True womanhood a tale |
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| 6. | CHAPTER VI. |
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 | CHAPTER VI. True womanhood |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
Nearly two months after these transactions, about which a
cloud of mystery still hung, though gleams of light appeared
now and then, at long intervals, to gladden the hearts of the
mourners and sufferers, Arthur and Julia met in the hall one
morning, on their way to a very late breakfast.
“One moment, if you please, dear Julia,” said he; “I have
been trying to see you by yourself, without being observed or
questioned by Uncle George, or mother; and if you will take
charge of this little box, which I have had in my possession
ever since I returned to the city, we will go into the breakfast-room
before they come down, and there we may have at least
a few minutes together.”
Julia trembled. “What! more mystery, Cousin Arthur!”
said she, taking the little box, and stepping before him into their
private parlor, where breakfast had been waiting a whole hour,
and where they had the room to themselves.
“Even so, Julia; and so it must continue, while we shrink
from all reference to the past, and lock up our sorrows in our
own hearts, refusing all sympathy and help.”
“You wrong me, Arthur; I need sympathy and help, and I
long for it more and more, every day of my life.”
“And yet, when mother said something about human help and
human sympathy, and about strangers intermeddling with our
sorrows, — I forget the words —”
“I remember the conversation well. I was getting over my
dread of your dear mother” — smiling — “when she said in
reply to some remark of yours, after a long silence at the tea-table,
which used to be such a pleasant, cheerful place, after all
the separations of the day were over, that `every heart knoweth
and `a stranger intermeddleth not therewith.' I cannot give the
words exactly, but I know where to find them.”
“Yes, — and you will remember also, that after looking at
Uncle George, as if she wanted to find an excuse for him, she
turned toward you, and then to me, looking straight into my
eyes, when she spoke of a stranger. Do you look upon me as
a stranger, Julia?”
“As a stranger, dear Arthur, — look upon you as a stranger!
what do you mean?”
“I know, Julia, that I am sensitive and jealous, — or suspicious,
if you will have it so, and very unreasonable, where I
feel a deep interest; and where I see a woman like you, whom
I have known so long, and loved so much, for her frankness and
openness, growing silent and reserved toward everybody, sitting
hour after hour by herself, with her hands locked and lying still
in her lap, and tear after tear gathering slowly on her lashes,
— how can I help feeling that I am no longer a brother? —”
“Forgive me, dear Arthur.”
“But rather, in comparison with what I was over sea, a
stranger.”
“No, no, Arthur, you must not allow yourself to think so, for
a single moment. You are my brother, — my only brother, I
was about to say,” — wiping her eyes, and trying to speak more
cheerfully, — “but how can I be as frank and open with you
now, or with anybody living, as I loved to be, when we had
nothing to trouble us? For two whole months, Uncle George
has not been himself; and even now, though he seems to be
growing better every day, and has nothing to complain of, but
weariness of spirit, or some untold sorrow, you see how nervous
and restless, and how silent he is. I know that your mother is
troubled about him; and whenever he begins to shift about in
his chair, to drum with his fingers on the table, or to poke the
fire, as he did last evening, you remember — I could see her
watching him till her eyes filled; and though she said nothing
then, I am satisfied that she is carefully studying all these symptoms,
and hopes to get at the bottom of the mystery. No, no,
Arthur, while we have such a load upon our hearts, and so much
hope for the best” — her voice faltered — “while prepared for
the worst.”
“Hadn't you better open the box, Julia, before anybody
comes?”
“Upon my word! I had entirely forgotten the box. To be
sure I will.”
On opening it, she found a small paper parcel; and the next
moment, on snapping the string and the seal, she exclaimed, —
“Goodness, Arthur! what is the meaning of this? — how came
you by it?” — holding up a net purse, and opening it as she
spoke, with trembling hands, and emptying the contents into her
lap; — “and the ring too, as I live! — that precious ring! and
the bank-notes, and the gold, and the —” And she stopped
suddenly, covering her face with her hands, and sobbing, “Oh,
Charles! Charles! Oh, my poor brother!”
