“And what is this, Miss Enna?” said my friend, Kate Wilson, one morning,
as she sat before the old writing-desk, opening with curiosity the
different packages. “What a romantic name,” she continued, “‘Letters and
Journal of Ida Bernstorf;’ letters from Germany long years ago. Come,
Miss Enna, do please, stop that tiresome letter, and tell me all about
it.”
“Read the letters and journal, Kate,” I replied, “they tell the story
themselves.”
“No, no,” said the impatient beauty, “that will not do; _you_ must tell
me the story, and read me the Journal, it will sound so much prettier. I
have not disturbed you for more than the hour you asked for. See, my
little Geneva monitor will bear witness;” and she held up her tiny watch
to prove her assertion. My letter-clasp being filled to overflowing, I
had stipulated that morning with Kate, to give me one hour to answer two
or three of these letters, that my conscience might feel relieved; that
being done, I promised to entertain her to the best of my ability. With
playful willfulness she rolled my large chair away from my
writing-table, chanting in merry notes—
“Up, up, my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you’ll grow double!
Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks—
Why all this toil and trouble?”
then taking her favorite seat on a low ottoman beside me, she rested her
beautiful head on my lap, its rich fall of ringlets almost sweeping the
ground, and with her steady, brilliant eye, looked up in my face most
coaxingly. I submitted; for, to tell the truth, I was not sorry to be
made to read over “Ida’s Journal;” so many years had passed since the
events it narrated had taken place, that it seemed to possess more of
interest on account of the lapse of time. Ida was the daughter of a
second cousin of my mother’s. This cousin was an orphan ward of my
grandfather’s, and had been brought up from infancy in his family. I
never saw her, but judging from a picture of her in my mother’s
possession, she must have been a remarkably beautiful woman. She was
very superior in mind, but wild and wayward in disposition. My Uncle
Walter, my grandfather’s only son, loved his beautiful cousin—doated on
her; but she, with willful opposition, rejected his love, and the
worldly advantages attending on it, to follow the fortunes of a young
German artist, who had taught her music, and who she fancied was the
realization of the ideal her illy regulated fancy had formed. Her
marriage with Hermann Bernstorf, and departure from her country, brought
great sorrow to her friends, my mother said, and it was feared my Uncle
Walter would never recover from the disappointment it caused him; but
time is an excellent physician, and my Uncle Walter not only recovered
from the disappointment, severe as it was, but became a model of
husbands; and his devotion to my gentle, lovely Aunt Mary, was a
constant subject of admiring remark with his nephews and nieces, who did
not know the romance of his student days.
Madame Bernstorf had removed to Germany immediately after her marriage.
So much opposed was my grandfather to her marriage, that he would never
see her after her engagement was disclosed; and she left home and
kindred, who had worshiped her, and spoiled her with indulgence, to
follow the uncertain fortunes of a stranger in a strange land. My mother
loved her cousin dearly, and though she regretted the willfulness of her
conduct, she did not feel unkindly toward her; and when my grandfather
refused to see her, or remain under the same roof with her, to my
mother’s house did she come, and there was her sad, tearful wedding
celebrated.
Years rolled around, and when I was a little girl I used to hear my
mother talk of her cousin Agnes Morton—Agnes Bernstorf she never called
her—and listen with childish eagerness to the letters she constantly
received from her. Madame Bernstorf though willful, was warm-hearted;
and she never failed to write regularly to my mother and aunts, and
cherish for them the warmest feelings. We never knew, except by
inference, what her circumstances had proved to be on her removal to her
husband’s home. Her letters, though affectionate, were short; and she
never entered into details of her situation. One child, a daughter, she
spoke of—her little Ida; and my first letter was written to this little
stranger cousin. Appended to each letter of our mothers was always a
tiny, childish scrawl; and from childhood to girlhood the correspondence
continued, until we began to write _whole letters_ to each other.
Although Madame Bernstorf was so reserved and laconic in her letters,
especially about her domestic affairs, it was evident she wished to keep
up her connection with home and home friends. She seldom mentioned her
husband’s name in her letters; and when she did, it was but casually.
Trouble she had, it was certain, for her letters gave evidence of it in
the serious tone which they breathed. There was no allusion to certain,
specified trouble, but there was a lack of hope and brightness in them.
Several children she gave birth to, but the letters announcing their
different births, were followed a few months after with announcements of
their deaths. This might have caused sorrow to her; she never expressed
it so, however; on the contrary, each letter announcing the death of a
child, was filled with expressions of thankfulness, that they were taken
from a world of trouble and trials. Actual poverty she could not be
suffering from, for the income of her little property was semi-annually
remitted to her; the principal was small, but it was left in trust by
her father, settled upon her children, and only the income of it could
she have. It was not much, it is true, but it was sufficient to keep
actual want from her door we felt certain. Bernstorf, her husband, had
been a wild, visionary young man, though fascinating in his manners and
appearance, and from this remembrance of him her family argued that
disappointment had attended her obstinate imprudent marriage, and
mortification and pride prevented her acknowledgment of it. Ida’s
letters, as she grew older, gave marks of cultivation and refinement.
