The seeming favorable turn of my mother's disease proved, as Aunt Patience had feared, of but short duration. She was soon again almost entirely confined to her bed; except that, in the after-noons for the sake of the change, she would recline for a short time upon the sofa in the parlor. But this was only for a few days, and then she was unable to leave her own apartment.
As I have said so little regarding my own feelings, in view of my mother's death, the reader may be led to think that I felt less keenly than I might have been supposed to do. If I have said little, it is for the reason that I have no words adequate to describe what my feelings were at the time. I felt stunned as by a heavy blow; and it seemed to me if my mother died I certainly could not live. I had yet to learn that grief does not kill—that is, not suddenly.
I have often since looked back to that time, and felt deeply humbled, while thinking how little I felt resigned to the will of heaven. I could not then, as I have since done, recognize the hand of a kind and loving Father inthe stroke. I could only feel that my mother was leaving me, and all was darkness beyond. I now scarcely ever left my mother's room, except when Aunt Patience would almost compel me for a short time, to retire to my own apartment, that I might obtain a little rest. But the thought that soon I would have no mother was ever present to my mind, and I wished to remain with her as long as she might be spared to me.
About three weeks previous to my mother's death, Aunt Patience urgently requested me one afternoon to retire to my own room and seek some rest, saying I looked entirely worn out. After obtaining from her a promise that she would not allow me to sleep too long, I complied. My room seemed very cool and refreshing that sultry afternoon, and, lying down upon my bed, I soon sank into a profound slumber, which continued for three or four hours. Upon my going down stairs, I was surprised at the lateness of the hour, and enquired of Aunt Patience why she had not called me? She replied that as my mother had seemed quite comfortable, she thought it best to let me enjoy a sound sleep. I persuaded Aunt Patience to retire to rest soon after tea, as I intended watching that night by my mother. Thus far we had ourselves been able to attend to the wants of my mother, without assistance, as it pleased her better that either Aunt Patience or I should attend to her; but we had lately allowed a friend to sleep in the house, as we did not like to be left alone. That evening, after my motherhad partaken of a little light refreshment, she seemed inclined to sleep. I took up a book and tried to become interested in its pages. As my mother now seemed to enjoy a peaceful slumber, I remember I thought her dreams must have been happy ones, for I often noticed a smile upon her countenance. I think she had slept nearly two hours, when she awoke, and requested me to give her a drink. I supported her upon my arm as I held to her lips a glass in which I had mixed some wine and water. Laying her gently back upon her pillows I enquired if I could do anything farther for her comfort? She replied that she felt quite comfortable; and, thinking that she might again fall asleep, I resumed my reading. After remaining quiet for sometime she softly called my name. As I stepped hastily to her bed-side, she said,—
"Come and sit near me, Clara, I have something to say to you."
Obedient to her request, I drew my chair near to her bedside, and seated myself. She clasped my hand in both hers, as she said,—
"My dear Clara, I have long wished to ask you if you are aware that I must soon leave you?"
As she said these words the grief of my overburdened heart defied control, and, burying my face in her pillows I sobbed convulsively. This sudden near approach to death sent an icy chill over my whole being.
"You must endeavor to compose yourself, my daughter," said my mother, "and listen to me."
I tried to restrain my tears as my mother continued.
"I have long wished to talk with you, but have deferred it from time to time, through fear of giving you pain; but I now feel it an imperative duty to converse with you upon the subject. Allow me to tell you a dream which visited me in the slumber from which I awoke a few minutes since. In my dream I seemed to be walking alone on a calm summer's evening, without any definite object in view. When I had walked for a considerable distance the scene suddenly changed, and I found myself walking by the banks of a placid river. Looking forward, I observed a person advancing to meet me, whom I at once knew to be your father. My joy was great at the prospect of meeting him; for in my dream I recollected that he had been long dead. I enquired of him how it happened that I met him there? He replied, 'I saw you coming when you were yet a long way off, and feared you might lose your way.' Turning back in the direction from whence he had come, he turned towards me, with a pleasant smile, and said, 'follow me.' As we walked onward, I observed that the river by which we walked seemed gradually to become more narrow the further we advanced. He continued to walk onward for some time, a little in advance of me, when suddenly stopping, he turned to me and said, 'My dear Alice, look across to the other side of the river, and behold the place which is now my home.' The breadth of the river had continued to lessen, till it was now only a narrow line ofwater which separated us from the opposite shore. I looked as he directed me, and, oh! Clara, I can find no words by which to describe to you what I saw. It so far surpassed anything pertaining to this world that I am unable to give you any description of it. I felt an intense desire to cross the narrow stream which separated me from the beautiful place. I enquired of your father if I could not with him cross the stream and enter those golden gates, which I could plainly see before me. He replied, 'No, my dear Alice, every one must cross this riveralone. You must go back for a brief period, as you have yet a mission to perform before taking your final leave of earth. You must comfort the sorrowing heart of our child 'ere you leave her. Tell her of the home which I now inherit, where there is also a place prepared for you and for her, if you so live as to be found worthy to enter those gates which you see before you.' He then said, 'I must now leave you, and you must return to our Clara for a few brief days, when you will be summoned to rejoin me in yonder blissful abode.' I turned to make some further remark to him, but he had gone from my sight, and I awoke with my mind deeply impressed by my dream. But now," added my mother, to me, "the bitterness of death is already past. It is for you only that I grieve. I trust however, that instead of grieving immoderately for your mother you will endeavor to discharge your duty in whatever position it may please God to place you, and so live that whenever you may be called from this world it may be to meet your mother in Heaven. Since my illness my mind has been much exercised regarding my own state as a sinner; for be assured, Clara, that, in the near prospect of death, we find in ourselves much that is unworthy, which had before escaped our notice while in the enjoyment of health. But I am now happy while I tell you that all is peace with me. I now feel willing to depart whenever it is the will of my Heavenly Father to call me hence, and I feel confident that in a very few days I shall be summoned from earth. I am sorry to see you grieve," said my mother, for I was weeping bitterly; "endeavor to derive consolation from what I have said; and be thankful that when I leave you it will be to rejoin your dear father where there is neither sorrow nor sighing."
