PASSENGERS FOR NEW YORK
"The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the bee,
But I'll win back--O never,
To my ain countree!
"But I am leal to heaven,
Where soon I hope to be,
And there I'll meet the loved,
From my ain countree!"
Events that are predestined require but little management. They manage
themselves. They slip into place while we sleep, and suddenly we are
aware that the thing we fear to attempt, is already accomplished. It
was somewhat in this way, all our preparations for America were
finished. We did not speak of our intentions to any one, neither did
we try to conceal them, excepting in the case already mentioned. But
somehow they went forward, and that with all the certainty of
appointed things.
A month after Mother left us, Robert brought home one day the tickets
for our passage from Liverpool to New York, in the steamship
_Atlantic_, then the finest boat sailing between the two ports. "You
have now, Milly," he said, "nearly four weeks to prepare for our new
life. We shall sail on the twentieth of August"; and his face was
glad, and his voice full of pleasure.
"And what of your preparations, Robert?" I asked.
"They go well with me. I have today made an arrangement for the
closing up of my business on the twenty-second of August. And that day
Forbes takes possession. He will sell my stock, and pay all I owe,
which, thank God, is not much! Mother and Jessy will be in Arran; we
shall be on the Atlantic. I shall have all I love and all I possess
with me, and I will cast these last miserable two years out of my
memory forever."
"But, Robert," I asked timidly, "have you money enough for such a
change?"
"Quite sufficient. Donald's legacy has turned out much better than I
dared to hope. A syndicate has bought the land for building purposes.
I expected three thousand pounds for it; they have paid me five
thousand, and I have already transmitted it to the Bank of New York.
Next," he continued, "I will sell this furniture, and we will take the
proceeds with us."
"But we must get rid of Kitty first," I answered. "If Kitty saw an
article leave the house, she would write to your mother, and she, with
David and Jessy, would be here by the next boat."
"Listen!" he replied, with a confident smile. "On Monday, the
fifteenth, you will tell Kitty that you and the children are going to
Kendal. Let her help you pack your trunk, give her a sovereign, and
bid her take a month's holiday. She will be glad enough to get away.
On Tuesday morning let her go to the Kendal train with you, bid her
good-bye there, and advise her to take the next train for Greenock,
from which place she can easily get passage to Campbeltown. She will
not hurry out of Greenock, if she has money, and it may be two weeks
before she sees Mother."
"I shall reach Kendal on Tuesday afternoon, and you, Robert, when?"
"I will come for you on Thursday. On Friday we will go to Manchester,
stay all night there, as you wish to see your sister, and early on
Saturday morning take the train for Liverpool. The _Atlantic_ sails
about four in the afternoon; do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand what I am to do. What are your own plans?"
"As soon as you have left on Tuesday morning, I will bring home the
large packing cases already ordered. These I will fill with our
personal belongings, which you must quietly place in your own
wardrobe, and the drawers and presses in the spare room. The boxes are
very large, and you need not deny yourself anything that is
comfortable, or dear to you."
"I know the boxes; I have seen them."
"Impossible! They are not yet made."
"I saw them last night. They were of rough, unpainted wood, and very
large, and, as I looked, a man came in and soldered thin iron bands
around them."
"Upon my soul, Amelia, what do you mean!"
"What I say. They were standing in this room."
"You dreamed this?"
"Yes. Then I saw you, and the children, and we were on a ship sailing
up a wide river, and we passed an island with many drooping willow
trees close by the water side, and southward there were the outlines
of a great city before me, and I knew the city was New York."
"It is no wonder you dream of New York. You think and read and talk of
it so much. But the packing cases, and the man soldering on the thin
iron bands! That puzzles me. I never told you anything about them."
"No, you never told me, but Some One who knew all about them, showed
them to me. After you have packed the boxes on Tuesday, what then?"
"I shall go with them to Liverpool. A steamer leaving here on Tuesday
night is in Liverpool Wednesday morning. A dray will take them to the
_Atlantic's_ pier, and put them with her freight, after which duty
done, I will start at once for Kendal. I may be there on Wednesday
night, but allow something for detentions, and say some time
Thursday."
