 'love-letter' is to his sister, my dearest friend, and the sweetest little thing you ever saw."
"Oh!" I said, and immediately felt quite rested, and quite like myself.
Like myself! And who is she, pray!
Two souls dwell in my poor little body, and which of them is me, and which of them isn't, it would be hard to tell. This is the way they behave:
Katy, to the other creature, whom I will call Kate.-Your mother looks tired, and you have been very cross. Run and put your arms around her, and tell her how you love her.
Kate.-Oh, I can't; it would look queer. I don't like palaver.Besides, who would not be cross who felt as I do?
Katy.-Little Emma has nothing to do, and ought to be amused. Tell her a story, do.
Kate.-I am tired, and need to be amused myself.
Katy.-But the dear little thing is so patient and has suffered so much.
Kate.-Well, I have suffered, too. If she had not climbed up on the fender she would not have got burned.
Kate.-You are very irritable to-day. You had better go upstairs to your room and pray for patience.
Katy.-One can't be always praying. I don't feel like it.
Katy.-You treat Dr. Elliott shamefully. I should think he would really avoid you as you avoid him.
Kate-Don't let me hear his name. I don't avoid him.
Katy.-You do not deserve his good opinion.
Kate.-Yes, I do.
Just awake in the morning.
Katy.-Oh, dear! how hateful I am! I am cross and selfish, and domineering, and vain. I think of myself the whole time; I behave like a heroine when Dr. Elliott is present, and like a naughty, spoiled child when he is not. Poor mother! how can she endure me? As to my piety, it is worse than none.
Kate, a few hours later.-Well, nobody can deny that I have a real gift in managing children! And I am very lovable, or mother wouldn't be so fond of me. I am always pleasant unless I am sick, or worried, and my temper is not half so hasty as it used to be. I never think of myself, but am all the time doing something for others. As to Dr. E., I am thankful to say that I have never stooped to attract him by putting on airs and graces. He sees me just as I am. And I am very devout. I love to read good books and to be with good people. I pray a great deal. The bare thought of doing wrong makes me shudder. Mother is proud of me, and I don't wonder. Very few girls would have behaved as I did when Emma was burned. Perhaps I am not as sweet as some people. I am glad of it. I hate sweet people. I have great strength of character, which is much better, and am certainly very high-toned.
But, my poor journal, you can't stand any more such stuff, can you?But tell me one thing, am I Katy or am I Kate?
YESTERDAY I felt better than I have done since the accident. I ran about the house quite cheerily, for me. I wanted to see mother for something, and flew singing into the parlor, where I had left her shortly before. But she was not there, and Dr. Elliott was. I started back, and was about to leave the room, but he detained me.
"Come in, I beg of you," he said, his voice grow mg hoarser and hoarser. "Let us put a stop to this."
"To what?" I asked, going nearer and nearer, and looking up into his face, which was quite pale.
"To your evident terror of being alone with me, of hearing me speak. Let me assure you, once for all, that nothing would tempt me to annoy you by urging myself upon you, as you seem to fear I may be tempted to do. I cannot force you to love me, nor would I if I could. If you ever want a friend you will find one in me. But do not think of me as your lover, or treat me as if I were always lying in wait for a chance to remind you of it. That I shall never do, never."
"Oh, no, of course not!" I broke forth, my face all in a glow, and tears of mortification raining down my cheeks. "I knew you did not care for me I! knew you had got over it!"
I don't know which of us began it, I don't think he did, and I am sure I did not, but the next moment I was folded all up in his great long arms, and a new life had begun!
Mother opened the door not long after, and seeing what was going on, trotted away on her dear feet as fast as she could.
APRIL 21.-I am too happy to write journals. To think how we love each other.
Mother behaves beautifully.
APRIL 25.-One does not feel like saying much about it, when one is as happy as I am. I walk the streets as one treading on air. I fly about the house as on wings. I kiss everybody I see.
Now that I look at Ernest (for he makes me call him so) with unprejudiced eyes, I wonder I ever thought him clumsy. And how ridiculous it was in me to confound his dignity and manliness with age!
It is very odd, however, that such a cautious, well-balanced man should have fallen in love with me that day at Sunday-school. And still stranger that with my headlong, impulsive nature, I deliberately walked into love with him!