Seeing that my tears agitated my mother, I succeeded in checking them, and assumed an air of composure, which I was far from feeling. After the above conversation with me, my mother enjoyed a night of tranquil repose. I now felt the certainty of her death, and prayed for strength to meet the sorrow which that event would bring to me.
So calm and peaceful were the last days of my mother's life that we could hardly recognize the presence of the King of Terrors, till the damps of death were gathering upon her brow. She died at sunset on a mild evening in September. She had passed the day almost entirely free from pain. Toward evening she slept for an hour; on waking, she said to me,—
"My dear child, I think the hour of my departure has arrived. I feel that I am dying."
I now observed that look upon the countenance of my mother which tells us that a loved friend is no longer ours. She requested me to call Aunt Patience, which I instantly did. I also sent a hasty summons to her physician, although it was needless, for she was even then entering the dark valley. The physician soon arrived, and after one look at my mother, said to me, in a low voice,—
"My dear Miss Roscom, as a physician, I can be of no further use, but as a friend, I will remain with you."
The physician was an old and valued friend, being the same who had stood by the death-bed of my father, and he deeply sympathized with me in this, my second bereavement.
As I stood by my mother, my grief was not noisy; it was far too deep and powerful for that. Outwardly, I was quite calm. My mother had endeavored to prepare my mind for this hour. I had also prayed for strength to meet it with fortitude and resignation; but those who have stood by the dying bed of a fond mother may understand my sorrow. My mother was spared much of the suffering which attends the last moments of many. She seemed to be softly breathing her life away. After lying for some time tranquil and quiet, she suddenly opened her eyes and looked from one to the other of us. As they rested upon me, she made a sign that I should go nearer to her.
"Weep not, my dear child," said she, in a whisper; "be faithful, and you will yet meet me in heaven."
She also addressed a few words of like import to Aunt Patience. Suddenly, she raised her hands, and, as she looked upward, with a smile upon her countenance, we heard a sigh—and her spirit had returned unto God Who gave it.
I was borne from the apartment in a state of insensibility, and, when I awoke to consciousness, the doctor and Aunt Patience were standing at my bedside. After administering a quieting draught, the physician left us, saying to Aunt Patience that she must try and induce me to sleep, as that would help to restore my shattered nerves. Aunt Patience sat by me during the long hours of that night, but it was not until the day began to dawn that I sank into a heavy slumber, from which I did not awake until a late hour in the morning. On first awaking, it seemed to me that I had had a frightful dream; but, as my mind became more clear, I realized the sad truth that my mother was no more. I heard a footstep enter my room, and soon a familiar voice addressed me, saying,—
"My dear Clara, I have come to see if I can be of any assistance to you in your sorrow."
It was Mrs. Leighton who had thus entered my room, she having hastened to our dwelling as soon as she learned of my mother's death. I could not at first reply to her kind words; I could only weep. She did not force meto talk, but, gently as a mother could have done, did she bathe my fevered brow and throbbing temples. Telling me to remain quiet for a few moments, she left the room, and soon returned, bearing a cup of tea, which she insisted upon my drinking. She assisted me to dress, and opened a window to admit the cool morning air. I tearfully thanked her for those kind attentions. She insisted that I should lean upon her for support, as we descended the stairs, and indeed I felt scarcely able to walk without assistance.
On going below, I found several kind friends, who had remained with Aunt Patience to render their assistance in any office of friendship we might require. Mrs. Leighton accompanied me to the room where lay the lifeless remains of my mother. I folded back the snowy napkin which covered her face, and gazed long upon those dear features, now stamped with the seal of death. As I gazed upon her now peaceful countenance, I felt that to wish her back again would be almost a sin. I also derived much comfort from the consoling words of Mrs. Leighton. I cannot dwell longer upon these sorrows. When I stood at my mother's grave, and looked down upon her coffin, after it had been lowered into the earth, I almost wished that I too were resting by her side. Since that period I have experienced other sorrows; but the sharpest pang I have ever felt, was when I turned away from the graves where rested the remains of both father and mother.
As I have before mentioned, Aunt Patience had, in the course of her life, passed through many trying vicissitudes, and, previous to her death, my mother had considered that we could make no better return for the debt of gratitude we owed her than by making provision for her old age. I say, with good reason, that we owed her a debt of gratitude, for, during her residence with us, she had shown the utmost kindness to both my mother and myself. And when my mother's health failed her, the care and attentions of Aunt Patience were unceasing. With a view of making provision for Aunt Patience, my mother had made arrangements that our house should be sold, and the money deposited for her future benefit. In making this arrangement, my mother wished me to accept of a portion of the money which the sale of the house would bring; but I declined, saying that, as she had given me a good education, I was amply able to support myself, so long as I was blessed with health. My mother assented to the arrangement, saying that I could draw money from the deposit should I ever have occasion so to do.
We remained for two months in our lonely home, after the death of my mother; at the end of which time the new owner took possession of the dwelling. Aunt Patience had decided upon going to reside with a relative who lived in Massachusetts, and the interest of the money, deposited for her use, was to be regularly remitted to her. We disposed of the furniture, withthe exception of a few cherished articles, which I reserved for myself; these the purchaser kindly allowed me to leave in one of the upper rooms till I might wish to remove them. The same day that Aunt Patience set out on her journey to Massachusetts, I returned to Mrs. Leighton.
It was well for me that my mind was actively employed; had it been otherwise I should have continually brooded over my sorrows. As it was, when engaged with my duties in the school-room, my thoughts would wander to those two graves in the church-yard, and my tears would fall upon the book from which I was listening to a recitation from my pupils. Georgania having left home, I had only Birdie and Lewis as pupils. Much pity did those affectionate children evince for me when they could not but observe my grief. Birdie would often say,—
"Please, Miss Roscom, do not grieve so much; we all love you dearly, and will be very kind to you."
