. . . . "No, I'll not weep;
I have full cause for weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep;--O fool, I shall go mad!" SHAKSPEARE.
_Thursday, August 13th._
DEAR MOTHER,--Yesterday was a fearfully exciting day. About noon mother
Lenox came over from the cottage to go back with Emily.
I asked where sister had gone. She looked at me with fright and wonder.
"Emily," she exclaimed, "started for the house early this morning,
purposely, as she said, to see her brother before he went out upon his
calls."
"She has not been here to my knowledge," I replied. We instantly went to
the kitchen to ascertain whether Phebe or Cæsar had seen her. Cæsar was
absent; but neither Ann nor Phebe had seen anything of their young
mistress. We were now really alarmed, and waited with impatience for
Frank's return, while the women searched the house and grounds.
Cæsar was soon heard coming up the hill with the wagon, when his wife
ran to meet him. He stopped the horse to hear what she was in such a
hurry to say, but mother beckoned for him to come to the door. He said
"I'se heb seen missus 'bout seven or it might be nigh upon eight. She be
all dressed out for de walk, and was g'wine down de hill. I'se stopped
de wagon, and axed missus if I'se go back and take de carriage and carry
her where she was g'wine. But missus say no, she only g'wine on a piece
for ole missus. She 'peared in mighty hurry," ended the old man.
Mother went back to the library, sat down in a chair, and covered her
face with her hands. "I will send Cæsar to find his master," said I,
earnestly.
Phebe, however, had anticipated me, for when I heard Cæsar, as I
thought, drive to the barn, he had only turned back and gone to the
office in the village. In a very few moments, we heard Frank's welcome
voice. I sprang to meet him and led him to our distressed mother.
"Emily is gone!" she repeated after me; but oh! I cannot describe the
mournfulness of the tone.
"Dear mother, don't be alarmed," he said, in a cheerful voice, "I will
soon find the runaway and bring her back." I looked earnestly at him to
see if he really were so hopeful, but could detect nothing to make me
think otherwise, except that he was very pale about the mouth. He then
ascertained from Cæsar the direction she had taken, and rode hastily
away.
In about two hours, which had seemed equal to a whole day, I received
the following hasty note by a messenger:--
"DEAR CORA,
"I regret to say that I have so far been unsuccessful in my search.
Let Cæsar procure men and horses from the village, and start off in
every direction. I am on my way to Waverley, where I have slight
encouragement to hope I may find her. A young woman was seen
hastily running in that direction, and was observed to look
frequently behind her, as if apprehending pursuit.
"May God in mercy grant this to be our dear distracted sister. Pray
for us; but this I know you will do. I am stopping for ten minutes
to rest and water my horse. Sweet wife, take care of yourself and
our dear mother.
"YOUR FRANK."
I instantly rang for Cæsar, and gave him his master's orders, directing
him to send in every other direction except that taken by the Doctor,
and make inquiries at every house. Mother was so distressed, I felt that
I must not give way to my feelings. So I walked the room holding Pauline
tightly in my arms, or leading her by my side.
Not a tear did mother shed. She knelt by the sofa, with her face buried
in her hands, for half an hour at a time. At the least noise, she would
start up and look eagerly for a moment, and then relapse into her former
state.
I tried to pray, but could not command my thoughts; I could only lift up
my heart, as I walked the room. "O God! restore unto us our dear, lost
one!"
I cannot describe to you the intense grief of mother, as hour after hour
passed away, and we still heard nothing from the fugitive. By this time,
the whole village was aroused, and messengers were continually coming to
the house to report their want of success, or to make inquiries whether
the poor girl had been found.
From the remark of one of them that they had been "_dragging the pond_,"
I for the first time realized what must be the agony felt by my dear,
distracted mother, who with a low wail put her hand suddenly to her
heart. I sprang to her side, and clasping my arms around her neck, wept
bitterly. That dreadful thought had never before entered my mind. But it
was what had distracted her.
