Lucy tells me that Mr. Scott has gone to England to discover his
relatives, and that his going was hastened by a talk he had with Elinor.
Poor fellow! No doubt his heart can ache, as well as other people's.
Lucy says that Elinor was very tender of his feelings when she refused
him.
* * * * *
_August 2._--There is to be a four days' meeting here. A great many
ministers are expected from abroad. Some mighty influence is sweeping
over the place. The proud and haughty are bowed low before it. Little
children leave their play, and persuade each other to come to Christ.
They meet to pray and sing, likewise, very solemn hymns.
* * * * *
_August 29._--This is the second day. The meeting-house was crowded
full, way up into the galleries and negro seats. Four ministers in the
pulpit, besides others in the front pews, and delegates back of them. It
is wonderful to hear them tell of the workings of the Spirit in their
own churches. The congregation was deeply moved. Many wept. I too feel
my sinfulness. I too would come under this mighty influence, but cannot.
My heart is like a stone within me. With life and warmth all around, I
remain cold and dead.
Elinor rose for prayers. How she can be made any better is what I cannot
understand.
* * * * *
_September 2._--The meeting is over; but Mr. Colman remains to assist
our minister to gather in the abundant harvest. In a few months, he goes
to India as a missionary. I must say that his departure will add to my
happiness, or at least take from my uneasiness.
Elinor is in great distress, calling herself a monster of iniquity. Mr.
Colman labors with her incessantly. She cannot declare it to be the true
feeling of her heart, that, for the glory of God, she is willing all her
friends should be forever damned.
* * * * *
_September 4._--Last night was spent, nearly the whole of it, in prayer
and exhortation. I could plainly hear my dear girl sobbing and crying.
Towards morning I heard a shout of joy, and immediately afterwards
Elinor's voice, singing, in rapturous tones,
"I know that my Redeemer lives."
Then she broke forth into prayer. Her voice rose high and sweet. 'T was
as if she was conversing with the angels around the throne of God. I
trembled lest, in its ecstatic rapture, her soul should burst its
fleshly bonds and soar away.
This afternoon she talked most earnestly with me. Her face was radiant
with the warmth and joy of her heart.
* * * * *
_September 21._--Mr. Colman wishes to marry Elinor, and take her with
him to India.
O God, I beseech thee to spare me this great affliction! Remove not my
only joy!
But will she do this? Has there not been, without words, an
understanding between us two?
* * * * *
_September 23._--I open my journal on purpose to write down, while I am
calm, that I believe Mr. Colman to be a worthy, sincere man, and truly
anxious for the spread of the Gospel. I wish to set this down, because I
am sensible that at times my jealous feelings have caused me to misjudge
him, and may do so again. He knows nothing of my hopes and fears. He is
not to blame for wishing to brighten his days of exile with the sweetest
face that ever smiled. It is natural, when you see a lovely flower, to
wish to gather it and have it for your own. He does not know the flower
is mine. I speak boldly, but it is only to myself.
* * * * *
_September 25._--The Rev. Mr. D----, agent of the Missionary Society,
preached last evening a powerful discourse. What a man he is! His soul
is all on fire! And what language! There was deep silence in the
congregation. They were with him among the heathen. They saw what he had
seen. They heard what he had heard. They felt what he had felt. He
closed with an earnest appeal for fresh laborers in the vineyard. From a
high key he came suddenly down to a low, solemn tone, which suited well
with the agitated state of the audience.
"Beware," said he, "of permitting earthly joys, earthly hopes, earthly
loves, to come in the way of services due to Christ. Souls are perishing
for want of heavenly food, and you withhold it. Thousands, millions, are
on the broad road to destruction, and you refuse to extend a helping
hand. And why? Because you would enjoy a few short years of earthly
happiness. How mean, how worthless, how dearly bought, will appear these
few short years, when, at the judgment-day, the souls of these miserable
wretches shall cry out against you,--'We might have been saved! We might
have been saved!' And still, as the endless ages of eternity roll on,
the cry shall come up to you,--'We might have been saved! We might have
been saved!'"