Robert's plans appeared to be well considered and not difficult to
carry out, and I began that day to go through my girlhood's treasures,
choosing some and leaving others. And, when Kitty was out marketing or
walking with Mary I placed them ready for the big packing cases, that
I knew were coming for them. Was I happy while thus busy? No. I knew
that I was on the road appointed me to travel, but it was a new road,
and a far distant one from the father and mother and sisters I loved
so sincerely. Nor was I a woman who liked change and adventure. My
strongest instincts were for home, and home pleasures, and the tearing
to pieces of the beautiful home given me with so much love was a great
trial. But to have shown this feeling might have saddened and
discouraged Robert. In those days I was learning some of the hardest
lessons wives have to become acquainted with, notably, to affect
pleasure and satisfaction, when they are not pleased and satisfied; to
hold up another's heart, while their own heart faints within them; to
give so lavishly of their vitality, hope, and confidence that they
themselves are left prostrate; and yet, to smilingly say, "It is only
a little headache," and to make no complaint of their individual loves
and losses, lest they should dash the courage or cool the enthusiasm
of the one who, at all costs, must be encouraged and supported.
For I did not forget that all Robert's energies at this time were
required for one end and object, and that the smaller asides of
individual feelings must not be allowed to interfere with that
purpose. So I made no remark about the sale of my furniture. It was my
contribution to our new life, and I resolved to give it cheerfully.
Robert had told me I had four weeks, but, in reality, I had only
three, for I was to leave on Tuesday, the sixteenth of August, for
Kendal, and the fifteenth was to be spent in packing. But the three
weeks felt too long. What I had to do, I did quickly; and then there
was the weary waiting on others. Life became agitated and exigent, and
the atmosphere of the house restless and expectant. Every room was
full of _Presence_, evidently the wraiths of the departed were
interested in what was going on; for,
"All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floor."
During the whole three weeks of preparation I was singularly prescient
both by day and night, but only once did I mention this condition to
Robert. I had lain down on my bed in the afternoon, weary with thought
and feeling, and had fallen fast asleep. Then I heard a commotion in
the house, the moving of furniture, the voices of men calling to each
other, and, above all, I heard one strident voice of command,
accompanied by a kind of stamp upon the floor. Presently my room door
was opened, and a remarkable man entered. He was tall and rather
stout, his face was large and white, his dress clerical, his whole
manner intensely authoritative. He walked round my room, and stood a
moment and looked at me. It was an inquisitive look, quite without
interest or kindness. Then he began to give orders, and I awoke.
To Robert I said that night, "I saw your father this afternoon," and I
described the man who was directing the moving of the furniture;
laying particular stress upon the stamp in his walk. Robert looked at
me with amazement, then told me that the peculiarity in the walk was
caused by his father having a false leg. "He received an injury to his
knee while playing golf," he said, "and his walk with the artificial
limb, was of the character you observed. But I never told you of it."
"No, you never told me, Robert, but there are tiding bringers whom we
do not summon. 'God also speaks to his children in dreams, and by the
oracles that dwell in darkness.' We do not realize it, yet there is no
doubt that our daily life is the care of angels, and the theme of
their conversation. Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth
to minister to those who are the heirs of salvation?"
"Then what of those who are not heirs of salvation?"
"There are no such unfortunates. God is 'not willing that _any_ should
perish, but that _all_ should come to repentance.' Once I heard my
father quote that verse in the pulpit, and after a moment's pause he
cried out, 'a great _all_ that,' and a very old man spoke out loudly,
'Glory be to God! A great _all_. It covers every soul.' Then Father
quoted the words again, and there was a wonderful happiness, and the
dull old chapel seemed to glow, and the faces of the people were
lifted heavenward."
And Robert called me a dear little Methodist, and drew me close to his
side, and kissed me. "No wonder!" he continued, "my father felt no
interest in you--but that was a strange dream, Milly."
"Dreams are large possessions, Robert," I answered; "they are an
expansion of life, an enlightenment, and a discipline. I thank God for
my dream life; my daily life would be far poorer, if it wanted the
second sight of dreams. The dreams I have had during this movement of
ours have kept me serene and satisfied. They have shown me what is
appointed, and things appointed come to pass."
