FROM CHICAGO TO TEXAS
"Our Happiness foundered by one evil Soul."
* * * * *
"God accomplishes that which is beyond expectation."
"Whatever we gain through suffering is good; we have bought it; we
have paid the price."
One voyage across the ocean is very much like another, and the
majority of my readers have doubtless taken several. Some may even
remember the old steamship _Atlantic_, for I think she was making her
regular trips when the war of 1860 began. The great difference between
voyages rests not with the ships, but with the people you meet on
them. We met good and evil fortune on the Atlantic, and Robert
perversely chose the latter. The good fortune came in a Mr. and Mrs.
Curtis of Boston. They had been to Geneva, Switzerland, to place their
sons in some famous school there, and were returning home. It is
fifty-nine years since we traveled together, but I have the clearest
and pleasantest remembrance of them. Mr. Curtis and Robert were much
together, and Mrs. Curtis sat a great deal with me and my children,
helping me to take care of them, and telling me about Boston
housekeeping and social life. I was charmed with her descriptions, and
longed to settle in Boston beside her.
Our evil fortune was represented by a man of about sixty years of age
whose name I will not write. He had a military title and reputation,
had been Governor of his state, was very rich, and had great political
influence. He sat opposite to us at the dining-table, and I noticed
him the first meal that I ate in the saloon. For he watched Robert
with eyes like those the evil angels may look out with, and Robert
appeared quite unconscious of the hatred in their glances. But I said
nothing about my observations, for within the past few days I had
discovered that there was one phase of life, in which my husband was a
stranger to me. I had known him hitherto in a very narrow domestic and
social circle. I saw him now among business men, lawyers, financiers,
and men of the world and fashion. I was astonished. I wondered how I
had dared to contradict and advise, and even snub a man whom every one
appeared to court and admire; for I can truly say, he held the crowd
in his open hand.
For several days his enemy watched him, then I saw them frequently
together and apparently on the most friendly terms. One afternoon when
I was on deck and watching them in eager conversation, Mrs. Curtis sat
down at my side. She looked at them, and then at me, and asked, "Do
you like that acquaintanceship?"
"No," I answered. "He is a bad man."
"The Governor?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you should not say that--you may not be right."
"I am right," I replied. "I think he knows every sin that has a
name."
"I wish," she continued, "that Mr. Barr did not listen so eagerly to
him. We were in hopes of your coming to Boston, but now that he has
caught the Western fever, nothing will cure him but an experience of
the West. Mr. Curtis thinks you are both unfit for Chicago."
"I know we are."
"Poor child!" she exclaimed. "I intended to have taken such good care
of you."
Then tears sprang to my eyes. I leaned my head against her breast, and
if she had been an Englishwoman, she would have kissed me.
It was, alas, quite true that Robert had fallen completely under the
spell of his enemy. His lure had been the wonderful West, which Robert
was now determined to visit, before we definitely settled, "We will go
as far as Buffalo, Milly," he said to me, "see Niagara, and cross into
Canada. We may find just what we like in Canada. If so, we shall still
be under the British flag. If we do not like Canada, then we will go
westward to Chicago."
I pleaded for a trial of Boston, but Robert would not listen to me.
"Every one on the ship says, 'Go west,'" he replied. "Let us see with
our own eyes, and judge for ourselves."
I was grieved and offended at the time, but I can understand now the
influence primarily working against Boston. He longed for rest and
travel and change. All his life he had been kept strictly to his
lessons, and his business. He had never had a holiday, unless his
mother and sister and her children were with him, and this going where
he liked, seeing what he liked, doing what he liked, and resting
whenever he wished to rest, possessed irresistible charms. He could
not deny himself. He could not go to Boston and settle at once to
business of some kind. I do not blame him. He had had no youth. He was
naturally poetic and romantic, but
"Even his childhood knew nothing better,
Than bills of creditor and debtor----"
while the modern spirit of travel and recreation was just beginning to
make both age and youth restless and expectant.
Yet at that time I could not reason thus, and the refusal of the kind
offers made us by Mr. and Mrs. Curtis, appeared to me a wilful
flinging away of good fortune. Also, I apprehended nothing but danger
and sorrow from any step taken on the advice of a man, whom nothing
could make me trust. Alas! an apprehended danger can not always be a
defended one. I believed firmly that heaven chalked the line that
brought us to New York. I saw no white road leading us to Chicago. I
felt that in turning away from Boston we had lost opportunity's golden
tide.
On the fifth of September, A.D. 1853, we landed in New York. The
_Atlantic's_ dock was on the East River, and we went to a large hotel
some where in the lower part of the city. I think just below Trinity
Church. Robert was like a boy out on a holiday. Everything delighted
him. We rode about seeing what there was to see, and among other
things the Crystal Palace; but as we had spent three weeks at the
original in London in 1851, we were disappointed. However, I was
greatly pleased with the dry goods stores and astonished to find
dresses ready made, more so when I discovered I could slip comfortably
into them, and that they looked as if they had been expressly made for
me. It was always such a labor to have a dress made in England, that I
laughed with delight at this sensible convenience, and bought many
more than I needed. I was afraid I might never have such another
opportunity.
As I call to remembrance the events of those few days in New York of
1853, I smile and sigh over our ignorance and our happiness. For
instance when driving about the city one day, I saw exposed for sale
what appeared to me some wonderfully large plums. I asked Robert to
buy some, and he did so but when I tasted them, I was astonished and
disappointed. They did not taste like plums; they did not taste nice
at all. In fact they were tomatoes, and I was about to throw them away
when the Irishman who was driving us asked for them, saying, "They
would be fine with his supper's beefsteak." Then I laughed, for I
remembered _Mr. Pickwick_ and what came of his beefsteak and tomato
sauce. But I had really never before seen a tomato, for in the North
of England they could not ripen, and I think it is only under glass
they ripen in the southern counties. At this day they are plentiful in
all parts of England, but they are imported from the Channel Islands
and the Continent.
Such small blunders were common enough, and gave us much amusement;
for seeing that I could not alter Robert's arrangements, I entered
into all that interested him with that simplicity of heart, which
accepts the inevitable and enjoys it. Besides, I was then only
twenty-two years old, and twenty-two has hopeful eyes, and sees things
on their best side. But in less than a week, we had exhausted the New
York of 1853, and we went to Buffalo. I remember our ride up the banks
of the Hudson very well, but no kind angel whispered me then, that I
should, after thirty-five years had come and gone, make my home
there.
