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UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 (1)
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University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 (1)
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1Author:  Cummins Maria S. (Maria Susanna) 1827-1866Add
 Title:  Mabel Vaughan  
 Published:  2003 
 Subjects:  University of Virginia Library, Text collection | UVA-LIB-Text | University of Virginia Library, Early American Fiction, 1789-1875 | UVA-LIB-EarlyAmFict1789-1875 
 Description: On a pleasant midsummer's afternoon, a middle-aged lady, with a mild and thoughtful face, sat alone in her quiet parlor, busily engaged in sewing. It was a country home in which she dwelt, and her low window opened directly into a green and sloping orchard, now fragrant with new-mown hay, the sweet breath of which was borne in on every passing breeze. She was a woman of many cares, and but little leisure, and for more than an hour had not lifted her eyes from her work, when, suddenly attracted by the merry voices of children, she arrested herself in the act of setting a stitch, and, with her needle still poised between finger and thumb, leaned her elbow on the window-sill and for several minutes gazed earnestly and attentively upon a little group collected beneath an opposite tree. They were too far off for their words to be distinguishable, but happiness shone in their faces, mirth rang in their careless shout, and joy danced in all their motions. Whether chasing the light butterfly, pelting each other with tufts of hay, or, in the very exuberance of their spirits, scampering without purpose or rest in the sunshine, they were in every view pictures of infant glee, cheering and happy sights to a mother's heart. Though now and then smiling on their sport, however, the gentle-faced lady at the window was watching them with a more thoughtful and observant gaze than the occasion seemed to warrant, for she saw amid their play what a less careful eye might have failed to discern, and from it she drew a moral. “Dearest May:—After three days and nights of constant travelling, I arrived at the miserable town from which father wrote to you, and found him wretchedly accommodated in a mere barn of a place, every tolerable room in the tavern, and every spare corner in the few private houses, having been appropriated to those of the passengers who were more seriously injured. Father's escape seems almost miraculous, as he was in the front car, which rolled over twice as it fell down 27* the embankment. He has suffered considerably from a bruise on his back, and a sprain in the ancle, which made him quite helpless for a few days. He has, also, had an uncomfortable sensation of dizziness in the head, but that is merely the natural effect of the jar, and has already begun to subside. Do not be anxious about him, for I flatter myself I make a capital doctor, nurse, cook, and housekeeper, all of which offices have devolved upon me. “Dear Miss Mabel,” wrote Lydia, “I'm afraid you don't know that Mrs. Leroy is very sick at the hotel here in New York. I hated to frighten you, and didn't know how to tell you of it without; but mother says you ought to know, for it wouldn't be like you not to come right away. When she first took sick, Cecilia sent for us, and we've been here ever since. Cecilia has gone back to Cape May to wait on another lady. Mother does the best she can, and I try to be of some use. The folks in the hotel are very good, and the doctor comes ever so often; but he can't seem to help her, and she's getting very bad. Oh, Miss Mabel, we wish you were here, and we hope you will start as soon as you get this. “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—Your kind New Year's letter, with all the pleasant reminiscences, affectionate messages, and loving inquiries from yourself and the dear girls, was a most welcome proof of the tender interest with which you have followed me to my new home, and claims a hearty response; though before I have answered half your questions, I fear you will weary of my Western experiences. We have now passed two winters in our new home, and begin to feel ourselves old settlers;—the more so, as no less than thirty families have established themselves in the village since our arrival. As we are a little on the outskirts of the town, however, we have no near neighbor, except Mr. Gracie, the clergyman, who lives across the opposite bit of prairie, and who, with his daughter, are our most intimate and esteemed friends. I have frequently spoken of Helen in my letters, so her name and many points of her disposition and character are no doubt familiar to you. But you cannot imagine the treasure she has been to me, ever since the first moment of our acquaintance. Next to yourself, there is no one to whom I am so much indebted for the ease and pleasure with which I have been enabled to adapt myself to our new circumstances. Care sits so lightly on her shoulders, and she knows so well how to combine employment and recreation, that in her society the most important duties cease to be burdensome, and little mishaps afford only new occasion for merriment. The children of the rough backwoodsmen, who are among her father's parishioners, hear the sound of her horse's feet, and run to meet her the moment she is in sight, sure of some trifling gift, a story, or a ride on the pony, which seems to be common property. If she goes with her basket of medicines to visit the sick, at a distance, she comes back so laden with flowers, you would think she had been a Maying; and an old Canadian Indian woman, to whom she daily reads a chapter in her French Bible, declares her voice more musical than running water. I have never seen father so abstracted with the cares of business that he has not a pleasant word for his fairy nurse, as he calls her, and no bribe is so effectual with the boys, or