Elinor was greatly agitated, weeping often. Sitting next her, I could
not help but take her hand in mine, to show my sympathy for her
distress. I fear she will consider it a sacred duty to sacrifice
herself. O, if she were a little, only a little less good! May God
forgive me such a sinful wish! But I love her with an earthly love, and
would not have her an angel, lest she soar away and leave me. Still, if
I love her truly, ought I not to wish for her the highest holiness? For
what shall I wish? For what shall I pray? My mind is perplexed.
I think I will speak to her. She may not have understood my looks, my
actions. Yes, I must speak. My pride is gone. I will say: "Elinor, you
are all the world to me. I am very poor. But don't leave me alone."
* * * * *
_September 26._--This morning Frederic came up to me and clapped me on
the shoulder (just in the way he did when he asked me to stand up with
him), and said, in a low voice, "Walter, don't you like Elinor?"
The tears rushed to my eyes; I could not speak.
"Come," said he, "let us walk awhile together." And he took my arm in
his.
It was very early. We walked miles into the woods. I told him
everything.
When I had finished, he said: "Walter, marry Elinor. You must. She shall
not leave us. She loves you better than anybody on earth. I guessed it
before you went away; and while you were gone, I knew it. No matter
about means. You are the same to me as a brother. All the farm shall be
yours. My trade is enough for me. I have some money, too, that you can
borrow, and repay at your leisure. I should have spoken of this long
ago, if I had only known. Why did you keep so close? Ever since you came
back, Lucy and I have watched, and she felt so sure that I ventured to
speak. You must speak before it gets fixed in her mind that it is a
duty to go. For what she thinks she ought to do she will do, and always
would.
"And now," he went on in a lighter tone, for Frederic can never keep
serious long, "now that I have offered you my sister, I hope you won't
reject her. Lucy and I take so much comfort together, just think what a
houseful of happiness there will be when you and Elinor are married!"
"O Frederic," I said, as soon as I could speak, "you are too kind; but I
am afraid I am not worthy. Besides being poor, I am not a Christian, and
I have had but few advantages. And she--she is pure and lovely, and has
a mind that is well informed, and the manners of a lady."
"Well," said he, "you want to be good, don't you? and you want to get
learning?"
"Yes."
"And you love her with all your heart?"
"I do."
"Well. Now, Walter, I tell you what I think. If a man knows his
ignorance and seeks for knowledge, if he feels his badness, and longs
for goodness, and loves with all his heart, he is fit to marry the
king's daughter, and inherit the throne."
* * * * *
_September 27._--I went this evening into Lucy's room, and found Elinor
there alone. I sat down near her.
She looked up, with a smile on her face, and said: "I have been wanting
to see you, Walter, and tell you what a glorious path is opened before
me. I believe myself to be a chosen instrument for carrying the Gospel
to the heathen. And Mr. Colman" (this lower) "thinks me worthy to labor
with him in the vineyard."
"And you will marry him?" I asked in a constrained voice.
"Yes," said she, faintly; "I have promised."
I arose and walked many times across the room. When power of speech
came, I said, standing still near her: "Elinor, do you remember, the
night before I went away, I wanted so much to tell you something? Let me
tell it now. But you know. You must have known--you must have seen--I
have been waiting to make myself worth offering. I am almost sure I can
make you happy, and--have thought you loved me--a little. If I could
only hear you say so!"
"Walter," she replied, "I must not seek for happiness. I have loved you,
not a little." Here the bright color spread over her face; for while the
woman spoke, the angel blushed. "I have loved you. O God, sustain me in
this my trial hour!"
This little prayer dropped softly from her lips. I scarce caught the
sound of it. Then she spoke in a firmer tone: "What have I to do with
happiness or unhappiness? The path of duty lies straight before me. And
therein I must walk, though thorns pierce my feet."
"But," I asked, "is it right to marry without--Elinor, do you love Mr.
Colman?"
"With my soul I do. He was with me in the Valley of the Shadow of
Death,--spiritual, not bodily death. With his help I obtained my
heavenly joy. My soul is bound to his. I have loved you, Walter, more
than"--and again came the bright blushes, speaking more sweetly than her
lips--"more than you can ever know. But the greater the love, the
greater the glory of crushing it out. The heavier the cross, the
brighter will be the crown, and with the greater rapture shall I wake
the music of my golden harp through the countless years of eternity.
What is this life? A puff, a breath of air. In it we must prepare for
the real life, which lies beyond. When the heavens are rolled up like a
scroll, what will it avail me that I passed with one whom I loved with
an earthly love this brief existence?"