I was delighted with Buffalo, especially with the picturesque beauty
of its frame residences. A house made of wood was a wonder to me, and
their balconies and piazzas, their little towers and pinnacles, and
their green outside blinds, made me long for such a home. But we only
remained two days in Buffalo, and then went to Niagara, which
disappointed me at first, though the roar of its waters remained in my
ears for many days. The change into Canada was remarkable. I know that
in England the crossing of the Tweed, makes you immediately sensible
that you are in Scotland; but this sensation of passing rapidly from
one country to another, was much stronger in stepping from the United
States into Canada, and the Scottish atmosphere was intensified as
soon as you entered a house or spoke to any one.
"Well, Robert," I said, "we did not cross the Atlantic for this kind
of thing. Let us go back to New York."
"This kind of thing, seems very comfortable and respectable," answered
Robert, a little piqued, "but as you do not like it, we will go on to
Chicago. You know, Milly, we have come into an unknown world, and we
must take it as we find it."
It would be tedious to follow our wanderings from place to place for
the next six weeks, but at last I rebelled against any more travel. "I
am tired to death, Robert," I said. And he smiled and told me, that I
never looked better. "And the children are too tired to sleep; Mary is
crying to stop," I added. That was a thing to be looked after. For to
an English and Scotch husband--and for anything I know to the
contrary, to all kinds of husbands, the children are sacred objects,
and of far greater importance than the wife. The children are his;
they are flesh of his flesh, and blood of his blood. They represent
his family, and if they were lost, there is no positive certainty of
there being more. But wives are only relatives by marriage, and wives
are certain and plentiful. At least I never saw a man, however old and
ugly, that did not consider himself eligible for any woman he fancied.
So when Robert heard the children were weary, he blamed himself--and
me, at once.
"We have been very thoughtless," he said. "We ought to have considered
their youth. Of course they could not endure the travel we enjoyed.
What do you think? Shall we stay in Chicago? It appears to me as
likely a place as any I have seen."
"Very well," I answered. "Only, dear Robert, let us have a home, one
of those dear little wooden cottages. Four or five rooms to begin
with, will do."
He laughed at what he called my "primitive ideas" and went to look for
a cottage, while we stayed in the Sherman House. But for two days he
found nothing "fit to live in" and on the third day, said he was going
to the North Side. "They tell me," he added, "it is the aristocratic
part of the city, and I suppose rents will be high."
"Well," I replied, "we have a saying in England, that we should choose
a house beyond our means, dress up to our means, and live below our
means."
About noon he came home satisfied. He had found exactly what he
liked--"a new house, just finished, the only brick house on the North
Side."
"Brick!" I exclaimed.
"Yes. So comfortable. Mr. Wadsworth's big house is just a little
nearer the lake, General Butterfield's directly opposite, and the
Ogdens' not far away. You will like it, Milly."
"Have you decided to rent it, Robert?"
"I have rented it. After lunch, leave the children with Nora, and let
us go to buy the furniture."
In going through this house, I saw that it was large enough for a
family of fourteen, and I proposed that we only furnish at present
the rooms we were going to use. Reluctantly Robert agreed to this
proposal, and reluctantly also, he submitted to my "primitive
ideas" regarding the furnishing. But in two or three days, we had at
last a comfortable home, though the little wood cottage had not
materialized.
Then Robert rented a small office on Lake Street, and advertised
himself as an accountant, and soon appeared to be very busy and very
happy. Every night when we were sitting together, he told me wonderful
stories about the big fortunes made so rapidly in Chicago, and was so
excited over them, I could not help an anxious look at his shining
eyes and flushed face. Generally I discredited these reports, and
answered, "There is no easy way to wealth, Robert. Don't believe in
impossibilities."
"They happen every day in Chicago," he would reply. "I wish that I had
come here ten years ago. I should have been a rich man now."
It was in this exaggerated spirit he met his new life, and there was
no Mr. Curtis near to check his impetuosities. I wonder whether I was
happy at this time. I have no doubt I appeared so, but I must have
been very lonely. It was different with Robert. Every day he made
fresh friends and he began to join societies for this and that
purpose, and seemed to be in constant request. But it was Thanksgiving
Day when I received my first caller, a Miss Dagget, the sister of the
principal grocer in Chicago. She lived so close to me, that we could
stand at our doors and converse without raising our voices.
From her conversation, however, I learned that I had been thoroughly
discussed. Mrs. Nicholson had thought from our taking such a large
house, that I might be going to keep boarders, and Mrs. Ogden had said
she had heard, I was very well educated, and what a charity to the
North Side it would be, if I opened a school and saved the children,
the danger of crossing the dreadful draw-bridge. I said nothing at the
time about Mrs. Ogden's idea, but it took possession of me, and the
result was that I opened a ladies' school on the second of January,
1854. I limited the number of pupils to four boarders, and twelve day
scholars, and made the terms prohibitive to all but the class, whose
patronage I desired. They were indeed the cause of much conversation,
but those paying them were proud of the circumstance, and liked to
make it known by their complaints. It was their privilege, and did me
more good, than harm.
A week before school opened, my number was complete, the spare rooms
were furnished for the four boarders, and I had written to a New York
Agency to send me a resident teacher who could speak French and teach
music. My first pupil was one of the boarders, a Miss Sarah Morgan, a
lovely affectionate girl about fifteen years old. I have not thought
of her for many a year, but as soon as I began this sentence, she
came smiling into my memory, and I see her childish face with its
apple bloom complexion, and her fair brown hair, just as I saw her the
first day she came to me.
After the opening of my school there was no lack of callers and social
invitations, but as it was impossible to accept all, I declined all;
yet in many other ways, I received constant tokens of appreciation and
good will. I began to be really happy. My children, my house, and my
pupils kept every moment busy; and when the session closed early in
June, the school had proved itself a financial success, and there were
few women on the North Side more popular than myself. Of course I
enjoyed it. Work was always a necessity to me and it is my belief,
that when people work hard, they like to do it.
One afternoon during the vacation a brother of one of my pupils
passed, and asked me if I had "read today's paper;" I said, "I have
not;" and he replied, "Then I will leave you mine." After he had gone,
I opened it without interest, but instantly saw Robert's name in large
type. It was above an account of a Know Nothing meeting; he had been
speaking against the society, and the man I feared, in favor of it.
The speeches did not concern me, it was the fact that this man was
in Chicago, and associated with Robert, that filled my whole
consciousness. I looked backward a few weeks, put this and that
together, and was then sure he had been in Chicago a long time.
Robert's silence troubled my very soul. Confused intuitions,
obscure presentiments, took possession of me. My mind reached
backward and forward, and began to foresee and foretell, and I had a
cold shudder at my own thoughts.