inducement rather (for I, like you, scorn the use of bribes), as the promise of an evening visit to Helen. As for Harry—but never mind about Harry—sisters are so suspicious, you know, where their brothers are concerned. “Dear Aunt Sabiah:—thus she wrote—I have been wandering about the house for the last half hour, asking myself whether the cottage-roofed chamber above can be made warm in winter, and cool in summer, whether the stairs are not too steep for any but youthful feet to climb, whether our parlor is not too contracted for comfort, and the view from its windows too strange and dreary to ever wear the look of home; and I have concluded, in spite of all disadvantages, that, with love on our side, and the earnest wish to make you happy, you would be far more comfortable here, than in my aunt Ridgway's spacious and richly-furnished mansion. I never dared say this before. I never ventured to breathe the hope I have long had at heart, for I knew your love of old associations, and your dislike of change. But your last letter has made me bold. I cannot bear the thought that you are subjected to such trials, such hardships, and such absolute indignities, as I plainly perceive you have lately been made to suffer, when here you would be independent, appreciated, and beloved. It is true we have not, as we once had, luxuries to offer, but we have all the necessaries and most of the comforts of life, and these, too, in abundance; for our Western lands are so lavish in their produce, that hospitality with us almost ceases to be a virtue. Then, too, although my father, as you well know, has sacrificed everything but this Western property for the payment of his debts, and is unwilling to dispose of any portion of the estate at present, Harry is gradually bringing a large part of it under cultivation, and, if his success continues, the rent which he insists upon paying, will not only furnish us with every needed supply, but enable us to lay by something for the children's education. So, even if your poor hands are dis abled with the rheumatism, you need not fear that your presence here will be the burden which you say it is to my aunt Margaret. On the contrary, we shall hail your coming with delight, and shall rejoice to contribute in every way to your happiness. I have consulted father, who quite agrees with me in my view of the matter, and will, I am sure, be rejoiced to welcome you. The boys are improving very much as they grow older, and now that they have such an ample play-ground, you will not suffer at all from their noise. Our village shop-keeper goes to the eastward every spring for the purchase of goods, and will be a most excellent escort on the journey. You see I am quite taking it for granted you will come, but it is because I feel so truly, dear aunt, that your rightful and natural place is at our hearth-stone, as well as in our hearts; and because I know you so well that I venture to believe you will not disappoint the earnest wishes and hopes of “Dear Mrs. Herbert:—When I look back to the days of my childhood, there ever arises before me the image of one dear friend, whose tender love and devoted care made it a blessed and happy portion of my life, on which memory loves to dwell. When I consider the years which have since intervened, I can not fail to be reminded, that at every step I have been counselled, strengthened and cheered, by the advice, the warnings, and the lessons of this same dear friend; and now that I am about to enter upon a new sphere of duty, I feel an instinctive yearning to still claim a place in her good wishes, her affection, and her prayers. You have cherished the child, encouraged the woman—let me bespeak your loving sympathy for the wife. It does not become me to say much of him to whom, to-morrow, I expect to stand in this new and near relation. Some day, I trust, you will see and know Mr. Percival, and be enabled to judge for yourself. But if genuine simplicity and true manliness of heart and life entitle a man to honor, I may well be proud of the station which he holds, both independently, and in the world's opinion; and if strength of Christian principle is the surest foundation for confidence and trust, I may well believe that the sentiments which he now professes are sincere, and will be lasting. I trust I have not said too much; but indeed, dear Mrs. Herbert, my only fear is that I am not worthy to be the object of his choice; and it is that I may become so, that I chiefly beg an interest in your prayers. Bayard (for you will wish to know him by his Christian name also) is the son of Counsellor Percival, as he was usually called, a lawyer, formerly of high standing in New York city, but now for some years deceased. His widow is still living, vigorous and active, although nearly seventy-six years of age. She, too, is well known in New York and elsewhere, for the active part she has taken in every philanthropic and benevolent scheme; nor does she, even at her present advanced period of life, feel herself excused from exertion, or unfitted for active duty. You will realize this, when I tell you that she has recently taken a house in Cambridge, with the view of furnishing a home for two of her grandsons, now students at Harvard, and that she has invited Alick and Murray also to become members of her family. No proposition could have been more opportune, so far as the boys are concerned; for Alick hopes to be prepared for admission to the University at the commencement of the next collegiate year, and Murray could nowhere pursue, to such advantage, the mathematical studies which are to fit him for his chosen profession—that of an engineer. At first, we all opposed the plan, fearing Madam Percival was assuming too much care; but she over-persuaded my father and Harry, convinced me that she anticipated only pleasure from the charge, and finally carried her point.
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