I believe we shall never get through with what we have to say to each other. I am afraid we are rather selfish to leave mother to herself every evening.
SEPT. 5.-This has been a delightful summer. To be sure, we had to take the children to the country for a couple of months, but Ernest's letters are almost better than Ernest himself. I have written enough to him to fill a dozen books. We are going back to the city now. In his last letter Ernest says he has been home, and that his mother is delighted to hear of his engagement. He says, too, that he went to see an old lady, one of the friends of his boyhood, to tell the news to her.
"When I told her," he goes on, "that I had found the most beautiful, the noblest, the most loving of human beings, she only said, 'Of course, of course!'
"Now you know, dear, that it is not at all of course, but the very strangest, most wonderful event in the history of the world."
And then he described a scene he had just witnessed at the deathbed of a young girl of my own age, who left this world and every possible earthly joy, with a delight in the going to be with Christ, that made him really eloquent. Oh, how glad I am that God has cast in my lot with a man whose whole business is to minister to others! I am sure this will, of itself, keep him unworldly and unselfish. How delicious it is to love such a character, and how happy I shall be to go with him to sick-rooms and to dying-beds! He has already taught me that lessons learned in such scenes far outweigh in value what books and sermons, even, can teach.
And now, my dear old journal, let me tell you a secret that has to do with life, and not with death.
I am going to be married!
To think that I am always to be with Ernest! To sit at the table with him every day, to pray with him, to go to church with him, to have him all mine! I am sure that there is not another man on earth whom I could love as I love him. The thought of marrying Ch—-, I mean of having that silly, school-girl engagement end in marriage, was always repugnant to me. But I give myself to Ernest joyfully and with all my heart.
How good God has been to me! I do hope and pray that this new, this absorbing love, has not detached my soul from Him, will not detach it. If I knew it would, could I, should I have courage to cut it off and cast it from me?
JAN. 16, 1837.-Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is my wedding-day. We meant to celebrate the one with the other, but Sunday would come this year on the fifteenth.
I am dressed, and have turned everybody out of this room, where I have suffered so much mortification, and experienced so much joy, that before I give myself to Ernest, and before I leave home forever, I may once more give myself away to God. I have been too much absorbed in my earthly love, and am shocked to find how it fills my thoughts. But I will belong to God. I will begin my married life in His fear, depending on Him to make me an unselfish, devoted wife.
JAN. 25.-We had a delightful trip after the wedding was over. Ernest proposed to take me to his own home that I might see his mother and sister. He never has said that he wanted them to see me. But his mother is not well. I am heartily glad of it.
I mean I was glad to escape going there to be examined and criticised. Every one of them would pick at me, I am sure, and I don't like to be picked at.
We have a home of our own, and I am trying to take kindly to housekeeping. Ernest is away a great deal more than I expected he would be. I am fearfully lonely. Aunty comes to see me as often as she can, and I go there almost every day, but that doesn't amount to much. As soon as I can venture to it, I shall ask Ernest to let me invite mother to come and live with us. It is not right for her to be left all alone so I hoped he would do that himself. But men are not like women. We think of everything.
FEB. 15.-Our honeymoon ends to-day. There hasn't been quite as much honey in it as I expected. I supposed that Ernest would be at home every evening, at least, and that he would read aloud, and have me play and sing, and that we should have delightful times together. But now he has got me he seems satisfied, and goes about his business as if he had been married a hundred years. In the morning he goes off to see his list of patients; he is going in and out all day; after dinner we sit down to have a nice talk together; the door-bell invariably rings, and he is called away. Then in the evening he goes and sits in his office and studies; I don't mean every minute, but he certainly spends hours there. To-day he brought me such a precious letter from dear mother! I could not help crying when I read it, it was so kind and so loving. Ernest looked amazed; he threw down his paper, came and took me in his arms and asked, "What is the matter, darling?" Then it all came out. I said I was lonely, and hadn't been used to spending my evenings all by myself.
"You must get some of your friends to come and see you, poor child," he said.
"I don't want friends," I sobbed out. "I want you."
"Yes, darling; why didn't you tell me so sooner? Of course I will stay with you if you wish it."
"If that is your only reason, I am sure I don't want you," I pouted.
He looked puzzled.
"I really don't know what to do," he said, with a most comical look of perplexity. But he went to his office, and brought up a pile of fusty old books.
