Anna Talbot's sketch of Emma's privations was not over-drawn. If
her condition had been tolerable, an offer from Ida Ross, as she
recollected her,--proud and unsociable,--would not have tempted her to
change it. But Ida was honorable and liberal, despite her haughtiness;
and in her uncle's family, she was an ill-paid under-servant. Ida sent
her carriage and servants for her; and this regard for her comfort,
while it called forth the contumely of her employers, raised her hopes
of a friendly reception.
"There's my mistis in the porch," said Will, leaning down from his
perch, to speak to his fair passenger. They were driving up an avenue,
closed by a house, which, to Emma's modest eyes, was an imposing
architectural pile. A haze dimmed her vision; in her agitation, she
saw nothing of the awful figure Will pointed out, but the flutter of
white drapery. The great yard-gates were open, and the carriage rolled
over the gravelled circle which swept by the main entrance. She did not
recognise the frank, sweet face that appeared at the carriage-door, but
the voice was not to be forgotten. "I am _very_ glad you are come!"
it said, and the kiss and the embrace verified the welcome. "How
changed!" was the thought of each. Emma was thin, and when the glow
of the meeting faded--dejected. She looked, to Ida, like one who had
been subjected to a constant weight, bending body and heart, almost
to breaking,--as if the one feather more would end the torture. And
her own spirit, gaining buoyancy day by day, under its discipline,
gathered force from the necessity of restoring the lost elasticity to
another's. She conducted her school-fellow to a chamber, once hers,
and adjoining that she now occupied; divested her of her heavy hat and
shawl, and commanded her imperatively to "lie down." Emma reposed her
weary limbs upon a luxurious mattress; the breeze waving the spotless
curtains, and whispering of green hills, and cool forests and violet
banks; her hostess, after vainly attempting to persuade her that she
required sleep--bathing her head with fragrant waters, and talking in
inspiriting, affectionate tones, which were more than manna to her
hungry heart. Mrs. Dana had gone the preceding day, and Emma was soon
convinced that she had done a charitable--most meritorious deed, in
arriving when she did; but she smiled, as she heard the lively voice
dilate upon the "horrors" and "azure imps," that had infested the
house while she was sole occupant--"always excepting my chaperon and
_soi-disant_ housekeeper, good Miss Betsey--_soi-disant_ as I am, in
point of fact, housekeeper myself. I have a great fancy to see to
everything with my own eyes. We are retired here--I wrote this, you
know--but there are some agreeable families within visiting distance. I
am delighted at having a helper in the labor of receiving and returning
visits; and my rides and walks will be doubly pleasant. Are you fond of
out-door exercise?"
"Very--but I have neglected the duty for a year or two past."
"You shall not be so remiss here. I intend to be exacting. A gallop
before breakfast, and a walk--not a promenade--before tea, will plant
bright roses in these white cheeks. When you are rested, we will unlock
our budget of news. Having been apart for so long, each will have a
week's steady talk."
When she arose, revived in spirits and strength, she was taken over
the premises "to see her home." Mr. Grant was introduced, and doffed
his hat as to a queen; the negroes were respectfully cordial to the
friend of their mistress; but more than all, Ida's bearing assured the
trampled-down orphan, that she was here second to none--superior in
command and importance to all, except the head of the establishment.
It may have been the earnestness, which was the prevailing element of
Ida's character, or her sympathetic nature, (Charley affirmed it was
the latter,) which made it impossible for those who knew her, to be
indifferent, or lukewarm in their sentiments towards her. Mr. Read,
Josephine and Pemberton, having seen the wrong side of her disposition,
hated her with a rancor, benefits nor patient efforts could appease.
Her chosen intimates found no mate for their affection, but in their
esteem and respect. Lynn's love for her was more like worship than that
he entertained for Ellen--adored as she was; with Carry, she had no
compeer of her sex; the exceeding tenderness of John Dana and his wife
was a mystery to themselves; and in Charley's heart she had the highest
place--taking rank even of the brother, to whom he had sacrificed his
hopes of earthly bliss. Emma experienced, and yielded to the charm;
she could not have resisted successfully, if she would; for Ida was
determined to attach her to herself, and her indomitable resolution
would have accomplished this, had her attractive qualities been less
winningly displayed. From the moment of her arrival, Emma improved,
and as the beautiful tracery of her character came out, to reward the
warm rays love poured over it, Ida was confirmed in her satisfaction
at her choice. She had not entire confidence in her ability to control
the restive spirits, which had run wild, without rule or rein; but
this fear vanished with a careful observation of her government and
its results. If the "wand" was "flower-wreathed," it was no supple or
brittle reed, to bend or snap in the storm. None, who had once rebelled
against her mild authority, were ever inclined to repeat the offence.
