DR. WEST’S DIARY.
“June 13th, 10 P. M.
“How beautiful it is this summer night, and how softly the moonlight
falls upon the quiet street through the maple-trees! On such a night as
this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden must have been ere
the trail of the serpent was there. I have often wished it had been Adam
who first transgressed instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a man
than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon our race. And yet, when I
remember that by woman came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given
the highest honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much faith in
woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that was good and pure and
lovely. And have I been mistaken in her? Once, yes. But that is past.
Anna is dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for her as
for a sister. How long it took to crush out my love,—to overcome the
terrible pain which would waken me from the dream that I held her again
in my arms, that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden
curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do not like curls
now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Russell, with all her whims and
vanity, would be tolerably agreeable to me were it not for that forest
of hair dangling about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and
braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter? She is no more to me
than a friend, and possibly not that. Sometimes I fancy she avoids and
even dislikes me. I’ve suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she
urged me to buy what I could not afford just then. She thought me
avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at least among the
fast young men; but my heavenly Father knows, and some time maybe _Dora_
will. I like to call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her,
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit more like Anna, I
never could have liked her as I do,—brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora.
“And she has gone to Morrisville, where Anna lived. Is this Mrs. Randall
very grand, I wonder, and will Dora hear of Anna? Of course she will. I
knew that when I asked her to be the bearer of that package which I
might have sent by express. Perhaps she will take it herself, seeing
little Robin and so hearing of Anna. O Dora, you would pity me if you
knew how much I have suffered. Only God could give the strength to
endure, and He has done so until I carry my burden uncomplainingly.
“Will she see Lieutenant Reed, Mrs. Randall’s brother? What a blow that
story gave me, and yet I doubted its truth, though the possibility
nearly drives me wild, and shows me the real nature of my feelings for
Dora Freeman. Let me record the event as it occurred. This morning Dora
went away to Morrisville, my old home, though she does not know that,
because, for certain reasons, I have not chosen to talk much of my
affairs in Beechwood. She went early, before many people were astir, but
I saw her, and heard, as I believe, the roar of the train until it was
miles away, and then I awoke to the knowledge that the world had changed
with her going, that _now_ there was nothing before me but the same
monotonous round of professional calls, the tiresome chatter of my
landlady, Mrs. Minerva Markham, and the tedious sitting here alone.
“Heretofore there has been a pleasant excitement in watching the house
across the street for a glimpse of Dora, in waiting for her to come out
upon the lawn where she frolicked and played with all those little
Russells, in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone, and in
pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on her track and would
soon discover her hiding-place, in wishing that I could spirit her away
from the cares which should fall upon another, in seeing her after the
gas was lighted going in to dinner in her white muslin dress with the
scarlet geraniums in her hair, in watching her window until the shadow
flitting before it disappeared with the light, and I was left to wonder
if the little maiden were kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life
and being. All this, or something like it, has formed a part of my
existence, but with Dora’s going everything changed. Clouds came over
the sun; the breeze from the lake blew cold and chilly; Mrs. Markham’s
talk was more insipid than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two
of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleasure. Dora was
gone, and in a listless mood I made my round of visits, riding over the
Berkley hills and across the Cheshire flats, wondering if I did well to
send that package by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to her
hearing of Anna.
“It was sunset when I came home, a warm, purple sunset, such as always
reminds me of Dora in her mature beauty. There was a stillness in the
air, and from the trees which skirt the hillside leading to the town the
katydids were biping their clamorous notes. I used to like to hear them
when a boy, and many’s the time I’ve stood with _Anna_ listening to them
by the west door at home; but now there was a sadness in their tones as
if they were saying, ‘Dora’s gone; Dora’s gone,’ while the opposite
party responded, ‘And Anna too; and Anna too.’
“I had not wept for Anna since the hour when I first knew she was lost
forever, but to-night in the gathering twilight, with the music of my
boyhood sounding in my ears, the long ago came back to me again,
bringing with it the beautiful blue-eyed girl over whose death there
hangs so dark a mystery, and there was a moisture in my eyes, and a tear
which dropped on Major’s mane, and was shed for Anna dead as well as for
Dora gone. When I reached the office, I found upon the slate a
handwriting which I knew to be Johnnie Russell’s, and for a moment I
felt tempted to kiss it, because _he_ is Dora’s nephew. This is what he
had written:
“‘Mother’s toock ravin’ with one of her headaches, cause auntie’s gone,
and there’s nobody to tend to the young ones. Gawly, how they’ve cut up,
and she wants you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours, with
regret,
JOHN RUSSELL, JR.’