"In three weeks we shall see if your dreams come to pass."
"Yes, but three weeks is a long time."
Indeed I felt it to be almost a cruel lengthening of suspense; for I
did not understand at the time I was learning one of the most
difficult lessons the soul has to master--that of "waiting patiently
for the Lord." It is easy to ask, but to wait patiently for the
answer, is a far more difficult duty. However, when I had carefully
arranged in the places indicated our household treasures of napery,
clothing, silver, and so forth, I wished I could go to Kendal. But I
saw Robert's face change as soon as I mentioned Kendal.
"We made a plan for our movements, Milly," he said, "and I do not wish
a single point altered. It might disarrange all I have been working
for."
Then I declared I was quite content, but I was not always content. In
spite of my undoubted confidence in the wisdom of the change we were
making, I had days of utter weariness. My life, with all its orderly
habits and duties, seemed to be the same; but I knew that its
foundation was destroyed; reading had ceased to interest me; I had no
more sewing to do; my soul often sank back upon itself, and sometimes
even retired from sympathy and affection. All have had such hours, and
know what they mean. As for me, when this dark mental and spiritual
inertia attacked me, and I could not pray, I just told God so, and
waited until some blessed wind of Heaven unlocked the mood, which
bound me like a chain.
One afternoon, about a week before I was to go to Kendal, Robert's
mother called, and the moment she entered the room, a look of
amazement and anger came over her face.
"Amelia!" she cried, "Amelia, what are you doing? Do stop that
foolishness at once. It is fairly sinful, and nothing less."
What I was doing, was spinning some half-crowns on the polished table
for the amusement of Mary, who was sitting in her high chair and
laughing with delight. I looked up at Mother, and explained how I had
given Kitty a sovereign for some marketing, and she had brought the
change in silver pieces, so I was just showing Mary how prettily the
crowns and half-crowns could dance.
"Don't you see that you are teaching the child, before she is two
years old, that money is a _thing to play with_? And, what is more,
suppose she puts one of those shilling bits in her mouth, and it gets
into her throat; nothing could save her. And it would be your fault,
and not God's will, at all."
"Thank you, Mother," I said, as I rapidly gathered up the coins. "It
was very thoughtless of me; I will never do the like again. Will you
have a cup of tea, and will you stay all night?"
"No," she answered, "I just came to see if Robert was at home. It is
not possible to find him in his office lately, and I want a few words
with him."
"I have not seen him since early this morning," I said; and I ordered
her tea, and tried to introduce a more pleasant conversation. But the
incident of the coins mortified me, and I could see Mother anxiously
glancing at them, as they lay on the chimney-piece; so I carried them
to my desk, locked the desk, and put the key in my pocket. As I was
doing this, I was thinking that it might be the last time I should see
her, and was trying to find some homely, sympathetic subject, that
would bring us, at least for this hour, closer together.
But it was not a pleasant visit, and Robert was troubled and silent
for a long time, after I told him about it. Then I was troubled, for I
knew so little of Robert's family affairs, that I was like a woman
walking in the dark any step might be a false one; any moment I might
stumble. But often, I had heard my father say, "When you do not know
what to do, then stand still." So I was still, and appeared to be
puzzling over a new pattern of crochet work.
For I was determined that Robert should take the initiative, and after
a little while he did so. "Milly," he said, "I have been trying to
discover what makes Mother and you always at swords' points. If you do
not quarrel, you come so near it, that you might as well, perhaps
better, do so. You do not quarrel with any one else, why cannot you
two agree?"
"The disagreement is probably behind, and beyond us, Robert," I
answered. "We are not responsible for it. You have heard me speak of
Ann Oddy?"
"Yes."
"Well, then, Ann would say, that your mother's angel and my angel did
not agree. I think Mother's angel is probably a wise, stern spirit,
who has made Mother look well after her own interests, and despise
frivolities; and I am sure my angel is one easily entreated, and
anxious to give me everything I want--when she can--but she cannot
always manage it."
Robert laughed and said, "Then I suppose your angel and mine are good
friends."