“Come, come, Julia, — don't be frightened,” said Arthur, all
at once recollecting that she had never yet understood the story
aright, and of course needed preparation, if the truth, or any
large portion of the truth, were now to be communicated. But
was there any need of her knowing the truth? Within a week
after the last interview with her brother, and the mysterious occurrences
that followed, they were all forgotten by the newspapers.
The trial of the two footpads for the robbery of Charles, had
taken place. They had been advised to plead guilty, or to “own
up,” as they called it, and be satisfied with a milder sentence than
they richly deserved. The trial over, the purse and ring and
money were ordered back to the possession of the true owner,
and two days before had been delivered to Arthur, upon his receipt
for Julia. The name of poor Charles had not appeared in
the papers; and by great carefulness and good management, and
a timely word from the Superintendent, Julia had not been required
to appear at the trial of the thief who had snatched the
gold chain from her neck. Not being well, and being in attendance
upon the sick-bed of Major Pendleton, the prosecutor had
forborne to call her; and relying upon Arthur and the Superintendent
for conviction, he went to trial upon their testimony;
and the miserable wretch was found guilty at once, and ticketed
“Arthur — Cousin Arthur,” said Julia, at last, overcoming
her deep repugnance with a shudder, “have you heard from
Charles?”
“From Charles? — no indeed!”
“Has Uncle George? or Aunt Elizabeth?”
“Not to my knowledge. But why do you ask?”
“Because —” and she stopped suddenly, and looked at the
door. Steps were heard approaching, and there was a sound of
shuffling feet, as if Jerry was leading Mr. Pendleton, slowly,
and step by step, through the passage-way. “In a word, Cousin
Arthur, will you be so kind as to tell me, before they enter, how
these things came into your possession? I told you, when you
questioned me the next morning after that dreadful night, as you
will remember, that they belonged to my poor brother.”
“True; but you told me that when you offered them to him,
he refused to touch them, and that you then dropped them into
his outside coat-pocket; which, by the way, was a strange oversight
in you, for as it was done without his knowledge, he might
have hung up his coat in the hall, or flung it over a chair, and
the purse and ring might both have been lost, or stolen, before
daylight, and nobody would have been the wiser.”
“Very true, Arthur, I see my fault; but there was no time
for explanation;” and then, lowering her voice to a troubled
whisper, she added, “Why didn't he keep them? why were they
sent back to me — poor fellow!”
“How could he keep them, Julia?” said Arthur, catching
eagerly at the suggestion; “after having refused them, as he
did? — Ah! here they are!”
At this moment the door opened, and Mrs. Maynard entered,
followed by Mr. Pendleton, looking very pale and thoughtful,
and leaning on the arm of Jerry, with Bessie and Peter bringing
up the rear.
“Good morning, aunt; good morning, dear uncle,” said Julia,
jumping up with a pleasant smile, and pushing an easy-chair toward
the table. There, there, don't hurry now.”
“Thank you, my dear, I am very much better, I believe,” —
I have nothing to fear, with such nurses, if I will but be patient
and reasonable; and your Aunt Elizabeth would say the same
thing, I dare say, if you should question her when I was out of
the way.”
Mrs. Maynard smiled, and shook her head. Then, after adjusting
a stool for his feet, arranging his slippers and dressing-gown,
and seating herself at the head of the table, so that he should be
always within reach, if he spoke or stirred, she handed him the
morning papers, all smooth and freshly ironed, as the newspapers
were at Carleton House, when George the Fourth set the fashion.
A few moments of deep and solemn stillness followed, as an
expression of thankfulness, and the duties of the breakfast-table
were entered upon with that graceful quiet ease which so greatly
distinguishes the gentlewoman from all her bustling imitators
and counterfeits.
Several attempts at conversation were made by Arthur and
Julia, and even by Mrs. Maynard herself, when she saw their
object; but her brother was not in the humor, and they died away
into monosyllables, with long pauses, and at last into the uncomfortable
subdued murmuring of a sick-chamber.
