XIII.
MARCH 1.
AUNTY sent for us all to dine with her to-day to celebrate Lucy's
fifteenth birthday. Ever since Lucy behaved so heroically in regard
to little Emma, really saving her life, Ernest says Aunty seems to
feel that she cannot do enough for her. The child has taken the most
unaccountable fancy to me, strangely enough, and when we got there
she came to meet me with something like cordiality.
"Mamma permits me to be the bearer of agreeable news," she said,
"because this is my birthday. A friend, of whom you are very fond,
has just arrived, and is impatient to embrace you.
"To embrace me?" I cried. "You foolish child!" And the next moment I
found myself in my mother's arms!
The despised Lucy had been the means of giving me this pleasure. It
seems that Aunty had told her she should choose her own birthday
treat, and that, after solemn meditation, she had decided that to see
dear mother again would be the most agreeable thing she could think
of. I have never told you, dear journal, why I did not go home last
summer, and never shall. If you choose to fancy that I couldn't
afford it you can!
Well! wasn't it nice to see mother, and to read in her dear, loving
face that she was satisfied with her poor, wayward Katy, and fond of
her as ever! I only longed for Ernest's coming, that she might see us
together, and see how he loved me.
He came; I rushed out to meet him and dragged him in. But it seemed
as if he had grown stupid and awkward. All through the dinner I
watched for one of those loving glances which should proclaim to
mother the good understanding between us, but watched in vain.
"It will come by and by," I thought. "When we get by ourselves mother
will see how fond of me he is." But "by and by" it was just the same.
I was preoccupied, and mother asked me if I were well. It was all
very foolish I dare say, and yet I did want to have her know that
with all my faults he still loves me. Then, besides this
disappointment, I have to reproach myself for misunderstanding poor
Lucy as I have done. Because she was not all fire and fury like
myself, I need not have assumed that she had no heart. It is just
like me; I hope I shall never be so severe in my judgment again.
APRIL 30.-Mother has just gone. Her visit has done me a world of
good. She found out something to like in father at once, and then
something good in Martha. She says father's sufferings are real, not
fancied; that his error is not knowing where to locate his disease,
and is starving one week and over-eating the next. She charged me not
to lay up future misery for myself by misjudging him now, and to
treat him as a daughter ought without the smallest regard to his
appreciation of it. Then as to Martha, she declares that I have no
idea how much she does to reduce our expenses, to keep the house in
order and to relieve us from care. "But, mother," I said, "did you
notice what horrid butter we have? And it is all her doing."
"But the butter won't last forever," she replied. "Don't make
yourself miserable about such a trifle. For my part, it is a great
relief to me to know that with your delicate health you have this
tower of strength to lean on."
"But my health is not delicate, mother."
"You certainly look pale and thin."
"Oh, well," I said, whereupon she fell to giving me all sorts of
advice about getting up on step-ladders, and climbing on chairs, and
sewing too much and all that.
JUNE 15.-The weather, or something, makes me rather languid and
stupid. I begin to think that Martha is not an entire nuisance in the
house. I have just been to see Mrs. Campbell. In answer to my routine
of lamentations, she took up a book and read me what was called, as
nearly as I can remember, "Four steps that lead to peace."
"Be desirous of doing the will of another rather than thine own."
"Choose always to have less, rather than more."
"Seek always the lowest place, and to be inferior to every one."
"Wish always, and pray, that the will of God may be wholly fulfilled
in thee."
I was much struck with these directions; but I said, despondently:
"If peace can only be found at the end of such hard roads, I am sure
I shall always be miserable."
"Are you miserable now?" she asked.
"Yes, just now I am. I do not mean that I have no happiness; I mean
that I am in a disheartened mood, weary of going round and round in
circles, committing the same sins, uttering the same confessions, and
making no advance."
"My dear," she said, after a time, "have you a perfectly distinct,
settled view of what Christ is to the human soul?"
"I do not know. I understand, of course, more or less perfectly, that
my salvation depends on Him alone; it is His gift."
"But do you see, with equal clearness, that your sanctification must
be as fully His gift, as your salvation is?"
"No," I said, after a little thought. "I have had a feeling that He
has done His part, and now I must do mine."
"My dear," she said, with much tenderness and feeling, "then the
first thing you have to do is to learn Christ."
"But how?"
"On your knees, my child, on your knees!" She was tired, and I came
away; and I have indeed been on my knees.
JULY 1.-I think that I do begin, dimly it is true, but really, to
understand that this terrible work which I was trying to do myself,
is Christ's work, and must be done and will be done by Him. I take
some pleasure in the thought, and wonder why it has all this time
been hidden from me, especially after what Dr. C. said in his letter.