I prayed for calmness to reason with her, but it was not given me. I sat
down, and bowed my face upon my hands. Elinor knelt, and offered up a
most touching prayer,--beseeching strength for us both. As she
finished, Lucy entered, and I went out without speaking.
It is now past midnight. Frederic has been up to see me. Lucy had a long
talk with Elinor. It is a comfort, and still it is not a comfort, to
know that she spends long solitary hours in self-communion, during which
she strives to crush out the love for me, which, as she tells Lucy,
fills all her heart. She had loved me almost from a child. She pined for
me in my absence, and wept tears of joy at my return.
What a dear comforter is Frederic! He persuades me that before the time
arrives she will grow more calm, and will view all these things
differently. He advises me to be constantly near her, that my hold on
her affections may not be loosened. Did ever man retire to sleep upon
sweeter counsel?
* * * * *
_October 5._--How shall I write? What words will express the anguish of
my heart? O, how much of misery one short week may bring! My pen moves
unguided, burning tears blind my eyes. And one week ago it had not
happened. One week ago that pleasant face was still among us. But I
cannot write.
* * * * *
_October 6._--Since I cannot sleep, let me spend the dragging hours in
writing the sad account. Let me sit face to face with my own misery,
since only misery can I know.
Just one week ago yesterday it was that a man came hurrying through the
place, telling that a ship of war was off Rocky Point Village, and that
the British were expected to land in the night, to burn, steal, and may
be kill. Help was wanted. Every able man prepared himself to hasten to
the spot. Frederic and I got our guns and ammunition ready with all
speed.
Lucy put up for us great stores of provisions. She was pale as ashes,
but said no discouraging word. I rejoiced in the occasion; for, at the
prospect of my life being in peril, Elinor could not hide her
tenderness. "O Walter!" she whispered, as I stooped to say good by, "may
God keep you safe!"
Just as we were stepping out of the house, mammy, all wrapped up in
blankets, came out into the porch,--a thing she had not done before for
years. Laying her hand on Frederic's arm, she said, in a trembling
voice, "Now, Frederic, be sure and not go into any danger."
He laughed, as young folks do always at the fears of their elders, and
then helped her back to her arm-chair.
Rocky Point Village was ten miles off. We were going by water,--that way
being the shortest,--about twenty of us in a little pinky. We kept quite
close to the land, and arrived there about midnight. The moon was just
rising. People were collected from all the villages about. All were
watching out for boats from the ship, but none came, and in the morning
no ship was to be seen, even from the tall steeple. So it proved a false
alarm.
After breakfast, some of the young men proposed going to Pine Island to
eat up our good things, and to fill our baskets with beach-plums. This
took up all the day.
We had to wait for the tide, so that, by the time we hoisted sail, it
was late in the evening. The wind blew fresh, and was dead ahead; and
when we had been an hour or two on our course, there was not one aboard
but would have been glad to feel the solid land beneath his feet. The
little pinky, her sails close reefed, tossed up and down, like an
egg-shell. Black clouds spread over the sky, threatening rain and
tempest.
Then it was that this terrible calamity took place. I was holding by the
rail, comparing in my mind things outward with things internal. The
soul, too, encountered storms and darkness.
All at once I perceived that the boom was swinging over, and sprang to
get out of the way. As I sprang, I heard a cry, and caught sight of a
man pitching headlong into the water.
"Walter! Walter!" That was the cry, and then I knew it to be Frederic,
and took a great leap into the darkness.
I strove to shout, but the water rushed into my mouth and ears, and I
could make no sound. Once more I heard that cry,--"Walter! Walter!"--but
fainter this time, and by it I knew I should never reach him. Still,
when the next wave lifted me high, I gathered all my strength, and
shouted, "Frederic, wait!"
The boat had been lowered, and that shout saved my own worthless life.
But Frederic's was gone forever. O the dreadful words!
They dragged me into the boat, with scarce the breath of life left in
me. The vessel lay to, and boats were kept out till morning. But our
Frederic was seen no more. And he was the very best of us all.
O what a night! I was watched. They would not let me come near the rail.
No doubt there was reason.