Then I went into the house, for my anxiety usually runs into motion.
If I sit still and bear it, I have become stupefied, while motion
calls up whatever comfort or strength I can lay hold of. But during
the last busy half-year, I had lost something of my general spiritual
aptitude, at least the stream of that life ran deeper and darker, and
I could remember nothing that had any message for me. For I had not
then read, or I should not have forgotten John Milton's fine advice
against an unhappy looking forward to doubtful or questionable
misfortunes:
"Be not o'er exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils,
For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
Why need a man forestall his day of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?"
I said nothing to Robert until after supper, then when he was placidly
smoking, I told him what I had read. Was it true, I asked.
"Yes, Milly, it was true," he replied.
"Then that man is here? In Chicago?"
"Yes."
"Has he been here long, Robert?"
"About three months."
"And you never told me?"
"You hate him so bitterly. Why should I annoy you by speaking of
him?"
"But, Robert, if talking about him, was also talking about yourself?"
"I did not say it was."
"Have you anything to do with him? Tell me truly, Robert."
"Yes, I have unavoidably found myself compelled to have a great deal
to do with him."
"How?" I persisted.
"You have read 'how' in one way, Milly. He himself asked me to answer
his speech. He thought that I, being an alien, would make a proper
opponent. I am a fair speaker, and I think I have learned a little
about American politics."
"Robert!" I said, "you have no more knowledge of American politics,
than a Hindoo has of skating."
He did not contradict me; he never did that, but he changed the
conversation, and I had hard work to keep my temper under control.
Perhaps I did not succeed very well; for when he bid me good night he
said, "Milly, we will not be cross about nothing. I do not interfere
with your scholars, and you must give me the same freedom. I have to
transact business with men I do not personally like, and the man you
hate so unnecessarily, has never done me any harm."
"Robert!" I answered, "listen to me this once, and I will say no more.
Remember what Peter Grey told you. He said, 'I have escaped from him,
as a bird from the fowler'--furthermore, that he hated young men, and
found his pleasure in their destruction--that he stalked them as a
Highland Chief stalks stags for his amusement. Such a man must either
be insane, or have a fiendish disposition. Are you going to be his
next victim?"
"My dear Milly," he answered, "you let your imaginations and
superstitions rule you too much. I have often heard you say, that we
only meet the people in this world, we are meant to meet." Then he
kissed me, and I felt that I had done more harm than good. I had
promised not to speak on this subject again, so I had virtually
released him from any similar confidence. In the dark I went over and
over our conversation, and wrung my hands miserably at the mistake I
had made. Yet perhaps it was a fatality. Perhaps I was too imaginative
and superstitious. Well then, there was nothing to be had, and nothing
to be saved by interfering with destiny. I tried to dismiss the
subject, and to take my life day by day and be happy.
In September the school opened with a full roll, and the session was a
remarkably pleasant one. On the following Christmas Day I had a third
daughter whom we called Edith. After this event, all went well until
the extreme heat compelled the closing of the school a few days before
the usual time. Both I and my children felt it severely and Edith was
very ill. She never quite recovered, but slowly withered away like a
plucked flower. In August a terrible fear came into my heart, and on
August the twentieth, while my dear mother was watching every mail for
some word of my promised visit, I was watching my dying daughter.
But much as I suffered, Robert suffered more. He was devotedly
attached to this child, for she showed from her earliest consciousness
a singular love for him. She was never quite happy but in his arms.
She wept whenever he left her. How ever sick or sleepy she was if he
entered the room she entreated him with smiles and little happy cries
to take her in his arms; and when all was nearly over, at the last
moment, she opened her eyes, looked at him, and with a smile passed
away forever.
We were broken-hearted. I know not how I endured the next few days. It
was a new sorrow. I would hear of no comfort. Robert bore his grief
trustfully and manfully, but I would not listen to anything he could
say. I could not pray. I could only think of the little soul
struggling through the nameless woe with the angel of the river, and
of the multitude of little children at the same hour passing with
her,
"... as a stream across the stream,
Or as visions across a dream,
For as clouds of doves to their windows fly,
The clouds of souls unto God flit by."
She was such a tender little soul, if she stumbled in the river who
would care for her? Numberless mothers must have had such fears, and
the sweetest and tenderest of singers, answered them a few years ago:
"Day and night Christ standeth,
Scanning each soul as it landeth;
Over the floods He bendeth,
With a face that hath once been dead.
* * * * *
"And when the children come
To pass through the dreary River,
Christ stretcheth forth His hand,
A gentle pierced hand,
And draws them safe to Land."
To those who know nothing of this loss, my grief may seem unreasonable;
but the fathers and mothers who have turned away from an open grave,
blind with tears, and with heart and flesh failing them, _they_ will
understand.
Yet I had not been left without intelligence of the coming sorrow.
Three nights before her death, at the midnight, as I lay thinking
with the child asleep in my arms, the warning notice came. I knew
then, that some of my family were called, and my thoughts went at once
to my father. I either did not, or would not associate it with my
child, until the symptoms of her dissolution were at hand. If it was
an inimical Presence that predicted such relentless, inexorable doom,
who would carry my little child safe through the river of death, and
up to the celestial city? And as I mused on these things, a sweet
Spanish tradition read years before came into my memory--that an angel
sat outside the gate of heaven with shoes for the barefooted babies,
who came there unshod--and I remembered that Edith had been laid to
rest unshod, and had a passionate fit of weeping.
But comfort was at hand. The thought of the _gate of heaven_ made me
remember that heaven had twelve gates, and that they were _always
open_. So then, when God took from us our beloved, He did not shut
them up in the heavenly city. Its twelve gates stand open, and the
angels ascend and descend; and go in and out on their heavenly
messages. Jacob saw them; weeping mothers and good and suffering souls
have seen them. No doubt, the child would be safely carried home. And
I blessed God for the smile with which she went. Surely
"The Shepherd from His Fold,
Had smiled and drawn her unto Him."
It was this thought which enabled me to dry my eyes, and to set my
hands to the duty they had to perform. For the school was to meet late
in September, and I had not done anything, as yet, towards the welfare
of the next session. Yet I knew that if it was to be successful, I
must set the key-note of enthusiasm and delight in the work, or all
would be done with the left hand only; knew that if I went into the
school room alert, and smiling, and with the air of a teacher
expecting great things, I would have cheerful, busy, ardent girls
around me; while if I showed depression and indifference, my attitude
would have the same effect upon their spirits and ardor, that the
putting down of the soft pedal has on the tones of a piano. For it is
not what a teacher does, it is what _she makes her scholars do_, that
is of lasting value.
