When I went home to breakfast this morning, I found the chairs already
gone, except the great arm-chair. Nobody was expected to-day of
sufficient dignity to occupy it. I was unwilling to draw it up to the
table for myself. I believe I should have taken my breakfast standing,
if it had not been that this would have called for explanation. How
little I thought, when the Doctor first took his place among us, that
a time would come when I should not wish to have his seat filled by
any one else! I did not know how much I cared for him, until after he
was gone; I do not think I knew it fully until this morning, when I
came in and saw that solitary, empty chair. Then it came over me with
a pang that he would never lay down the law to me from it
again,--never would lean towards me sideways over its arm, to tell me,
with moderated tone and softened look, little childish stories of his
foster-son.
Karl stayed behind to-day, instead of Tabitha, to warn those who
arrived of the place of meeting. He came in with the Lintons, who were
late,--the fault of their poor old mule, or rather his misfortune. He
fell down, and so broke and otherwise deranged his ingenious harness
that the family were obliged to re-manufacture it on the road.
My mother did a courageous thing this morning. When the Hanthams came,
she addressed them by name, and, calling the daughter up to her, took
her hand and said some kind words to her. I thought they would be
thrown away on her, but they were not. Her look to-day had in it less
of purpose and more of sympathy. The Blantys were not here. I cannot
understand why, in such fine weather. We missed them very much. But
all the rest of those who are most to be desired came. We had a happy
and united little assemblage.
I read Jeremy Taylor's second sermon on the "Return of Prayers." I am
sure that we all heard and felt together, and were left with softened
and more trustful hearts; yet doubtless each took away his own
peculiar lesson or solace, according to his separate need. What has
remained with me is a quickened sense of the Divine munificence, which
so often grants us more and better than we pray for. "We beg for a
removal of a present sadness, and God gives us that which makes us
able to bear twenty sadnesses."
After the services were over, Franket came up and handed me a
letter,--a most unexpected and a most welcome one. If I had not seen
Harry's writing before, I think I should have known his strong, frank
hand. I held the letter up before my mother, and her face brightened
with recognition. Harry writes in fine spirits. The Doctor has been
very successful. And they met Shaler again. "Perhaps he will be one of
us on the nineteenth." That is good news indeed. Altogether this has
been a very happy Sunday.
Davis Barton stayed with us until four o'clock, and then I rode part
of the way home with him. This boy is becoming of importance to me; he
is bringing a new interest into my life. This morning, after I had
read Harry's letter aloud, and after my mother had read it over again
to herself, I gave it to him to read. His eyes sparkled, and he cast
up to me a quick glance of gratitude; for he felt, as I meant he
should, that this was a mode of admitting him to full fellowship. I
saw, as he walked off before us to the house, that he was a little
taller already with the sense of it. Just before we arrived, however,
he was overtaken by a sudden humiliation. Looking round at me, who,
with Fritz, was carrying my mother's couch, the poor child espied Karl
and Tabitha following, both loaded with chairs. He stood for an
instant thoroughly shame-stricken, and then darted by us without
lifting his eyes. He made so many and such rapid journeys, that he
brought back more chairs than anybody, after all. When dinner was
over, I gave Davis some engravings to look at, meaning to spend an
hour in writing to you. I had taken out my portfolio, but had not yet
begun to write, when I found him standing beside me, looking up at me
with a pretty, blushing smile, which asked me to ask him what he
wanted. He wanted me to teach him.--"What do you want to
learn?"--"Whatever I ought to know."--Whatever I am able to teach,
then, I will teach him, and perhaps more; for, in thinking out what he
ought to know, I shall discover what I ought to know myself. It was
soon settled. He is to come over three times a week, very early in the
morning. I shall give him an hour before breakfast, and another in the
course of the day. I shall have an opportunity of testing some of the
theories I have talked over with Harry. Davis has a good mother, and
has been pretty well taught, and, what is more important, very well
trained, up to this time. I am looking forward to a busier and more
useful summer than I have known for a long while.
MONDAY, April 15, 1844.
"When are we going to see the Shaler plantation?" the Doctor asked me
abruptly one morning at breakfast. "We passed it by on our way here,
knowing that we should have more pleasure in going over it with you."
I had been over it only once since Shaler left it, and that once was
with himself on one of his rare visits. Franket's house is near the
great gates. It was a porter's lodge in the old time, and is now a
sort of post-office,--Franket having added to his other avocations the
charge of going once a week to Tenpinville with letters intrusted to
him, and bringing back those he is empowered to receive. When I go
there to ask for letters or to leave them, no old associations are
roused, for I did not use the main entrance formerly. I had a key to a
little gate which opens on a bridle-path through the oak-wood. I
entered the grounds through this gate when I was last there with
Shaler, and I had pleased myself with the thought, that, when I
entered them by it again, it would be again with him, on that happy
return to which he is always looking forward.
But it seemed no violation of my compact with myself to unlock this
gate for Harry, to walk with him through these grounds sacred to him
as to me; for I knew that in his thought, as in mine, these untenanted
lands were not so much deserted as dedicated. It was right that these
places should know him. And what pleasure hereafter to talk of him as
having been there,--to point out to Shaler the trees he had
distinguished, the views that had delighted him! But I wished this
visit to be the last we should make together. My delay in proposing it
had, perhaps, made Harry attribute to me a secret reluctance. After
the first eager expression of his desire to see the early home of his
friend and mine, when we talked of Shaler together that pleasant
afternoon on Prospect Hill, he did not mention the subject again. The
Doctor did not second him then; but I knew he felt as much curiosity
as Harry did interest, before his impatience broke bounds as I have
told you.
"Let us go on Thursday, if you will," I answered.