“You will not be surprised, dearest lady, to hear that I am once more
near to you, nor will I disguise the truth, that my intention is to
learn from your own lips, whether my honest and faithful love can ever
meet with favour. You spoke kindly in your note to me, but I had not the
presumption to make any further advances until my circumstances were so
much improved that I could offer you competence. The anxiety of my mind
has preyed on my health, and I am now determined to know my fate at
once, for this suspense paralyzes all the energies of my soul.
“I learn that you are unhappy; confide but in me, give yourself up to my
devoted tender cares, and my whole life shall be spent in loving and
protecting you. Be generous, and give peace to my heart by saying that
you will endeavour to return my affection, at present I ask no more.
“I do not want fortune, indeed I should infinitely prefer that you had
not a cent in the world; if you are not ambitious I have enough to
render you happy; my income is now nearly eight hundred dollars a year,
and I shall soon have it in my power to increase it to a thousand. I
know that your tastes are simple, and with your right-mindedness and my
unceasing cares, you will find enough for all that is desirable. Dearest
lady, listen to my entreaties, and do not drive me to despair by doubts,
either of my love or my ability to make you happy.”
Martha Porter took this letter from my trembling hand, and promising to
be back by noon, she departed, leaving me in a state to which I cannot
look back without great pain—the answer was to seal my fate.
One o’clock, two o’clock came; but Martha Porter did not return; I
invented a thousand excuses—it might have been difficult to see the
young lady alone—she might be ill—married—every thing pressed on my
burning brain at once, and when poor Martha made her appearance at last,
I rushed up to my room unable to hear the result of her mission.
A gentle knock at the door, and a gentle voice as I opened it brought
some comfort—Martha’s face too was in smiles, and a letter was in her
hand—she saw that I was stupified, as it were, and unable to ask
questions, so she quietly laid the letter on the table, and closing the
door, went softly down stairs. Martha, dear Martha Porter, have I not
been as a son to thee?
When the tumult of my feelings subsided I ventured to open the precious
letter; my eye ran over the lines, but the sense came not, I did not
comprehend a word. I sealed myself and prayed for composure, for my
reason seemed departing, and as I prayed my strength returned. I am now
persuaded that it was a sense of the blissful import of the letter that
so completely unmanned me, although I would not allow myself to believe
it. The blessed letter was as follows:
“I am convinced of your affection for me, I have known it for a
long time, and I am sure that I can trust you. I am indeed very
unhappy and with no hope that my uncle will ever cease his
persecutions; but for your generous letter I should this day have
sent for Martha Porter to confide in her, and to get her to go to
the city. Will you love me the less when I say, that it was to see
you and to make my situation known to you? But do not suppose that
mere personal distress induces me to throw myself on your
protection. I esteem you highly, and am perfectly willing to share
your fortune be it what it may. Perhaps my repugnance to marry Mr.
Anglesea would not have been so great—perhaps if I had never known
you, I should have found less difficulty in obeying my uncle. You
perceive that I trust in you entirely.”
It was not till I had read this dear letter over and over again that I
could comprehend the full measure of my felicity; then came a rush of
joy, then came an exquisite calm over my troubled heart. My aspiring eye
shot a quick glance over days of happiness, of thankfulness, of
usefulness, till my beloved and I had finished our duties on earth, and
were safely and securely and for ever seated among angels in Heaven.
I was in this tranquil yet exhausted state when the kind Martha again
came to the door; she thought by this time that I might be able to hear
the particulars of her visit to my angel, and confer with me as to the
best mode of proceeding.
“I found her in tears,” said she, “which she hastily dried when I
entered the room, and after welcoming me, she asked whether any thing
particular had brought me to her. I said, yes, something very particular
indeed, but that I did not like to tell her all at once. ‘Have you a
letter?’ said she, and oh, Mr. Parr, how the dear young lady coloured. I
told her I had, so I gave her your letter and went to the window that
she might read it unobserved. She wept a great deal while reading it,
and then went immediately to the table to answer it; and when it was
finished, and sealed, she called me to her. ‘Martha,’ said she, again
blushing up to the temples, ‘do you know the person who wrote this
letter?’ I told her that I did. ‘And can you get this conveyed to the
gentleman soon?’ I looked at her in surprise; I found she did not know
how near you were to her. ‘O yes,’ said I, ‘he shall get it in less than
ten minutes, for my dear young lady, he is at our house.’ This threw her
in a great flutter and she smiled, I suspect for the first time in a
year; for the neighbours say, and they had it from the servants, that
both the old man and the young one have been almost cruel to her,
because she would not consent to the marriage. Well, I left her happy
enough I dare say, and now what is best to be done; for old Mr.
Bewcastle will be on the look-out now, and who knows what he may do
next?”
I was not slow in deciding on what was best to be done; it was now three
o’clock, and I despatched Mr. Porter to a clergyman living about six
miles from us, requesting his attendance the next morning at eleven
o’clock. Martha went to a jeweller’s in the village, and brought home
several gold rings, going with them to my dear angel, and carrying also
a letter, wherein I detailed all our plans. All that a tender love, all
that a devoted, honest heart could dictate, was strongly urged, to
reconcile her to this precipitous step, and I had the happiness to learn
that she gave herself up wholly to my wishes. I arranged every thing as
well as the short time would allow, and aunt Martha was not idle; she
spent the evening with the dear young lady, packing up and preparing for
her departure, observing the utmost caution lest they might be
suspected. I knew that her uncle had no right to detain her, for she was
of age, and of course her own mistress; but we both thought it better to
prevent disagreeable scenes—scenes which might delay our marriage,
perhaps prevent it altogether.
The good clergyman came at the appointed time, and I went, as was
previously arranged, in a carriage to meet my beloved at the head of the
lane leading to the garden. She saw the carriage at a distance from her
window, and by the time it stopped she was at the gate. The steps were
down; I hastened to the dear creature, who trembled so much that I was
compelled to lift her in the carriage; the door closed, and I pressed
her to my heart—that heart which was filled with the purest esteem and
affection, an affection which was to endure for ever.
I entreated her to be composed, assuring her that there was nothing to
fear, that in a few moments it would be out of the power of any one to
separate us. I thanked her over and over again for thus making me the
happiest of men, pouring out my whole soul in words of love and truth.
