| | 1 | Author: | Holmes
Mary Jane
1825-1907 | Requires cookie* | | | Title: | West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's  | | | | 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: | AT last, dear old book, repository of all my secret
thoughts and feelings, I am free to come to you
once more, and talk to you as I can talk to no
one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer struggle
than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspicion
that to-morrow night some other voice than mine
would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, the darling, cried
himself to sleep because I was going away, while the
other children manifested in various ways their sorrow
at my projected departure. Bless them all, how I do
love children, and hope if I am ever married, I may
have at least a dozen; though if twelve would make me
twice as faded and sickly, and,—and,—yes, I will say it,—
as peevish as Margaret's six have made her, I should
rather be excused. But what nonsense to be written by
me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged twenty-eight,—the
Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went
home with me from the sewing society. But they were
mistaken, for if the family Bible is to be trusted, I was
only twenty-five last Christmas, and I don't believe I
look as old as that.” 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. “`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, “It seems to me you've been gone a hundred
million billion years, and you've no idea what a
forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You, nor how
the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep up the Darndest
row—Auntie. I didn't mean to use that word, and
I'll scratch it right out, but when you are away, I'll be
dar—There I was going to say it agen. I'm a perfectly
Dredful Boy, ain't I? But I do love you, Auntie, and
last night,—now don't you tell pa, nor Tish, nor Nobody,
—last night after I went to bed, I cried and cried and
crammed the sheet in my mouth to keep Jim from hearing
me till I most vomited. I WAS too tired last night to open my trunk,
and so have a double duty to perform, that
of recording the events of the last two days.
Can it be that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left
Beechwood and all its cares, which, now that I am away
from them, do seem burdensome? What a delicious
feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if
you were of consequence, and how I enjoy knowing that
for a time at least I can rest; and I begin to think I need
it, for how else can I account for the languid, weary sensation
which prompts me to sit so still in the great, soft,
motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me, and which
stands right in the cosey bay-window, where I can look
out upon the beautiful scenery of Morrisville? “`Dr. West, of Beechwood, commissioned me to be the
bearer of this little package, which I should have brought
to you myself had Mrs. Randall known where to find
you. “A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but
I have enjoyed the quiet so much. It seems as if I never
should get rested, and I am surprised to find how tired I
am, and how selfish I am growing. I was wicked enough
to be sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner came,
bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit.
She is very sociable, and asks numberless questions about
Beechwood and its inhabitants. I wonder why I told her
of everybody but Dr. West, for I did, but of him I could
not talk, and did not. “A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I
cannot find it in my heart to scold him on paper for his
dreadful language. I will talk to him on my return, and
tell him he must be more choice of words and must make
an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural
to the Russells to spell badly. I can see just how they
miss me at home, and I cried over the letter till I was almost
sick. I am sure they want me there, and I wonder
what they would say if they knew how the Randalls, and
Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here until
September, Mattie and Bell saying they will then go
with me to Beechwood. Just think of those two fine
ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as expensively
furnished as either Mattie's or Bell Verner's, and we
keep as many servants; but the children, the confusion!
What would they do? No, I must not stay, though I should
enjoy it vastly. I like Bell Verner, as I know her better.
There is a depth of character about her for which I did
not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys
me excessively. She wants to get married, and makes
no secret of it either. She's old enough, too,—twenty-eight,
as she told me of her own accord, just as she is
given to telling everything about herself. Secretly, I
think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above
him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell
him that story about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad
Johnnie set him right. I would not have Lieutenant Reed
for the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great, good-natured,
vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. I
think I'll turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how
her black eyes would flash upon him. “`I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bringing
me that package, and did I go out at all, except to
church, I would thank you in person. If you can, will
you come and see me before you return to Beechwood? I
should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one
interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship. “Your package of money and little note, sent
by Miss Dora Freeman, was brought to me with
a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall's colored servant
Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so
much, and I wish you had kept a part for yourself.
Surely, if the commandment with promise means anything,—and
we know it does,—you, my son, will be
blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as
well as your unselfish devotion to those who have been,
one the innocent, the other the guilty, cause of so much
suffering. God reward my boy—my only boy as I sometimes
fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have
sent us word ere this. I have given him up, asking God
to pardon his sin, which was great. “Dear Mother:—Your letters do me so much good,
and make me strong to bear, though really I have perhaps
as little to trouble me as do most men of my years.
If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,—
if we were sure that she was safe with the good Shepherd,
and if we knew that Robert, whether dead or alive,
had repented of his sin, I should be very happy. * * * * “I do think you might come home, instead of
asking to stay longer. It's right shabby in you to leave
me so long, when you know how much I suffer. The
children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted real
cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You
cannot love me, Dora, as much as I do you, and I think
it's downright ungrateful after all I've done for you since
father died. If you care for me at all, you'll come in just
one week from to-day. I have about decided to go to
Saratoga, and want you to go with me. Be sure and
come.” “Dear Mrs. Russell: — Excuse the liberty I am
taking, but really if you and your husband knew how
much Dora has improved since leaving home, and how
much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her
coming home so soon. Husband and I and Bell Verner
all think it too bad, and I for one veto her leaving us.” “Mrs. Russell.—Madam:—Both myself and Mrs.