And Lewis, who could never bear to see my tears, would say,—
"I will be a little brother to you, Miss Roscom, so please don't cry any more."
To please my pupils, I endeavored to appear cheerful; but truly the heart knoweth its own bitterness. One thought, however, afforded me some consolation, and that was, that I was obeying my mother's dying injunction, by striving to do my duty in the position in which I was placed. As days and months passed away, I, in some measure, regained my usual cheerfulness, although I was nowise inclined to forget my mother.
A year had now passed since I saw her laid in the grave. I often visited her resting-place, and there I renewed my resolve to follow her precepts; and many a time, kneeling by her grave did I implore wisdom from on high to enable me to follow the counsels I had so often received from those lips, now sealed in silence. It seemed to me, at such times, that I almost held communion with the spirit of my mother.
I experienced much kindness from every member of Mr. Leighton's family. I spent my leisure time mostly in my room. They did not, of course, invite me to join parties, but they would often urge me to join a few friends in their own parlor; but I always replied that my deep mourning must be my excuse. I had no taste for company or mirth.
One afternoon the Leightons had gone to join a picnic party some two miles from the city. They had invited me to accompany them, but as usual I declined. I felt sad and lonely that long afternoon, and, being left entirely alone, I could not prevent my thoughts from recurring to the past. I thought of all the happy, careless days of my childhood; then my memory ran back to the night, when, at ten years of age, I stood by the death-bed of my father. With the eye of memory, I again saw mymother, as she stood bowed with grief at the grave of my father; and now I was left alone to mourn for both father and mother. Memory also fondly turned to Miss Edmonds, my first teacher. I felt that to see her again would indeed be happiness; but I knew not where Miss Edmonds then resided. The last time I had heard from her she contemplated going South, as governess in a gentleman's family. Then came the memory of the happy years I passed in Mrs. Wentworth's school. Where now were the many friends I had then known and loved? As these thoughts passed in quick succession through my mind, I could not refrain from weeping; and, as I was under no restraint from the presence of others, my tears seemed almost a luxury. I know not how long my fit of weeping might have continued had not one of the domestics entered the room, and informed me that a poor woman was in the kitchen seeking charity.
"I thought," said the girl, "as the other ladies are all away, you might give her a trifle, for she seems very needy."
Hastily drying my tears, I went down to the kitchen, where I found a young woman, who would have been very pretty but for the look of want and suffering depicted upon her countenance. It was evident, from her appearance, that she was not an habitual beggar. As I approached her, she seemed much embarrassed, as she said,—
"Sure an' its mesilf that never expected to come to this at all, at all."
"My poor woman," said I, "you appear to have been unfortunate."
"An' its mesilf that has been misfortunate," she replied, as the tears gathered in her fine, dark eyes. She continued,—
"There was never a happier couple than Dinnis O'Flaherty an' I the day the praste made us one. But, after a while, the wages got low, and the times were hard wid us. 'Polly,' says Dinnis to me one day, 'will you be afther goin' to Ameriky wid me?' 'Dinnis,' says I, 'wherever it plases you to go its I, Polly McBrine, that's ready and willin' to follow.' We sailed in theSt. Pathrick, and tin days afther I saw my darlin' Dinnis buried in the salt say. He fell sick wid a faver, and all me prayers for his life could not save him; an' here I am, a lone widdy, in a shtrange land, without a penny in me pocket, nor a place to lay me head."
Here the poor woman's grief choked her utterance, and, covering her face with her hands, she wept aloud. I requested the domestic to bring her some food, which she ate like one famishing. I placed in her hand money sufficient to secure her from want for two or three days at least. I did not in the least doubt her story, for her countenance bore the impress of sincerity. When she left, I requested her to call again in two or three days, as I felt certain that Mrs. Leighton would assist her in obtaining some employment. She left me with many thanks, and blessing me after the manner of her country.
After tea I felt that I must walk out in the air, as I was suffering from a severe headache. I made my way to the church-yard, and sought the graves of my parents; and, seating myself at the headstone of my mother's grave, I remained for a long time wrapped in profound meditation.
I know not how long I remained thus, for I took no note of time; but when I raised my head at the sound of approaching footsteps, the shades of evening were gathering around me. It was Willie Leighton whose footsteps had aroused me from my reverie.
"My dear Clara," he began.
But when I looked up with a little surprise at his familiar use of my christian name, it being the first time he had thus addressed me, he colored slightly, and said,—
"I beg pardon, Miss Roscom, for thus intruding upon your solitude, but, finding you absent on our return, I came to seek you and, with your permission, to escort you home. I think you do wrong to come to this lonely place to cherish a sorrow which seems to me to be almost unreasonable. I would not have you forget yourparents; but, surely, if they are permitted to look down upon you from their home in heaven, they would not wish to see you thus debar yourself from society and all the innocent pleasures of youth. The dews of evening," said he, "are beginning to fall, and I must insist upon your return home."
On our way home I could not help a feeling of uneasiness lest Willie's attentions to me should displease the family. I had allowed him to accompany me home, as I could not have done otherwise without absolute rudeness; yet I feared that, in so doing, I should displease his friends. My uneasiness increased as, upon entering the house, I thought I detected a shade of displeasure in the manner of Mrs. Leighton toward me. If Willie noticed anything of the kind, heseemedunconscious of it, for he made several efforts to engage us in conversation; but, for some reason or other, no one, except himself, seemed inclined to be social that evening. I felt very much depressed in spirits, for I attributed their silence to displeasure because Willie had accompanied me home, and, at an early hour, I bade them good night, and retired to my own apartment. After reading, as was my custom, a chapter in my Bible, and commending myself to the care of Heaven, I sought my pillow; but hour after hour passed away and sleep refused to visit my eyes. Again and again I mentally asked myself what had I done to merit the coldness which Mrs. Leighton had shown in her manner to me? It was not my fault that Willie hadsought me, and in a kind and gentlemanly manner escorted me home; and I only attributed his attention to that respect which therealgentleman ever accords to a lady, be she rich or poor. I, however, decided that in future I should receive no attentions from Willie. The Leightons were kind, but extremely proud, and I feared that the pleasure Willie had lately evinced in my society had displeased them, although his attentions had been nothing more than a person socially inclined might be expected to show to one dwelling beneath the same roof. Again did the remark made by Mrs. Kingsley occur to my mind, and I firmly decided that, if Mrs. Leighton was displeased, she should have no further cause for displeasure, for I too was possessed of a proud spirit. The dawn of the new day glimmered in the east 'ere sleep closed my eyes, and then my slumbers were disturbed by unpleasant dreams. One dream, in particular, I still remember. I seemed, in my dream, to be a homeless wanderer I know not whither. I had left the limits of the city and was walking in the open country, on a road that seemed strange and unfamiliar to me. At length such a feeling of loneliness and misery overpowered me that I felt unable to proceed further. Seating myself by the roadside, I burst into tears. Raising my eyes, I observed a female figure approaching me, which I soon recognized as my mother. She drew near, and, laying her hands upon my head, as if in blessing, said,—
"Fear not, my beloved daughter, only continue in the path of duty and all will yet be well."