She wrote of her studies, to which her time seemed to be devoted. She
spoke of the beauty of their country home; from that we supposed that if
they were not enjoying wealth, they were above want. Isolated seemed to
be their situation, for she never alluded to friends around her. When
she was about sixteen her father died; but Madame Bernstorf announced
his death with calmness, as though she had been prepared for it,
although none of her previous letters mentioned his sickness. But at
last came letters of deep agony, only a few months following the one
announcing her husband’s decease; one from Madame Bernstorf, an
unfinished one, to my Aunt Miriam, who had taken my mother’s place in
the correspondence, enclosed in a few lines from poor Ida, wet with
tears, and expressive of the greatest wretchedness, announcing her
mother’s death. Madame Bernstorf’s letter had been written in evident
anticipation of death.
“I know I am dying, dear Miriam,” she wrote, “trouble and anxiety of
mind have at last worn out my poor body. I have been hoping my strength
would last, even so long that I might see my kindred once more before I
die; but all hope is, I fear, gone. How sunny was my life previous to my
marriage. Not a care had I. Since that unhappy event all has been
bitterness. But I must not murmur; I consulted only my own will and
selfish desires, and I have suffered as I deserved. Hermann Bernstorf,
whom I idolized with all the wild devotion of an ill-regulated spirit,
proved to be a neglectful, careless, and at last an intemperate husband;
and his death was, indeed, a relief to me. On my death-bed I can at last
admit it, although mortification and pride have heretofore kept me
silent. Ah! Miriam, I cannot tell you how much I have suffered. I hoped
my cup of sorrow was drained to the dregs; but I find the bitterest drop
remaining, the leaving of my child alone in life. I cannot bring my mind
to look calmly on my approaching death. Oh! how wildly have I besought
Heaven to spare me, if only for a few months, that I might see her safe
with my own family; but in vain—death creeps on apace, and I feel
something must be done. Ida cannot be left here. With my husband’s
family, I have never had any intercourse; he had forfeited their
countenance and regard long before his marriage with me; pride has
always kept me from seeking them. I have no one to look to for aid but
in my own family. Will you not, dear Miriam, take charge of my child?
The little property my father so wisely provided for his grandchild,
will prevent her from being an actual dependent upon any one; but she
will need, when I am gone, a home—some one to protect and love her. She
is a delicate flower, and needs nurturing. I know you will grant this
request of a dying woman, and though comforted by this knowledge,
remorse embitters even this comfort, when I recall, that I have given
only to you and your family trouble and vexation, while from you I have
always received kindness and doting indulgence.
“I write with pain and difficulty. Ida does not dream of her approaching
trouble—her mild, dove-like eyes beam on me hopefully, and she talks of
_our_ future with certainty. I cannot tell her the sad truth. Oh, Father
above! why am I thus sorely afflicted?”
Ida’s letter told us her mother had been found senseless over this
letter, and only revived a few moments to bless her child. She then
yielded up her tried spirit into the hands of the Wise Power who had
first gifted her with every worldly blessing, then, when those blessings
were abused, had visited her with every earthly trouble.
There was no hesitation on my Aunt Miriam’s part; immediately were
letters from all of us dispatched to welcome the orphan amongst us, and
proper means employed to bring her safely to us. To our amazement my
Aunt Mary and Uncle Walter, upon hearing of Madame Bernstorf’s death and
application to Aunt Miriam, insisted upon adopting Ida themselves. They
had but one child, a son, who was finishing his studies at an eastern
university. An orphan niece of Aunt Mary’s, a wealthy heiress, Adelan
Lee, resided with them; but my aunt urged she had no daughter, and Ida
seemed, she said, providentially provided for them. She knew of her
husband’s early love for Madame Bernstorf, but, with angelic singleness
of heart, she persisted in claiming Ida, because she felt it would be
gratifying to him. We did not wonder at Uncle Walter’s devotion to his
wife, when we saw this decided proof of her pure, confiding,
self-forgetting spirit.
Ida at last arrived. She remained with me a few weeks before going to my
uncle’s mountain home, which was situated in a romantic county quite in
the interior of the state. We renewed during this visit the declarations
of friendship we had expressed by letters. She was a beautiful
creature—totally unlike her mother. Her person was tall, but graceful
and finely proportioned. She had a great quantity of beautiful hair, of
that pure Madonna, auburn tint painters delight in. Her complexion was
exquisitely clear, and one could well fancy when looking at her, why her
mother had called her a “delicate flower;” delicate and fragile indeed
did she seem. Her eyes were deep and melting in their expression. I
never could decide on their color; sometimes they seemed a soft, dark
gray, sometimes an auburn brown, like her hair; but their expression was
truly poetic. There was a great _naïveté_, and tender pathos in her
manner and countenance, that was bewitching; a total disregard of self,
and an innate desire to contribute to every one’s comfort. Her mother
had evidently cultivated in her daughter the qualities her own character
needed. Poor girl! she was overwhelmed with sorrow for her mother’s
death, but was filled with gratitude for our kindness. My aunt and uncle
came to the city for her, and greeted her with parental fondness, which
quite encouraged her, and softened the regret she felt at parting with
me. The journal commences at the first day of her arrival at her new
home, and will tell her story better than I can.