C---- Springs. August.
I so continually speak of my illness, Mary, that I fear you have
good right to think me that worst kind of bore, a hypochondriac. But
something is now going on with me that raises all my hopes and fears. I
dare not speak of it to Kate, lest she should be too sanguine, and be
doomed to suffer again the crush of all her hopes.
I really feel that I could not survive disappointment, should I ever
entertain positive hope of cure. Neither can I endure this suspense
without asking some one's opinion. There is no medical man here in whom
I have confidence, and so I go to you, as a child does to its mother in
its troubles, not knowing what she can do for it, but relying upon her
to do something.
I will explain what it is that excites me to such an agony of dread and
expectation. When the little girl asked me to let her see my marble
limbs, supposing me the Prince of the Black Isles, she sprang forward in
the eagerness of childish curiosity, and touched my knee with her hand.
I was so amazed at this glimpse into her mind, that for some time I only
tingled with astonishment. But while I was telling Kate about it, it all
came back to me again,--her stunning words, her eager spring, her prompt
grasp of my knee,--and I remembered that I had involuntarily started
away from her childish hand, that is, moved my _motionless_ limb!
I tried to do it again, but it was impossible. Still I could not help
thinking that I had done it once, under the influence of that electrical
shock.
Then I have another source of hope. I have never suffered any pain in
my limbs, and they might have been really marble, for all the feeling I
have had in them. Now I begin to be sensible of a wearisome numbness and
aching, which would be hard to bear, if it were not that it gives me the
expectation of returning animation. Do you think I may expect it, and
that I am not quite deluding myself?
August 14.
So I wrote two days ago, Mary, and I was right! That _was_ returning
sensation and motion. I can now move my feet. I cannot yet stand, or
walk, or help myself, any more than before; but I can, by a voluntary
effort, _move_.
Rejoice with me! I am a happy fellow this day! Dazzling daylight is
peeping through this sma' hole! Remember what I wrote of a certain
lady;--and Ben has hunted me up a law-book, which I am devouring. My
profession, and other blessings, again almost within grasp! This is
wildness, hope run riot, I know; but let me indulge to-day, for it is
this day which has set me free. I never voluntarily stirred before
since the accident,--I mean my lower limbs, of course. After writing a
sentence, I look down at my feet, moving them this way and that, to make
sure that I am not stricken again.
The day I began this letter I had proof that I had not merely fancied
movement, when the little girl startled me. A clumsy boy stumbled over
my couch, and I shrank, visibly, from receiving upon my feet the pitcher
of water he was carrying. I was in the porch. The beautiful girl who
formerly made my affliction so bitter to me was passing at the moment,
with her arm drawn affectionately through her father's. She saw the
stumble, and sprang forward with a cry of alarm. It looked, certainly,
as if my defenceless feet must receive the crash, and I attempted
instinctively to withdraw them,--partially succeeding! I saw this at the
same time that I heard the sweetest words that ever fell into my heart,
in the most joyful, self-forgetful tones of the sweetest voice!
"Oh, father! He moved! He moved!"
Mr. Winston turned to me with congratulations, shaking my hand with
warmth; and then his daughter extended hers,--cordially! Of course my
happiness was brimming!
I afterwards tried repeatedly to put my feet in motion. I could not do
it. I could not think how to begin,--what power to bring to bear upon
them. This annoyed me beyond measure, and I spent yesterday in wearisome
effort to no purpose. My thinking, willing mind was of no use to me; but
instinctive feeling, and a chapter of accidents, have brought me to my
present state of activity. A wish to change an uncomfortable position in
which Ben left me this morning restored me to voluntary action. I tried
to turn away from the sun-glare, using my elbows, as usual, for motors.
To my surprise, I found myself assisting with my feet,--and by force of
will I persisted in the effort, and continued the action. Having got the
clue to the mystery, I have now only to will and execute. My rebellious
members are brought into subjection! I am king of myself! Hurrah!
Good-bye, dearest friend. I shake my foot to you,--an action more
expressive of joyful good-will than my best bow.
I hope my return to health will not cost me dear. I begin to fear losing
the sympathy and affection of those I have learned to love so dearly,
and who have cherished me in their hearts simply because of my
infirmities. When I am a vigorous man, will you care for me? will Kate
centre her life in me? will Miss Ada Winston look at me so often and so
gently?
Well, don't laugh at me for my grasping disposition! Affection is very
grateful to me, and I should be sorry to do without it, after having
lived in a loving atmosphere so long.
I believe Ben is as proud of me as he was of his Shanghai, but he has a
proverb which he quotes whenever he sees me much elated: "When the cup's
fu', carry't even." His own cautious Scotch head could do that, perhaps;
but mine is more giddy, and I am afraid I shall spill some drops from my
full cup of joy by too rash advancing.