If, as had been asserted, Ida sought the Utopia of her fanciful dreams
in her "return to Palestine," as she playfully styled it; if her ideas
of country life were drawn from pastorals and romances, she would
have sunk under the drawbacks and iron realities she encountered.
Her influence over her servants was strong; but among so many,
insubordination reared its head, now and then. The idle and sulky,
deceived by her amenity and care for their welfare, appealed from Mr.
Grant's decisions to her clemency; and with so much plausibility,
that when this mode of undermining his laws was new, she was ready
to sustain them. Consistent, however, to her principle of examining
both sides of a question, she refused to reverse any decree, before
hearing all the circumstances; and invariably, when this was done,
ratified the original judgment. There were old and privileged
supernumeraries who talked of her father's childhood, as a thing of
yesterday; and volunteering the advantage of their experience for the
benefit of the "poor chile,"--tossed their heads high at the idea of
her controlling or enlightening them. Adding to self-righteousness,
the whims and peevishness of age, they caused Ida more annoyance
than the management of the whole estate besides; and hardly less than
the never-ending vexations of the Digganses, and their neighbors of
the same stamp, not to mention Pinely--most wearisome of all. He
penned voluminous epistles, to complain of "a trivial oversight in
her otherwise irreproachable system of philanthropy," or to convey a
"father's acknowledgments for the soul-elevating teachings of which
his beloved offspring were accipients;" and when they were unnoticed,
his visits were frequent. She received him with distant politeness;
and strove to repress his forwardness by chilling dignity--and he came
again next day. At last he presented himself in the parlor, where were
Emma and herself--so intoxicated, that he could not stand upright. His
tongue was oily as ever, notwithstanding his limbs refused to do their
office; and when Will entered, in answer to the vehement ring, he was
holding the door with both hands, swinging it with him in his attempts
to bow to the ladies, he was addressing as, "incomparable pair! whose
supereminent enchantments are confessed by the most hebete of created
intelligences."
Emma had shrunk into a corner, and Ida, her hand still upon the
bell-rope--her brow frowning--spoke in a lofty tone, "Uncle Will! you
will conduct this _gentleman_ to the porch, and as much further as he
shall see convenient to go. It is necessary to teach him to exercise
some discrimination as to the times of his visits."
For Laura, the girls were strongly interested. Her progress in her
studies was incredibly rapid; and their wretched home, if comfortless,
was clean. She had no means of providing wardrobes or furniture;
and Ida, hailing the dawning reformation, contributed as delicately
as she could, such articles as they needed most. Laura's taste was
good; and her aptitude enabled her to catch the ways and language of
her friends, with fidelity and quickness. In six months after Ida's
business call, she would not have been ashamed to introduce her in
any company, however polished. But how was this to end? Would it
not be wiser benevolence to content themselves with bestowing the
rudiments of a common education, without exciting aspirations after
pursuits, so incongruous with the occupations of her lowly station, as
belles lettres, music and drawing? Ida put the objection down with an
irreversible negative.
"The girl has a mind! and every intellect which God makes, should
receive all the nutriment it can absorb. Let us give her her quantum,
and in time she will reach her level. She is below it at present. If
that odious father were out of her way!"
"He will be a drag to her as long as he lives;" said Emma.
"Yes, and alas! he is more fit to live than to die. You have read of
the beggar idiot, who told Sir Walter Scott that he would be perfectly
happy, but for the 'Bubly Jock,' (turkey gobbler,) that followed him
everywhere. Pinely is my 'Bubly Jock,' I listen to hear him gobble
whenever he comes near me."
"Laura has an uncommon talent for music;" said Emma.
"I have remarked it;" replied Ida, "and we have thought of the same
thing, that her surest path to independence, and the position in
society his vice has lost, is to qualify herself for a teacher. I
waited to consult you before recommending it to her."
"And that delay was unnecessary. You can take my consent for granted
in everything your judgment approves. Now, Laura has no motive but her
love for knowledge and us. With a definite aim, she will surmount every
difficulty, for her energy is as remarkable as her ability."
This was one of their twilight talks in the roomy porch.
"I believe," said Ida, laughing; "Miss Betsey fears the Ross pride
is extinct in me. It costs her a twinge to see me teach my sable
class, and she modestly hinted, this morning, that her chamber, or the
dining-room would be a more proper place for their recitations, than
mine. I represented to her that they were not there more than an hour
in the day, and came in groups of three or four--one set retiring as
another entered; and that they felt a pride in being neat and orderly,
because they were in 'Mistis' room,'--but the dear old creature was not
satisfied, although she held her peace."
"And you are the Ida Ross, whose pride kept the whole school at a
distance!" exclaimed Emma. "How you were misunderstood!"
"Understood, my dear! if I appeared disagreeable and selfish. That
was my dark age, Emma. How much has transpired since! how much of
sorrow--how much of joy!"