Knowing these things well, because taught by experience, I tried to
give myself to my duties with all my heart, and
"So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, '_Thou must_,'
The Soul replies, '_I can_.'"
The school opened well, so well, that the proprietor of the house we
rented, asked me if I would like him to build a larger house with
suitable school room attached. And this question revealed to me my
innermost and as yet unacknowledged feeling--_that we should not
remain much longer in Chicago_. I told myself that the climate was too
cruel, the summer heat and the winter cold were alike dangerous. Croup
lurked in the nursery all the time; I never went to bed without its
remedies at hand; and again the school had unavoidably out-stripped
its limits. At present it was too large; its demands exhausted even my
young, fresh faculties, and physical strength. If I increased it, I
should require more room and more assistance. I told myself these were
my reasons for desiring a change, but down in my soul I knew they were
only the reasons I should assign to the world at large--the deep,
underlying motive beyond all others, and above all others, was
Robert's evident and constant anxiety. He came home every night
mentally exhausted. It was not his grief for Edith's loss; no, he
sought me in that trouble, and we comforted each other. It was no
God-sent trouble of any kind, or he would have done the same thing and
I thought, and feared, but knew nothing certain.
One day about the middle of November, he returned home in such evident
distress, that I could no longer keep silence. "Are you ill, dear
Robert?" I asked.
"No, Milly," he replied. "I am as well as a man can be, who is worried
to death nearly."
He was lying on the sofa, and I went close to him, and with kisses and
sweet words begged to share his worry.
"Is it business?" I asked.
"Yes, and no. I could manage the business end, if it was not for that
man. You know who I mean?"
"Yes, I know. What is the matter now? Tell me, dear."
"I must. You will have to know, for in that quarter it is now kill, or
be killed. He has made life too intolerable--and I struck him today.
He promised me full payment, and he is able to keep his promise."
"Then you must go away. He provoked that blow, _because his revenge is
ready_. You must go at once--tonight--do not wait for the morning."
"I have no money. I cannot go. I will not be driven away by him."
"You do not want that creature to spill your life in the dust of
Chicago! You do not want to commit murder! That part of the subject is
settled. Where then will you go? You must have thought of this
necessity as certain."
"I have. I will say I am going to Kansas City, and go a little way in
that direction--then cross to a line by which I can reach Cairo, and
at Cairo take a boat down the Mississippi to some southern town. There
I will wait for you, and we will go forward to Texas."
"Wait at Memphis," I said.
"Why Memphis?"
"I do not know, Robert. The word came inadvertently to my lips. It is
therefore a word from Intelligence beyond mine. Say Memphis, Robert."
"Very well."
"Go tomorrow night," I urged, "at the latest."
"I will try. I must see Peter Grey in the morning, and leave my
affairs with him."
"Do you trust him?"
"Not much. As for money----"
"I have one thousand dollars saved, Robert. Take half of it. With the
rest I will close up the house and school affairs, and come to you. Be
ready for Texas when I come."
"God be thanked for you, Milly! You have given me a new life!" he said
lovingly. We talked the matter over in every light, found out the best
trains, and I promised to have a small valise packed for him. He was
to come home to get it and the five hundred dollars at six in the
evening.
All day I went about like a woman in a dream. When the clock struck
six, every stroke was on my heart. Then I waited for the turn of the
key in the lock, and the sound of footsteps. All was strangely silent.
I was sick with fear. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven o'clock struck,
but Robert did not come--did not even send any message. I could wait
no longer. Something must be done, but what? Whom must I go to now,
that it was near midnight? My own household was fast asleep. Peter
Grey was not now at his office. I did not know where he lived. There
were no telephones in those days. I watched and watched for a
policeman, but none came to this quiet corner of the North Side; and I
could not leave a house full of girls, and my own children alone. I
slept none all night. I was on the alert for any call that might come.
It was bitterly cold. I went down stairs and brought up coal, and
sitting down by the fire, suddenly found my dress, which was of silk,
burning. I put the fire out, and then saw it was six o'clock. The
servants began to move about; I went to my room. Oh, if the daylight
would come! And I had to go to the breakfast table, and give the
orders for the day's work. I do not know how I did it. I was dressing
to go to Peter Grey's office when he called.
The thing that I feared had come to me. Robert was in the power of his
enemy, and there followed an interval of ten days of supreme agony and
suspense; then Robert was triumphantly justified in the sight of all
men. But I will not, can not, enter into details. The men are both
dead--dying almost at the same moment, though Robert was in Texas, and
the other one in a far northwestern state; but I have no doubt
whatever, that Robert's soul in passing called his soul, for he told
him he would do so. I will go into no details of this tragedy, for
there is no good to be gained by compelling myself to live over again
those terrible ten days and nights. Time cancels, and I have forgiven.
But if anything could make me do this thing, it would be solely and
entirely, that I might glorify the wonderful way, in which the Great
and Holy One wrought out our salvation, and that by means so
insignificant, that even the hatred of hell had overlooked them. "We
were brought low, and He helped us." He raised up also a host of
unknown friends, and the way that had seemed impossible was made clear
and easy. I did things at that time that appear incredible to me now,
and all I did prospered.
In those days I did not think of tears, but it was then I learned to
pray, to take heaven by assault, to press forward and upward, bent on
prevailing. Such prayer is the gift of God, and when He gives it, He
gives all it asks with it. This was one of those chasms of life, for
which we must have wings--the wings of prayer.
The day after our victory was Thanksgiving Day. The scholars had all
gone home, and Robert and I were sitting still and almost speechless
in our parlor with the children playing quietly beside us. We were
both weary, and looked very much like two strong swimmers who had
just--and only just--escaped the treacherous under-current carrying
them to destruction. I was hardly able to open my eyes, and too tired
to lift the hands that hung by my side. Robert was more restless.
Finally he rose and walked about, saying softly, and in a kind of
rapture, "A wonderful Thanksgiving! We won a great victory, Milly--by
God's help!"
"Yes, God won it for us. A great victory, Robert, but after a victory,
the new situation will bring the new struggle. We must be ready for
it. What will you do now?"
"We must remain here for the present."
Just as he said these words, his assumed friend Peter Grey entered. He
had come to congratulate Robert in the first instance, but when he had
spoken of the enthusiastic partizanship of every one, he asked, "How
soon can you get away, Robert, for your life is not worth a cent
here."
"I have made up my mind to stay here, Grey."
"Let me tell you something--in fact, I came here specially to tell
you; better get away tonight. Tomorrow there will be an attempt to
arrest you for debt."
"Debt?"
"Yes, if that does not work, you will go out some day, and never come
back."