“I like that boy, so outspoken and truthful, but Dora will be shocked at
his language. And so my services were needed at the big house over the
way. Usually I like to go there, but now Dora is gone it is quite
another thing, for with all my daily discipline of myself, I dislike
Mrs. Russell. I have struggled against it, prayed against it, but as
often as I see her face and hear her voice, the old dislike comes back.
There’s nothing real about her except her selfishness and vanity. Were
she raving with fever, I verily believe her hair would be just as
elaborately curled, her handsome wrapper as carefully arranged, and her
heavy bracelets clasped as conspicuously around the wrists as if in full
dress for an evening party. To-night I found her in just this costume,
with a blue scarf thrown round her, as she reclined upon the pillow. I
knew she was suffering, from the dark rings beneath her eyes, and this
roused my sympathy. She seems to like me as a physician, and asked me to
stop after I had prescribed for her. Naturally enough she spoke of Dora,
whom she missed so much, she said, and then with a little sigh
continued:
“‘It is not often that I talk familiarly with any but my most intimate
friends, but you have been in our family so much, and know how necessary
Dora is to us, that you will partially understand what a loss it would
be to lose my sister entirely.’
“‘Yes, a terrible loss,’ I said, thinking more of myself than of her.
‘But is there a prospect of losing her?’ I asked, feeling through my
frame a cold, sickly chill, which rapidly increased as she replied:
“‘Perhaps not; but this Mrs. Randall, whom she has gone to visit, has a
brother at West Point, you know, Lieutenant Reed, the young man with
epaulets, who was here last summer.’
“‘Yes, I remember him,’ I said, and Mrs. Russell continued:
“‘He has been in love with Dora ever since she was with his sister
Mattie at school. Dora has not yet given him a decided answer, but I
know her preference for him, and as he is to be at his sister’s while
Dora is there, it is natural to fear that it may result in eventually
taking Dora away from Beechwood.’
“‘It may, it may,’ I responded, in a kind of absent way, for my brain
was in a whirl, and I scarcely knew what I did.
“She must have observed my manner, for her eyes suddenly brightened as
if an entirely new idea had been suggested to her.
“‘Now if it were some one near by,’ she continued, ‘perhaps she would
not leave me. The house is large enough for all, and Dora will marry
some time, of course. She is a kind sister, and will make a good wife.’
“At this point Squire Russell came in, and soon after I said good-by,
going out again into the summer night, beneath the great, full moon,
whose soft, pure light could not still the throbbing of my heart;
neither could the long walk I took down by the lake, where Dora and I
went one day last summer. There were quite a number of the villagers
with us, for it was a picnic, but I saw only Dora, who, afraid of the
water, stayed on the shore with me, while the rest went off in
sail-boats. We talked together very quietly, sitting on the bank,
beneath a broad grape-vine, of whose leaves she wove a sort of wreath,
as she told me of her dear old home, and how the saddest moments she had
ever known were those in which she fully realized that she was never
again to live there, that stranger hands would henceforth tend the
flowers she had tended, and stranger feet tread the walks and alleys and
winding paths with which the grounds abounded. I remember how the wish
flashed upon me that I might some day buy back the home, and take her
there as its mistress. Of all this I thought to-night, sitting on the
lone shore, just where she once sat, and listening to the low dash of
the waves, which, as they came rolling almost to my feet, seemed to
murmur, ‘Never, never more!’
“I do not believe I am love-sick, but I am very sad to-night, and the
walk down to the lake did not dispel the sadness. It may be it is wrong
in me thus to despond, when in many ways I have been prospered beyond my
most sanguine hopes. That heavy debt is paid at last, thanks to the kind
Father who raised me up so many friends, and whose healing hand has more
than once been outstretched to save when medicine was no longer of
avail. As is natural, the cure was charged to me, when I knew it was God
who had wrought the almost miraculous change. And shall I murmur at
anything when sure of His love and protection? Be still, my heart. If it
be God’s will, Dora shall yet rest in these arms, which fain would
shelter her from all the ills of life; and if ’tis not His will, what am
_I_, that I should question His dealings?”