In a few moments we stood before the clergyman; our vows were
pronounced, which with our prayers, I trust, were registered in heaven.
Behold me now, my friends; look at the proud and happy being; see the
swelling of his grateful heart. Was this the poor, despised, forsaken
orphan, toiling through a thankless servitude, without a kind look or a
cheering word; without pity, without a single comfort of any
kind—suffering through twelve long years, and with a heart formed to
love and be loved in return—could one short year have produced this
blessed change?
My bride!—oh, what a tender name! how sweetly it falls on the ear of the
man of tender sensibility. It is a word in common use; it is heard
daily; thousands and tens of thousands repeat it; in itself it is
nothing; but to the young husband, when it comes to be _his_ bride, then
does the magic of the name cast its glorious spell over him—it is then
that he feels all its beauty and its loveliness.
“My bride! thou art wholly mine, beloved one,” said I; “no evil that I
can avert shall ever come near thee. How is it that the few words which
we have just uttered have given thee so wholly to my protection? but
thou hast trusted to my strong arm and to my still stronger principles
and feelings, and may I perish if I ever deceive thee.”
We spent three weeks in a retired spot among the Highlands, each day
restoring tranquillity to my dear wife, and showing how infinitely
happier I was than my ardent fancy had ever contemplated. We talked over
our future prospects, and she drew a scheme and decked it out in such
beautiful colours—all, too, within the compass of my abilities—that I no
longer feared she would repine at the contrast of the humble home I
could offer, and that to which she had been accustomed. We had a letter
from our good friend, Martha, giving us an account of the consternation
they were in at Mr. Bewcastle’s when they read the letter which I sent
to them on the day of our marriage. They sent for her brother and
questioned him angrily, threatening to prosecute him for allowing the
ceremony to take place in his house; but he was not to be intimidated,
as he told Mr. Bewcastle, for he knew that the young lady was of age.
Martha proceeded to say, that as it was now exceedingly unpleasant for
them to remain in their neighbourhood, they had determined to sell their
little effects and go to the west. Her brother was to set out as soon as
this was settled, and she was to remain at lodgings until he had
selected a suitable place, his object being to purchase a small farm.
Nothing could have happened to suit our views better, for in all my dear
wife’s little plans there would arise a little distrust of herself when
it came to the marketing for our little household, and now, at the very
moment, came dear aunt Martha to our aid. We wrote immediately, begging
her to remain with us as a friend as long as it suited her
convenience—nay, to live with us always, if her good brother could do
without her. I told her to join us in New York as soon as their effects
were sold, and my dear wife added a postscript longer than my whole
letter, telling her of our happiness, and of the little plans of our
future establishment. She told her to reserve such articles as might be
useful to us, such as a bed and bedding, all of which we would pay for
as soon as she came to us.
It was on a beautiful September morning that we arrived in New York. As
I had written to the good lady with whom I lodged, she was prepared to
receive us, and I had the pleasure of finding that my beloved was
satisfied with her apartments. But the moment came when I was to leave
her for several hours—it would not do to linger in her dear presence any
longer, and she was the first to hint that my duties must be resumed. To
a solitary creature, whose existence was wrapped up in this one being,
this separation, short as it might be, was most painful; I bade her
farewell over and over again without moving, having a most horrible fear
that something or some one would spirit her away during my absence. I
was compelled at length to leave her, and I had the folly to beg her to
lock herself in the chamber until my return. I smile now while I think
of it, but O what tenderness steals over me when I look back to that
dear one, and recollect how sweetly she soothed my apprehensions, and
how careful she was not to ridicule my weakness.
I reported myself to Mr. Blagge, who expressed great pleasure at my
return, complimenting me on my improved looks. “I told you,” said he,
“that you wanted a little country air; where have you been?”
“I have been amongst the Highlands,” said I, “and I have brought back
health, happiness, and a wife.”
“Ah! that was the trouble, was it?” said he; “I feared it was a love
affair, but you are such a shy fellow that one cannot come at what is
passing in your mind.”
“Well, my dear sir, you will not find that the case any longer,” said I,
“I shall now carry my heart in my hand.”
“That is,” said Mr. Blagge, “you think you will; but excepting that your
face will be beaming with pleasure as it does now, no one will be the
better of what is going on within; I know you very well now; you will be
more reserved than ever.”
I laughed at this, for I was in fact at that very moment grudging the
time I spent in this little friendly talk, for I wanted to be thinking
of my wife.
“Oh, by the way,” said Mr. Blagge, “there is a letter for you from your
old master, Mr. Bartlett; it came enclosed to me, and he requested that
it might be given to you immediately. Now as you did not let me know
where you were going, I could not send it to you. I suspect the good
gentleman wants your services: but you must not leave me now, Mr. Parr,
for I am almost beside myself with business.”
I assured him that I would not; and as to Mr. Bartlett, much as I now
desired an increase of income I would not live under his chilling
influence, different as I was now in circumstances, for half his wealth.
I actually shuddered at the thoughts of taking my wife to the scenes of
my melancholy servitude.
It was curious, but the letter could not be found; high and low, in
every corner, on every shelf, did we look, but in vain; so we were
compelled to give up the search. I did not regret it in the least, for I
had learned from one of the young men belonging to Mr. Bartlett’s office
that he intended to make me an offer. Mr. Blagge had answered his
letter, stating why I did not write myself, and as this thing did not
concern me any further I dismissed the subject from my mind, not even
thinking it worth mentioning when I returned to my wife.
Every evening, the moment the sun went down, I returned to that dear,
solitary one, and then after taking our supper we would wander about
from place to place, caring very little in what direction we strayed. We
lived for ourselves, and most deeply and gratefully did we enjoy the
felicity of being together unnoticed and unknown. We frequently passed a
small, one-storied brick building; it was untenanted, and had been shut
up for two years, not happening to suit any one. My wife thought, if it
were repaired a little, it might answer for a dwelling house, for that a
stack of chimneys could soon be run up. On inquiry I found that it had
been built for lawyers’ offices during the last yellow fever that had
appeared in the city, and that it had since that been only used
occasionally for a school-house.