Alas! what torment in that fear! I trembled at every sound. Dear, kind
Miss Proctor, who instantly came to us in our sorrow, begged us to go up
stairs, where we could be more retired. She promised to come to us with
the first intelligence.
Ann came to put Pauline to bed, and brought tea on a waiter; but I
shook my head, I could not swallow. Mother seemed not to see or hear
her.
It must have been nearly nine in the evening, when I heard a faint sound
in the distance. I listened eagerly, and then again I heard a shout.
This time it aroused mother, who looked at me with dreadful apprehension
and horror of the cause.
"Hark!" said I, as the sound was again borne on the breeze, "what do
they say?" and now, as they approached nearer and nearer, we distinctly
heard the words, "_She's found!_ SHE'S FOUND!!"
We stopped but for one convulsive embrace, and then started quickly to
go below; but the sudden relief was too great for mother's overborne
heart; and she fell prostrate upon the floor. Miss Proctor, with Ann's
assistance, raised her, and soon restored her to consciousness, having
motioned me to go below.
The carriage stopped at the door. A boy was sitting on a cricket
driving, while Frank held his unconscious sister in his arms. With
Cæsar's assistance he carried her to her bed, from which I fear the poor
girl will not soon rise. She was very wild all night, during which her
devoted brother never left her. This morning he pronounces her suffering
from the worst form of brain fever. God only knows the result.
Dear mother shared my room with me, and in compliance with Frank's
earnestly expressed wishes, forced herself to remain in bed. But I
hardly think she closed her eyes. This morning he has procured an
excellent nurse, and will himself remain most of the time with her.
He will not allow me to be in the room, and says he has no desire to
multiply such patients. He confessed to me this morning that for many
hours yesterday he feared a more dreadful result; and added, "God only
knows what I suffered in the thought that she had rushed into eternity
unprepared."
I will go now and see if I can prevail upon mother to eat something and
lie down. "For Emily's sake," is the only successful plea.
_Wednesday, August 19th._
This is truly a sad house. Scarcely a sound is to be heard in it from
morning to night. The door bells are muffled, and the outer gates are
barred; no carriage enters the enclosure, and even neighbors and
friends, who come to inquire, tread lightly as they pass round to the
back door. We meet and pass each other in the halls, or sit at table one
at a time, often in the vain attempt to eat; but we dare not trust
ourselves to speak, our hearts are too full. Each of us pour out in
secret the overflowings of a burdened heart. We cannot even meet around
the family altar. God, who reads our thoughts, knows our only hope is in
his rich mercy, and that, from morning till night, our desires go forth
to Him in whose hand life and death are.
For several days our darling, precious sister has lain at the point of
death; and we have no well-grounded hope of her preparation to meet her
God. Oh, dreadful thought! It is this which makes our hearts sink within
us. Surely, "the sting of death is sin." If we could feel that Emily,
_dear Emily_, was prepared to die, I think I could say, "it is well;"
but my heart cries out with Esther, "How can I endure to see the
destruction of my kindred!" O, may God, in infinite compassion, restore
our darling to reason, ere she goes hence to be here no more! She has
lain for two days unconscious of all around her. I dare not ask Frank
whether there is hope. There is none in his pale, mournful face.
_Friday, August 21st._
Dearest mother, rejoice with us! We are permitted to hope. My own dear
Frank, who had not left the sick room for many weary hours, came
noiselessly out of it this morning; advanced toward mother and myself
who sat silently hand in hand, awaiting the long feared, and long
expected summons.
"Can you command your feelings?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. We bowed
our assent. He led us to the bed-side of the pale sufferer, where, with
emotions of joy and gratitude which I cannot describe, we saw her,
ghastly and pale indeed, but in a calm and natural slumber.
With a finger on his lip, Frank pointed to the sweet expression of the
mouth, and the calm serenity of the brow, which had taken the place of
the previous signs of intense suffering. Leaving the sympathizing nurse
with her, we stole softly from the room. I wanted to get into the air.
My heart was swelling within me, and the tears, which I had forced back,
were choking me. Frank accompanied us to the library, where we knelt
together to express our gratitude and praise.