"You are not unhappy now!" said Emma, in a tone of surprised inquiry.
"No, my love! happy and busy--and thankful for my Father's love and
favors--not the least of which is His gift of a companion."
Carry had asked her a similar question during her first summer at
Poplar grove--with what different emotions she had replied!
"But," she resumed, "the unbending will is not dead yet. Dr. Hall
and lady called on me to-day, and I unfolded our prospectus of a
Sabbath-school. The doctor pursed up his mouth in his quizzical way.
'The Church is four miles from you.'
"'But only three from _you_,' said I.
"'There is preaching there, on an average, two Sabbaths in a month.
Will not that interfere with your instructions?'
"'Not at all, sir. We shall be through by the hour for public worship.'
'"But there will not be time to go to another church, where there is no
service.'
"'Can't help it, sir. We must go home and read a sermon, seasoned by
the consciousness of duty performed.'
"'You have a school-mania;' said he.
"'The grown trees are so stubbornly crooked, that I have no hope but in
the twigs.'
"'A fair hit, doctor!' said Mrs. Hall. 'Submit with a good grace.
He was wishing, the other day, for something to keep 'idle men' and
children off of 'Satan's ground.' He is feigning objections, Ida.'
'"A bad game, doctor,' answered I. 'We _will_ have the school, and what
is more,--you for superintendent.'
"He remonstrated now in earnest, but we out-talked him. He and Mr.
Latham are to circulate the information, and solicit aid and scholars."
"Who says unmarried women can do nothing in the work of the world's
reformation?" said Emma. "How many in your situation, would be
wrapped up in self, with a churlish delight that the claims of their
fellow-creatures upon them were so feeble."
"A woman's heart, in its healthy state, must have something to love;"
returned Ida. "The fountain is perennial, so long as its waters are
drawn off. Stop their outgoings--stagnation--poisonous miasma--dryness
ensue. The more we have to love, the better we feel--the better we
_are_, Emma--for the closer is our approximation to the Being, who is
all love!"
"This time, a year ago, I was disposed to think that in the economy of
His Providence, crosses and trials were all His children's portion in
this life. Sweetly has He rebuked my want of faith!" said Emma.
"_Not_ a year ago," rejoined Ida, "His ways to me were past finding
out. I wished to stay here in peaceful seclusion, and He sent me again
into the world. The 'silver lining' of the cloud, impervious then, is
already visible. Leaving out the experience I have acquired in that
time, I should have commenced my residence here under a guardianship,
which made interest and appearance the gauge of fidelity; should have
missed Mr. Dana's invaluable assistance; have lost an opportunity
to forget past grievances, and return good for evil--more than one,
indeed. I had not heard then, that you were teaching, and should not,
therefore, have thought of you as a co-laborer. Uncle Will would say we
'ought to be happy in the Lord's appointed way.'"
"There is no other path of peace," said Emma. "Yet I am foolishly
ungrateful sometimes, in misinterpreting what He has done, and peering
into the 'shadowy future.'"
"That was, formerly, my besetting sin. Now I have to guard against
'looking mournfully into the past.' What a world of meaning in those
few words! And how like a trumpet-call to the 'world's field of
battle,' sound the inspired exhortations of the same poet--
'Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant;
Let the dead Past bury in dead;
Act--act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!'
I can see the vigorous, upward fling of his arm, as shouting that
last line, he shakes out his banner in the morning breeze! It thrills
through every nerve, as I recite it."
"His is the true Bible philosophy," said Emma, "'living by the
day,'--saying, as we fall asleep at night--
'To-morrow, Lord! is _Thine_,
Lodged in Thy sovereign hand;
And if its sun arise and shine.
It shines by Thy command!'
"Dear Lynn!" sighed Ida. "They sung that hymn at his funeral."
"'Looking mournfully!'" said Emma, in affectionate chiding.
"Yes! yet not repiningly. I was thinking, also, of the sure pleasure
we have in the possession of our Father's love. We know that is pure,
and cannot pass away; while our most sinless earthly attachments are
enjoyed with trembling."
The Sunday-school, a novelty to all--the scoff of not a few, opened
with fifty scholars and five teachers--Dr. and Mrs. Hall, Mr. Latham,
a student of medicine and _protege_ of the former, Ida and Emma.
Classing the children according to their capacity and attainments,
the Doctor apportioned an equal number to each of his assistants, and
planted himself before a form, containing ten of the most unpromising.