There were four very small rooms, only ten feet square, with a narrow
hall in the centre, and neither cellar nor garret; but the house stood
among trees and back from the street, so that this was a charm to
counterbalance many inconveniences. I saw the owner of it, and he agreed
to put it in repair provided I took it on a lease for four years; this I
gladly did; the rent was to be eighty dollars a year, and cheap enough
we thought it, as there was a good well of water directly in front of
the house. Aunt Martha came in the precise moment that she was wanted,
and now whilst the house was being repaired there came the pleasant task
of going from shop to shop to purchase the tiny furniture that was to
suit these tiny rooms. The front one of the left hand rooms was to be
used as a bed room for aunt Martha, and the one behind it as a kitchen;
of the other two the front was to be the parlour, and the back one our
bed room. No one can tell the pleasure I had in hearing and seeing all
that was going on—I had read of going to coronations and to brilliant
spectacles, but I hastened home every evening with a far more exquisite
pleasure to hold one end of a breadth of carpeting whilst my dear wife
cut it off, or listen to her little rambles with aunt Martha, or looked
at the neat candlesticks and the little set of china, all so cheap and
yet so very simple and pretty.
By the first of October the house was finished and the smell of the new
paint entirely gone; every thing, therefore, was ready, and I had begged
a holiday that I might assist in the grand move. The sun set gloriously
as I walked out of the office, and it seemed to my joyous spirit that it
smiled graciously as I poured forth my grateful feelings in song. Only
think of the poor, broken down, neglected apprentice, caroling along the
street “home, sweet home,” and having a sweet home to go to in the
bargain. Fast as I walked and quickly as I reached our lodgings, I did
not come too soon for my dear wife, for she was expecting me at the door
with hat and shawl, all equipped for a walk.
“What!” said I, “dearest, a walk before tea? or is it to be a little
shopping expedition? here is my arm; and which way now, my life? not
far, for I think you look fatigued.”
“Why, to tell the truth, Patrick, dear, I am a little tired, for I have
worked hard to-day that I may enjoy your holiday to-morrow. I am only
going to the house; aunt Martha is there waiting for us. And you can be
at home to-morrow, can you? oh, what a day of pleasure it will be! such
a day as to-morrow comes but once in a married life, dear husband.”
To me every day was one of happiness, and with her near me, even the
bustle of moving was a pleasant thing to anticipate; but in the
abstract, apart from the thought of my wife, nothing could be more
irksome than the hurry of change. It was not far to our new habitation,
and in looking up there stood dear aunt Martha at the door, bending
forward to look for us.
“Walk in, walk in,” said she; “walk in your own house, good folks; come
and see if every thing is to your liking, Mr. Parr,” and open went all
the doors of the four tiny rooms.
It was, indeed, as my darling said, a sight and a feeling that came but
once in the married life—the first moment that the young husband and his
bride put their feet on the threshold of their own house. I have changed
that humble dwelling for the princely one that I now inhabit, but that
same gentle touch came no more. My wife had an instinctive feeling that
I should be annoyed by the moving and lifting and hurry of the scene,
and she and Martha agreed to spare me; so there I stood, and it appeared
to me that some good fairy had been at work, so neatly and beautifully
every thing was arranged. In the middle of the little parlour stood the
tea table, and after I had gone through the rooms and praised every
thing over and over again, we sat down with grateful hearts to our own
frugal meal.
Every day my spirit rose higher; and my thoughts grew loftier; I did not
envy the greatest man in existence, so many and so varied were my
blessings. Mr. Blagge placed the most unlimited confidence in me; and,
as his profits increased through my exertions, he generously allowed me
to close my labours an hour earlier every day. This was a great favour;
and as the winter set in he moved the printing-office a great deal
higher up, so that I had the additional comfort of dining at home. Our
kind friend, aunt Martha, would not allow us to hire a servant, and my
wife took a share in the household duties, working for me, keeping my
drawers in order, and arranging every thing in the way she knew I liked.
I could not but indulge her in it, seeing that it gave her such
pleasure.
We made no acquaintances; we wanted none; there seemed scarcely time
enough for ourselves; and why should we be troubled with strangers?
Martha, seeing the innocent life we led, became sincerely attached to
us; promising never to leave us; and thus passed the first winter of my
married life. We were all happy. My dear wife was as cheerful as a bird;
and, at times, when I was particularly weary—too weary to read, or even
to listen to her reading—she would put away her little work-basket, set
the candle in the farthest corner, and draw her chair close to mine,
charming away my fatigue with her clear soft voice and gentle
endearments. She had bright visions of the future; and they always ended
as she knew I wished, in our purchasing the little estate on which I was
born. How delightful it is to listen to the little nothings of a
sensible woman; one that loves us too.
This was the way that heaven rewarded me for all that I had endured; and
the reward came to me in such a shape too—a wife! I spoke of the
rapturous feelings of a young husband, at the mention of his bride, but
they are nothing in comparison to those he has when she is called his
wife—when the quiet evenings of winter bring him for ever near her; when
he listens to her innocent conversation, full of love, and care, and
thoughtfulness—all for him. I often wondered whether all men loved their
wives as I loved mine. There was no way in which I could judge, for I
had never been even in the same room with a husband and wife; but I had
read of disagreements, and hatreds, and separations. It had given me
great uneasiness before my marriage; but I always took the side of the
wife, wondering why the man wanted to have his own way, in the merest
trifles too. As to me, every thing my wife or Martha did, seemed the
very best thing to be done; I was sure that their taste and judgment
were more to be depended upon than mine; particularly as it related to
household economy.
And then, was I not to be envied when, with the dear creature’s arm
linked in mine, we walked out either for exercise or business? A man
never feels his power and responsibility so strongly as when a lovely
woman leans on him for support, and relies on his courage and his
ability to protect her. What a delightful sensation comes over a man
when he knows that there is one being in the world who trusts to him
entirely, and looks up to him as the first and the best—none but a
husband can have this feeling—he enjoys it as long as life continues; it
is a pleasure of which he never wearies.
May came, with all its pleasantness and its flowers, and our love for
one another made every thing appear in the gayest and brightest colours.