"Yes," I answered; "they both approved our marriage, and did all they
could to forward it."
"Suppose they had not approved it?"
"Then your mother's angel would have had her way, and we should have
been separated."
"If you hold such opinions, Milly, you must also believe that angels
still retain human feelings?"
"Why not?" I answered. "They are not perfect. They are still going
forward, even as we are."
"Then they cannot be equal."
"Far from it. Some are in authority, some under authority. Some are
tidings bringers, others are invisible helpers of all kinds. Some
minister to little children, others to men fainting in the van of a
hard life, and many console the dying. I have heard it said that 'we
come into the world alone, and we die alone.' We do neither. No,
indeed!"
"You little preacher! Where do you get such ideas?" asked Robert.
"Ideas do not float about in the air, so then some intelligent being
sends them to me. They are the fruits of some soul. A good message
will always find a messenger."
"Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth,
Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep."
Every one knows that in times of great anxiety, conversation is sure
to turn either on some trivial occurrence, or else on some speculative
subject. It was so with Robert and myself. We did not talk more than
was necessary about our own affairs; as long as they were in
uncertainty and transition, they were at the mercy of contingencies,
which we could neither alter nor hurry. A few words every evening
informed me of any progress made and then I knew it was wise to turn
the conversation upon some irrelevant subject, that would provoke
argument.
But joyful or sorrowful time goes by, and at last it was the fifteenth
of August. I saw the dawn breaking, and I whispered to myself,
"_Awake, Amelia! There is a charge for your shield today!_" and with
this cheerful exhortation I rose. After breakfast, I called Kitty, and
she helped me to pack the trunk that was to go with me, wherever my
destiny led. Kitty thought Kendal was its limit, and she made a remark
about the quantity of the children's clothing, and the small number
and plainness of my own gowns. I made no explanation, but said,
"Now, Kitty, look after your own things. You must be ready to leave
the house with me by ten o'clock tomorrow morning. After my train has
left, you can then take the carriage direct to the Greenock Station
for your own journey."
There was very little more for me to do, and the day threatened to be
sixty hours long. So about noon I resolved to take a walk up Argyle
Street, go through the Arcade to Buchanan, and get my luncheon at
McLaren's. It was to be a kind of farewell walk over the well known
pavements and I thought if I saw a pretty brooch or bracelet made of
Scotch pebbles, I would buy it as a memorial of the happy days, I had
spent in Glasgow. The unhappy ones, I was determined to forget. I went
into a jeweler's on Buchanan Street, and turned over a lot of those
queer ornaments made of various colored agates set in silver. They
were all heavy and ungraceful, but I paid a pound for a pair of
bracelets, and I wonder even today what made me do it. I have no love
for what is called jewelry, it always looks barbaric to me, and this
Scotch jewelry is neither pretty nor rare, nor had I ever before
thought of buying it. We do queer things in those hours of anxious
suspense, that can find no natural outlet or relief.
As I came out of the jeweler's with my purchase in my hand, I met Mrs.
McIntosh face to face. She smiled, and put out her hand, and I could
have cried with pleasure:
"Oh, how glad, how glad I am to see you!" I exclaimed. "Let us go into
McLaren's, and have a hot pie and a cup of tea, and talk about old
times."
So we did, and I told her how I had fretted over their desertion, and
how pleasantly I remembered the dances with both old and young Peter,
and that I never, never, had such happy evenings in any other house in
Glasgow. We laughed, talked, recalled this and that, and ate our pies
and drank our tea to delightful memories, that neither of us had
forgotten. More than thirty-five years after this happy lunch, I was
in Glasgow again, and I had a call from Mrs. McIntosh's grandson, and
an invitation from his family to come down to their seaside home to
spend a few days with them. For an unavoidable reason I could not
accept the invitation, but I was glad to think they had remembered me
so long, because they were still young and fresh in my memory, and
never will be old.