But I get hold of this idea in a misty, unsatisfactory way. If Christ
is to do all, what am I to do? And have I not been told, over and
over again, that the Christian life is one of conflict, and that I am
to fight like a good soldier?
AUGUST 5.-Dr. Cabot has come just as I need him most. I long for one
of those good talks with him which always used to strengthen me so. I
feel a perfect weight of depression that makes me a burden to myself
and to poor Ernest, who, after visiting sick people all day, needs to
come home to a cheerful wife. But he comforts me with the assurance
that this is merely physical despondency, and that I shall get over
it by and by. How kind, how even tender he is! My heart is getting
all it wants from him, only I am too stupid to enjoy him as I ought.
Father, too, talks far less about his own bad feelings, and seems
greatly concerned at mine. As to Martha I have done trying to get
sympathy or love from her. She cannot help it, I suppose, but she is
very hard and dry towards me, and I feel such a longing to throw
myself on her mercy, and to have one little smile to assure me that
she has forgiven me for being Ernest's wife, and so different from
what she would have chosen for him.
Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Mortimer:
OCTOBER 4, 1838.
My dear Katy's Mother--You will rejoice with us when I tell you that
we are the happy parents of a very fine little boy. My dearest wife
sends "an ocean of love" to you, and says she will write her self
to-morrow. That I shall not be very likely to allow, as you will
imagine. She is doing extremely well, and we have everything to be
grateful for. Your affectionate Son, J. E. ELLIOTT.
Mrs. Crofton to Mrs. Mortimer:
I am sure, my dear sister, that the doctor has not written you more
than five lines about the great event which has made such a stir in
our domestic circle. So I must try to supply the details you will
want to hear.... I need not add that our darling Katy behaved nobly.
Her self-forgetfulness and consideration for others were really
beautiful throughout the whole scene. The doctor may well be proud of
her, and I took care to tell him so ill presence of that dreadful
sister of his. I never met so angular, so uncompromising a person as
she is in all my life. She does not understand Katy, and never can,
and I find it hard to realize that living with such a person can
furnish a wholesome discipline, which is even more desirable than the
most delightful home. And yet I not only know that is true in the
abstract, but I see that it is so in the fact. Katy is acquiring both
self-control and patience and her Christian character is developing
in a way that amazes me. I cannot but hope that God will, in time,
deliver her from this trial; indeed, feel sure that when it has done
its beneficent work He will do so. Martha Elliott is a good woman,
but her goodness is without grace or beauty. She takes excellent care
of Katy, keeps her looking as if she had just come out of a band-box,
as the saying and always has her room in perfect order. But one
misses the loving word, the re-assuring smile, the delicate,
thoughtful little forbearance, that ought to adorn every sick-room,
and light it up with genuine sunshine. There is one comfort about it,
however, and that is that I can spoil dear Katy to my heart's
content.
As to the baby, he is a fine little fellow, and his mother is so
happy in him that she can afford to do without some other pleasures.
I shall write again in a few days. Meanwhile, you may rest assured
that I love your Katy almost as well as you do, and shall be with her
most of the time till she is quite herself again.
James
to his mother:
Of course there never was such a baby before on the face of the
earth. Katy is so nearly wild with joy, that you can't get her to eat
or sleep or do any of the proper things that her charming
sister-in-law thinks becoming under the circumstances. You never saw
anything so pretty in your life, as she is now. I hope the doctor is
as much in love with her as I am. He is the best fellow in the world,
and Katy is just the wife for him.
Nov. 4.-My darling baby is a month old to-day. I never saw such a
splendid child. I love him so that I lie awake nights to watch him.
Martha says, in her dry way, that I had better show my love by
sleeping and eating for him, and Ernest says I shall, as soon as I
get stronger. But I don't get strong, and that discourages me.
Nov. 26.-I begin to feel rather more like myself, and as if I could
write with less labor. I have had in these few past weeks such a
revelation of suffering, and such a revelation of joy, as mortal mind
can hardly conceive of. The world I live in now is a new world; a
world full of suffering that leads to unutterable felicity. Oh, this
precious, precious baby! How can I thank God enough for giving him to
me!
I see now why He has put some thorns into my domestic life; but for
them I should be too happy to live. It does not seem just the moment
to complain, and yet, as I can speak to no one, it is a relief, a
great relief, to write about my trials. During my whole sickness,
Martha has been so hard, so cold, so unsympathizing that sometimes it
has seemed as if my cup of trial could not hold another drop. She
routed me out of bed when I was so languid that everything seemed a
burden, and when sitting up made me faint away. I heard her say to
herself, that I had no constitution and had no business to get
married. The worst of all is that during that dreadful night before
baby came, she kept asking Ernest to lie down and rest, and was sure
he would kill himself, and all that, while she had not one word of
pity for me. But, oh, why need I let this rankle in my heart! Why
cannot I turn my thoughts entirely to my darling baby, my dear
husband, and all the other sources of joy that make my home a happy
one in spite of this one discomfort! I hope I am learning some useful
lessons from my joys and from my trials, and that both will serve to
make me in earnest, and to keep me so.