Nothing could be more inconvenient than our house; nothing could be more
irksome than my occupation—the dullest of all dull employment,
correcting proofs—yet it was for me that my wife overlooked the
privations and difficulties she had to encounter from a limited income
and a house of such diminutive size—and it was for her that I continued
to drudge on, monotonously, without a thought of change. My wife was far
more prudent and economical than I was; that is, in every thing that
related to herself. I could not resist the pleasure of buying her all
the delicate fruits and early vegetables of the season; and I had great
pleasure in taking all sorts of little pretty table ornaments and
delicate perfumes, and prints, and books; in short, I scarcely went home
without something in my hand.
“My dear husband,” said she one evening, when I came home with a present
as usual, “have you found Aladdin’s lamp, that you are so lavish of your
money? You will have to put a rein on your generous nature, for instead
of laying up two hundred dollars this year, as we intended, there will
be nothing left. Come, dearest, and look over this little statement with
me, and then say whether we should not retrench? The worst of it, to me,
dearest, is the knowledge that the two hundred dollars have been
expended for my gratification: you have hardly allowed yourself any
thing; I must put a stop to your dear generous spirit; aunt Martha and I
have talked quite seriously about it.”
I promised to be more prudent for the future; and if there ever was any
thing trying to my temper it was the inability to purchase such little
articles of luxury as I thought my wife ought to have. Mr. Blagge,
however, true to his promise, raised my salary to a thousand dollars;
and with this welcome news I could not refrain from buying a pretty
little set of chess men; for my wife had a great desire to teach me to
play the game; and so, after telling her of the addition to our income,
I gave her the chess men and board. I thought to make it the more
welcome by hinting to her that it was for myself. The dear creature
smiled and shook her head. “Ah, my husband,” said she, “you think you
have found out a new way of indulging me; but I am not to be taken in.
Do you think I don’t know that you have no particular fancy for games of
any sort; and that the chess men are to give me pleasure? But I shall
punish you by sitting down to the game this evening in good earnest; you
will soon tire of it, however.”
In this way our evenings passed; part of them in playing at chess, in
which I soon became interested, as I had such a pleasant teacher; and in
part, in studying the German language. We had a German in the office,
who taught me the pronunciation, and what he taught me in the morning I
transferred to my wife in the evening; and it was really wonderful to
find how quickly she conquered all the difficulties. But if it was
wonderful that she acquired this language in so short a time, I could
not but feel surprised that nothing was neglected; there seemed to be
time for every thing; and she was always ready for a walk; always in
time, and always neatly dressed. What a happy fellow I was, to have no
care of my wardrobe; I, that never knew what it was to have a button to
my collar or wristbands.
I thought that no event could make her dearer to me than she now was;
but there did come the time when I found that, ardently as I loved her,
my tenderness and my cares were still more strongly excited; but they
came coupled with such apprehensions that I watched over her with
mingled emotions of joy and fear. It was now that I saw the necessity of
prudence and economy; and I could not but hope that some means might be
found by which my salary would be increased; for I desired, of all
things, to place my dear wife in a more comfortable house. Mr. Blagge
had, I knew, done his very best in allowing me two hundred dollars a
year more, so I could not expect any thing from him; but I thought there
might be ways to make money independently of the office. Perhaps I might
write for the magazines; or who knows whether I might not write a
saleable book. It was in vain that my wife discouraged me. It was in
vain that she assured me the want of a cellar was nothing, as the
grocer, at the corner, supplied her with every thing from day to day;
and that the little cabin rooms were quite large enough; and that larger
ones would but increase her labours.
I mentioned that Mr. Bartlett had written to me under cover to Mr.
Blagge, but as the letter had been mislaid, I knew nothing of the
contents. It struck me that he had made me an offer of partnership; and
what I then shuddered at, seemed not so very bad a thing now that I had
such an endearing prospect before me. I mentioned it to my wife, and she
was surprised that I had not written to Mr. Bartlett; but I told her,
that as Mr. Blagge had said to him, that he would give me the letter as
soon as I returned from the country, I thought there was no use in
saying any thing further, for I did not intend to avail myself of any
offer he might make.
“O, but, Patrick, my love,” said she, “the letter might relate to your
friends in Scotland; nay, I dare to say it did, for Mr. Bartlett, cold
and heartless as he is, has some sense of honour and honesty. He never
would have made you an offer, however advantageous, whilst you were
employed by Mr. Blagge; all that you tell me of him proves this. Do you
not think, dearest, that you had better write to him?”
This shows how much more acute a woman’s intellect is than ours; I never
so much as dreamed of my old uncle Parr in Scotland; and now it almost
amounted to conviction, that the letter related to him. I questioned Mr.
Blagge respecting the letter, and he said, that as far as his
recollection served, it appeared to be a double one, and he was quite
surprised to find that I had not written. There was no doubt on his mind
that the letter was still amongst the papers, and he proposed another
search, particularly as there were two or three boxes that had not been
opened since the office was removed, and he advised me to look there. We
opened the boxes and assorted the papers; they were principally old
manuscripts and the correspondence relating to them; but my letter did
not appear. Just as we had gone through the last box, one of the clerks
lifted up an old black morocco portfolio, which lay at the bottom, and
as he slapped off the dust a letter flew out and fell near Mr. Blagge.
The moment he saw the letter the whole thing flashed across his mind.
That one reminded him of mine, and he now recollected that he had put it
along with several others in this very letter book. Sure enough, there
it was, unsealed, just as it came from the postman; but as it was quite
dark, I hurried home, lest my wife should feel uneasy at my protracted
stay: in truth, I met her at the door with her hat on, intending to walk
down to the office, with Martha, to see what had detained me.
Martha brought the candle, and then a little doubt arose as to who
should read the letter first; but Martha decided in my wife’s favour.
“She can bear good or bad news better than you, Mr. Parr,” said the good
woman, “and if the news is good, why, she will break it to you by
degrees, and you will not be set all on a tremble; and if it is bad
news, such as the loss of your money in the Savings Bank, or the
mortgage”—Heavens, I had never thought of this—“why she will teach you
to bear it.” My darling, therefore, opened the now dreaded letter; but
you may judge of her astonishment when she read as follows—
“Sir—Yesterday I received by the packet ship Monongahela, the following
letter, enclosed in one directed to me; mine, I presume, was a copy of
yours; by it you perceive that your uncle is dead, and that you are the
sole heir to his estate, provided you go to Glasgow and identify
yourself before the month of October—next October year. I had intended
to write to you on my own account, offering you a third partnership in
our concern, but I presume this piece of good fortune will make it
unnecessary for you to toil at your profession.”