With a cry of joy, I sprang forward to embrace her, and awoke to find the sun shining dimly through the partially closed blinds of my window. I felt fatigued and nervous, after passing such a restless night. I was startled by the pale and haggard countenance which my mirror reflected that morning. I had scarcely finished my toilet when the breakfast bell rang, and I hastened down stairs, where the family were already assembled around the breakfast table.
Whatever of displeasure Mrs. Leighton might have felt the previous evening seemed to have vanished with the light of morning. Perhaps, thought I, her displeasure existed only in my own imagination, after all. Noticing my pale countenance, she enquired if I was ill? I replied that I had a slight headache, owing to my not having slept well. She kindly offered to excuse me from attending to my pupils that morning, but I told her that I felt quite able to attend to my usual duties. In the course of the day I mentioned to her the case of the poor woman who had called the day previous. She replied that, after seeing her and making some enquiries regarding her capability, she would speak to a friend of hers, who was in want of a servant, and she had no doubt she could influence her friend to engage her, should she consider her a suitable person. Accordingly, when Mrs. O'Flaherty called, two or three days after, Mrs. Leighton questioned her in regard to her capability as a servant. She replied that she had had considerableexperience as a servant in genteel families, previous to her marriage in the old country. Mrs. Leighton requested her to call again shortly, saying that she hoped to be able to find her a situation. Mrs. Leighton further informed her that, if the lady engaged her, it must be entirely on her own recommendation; and that she hoped she would prove herself faithful and trustworthy. She replied,—
"An' its mesilf that'll be afther doin' me best to plaze the leddy, mem."
And, with many thanks, she left the house. Mrs. Leighton was much interested by the intelligent countenance and honest, truthful manner of the woman, and she accordingly so strongly enlisted the sympathies of her friend, Mrs. Wallingford, that she agreed to give her a trial. Mrs. O'Flaherty seemed very thankful when she called, soon after, and Mrs. Leighton informed her that she had obtained a situation for her. Mrs. Leighton also furnished her with money sufficient to purchase some plain, but decent clothing, and a few days after she entered upon her duties in the dwelling of Mrs. Wallingford, who afterwards frequently remarked to Mrs. Leighton that she had much reason to thank her for providing her with the best servant she had ever engaged.
My time passed in the usual daily routine of duties. About this time Georgania returned to spend a few weeks at home. Though much improved in personal appearance, she was far from being a pleasant companion. Her manner, to me, was exceedingly haughty, almost contemptuous. She seemed to have entirely forgotten my unwearied pains in laying the foundation of her education. I could never understand the reason of her dislike to me. The feeling must always have existed, though kept in check during the time she had been my pupil. I think the rest of the family must have noticed her unpleasant manner to me; and, I have no doubt, remonstrated with her upon the subject. I was of a proud, sensitive nature, and the many slights, in an indirect way, which I suffered from her roused my indignation, and I was revolving the idea in my mind of seeking another home, when an event occurred which caused my departure from the home of the Leightons sooner than I anticipated. On the morning of the day of which I speak, Laura was unable to get out, as she was suffering from a cold. She was very anxious toexecute some shopping that morning, and asked me if I would undertake to make her purchases, as I knew exactly what she wanted. I gladly assented, and, as I passed the sitting-room, on my way up stairs, I heard Willie say,—
"I too have business up town, and I will drive Miss Roscom to the store where she is to make her purchases, and call for her on my return."
Mrs. Leighton replied in a low, but changed voice,—
"Why not send James, the coachman; it is more proper."
I did not wait to hear Willie's reply, but, when I came down, prepared for going out, the coachman was in waiting with the carriage. I was glad that Willie was not to accompany me, for, since the evening he had escorted me home, I had carefully avoided his society.
I was sitting that evening in the garden, in a kind of arbor, covered with weeping-vines. I was deeply interested in the volume I held in my hand, and was much surprised when Willie suddenly entered the arbor, and took a seat by my side. I made a hasty movement to rise and leave the arbor, when he addressed me saying,—
"Why is it, Miss Roscom, that you constantly avoid me, and treat me with such marked coolness? I am sure I have not merited such treatment. I have long sought an opportunity to speak with you alone, and now you must hear me. Allow me to tell you that I have longloved you, with a deep and true affection. Will you not become my wife, and thereby render me the happiest of mortals?"
I was so much surprised by this unexpected declaration that it was some moments before I could collect my thoughts sufficiently to reply. I at length said,—
"Although deeply sensible of the honor you have done me, I must say in reply, that I can never become your wife."
He regarded me with unfeigned surprise as he said,—
"Then you do not love me, Clara. I had hoped that I was not wholly indifferent to you."
I replied,—
"As I believe you have addressed me with candor, I will answer you in the same manner. I do love you; and, were I guided by my own heart in the matter, my reply to your honorable proposal would have been different. But there are insurmountable barriers to our union."
"Name them," was his reply.