"I will go armed."
"A pistol will not help you. Some rough in the crush of the North
River Bridge, will push you into the black Illinois River, and you
will not be seen again till the ice breaks up. Then it will be an
accident. Such accidents happen too frequently to be all accidents,
and there are plenty of men--among our low aliens, who would give you
'the push' for a dollar. If you stay here, you must not leave the
house."
Grey only voiced my own fears, and I seconded his advice as urgently
as I could. Robert was unusually calm and answered, "It may be as you
say, Grey, and I will go tomorrow night."
"West, I suppose?"
"I think of Kansas City."
"That is a good place."
When he went away, I looked steadily at Robert and asked, "Will you
wait until tomorrow?"
"No, love, I will go tonight. There will be no crush on the bridge
tonight. It will be as empty as it is on Sunday."
"Why did you tell him tomorrow?"
"It is a case of life and death. I will trust no one."
"Oh!"
"He is a black Highland Celt. He would sell his brother for a bawbee.
I believe he is a spy for my enemies. Take care of him--talk as you do
_not_ mean before him."
Then we went upstairs together, and I repacked his valise, and showed
him the one thousand dollars I had saved. "I call it my emergency
fund," I said, and I counted out five hundred dollars. He quietly
pushed four hundred dollars back to me. "One hundred is sufficient for
me," he said. "It will take me to Memphis, and there I shall find work
and friends."
It was then five o'clock, and I had tea brought to the parlor
fireside, and saw that Robert had a good meal. There was no necessity
for hurrying it, and without tears, and with sad little efforts to be
hopeful and cheerful, we ate what might be our last meal together. As
we finished it, the children came in to say good night and I turned
away until that loving ceremony was over. Then I brought him his hat
and coat, and we were both silent as he put them on. Indeed there was
no room for words. All had been said. And equally it was no time for
tears. We looked at each other and parted. Until his strong, swift
steps were no longer audible on the wooden pavements, I stood at the
open door. When I could neither see nor hear him, I went in, called a
servant, and had the children's cots removed to my room and when the
fire had been rebuilt, and plenty of wood brought, I locked myself in.
That night I went to bed without prayer. I only told God, as I
undressed, that I was too tired and too sorrowful. And God knew, knew
all about it, and gave me the sweetest night's sleep I ever remember.
For while I had sunk even below the tide of dreams, some power removed
all the miserable debris of the late calamity, swept away seemingly
insurmountable obstacles, and made the way before me clear and
straight. When I opened my eyes, the old cheerful morning call of my
girlhood came pealing through my memory, "_Awake, Amelia! There is a
charge for thy shield today!_" And I knew instantly that all my old
fearlessness had come back to me. In that deep tide of unconscious
sleep I had renewed myself. I looked young and cheerful, and felt able
to manage all I had to do.
The first thing was to write to every pupil, thank them for their
sympathy and support, and bid them a final farewell. It was not likely
I should meet any of them again, and I never have; though from time to
time in later years, I have had many refreshing words from dear old
ladies, once my pupils. I wrote to each girl and enclosed a bill for
the sum due me for two months' teaching et cetera. I had small hopes
of these bills being honored in time for me to receive them, but I was
pleasantly surprised to find them, with but one exception, immediately
and generously answered. Five out of the number sent me the price of
the whole session. Three offered pecuniary assistance, if I needed it,
and every remittance was accompanied by affectionate wishes and
remembrances. The one letter of refusal, ran as nearly as I can
remember thus:
MISSISS BARR,
As you have not kept your bargains about your teaching, I shall
not keep my bargains about paying for same.
The things to be taken, and the things to be left, was my next
consideration, and I went out and bought two large trunks for the
household and personal belongings, that were to go with us to Texas.
My great perplexity was to get something small enough for one person
to carry, and yet large enough to hold such clothing for myself and
children as would be necessary while traveling. The miraculous
contrivances for women's comfort in such circumstances, common enough
today, were then unknown; and I found myself left to a choice between
carpet bags, tin band boxes, and small trunks. Considering that I
would in any case be obliged to hire a man to carry either bag, box or
trunk, I chose the latter, buying also a small bag I could hang over
my arm, to carry medicines, comb and brush, and such trifles as it
might be necessary to reach quickly, or to use frequently.
Then I went through the house, room by room, selecting what was worth
while, leaving everything not likely to be of practical value in the
making of a new home. Many a heartache this task gave me; and after
the trunks had been packed, I pushed into odd corners all kinds of
pretty mementoes; one I specially remember--a tortoise shell box,
mounted and trimmed elaborately with silver. It had been given me by
my bridesmaid, and she was now dead. Somehow, I could not let her gift
go into the hands of strangers.
When the packing was finished, I began to look for a letter from
Robert. It came long before I expected it, for he had found when he
reached Cairo, that there was no boat going South for two days, and so
had taken a train for Memphis. We had not thought of this contingency,
but I was glad of it, for I immediately dispatched the two large
trunks to Memphis by train, notifying Robert to look out for their
arrival. In his letter, a very cheerful hopeful letter, he said that
he was delighted with Memphis, and was busy opening a new set of
books for the great cotton house of Calvin Fackler and Company.
I was now happy and busy, but there was much yet to be done; much that
was very difficult and hard for me to face. One thing was the little
chest of silver. It would be out of all place in our new home, and the
money it would bring more useful. I had also some jewelry I should
hardly care to wear on the frontier. It also could be turned into
money. I did not care to ask Peter Grey, or any one I knew to sell
these things for me. So I wrote to the best jeweler and silversmith in
Chicago, told him what I had for sale, and asked him to come and see
the goods. He answered my letter in person, looked at the silver and
made me an offer which I accepted. Then he asked for the jewelry, and
I showed him what I possessed. It was beautiful, but not very
valuable, the best pieces being a set of white cameos, necklace,
bracelets, and brooch. Robert gave them to me the day before our
marriage, and I had to bite my under lip as I laid them beside the
silver. I had not worn them a dozen times, and as jewelry I did not
care for them, yet--well, it was only sentiment, gold would be better.
All my pretty trifles of rings and brooches and bracelets went without
much regret. I reserved nothing but the diamond hoop guarding my
wedding ring, and those Scotch agate bracelets, which I considered
valueless and threw into a corner of my trunk. That was the end of
these things for me. I wonder who wears the white cameos today, and I
hope the silver brightens the family table of some happy and
prosperous home.