I sat watching my wife’s countenance, as did our good Martha likewise,
and we saw her change colour, first pale and then red; but she did not
speak until the letter was folded and in her bosom. “Patrick, love,”
said she, “what month is this?” I told her it was July—the first of
July. “Oh my,” said she, “then we have no time—it will all be lost—July,
August, September; only three months—but come, here is the tea; let us
drink it first, otherwise some people may forget to eat—aunt Martha, I
know you will not get a wink of sleep to-night; I shall sleep as sound
as a top, as I always do—and you, dearest, you will have golden dreams;
oh, what a fine house you will build at Camperdown; and how snugly uncle
Porter will be ensconced in the little, neat, comfortable stone house;
and dear aunt Martha, what a glorious south room you are to have on the
first floor, along with us; and oh, what planning and what perplexities
we shall be in for the next two years. Why, Mr. Bartlett has made a most
princely offer.”
And thus the dear creature went on, leading me to believe that the good
news related to him; but aunt Martha knew better. So, when tea was over,
and she was seated on my knee, I heard the whole truth. I pressed her to
my bosom in an ecstasy, at the thought of placing her in affluence; but
too soon came the reflection, that the ocean must be crossed before this
desirable event could take place. Sleep, dream, did she say? not I; no
sleep nor dreams for me; but she, the dear creature, with a mind so
justly balanced, and thinking nothing an evil that was to save me from
anxiety; she slept like a top, as she said she would. It was aunt Martha
that had the dreams all to herself.
Mr. Blagge expressed both joy and sorrow; joy at my good fortune, and
sorrow at parting with me. He, too, he said, intended to offer me better
terms the next year; perhaps an equal partnership; so that if the event
did not equal our expectations I had two means of advancement, and I
need not say that my choice would have fallen upon Mr. Blagge. He never,
for a moment, thought there could be a doubt on my mind as to the
propriety of going to Scotland; and I absolutely hated him for the ease
with which he discussed the subject; just as if there were to be no
fears, no struggles. When I went home, there was my dear wife, looking
calm, and receiving me cheerfully, but with an inquiring eye; and there
sat aunt Martha, ready for a thousand questions, and with a thousand
observations.
Long and painfully did the subject occupy me; I said nothing, but my
dear wife left off her interesting needlework and employed herself in
preparing for the voyage. As I had not made up my mind whether I would
go at all, the point of her going with me had not been discussed, and I
sat with a stupid wonder looking at certain dresses which she and Martha
were making, and at certain convenient caps that were to suit both the
cabin and deck. They talked and they chatted on, and congratulated
themselves that the smallness of the ship’s cabin would not be an
inconvenience, seeing that they had been so long accustomed to our small
rooms.
I still went daily to the office as if nothing had occurred, but my mind
was in a terrible state. To go, and leave my wife to the mercy of
strangers, and at such an interesting time too, was very painful; to
take her with me was to expose her to certain danger, for if there were
no storms, no shipwrecks, yet sea-sickness might prove fatal. When I
made up my mind to take her I reproached myself as being the most
selfish of mortals, and when I finally concluded to leave her behind,
her death knell rung in my ears. Most sincerely did I wish that the
hated letter had never been found. It became at length the subject of
discussion, that is, with me. My opinion was asked on several points,
and answers were wrung from me; but there seemed one thing certain in my
wife’s mind, that although I might not decide on her going with me, yet
I could not but choose to go. She never questioned it.
I fell to reading the biography of voyagers to see how the females of
their party bore the perils of the sea, and then I made many inquiries
as to their perils on shore, even with the tenderness of a husband to
sustain them. Recollect, my friends, that this beloved being was my only
tie on earth, and that without her, existence would be a burden. I was
not going rashly to decide on her fate and mine; it was therefore but
consistent with the love I bore her to weigh well the difficulties on
either side. She, too, had thought of every thing, and her mind was made
up at once—and that was to go with me. “I have but this to say, dearest
husband,” said she at the beginning, and her mind underwent no change,
“if we are permitted to go safely, we shall be a comfort to one another
throughout the voyage and on shore; but if otherwise—if the sea is to be
our grave, then we shall perish together; I could not survive your loss,
and you, dearest”—
I never could let her proceed further; as to live without her seemed a
thing impossible. At such times I seemed to yield assent, and began to
make preparations; but having read an account of the illness and death
of a lady on her passage across the Atlantic, I determined at once, if
the going was insisted upon, that I would let her remain behind. Then
again, if I saw in the papers the death of a young mother, I repented of
my former decision; and in this miserable state of mind I was during the
whole month of July. August still found me irresolute; but I had only
two weeks left to waver, for there would then be but little time left to
come within the limits of the bequest. There were but six weeks from
that time to the first of October; it therefore became necessary to
bring my mind to the painful decision of leaving my wife behind. I wrote
to Mr. Porter, entreating him to come immediately, and remain in the
house during my absence. I saw an eminent physician, and interested him
in such a way that I was sure he would never let a day pass without
paying her a visit, whether she were indisposed or not; and I took every
precaution, in short, that love and prudence could dictate to make her
comfortable and happy.
How she bore with all this nervous, morbid irritability, I cannot tell;
but never by word or look did she betray any impatience; her sole object
was to sooth me and make light of her own sufferings. She promised to
take great care of her health, and Martha exhausted words in her desire
to set my mind at rest. Mr. Porter declared she should never be out of
his thoughts, and Mr. Blagge promised to take his wife and daughter to
her the day after I should sail. But all this was nothing, absolutely
nothing, in my estimation, when I considered how much more than all this
I could do for her were I near her myself.