"Mr. Leighton," I answered. "Whether or not you are aware of the fact, that I am unable to say; but Iknowthat your family would never consent to your marriage with their governess. They may respect and treat me kindly in my present position, but would never be willing to receive me as a daughter. It will, therefore, be wiser for you to place your affections upon some one in your own position in life."
"Am I not," replied Willie, "free to follow my ownwishes in the matter? What care I for those butterflies of fashion, whose highest enjoyment is to shine in the gay assembly or crowded ball room. My heart's devotion must be given to one who possesses true nobility of mind. Should my parents refuse their consent to our marriage, then shall I feel justified in following the dictates of my own heart. I have never disobeyed my parents, and have endeavored to be guided by their counsels, but in this matter I must act in accordance with my own affection and judgment. In everything except wealth you are my equal, and I have enough for us both. Allow me to tell my parents that my happiness rests upon their consent to our marriage; and, should they withhold their consent, I will marry you and abide the consequences, for I am certain they will soon be sensible of their error." Being anxious to terminate the interview, I replied,—
"I must answer you, Mr. Leighton, in the manner which I consider will be best for us both. Never will I consent to become the wife of any man, and, by so doing, alienate him from his parents. I have experienced nothing but kindness from all your family, and I cannot take a step which will bring sorrow and disquiet into your heretofore happy home. Be advised by me and never allude to this subject again. I can be your friend, but not your wife. I intend, as soon as circumstances permit, to seek another home. Remember me as a friend only, and whatever my own feelings may be, I shall at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I have acted wisely and for the best."
His countenance expressed extreme agitation, as, rising, he said,—
"You have made me very unhappy, Miss Roscom. I will remain silent for the present; but go not away from here, as that would destroy my only hope."
When I entered the house, I heard the excited voices of Mrs. Leighton, Laura, and Georgania in the parlor. I heard Mrs. Leighton say, as I passed the door of the parlor,—
"Are you sure, Georgania, that you understood aright?"
"Quite sure, mamma," she replied; "I plainly heard Willie ask her to become his wife; how Ihateher; and the thought of Willie's loving her almost causes me to hate him."
"Hush!" exclaimed Mrs. Leighton; "I will investigate this matter myself."
I hurried up to my room. I knew there was trouble in store for me, and I felt strong to meet it; for my own conscience acquitted me of any wrong-doing. After some little time had passed, I heard the footsteps of Mrs. Leighton ascending the stairs; and a moment after she rapped at my door. I opened the door and invited her to enter, and be seated. She then seated herself, and sat for some moments in silence. Her countenance expressed both sorrow and anger, for, up to this time, I believed that Mrs. Leighton had loved me. I waited for Mrs. Leighton to open the subject, for I well knew what had brought her to my room, and I cared not how soon shemade known the object of her visit. At length she said,—
"It seems to me, Miss Roscom, that you have rendered a very base return for my kindness."
As she seemed waiting my reply, I said,—
"Will you have the goodness, Mrs. Leighton, to explain your words, for I am unable to comprehend their meaning?"
Her voice expressed much displeasure as she answered:
"I was not aware that my words required any explanation; but, if they do, it shall be given in few words. How dare you so far forget your own position, and ours, as to entice my son into making a proposal of marriage to one so much his inferior as you must know yourself to be?"
Should I live a hundred years I can never forget the shock her words gave me. I fairly trembled with anger. Rising to my feet, I looked her steadily in the face, as I said,—
"That your words are false, as well as heartless, I need not tell you, as you are already aware of the fact. I appeal to you if I have ever in any way courted the society of Willie. If he has asked me to become his wife, is it through any fault of mine? But you need give yourself no uneasiness upon the subject, for I have already told Willie that I will never become the wife of any man whose friends would look upon me as their inferior. For, though poor, and obliged to labor for my bread, I possess a spirit equally proud with your own, and that spirit yourinsulting words have roused. When you accuse me of enticing Willie into making a proposal of marriage, you well know that your accusation is false and without foundation."
"I suppose," said Mrs. Leighton, after a short silence, "that you will see the propriety of seeking another home."
"You might," I replied, "have saved yourself the trouble of reminding me of this, as I intend, this night, to leave your house. I intend to show you that I shall prove no hindrance to your son's marrying in accordance with your wishes. Allow me to express my heart-felt thanks for your past kindness to me; but we must now part."
Mrs. Leighton's anger, by this time, was beginning to cool.
"I am perfectly willing," said she, "that you should remain here till you can obtain another situation. When I spoke of your seeking another home, I wished not that you should understand that I wished you to leave immediately."
I thanked her, but said "I preferred going at once."
She enquired whither I intended going? I replied that there were several families residing in the city who had known and loved my mother, who would gladly shelter her orphan daughter.
Mrs. Leighton owed me, at the time, one hundred dollars of my salary; as I had not required the money, I had left it in her hands. Leaving the room, she soonreturned with the money in her hand, and pressed me to accept of fifty dollars over and above what was owing me. I thanked her, but said I wished to accept only of what was my just due. As she refused to receive back the money, I laid it upon the table, and began making my preparations for leaving her house. In less than an hour my trunks were packed, and I was ready to go. Laura and Georgania, I think purposely avoided me, for I did not see them before leaving. I felt grieved when I parted with Birdie and Lewis, for I had become strongly attached to them. Lewis used often to say that boys never ought to cry; crying, he said, was only for girls and babies; but he must have forgotten himself on this occasion, for he cried bitterly when I bade him good-bye. As I turned from my pupils, Mrs. Leighton came forward and extended her hand to me. I could not refuse the hand that had so often administered to the wants of my dying mother. Neither of us uttered a word. We shook hands in silence, and I passed from the house, and entered the carriage which was in waiting for me. There was a family by the name of Burnside, with whom I had been intimate from childhood; to them I intended going, and in a few minutes I was set down at their door.
It chanced to be Mrs. Burnside herself who answered my ring at the door. In a few brief words I informed her of the circumstances which had caused me to leave Mrs. Leighton so suddenly; at the same time, asking her if she was willing to afford me a home for a short time, till I could obtain another situation?