My meeting with Mrs. McIntosh made me very happy, and the day got over
better than I expected, although Robert was half an hour later than
usual. Every wife knows what that unusual half-hour means. It is as
long as half a dozen hours; it is filled with fears and shadows of
fears, about accidents possible and impossible. For it is not the
troubles we are fighting, that weary and depress us; it is the ills we
fear, and that never come, that give us our worst hours--the ills that
have no message for us, that are passing by our dwelling even while we
wait for them. I doubt if there lives a man or a woman who cannot
say,
"Oh, the anxious hours I've spent,
For ills that never came!"
Indeed when Robert did come he was more cheerful than I expected, and
after dinner he told me that he had sold the furniture just as it
stood to the man who made it, adding, "he will not remove it until
Monday, the twenty-second."
I smiled faintly, but could not speak, and there was a little silence.
Then Robert said, "Sing us a song, Milly."
"I can not sing tonight, Robert."
"Try 'The Kail Brose of Old Scotland.'"
"No," I answered, "there is only one song that fits tonight--'Lochaber
No More.'"
"Sing it then."
I shook my head, saying, "It's overwhelming sadness, would be
intolerable. You must be happy, if you dare to sing 'Lochaber No
More.' If you are not, its broken-hearted melody will haunt you for
weeks."
Then we were silent again, until I suddenly looked up, and found
Robert regarding me with eyes so full of love and pity, that I dropped
my crochet and covered my face with my hands. I could not bear it. He
tenderly took my hands in his, and with kisses and affectionate words,
told me that he was not insensible to the generous manner with which I
had surrendered all his gifts to me.
"Let the gifts go," I answered; "I have you."
"My darling!" he said, "let us take a last walk through the rooms, and
bid them farewell. We will fix every item in our memories, and I
promise you an American home far more beautiful than this."
I believed him. Without doubt he would keep his word. So I was
comforted; and we went together into every room, recalling how we had
decided on the creton and papering for one room in the Windermere
woods, and for another, sitting on the grassy slope of Kendal Castle.
There was some incident of our love, or home, connected with every
picture, with every bronze, with every chair and table. We smiled and
wept together. Yes, we both wept, and I am not ashamed of the fact. Of
course it was intensely sentimental, but in that quality lay our
salvation. If we could have gone through those rooms at this farewell
hour, without tears and reminiscent smiles, ours would have been a
hopeless case; for it is the men and women who are steeped in
sentiment and religion, that _do_ things. They are the high-hearted
and hopeful, they can face every emergency, and conquer every
situation. It is the materialist and the atheist, who flinch and fail,
and who never succeed, because they have lost the Great Companion who
alone could give permanence and value to whatever they have done.
The next morning we were up with the dawn, and after a leisurely
breakfast reached the Caledonian Line in good time. Here we dismissed
Kitty, and Robert stayed with me, until the train was ready to start.
"You need not be anxious about your trunk, Milly," he said. "I will
speak to the guard about it, and also about your dinner at Carlisle."
Very soon I saw him talking to that official, as if they were old
friends, and the two men came to the carriage door together. Then
Robert bid me good-bye, and with a bright smile promised to see me in
Kendal Wednesday or Thursday. The next moment the door was locked, and
the comfortable English guard cry, "_All's Right!_" ran along the line
until it reached the engineer, who answered it at once by starting the
train.
The journey was an easy and pleasant one. I was well cared for, the
children were quiet and sleepy, and I found Mother and Alethia waiting
for me. About this my last visit to my home, I shall say little. A
multitude of words could not reach the heart of it, and indeed we were
all less disposed to talk than usual. I was exceedingly anxious. I had
a fear of Robert's mother, and while I was taking a walk the next day
with Father, I told him a good deal about her. I thought he did not
listen with his usual sympathy, and I asked "if he thought we had done
wrong to come away without her knowledge?"
"Was it your doing, Milly?" he asked.
"Partly," I answered. "Yes, Father, it was mainly my doing."
"I don't approve it, Milly," he said. "A mother is a sacred relation.
It is a kind of sacrilege to wound her feelings. You would need good
reasons to excuse it."
"We had good reasons, Father. Ask Robert when he comes tomorrow."
"Yes, I will." Then he gave me some personal advice, not necessary to
write here, but which I hold in everlasting remembrance.
That night when all the house was asleep, and I was sitting with
Mother, I told her Father's opinion about our deceiving Robert's
mother. She was quietly angry.