The time came at last; Mr. Blagge had taken my passage, and my trunk had
gone to the ship. I had been to get some necessary papers of the British
consul, and was hastening home—that home where I had enjoyed such
exquisite happiness—like a fool I was leaving it—for what?—for an
uncertain good—and when I returned, if Providence permitted me to
return, might I not find that dear and cherished spot desolate! Whilst I
was thus tormenting myself with these fearful fancies, the funeral of a
lady passed me; she had been married at the same time with us, and she
had died of inflammation of the lungs. I inquired of a person who was
acquainted with her, and I found that she had taken cold from sitting in
the draft of two doors, and, he added, the room was very small, so that
there was no avoiding the exposure—the very situation in which I had
left my dear wife only an hour before!
Of course I hastened home with greater speed and opened the door of the
little parlour with the dismal feelings that I came too late. But she
had removed to the window, and the sash was down. Oh, how I blessed her
for this act of prudence. She saw my nervous apprehension and asked what
had thus disturbed me, and finding my fears groundless I was ashamed to
tell her the cause. She looked earnestly at me and said, “My dear
husband, you are wearing yourself out with fears and anxieties; I am
well, and with the blessing of Providence I hope so to remain; nay, I am
strong enough to encounter the voyage, much more able to bear it than
you are with your excited feelings. There are our trunks, Martha’s and
mine, ready packed, and we are only hoping and waiting for your assent
to go with you; so, dearest, knowing how unhappy you will be to leave me
behind, even let me go. I shall not urge you any further, my love, but
think of it this evening, and we shall have time in the morning to get
ready what little remains to be done. Now throw all care from your mind
and let us sit down cheerfully to our supper; depend upon it we shall be
sitting here together this day four months laughing and talking over our
present anxieties.”
Laugh, indeed, thought I; there never can come a time when I shall laugh
at what I am now feeling so keenly. But I cast all selfishness aside,
and determined to go alone as the lesser evil of the two, going over and
over again the whole argument, and more fully convinced that although it
was most painful to leave her, yet it would be cruel and presumptuous to
make her encounter the risks of a sea voyage. I had but little sleep
this last night; but my dear wife, after vainly endeavouring to prevail
on me to court repose, fell asleep like an infant and slept soundly till
morning. She suffered as acutely as I did, but her nervous temperament
was of a less irritable cast; her sensibilities were more equally
balanced. A knowledge of this always gave me comfort.
The dreaded morning came; all was hurry and bustle, and of course but
little time for conversation. The trunks still stood in the room; mine
had gone the day before, and I cast a look at them, and then on my wife,
who, pale as death, was looking at the carriage that was to convey me to
the boat. She saw my look and said, “I may go then, dear husband, you
consent then that we shall go?” But I shut my eyes, as if to shut out
the temptation, and shook my head. “Put the trunks out of the room, Mr.
Porter,” said I, “for I shall be tormented with the desire to take her
with me, and that I ought not to do; I must not waver any more, or I
shall be unable to go at all.” The trunks were removed, and my dear wife
seated herself and sighed. “But why do not you and Martha accompany me
to the wharf?” said I—“perhaps we shall feel the parting less. There
will be no time for any thing there but getting on board. Do you think,
Martha, that she can bear it?”
“Oh yes, I dare say she can,” said Martha, “and I am sure it will do her
good, and we can keep the carriage for an hour or so and take a little
ride, for she has sat too much at her needle lately. Brother, do you get
another carriage for us, and let them go together; Mr. Parr will feel
the better for having her all to himself. We can return with her, you
know.”
I was thankful for being a few minutes longer with my beloved, and I
hoped that we might remain at the wharf an hour at least, as it was now
only nine o’clock. We thought it best to go, however, as the wind was
fair, and the captain might be anxious to sail; so we entered the
carriage, leaving Martha to come with her brother. We drove slowly to
the wharf, and there the first person we saw was Mr. Blagge, who had
kindly come to see me off. My dear wife drew back in the carriage and
begged that he might not see her, so I went to him and thanked him for
this proof of his friendship, and again entreated him to remember how
essential it was to my peace of mind that he should do all in his power
to lessen my wife’s anxieties—if I could not ask a favour for myself, I
would for this dear one.
Mr. Porter came to us and said that they had better return, as the
horses were restless and Mrs. Parr might get frightened. Mr. Blagge
thought so too, and blamed me for bringing her down to a scene of so
much confusion; so I hastily snatched one kiss, pressed her dear hand as
she held it out to me after the door was closed, and she and Martha
disappeared from my sight.
What Mr. Blagge said to me I don’t know, but I now and then heard the
sounds of new publications, and letters, and manuscripts, but I could
only dwell on the grief that my poor wife was now in; it was too much to
expect I could listen to him on such uninteresting subjects; why did he
not talk of what he knew was the only feeling of my mind?—and to hold me
by the arm too, lest I should get away. The steamboat, however, called
all hands aboard, and passengers with all their friends jumped on board
to go to the ship, which lay in the stream. I made a move to go also,
but the captain, coming up at the instant, told me he would give me ten
minutes longer, as he had to see a man on business, and that I could go
with him in the ship’s boat which lay there ready for him. The steamboat
left the wharf, and Mr. Blagge talked on; I never knew him so loquacious
before, and he kept jerking me around as if the nervousness under which
I was labouring had imparted itself to his arm.
At length the captain returned, and Mr. Blagge, shaking hands with me,
promised to look most carefully—and, he added with strong emphasis—most
affectionately, after all the concerns I left behind. The oars cut the
water, and as soon as we were on board the captain gave orders for
sailing. The steamboat was just departing, and on turning my eye towards
it I saw poor Mr. Porter. I called out to him that I was safely on
board, most thankful that he had seen me, for what would have been the
agony of my dear wife if he had returned and reported that the vessel
had sailed without me. He entered the boat, thought I, with the
intention of seeing me safely to the ship; his consternation must have
been great when I was not to be found amongst the passengers. He waved
his hat, however, on seeing me as I bent over the side of the vessel,
and pressing his hand to his heart he pointed towards the shore—it told
me that he intended to fulfil his promise of guarding well the sacred
trust I had confided to him.
