VIII
JUNE 28.
MOTHER writes me that Dr. Cabot is out of danger, Dr. Elliott having
thrown new light on his case, and performed some sort of an operation
that relieved him at once. I am going home. Nothing would tempt me to
encounter those black eyes again. Besides, the weather is growing
warm, and Aunty is getting ready to go out of town with the children.
JUNE 29.-Aunty insisted on knowing why I was hurrying home so
suddenly, and at last got it out of me inch by inch. On the whole it
was a relief to have some one to speak to.
"Well!" she said, and leaned back in her chair in a fit of musing.
"Is that all you are going to say, Aunty?" I ventured to ask at last.
"No, I have one more remark to add," she said, "and it is this: I
don't know which of you has behaved most ridiculously. It would
relieve me to give you each a good shaking."
"I think Dr. Elliot has behaved ridiculously," I said, "and he has
made me most unhappy."
"Unhappy!" she repeated. "I don't wonder you are unhappy. You have
pained and wounded one of the noblest men that walks the earth."
"It is not my fault. I never tried to make him like me."
"Yes, you did. You were perfectly bewitching whenever he came here.
No mortal man could help being fascinated."
I knew this was not true, and bitterly resented Aunty's injustice.
"If I wanted to 'fascinate' or 'bewitch' a man," I cried, "I should
not choose one old enough to be my father, nor one who was as
uninteresting, awkward and stiff as Dr. Elliott. Besides, how should
I know he was not married? If I thought anything about it at all, I
certainly thought of him as a middle-aged man, settled down with a
wife, long ago.
"In the first place he is not old, or even middle aged. He is not
more than twenty-seven or eight. As to his being uninteresting,
perhaps he is to you, who don't know him. And if he were a married
man, what business had he to come here to see as he has done?"
"I did not know he came to see me; he never spoke to me. And I always
said I would never marry a doctor."
"We all say scores of things we live to repent," she replied. "But I
must own that the doctor acted quite out of character when he
expected you to take a fancy to him on such short notice, you
romantic little thing. Of course knowing him as little as you do, and
only seeing him in sick-rooms, you could not have done otherwise than
as you did."
"Thank you, Aunty," I said, running and throwing my arms around her;
"thank you with all my heart. And now won't you take back what you
said about my trying to fascinate him?"
"I suppose I must, you dear child," she said. "I was not half in
earnest. The truth is I am so fond of you both that the idea of your
misunderstanding each other annoys me extremely. Why, you were made
for each other. He would tone you down and keep you straight, and you
would stimulate him and keep him awake."
"I don't want to be toned down or kept straight," I remonstrated. "I
hate prigs who keep their wives in leading-strings. I do not mean to
marry any one, but if I should be left to such a piece of folly, it
must be to one who will take me for better for worse; just as I am,
and not as a wild plant for him to prune till he has got it into a
shape to suit him now, Aunty, promise me one thing. Never mention
Dr. Elliott's name to me again."
"I shall make no such promise," she replied, laughing. "I like him,
and I like to talk about him and the more you hate and despise him
the more I shall love and admire him. I only wish my Lucy were old
enough to be his wife, and that he could fancy her; but he never
could!"
"On the contrary I should think that little model of propriety would
just suit him," I exclaimed.
"Don't make fun of Lucy," Aunty said, shaking her head. "She is a
dear good child, after all."
"After all" means this (for what with my own observation, and what
Aunty has told me, Lucy's portrait is easy to paint) The child is the
daughter of a man who died from a lingering illness caused by an
accident. She entered the family at a most inauspicious moment, two
days after this accident. From the outset she comprehended the
situation and took the ground that a character of irreproachable
dignity and propriety became an infant coming at such a time. She
never cried, never put improper objects into her mouth, never bumped
her head, or scratched herself. Once put to bed at night, you knew
nothing more of her till such time next day as you found it
convenient to attend to her. If you forgot her existence, as was not
seldom the case under the circumstances, she vegetated on, unmoved.
It is possible that pangs of hunger sometimes assailed her, and it is
a fact that she teethed, had the measles and the whooping-cough. But
these minute ripples on her infant life only showed the more clearly
what a waveless, placid little sea it was. She got her teeth in the
order laid down in "Dewees on Children"; her measles came out on the
appointed day like well-behaved measles as they were and retired
decently and in order, as measles should. Her whooping-cough had a
well-bred, methodical air, and left her conqueror of the field. As
the child passed out of her babyhood, she remained still her mother's
appendage and glory; a monument of pure white marble, displaying to
the human race one instance at least of perfect parental training.
Those smooth, round hands were always magically clean; the dress
immaculate and uncrumpled; the hair dutifully shining and tidy. She
was a model child, as she had been a model baby. No slamming of
doors, no litter of carpets, no pattering of noisy feet on the
stairs, no headless dolls, no soiled or torn books indicated her
presence. Her dolls were subject to a methodical training, not unlike
her own. They rose, they were dressed, they took the air, they
retired for the night, with clock-like regularity. At the advanced
age of eight, she ceased occupying herself with such trifles, and
began a course of instructive reading. Her lessons were received in
mute submission, like medicine; so many doses, so many times a day.
An agreeable interlude of needlework was afforded, and Dorcas-like,
many were the garments that resulted for the poor. Give her the very
eyes out of your head, cut off your right hand for her if you choose,
but don't expect a gush of enthusiasm that would crumple your collar;
she would as soon strangle herself as run headlong to embrace you. If
she has any passions or emotions, they are kept under; but who asks
for passion in blanc-mange, or seeks emotion in a comfortable
apple-pudding?