"Do not mind what he said on that subject, Milly," she said. "Your
father thinks a deal more of mothers than he does of wives. Ever since
we were married, he has gone into mourning about his mother on certain
days, and he wanted the whole house to mourn and fast with him. I
would not hear of such nonsense. We none of us knew the woman. Ann
Oddy flatly refused; she was well aware I would stand by her. As for
you children, I told your father plainly, you would, if you lived,
have plenty of live troubles to fret you without mourning for a dead
one, you knew nothing about. But all the same he never forgets certain
days--you remember?"
"Yes, Mother, I remember very well."
"I hope none of you will keep my birthday, or death day, in any such
sorrowful way. Try to make happiness out of it, and if you can not,
let it be forgotten."
As we sat talking very softly at the open window of the dark room
there was a knock at the door. I hoped it was Robert, and I waited
breathlessly for his voice and step. But it was not Robert.
"It is a man from The King's Arms. He has brought a letter. I think it
is for you, Milly," said Mother.
She was striking a light as she spoke, and I took the letter from her
hand.
"It is from Robert," I said. "He is at the King's Arms. He would not
disturb us so late tonight, but he will be with us after breakfast
tomorrow morning."
"That was thoughtful and kind all round," answered Mother, and she
continued, "we had better try to sleep, Milly. There are three hard
days before you." Then she suddenly turned to me, and said in a little
eager way, "O Milly, I do want to go to Liverpool with you! I do want
to go so much! Do you think Father will spare me?"
"Mother, dear Mother! He must spare you! I will ask him in the
morning."
In the morning Robert came in like sunshine, just as we were finishing
breakfast, and in the pleasant stir of his advent, I asked Father for
Mother's company to Liverpool. "We shall be off before noon,
Saturday," I said, "and she can return to Manchester, stay with Jane
over Sunday, and go to Kendal on Monday. Let her go with us, Father."
Father was easily entreated, and then Mother was as excited as a
little child. She wanted new strings to her best bonnet, fresh laces
for her gray bombazine dress, and there was a button off her best
gloves. So in these and kindred duties for the children, the day
passed. We smiled and made believe we were pleasantly occupied, but
Father knew, and I knew, it was the last day we should ever spend
together. The heart-breaking pathos of those three words--_the last
day_, lay underneath all our pleasant words and smiles. We were really
dying to each other every hour of that last day. In after years when
the fire of life has cooled down, we wonder why we felt so keenly, and
how we endured it!
Fortunately the strain was in a measure lifted early the next morning.
We were to leave at nine o'clock and every one was busy dressing or
breakfasting. When the carriage was at the door, and I had kissed my
sisters, I looked around for Father. "He is in his room," said
Alethia, and as she spoke, I heard him walking about. I went to him,
and when he saw me enter, he knew the parting moment had come. He
stood still and stretched out his arms, and I clung to him whispering
"Father! My Father! I must go!"
Tenderly he stooped and kissed me, saying, "Dear, my dear! My Milly! I
know not where you are going, and Robert could not tell me. But this I
know, wherever your lot may be cast, '_your bread shall be given, and
your water sure_.'"
Then Mother called us, and we went down together. Mother and the
children were in the carriage. Robert was waiting for me. Without a
word Father kissed us both, and the carriage went hurriedly away but I
watched as far as I could, the white lifted head, and eager eyes of
the dear soul I was never to see again in this world. He lived about
nine years after our parting, and died as he wished to die--"on a
Sabbath morning, when the bells are ringing for church." Perhaps he
had some primitive idea of the glory of the Church Celestial, and some
hope that he might serve in it. Only to be a doorkeeper in His House,
would be heaven to his adoring love.
"O Strong Soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? In some far shining sphere,
Conscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the Word
Of the Spirit, in whom thou didst live."
* * * * *
We reached Manchester in the afternoon, and Robert went to see some
old business friends to bid them good-bye, while Mother, I, and the
children were thankful to lie down and sleep a little for we expected
Jane to dinner, and I was anxious to have a pleasant evening with her.
I had not seen her since her marriage, and I wondered what change it
had made.