Through the narrows and out in the broad ocean we soon were; but I stood
immovable with my eyes turned to that dear shore where all my hopes were
centred. I could not realize it—what! voluntarily to leave the only
creature on earth to whom I was attached?—she, too, who had chosen me
when poor and unknown. Could I not be content with the independence that
my own honest labour procured, but must I show how much more I valued
money than the pains to us both of such a bitter separation—a separation
that might be for ever! Before the pilot left us I had serious thoughts
of returning with him; but the captain was at my elbow, and assuming a
kind of authority; I was forced to see him depart without me. The wind
blew fresh, and before night there was a heavy gale; yet I cared not, my
feelings were too strong even for that to subdue. I could not go down to
dinner, nor was I disposed to sit with strangers at the supper table;
but the captain showed so much good natured solicitude that I yielded
and took my seat beside him.
I do not recollect now how many of the passengers were at supper, but
they were not all there, for some were already seasick and in their
berths. I only remember that opposite to me sat a young lady who looked
at me very frequently, and who could scarcely keep from laughing,
although the gentleman next her reprimanded her once or twice for her
ill breeding. I could not imagine what had caused her mirth, unless it
were the melancholy expression of my countenance. There was not much
time, however, to speculate on any thing, for the gale increased and
every body on board became anxious and watchful. The captain advised me
to go to bed, but I chose rather to remain on deck, hoping that if there
were any danger I might be of some use. Just as I was leaving the cabin
I heard the laughing lady say to her companion, “I am glad he is going
on deck, for I can hardly stand it.”
I had been so unaccustomed to the society of women, and my dear wife and
the gentle Martha, in all my various moods of gaiety and melancholy, had
always shown so much tenderness and sympathy for me, that the mirth of
this young lady excited something like uneasiness in my mind, and I
could not help referring to it in the midst of the storm that was
raging. Perhaps it was of service to me; but I could not help thinking
how indignant my wife would be had she been witness to it; for, as she
respected me herself, she could not but suppose that I would be entitled
to the same respect from others.
Having never been on the ocean before, the violence of the gale was
truly appalling, though the captain assured me there was no danger; it
continued unabated for two days and nights, and at every meal, there set
the laughing lady. I asked who the young lady was, that seemed so amused
when I went to the table. The captain laughed heartily and then begged
my pardon. “Indeed, Mr. Parr,” said he, “you must cheer up; why man, we
want mirth and not melancholy on shipboard. I cannot find out why you
look so very unhappy, for Mr. Blagge tells me that you have a lovely
wife, and are in expectation of getting a large fortune. Why you did not
bring your lady along with you is more than I can tell; this gale is
nothing, the ship is a fast sailer and the voyage will be a short and a
pleasant one, no doubt, so you might have enjoyed her society in
comfort, if it is the leaving her behind that makes you look so
miserable. I am sure I do not wonder that the young lady is amused; why
I could hardly keep my own countenance at the breakfast table this
morning, you looked so disturbed, and cast such suspicious glances at
the harmless young thing who was looking at you.”
But this did not mend the matter, for I was not to become gay merely
because others were amused by the expression of sadness in my
countenance. That I had willingly parted from my wife was a reality that
could not be forgotten, and I told the captain that to avoid giving the
tittering lady any further food for her mirth, I should take my seat on
the same side of the table with her. He consented that I should, and the
dinner passed off very well, for my opposite neighbour was a decrepit
old woman whose head was bent low, and who seemed to suffer too much
from sickness to care who looked sad or merry.
The gale abated, and by sundown it had died away to a pleasant breeze;
the full moon rose beautifully out of the ocean, and my whole soul was
filled with wonder and admiration. If my wife had been at my side, what
a happiness to enjoy it with her; I sighed heavily, and the good natured
captain broke in upon my meditations. “I am more and more sorry Mr.
Parr,” said he, “that you did not bring your wife with you; if I had
only known how hard you were going to take it, I should have brought her
along by main force. You will destroy yourself if you continue thus to
grieve, and yet I cannot blame you much neither, for I had pretty nearly
the same kind of feelings when I left my wife for the first time. It was
different with me, however, I was only mate then, and had not the power
to bring her with me, but I warrant you I did so as soon as I became
captain.”
“Why, is your wife on board now,” said I, frightened out of my senses
lest the laughing lady might be her. “I have not seen her, have I.”
“No, she is quite indisposed,” said he; “in fact she goes this voyage to
see whether it may not cure her eyes; she has to wear goggles all the
time as the light is so painful; if it were not for that she would be a
very pretty woman; one of these evenings I will get her to take them
off, and you must come down and see her. Do you play at chess? You do
hey; well, I am glad of it, for she plays a good game, and it will keep
you both to while away the time, particularly since my wife’s eyes won’t
allow her to sew. She has beautiful hair, too, though I say it,”
continued the warm-hearted captain, and I liked him all the better for
talking so tenderly of his wife. “That old lady that sits opposite to
you now, almost bent double, as you see, is a friend of my wife’s, and
we are taking her on a visit. Poor old thing she is so near-sighted,
that every thing must go close to her eyes, or her eyes be sent close to
the object, otherwise she could not see to cut her food even. Excuse me,
Mr. Parr, is your wife handsome?”
“I think she is,” said I, “to me she appears beautiful, and I wish she
was here to enjoy this delicious evening with me.”
“Why yes, as I said, it would be better to have her here. My wife has a
few freckles on her face—is your wife freckled?”
“Freckled!” said I indignantly, “no, why do you ask that question; she
has a remarkably clear skin.”
“Oh, I meant no offence; what colour are her eyes? my wife has blue
eyes; people say they are handsome, and I think so too.”
Would any one believe me when I say, that to this moment, I could not
tell the colour of her eyes. To me they always beamed with intelligence
and love; and as to whether they were blue or grey, I never thought. But
the persevering captain thinking that it gave me great pleasure in
talking of her, went on in this way to question me about her dear face
until I got as miserable as possible. “Well, well,” said he, moving off,
“you can’t bear more to-night, so I’ll go below and talk to the ladies a
little, and tell my wife the good news that you can play chess.”
Good news, indeed, to sit opposite to his goggle-eyed wife, and play at
chess, when she that taught me was sitting solitary at home. I thought I
should go mad, if I did not try and invent some excuse; for the idea was
intolerable, and yet I pitied the poor woman too.