"Now, dear," he said, "we understand each other I think. I can read here just as well as down stairs. Get your book and we shall be as cosy as possible."
My heart felt sore and dissatisfied. Am I unreasonable and childish? What is married life? An occasional meeting, a kiss here and a caress there? or is it the sacred union of the twain who 'walk together side by side, knowing each other's joys and sorrows, and going Heavenward hand in hand?
FEB. 17.-Mrs. Embury has been here to-day. I longed to compare notes with her, and find out whether it really is my fault that I am not quite happy. But I could not bear to open my heart to her on so sacred a subject. We had some general conversation, however, which did me good for the time, at least.
She said she thought one of the first lessons a wife should learn is self-forgetfulness. I wondered if she had seen anything in me to call forth this remark. We meet pretty often; partly because our husbands are such good friends, partly because she is as fond of music as I am, and we like to sing and play together, and I never see her that she does not do or say something elevating; something that strengthens my own best purposes and desires. But she knows nothing of my conflict and dismay, and never will. Her gentle nature responds at once to holy influences. I feel truly grateful to her for loving me, for she really does love me, and yet she must see my faults.
I should like to know if there is any reason on earth why a woman should learn self-forgetfulness that does not apply to a man?
FEB. 18.-Uncle says he has no doubt he owes his life to Ernest, who, in the face of opposition to other physicians, insisted on his giving up his business and going off to Europe at just the right moment. For his partner, whose symptoms were very like his own, has been stricken down with paralysis, and will not recover.
It is very pleasant to hear Ernest praised, and it is a pleasure I have very often, for his friends come to see me, and speak of him with rapture. A lady told me that through the long illness of a sweet young daughter of hers, he prayed with her every day, ministering so skillfully to her soul, that all fear of death was taken away, and she just longed to go, and did go at last, with perfect delight. I think he spoke of her to me once; but he did not tell me that her preparations for death was his work. I could not conceive of him as doing that.
FEB. 24.-Ernest has been gone a week. His mother is worse and he had to go. I wanted to go too, but he said it was not worth while, as he should have to return directly. Dr. Embury takes charge of his patients during his absence, and Mrs. E. and Aunty and the children come to see me very often. I like Mrs. Embury more and more. She is not so audacious as I am, but I believe she agrees with me more than she will own.
FEB. 25.-Ernest writes that his mother is dangerously ill, and seems in great distress. I am mean enough to want all his love myself, while I should hate him if he gave none to her. Poor Ernest! If she should die he would be sadly afflicted!
FEB. 27.-She died the very day he wrote. How I long to fly to him and to comfort him! I can think of nothing else. I pray day and night that God would make me a better wife.
A letter came from mother at the same time with Ernest's. She evidently misses me more than she will own. Just as soon as Ernest returns home I will ask him to let her come and live with us. I am sure he will; he loves her already, and now that his mother has gone he will find her a real comfort. I am sure she will only make our home the happier.
FEB. 28.-Such a dreadful thing is going to happen! I have cried and called myself names by turns all day. Ernest writes that it has been decided to give up the old homestead, and scatter the family about among the married sons and daughters. Our share is to be his father and his sister Martha, and he desires me to have two rooms got ready for them at once.
So all the glory and the beauty is snatched out of my married life at one swoop! And it is done by the hand I love best, and that I would not have believed could be so unkind.
I am rent in pieces by conflicting emotions and passions. One moment I am all tenderness and sympathy for poor Ernest, and ready to sacrifice everything for his pleasure. The next I am bitterly angry with him for disposing of all my happiness in this arbitrary way. If he had let me make common cause with him and share his interests with him, I know I am not so abominably selfish as to feel as I do now. But he forces two perfect strangers upon me and forever shuts our doors against my darling mother. For, of course, she cannot live with us if they do.
And who knows what sort of people they are? It is not everybody I can get along with, nor is it everybody can get along with me. Now, if Helen were coming instead of Martha, that would be some relief. I could love her, I am sure, and she would put up with my ways. But your Marthas I am afraid of. Oh, dear, dear, what a nest of scorpions this affair has stirred up within me! Who would believe I could be thinking of my own misery while Ernest's mother, whom he loved so dearly, is hardly in her grave! But I have no heart, I am stony and cold. It is well to have found out just what I am!