I shall never forget the morning. The wind had gone down; the sun rose
bright, and burned into my brain; the waves were to me like live
creatures, dancing and laughing around us. They seemed to say, "We've
had our victim, and are now at peace with mankind. Pass on. Pass on."
As we neared the shore, I made great efforts to be calm; for at home
were those to whom I must say, "Here I am safe, but Frederic is
drowned."
What would they want of me?
It was still early when we landed. I could only creep along the path,
holding on by the fence; for my feet were like leaden weights. My form
bowed itself like an old man's. The fields, the trees, were not green,
but ghastly.
The sumachs prevented my being seen from the house. As I drew near, I
saw Lucy standing at the back door, looking down at the vessel.
Frederic had never left home before, since their marriage. Such a happy
look as there was on her face!
I crept off to a clump of willows, and from there ran down the hill and
across the Little Swamp to the minister's.
They were in the midst of family prayers. All of them started to their
feet, asking what had happened. I had just strength enough to gasp out,
"You must tell them. I can't. Frederic is drowned,"--and then fell down
in a faint.
O what a desolate home is ours! Poor Lucy! Poor heart-broken young
thing!
On that same night a strange thing happened here at home. Mammy could
not be got off to bed. She was anxious, and would sit up. At length,
(this was about midnight,) she leaned her head back, and seemed to fall
into a sleep, so quiet that they could scarce hear her breath. Then a
beautiful smile spread over her face. Her lips moved, and spoke, as they
thought, Frederic's name. She awoke soon after, but has never since that
hour been quite herself,--never seemed conscious of Frederic's loss. She
speaks of him as of one gone a journey. Some talk of her exertions the
night before, of her anxiety, or of a partial stroke. But I think, and
shall always think, that Frederic's angel appeared to her, and, in some
way, deadened her mind to the dreadful suffering his loss would
occasion.
We have sent for Aunt Bethiah. We need her firmness now.
* * * * *
_October 20._--Elinor is in a strange way. I have never seen her either
weep, or smile, or work, or read, since that terrible day. I must take
back part of that. She does smile, as she sits idle, playing with her
fingers,--smiles and moves her lips like--But I cannot bear to write
what she is like. I will never believe it. She was in a state of
excitement, and this blow has staggered her. But she will recover. God
will not deal with us so hardly.
Mr. Colman is away, making his preparations. He surely will not take
with him this poor, helpless girl.
* * * * *
_November 7._--O, he was so good, so lovely!--noble-looking, and in his
very best days. Always was something cheering or lively dropping from
his lips. And to think that the last words he uttered were those cries
of agony from the dark waters,--"Walter! Walter!"
All night I toss among the dreadful waves, with that cry ringing in my
ears; or I strive to clutch at a man's form, as it pitches headlong; or
take again that fearful leap, and, at the shock, wake in horror.
Such a dear friend as he was to me! I remember that last night he came
to my chamber, so kind, so comforting. And what did I ever do for him?
O, if I could only think of anything I ever did for him!
* * * * *
_December 12._--The minister talked with me soothingly to-day of the
love of God for his children. I feel to-night willing to trust all to
Him.
Let the worst happen that can happen, I will bow my head in submission.
What matters the few years' sadness of an obscure being? Nothing in the
universe stands affected by my grief. Can I not bear what is mine own?
Still, even Jesus prayed that the cup might pass.
* * * * *
_January 9._--Mr. Colman is in the place. I am sorry. Let me try my
best, I have to hate that man--a little. In my secret thoughts I call
him my enemy. Did he think, because he was a preacher, that he could
pick and choose,--that nothing was too good for him?
I must write down my bad thoughts sometimes. No doubt he is a good man,
after all. But he must not meet Elinor now, not if he were a seraph.
* * * * *
_January 10._--He came this afternoon, and I met him at the gate. He
inquired for Elinor. I asked if he would like to see her, and drew him
towards the window of the east room, Lucy's room (Lucy is with her
mother). The shutters of this window were partly open. All the others
were closed.
Elinor was at the farther end of the room. A little light came in from
the window over the kitchen door, or we could hardly have seen her. She
was sitting on a low stool, bending forward a little, her head drooping,
her hands loosely clasped, and oh! so thin, so white, so lifeless, so
like a blighted, wilted flower! What semblance was there of the rosy,
smiling face that had so long brightened the old home?