This was the hardest duty I had to do; after it, all went easily to
its appointed end. I was afraid I should have to tolerate a public
auction of my furniture, but the house was suddenly rented, and the
new comers were glad to buy all I wished to sell, and to settle at
once in a home unknowingly prepared for them. I was by this time
nearly ready to shake the dust of Chicago from my feet, and I gave
place to the new tenants cheerfully and went to the Richmond House for
a couple of days.
It was on Christmas Day, 1856, that I began my new exodus, a bitterly
cold gray day. The train left at two o'clock, and the streets were
quiet and almost deserted, save for a few pedestrians hurrying to
their homes or friends. My thoughts were full of the child I was
leaving behind me in that desolate, sandy place of graves, outside the
city, where I had suffered and lost so much.
Travel was travail then. There were no Pullman cars, and few
conveniences, and even something to eat was not always to be counted
on for long distances. But I was young and full of life and spirit,
and everybody was eager to help me. The first night I got the porter
to bring me pillows and I laid my children on the sofa at the end of
the car, and then sat down opposite to watch them. I could hardly
keep my eyes open; indeed I think I was dropping asleep, when a
kindly-looking man said, "Let me watch your children. I am used to
waking all night, and sleeping all day. I will take good care of
them."
So I left them in his care, and slept as soundly as the children did.
All the way to Cairo he looked after food, and fresh food, and fresh
milk, and anything needed for our comfort. I do not remember how long
we were in reaching Cairo. I think two days and two nights, but it
might be nearly three days, for it was dusk when we came to the place.
At that time it was not much of a place, and Dickens' description of
it, under the name of _Eden_ in "Martin Chuzzlewit" was not, I dare
say, much, if in any way, an exaggeration. It stood at the junction of
the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers down in the mud of their overflowing
waters.
My friend looked troubled as we approached the place. "You have a hard
bit to get over here," he said. "I will help you as far as possible,
but we must hire a couple of negroes to help us."
There were plenty of negroes loafing about the little station, and he
called a big black man and said, "Uncle, give this lady your arm, and
be sure to keep her on her feet." Another negro was called to carry
the trunk. Then I asked anxiously,
"The children?"
"I will take care of the children," he said; "now follow me."
It was the hardest feat I ever performed. The road was down a steep
hill, ankle deep in liquid mud of the stickiest description. The
steamer lay at the foot of this hill, and the flaming pine knot
lights, the shouts of the negro stevedores, and the swearing,
quarreling teamsters, the screams of men and women fast in the mud,
and the escaping steam and ominous ringing of a bell, were but items
in the hellish confusion. Almost fainting, and wanting one shoe, I
reached the boat at last, and sat down with a feeling of slipping
away. But the children were all right, and the trunk was there, too,
and the man who had helped me so bravely and kindly smiled, and said,
"Now you will be comfortable, and I must go, or I shall miss my
train."
I have always had a fear that I thanked him very badly, but so good a
man would forgive me for being frightened and unable to find the best
words. I never asked his name, and I do not remember that he asked
mine, but if we meet in any other life, I shall know him by the
kindness in his eyes, and the gentleness of his voice and manner.
In a few minutes the purser gave me a nice roomy cabin, and a kind
helpful old negro woman took me and the children to its comfortable
seclusion. She knew just what I needed, and just what to do for me;
and after I had put on clean clothing, she brought us a delicious
dinner in our cabin. It was one of the dinners I remember in my life.
I think I never tasted food so delicately and tastefully cooked, and
the children thought so with me. We ate and laughed and talked about
the journey, until we were satisfied and sleepy; then I just whispered
the last verse of the fourth Psalm, and lay down and slept until
bright sunshine was flooding every corner of our little chamber.
I was thoroughly refreshed and arose with all the vivid senses of a
new life. The children also rose full of excitement and expectation,
and after I had dressed them prettily, we went to the saloon and had a
wonderful breakfast, and then to the deck of the steamer. One of the
dreams of my childhood had come true. I was afloat on the Mississippi,
"The Father of Waters," as I was politely informed at least
half-a-dozen times within the first hour of my voyage. But what a
misnomer! Rolling on amid virgin forests, and young cities just
emerging from primeval mud, I silently wondered what such venerable
streams as the Euphrates and Scamander would say to this assumption of
paternity. Of the Mississippi River itself, I brought away no idea
except a dream of interminable woods, clothed in solemn gray moss,
scrambling cities perched on red or yellow bluffs, and miles of flat
dreary land baking in the blazing sunshine. I was, however, repeatedly
assured that the land was amazingly fertile, and my faith being
naturally strong, I believed it in spite of appearances.
But if nature was monotonous and uninteresting, I was surrounded by
humanity offering abundance of material for delightful speculation. I
never before saw such handsome, courtly men, such lovely, languorous,
beautifully dressed women. I never before saw women treated as if they
were angels and children as if they were cherubims, and what could I
think of men who appeared to serve every woman upon their knees. It
was not only the young and beautiful who were thus adored. There were
several aged women present, and they received the same attentions,
affectionately mingled with a respect that was almost veneration. It
bewildered me. I longed for all the Scotchmen and Englishmen I ever
knew to be on the Mississippi with me. I took great pains when I wrote
my next letter home to enlarge on this peculiarity of Southern
gentlemen, and to give it all the praise it merited. The journey
lasted more than a week I think, but in its pleasant monotony I have
forgotten the exact number of days.
We reached Memphis during the night and cast anchor in the river,
landing early in the morning. Robert was watching and waiting for us,
and looking younger and better than I had seen him for a long time; as
it was a charming morning, we walked with him to our new home, a
little cottage pretty and comfortable, which he had rented furnished
from a couple who were going to New York for four months. Memphis
seemed familiar to me. Surely I must have dreamed of that brick city,
and of those large white houses set in such roomy gardens, even then
beautiful with snowdrops and many colored crocus flowers. But the
thing that perplexed my memory was the great number of peacocks. They
seemed everywhere present--perching in every big tree, trailing their
resplendent feathers over the lawns, and spreading them out by the big
gates open to the highway, as if to arouse the envy and admiration of
the featherless creatures passing. Where had I seen this kind of
exhibition before? Never in England, never in Scotland, never in
Chicago. Well, then, I must have dreamed it.
We did not intend to remain in Memphis, and I was quite pleased with
the furnished cottage for a resting place. For I needed rest of body,
mind, and feeling, and it was a luxury to lie in the sweet warm air,
and be conscious of a daily renewing of flesh and spirit. I was happy
to see Robert so happy and free of care, so satisfied with the work he
was doing, so at one with Calvin Fackler, his employer. And as the
spring came, Memphis grew more and more lovely; it was a city of
flowers and blossoming shrubs, swaying willow trees, and gorgeous
peacocks. The inhabitants darkly handsome, gentle in manner, and never
in a hurry, seemed born for such a soft luxurious home.