When her father had been dead a year, her mother married a man with a
large family of children and a very small purse. Lucy had a hard time
of it, especially as her step-father, a quick, impulsive man, took a
dislike to her. Aunty had no difficulty persuading them to give the
child to her. She took from the purest motives, and it does seem as
if she ought to have more reward than she gets. She declares,
however, that she has all the reward she could ask in the conviction
that God accepts this attempt to please Him.
Lucy is now nearly fourteen; very large of her age, with a dead white
skin, pale blue eyes, and a little light hair. To hear her talk is
most edifying. Her babies are all "babes"; she never begins anything
but "commences" it; she never cries, she "weeps"; never gets up in
the morning, but "rises." But what am I writing all this for? Why, to
escape my own thoughts, which are anything but agreeable companions,
and to put off answering the question which must be answered, "Have I
really made a mistake in refusing Dr. Elliott? Could I not, in time,
have come to love a man who has so honored me?"
JULY 5.-Here I am again, safely at home, and very pleasant it seems
to be with dear mother again. I have told her about Dr. E. She says
very little about it one way or the other.
JULY 10.-Mother sees that I am restless and out of sorts. "What is
it, dear?" she asked, this morning. "Has Dr. Elliott anything to do
with the unsettled state you are in?"
"Why, no, mother," I answered. "My going away has broken up all my
habits; that's all. Still if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care much,
and was beginning to forget it, I dare say I should feel better."
"If you were perfectly sure that you could never return his
affection," she said, "you were quite right in telling him so at
once; But if you had any misgivings on the subject, it would have
been better to wait, and to ask God to direct you."
Yes, it would. But at the moment I had no misgivings. In my usual
headlong style I settled one of the most weighty questions of my
life, without reflection, without so much as one silent appeal to
God, to tell me how to act. And now I have forever repelled, and
thrown away a heart that truly loved me. He will go his way and I
shall go mine. He never will know, what I am only just beginning to
know myself, that I yearn after his love with unutterable yearning.
I am not going to sit down in sentimental despondency to weep over
this irreparable past. No human being could forgive such folly as
mine; but God can. In my sorrowfulness and loneliness I fly to Him,
and find, what is better than earthly felicity, the sweetest peace.
He allowed me to bring upon myself, in one hasty moment, a shadow out
of which I shall not soon pass, but He pities and He forgives me, and
I have had many precious moments when I could say sincerely and
joyfully, "Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none upon
earth that I desire besides Thee."
With a character still so undisciplined as mine, I seriously doubt
whether I could have made him who has honored me with his unmerited
affection. Sometimes I think I am as impetuous and as quick-tempered
as ever; I get angry with dear mother, and with James even, if they
oppose me; how unfit, then, I am to become the mistress of a
household and the wife of a good a man!
How came he to love me? I cannot, cannot imagine!
August 31.-The last day of the very happiest summer I ever spent. If
I had only been willing to believe the testimony of others I might
have been just as happy long ago. But I wanted to have all there was
in God and all there was in the world, at once, and there was a
constant, painful struggle between the two. I hope that struggle is
now over. I deliberately choose and prefer God. I have found a sweet
peace in trying to please Him such as I never conceived of. I would
not change it for all the best things this world can give.
But I have a great deal to learn. I am like a little child who cannot
run to get what he wants, but approaches it step by step, slowly,
timidly-and yet approaches it. I am amazed at the patience of my
blessed Master and Teacher, but how I love His school!
September.-This, too, has been a delightful month in a certain sense.
Amelia's marriage, at which I had to be present, upset me a little,
but it was but a little ruffle on a deep sea of peace.
I saw Dr. Cabot to-day. He is quite well again, and speaks of Dr.
Elliott's skill with rapture. He asked about my Sunday scholars and
my poor folks, etc., and I could not help letting out a little of the
new joy that has taken possession of me.
"This is as it should be," he said. "I should be sorry to see a person
of your temperament enthusiastic in everything save religion. Do not
be discouraged if you still have some ups and downs. 'He that is down
need fear no fall'; but you are away up on the heights, and may have
one, now and then."
This made me a little uncomfortable. I don't want any falls. I want
to go on to perfection.
OCT. 1.-Laura Cabot came to see me to-day, and seemed very
affectionate.
"I hope we may see more of each other than we have done," she began.
"My father wishes it, and so do I."
Katy, mentally.-"Ah! He sees how unworldly, how devoted I am, and so
wants Laura under my influence."
Katy, aloud.-"I am sure that is very kind."
Laura.-"Not at all. He knows it will be profitable to me to be with
you. I get a good deal discouraged at times, and want a friend to
strengthen and help me."
Katy, to herself.-"Yes, yes, he thinks me quite experienced and
trustworthy."
Katy, aloud.-"I shall never dare to try to help you."
Laura.-"Oh, yes, you must. I am so far behind you in Christian
experience."
But I am ashamed to write down any more. After she had gone I felt
delightfully puffed up for a while. But when I came up to my room
this evening, and knelt down to pray, everything looked dark and
chaotic. God seemed far away, and I took no pleasure in speaking to
Him. I felt sure that I had done something or felt something wrong,
and asked Him to show me what it was. There then flashed into my mind
the remembrance of the vain, conceited thoughts I had had during
Laura's visit and ever since.
How perfectly contemptible! I have had a fall indeed!
I think now my first mistake was in telling Dr. Cabot my secret,
sacred joys, as if some merit of mine had earned them for me. That
gave Satan a fine chance to triumph over me! After this I am
determined to maintain the utmost reserve in respect to my religious
experiences. Nothing is gained by running to tell them, and much is
lost.
I feel depressed and comfortless.