"My dear Clara," she replied, "to my home you are freely welcome for any length of time you may wish to remain. To-morrow we will talk further of the matter, but not another word to-night, for you look very much fatigued."
The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Burnside, and an aunt of Mrs. Burnside's, who resided with them. They had two daughters, but they had both married and removed a long distance from their early home. Mrs. Burnside offered to conduct me to my room, which offer I gladly accepted, for I wished to be alone. The excitement which had sustained me through the events of the past few hours had now subsided; and, when left alone in my room, I sat down to reflect calmly upon my situation. I could not but feel justified in the step I had taken; but I could not avoid a feeling of uneasiness when I reflected that I was now homeless. I did not wish to remain long with Mrs. Burnside, as I well knew they would accept of no compensation from me; and, for that reason, I felt the necessity of obtaining another situation as soon as possible; but I could come to no decision till after conversing with Mrs. Burnside upon the subject. After kneeling and imploring the protection and guidance of my Heavenly Father, I retired to rest, and, as I was worn out by the exciting events of the evening, sleep soon furnished a welcome relief from all anxious thoughts.
I was greeted kindly by Mr. and Mrs. Burnside the next morning, when we met at the breakfast table. Theaunt, being somewhat of an invalid, did not usually take her morning meal with the family. The only allusion to my circumstances was made by Mr. Burnside, who said I had better defer any conversation upon the subject for the present, and that, in the meantime, he wished me to consider his house as my home.
About eleven o'clock that morning, as I was sitting in the room with Mrs. Russell, Mrs. Burnside's aunt, the servant came up to inform me that a young gentleman was in the parlor, who wished to see me. Looking at the card which the girl handed me, I read the name of Willie Leighton. I was sorry to wound his feelings; but, when I left their dwelling, I firmly resolved that I would never intentionally meet with Willie again. I therefore requested the servant to inform Mr. Leighton that I was engaged. It was no easy matter for me to send this message tohim; but my pride sustained me.
Two or three weeks passed quietly away. During this time, Birdie and Lewis twice came to see me, but whether by permission or by stealth I could not determine, and I would not enquire. Willie called repeatedly, but I never granted him an interview, as I deemed it best for both that we should not meet.
I shall never cease to remember with gratitude the kindness I received from Mr. and Mrs. Burnside, and, as I wished not to abuse their hospitality, I thought it advisable, when some two months had passed away, to devise some means of earning my own support. They wouldhave assisted me in obtaining a situation in Philadelphia; but I wished to leave my native city, and see if new scenes and new friends would not have a beneficial effect upon my mind. I had now no remaining tie to bind me to Philadelphia. I grieved, it is true, at the thought of leaving the place which contained the graves of my parents. Nevertheless, I felt myself to be in the path of duty, while preparing to leave my native city.
I knew I had an uncle living in the State of New Hampshire, whom I had not seen since I was twelve years of age—he having visited us at that time. He was my mother's only brother, and to him I decided to go. I once thought of going to aunt Patience, but finally gave up the idea. I retained a very distinct recollection of my uncle. I remembered that he and my mother had strongly resembled each other, although he was ten years her senior. When quite young he had married a very worthy woman, and their union was blessed by two children, a son and daughter; but they had laid them both in the grave at an early age; therefore they were now childless. I had never seen my aunt, but my heart turned toward them, and my resolution was soon taken to visit them. They resided about three miles from the village of Littleton, in New Hampshire.
The only obstacle in the way of my wishes was the long journey from Philadelphia to New Hampshire. I felt reluctant to undertake so long a journey alone. This obstacle was unexpectedly removed by the arrival of aMr. and Mrs. Egmont, from the State of Ohio; they were relatives of Mrs. Burnside, and were journeying to the Eastern States, to visit some friends who resided there. Mr. Burnside mentioned to them my desire to visit my uncle in New Hampshire, and they gladly consented that I should accompany them on their journey. As they intended remaining but a few days in Philadelphia, I was obliged to hasten the preparations for my departure.
I could not but observe the hand of a kind Providence in directing Mr. and Mrs. Egmont to visit Philadelphia at this particular time.
On the evening preceding my departure I paid a farewell visit to the graves of my parents, and I shed some very bitter tears when I reflected that I might never again stand by this loved spot. I exacted a promise from Mrs. Burnside that, should any of the Leightons make enquiries concerning me, she would not inform them of my destination.
We left Philadelphia at a very early hour the next morning, and, after a very long and somewhat tedious journey, arrived in safety at the busy village of Littleton. Mr. Egmont conducted me to an hotel till he could make the necessary enquiries for finding my uncle. I knew he resided about three miles from the village, but was unable to say in what direction. Mrs. Egmont invited me to accompany them to their friends, who lived in the village, and rest before seeking my uncle; but, as I had arrived so near the termination of my journey, I wished to reachthe home of my uncle without further delay. After accompanying Mrs. Egmont to their friends, Mr. Egmont returned to the hotel, where I awaited him. I was seated near a window, in the sitting-room, and heard him making enquiries of one and another for Mr. Wayland my uncle. No one seemed to know anything of the person he sought. As the landlord passed that way, he turned to him and enquired if he knew a farmer in that vicinity by the name of Wayland? He replied that, having resided only for a short time in Littleton, his acquaintance did not, as yet, extend beyond the limits of the village, and that he knew of no such person. I was beginning to fear that my uncle had removed to some other place, as I had not heard anything from him for a considerable time, when a ragged-looking boy, apparently about twelve years of age, made his way up to Mr. Egmont, and said—
"I can tell you where Mr. Wayland lives. He lives about three miles from here, on the Waterford Road. I knows you see, for I worked for him this fall, pickin' pertaters."
Giving the boy a piece of silver as he thanked him for his information, Mr. Egmont came to inform me that, when I had partaken of the dinner he had ordered for me, he would accompany me to the home of my uncle.
