Weeks flitted over the Gregorys, whose course it is needless to trace.
Aunt Debby became fully satisfied that if there was a woman in the world
fit for Dr. Gregory it was the one he had married. Few children ever had
a step-mother like her, very few indeed. Never a loud word nor a cross
look had she seen, never! She guessed, too, there were not many women,
ladies born and bred, that knew when work was done about right better
than she, not many. She didn’t know who should be a judge if she wasn’t,
that had kept Dr. Arthur Gregory’s house for upward of twenty
years--twenty years last August.
What was that gentleman’s private opinion in the matter, these closing
sentences of an epistle given under his hand will tell.
“. . . . A strangely excellent wife is this same Catharine
Gregory. Alone in her society, I love her; with my children, I
am grateful to her; among my friends, I am proud of her. Every
day convinces me more perfectly that I have found in her such a
combination of virtues as I have never seen or hoped to see
since departed
‘The being beauteous
Who unto my youth was given.’
Hoping, for your sake, my dear Ashmun, (though with doubt I
confess,) that this planet bears such another, I am yours,
Gregory.”
And many were the doctor’s patients whose pale faces lighted at the
sight of her, and whose wo-laden hearts beat freer to the music of her
step.
“Ah, Nell!” sighed old, bed-ridden Betty Begoin, “Dr. Gregory is a good
doctor, as nobody may better believe than I, for the Lord knows _you_
would have been in your grave nine years ago, Christmas, if He hadn’t
put it in the doctor’s heart to save ye. The doctor’s a good doctor, I
say, but his wife is better than all his medicines to a poor old thing
like me! Nobody looks so kindly and sunny like, nobody reads the
Scriptures so plain and clear as she.
“The first Mrs. Gregory was a fine lady, I dare say; I have often heard
it. But she never came near us. Well, well! she had a young family to
look to, and was weakly and ailin’ toward the last, poor thing! I have
nothing against her now she’s dead and gone, anyway.
“A’n’t the gruel hot, dear?
“The doctor is a good doctor as anybody need have, but his wife is
better than all his medicines to a poor, sick, old thing like me.”
And many a sufferer was there in whose breast old Betty’s sentiment
would find an echo. For, while her husband labored to upbuild the outer
man, Mrs. Gregory breathed courage into the fainting heart, and braced
it to the effort of recovery. Then, nobody could keep wide awake all
night like her; nobody’s cordials were so grateful, yet so harmless;
nobody knew so exactly just what one wanted.
And in that dark, dark hour, when life’s last promise is broken, and
science can do no more, and loving hearts are quivering under the first
keen anguish of despair, how often did they implore that her voice might
tell the dying one his doom, that in its gentleness the death-warrant
might lose its terror.
How tenderly did she try to undo the ties that bound the trembling
spirit to this world and commit it to the arms of Him, who should bear
it safe above the swelling waters! How trustingly did she point the
guilt-stricken, despairing soul to the “Lamb of God that taketh away the
sins of the world.” And who shall conceive an intenser thrill of joy
than was hers, as she witnessed the sublimity of that weak Child of
Earth triumphant over Death, passing away not as to “pleasant dreams,”
but as to “an exceeding and eternal weight of glory.”
It was only in the inner circle of her life that hearts were cold toward
Mrs. Gregory. Alice, it is true, clung to her with the fond dependence
of a child upon its parent. Eddie was a wayward and ungovernable
creature, perfectly subject to his passionate impulses; in one moment,
foaming in a frenzy of infantine rage, the next, exhausting his childish
resources for expressions of his extravagant love.
It was no light or transient task to teach such a nature self-control.
She unspeakably dreaded to employ that rigid firmness which she saw so
indispensible to gaining a permanent ascendency over him. Watchful eyes
were upon her and lithe tongues were aching to be busy. She well knew
how the thrilling tale would fly of the heartless hardness of the
step-mother toward the little innocent.
He had been the darling of most doating grand-parents, to whom he had
been committed, a mere baby, at his mother’s death. Mrs. Gregory
understood how galling restraint would be to him, hitherto unthwarted in
a single wish, uncurbed in a single passion, and she feared to blast the
affection which she saw beginning to twine itself about her.
“Yet,” thought she, “I must govern, or the child is ruined. He is given
to me to be educated for honor, usefulness, Heaven. And shall I suffer
passion and self-indulgence to fasten their clutches on him and drag him
down to destruction, lest forsooth, my fair name should get some
slander. No, no, I will not be so selfish. I will be faithful to my
duty, to my husband. I will treat him as though he were my own.”
But it required many a hard struggle, many a long trial of unfailing
forbearance and inexorable resolution, to execute her purpose. Still,
she had the satisfaction of seeing that at the end of each the little
rebel was drawn more closely to her. With the unerring instinct of
childhood, he revered her justice and appreciated her patience.
For him she labored in hope. With delight she watched the development of
better dispositions, the formation of healthful habits. It was rare
pleasure to follow the rovings of his untiring curiosity; to open to his
wondering mind the mysteries of the unfolding leaves, the limitless
ocean, and the deep heavens; to watch the strange light that kindled in
his beaming eye as Truth dawned upon him.
In this was the step-mother happy. But there was one member of her
household in whose heart she had no home. Clara still held herself
unapproachable. Neither Mrs. Gregory’s uniform, cordial courtesy toward
herself, nor her undeniable superiority as a woman, could avail to move
her. She _would not_ like a step-mother, and she was possessed of a
strength of will very extraordinary for one of her youth and sex. From
this inflexible purpose to dislike, unavoidably grew a habit of
perpetual misconstruction. In order not to see good where it obviously
is, one must turn good into evil. This Clara unconsciously yet
studiously did. To her sister it was at once painful and amusing to
notice the ingenuity with which she sought out some selfish motive for
the beautiful action, some sinister meaning for the well-spoken words.
It was a continual vexation to her to observe the love with which the
new-comer was regarded by every other member of the family, and the
esteem and admiration in which she was held among the villagers. Yet she
was far too proud to intimate her feelings to those sympathizing friends
who are ever so very ready to listen to one’s inmost secrets and offer
their condolence, then hasten away, wiping their eyes, to gather for one
the sympathies of a whole neighborhood. Nevertheless, her cold reserve
toward her step-mother, and about her, was not unmarked.
One there was, however, to whom Clara poured forth her sorrows with that
perfect freedom which, it is said, exists nowhere except among
schoolgirls. Arabella Acton had been her room-mate at Belford, and had
parted from her with an agony of tears. Indeed, it was Arabella’s
extreme pity that had first impressed upon her the breadth and depth of
her misfortune in becoming a step-daughter. Seldom has the post-office
establishment been blessed with more faithful patrons than were these
two friends. Clara would have blushed to yield her fortress so long as
she had such an ally to whom to acknowledge it. Therefore, she lived
much secluded from the rest of the family in her little boudoir, where
she had assembled all the most sacred relics of her mother, in the
persuasion that she was the only one true to her memory. Indeed, she was
in the act of conveying her portrait thither one day, when her father
met her and forbade it, saying kindly--
“You are too selfish, my daughter; the rest of us love it as well as
you.”
Toward her father she was always respectful. She had the greatest
reverence for him, but there could no more be that familiarity between
them that once had been.
To Mrs. Gregory, this state of feeling was a source of continual but
unavailing regret. She could but see that Clara was fast losing her
native generosity of character, and falling into habits of selfishness
and indolence; but she was perfectly aware that any direct effort of
hers to win her could but repel, and that her only way was to wait,
hoping for a happier day.