Only one dark spot was in this charming city, and Robert strictly
charged me not to approach it. Of course I promised to obey him, and
of course as soon as I had done so, I began to look for some excuse to
enable me to break my promise. Every time I passed that forbidden
street the desire to go through it became stronger, and finally I
began to find pretexts for passing it, when I had no occasion to do
so. One day as I sauntered by the forbidden place, I saw two women go
down it; instantly I resolved to follow them, for they appeared to be
of the highest respectability.
I had not gone far, before I understood why the restriction had been
laid on me. The forbidden street led directly into a kind of dull,
open place, surrounded by small dark houses. There was a slight
elevation about the center made of wood, and on this sort of table a
negro woman was standing. I knew instinctively that I was in the slave
market. There was no need to go further. I stood still and looked
around. On the doorstep of most of the cabins, women were sitting
silent and apathetic. They were not talking or singing or even
sewing. Their hands lay idle or were clasped together. They paid no
attention to me, asked no favor, and appeared to be in most cases
stolidly indifferent. They were women who had lost all hope, and I
said fearfully to myself, "Just so, women will sit in hell when they
have lost their souls." And I was ashamed and repentant for the
curiosity that had led me into such a piteous place.
I resolved to confess my fault to Robert that night, but I did not do
so; something made the confession undesirable at the time, and the
longer I put it off, the less inclined I felt to be sorry about it;
the result being that I never found a convenient season for an
acknowledgment of my fault. A confession to God is so easy--you have
nothing to explain. He understands all. He accepts your contrition,
and forgives you freely. But, if we confess to man, we must be
questioned and make explanations, and very likely be led to
prevaricate, to make things better or worse, as suits the case, and so
the confession becomes as bad or worse than the fault.
In March, the dearest wish of my heart was granted me. We brought from
that desolate place of graves in Chicago, to the garden-like cemetery
in Memphis, the small coffin holding the remains of our dead child,
and laid them under a shadowy elm tree. Blue-birds were singing on its
branches as we planted the roses above her, and the sunshine fell with
a softened glory over this flowery city of the dead. After this event
the days came and went in an easy, happy way that has left few
memories; but in May, and the first days of June the heat became
unbearable, a damp, sunless heat prostrating beyond expression. I
noticed that dwelling-houses were closed rapidly, and heard every day
of some acquaintance going to the mountains, but the real cause of
this movement was not named to me until early in June. Then one
morning Robert came home an hour after leaving it, and his face was
white and grave, and he spoke too seriously to be doubted, or argued
with.
"Milly, we must leave here at sunset. Cholera has broken out in the
little town north of us, and is said to be already epidemic; here, in
Memphis, there are at least a dozen known cases of yellow fever. Last
summer there was a dreadful epidemic of it, and this summer its
recurrence seems certain."
"In Memphis, Robert?" I asked.
"Yes, here in Memphis. Mr. Fackler says we are not safe twenty-four
hours, and he told me to come home and prepare to leave by tonight's
boat. He has had the fever, and is, he thinks, immune, but he takes
his family to the mountains tomorrow. Is there much to pack, Milly?"
"Very little," I answered. "One trunk has never been opened, and from
the other I have only taken a little clothing."
Indeed, before one o'clock all we possessed, except what would go with
us, was on its way to the pier, where the goods for the _Natchez_ were
lying. Then I told Cinda, the negress who had served us ever since our
arrival, the state of the case, and gave her permission, after cooking
our dinner, to pack all the groceries left, for her own use, taking
her promise to go home the next morning. So, after our meal, there was
nothing to do but to put the house in order, turn the key in the door,
and give it to my neighbor. Before five o'clock we were ready to leave
Memphis forever, and I could not help turning my face towards the spot
where we had laid the dust of our dear Edith. In this silent farewell
I was inadvertently joined by Robert. Our eyes met, but for a few
moments we were silent. Then Robert said, "_She_ is not there!" and I
bent my head, and turned to the living. Cinda was carrying Lilly, and
Mary walked with us, holding her father's hand. In twenty minutes we
were on board the _Natchez_. I did not like her. She was not a nice
boat, and there was an atmosphere that I resented, though I knew not
_why_ I should do so. She seemed to have very few passengers, and I
only saw three women among them. There was a lack of the usual stir in
her leaving. I missed the negro songs and shouts and laughter. All was
too still. I missed the crowds usually on the bluff or pier, when a
boat was going to sail. Why were they not present? We had a large,
comfortable cabin, but it did not please me. I said to Robert the
sheets and pillow cases were not clean, but he would not let me ask
for different ones. And the heat was terrible.
We had a fairly good meal, just as the sun sunk, and, while eating
it, I heard great confusion, and the noise of many people coming on
board. They were not accompanied by any of the pleasant sounds usual
on such an event--no merry good-byes, no loving messages, no eager
calls for recognition. On the contrary, there was sobbing and crying,
and one long-drawn wail, inexpressibly mournful and savage, from a
number of voices together. I looked at the purser, who sat at the head
of the table; he seemed unconscious of the disturbance; none of the
passengers appeared to be astonished, and Robert kept his eyes on his
plate and would not look at me.
After supper I went on deck. A few men were scattered about; the
captain and officers appeared to be busy and watchful; there was an
air of constraint; and oh, the heat! The damp, foggy, suffocating
heat! There was no comfort outside, and I went in and undressed the
children. As I was doing so, Robert looked into the cabin, and said,
"I am going to the upper deck to smoke."
"Robert," I asked, "what kind of a ship is this? On the lower deck I
saw quite a crowd of people."
"What kind of people?"
"How could I tell? All was dark. I just saw that the crowd consisted
of men and women--mostly women."
"Well, dear, the boat is, I am sorry to say, a slaver; that is, it
carries the negroes collected in the states of Virginia, Tennessee,
and Kentucky down to the New Orleans slave market for sale."
"Why? There is a market in Memphis."
"It pays to send them to New Orleans. Mr. Fackler told me it was a
slaver, but advised us to take it, rather than to wait for the next
boat, which, under the circumstances, might be delayed. We are fleeing
for our lives, Milly, do not forget that, and we cannot be too
particular, lest we lose them."
I said only, "_Oh!_" but Robert understood my dissatisfaction, and
went to the deck unhappy.
I was too cross to care. Never in all my life, before or since, have I
been so long and so willingly ill-tempered. I asked myself for no
reason; I never tried to make an excuse for the mood. I just gave way
to the feeling, and rather enjoyed my wickedness. Mary looked at me
with strange questions in her gray eyes. Lilly crept into my arms, or
clung to my skirts. I petted them when Robert was not present; when he
was, it pleased me to speak sharply, or not answer their questions at
all. Evidently, then, it was Robert who had offended me. Poor fellow!
