* * * * *
A scrap from the German of Bürger, which I came across to-day, shall be
copied here.
“Be calm, my child, forget thy woe,
And think of God and Heaven;
Christ thy Redeemer hath to thee
Himself for comfort given.
“O mother, mother, what is Heaven?
O mother, what is Hell?
To be with Wilhelm,--that’s my Heaven;
Without him,--that’s my Hell.”
February 27th.
Miss Meta Tripp, in the ignorance of her little silly heart, has done me
a great mischief.
Phœbe prepared me for it, by observing, when she came up yesterday
to dust my room, that “folks was all sayin’ that Mary Cabot”--(Homer is
not an aristocratic town, and Phœbe doffs and dons my title at her
own sweet will)--“that Mary Cabot was dreadful low sence Royal died, and
hadn’t ought to stay shut up by herself, day in and day out. It was
behaving con-trary to the will of Providence, and very bad for her
health, too.” Moreover, Mrs. Bland, who called this morning with her
three babies,--she never is able to stir out of the house without those
children, poor thing!--lingered awkwardly on the door-steps as she went
away, and hoped that Mary my dear wouldn’t take it unkindly, but she did
wish that I would exert myself more to see my friends and receive
comfort in my affliction. She didn’t want to interfere, or bother me,
or--but--people would talk, and--
My good little minister’s wife broke down all in a blush, at this point
in her “porochial duties” (I more than suspect that her husband had a
hand in the matter), so I took pity on her embarrassment, and said
smiling that I would think about it.
I see just how the leaven has spread. Miss Meta, a little overwhelmed
and a good deal mystified by her call here, pronounces “poor Mary Cabot
_so_ sad; she wouldn’t talk about Royal; and you couldn’t persuade her
to come to the Fair; and she was so _sober!_--why, it was dreadful!”
Therefore, Homer has made up its mind that I shall become resigned in an
arithmetical manner, and comforted according to the Rule of Three.
I wish I could go away! I wish I could go away and creep into the ground
and die! If nobody need ever speak any more words to me! If anybody only
knew _what_ to say!
Little Mrs. Bland has been very kind, and I thank her with all my heart.
But she does not know. She does not understand. Her happy heart is bound
up in her little live children. She never laid anybody away under the
snow without a chance to say good by.
As for the minister, he came, of course, as it was proper that he
should, before the funeral, and once after. He is a very good man, but I
am afraid of him, and I am glad that he has not come again.
Night.
I can only repeat and re-echo what I wrote this noon. If anybody knew
_what_ to say!
Just after supper I heard the door-bell, and, looking out of the window,
I caught a glimpse of Deacon Quirk’s old drab felt hat, on the upper
step. My heart sank, but there was no help for me. I waited for Phœbe
to bring up his name, desperately listening to her heavy steps, and
letting her knock three times before I answered. I confess to having
taken my hair down twice, washed my hands to a most unnecessary extent,
and been a long time brushing my dress; also to forgetting my
handkerchief, and having to go back for it after I was down stairs.
Deacon Quirk looked tired of waiting. I hope he was.
O, what an ill-natured thing to say! What is coming over me? What would
Roy think? What could he?
“Good evening, Mary,” said the Deacon, severely, when I went in.
Probably he did not mean to speak severely, but the truth is, I think he
was a little vexed that I had kept him waiting. I said good evening, and
apologized for my delay, and sat down as far from him as I conveniently
could. There was an awful silence.
“I came in this evening,” said the Deacon, breaking it with a cough, “I
came--hem!--to confer with you--”
I looked up. “I thought somebody had ought to come,” continued the
Deacon, “to confer with you as a Christian brother on your spiritooal
condition.”