Since I wrote that I have been trying to tell God all about it. But I could not speak for crying. And I have been getting the rooms ready. How many little things I had planned to put in the best one, which I intended for mother I have made myself arrange them just the same for Ernest's father. The stuffed chair I have had in my room, and enjoyed so much, has been rolled in, and the Bible with large print placed on the little table near which I had pictured mother with her sweet, pale face, as sitting year after year. The only thing I have taken away is the copy of father's portrait. He won't want that!
When I had finished this business I went and shook my fist at the creature I saw in the glass.
"You're beaten!" I cried. "You didn't want to give up the chair, nor your writing-table, nor the Bible in which you expect to record the names of your ten children I But you've had to do it, so there!"
MARCH 3.-They all got here at 7 o'clock last night, just in time for tea. I was so glad to get hold of Ernest once more that I was gracious to my guests, too. The very first thing, however, Ernest annoyed me by calling me Katherine, though he knows I hate that name, and want to be called Katy as if I were a lovable person, as I certainly am (sometimes). Of course his father and Martha called me Katherine, too.
His father is even taller, darker, blacker eyed, blacker haired than he.
Martha is a spinster.
I had got up a nice little supper for them, thinking they would need something substantial after their journey. And perhaps there was some vanity in the display of dainties that needed the mortification I felt at seeing my guests both push away their plates in apparent disgust. Ernest, too, looked annoyed, and expressed some regret that they could find nothing to tempt their appetites.
Martha said something about not expecting much from young housekeepers, which I inwardly resented, for the light, delicious bread had been sent by Aunty, together with other luxuries from her own table, and I knew they were not the handiwork of a young housekeeper, but of old Chloe, who had lived in her own and her mother's family twenty years.
Ernest went out as soon as this unlucky repast was over to hear Dr. Embury's report of his patients, and we passed a dreary evening, as my mind was preoccupied with longing for his return. The more I tried to think of something to say the more I couldn't.
At last Martha asked at what time we breakfasted.
"At half-past seven, precisely," I answered. "Ernest is very punctual about breakfast. The other meals are more irregular."
"That is very late," she returned. "Father rises early and needs his breakfast at once."
I said I would see that he had it as early as he liked, while I foresaw that this would cost me a battle with the divinity who reigned in the kitchen.
"You need not trouble yourself. I will speak to my brother about it," she said.
"Ernest has nothing to do with it," I said, quickly.
She looked at me in a speechless way, and then there was a long silence, during which she shook her head a number of times. At last she inquired: "Did you make the bread we had on the table to-night?"
"No, I do not know how to make bread," I said, smiling at her look of horror.
"Not know how to make bread?" she cried. The very spirit of mischief got into me, and made me ask:
"Why, can you?"
Now I know there is but one other question I could have asked her, less insulting than this, and that is:
"Do you know the Ten Commandments?"
A spinster fresh from a farm not know how make bread, to be sure!
But in a moment I was ashamed and sorry that I had yielded to myself so far as to forget the courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just home from a scene of sorrow, so I rushed across the room, seized her hand, and said, eagerly:
"Do forgive me! It slipped out before I thought!"
She looked at me in blank amazement, unconscious that there was anything to forgive.
"How you startled me!" she said. "I thought you had suddenly gone crazy."
I went back to my seat crestfallen enough. All this time Ernest's father had sat grim and grave in his corner, without a word. But now he spoke.
"At what hour does my son have family worship? I should like to retire. I feel very weary."
Now family worship at night consists in our kneeling down together hand in hand, the last thing before going to bed, and in our own room. The awful thought of changing this sweet, informal habit into a formal one made me reply quickly:
"Oh, Ernest is very irregular about it. He is often out in the evening, and sometimes we are quite late. I hope you never will feel obliged to wait for him."
"I trust I shall do my duty, whatever it costs," was the answer.
Oh, how I wished they would go to bed!
It was now ten o'clock, and I felt tired and restless. When Ernest is out late I usually lie on the sofa and wait for him, and so am bright and fresh when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and there was no knowing for how long. I poked at the fire and knocked down the shovel and tongs, now I leaned back in my chair, and now I leaned forward, and then I listened for his step. At last he came.
"What, are you not all gone to bed?" he asked.