Kate is not so wild with delight as I am. She still forbids herself to
exult. Probably she dares not give way to unbounded hope, remembering
the bitterness of her former trial, and dreading its recurrence. She
says it makes her tremble to see my utter abandonment to joyful dreams.
August 20.
It is Kate's fault that you have not received this letter before now.
She kept it to say a few words to you about my recovery, but has at last
yielded to me the pleasure of telling of something far more interesting,
which has occurred since,--not more interesting to me, but probably so
to any one else.
One evening, Kate went, with everybody from the house, to see the sunset
from the hills above this glen, and I lay alone in the back porch, in
the twilight. A light wagon drove up, and in two minutes a little lady
had run to me, thrown herself upon her knees beside me, and pressed her
sweet lips to my forehead. It was our darling little Alice Wellspring.
Immediately following her came Mr. Ryerson, in a perfect ecstasy of
laughter, and blushing.
"We've run away!" whispered she.
"And got married this morning!" said he.
"But where was the necessity of elopement?" I asked, bewildered,--Kate
having told me that Alice's aunt was doing her best to "catch Ryerson
for her niece," she having had certain information upon that point from
a near relative.
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed he, slapping his knees in intense enjoyment, as he
sat in his old place by my feet. "It is a practical joke,--one that will
have in it what somebody calls the first element of wit,--surprise. A
more astonished and mystified old lady than she will be would be hard to
find! She was so willing!"
"Don't say anything against Aunt, Harry. I'm safe from her now, and so
are you. She wanted such an ostentatious wedding, Charlie, that I did
not like it, and Harry declared positively that he would not submit to
it. So I had just to go off quietly, and come here to Kate and you, my
best friends in the world, except Walter. After you know Harry, you
won't blame me."
It was very rash of the child, but really I cannot blame her, as I
should, if she had chosen any one else. Ryerson is one who shows in his
face and in every word and action that he is a kind and noble fellow.
Kate, to my surprise, is enchanted with this performance. It chimes with
her independent notions, but not with my prudent ones. However, it is
done, and I never saw a more satisfactorily mated couple. It would have
been a cruel pity to see that light, good little heart quelled by a
morose husband, or its timidity frightened into deceitfulness by a
severe one. Now she is as fearless and courageous as a pet canary.
Ryerson has one grievous fault; he uses all sorts of slang phrases. It
makes his conversation very funny, but Alice don't like it, especially
when he approaches the profane.
He told a very good story the other day, spiced a little in language.
Everybody laughed outright. Alice looked grave.
"What is the matter, wifey?" he called out, anxiously; for with him
there is no reserve before strangers. He seems to think the whole world
kin, and himself always the centre of an attached and indulgent family.
"How could you say those bad words, with a child in the room?" she said,
reproachfully,--pointing to my little black-eyed friend.
"I only said, 'The Devil,'--that's all! But now I remember,--if a
story is ever so good, and 'the Devil' gets into it, it's no go with
you! But, Allie, you shouldn't be a wet blanket to a fellow! When he
is trying to be entertaining, you might help him out, instead of
extinguishing him! Laugh just a little to set folks going, and make
moral reflections afterwards, for the benefit of the children."
"You know, Harry, I can't make reflections!"
"No more you can,--ha! ha! If you could, there would be the Devil to
pay--in curtain lectures, wouldn't there?"
"Again, Harry!"
"Pshaw, now, Allie, don't be hard upon me! That was a very little
swear--for the occasion!"
She will refine him in time.
Ryerson has infused new spirit into this stiff place. The very day he
came, I observed that various persons, who had held aloof from all
others, drew near to him. The fellow seems the soul of geniality, and
everybody likes him,--from old man to baby. The young girls gather
round him for chat and repartee,--the young men are always calling to
him to come boating, or gunning, or riding with them,--the old gentlemen
go to him with their politics, and the old ladies with their aches.
Young America calls him a "regular brick," for he lends himself to build
up everybody's good-humor.
He is everything to me. Before he came, Mr. Winston was almost my only
visitor, though other gentlemen occasionally sat with me a few minutes.
But now everybody flocks to my couch, because Harry's head-quarters
are there. He has broken down the shyness my unfortunate situation
maintained between me and others. His cheery "Well, how are you to-day,
old fellow?" sets everybody at ease with me. The ladies have come out
from their pitying reserve. A glass of fresh water from the spring, a
leaf-full of wild berries, a freshly pulled rose, and other little daily
attentions, cheer me into fresh admiration of them "all in general, and
one in particular," as Ryerson says.
Perhaps you think--I judge so from your letter--that I ought to describe
Miss Winston to you. She is finely----Ah, I find that she is wrapped in
some mysterious, ethereal veil, the folds of which I dare not disturb,
even with reverent hand, and for your sake! Ah, Mary, I aspire!