DORA’S DIARY.
“It seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet ’tis only three short
weeks. But in that time so much has happened that I scarcely can realize
it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the doctor left, and but
for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so constantly stirred up, I could
hardly have borne the loneliness. She is so full of life, and she has
made me laugh so much as she described her father’s conversion to
homœopathy, and then went off into ecstasies over Dr. West.
“But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie’s laugh was hushed,
and her merry eyes were dim with tears, as she helped me array a little
crippled form for the grave. Robin is dead! I can write about it now,
can speak of the darling composedly, but at first the thought of him
brought a great choking sob, and I could only weep, so fast he grew in
my love during the few days I watched over him. He was worse I heard,
and in spite of Mattie’s assertion that I was not able to endure it, I
went to see him. Nor was I sorry when I met the look of love which
beamed in his soft blue eyes, as folding his arms around my neck, he
said:
“‘I knew you’d come, for I asked God would He send you to little Robin,
and He did. You’ll stay, too, won’t you, till Robin’s dead? and you’ll
tell me again of my mother in heaven?’
“I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a dream I had
that night, in which Anna came to me, her robes all white and pure as
are the robes of the redeemed, a halo of glory round her head, and a
look of love in her eyes as she bent over me and said:
“‘There’s a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy, and ere many days
his baby hands will sweep its golden strings; but till that time
arrives, he wants you, Dora Freeman,—wants you to lead him down into the
river, across whose waters I shall wait to meet him. For Richard’s sake,
you’ll go.’
“The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke from what seemed
more reality than a dream.
“‘Not for Richard’s sake,’ I said, ‘but for Anna’s;’ and so next day I
went again to where the little sick boy lay, watching and waiting for
me.
“‘I don’t call him Papa Richard now,’ he said, when my wrappings were
removed, and I sat down beside him. ‘I told him what you said, that he
was not my father, and he told me, “No, Robin, I am not,” but he
wouldn’t say where papa was. Do you know, lady, is he in heaven, too?’
“I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into some other
channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and, vain girl that I was,
laying ingenious snares for ascertaining if Richard had mentioned me
when he was home.
“‘He talked of “Dora.” Is that you, and may I call you so?’ Robin said,
in reply to my direct interrogation as to what Richard had talked about;
and so after that I was Dora to the child, who would scarcely let
another wait upon him. ‘You seem like mother. You’ll stay,’ he kept
repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after me.
“I thought of Anna in my dream; thought of the little golden harp, and
stayed, while people talked, as people will, wondering what kept me at
that child’s sick-bed, and associating me at last with Richard, for
whose sake they said I had turned nurse to Robin. This piece of gossip
proved the resurrection of the old story, which was told and retold in a
thousand different forms, until madcap Jessie Verner threatened to box
the first one’s ears who should say Anna West to her again. This she
told me herself, watching with me by Robin, and that was all that passed
between us on the subject. It seemed to be tacitly understood that
neither Mattie, Bell, nor herself were to speak of the story to me, and
they did not. Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just
what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this point surrounded
myself with so strong a barrier of reserve, that they never tried to
break it down.
“Jessie had come to Mrs. West’s unsolicited, and it was strange how the
quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once to receive the wild young
creature, while Robin turned to her trustingly, and whispered when she
was gone:
“‘I don’t mind—her seeing my feet. She laughs at most everything, but
she wouldn’t at my poor, twisted toes.’
“Precious Robin! I would he could have seen the gush of tears with which
Jessie baptized those twisted toes when first the shrivelled things met
her view; but he was then where the halt and maimed are made whole, and
the feet which here had never stepped a step were treading the golden
streets. It was strange that one so young should be so sensitive about
his deformity, but he had been so from the time he first learned that he
was lame, and when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would often
ask his grandmother if she supposed the passers-by guessed that he was
not like them.
“It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body manifests itself
in the expression of the face, but it was not so with him. A more
beautiful face I never saw, and I loved to watch it as he lay sleeping
upon his pillow, wondering if the mother could have been as beautiful as
the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the father, wherever he
might be. I had said in my heart that I exonerated Richard, but at times
I experienced a feeling which I called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West
was almost hourly expecting, and who, when he came, found me with Robin
on my lap, his head nestled upon my bosom, while I sang to him of the
Heavenly City, where his mother waited for him.
“It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the coach stop
before the gate, and a rapid step upon the walk. My voice must have
trembled, for Robin unclosed his eyes as if to ask the cause, but I
hushed him gently, while in the adjoining apartment a low conversation
was carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last the doctor started
for the room where I was sitting, but I gave no sign of consciousness
until he was close beside me and I met the glance of his eyes,—a glance
in which for an instant I fancied I read more than a friendly interest;
the blood surged hotly through my veins; but thoughts of Anna, whom
dying he had kissed, holding her as I had held Robin, froze it back from
my face, which must have turned very white, for after his first words of
greeting, he said to me, ‘I cannot thank you enough for what you have
been to mother. She has told me of your kindness; but Dora,’ and his
hand touched my hair lightly, ‘I fear you are overtaxing your strength.