The lad before mentioned had given Mr. Egmont so accurate a description of my uncle's residence that, whenwe came in view of the square, old-fashioned farm-house, described by the boy, we at once knew it to be my uncle's home. As we came in sight of the house, the question—how will they receive me?—arose in my mind; but the recollection which I retained of my uncle was of so pleasing a character that I had little doubt of meeting with a cordial welcome. As we drew near, I observed an elderly-looking man in the yard, engaged in mending some farming implement. From the appearance of the place, it seemed that the front entrance was but little used, the front door and blinds being closely shut. I was at that time wholly unacquainted with the habits and customs of country people. As we drove up to the gate, the man I had before observed, paused in his employment, and regarded us, as I thought, with no little surprise. Surely, thought I, this man cannot be my uncle Wayland. At the time of his visit to my mother he was a young and fine-looking man; but the man I now beheld was bowed as it were by age, and his hair was nearly white. I should have remembered that since I had seen him he had laid both of his loved children in the grave. True it is that sorrow causes premature old age; but, upon a second look at his countenance, I could clearly trace his resemblance to my mother. His eyes, when he raised them to look at us, so strongly resembled hers that my own filled with tears, which I hastily wiped away.
Alighting from the carriage, Mr. Egmont addressed my uncle, saying,—
"Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Wayland?"
He replied in the affirmative, and added,—
"I know not whether or not I am addressing an old acquaintance; but your countenance is not familiar to me."
Mr. Egmont replied,—
"I am not aware that we have ever met before; but this young lady who is your niece, Miss Roscom, has travelled in company with myself and wife, and I wished to leave her in your home before resigning my care of her."
My uncle seemed overjoyed at seeing me. He assisted me to alight, and embraced me with true affection. He immediately conducted me into the house, and introduced me to my aunt. She was a middle-aged, kindly-looking woman; and I also received from her a cordial welcome to their home. They invited Mr. Egmont to remain till after tea, but he declined, saying that he had promised to return to their friends as soon as possible. After some conversation with my uncle and aunt, they advised me to retire to my room and seek rest, after the fatigues of my long journey; and I gladly followed my aunt up the stairs, to a neat bed-room, tastefully furnished. I was weary both in body and mind, and, lying down upon my bed, I soon sank into a sound sleep. When I awoke, daylight was rapidly fadingbefore the shadows of evening. I hastened down stairs, fearful that I had kept my uncle and aunt waiting for their tea. I enquired of my aunt if such were the case? She replied saying,—
"I gave the hired men their supper at the usual hour, but your uncle and I have waited to take our tea with you."
Can it be possible, thought I, that they take their meals with their hired servants? I had yet to learn the different usages of life in the city of Philadelphia and in a farm-house in the New England States. I wisely said nothing to my aunt of what was passing in my mind. Tea being over, we passed the remainder of the evening in social conversation. We had much to say, mutually of family matters. I told them many particulars connected with the death of my mother, of which I had never informed them by letter. They also told me much concerning their deceased children. Their son had died at the age of fifteen. As he had a decided taste for books, my uncle intended giving him an education, instead of training him to the life of a farmer. For a year previous to his death he attended school in Massachusetts. Returning home to spend his vacation, his parents thought his health was impaired, but attributed it to hard study, for he was naturally studious. They were hopeful that relaxation from study, with exercise in the open air, would soon restore him to his usual health. But their hopes were not to be realized; even then haddeath marked him for his prey; and consumption, which was hereditary in his father's family, soon laid him in the grave. Three months after the grave had closed over their beloved son, Walter, their daughter, Caroline, fell a victim to a malignant fever, which at that time prevailed in the neighborhood, and they saw her too laid in the grave, at the early age of twelve years—thus leaving them childless and sorrowing. We shed many tears while conversing of our mutual sorrows; and it was quite a late hour for the simple habits of their household when we separated for the night.
When going down stairs the next morning I was surprised, the hour was so early, at finding my uncle and aunt, with their two farm servants, already seated at the breakfast table. I must confess that these two farm servants seemed to me strangely out of place, sitting thus familiarly at the same table with their master and mistress. My uncle introduced them to me, by the names of Mr. Barnes and Mr. Hawkins, their Christian names being Solomon and Obadiah, and by those names they were mostly called in my uncle's family. Solomon, was a good humored looking man of some thirty years of age; he had, I afterwards learned, been for some years in my uncle's employ. Obadiah was a youth of about seventeen years of age. His extreme bashfulness in the presence of strangers in general, and of ladies in particular, caused him to appear very awkward. Added to this, he was, to use a common term, very homely in his personal appearance. His hair was very light, almost white; his eyes too were of a very light color, and uncommonly large and prominent. He was also freckled, and very much sunburned. He seemed very much over-grown, and hisgeneral appearance suggested the idea that he must be in his own way—a position of which he seemed painfully conscious. He had a most unpleasant habit of keeping his eyes constantly in motion. As I was seated directly opposite to him at the breakfast table, I found it very difficult to restrain my inclination to laughter, for I could not raise my eyes without encountering one of those furtive glances. The idea occurred to me that he was meditating on some means of escape from the table, and it was with much difficulty that I maintained a becoming gravity. I was very glad, however, when my uncle made some remark which provoked a general laugh; but I am ashamed to acknowledge that I looked to see what effect a smile would have upon the countenance of Obadiah; but my curiosity, however, was not to be gratified, for, judging by his appearance, his thoughts were of too serious a nature to admit laughter. I was glad when breakfast was over, and I am certain that Obadiah was more than glad.
My aunt, like most of the farmers' wives in the vicinity, had no assistance in performing her household work, except in very busy seasons. I begged of her to allow me to assist her, although I feared that I should appear very awkward in the performance of duties to which I was so little accustomed. My aunt at first refused, saying I was not accustomed to kitchen-work. But when I begged to be allowed to try my hand in assisting her, she brought me one of her large, checked aprons, which sheadvised me to put on. Thus attired, I washed and wiped the breakfast dishes, and arranged them in her spotless cupboard, saying to her that, while I remained an inmate of her house, she must allow me to assist her to the best of my ability, adding that I should be much happier if allowed to assist in her labors, than otherwise. Seeing me so anxious, my aunt allowed me to take my own way in the matter. I succeeded much better than I had feared; and when the morning's work was finished, my aunt laughingly said that, with a little practice, she thought I should make a very useful kitchen-maid.
