 | CHAPTER VI.
LETTERS. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
LETTERS.
No. 1.
Mrs. David West's Letter.
“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.
“And so the debt is paid at last! Dear Richard, when
I read that I shed tears of gratitude and thanksgiving
that you were free from a load you never should have
less than seven years, besides supporting me and Robin.
He grows dearer to me every day, and yet I seldom look
at him without a great choking sob rising to my throat.
He is like his mother, and I loved her as if she had been
my daughter. O Anna, lost darling, was she as pure
and sinless when she died as when she crept into my arms
and whispered of her newly found hope in Him who can
keep us all from sin? God only knows. Alas! that her
end should be wrapt in so dark a mystery; and ten times
alas! that any one should be malignant enough to blame
you, who had well-nigh died when the trouble fell upon
us.
“And so you fear you are more interested in this Dora
than you ought to be, or rather that she is far too good
for you.
“She must be very, very good, if my boy be not worthy
of her.
“Yes, the Randalls are very grand, fashionable people,
as you may know from the fact that the Verners and
Strykers took them up at once. I don't know what influence
they may have over Dora; not a bad one, I hope.
I think I saw her the other night riding by on horseback,
in company with Bell Verner. It was too dark to see
her distinctly, but I heard Miss Verner say, in reply evidently
to some remark, `I never trouble myself to know
or inquire after any one out of our set,' and then they
`set' she will not probably bring Dora to see me, but I
have obviated that difficulty by writing her a note and
inviting her to call on me. Did I do right? I am
anxious to see her, for a mother can judge better than
her son of what is in woman.
“By the way, did you know that Mr. Randall was the
purchaser of West Lawn, our old home?
“H. W.”
No. 2.
Extract from Dr. West's reply.
“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.
“There's Dora, I know,—a continuous trouble, but
one with which I would not willingly dispense. You ask
if you did right to invite her to call. You seldom do
wrong; but in this case, O mother, I have become a
perfect coward since Dora left me. I thought I wanted
her to know all that we know of Anna and Robin; but
now the very possibility of her hearing the little you can
might, makes the cold sweat ooze out in drops upon my
face. If she comes, tell her as little as possible. It
gives me a thrill of satisfaction to know that she is at
West Lawn, enjoying the roses I planted. Dear West
Lawn! but for that terrible misfortune which prompted
us to sell it, you might have belonged to Miss Bell Verner's
set. But don't tell Dora. I'd rather she should like
me for myself, and not for what I used to be.” * * * *
No. 3.
Extract from Margaret's letter to Dora.
* * * * “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.”
No. 4.
Extract from Mattie's letter to Margaret.
“Dear Mrs. Russell: — Excuse the liberty I am
taking, but really if you and your husband knew 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.”
No. 5.
Extract from Mr. Randall's letter.
“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.”
Scene in Mrs. Russell's parlor one morning about the
first of July.
Squire John nervously fumbling his watch-chain, looking
very hot and distressed; Johnnie all swollen up, looking
like a little volcano ready to explode; Mrs. Russell crying
over Mr. and Mrs. Randall's letters, wondering what
business it was of theirs to meddle and talk, just as if she
did not do her duty by Dora. Who, she'd like to know, had
supported Dora these dozen years, sending her to school,
taking her to Newport, and buying her such nice dresses?
It was right mean in Dora, and she would not stand it.
Dora should come home, and John should write that very
day to tell her so, unless he liked Dora better than he did
her, as she presumed he did—yes, she knew he did.
“Thunderation, mother, why shouldn't he like Auntie
best?” and with this outburst, Johnnie plunged heart
and soul into the contest. “Who, I'd like to know,
makes the house decent as a fellow likes to have it,—a
married old chap, I mean, like father. 'Tain't you. It's
Auntie, and so the whole co-boozle of servants say. You
ask 'em. Talk about what you've done for Dora these
dozen years, taking her to Newport, and all that! I think
I'd dry up on that strain and tell what she'd done for me.
Hasn't there been a baby about every other week since
she lived here, and hasn't Auntie had the whole care of the
brats? And at Newport how was it? I never told before,
but I will now. I heard two nice gentlemen talking
over what a pretty girl Miss Freeman was, and how
mean and selfish it was in her sister to make such a
little nigger of her. They didn't say nigger, but that's
what they meant. Dora ain't coming home, no how.
You can go to Saratogo without her. Take Clem, and
Daisy, and Tish, and Jim. You know they act the best
of the lot. Leave me and Burt and Ben at home. I'll
see to them, and we shall get on well enough.”
By this time Margaret was in hysterics, to think a son
of hers should abuse her so, with his father standing by
and never once trying to stop him. Possibly some such
idea crept through Squire John's brain, for, putting into
his voice as much sternness as he was capable of doing,
he said, “My boy, I'm astonished that you should use
and the like. Your Aunt Dora would be greatly distressed;
but, Madge,” turning to his sobbing wife and
trying to wind his arm around her waist, “Johnnie is
right, on the whole; his plan is a good one. We'll take
Clem, and Rosa, too, if you like, leaving Johnnie, Ben,
and Burt at home, and Dora shall stay where she is.
She was tired when she went away, and very pale. You
are not selfish, Madge; you'll let her stay. I'll write so
now,—shall I?” and there was a sound very much like a
very large, hearty kiss, while a moment after Johnnie,
in the kitchen, was turning a round of somersaults, striking
his heels in the fat sides of the cook, and tripping up
little Burt in his delight at the victory achieved for
Dora.
No. 6.
Extract from Johnnie's letter to Dora.
“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
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.
“Dr. West was here just now, and wanted to borrow
a book, but when he found it was yourn he wouldn't take
it; he said he'd write and ask permission.
“We get on nice, only cook has spanked Ben once and
Burt twice. I told her if she did it agen I'd spank her,
and so I will. I think I've got her under, so she knows
I'm man of the house. The old cat has weened her kittens.
Burt shut one of 'em up in the meal chest, and
the white-fased cow has come in, which means she's got a
calph.”
No. 7.
Dr. West's letter, on which he spent three hours, wasting
half a dozen sheets of note-paper, and which when
finished did not please him at all.
“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.
“I hear you are enjoying your visit, and I am glad, although
I miss you very much. Of course you know your
brother and sister are at Saratoga, and that Johnnie is
keeping house, as he says. If you have not time to answer
this to me, please say to Johnnie whether I can
read the books or not.
No. 8.
Dora's reply, over which she spent two hours and wasted
five sheets of note-paper.
“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.
“And so you miss me? I wonder if that is true. I
should not think you would. I'm not worth missing.
I hope you will see Johnnie as often as possible.
West.”
| CHAPTER VI.
LETTERS. West Lawn and The rector of St. Mark's | |