_April 13._--Last night proved that I have some steadfastness.
After eating dinner at Captain Welles's I took a walk over the hills,
thinking to find some Mayflowers. I had found a few, and was scratching
away the dry leaves, when I heard a rustling quite near me. Then the
bushes parted and showed me a lovely face,--the lovely, rosy face of
Elinor, growing lovelier and rosier every minute. She had come to find
Mayflowers too.
She wanted some very pink ones, and so we went wandering about, down in
deep hollows, where the moss was damp, and by little sheep-paths, and
through the woods, until at last I perceived the sun was setting, and we
had scarcely any flowers.
Upon climbing a tree to discover whereabouts we were, I saw, a little
below us, a scraggly, one-sided cedar-tree, which I knew to be a long
way from home. The Beaver Brook road led directly past it.
We gained that road, walking quickly at first, but afterwards, more
slowly. Daylight left us, and the stars came out. We walked on and on
along the lonely road, walked slow, and scarcely spoke. For my
resolution was taken. Elinor should not be bound by any promises or
confessions. Only, just as we were stepping over the door-sill, I heard
a little sigh, and these few words would blunder out, "When I come back
from the West, I shall--want to tell--" But there I left off, and didn't
go into the house, but walked about the place till nigh midnight.
_Ohio, June 6, 18--._--Two years in the wilderness, and nothing gained.
Gloom gathers around me. No little spot of blue sky can I discover. The
hurricane has destroyed everything. I am sick, weak. O the deathly
chills, the burning fever! O the lonesomeness, the heart-loneliness, of
this dreary place! The lake, the sickening, freshwater lake, I can't
endure. If I could but set foot on the hillside at the old place, and
look out upon the great sea, and draw one long breath! If I could but
stand on White Rock, with the spray dashing over me, and the wind, from
across the broad Atlantic, rushing past! All night I dream of blue,
sparkling waters, where little white-sailed boats are gliding so gently,
gently off from the shore, and away into the distance. If I could but
lay me down in one of these, and so float on and on, no matter where!
Why do I never dream of Elinor? Are we so utterly separated that even in
visions I may not behold her face? What have I done, that God refuses me
all joy? I don't know of being so bad. But I suppose this not knowing
is the very badness itself.
Captain Welles and the others don't show me their letters now. But
haven't we more than five senses? Else how is it I know that in these
letters is the neighborhood talk of her connection with Mr. Colman? She
never mentions it; neither does Frederic. But that is because they have
very kind hearts.
I will drag myself once more over these hills. Better wearisome motion
than wearisome rest.
* * * * *
_June 7._--Yesterday I wandered very far away among the hills, knowing
well where I wanted to go, and where I should probably go; but circling
round about as if to hide from myself my own intentions. I knew of
people who had been there, but had never felt heart to go myself. I
crossed a desolate plain, where a fire had passed. Every bush, stump,
and tree was blackened. After this came green hills, with woods and
grape-vines.
On the side of a hill there stood a hut, built up against a mass of
rocks. This hut was what I came to find.
I walked softly up, and looked in at the open door. A dark-looking,
beautiful young girl, with long hair, sat crouching in a corner. Close
by her was a great shaggy dog.
I had heard of the Prophetess, but thought to find a wrinkled old woman,
and this beautiful girl startled me. Startled, but not pleased me; for
there was no young look in her face. Such strange eyes I never saw. 'T
was as if an old person's face had been smoothed and rounded out, and
the expression left there still. By her dress I saw that she was Indian.
The hut was a damp, gloomy place, extending far back into a cavern among
the rocks. She arose and beckoned me to follow her farther in,--farther
from the light and sunshine. There, in half darkness, half light, she
stood, with her terrible eyes fixed upon mine. I longed to step back
into the sunshine, for a chill had half taken hold of me; but some power
kept me standing there,--neither could I turn my eyes from hers.
Presently I became conscious of a drowsiness. Her face, her whole
figure, faded from my sight. Then, in the midst of the darkness, I
perceived a spot of light, which soon took unto itself the semblance of
a hand,--a pale hand, which held a damask rose, seemingly just plucked,
full of fragrance and wet with dew.
While I gazed upon it, I saw that it faded and drooped, till at last its
head hung lifeless upon the stalk. There only remained the pale,
crumpled leaves. I wept at the sight, thinking of my own damask rose so
far away.
But while I wept, the rose revived. A ray of light streamed in from
above. The drooping leaves expanded; their color, even their fragrance,
returned; and it sat upright upon its stalk, a perfect flower, wanting
nothing save the dew-drops.
The vision passed, and after a pause there came strains of mournful
music. O, so mournful, so sad, so hopeless! I seemed to hear in it
groans of the dying. Tears streamed from my eyes; I sobbed like a child.
But after a little the chords were swept by a more joyous hand, and gave
forth a charming melody,--strains ravishing and delightful beyond
description. Again I wept, but now tears of joy. A heavenly rapture
pervaded my whole being.
As the last strain melted away, consciousness returned. I was standing
alone in the damp, chill cavern. The girl, with that same awful look in
her face, was crouching in her corner. I tottered towards the open door,
towards the sunshine, and sank, shivering, upon the ground. The girl
brought me something in a cup to drink,--something dark and fiery. It
put new life in my veins, and strength to my limbs.
* * * * *
_August 18._--God be thanked for a sight of the old place once more. I
could hug the very trees. The grass seems too good to walk on.
God be thanked, too, for bringing me once more under the same roof with
Elinor. Captain Welles was right. I could never have survived another
winter at the West.
They were all glad to see me. As I went in, Elinor burst out crying.
Daddy sat shelling beans.
"What are you crying for?" said he.
"Walter has come," she sobbed out.
"And what is that to be crying about?" said he.
But I saw, as he grasped my hand, that he too brushed away a tear.
Frederic and his Lucy cannot do enough for me. He tries to laugh, scold,
tease, and coax me into health. Mammy is steeping up gin and mustard,
which, they say, is a sure cure for the chills. Dearly beloved friends!
They little know how soothingly their kindness falls upon the heart of
the lonely one.
Elinor looks troubled.
They tell me of a great revival here, the like of which was never known.