She was the same quiet, authoritative woman I remembered so well, and
it being a warm evening she was dressed in a lilac muslin, which was
very becoming to her. Her plentiful pale brown hair was neatly
arranged; I am sure there was not one hair out of its proper place. I
was glad she was not changed; above all I relished the rather advisory
manner of "eldest sister" which she still retained. I would have been
disappointed if Jane had not found something to counsel, or censure,
or warn me about. She looked into my face with the kindest blue eyes,
and remarked,
"You are still very pretty, Amelia, and quite young in appearance,
too; almost too girlish for a married woman."
I laughed a little and asked, "Did you expect marriage to make me ugly
and old, Jane?"
"I have known it to do so."
"Not in your case, any more than in mine," I answered. "You are
handsomer than I ever saw you."
"Yes, I dare say that is so. I was worn out when I married. Poor
Father's affliction is most trying on those who have to witness it,
and assist him."
"Alas!" I said, "Mother feels it much. She will not live long, unless
she has some help."
"Father will have no one but Mother near him. Men are selfish always,
and particularly selfish when they are sick. Their wives have to be
Providence to them. I pity you, Amelia."
"What for, Jane?"
"Of course it is to please your husband you are going to America. You
never would have thought of such a piece of folly."
"When I was six years old, I thought of going to India and China and
many other places."
"As a missionary. That makes all the difference. If I understood
Mother, you and Mr. Barr are going to America, in order to make more
money; leaving a Christian land, to live among pagans for a little
money. I do not think that is a justifiable cause, Amelia."
"But Jane, we are not going among pagans. The United States is a
Christian country, and----"
"Oh, I have read the missionary reports! In the big cities, like New
York, I suppose the people are Christianized, but on what they call
the frontier, I am told there are few churches. Will you go to the
frontier?"
"I think so."
"Well, dear, do not lose your _assurance_. Among Indians, negroes,
cowboys, and atheists of all kinds, hold fast your _assurance_. Let
all see that you are a child of God."
"You need not fear for me, Jane. I will be good, or at least try to be
so."
Then Mother and Robert came into the parlor together, and a servant
followed them with dinner. Robert was in high spirits. He had spent
three or four happy hours among old business friends. Jane looked at
him with evident pleasure and he drew her out in her best vein, which
was a kind of humorous criticism; she gave him personally its first
clever shafts. We had a cheerful meal, and I wondered how Mother and I
could laugh, when these were probably--and as time proved--our last
hours together. Ah! I have learned since then, how often women laugh
when care or poverty or cruel pain, fiercer than the Spartan fox, is
gnawing their trembling, suffering hearts.
I do not remember whether Jane's husband or any of her three children
were with her. If they were, I have totally forgotten them, which
under the circumstances is very likely. When it was time for her to
go, I went with her to the dressing-room, and as she was tying her
bonnet, she said approvingly, "I like your husband, Amelia, but I fear
he is just a little 'gay.' Is he not?"
"Yes," I answered, "he is a little gay, but I like it. Jane are you
going to Liverpool to see us off. If so, you could bring Mother back
with you."
"I asked Mother about the time of sailing," she replied. "Mother said
it would be about noon. That renders it impossible. I have so many
duties at home, and I am a late riser. I think it is a great folly to
make a parting that is a grief to both of us, hours longer than it
need be."
"You are right, Jane," I answered. "We will say good-bye here," and I
kissed her fondly; for I loved her. We had a thousand memories in
common, and she was inextricably bound up with my happy early life. I
did not see her again for nearly forty years, and I have sometimes
wished I had not seen her then; for the long slow years had brought
her many sorrows, and had dealt hardly with the beautiful Jane of my
youthful memories. But it was evident to me that she lived among
things unseen, as well as things seen, and that the mystical appetite
for religious service, which she possessed in her youth, had grown
steadily. She valued things at their eternal, not their temporal
worth. I was then in the first flush of my literary success, but I
felt humbled before her. She was still my eldest sister.