Randall are exceedingly loth to part with our young
guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will do
us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add
I think it your duty so to do.” “Dear Auntie:—The house is still a as mouse, and
seems so funny. The old folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy,
Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for Saratoga, leaving me
with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into
mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and
twitted about your being a drudge. I meant it all
then, but now that she is gone, I'll be—I guess I'll skip
the hard words, and say that every time I rem'ber
what I said to her, there's a thumpin' great lump comes
in my throat, and I wish I hadn't said it. I've begun
six letters to tell her I am sorry, and she only been gone
two days, but I've tore 'em all up, and now when you see
her you tell her I'm sorry,—'cause I am, and I keep
thinkin of when I was a little shaver in pettycoats, how
she sometimes took me in her lap and said I was a
preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. She says I'm
the pest of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor
lets me kiss her 'cause she says I slawber and wet her
face, and muss her hair and dress. But she's mother,
and I wish I hadn't sed them nasty things to her and
maid her cry. “Miss Freeman:—You probably do not expect me to
write to you, and will be surprised at receiving this letter.
The fact is I want permission to go to that little
library, which, until this morning, I did not know was
yours. There are some books I would like to read, but
will not do so without leave from the owner. “Dr. West.—Dear Sir:—You really were over-nice
about the books, and I should feel like scolding were it not
that your fastidiousness procured me a letter which I did
not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any book
you like. “I have been sick for many days, swallowing the biggest
doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die.
It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the common,
I heard Mattie tell Bell Verner when she came in
to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am
sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had
not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great
deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of
it is this: I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him
again! There is something wrong, and I've no faith in
anybody. I DID not see Dora after all, and I had thought
so much about it, feeling, I am afraid, more
than willing that Robin should be sick, and so
give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since receiving
that little note from Dora, I have frequently
dared to build castles of what might some day be, for
something in that message led me to hope that I am not
indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my
informal letter asking the loan of a book would prove it
so, so I sit and think and wonder what the future has in
store for me, until my patients are in danger of being neglected. “`Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly
live. “My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to
some one, and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out
my grief. Margaret is dead; and all around, the gay
world is unchanged; the song and the dance go on the
same as if in No.— there were no rigid form, no pale
Margaret gone forever,—no wretched husband weeping
over her,—no motherless little children left alone so
early. “Your mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-morrow,
on the evening train.” “The governor is O. K. He'll wait and so will I;
and if you must say no, he won't raise hob, but I will.
I tell you now I'll raise the very roof! Don't say no,
Auntie, don't! DO I believe it now, after the first stunning effect
is over, and I sit here alone thinking calmly of
what came to me in Jessie Verner's letter? Do
I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, remembering
as I do the expression of her face when she
sat by the two graves and I told her of Anna? Can
there be jealousy where there is no love? I think not,
and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie.
Oh, was I deceived, and did her coldness and ill-nature
mean more than I was willing to admit? It is very hard
to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows best
what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He
took her away, and now He will take my Dora. It is
sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I cannot help feeling
that I would rather she were lying by Anna's side than
to see her Squire Russell's wife. It is a most unnatural
match, for there is no bond of sympathy in their natures.
Dora must be unhappy after the novelty is gone. Darling
Dora,—it is not wicked to speak thus of her now, as there
is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which, nevertheless,
has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that
whether she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me.
She does not care for me. She never did, else why does
she grow so cross and crisp when my name is mentioned?
Alas! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and
built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share
with me. I am afraid to record on paper how dear she
is to me, or how constantly she has been in my mind since
I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for some
reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the
arrival of every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer
Jessie so soon, and send that message to Dora? I am
confident now that it was not a right spirit which prompted
me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken
faith with me,—that she should have waited at least the
year,—that in some way she was injuring me, and so vindictive
pride dictated the words I sent her. May I be
forgiven for the wrong; and if Dora is indeed to be the
bride of her sister's husband, may she be happy with him,
and never know one iota of the pain and suffering her marriage
will bring to me. “Are you going anywhere this summer? Of course
not, for so long as there is an unbaptized child, or a bedridden
old woman in the parish, you must stay at home,
even if you do grow as rusty as did Professor Cobden's
coat before we boys made him a present of a new one.
I say, Arthur, there was a capital fellow spoiled when
you took to the ministry, with your splendid talents,
and rare gift for making people like and believe in you. “Mr. Leighton.—Dear Sir:—Cousin Fanny is to
have a picnic down in the west woods to-morrow afternoon,
and she requests the pleasure of your presence.
Mrs. Meredith and Miss Ruthven are to be invited. Do
come. “My Dear Mr. Leighton:—It is my niece's wish
that I answer the letter you were so kind as to enclose
in the book left for her last Saturday. She desires me
to say that though she has a very great regard for you as
her clergyman and friend, she cannot be your wife, and
she regrets exceedingly if she has in any way led you to
construe the interest she has always manifested in you
into a deeper feeling. “Dear Thorne:—I am suffering from one of those
horrid headaches which used to make me as weak and
helpless as a woman, but I will write just enough to say
that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven, and you are free
to press your suit as urgently as you please. She is a
noble girl, worthy even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings,
and if I cannot have her, I would rather give her to you
than any one I know. Only don't ask me to perform the
ceremony. “Dear Thornton,” Arthur wrote, “you will be surprised,
no doubt, to hear that your old college chum is at
last engaged; but not to one of the fifty lambs about
whom you once jocosely wrote. The shepherd has wandered
from his flock, and is about to take into his bosom
a little stray ewe-lamb,—Lucy Harcourt by name—” | | | Similar Items: | Find |
|