"There must be an awkward squad," he said, afterwards, "and who is
more fit to command it?" Reinforcements were on the ground by the
following Sabbath. The number of pupils constantly increased; some who
came to see remained to teach; and others were pressed into service
by the energetic superintendent. Having induced him to put his hand
to the plough, Ida gave over her exertions in that quarter; he drove
as straight and deep a furrow as she could have desired. She was a
teacher in an obscure corner, and nothing in her appearance or that of
her class, distinguished them from the crowd, but when the thread-like
rill widened into a flood, bearing broadly, steadily onward, the wonder
and praise of its early opponents, she felt an honest pride in the
reflection, that the witch-wand of Christian charity which had bent to
the source of the stream was hers. Dr. Hall was mindful of this, and
with the mistaken, but well-meant importunity of gratitude, begged
her to occupy a more conspicuous post. She had contributed largely to
the library, the selection of which was left wholly to her, and he
entreated her to act as librarian. She declined, laughingly, and more
positively, as he insisted; and at length, was driven to say, that "if
it were for the actual good of the school, she would even do violence
to her sense of propriety, and comply; as it was not, she hoped to
be excused from occupying a stand, which was, for a lady, at best,
but an honorable pillory." And the Doctor, finally comprehending what
other men as wise and exemplary, are slow to admit--that to use one's
talents does not imply the abandonment of the retiring modesty of
womanhood--installed Mr. Latham in the vacant chair.
Ida was not too much absorbed in her numerous avocations to think of,
and communicate with her absent friends. Her correspondence with Mrs.
Dana, Carry and Charley was regular; John Dana wrote longer letters to
her than to any one besides his wife; she heard, once in a while, from
Alice Murray, and through her, learned that Mrs. Read was living in
strict retirement at her father's, seeing none but her near relatives
and friends; and that Richard was playing the lover to Lelia Arnold.
"But," said the merry writer--"who angles for him, must bait one of
these patent hooks, which hold, as well as catch." Ida sighed softly,
as she read, and was unceasingly busy for the rest of the day; her
infallible remedy for sombre thoughts. Mrs. Read had written once,
while Ida was at Mr. Dana's--a mere note of remembrances and thanks.
She might have supposed that Josephine had forgotten her existence, but
for an uncomfortable suspicion that the cessation of Anna's friendly
billets was owing to her influence. Ellen Morris wrote often, and
spent a fortnight with her and Emma in August. Ida signalled Carry of
the intended visit, and invited her to join in the re-union. She was
eagerly expected each evening of Ellen's stay, and as often they looked
in vain. The guest had been gone a week, before tidings came from
Poplar grove. It was a double letter. Arthur wrote that the little Ida
was recovering from an alarming illness. The crisis had passed now.
They would have sent for her, but the child's danger was so imminent
for many days, that there was no certainty that she would survive
until a letter reached Sunnybank. "If she had died"--and the strong
physician's hand had trembled as he wrote it--"I should have taken our
Carry to you. It was a heart-breaking trial to her--I trust, not an
unsanctified one."
Carry's was a blotted sheet, penned in agitation or haste, but its
contents were cheering wine to Ida's soul. There was much said of
her unworthiness, and thankless reception of the goodness which had
followed her all the days of her life, and thanksgivings for her
child's restoration, with slight allusions to her harrowing anxiety,
while it was suspended 'twixt life and death. "Pray, dear Ida," said
she, "that I may forever cling to the cross, to which I fled in my
distressful hour!"
"Another!" said Ida, with tearful gladness. "Oh! blessed Redeemer! is
there not room in Thy fold for _all_?"
"Surely," she replied to Carry, "None of us liveth to himself, and
none of us dieth to himself. My darling name-child, (may she be one of
the Saviour's lambs!) has, in her unconscious infancy, led her mother
to Him. My own Carry! this is what I have prayed for from the first
hour in which I prayed at all. If the angels in heaven rejoice over
repenting sinners, shall not we, who have sinned, suffered with them,
rejoice the more at their emancipation from bondage? By what various
avenues of approach do we arrive at the Cross! our Hope! Some fly,
scourged by fears of the wrath to come; some are drawn by the gentle
cords of love--attracted by the majestic sweetness of the Saviour's
smile; others, like you, for comfort in sharp and sudden sorrow; and
others yet, with myself, having quaffed in quick succession, the
beaded nectar that knowledge, worldly applause, earthly loves gave to
our parched lips, come weary, distraught--our blood drying with the
fierce heat of the poison, to lie down beside the still waters. Oh!
my beloved! the delights of sin may entice, and cavillers ridicule,
as false professors cast reproach upon our holy religion; but let us
make it the one object of life--all duties and pleasures subservient
to it; let us love it--work for it; never raising our hands, to sink
again idly, but striking blows which shall tell our zeal for Christ's
kingdom!
"I long to see you and your dear ones. If you cannot come before, you
are pledged to me for a part--say the whole, of October. The entire
family--my guardian and your sister, Charley and the 'wee ones' are to
celebrate my majority then. My nominal majority--virtually, I am as
free as I ever expect to be. Emma is a treasure to me, and she seems
happy. Who could have presaged, in our school days, that we would live
and labor together!"