How easy now to feel submissive to the will of God! When we arose,
mother clasped her son's hands in hers, and burst into a flood of tears;
the first she has shed. I know they will relieve her poor bursting
heart. I feel that if Emily is restored to health and reason, I can
never again be unhappy. I love every body. I want to sing--I want to
scream for joy! I must have my sweet Pauline home, and relieve myself by
embracing her. She has been with Miss Proctor every day for a week, only
returning at night.
_Saturday, August 22d._
Emily recognizes us. We have been in one at a time. She looked at us
sweetly, and smiled. "O, Emily!" I even carried Pauline to her room, who
just pointed her little finger at aunty, but did not speak.
The Doctor allows not a word of conversation. Now mother has been in,
she will not leave, though Frank tells her the nurse can do much better.
Her pale, anxious countenance will do his patient no good.
_Monday, August 24th._
Still encouraging prospects! For the first time since Emily's sickness,
Frank passed an undisturbed and quiet night. Strange as it may appear,
my mind has been so occupied with sister's immediate danger, I have
never thought to inquire of her brother where he found her. It now
appears that the young woman, he mentioned in his hurried note to me,
was in reality the insane wanderer. But he lost all trace of her after
dark, and was about to return home in despair of success in that
quarter, when he overheard two women talking earnestly at the door of a
house. His attention was arrested by hearing one of them say, "She is
every inch a lady." The reply was in a lower tone.
"Well, I can't tell as to that," added the first speaker; "Here she is,
away from all her folks, and what is to be done with her?"
Frank says, his heart sprang into his mouth as he rode up to them, and
asked if they had seen or heard anything of a lady who had escaped from
her friends in a sudden fit of insanity.
"She is here! she is here!!" they both exclaimed.
Frank speedily made arrangements for a driver, and for shawls to wrap
around the poor girl, who was alternately shivering with cold or
consumed with heat.
_Tuesday Morning, September 1st._
The nurse left us this morning. She was summoned to a family where she
had been previously engaged, and we could not detain her. Mother, Miss
Proctor, and I take her place. We succeed admirably. Each of us take our
turn in sleeping on a couch beside the bed. Frank wished to take my
place, but I decidedly refused. He is often called out during the night;
and though he says he is used to it, yet I know he needs sleep when he
can get it.
Emily requires but little attention. Only toast-water or arrowroot once
in a while. She sleeps most of the time.
I rode to-day with Frank to see Caroline, who fails very fast. I was
shocked to observe the alteration. She longs to depart, and wished the
Doctor, when he was about to pray, to ask God to give her patience to
wait her appointed time. Her mother appears deeply affected, and when
Frank addressed a few words of consolation to her, she wept aloud. Then,
after a short pause, "I am willing to give up my beloved daughter, if it
is God's will; but it comes so suddenly upon me, I am not prepared for
it."
As we passed Squire Lee's, I begged my husband to stop and let me speak
to Lucy. Mrs. Burns came to the carriage and said if I would alight and
go into the parlor, she would take Lucy's place with her father, and
request her to come down. I imagined the dear girl looked happier than
she did when I saw her last. She said "Though my sad duty at home has
prevented my going to you in your trouble, yet I have constantly thought
of you."
Joseph is still away, and the Squire continues about the same; but Lucy
hopes he will soon be better, as he takes neither wine, nor brandy. It
was melting to me to hear her speak of him with such affection. What a
dutiful heart he has trampled upon!
When I returned to the carriage, I asked Frank what he thought of the
old gentleman's case.
"If he abstains entirely from the use of stimulants," he replied, "he
may live for years. But his mind is very much enfeebled, and probably he
will not be able to transact any business, hardly to leave the house.
Any sudden excitement would terminate his life. This I have tried to
impress upon Lucy and the servants."
"Dear girl," I replied, "she seems perfectly happy in devoting her life
to the comfort of her miserable father."
"Yes," added the Doctor, "and God will reward her."