He tried being cheerful and bringing me little bits of ship gossip. I
perfectly scorned to see there was anything in life worth smiling at.
Then he tried being a little aloof, and only looked at me with hasty
glances, and I was troubled. I could not gaze into his sorrowful eyes,
and not see in them "Love's philtred euphrasy." But one day pitiful
love, nay loving pity, bid the tides of memory cast on my soul a
little spray of tears. It happened thus:
I had dressed the children, gone to the deck with them, and been
compelled to come back to the cabin immediately. The air quivered
with heat; the river, rolling rapidly onward, was like a river of
death; there was no whirr of bird's wings over it, no sound of a
bird's song on its banks, and vegetation there was apparently
withered. The blacks on the lower deck were absolutely silent and
motionless, except for a woman's long drawn wail, always quickly
stopped by a man's passionate command. The captain spoke to no one;
the officers passed constantly to and fro, always bent on some duty;
in fact, even my short observations convinced me, that every man on
the ship was watching the lower deck. I said to Mary, "Let us go to
our room, dear," and she answered, "Please, Mamma, and put on my
nightgown; these things"--pointing to her dress and shoes and
stockings--"they hurt Mary so much."
I was granting the child her request, when Robert looked into the
cabin. "I heard you and the children were on deck," he said. "I was
glad you were taking a little change. Why did you come in?"
"I could not endure the sight of the river."
"It is a grand river, Milly; you should not speak ill of it."
"It is like the river of sorrows--' Acheron sad and black and deep.' I
hate it with my whole soul," and I spoke with passionate force,
throwing down Mary's coral necklace to emphasize my words, and
scattering its scarlet and gold beads on the floor.
The child uttered a cry, and Robert said, "Hush, Mary! Papa will pick
them up for you."
"The Acheron, Milly?" he queried, as he gathered the scattered beads;
"I have heard of it, but I cannot place it. Where is it?"
"In hell," I answered.
I said no more, for Robert dropped the beads he had gathered into
Mary's pinafore, and then went to the door. As he stood with it open
in his hand, he said, "Forgive me, Milly. I have brought you much
sorrow, an Acheron of it! Poor child! I meant to make you happier than
all our dreams. God help us both!"
As he spoke I lifted my eyes to his face, and an instantaneous
penetrating sense of my sin made my soul tremble. For it was a
handsome, loving face, though it looked, after all, as one made for
suffering; half-pleading and half-defiant--the face of a man I could
hurt, but could not move.
"_Robert!_" I said, and I knew that my voice had its old loving
tones.
"Milly!" And he closed the door, opened his arms, and I buried my
contrition in his tender words and kisses. It was he, and not me, who
made excuses for my behavior; then he told me, that we should be in
New Orleans the next day, and would take as long a rest as possible at
the St. Charles Hotel.
At that time I wondered, and was ashamed and sorry for the temper I
had not been able to control, but I was far from understanding its
cause, and perhaps blamed myself a little more than I deserved. For I
am sure now, that my mind was infected by the anger, grief, and misery
with which I was traveling; that my soul had retired from her
surroundings, and so left me to the tyranny of physical emotions. The
mind, as well as the body, is subject to malignant diseases, and, in
some fretful moment, when I had surrendered myself to disaffection,
deposed will, and given all power to feeling, I had caught the mental
malady so rife a few yards away from me.
Mental, or spiritual crowding, is just as injurious as physical
crowding--perhaps more so; and, as people are made ill, or money-mad
in a great city by breathing sickly, cast-off commercial atoms, so I
was made angry, moody, sullen or passionate, by the cast-off thoughts
of the wrathful, miserable crowd of sufferers almost at my elbow. Had
I known then, what I know now, I would have called constantly for the
help of Him who was able to say to such spiritual invasions, "_Retro
me, Sathana_," "Get thee behind me, Satan," and drawn from the simple
exercise of this power, the love that is omnipotent against all evil.
And, if this excuse does not seem rational to my readers, let all who
have never been cross under the suffering caused by excessive heat or
cold, or the strain of things known and unknown, reprove me. The
number of such accusers will be few, and their words mildly
uncertain.
Two days after this explanation we were resting in the cool shadowy
rooms of the St. Charles Hotel, New Orleans. I saw nothing of this
city. Fever was present in many quarters, and Robert was anxiously
looking for some ship ready to leave the port. He found a fine bark
bound for New York, and also a small steamer going to Galveston, early
on our third day in New Orleans.
"Which shall it be, Milly?" he asked.
"Have you any doubt, Robert?" I replied.
"A little. It seems I made a great mistake in not going to Boston. Is
it too late now?"
"Yes, dear. Fortune does not stand twice on a man's threshold. New
York was our point of turning, and we turned to the West, instead of
the North."
"Mr. Curtis would not renew his offer, I suppose?"
"If he did, you would have to tell him all that has taken place."
"That would be foolish."
"It would be honorable."
"Milly, I have seen all my life, that it is very near as bad to be
accused as it is to be guilty. In a few words, a man is accused of
some cruel or dishonorable deed--four or five words will do that
wrong--but the accused, however innocent, cannot go about with the
proofs of his innocence in his pocket, and expect people to take an
interest in them. That unspeakable man knew this; he calculated on its
influence, even if his plot failed."
"Do not let us speak of him. His very name is malign on our lips.
Robert, we have been traveling thousands of miles towards Texas. Shall
we turn back now? Or shall we go on?"
"To go to New York, Milly----"
"Is to turn back."
"Then we had better go forward to Texas."
"It seems the only road open to us."
So Robert took passage for us on _The Lone Star_, bound for Galveston,
and I had a singular failure of heart and hope. I had longed so to go
to Boston, but that prayer had fallen from out my prayers and had come
to nothing. Chicago had been our first station on a wrong road; all it
promised had turned to failure, and it had taken the hand of God to
lift us out of the ruth and ruin we met in places to which we were not
sent. Yellow fever and cholera had driven us down that dreary,
steaming, terrible river. Would Texas indeed give a future to our
mistaken past? Then my eyes fell upon my children playing with such
careless sweet content in the cool, dusky room. They had no fear as to
where their father and I were going to take them. They believed in our
love and wisdom. Would God be less kind to us than we were to them?
Impossible! Then why not give Him the same child-like confidence and
affection? For, if I did not know where we were going, I did know
"We could not drift,
Beyond God's love and care."
That surely was sufficient.