DEC. 4.-We have had a great time about poor baby's name. I expected
to call him Raymond, for my own dear father, as a matter of course.
It seemed a small gratification for mother in her loneliness. Dear
mother! How little I have known all these years what I cost her! But
it seems there has been a Jotham in the family ever since the memory
of man, each eldest son handing down his father's name to the next in
descent, and Ernest's real name is Jotham Ernest--of all the
extraordinary combinations! His mother would add the latter name in
spite of everything. Ernest behaved very well through the whole
affair, and said he had no feeling about it all. But he was so
gratified when I decided to keep up the family custom that I feel
rewarded for the sacrifice.
Father is in one of his gloomiest moods. As I sat caressing baby
to-day he said to me:
"Daughter Katherine, I trust you make it a subject of prayer to God
that you may be kept from idolatry."
"No, father," I returned, "I never do. An idol is something one puts
in God's place, and I don't put baby there."
He shook his head and said the heart is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked.
"I have heard mother say that we might love an earthly object as much
as we pleased, if we only love God better." I might have added, but
of course I didn't; that I prayed every day that I might love Ernest
and baby better and better. Poor father seemed puzzled and troubled
by what I did say, and after musing a while, went on thus:
"The Almighty is a great and terrible Being. He cannot bear a rival;
He will have the whole heart or none of it. When I see a young woman
so absorbed in a created being as you are in that infant, and in your
other friends, I tremble for you, I tremble for you!"
"But, father," I persisted, "God gave me this child, and He gave me
my heart, just as it is."
"Yes; and that heart needs renewing."
"I hope it is renewed," I replied. "But I know there is a great work
still to be done in it. And the more effectually it is done the more
loving I shall grow. Don't you see, father? Don't you see that the
more Christ-like I become the more I shall be filled with love for
every living thing?"
He shook his head, but pondered long, as he always does, on whatever
he considers audacious. As for me, I am vexed with my presumption in
disputing with him, and am sure, too, that I was trying to show off
what little wisdom I have picked up. Besides, my mountain does not
stand so strong as it did. Perhaps I am making idols out of Ernest
and the baby.
JANUARY 16, 1839.-This is our second wedding day. I did not expect
much from it, after last year's failure. Father was very gloomy at
breakfast, and retired to his room directly after it. No one could
get in to make his bed, and he would not come down to dinner. I
wonder Ernest lets him go on so. But his rule seems to be to let
everybody have their own way. He certainly lets me have mine. After
dinner he gave me a book I have been wanting for some time, and had
asked him for-"The Imitation of Christ." Ever since that day at Mrs.
Campbell's I have felt that I should like it, though I did think, in
old times, that it preached too hard a doctrine. I read aloud to him
the "Four Steps to Peace"; he said they were admirable, and then took
it from me and began reading to himself, here and there. I felt the
precious moments when I had got him all to myself were passing away,
and was becoming quite out of patience with him when the words
"Constantly seek to have less, rather than more," flashed into my
mind. I suppose this direction had reference to worldly good, but I
despise money, and despise people who love it. The riches I crave are
not silver and gold, but my husband's love and esteem. And of these
must I desire to have less rather than more? I puzzled myself over
this question in vain, but when I silently prayed to be satisfied
with just what God chose to give me of the wealth I crave, yes,
hunger and thirst for, I certainly felt a sweet content, for the
time, at least, that was quite resting and quieting. And just as I
had reached that acquiescent mood Ernest threw down his book, and
came and caught me in his arms.
"I thank God," he said, "my precious wife, that I married you this
day. The wisest thing I ever did was when I fell in love with you and
made a fool of myself!"
What a speech for my silent old darling to make! Whenever he says and
does a thing out of character, and takes me all by surprise, how
delightful he is! Now the world is a beautiful world, and so is
everybody in it. I met Martha on the stairs after Ernest had gone,
and caught her and kissed her. She looked perfectly astonished.
"What spirits the child has!" I heard her whisper to herself; "no
sooner down than up again."
And she sighed. Can it be that under that stern and hard crust there
lie hidden affections and perhaps hidden sorrows?
I ran back and asked, as kindly as I could, "What makes you sigh,
Martha? Is anything troubling you? Have I done anything to annoy
you?"
"You do the best you can," she said, and pushed past me to her own
room.