XXIV.
MARCH 20.
HELEN returned Dr. Cabot's letter in silence this morning, but,
directly after breakfast, set forth to visit Mrs. Campbell, with the
little bottle of beef-tea in her hands, which ought to have gone
yesterday. I had a busy day before me; the usual Saturday baking and
Sunday dinner to oversee, the children's lessons for to-morrow to
superintend and hear them repeat, their clean clothes to lay out, and
a basket of stockings to mend. My mind was somewhat distracted with
these cares, and I found it a little difficult to keep on with my
morning devotions in spite of them. But I have learned, at least, to
face and fight such distractions, instead of running away from them
as I used to do. My faith in prayer, my resort to it, becomes more
and more the foundation of my life, and I believe, with one wiser and
better than myself, that nothing but prayer stands between my soul
and the best gifts of God; in other words, that I can and shall get
what I ask for.
I went down into the kitchen, put on my large baking apron, and began
my labors; of course the door-bell rang, and a poor woman was
announced. It is very sweet to follow Fenelon's counsel and give
oneself to Christ in all these interruptions; but this time I said,
"oh, dear!" before I thought. Then I wished I hadn't, and went up,
with a cheerful face at any rate, to my unwelcome visitor, who proved
to be one of my aggravating poor folks-a great giant of a woman, in
perfect health, and with a husband to support her if he will. I told
her that I could do no more for her; she answered me rudely, and kept
urging her claims. I felt ruffled; why should my time be thus
frittered away, I asked myself. At last she went off, abusing me in a
way that chilled my heart. I could only beg God to forgive her, and
return to my work, which I had hardly resumed when Mrs. Embury sent
for a pattern I had promised to lend her. Off came my apron, and up
two pairs of stairs I ran; after a long search it came to light. Work
resumed; door-bell again. Aunty wanted the children to come to an
early dinner. Going to Aunty's is next to going to Paradise to them.
Every thing was now hurry and flurry; I tried to be patient; and not
to fret their temper by undue attention to nails, ears, and other
susceptible parts of the human frame, but after it was all over, and
I had kissed all the sweet, dear faces good-by, and returned to the
kitchen, I felt sure that I had not been the perfect mother I want to
be in all these little emergencies-yes, far from it. Bridget had let
the milk I was going to use boil over, and finally burn up. I was
annoyed and irritated, and already tired, and did not see how I was
to get more, as Mary was cleaning the silver (to be sure, there is
not much of it), and had other extra Saturday work to do. I thought
Bridget might offer to run to the corner for it, though it isn't her
business, but she is not obliging, and seemed as sulky as if I had
burned the milk, not she. "After all," I said to myself, "what does
it signify, if Ernest gets no dessert? It isn't good for him, and how
much precious time is wasted over just this one thing?" However, I
reflected, that arbitrarily refusing to indulge him in this respect
is not exactly my mission as his wife; he is perfectly well, and
likes his little luxuries as well as other people do. So I humbled my
pride and asked Bridget to go for the milk, which she did, in a lofty
way of her own. While she was gone the marketing came home, and I had
everything to dispose of. Ernest had sent home some apples, which
plainly said, "I want some apple pie, Katy." I looked nervously at
the clock, and undertook to gratify him. Mary came down, crying, to
say that her mother, who lived in Brooklyn, was very sick; could she
go to see her? I looked at the clock once more; told her she should
go, of course, as soon as lunch was over; this involved my doing all
her absence left undone.
At last I got through with the kitchen, the Sunday dinner being well
under way, and ran upstairs to put away the host of little garments
the children had left when they took their flight, and to make myself
presentable at lunch. Then I began to be uneasy lest Ernest should
not be punctual, and Mary be delayed; but he came just as the clock
struck one. I ran joyfully to meet him, very glad now that I had
something good to give him. We had just got through lunch, and I was
opening my mouth to tell Mary she might go, when the door-bell rang
once more, and Mrs. Fry, of Jersey City, was announced. I told Mary
to wait till I found whether she had lunched or not; no, she hadn't;
had come to town to see friends off, was half famished, and would I
do her the favor, etc., etc. She had a fashionable young lady with
her, a stranger to me, as well as a Miss Somebody else, from Albany,
whose name I did not catch. I apologized for having finished lunch.
Mrs. Fry said all they wanted was a cup of tea and a bit of bread and
butter, nothing else, dear; now don't put yourself out.
"Now be bright and animated, and like yourself," she whispered, "for
I have brought these girls here on purpose to hear you talk, and they
are prepared to fall in love with you on the spot."
This speech sufficed to shut my mouth.
Mary had to get ready for these unexpected guests, whose appetites
proved equal to a raid on a good many things besides bread and
butter. Mrs. Fry said, after she had devoured nearly half a loaf of
cake, that she would really try to eat a morsel more, which Ernest
remarked, dryly, was a great triumph of mind over matter. As they
talked and laughed and ate leisurely on, Mary stood looking the
picture of despair. At last I gave her a glance that said she might
go, when a new visitor was announced--Mrs. Winthrop, from Brooklyn,
one of Ernest's patients a few years ago, when she lived here. She
professed herself greatly indebted to him, and said she had come at
this hour because she should make sure of seeing him. I tried to
excuse him, as I knew he would be thankful to have me do, but no, see
him she must; he was her "pet doctor," he had such "sweet, bedside
manners," and "I am such a favorite with him, you know!"