After Jane had gone, we talked the midnight away but I was very weary
and fell fast asleep in my chair, Mother's low, soft monotone in my
ears. For the last time, she had charmed me to sleep. I slept that
night until the daylight woke me. Then there was a little hurry, and
we only reached the _Atlantic_ half an hour before she sailed. We
were all cheerful; Mother had set that tone for our last hours
together. "I shall not shed a tear," she said. "Robert has promised me
that you shall come to visit us in two years, and he always keeps his
word." Like a little child she accepted a promise; she never thought
of its being broken. She was delighted with our cabin, and delighted
with the ship, and was talking comfortably to me about the quickness
with which two years would pass, when there was the ringing of a bell
and an officer politely reminded her, that the call was for those
going on shore. She started to her feet with a little cry--a cry like
that of a wounded animal--I shall never forget it, and then sobbed,
"Milly! Milly! Two years, dear!"
I could not speak. I cannot write it. They led her away. In a few
moments we were parted forever in this world.
I stumbled down to my cabin, and found Robert with the children. There
were tears in his eyes, but none in mine. I bowed down heavily as one
that mourneth for his mother, but I did not find tears till I was
alone with God, and had my baby at my breast. For Fate or Force seemed
closing around me, and but one way stood before me--the way this man I
had chosen for my husband, should choose to go. He had already taken
me from my father, my mother, my sisters, and my home; the friends of
my youth, the land of my birth, what, and where next? Then I glanced
at the babe in my arms, and she smiled at me, and with that love and
hope counseled me, for in my soul I knew:
"'Twould all be well, no need to care,
Though how it would, and when, and where,
I could not see, nor yet declare.
In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,
'Tis not in vain, and not for naught,
The good wind blows, the good ship goes,
Though where it takes me, no one knows."
Very soon Robert, who had carried Mary to the deck with him, returned
and I was able to meet him with a smile. "It will be lunch time in ten
minutes, Milly," he said.
"I will not go to lunch today," I answered. "They will bring me
something for Mary and myself, and after lunch we shall try to sleep.
So, Robert, do not disturb us till four o'clock." However, after lunch
I was far from sleep, though the children were good enough to let it
take care of them. Then I sent for the stewardess and asked her to
hire me a woman from among the steerage passengers, who could assist
me in nursing and caring for them. She said, "That can be quickly
done;" then she pointed out a siding for the sofa, which slipped
easily into places prepared for it, and so made a safe cot for Mary to
sleep in.
In two or three hours I had a proper nurse, had put the cabin into
comfortable order, and had made all other necessary arrangements for
as regular a life as was possible on shipboard. Then I was tired, too
tired to dress for dinner, but when the gloaming came I went to the
deck with Robert. The blessed sea breeze, full of the potent magic
savors of ozone and iodine, soon lifted up my weary body, and my soul
and my flesh caught hope and courage, and I talked bravely with Robert
of the new life before us.
An hour later I saw a little company gathering near us, and as they
turned their faces to the vanishing land, a clear vibrant voice full
of pathos started Thomas Haynes Bayly's unforgettable song, "Isle of
Beauty, Fare Thee Well." They sang it with wonderful feeling, and drew
a silent crowd of listeners around them. And as they sang my sorrow
seemed to escape on the sweet, sad melody, to vanish, to flutter away,
and I went back to our cabin, saying softly as I went:
"Land where all my loved ones dwell,
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!"
I found Mary sleeping, but the baby was awake, and I thought it would
then be well to carry out an intention I had cherished for some time.
I sent away the nurse, and asked Robert to unfasten the small trunk
which we had with us. As soon as this was done I said, "I want some
night clothing out, Robert; will you hold _Lilly_ for a few minutes?"
He looked at me inquiringly, and said, "_Lilly!_ Is it to be that? She
was baptized Eliza."
"I know," I answered, "but think a moment, Robert. That name would
soon become a trial. It is too full of unhappy memories. The child
might suffer in more ways than one from being linked with it, and your
mother will never know."
"Perhaps you are right. We might love her too much, or go to the other
extreme. But why Lilly?"
"Because Lilly is the Scotch abbreviation for both Elizabeth and
Eliza. So she will retain her baptismal name."
"Very well," he replied, "that is a good reason for Lilly."
So from that hour to this, my second daughter has been called Lilly.