Once she smiled, and then her lips moved as they do often. He shuddered
at the sight. "She mourns for her brother," said he. "I will go in and
speak to her some words of consolation."
"No, sir," said I. "What you see is not grief, but almost insanity.
Shall I tell you the cause?"
Then I drew him from the house to a wide field near by, and as we walked
talked to him mildly, but with some boldness.
I made known my love for her, and her own confession to Lucy. I made it
plain to him that, in striving against nature, her mind had become
unsettled, and so unable to bear that terrible shock. And, finally, I
implored him not to take away so frail a being to perish among
strangers.
I was surprised that he made no answer. He left me abruptly and walked
towards the minister's. Was he offended?
* * * * *
_January 11._--This morning a boy brought a note from Mr. Colman,
requesting me to come and see him. I went as soon as I could leave home.
He came down to the door and asked me up into his chamber. After handing
me a chair, he seated himself at the table, where he remained for some
minutes with his head bowed. When he looked up, I was startled at the
pale and sorrow-stricken look of his face.
"Young man," said he, "I have passed the night in self-examination, and
now I wish to confess that I have deceived myself, injured you, and
destroyed the peace of one precious to us both. In gaining a laborer for
Christ, I hoped also to gain comfort for my own heart. Still," he added,
earnestly, "I was not wholly selfish. I really believed that, under
God, she might become a mighty instrument for good. Who so fitted to
teach the Gospel as the pure-hearted? I hoped to gain her love. She
seemed--there was something in her manner that--but let it pass. I was
walking in a dream. 'T was surely a dream, or I should have known that
such happiness was not for me.
"Love met me once. It was in early youth. As fair, as lovely a being as
God ever made yielded up to me her young heart, and then drooped and
died. Years passed. I never thought to meet love again.
"It was while preaching here that I first saw Elinor. I was struck with
the resemblance to her who once bloomed in just such loveliness. There
was the same purity, the same sweetness, the same dewy freshness. Even
the dress was similar,--the lovely blue and white, harmonizing so well
with that fair beauty.
"My agitation was so great I could scarcely go on with the services.
From that day my dead heart became alive again. Fountains of feeling,
which I had deemed sealed forever, burst forth afresh. I dreamed I
should walk in light, and not in darkness.
"But it is all past. False hopes shall mislead me no more. I will live
solely for the glory of God, since such is His will. Was not that will
made plain to me in my early youth? I have asked His forgiveness, and
now," he added, extending his hand, "I ask yours. She will recover. With
her your life will be blest.
"I will not even bid her farewell. But when health and strength return,
when she is yours and you are hers, will you not sometimes speak
together of me? Shall you be unwilling to cast for a moment a shadow
across the brightness of life, by remembering a lonely man passing his
days in exile, without one flower of love to cheer him?"
He was deeply agitated, and from the first had grown more and more
earnest. I stood like one confounded. A minister of the Gospel was
asking my forgiveness. He whom I had thought proud and haughty was
shedding tears. The moment he humbled himself, I seemed to sink below
him, O so far!
I told him this, and every feeling I had ever had against him. And,
sitting there together, we had a long and friendly talk about Elinor and
Frederic and the old people. Before I left, he handed me a letter
addressed to Elinor, which he requested me, when she should recover, to
give to her.
* * * * *
_February 27._--To-day, upon going suddenly into Frederic's room, I
found Elinor there, weeping. This was a welcome sight. She had found in
the drawer a pair of his mittens,--gray, spotted with red; also a little
box which he had given her, and a picture, with "To my sister" written
on the back.
She was crouched upon the floor, with these spread out before her,
weeping bitterly. I raised her up, speaking soothing words, and drew her
towards the window, where the sun shone in, bright and warm.
It was long before she grew calm. I judged it best to say but little.
But O the joy of knowing she is saved!
* * * * *
_March 17._--To-day Elinor did many little things for mammy, who is now
very feeble, and requires constant attention. It is long since she has
risen from her bed, and she is for the greater part of the time in a
sleep or stupor. Sometimes she revives a little, and seeing, perhaps,
some neighbors or friends in the room, will say, "Now you must all stay
to tea," or, "Is anybody sick in your neighborhood?" and then drop off
again.
I watched Elinor, as she bent over the bed, with tears in my eyes, but
joy in my heart. When I left the room, she followed me out, and sat down
near me, and whispered, "Let us talk about _him_."