Ernest did not receive his "favorite" with any special warmth; but
invited her out to lunch and gallanted her to the table we had just
left. Just like a man! Poor Mary! she had to fly round and get up
what she could; Mrs. Winthrop devoted herself to Ernest with a
persistent ignoring of me that I thought rude and unwomanly. She
asked if he had read a certain book; he had not; she then said, "I
need not ask, then, if Mrs. Elliott has done so? These charming
dishes, which she gets up so nicely, must absorb all her time." "Of
course," replied Ernest. "But she contrives to read the reports of
all the murders, of which the newspapers are full."
Mrs. Winthrop took this speech literally, drew away her skirts from
me, looked at me through her eye-glass, and said, "Yes?" At last she
departed. Helen came home, and Mary went. I gave Helen an account of
my morning; she laughed heartily, and it did me good to hear that
musical sound once more.
"It is nearly five o'clock," I said, as we at last had restored
everything to order, "and this whole day has been frittered away in
the veriest trifles. It isn't living to live so. Who is the better
for my being in the world since six o'clock this morning?"
"I am for one," she said, kissing my hot cheeks; "and you have given
a great deal of pleasure to several persons. Your and Ernest's
hospitality is always graceful. I admire it in you both; and this is
one of the little ways, not to be despised, of giving enjoyment." It
was nice in her to say that, it quite rested me.
At the dinner-table Ernest complimented me on my good housekeeping.
"I was proud of my little wife at lunch" he said.
"And yet you said that outrageous thing about my reading about
nothing but murders!" I said.
"Oh, well, you understood it," he said, laughingly.
"But that dreadful Mrs. Winthrop took it literally."
"What do we care for Mrs. Winthrop?" he returned. "If you could have
seen the contrast between you two in my eyes!"
After all, one must take life as it comes, its homely details are so
mixed up with its sweet charities, and loves, and friendships that
one is forced to believe that God has joined them together and does
not will that they should be put asunder. It is something that my
husband has been satisfied with his wife and his home to-day; that
does me good.
MARCH 30.-A stormy day and the children home from school, and no
little frolicking and laughing going on. It must, be delightful to
feel well and strong while one's children are young, there is so much
to do for them. I do it; but no one can tell the effort, it costs me.
What a contrast there is between their vitality and the languor under
which I suffer! When their noise became intolerable, I proposed to
read to them; of course they made ten times as much clamor of
pleasure and of course they leaned on me, ground their elbows into my
lap, and tired me all out. As I sat with this precious little group
about me, Ernest opened the door, looked in, gravely and without a
word, and instantly disappeared. I felt uneasy and asked him, this
evening, why he looked so. Was I indulging the children too much, or
what was it? He took me into his arms and said:
"My precious wife, why will you torment yourself with such fancies?
My very heart was yearning over you at that moment, as it did the
first time I saw you surrounded by your little class at
Sunday-school, years ago, and I was asking myself why God had given
me such a wife, and my children such a mother."
Oh, I am glad I have got this written down! I will read it over when
the sense of my deficiencies overwhelms me, while I ask God why He
has given me such a patient, forbearing husband.
APRIL 1.-This has been a sad day to our church. Our dear Dr. Cabot
has gone to his eternal home, and left us as sheep without a
shepherd.
His death was sudden at the last and found us all unprepared for it.
But my tears of sorrow are mingled with tears of joy. His heart had
long been in heaven, he was ready to go at a moment's warning; never
was a soul so constantly and joyously on the wing as his. Poor Mrs.
Cabot! She is left very desolate, for all their children are married
and settled at a distance. But she bears this sorrow like one who has
long felt herself a pilgrim and a stranger on earth. How strange that
we ever forget that we are all such!
APRIL 16.-The desolate pilgrimage was not long. Dear Mrs. Cabot was
this day laid away by the side of her beloved husband, and it is
delightful to think of them as not divided by death, but united by it
in a complete and eternal union.
I never saw a husband and wife more tenderly attached to each other,
and this is a beautiful close to their long and happy married life. I
find it hard not to wish and pray that I may as speedily follow my
precious husband, should God call him away first. But it is not for
me to choose.
How I shall miss these faithful friends, who, from my youth up, have
been my stay and my staff in the house of my pilgrimage! Almost all
the disappointments and sorrows of my life have had their Christian
sympathy, particularly the daily, wasting solicitude concerning my
darling Una, for they to watched for years over as delicate a flower,
and saw it fade and die. Only those who have suffered thus can
appreciate the heart-soreness through which, no matter how outwardly
cheerful I may be, I am always passing. But what then! Have I not ten
thousand times made this my prayer, that in the words of Leighton, my
will might become, "identical with God's will."
"And shall He not take me at my word?" Just as I was writing these
words, my canary burst forth with a song so joyous that a song was
put also into my mouth. Something seemed to say, this captive sings
in his cage because it has never known liberty, and cannot regret a
lost freedom. So the soul of my child, limited by the restrictions of
a feeble body, never having known the gladness of exuberant health,
may sing songs that will enliven and cheer. Yes, and does sing them!
What should we do without her gentle, loving presence, whose frailty
calls forth our tenderest affections and whose sweet face makes
sunshine in the shadiest places! I am sure that the boys are truly
blessed by having a sister always at home to welcome them, and that
their best manliness is appealed to by her helplessness.
What this child is to me I cannot tell. And yet, if the skillful and
kind Gardener should house this delicate plant before frosts come,
should I dare to complain?