The next morning the captain’s wife was at table; she had taken her seat
before I went down, so that I could not see her distinctly, although she
was on the opposite side. She wore green spectacles and plenty of curls,
which were certainly of a beautiful colour; but the cap she wore hid the
back hair entirely; so I thought, after all, it was only a little brag
of the captain, for these curls might be artificial. As to the freckles,
there they were, sure enough; ugly little yellow things. She did well, I
thought, to let the curls cover her face as much as possible, for these
freckles were well worth hiding. And then, such great clumsy hands too;
and to make them look still larger by wearing gloves. I was at last
quite ashamed of myself, for I really felt spiteful towards this poor
lady; more particularly as the tittering one opposite to her was now
fairly laughing out; and all the rest, but the captain’s wife and the
poor old lady opposite to me, laughed along with her. I looked at the
captain, and he sat with his handkerchief to his face.
I made a short meal of it; and I determined if this foolery was
continued at dinner, that I would eat in the steerage, any where, rather
than encounter such incivilities; for I, somehow or other, associated it
all with myself; but to my great relief, neither the captain’s wife nor
the young lady were at table, so that I ate my dinner without annoyance.
But there was no getting rid of the captain’s desire to amuse his poor
wife with a game of chess. He set aside every excuse; and at length,
fairly told me that he saw through my artifice; but that he knew better
than I did, how to make the voyage endurable; and that the sooner I
broke through my reserve and shyness the better able I should be to bear
up against the separation with my wife.
There were but three gentlemen passengers, so that, in all, there were,
besides myself and the captain’s wife, only the laughing lady and the
one who sat opposite to me. There were, to be sure, a number in the
steerage; but I had not taken any notice of them, nor, in fact, had I
exchanged a word with the gentlemen in the cabin. I was, therefore, very
much surprised when they all three left the table and went with me on
deck, talking with me as familiarly as if I had been the most
communicative person in the world. They were in high glee, and said a
number of pleasant things, all of which I might have enjoyed at any
other moment; but the chess and the captain’s wife crowded out all
social feelings; and when the captain came for me, and said the chess
board was arranged, and his wife waiting, I went down provoked
enough.—Only to think of being placed in such a dilemma—to sit with the
captain’s wife, dawdling over the chess men, with a mind so far away. My
only hope was, that she would beat me so easily that she would not ask
me to play with her again.
When I got in the cabin, the first person I saw was the old lady, who
was pulling and jerking at her black hood, and laughing heartily.
Surely, thought I, that laugh is familiar to me; but she could not untie
the string of her hood, so I offered to help her. Thereat she laughed
louder and pushed me away. I then turned to the captain’s wife, and she
seemed beside herself too. I never heard of such a cracked set of people
in my life; they all seemed bursting with fun. She threw, first one, and
then the other, ugly glove, across the floor; and then away went the
spectacles, away went the cap, and away went the curls, and I stood
amazed and wondering what was coming next, when a voice that sprung
fresh and warm to my heart, said, “Patrick, my dear Patrick, do you know
me now?” I had no words; not a syllable could my overjoyed heart allow
me to utter, as my dear wife lay in my fond arms.
And there she was, and Martha too. The captain and his wife, who was the
laughing lady, all were in the plot; and I was for a long time in such
agitated bliss that I did not want to hear how it had all happened; but
it was a surprise—a most joyful surprise.
“And so, Patrick, dearest,” said she, “you never knew I had freckles,
just look at them.” “No, no,” said I, kissing the dear cheek that she
held towards me, “nor do I see them now; nor could I tell the colour of
these eyes; all I was ever sensible to is their tender expression. And
here is dear Martha too; how completely were you both disguised. By and
by you must tell me all about it; but now I only want to feel the bliss
of being near to you, and to know that this is all reality.”
In half an hour some one tapped at the door, and in came my late
tormentor, and in came the captain; and now they laughed heartily; and I
smiled in return, for my heart was too full to break out in loud mirth.
It seems it was as much as they could all do to restrain the lively
lady, fearing that the plot would be discovered before the time. My wife
intended to show herself as soon as the pilot left us; but she was so
very seasick that she thought I could better bear the pain of thinking
her away from me than witness suffering which I could not relieve. The
gale came on, and her sickness continued, and she thought it most
prudent to wait till it was over. Her plan was to write me a note, and
prepare me for it, but the captain and his wife, as well as the
gentlemen, begged her to allow of this little artifice, which, as they
had taken such an interest in her affairs, she thought it right to
indulge them in. Finding me so averse to her going, and knowing that I
should so bitterly regret it, she and Martha went in a carriage, one
day, and interested Mr. Blagge in her scheme. The captain and his wife
were delighted; and whilst he detained me by a sham business, on shore,
Mr. Porter saw her and Martha safely on board. She had left the trunks
till the last, hoping that I might relent, and thus prevent any
necessity of a plot; but as I would not consent, Mr. Porter, who had
another carriage in waiting, took them down to the wharf.
What more is to be said? Our voyage was delightful. I had no difficulty,
whatever, in identifying myself; and I returned in possession of a large
estate, which I trust I shall spend with grateful feelings. Dr. Bently
and his amiable niece, Miss Sidney, now Mrs. North, were our
fellow-passengers on returning. They little knew what an interest I had
in the village of Camperdown, when they so earnestly pressed me to
settle in their neighbourhood. My beloved wife was not at all the worse
for the three months’ excursion; and two months after our return, we
were made still happier, if possible, by the birth of a son. My wife,
always mindful of my feelings, has called him Cyrus, after my poor
father; and we are, I trust, bringing him up in the love of his Maker,
and in the fear of breaking his commandments. Aunt Martha, as you know,
lives with us, and Mr. Porter resides altogether in the stone house,
where I was born; we could not do without him. Now that you all know my
dear wife, you can easily imagine that my love for her can never
diminish; and that, to be separated from her, would be the greatest of
evils.
You have asked me to write a memoir of my life; but, after all, what is
it? It is only a description of my heart and its feelings; of my early
sorrows, and of my deep, deep love for one, whom I still continue to
think is far too good—too far above me. Of her unworthy uncle I will not
speak; she was his sister’s only child, and he could neither appreciate
nor love her. All my felicity has arisen from his blindness, and I
therefore forgive him. But if there has been nothing remarkable in this
memoir, if the events are such as we meet with frequently, surely there
is some novelty in the Surprise.