And then we spoke freely of our dear Frederic,--spoke of his noble
heart, of his goodness, of all his pleasant ways. Many little incidents
of his life were remembered.
"Frederic is in heaven," I whispered.
"I know he is," she answered calmly, and as if she knew with a knowledge
not of earth.
* * * * *
_April 15._--Elinor has been growing more like herself ever since the
day I found her crying in Frederic's room. She busies herself about the
house, talks cheerfully with her grandfather, and does much for his
comfort. Good old man! He said to me, the other day: "Walter, I am very
wicked. I do not mourn for Frederic. My days here are but few; and I
rejoice to think that, when I pass over the river, he will welcome me to
the other shore. I strive against this happy thought, but it will come.
I wanted to tell somebody of my wicked feelings."
"O, don't talk to me so!" I said, "don't call yourself wicked."
I shall always love Aunt Bethiah, she is so kind to him and to us all.
She loved Frederic dearly, in her way. I have noticed that she never
sets on the table, at meal-times, the things he used to like best.
* * * * *
_June 9._--All my anxiety about Elinor is gone. The color and the smiles
are coming back to her face, and the light to her eye. She is almost her
old self again. Only, when people have suffered a great deal, some sign
of it will always remain.
* * * * *
_June 12._--Yesterday, I brought in to her a bunch of wild-roses. She
put them in a tumbler, and carried them into mammy's room. This morning
she came out with her basket. "Let us be children again," she said. "Let
us go for some roses."
So we went over the hills; and, as we passed along the pasture-road, we
found ourselves walking hand in hand.
Every day I think I will ask her to be my wife, and every day I put it
off till another time. The reason is, that I fear to disturb this
pleasant season. I don't know what she thinks about Mr. Colman. She has
never mentioned his name.
There are more ways of telling things than by word of mouth. I set my
love before her in a thousand ways, and she never throws it back upon
me. I shall give her the letter to-morrow.
* * * * *
_June 16._--Yesterday, after tea, we sat all together, in mammy's room,
till almost dark. She was in an uneasy way, and daddy calmed her down by
saying hymns to her,--the very ones she used to read to him. Elinor was
making a wreath of oak-leaves for a young girl in the next house, who
was going to have a party. I was picking out for her the fairest leaves,
equal in size. Daddy said his verses in a sing-song way, so that mammy
at last fell quietly asleep, and we spoke to each other softly, so as
not to disturb her.
All at once daddy spoke out; and says he, in a slow, quiet way: "Blind
folks, you know, hear very quick. I do myself, and sometimes even more
than is spoken. For instance, to-night, when Walter says, 'Here is a
beautiful leaf for you,' I can hear, 'I love you with all my heart.' And
when Elinor says, 'And it will just match this one,' I can hear, 'You
can't love me any more than I do you.' Now, children, what are you
waiting for?"
Dear old man! I felt like throwing my arms right about his neck, and
started up for that purpose. But Elinor came first, and so--
"Never mind me," says daddy, "I'm blind, you know."
Whereupon, I explained that Elinor had taken what was meant for him.
And when we grew a little calm he began to plan plans.
And after that we two took a long walk; and neither of us knew whither
we went, or how long we stayed. But during the walk she confessed to me
her belief, that God made the heart, as well as the soul, and would
never require one to be crushed for the sake of the other. She gave me
Mr. Colman's letter. It was as follows:--
[Omitted.]
About one o'clock, I should think it was, that night, something
happened, and, when daylight came, I hardly knew whether it had happened
or not.
I had been lying awake some hours, recalling all my past life,--thinking
over and over again how a poor, friendless boy had reached a great
happiness; and every time I came to the happiness, tears of joy would
fill my eyes, and I could not sleep, and did not wish to.
And while I lay in this blissful state, there came floating upon the air
strains of the most heavenly music. The whole room was filled with
melody. And with the music came the consciousness of its being familiar
to me. Where had I heard those sweet strains before? They grew fainter.
Raising my head, that no note might escape me, I awoke myself from a
sort of trance into which I did not know of having fallen; for I was
sure my eyes had not once been closed.
The last, faint sounds died away. Instantly there flashed upon my mind
the remembrance of that strange music in the Western wilderness.