In the afternoon she invited me to accompany her to the room which had been her daughter's. The room was tastefully, though not richly furnished.
"This," said my aunt, "was Caroline's room from her childhood. I have never allowed anything to be disturbed in the room since her death, except that I occasionally air and dust it. I suppose I am somewhat childish and fanciful; but it would pain me to see this room occupied by another."
Over the mantel-piece—for almost every room in my uncle's house contained a fire-place—there hung a picture of my cousin Caroline, taken six months previous to her death. I drew nigh to look at the picture. One glance told me that she had indeed been a beautiful child. The picture was enclosed in a beautiful frame of leather-work, which had been the work of her own hands. I gazed long upon the fair picture, fondly hoping that the loss herfriends had sustained, by her death, was her eternal gain, by being thus early removed from a world of sin and sorrow to her home in Heaven. Opening a drawer in a small bureau, my aunt told me to look at her school-books.
By examining the books I was convinced that she must have been a child of no ordinary capacity, for her age. I also examined some of her apparel, with many other articles, which had been presents to her from friends.
Seeing the tears, which I found impossible to repress, my aunt became so much affected that I made some pretext for hastening our departure from the room; and, when we went down stairs, I endeavored to turn our conversation to some cheerful subject, to divert her mind from her sorrow, which had been vividly recalled by our visit to that lonely room.
The view which my uncle's residence afforded of the surrounding country was very pleasing to the beholder. Whatever way the eye turned, it rested upon well-cultivated farms, on which were erected comfortable and, in many instances, handsome and commodious dwellings.
In the distance, the summits of the White Mountains were distinctly visible, they being about twenty miles distant from my uncle's residence.
Mr. and Mrs. Egmont, according to promise, paid us a visit before leaving Littleton. My uncle and aunt were much pleased by their friendly and social manner; and, when they took their leave, we parted from them with sincere regret. They left Littleton soon after, on their homeward journey.
Three weeks had now passed since my arrival at my uncle's home, and I found myself daily becoming more and more attached to my kind uncle and aunt. Obadiah appeared to feel much more at his ease in my presence than at the first. When I learned that he was an orphan-boy and had no home, I felt a deep sympathy for him; but still, when I encountered one of those glances, I often found it very difficult to avoid laughter. I learned from my aunt that he, being left an orphan, had been put to work at a very early age; and, consequently, had had but few advantages for study and improvement. He could read tolerably, and write a little. My aunt was of the opinion that notwithstanding his peculiarities, he was possessed of good common sense, and would make good progress in study if he had any one to render him the necessary assistance. I at once offered to assist him in his studies, and proposed to him that he should spend a portion of the long evenings in study. He seemed at the first to be somewhat startled by my proposition; but, seeing that I was in earnest, gladly consented, and forthwith commenced his studies. My aunt cautioned me about laughing, if he should chance to make comical blunders; and it was well that she did so, for some of his blunders were laughable in the extreme; but "forewarned is forearmed." After a time I learned that he really possessed an intellect of no mean order. He soon made rapid progress in study. He seemed fully to appreciate the pains I took in teaching him, and endeavored, by many little acts of kindness, to show his gratitude to me.
Soon after my arrival, my aunt, one day, said to me,—
"I hope you will feel happy with us; for I wish you to consider our house as your home for the future. You know not," she continued, "how glad I am of your company, and how your presence cheers us; we will gladly adopt you as our daughter, if you can be happy with us."
I thanked her with tears in my eyes, and added that I was very happy in receiving so warm a welcome to their home, and would gladly do my utmost to fill a daughter's place to them. I further informed my aunt that I should be very happy to consider her house as my home, but that I should prefer teaching, as soon as I could find a desirable situation, as such had been my intention when I left Philadelphia. But when I mentioned the subject to my uncle, he seemed much hurt that I should think of such a thing. I told him that the wish to teach did not proceed from any feeling of discontent in my home, but that I thought it wrong to remain idle, while possessing an education which qualified me for usefulness. He replied that if I felt anxious to teach, we would talk about it the following spring; but, said he, you must think no more about it for this winter, at any rate; and so the subject was suffered to drop.
We led a very quiet life at my uncle's that winter. We saw but little company, except that occasionally the wife of some neighboring farmer would drop in to take a social cup of tea with my aunt.
There was a maiden lady residing in the village of Littleton who was always a welcome visitor at my uncle's residence,—her name was Miss Priscilla Simmonds. She was somewhat advanced in years, and of a very mild and prepossessing appearance. Upon the death of her parents, which took place many years before, she was left the owner and sole tenant of the house in which she lived. She lived entirely alone, and was considered a very valuable person in the village. She seemed, upon all occasions, to adapt herself readily to surrounding circumstances. At merrymakings, no one was so lively or social as Miss Simmonds: in the chamber of sickness, no hand so gentle and no step so light as hers; and when death visited a household, her services were indispensible. Although occupying a humble position in life, she was very much respected by all who knew her. Very few there were in the vicinity but could recall some act of kindness from Miss Simmonds, rendered either to themselves or their friends; and many there were who could remember the time when her hands had prepared the form of some loved relative for its last resting-place in the grave. Thus was Miss Simmonds bound to the hearts of the people of Littleton, as by a strong cord. In person she was tall; she had fine dark eyes, and her hair was lightly sprinkled with grey. From the expression which her countenance wore at times, I gathered the idea that she had, at some period of her life, experienced some deep sorrow. I one day enquired of my aunt if such were not the case. Shegave me an evasive reply, and, perceiving that she wished to avoid the subject, I made no further enquiries.
I trust the reader will pardon this digression from my story.
In the course of the winter my uncle gave a party, to afford me an opportunity of becoming acquainted with the young people of the place. If the party lacked some of the forms and ceremonies practised in the city drawing-rooms upon like occasions, it certainly was not wanting in real enjoyment.