University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.

Mr. Hay felt exceedingly vexed, and not at all
well pleased with Seymour, and visited his anger
upon him, as old gentlemen will do upon young
ones sometimes, by saying some things rather hard
to bear. Time Rice had always been very much
under restraint when in Mr. Hay's presence, and
from his quickness and readiness as a business man
had acquired no small share of his good graces—
a sort of habitual liking which sometimes goes
further with us than a better-founded esteem
would do.

So Seymour was in disgrace all day, which
called forth the sympathies of the fair Caroline,
who was but a soft-hearted little thing after all,
and prone to take part with misfortune in any
shape. She told him that her father was really ill,
as indeed any body might observe, and that he

was only a little cross now and then, and so good
all the rest of the time that it made up for it and a
good deal more,—and such like maidenly topics
of consolation; and Seymour was consoled; though
evening brought intelligence of the complete defeat
of Mr. Rice, and Mr. Hay was more pettish
than ever. Mr. Rice had found listeners and
cheerers during the lucid exposition of his sentiments,
(which we were empowered to give through
the kindness of an able reporter,) but when it came
to the matter of actually putting into office a person
of such accommodating views, the sober farmers had
quietly cast their influence into the other scale,
and elected a candidate who never made a stump
speech in his life.

The very next morning, when Mr. Hay arose
from the breakfast table and laid his hand on the
great Bible as a signal for the commencement of
family worship, that hand dropped powerless at his
side, and he sank helpless, though not insensible,
upon the floor. He tried to speak, wishing to
reassure the terrified family, but no sound emanated
from those revered lips, and in a few moments
more he sank back with closed eyes and the pallor
of death upon his countenance.

It was evidently an apoplectic seizure, and there
was no physician within four miles. The agonizing
distress of all may be conceived by those who
have witnessed such scenes under such circumstances,
but of these the dweller in the close-packed

city can have but little idea. What then
was the relief of Mrs. Hay, when Seymour asked
to be allowed to bleed Mr. Hay, saying that he had
learned the art with an especial view to such emergencies.
He was hailed as a minister of mercy,
and when he performed the office with ease, and
when returning animation was the result, not a
member of the family but could have knelt at his
feet to bless him for the kind forethought which
had prompted him to acquire so inestimable a
knowledge.

When Mr. Hay was in some measure restored, it
was found that his right hand was almost useless,
and that he was otherwise much disabled by this
sudden attack. Seymour attended him constantly,
and was made to hear, oftener than he wished, the
regrets of his kind old friend at thought of that
day's pettishness.

“You were right, my boy, and I was wrong, but
you must lay it all to the apoplexy. And here,
you see, I am justly punished by being obliged to
call upon you for aid all day long. But we are poor
helpless creatures, and we who live in the wilderness,
above all, must learn to bear with each other's
infirmities, since no one knows whose turn may
come next, and money will not buy what we need.”

This is a truth which we are daily made to feel;
mutual kindness is often our sole dependence, and
the character of a good neighbor is the one most
coveted.

Mr. Thurston was often at the bedside of the
invalid, and when he saw him recovering, he at
last asked Seymour if he had come to a decision in
his favor. “Here are our friends round us,” said
Mr. Thurston, “here is thine own father—now tell
me, may I hope that thy mind is to go with us
and share our lot? Depend on me for doing at
least all I promise.”

Seymour cast his eyes round the assembly, and
every look was turned on him. He knew his
father now felt sufficient confidence in him to be
willing he should decide for himself, but he looked
at Mr. Hay, helpless and dependent, and thought
of his growing infirmities, and emotion choked
his utterance.

“Thou canst not decide?” said Mr. Thurston.

“O Seymour! don't go and leave—father”
—said Caroline Hay—tears trembling in her
eyes, and Seymour's difficulties were solved in
an instant.

“I believe I may be more useful here,” said
he to Mr. Thurston, “and if more useful more
happy; so I can only return heartfelt thanks for
your generous offer.”

“Thou art right, undoubtedly,” said the Friend,
“but I wish my path could have been thine.”

* * * * * *

Among the loads of gifts and keepsakes sent
back by Mr. and Mrs. Thurston after they once

more reached their home, was a valuable case of
books for Seymour, and one of more lady-like
reading for Caroline, and with the latter came a
dress so delicately fancied that it would have done
very well to “stand up in meeting” with, for one
of the plainest of the drab sisterhood. “I shall like
to imagine thee dressed in it, dear Caroline,” wrote
Mrs. Thurston, “and I know it will suit friend Seymour's
taste right well.”

He did not find fault with it certainly, for in
some few months after that time it was worn as a
wedding-dress, and to Seymour at least Caroline
had never looked so beautiful.

* * * * * *

A wedded life begun by an act of virtuous sacrifice
can scarcely fail to be a happy one. That
complacency of temper which sheds light over the
darkest hour is never more surely nourished than
by the habitual pleasure of doing good and conferring
happiness. Seymour is Mr. Hay's right hand,
and his influence and that of his fair and gracious
Caroline is a daily blessing to the younger members
of both families. I feel assured that we shall be
able to point to them half a dozen years hence as
a proof that cultivation and refinement are any
thing but lost in the country.