You are very pale to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.’
“I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling that his hand
slid from my hair, while he began speaking to Robin, who only complained
of weariness.
“‘I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard,’ Robin said, putting out his
thin fingers and playing with the heavy beard of the doctor, who had
knelt beside me the better to see the child. ‘I call you uncle all the
time because Dora wanted me to.’
“Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson with emotions whose
nature I could not guess. I only knew they hardened me into stone, and I
was glad when at last Jessie came in, for she relieved me from all
necessity of talking. Richard liked Jessie; her sprightly manner amused
and rested him, I could see, and it made me half angry to hear how
merrily he laughed at her remarks, even when he knew that Robin’s days
were numbered. How I clung to that child, refusing to give him to the
care of Mrs. West. He could not lie upon the bed, and I felt a kind of
fierce pleasure in holding him, and in knowing that Richard knew what I
was doing for Anna’s child.
“Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and the August moon cast
its beams across the floor, even to where I sat singing the low lullaby.
And out upon the piazza Dr. West and Jessie talked and laughed together,
until the sick boy whispered moaningly, ‘It’s very cold and dark in
here. Cover me closer, Dora, and light the candles now.’
“I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow, whose import I could
not mistake, and half bitterly, half reproachfully, I exclaimed:
“‘Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin needs you.’
“He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie; her eyes filling
with tears when she, too, saw and recognized the shadow which had
alarmed me. Robin was dying! We all knew it now, and Robin knew it, too,
and still refused to leave me for the arms which Richard stretched out
to him.
“‘It’s nicer here,’ he said, and there was a world of love in the soft
blue eyes as he nestled closer to me.
‘I guess I’m dying. It’s all so dark and queer. Is it very far to
heaven, and will I lose the way?’
“‘No, darling, for Jesus will go with you,’ Richard answered, now
pressing so close to Robin that his shoulder touched mine, and I felt
his breath upon my hair.
“‘And I won’t be a cripple any more? I’ll walk in heaven, and mother’s
there sure?’ was the next remark, to which there came no response,
except a moan from Mrs. West, until I answered:
“‘Yes, _sure, Robin, sure_.’
“‘I’ll tell her how good you was, and how much I loved you, too. What
shall I say for you, Grandma West? What word shall I carry mother?’
“Mrs. West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon the pillow, where
Robin’s had lain so long, and when he thus addressed her, she answered:
“‘Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till my hair all
turned white, and tell her how if in thought I ever wronged her, I am so
sorry now.’
“‘I’ll tell her,’ Robin whispered; ‘and you, Uncle Richard, what for
you?’
“The doctor’s frame shook, and his face was white as ashes as he was
thus appealed to for a message to the dead, but he did not speak until
Robin twice repeated, ‘And what for you?’
“Then with a sob, he said:
“‘Nothing, Robin; nothing from me.’
“‘Why! didn’t you love my mother?’ the dying boy asked, the look of
surprise for a moment mastering the look of death upon his face.
“‘Yes, he did,’ I said. ‘He loved her better than his life. He loves her
still. Tell her so.’
“Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the expression of his there
was something which subdued all my pride, and brought a rain of tears
upon my face. I did not longer refuse to let him take the child, nor did
Robin refuse to go; and I leaned back in my chair sick and faint, while
that great struggle went on between death and the little life whose lamp
had burned so feebly.
“It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Richard was praying
softly, and that his words were soothing to the sufferer, who suddenly
exclaimed:
“‘I see my mother! She’s like the picture in the frame! She’s waiting
for me over there where the banks are so green! She is in heaven sure;
but I don’t see my father anywhere! He is not there! Oh, where is my
father?’
“That was the last; and two hours later, Robin lay quietly upon his
couch, his golden curls all smooth and shining, just as Jessie had made
them, his blue eyes closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his
poor, crippled feet hidden from curious sight.
“That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I fancied did Dr.
West. All her levity was gone for the time, and in its place there came
a tender, motherly manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its
careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very child in the hands of
this girl of eighteen, while Richard, too, was brought within her
influence. He was weary with his long ride of a hundred and thirty
miles, but no one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remembered
everything, and when I would have worried Mrs. West with questions as to
where Robin’s clothes were kept, she hushed me gently, going about the
house in quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if she had
been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger. It was Jessie who made
Richard lie upon the lounge in the quiet sitting-room; Jessie who
arranged his pillows for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl,
and then brought him tea and toast she herself had made, and which he so
much needed after his wearisome ride. I did not marvel that he followed
her movements with eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an
ordinary interest; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the
dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my heart which I
suppose was jealousy, though I did not so define it, and I rather
enjoyed thinking that Anna, and Robin, and myself, were in some way
wronged by this new interest of Richard’s. I had cared for Robin to the
last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was not needed
longer, I thought, and so next morning I went home, saying to Mrs. West
and Richard, when they asked if I would soon be back:
“‘I shall attend the funeral, of course. There is no necessity for
coming before. Jessie will do everything.’