As if I could go to bed when I had scarcely seen him a moment since his return!
I explained why we waited, and then we had prayer and escorted our guests to their rooms. When we got back to the parlor I was thankful to rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear what little he had to tell about his mother's last hours.
"You must love me more than ever, now," he said, "for I have lost my best friend."
"Yes," I said, "I will." As if that were possible! All the time we were talking I heard the greatest racket overhead, but he did not seem to notice it. I found, this morning, that Martha, or her father, or both together, had changed the positions of article of furniture in the room making it look a fright.
THINGS are even worse than I expected. Ernest evidently looked at me with his father's eyes (and this father has got the jaundice, or something), and certainly is cooler towards me than he was before he went home. Martha still declines eating more than enough to keep body and soul together, and sits at the table with the air of a martyr. Her father lives on crackers and stewed prunes, and when he has eaten them, fixes his melancholy eyes on me, watching every mouthful with an air of plaintive regret that I will consume so much unwholesome food.
Then Ernest positively spends less time with me than ever, and sits in his office reading and writing nearly every evening.
Yesterday I came home from an exhilarating walk, and a charming call at Aunty's, and at the dinner-table gave a lively account of some of the children's exploits. Nobody laughed, and nobody made any response, and after dinner Ernest took me aside, and said, kindly enough, but still said it,
"My little wife must be careful how she runs on in my father's presence. He has a great deal of every thing that might be thought levity."
Then all the vials of my wrath exploded and went off.
"Yes, I see how it is," I cried, passionately. "You and your father and your sister have got a box about a foot square that you want to squeeze me into. I have seen it ever since they came. And I can tell you it will take more than three of you to do it. There was no harm in what I said-none, whatever. If you only married me for the sake of screwing me down and freezing me up, why didn't you tell me so before it was too late?"
Ernest stood looking at me like one staring at a problem he had got to solve, and didn't know where to begin.
"I am very sorry," he said. "I thought you would be glad to have me give you this little hint. Of course I want you to appear your very best before my father and sister."
"My very best is my real self," I cried. "To talk like a woman of forty is unnatural to a girl of my age. If your father doesn't like me I wish he would go away, and not come here putting notions into your head, and making you as cold and hard as a stone. Mother liked to have me 'run on,' as you call it, and I wish I had stayed with her all my life."
"Do you mean," he asked, very gravely, "that you really wish that?"
"No," I said, "I don't mean it," for his husky, troubled voice brought me to my senses. "All I mean is, that I love you so dearly, and you keep my heart feeling so hungry and restless; and then you went and brought your father and sister here and never asked me if I should like it; and you crowded mother out, and she lives all alone, and it isn't right! I always said that whoever married me had got to marry mother, and I never dreamed that you would disappoint me so!"
"Will you stop crying, and listen to me?" he said.
But I could not stop. The floods of the great deep were broken up at last, and I had to cry. If I could have told my troubles to some one I could thus have found vent for them, but there was no one to whom I had a right to speak of my husband.
Ernest walked up and down in silence. Oh, if I could have cried on his breast, and felt that he loved and pitied me!
At last, as I grew quieter, he came and sat by me.
"This has come upon me like a thunderclap," he said. "I did not know I kept your heart hungry. I did not know you wished your mother to live with us. And I took it for granted that my wife, with her high-toned, heroic character, would sustain me in every duty, and welcome my father and sister to our home. I do not know what I can do now. Shall I send them away?"
"No, no!" I cried. "Only be good to me, Ernest, only love me, only look at me with your own eyes, and not with other people's. You knew I had faults when you married me; I never tried to conceal them."
"And did you fancy I had none myself?" he asked.
"No," I replied. "I saw no faults in you. Everybody said you were such a noble, good man and you spoke so beautifully one night at an evening meeting."
"Speaking beautifully is little to the purpose less one lives beautifully," he said, sadly. "And now is it possible that you and I, a Christian man and a Christian woman, are going on and on with scenes as this? Are you to wear your very life out because I have not your frantic way of loving, and am I to be made weary of mine because I cannot satisfy you?"
"But, Ernest," I said, "you used to satisfy me. Oh, how happy I was in those first days when we were always together; and you seemed so fond me!" I was down on the floor by this time, and looking up into his pale, anxious face.