“Mrs. West did not urge me to return, neither did Richard, but he went
with me to the gate, opening it for me, and then, standing a moment as
if there was something he would say, ‘You do look tired, _Dora_,—more so
than I thought. You are not strong enough for all you have gone through.
I think I must prescribe,’ and he took my hand to feel the quickened
pulse. ‘You are feverish,’ he continued. ‘You ought to rest, but we
shall miss you so much. It’s a comfort to know you are here.’
“I was very foolish, very nervous, and the tears started, but I dashed
them away, and taking the offered medicine, answered back, ‘I leave to
Jessie the task of comforter. She will do better than I.’
“The next moment I was walking rapidly down the street, never looking
back until the corner was reached, when, glancing over my shoulder, I
saw the doctor still standing where I had left him, leaning upon the
gate. I never remember a time when I was so childish, or more unhappy,
than I was that day and the following, which last was the day of Robin’s
funeral. There was no parade, no display,—only a few friends and
neighbors, with Jessie, presiding genius, telling everybody what to do,
while, stranger than all, Judge Verner himself was there as director,
his carriage bearing Mrs. West and Richard to the grave where they
buried Robin.
“There was something in the young man which he liked, he said, even if
he was a fool, and so he had offered no objections to Jessie’s
proceedings, and was himself doing what he could for the family. There
was room in the carriage for four, and greatly to my surprise the Judge
whispered to me:
“‘That chap they call _Doctor_ wants you to go with them. He says, next
to his mother, the child loved you the best.’
“I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking back into the
corner I answered no, so decidedly that the judge hastened away,
repeating his ill success to Richard, who had risen, and with his mother
on his arm was advancing to the door. As he passed me he stopped, and
reaching his hand said gently, ‘_Dora_, come with us; for Robin’s sake.’
“I could not resist that voice, and I went forward taking his other arm,
and so out into the yard, past the groups of people who speculated
curiously as to why Miss Freeman should go with the chief mourners.
Behind us came Mr. Randall’s carriage, with Mattie, and Bell, and
Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of my rather awkward position.
“‘Mother,’ Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery, ‘it is seven
years to-day since Anna died. Do you remember?’
“‘Yes,’ she answered sadly, while I remembered that seven years ago was
also to have been his bridal.
“Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled road, past the
willow and the cedar, past the box, the pine, and fir, to where Anna lay
sleeping? Did he look back with anguish and regret to that other day,
when, with the August sunshine falling upon him as it was falling now,
he listened to the solemn words, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ and
heard the cold earth rattle down upon the coffin-lid? Yes, he did, I was
sure, and this was what blanched his cheeks so white and made his lips
quiver so, as we returned to the carriage and were driven from the yard,
leaving Anna and Robin there alone.
“That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could not remain quietly
in any place, but wandered uneasily about until near nightfall, when I
stole out unobserved and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna
and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which enclosed their
graves there was a rude, time-worn seat, placed upon the grass-plat
years ago, it would seem, from the names and dates carved upon it. Here
I sat down, and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all that
had transpired since I had come to Morrisville. Had I known all I was to
see and hear, would I have wished to come? I asked myself; but could
find no satisfactory answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his
memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was glad I had heard
of Anna ere I learned to think too much of Richard. Then thoughts of
Jessie arose, and I said aloud, ‘Can he ever forget Anna, who died in
his arms?’
“‘No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I mourn for her
always, as I mourned when we first laid her here, and I sat nearly all
the night just where you are sitting, watching the stars as they held
their first vigil over Anna’s grave, and almost impiously questioning
the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.’
“I knew it was Richard’s voice speaking to me, and I gave a little start
of surprise, but did not lose a word which he had spoken.
“‘I half believed I should find you here,’ he said, sitting down beside
me, and drawing a little more about my neck the shawl which had fallen
off. ‘Something told me I should find you, and so I came quite as much
to join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the
familiarity,—I never called you so at home, but here, where you have
done me and mine so much good, you will surely let me use a name which
mother and Robin adopted.’
“I bowed, and he went on.
“‘You do not know how glad I am that you were with us when Robin died,
or how it lessens the smart to have you sitting with me in sight of
Robin’s grave.’
“‘And Anna’s?’ I said, looking at him for the first time.
“‘Yes, Anna’s,’ he continued in the same kind tone; ‘and it is of her I
would tell you, Dora,’ and he spoke hurriedly now. ‘How much do you know
of Anna, and who told you?’
“‘Sarah Felton; and I know more than I wish I did,’ I answered, my voice
full of tears, which I could not repress.
“‘Felton!’ he repeated in dismay. ‘Unless her reputation for veracity
has improved, I would not vouch for the truth of what she might say,
though she liked Anna. Shall I tell you her history, Dora?’
“I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but I must hear the
story. I should never be happy till I had, and I answered eagerly:
“‘Yes, tell me of Anna.’”