Glancing from the newspaper he held, — and from which he
had just been reading aloud, in a voice that quavered with deep
feeling, some accounts of the dreadful condition of things abroad,
where whole communities were breaking up, and all kinds of
property, except gold and silver, seemed to be growing worthless,
and men's hearts were failing them for fear, — to the pale face
and large serene eyes of his beloved sister, and then to the Bible,
he read with deep emotion the first passage his eye lighted upon,
— “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
“Yes, brother; such is the language, and such the promise;
but —”
“Well, why do you stop there?”
“But it does not say, Blessed are they that murmur, for they
shall be comforted; nor, Blessed are they that complain, though
silently, for they shall be comforted. Nor does it say, Blessed are
they who are dissatisfied with the dealings of their heavenly
Father, for they shall be comforted.”
Another long silence followed. Julia knew not which way to
look; while Arthur sat watching his uncle's countenance, and
sipping his chocolate, as if he, too, had been set thinking for
himself.
“You are right, dear Elizabeth,” said her brother at last; “I
understand you, and I thank you. It is not submission that is
required of us, for submit we must; nor is it mere acquiescence,
— the yielding that we cannot help, — it must be a cheerful,
hopeful, and believing trust that we are to show, if we are to be
comforted in our mourning.”
“Suppose we read that very chapter this morning, brother?”
“I will hear you read it, with all my heart, Elizabeth,” said
her brother, handing the open Bible to her, as if afraid to trust
himself any further.
The whole chapter was read, with a gentleness of intonation, a
simplicity and truthfulness, which brought the tears into Julia's
eyes. Much of it appeared new to her, in its tenderness and
touching earnestness; and even Arthur felt soothed and comforted,
familiar as he had been from earliest childhood with his
mother's reading.
A short prayer followed from Uncle George, full of thankfulness,
and trust, and straightforward self-condemnation. He had
gone astray, and he felt it; and he not only felt, but acknowledged
it. Having so much to be thankful for, — so many unacknowledged
blessings to be remembered, — why should a living
man complain? And if, when lifted up from the bed of sickness,
and from what, at one time, threatened to be the bed of death,
he went on his way beclouded or disheartened, instead of rejoicing
and believing, how could he hope to be comforted?
Short as the services of the morning were, and the conversation
that followed, it was evident enough that all were made happier
by them, and were almost ready to “joy in their tribulation.”
After running his eyes over the paper, and reading here and
there a paragraph aloud, always relating to the great financial
embarrassments of the season, — a season without a parallel in
the history of nations, — for the wisest of mankind, statesmen as
well as men of business, and philosophers, were unable to find a
cause, — he sat with his elbows on the table, his hands covering
Herald, the Tribune, and the Journal of Commerce, all spread
out before him, and the last Evening Express lying over the back
of a chair, and all within reach, for comparison.
After a long, dreary silence, he looked up suddenly, and said,
with something of the smile he used to wear in other days, when
everything went well with him, as if he had found his way up,
all at once, into a serener atmosphere, — “We are certainly the
most extravagant people upon the face of the earth! I do verily
believe that we waste more every day than would be sufficient
to clothe, feed, and shelter for that day, another nation as large
as ourselves. What say you, Elizabeth? Just compare the
style of living here in this town with that of people abroad, — in
London, for example, or Paris, or St. Petersburg, — in the same
business, and having correspondent means. Why, there are two
thousand houses, I dare say, in the city of New York, at this
moment, furnished more sumptuously, and costing more money,
than the town houses of the English nobility, or the dwellings
of the wealthiest landholders, and bankers, and merchants of
Europe.”
“All very true, brother,” said Mrs. Maynard, in a soft, loving
voice, with her hand resting on his knee, “and very much to be
lamented; but are we not all alike spendthrifts and prodigals?
and forgetful of others and of ourselves, and of our Father's
house, while our blessings abound? Are not the untroubled and
the prosperous more to be pitied than the poor? and may they
not be in greater danger, at least, of having all their good things
in this world?”
Her soft eyes were upon him, and he felt it; and the musical
droppings of her pleasant voice fell upon his overlaboring and
overwearied heart, like summer rain. She was probing him to
the quick; and growing a little uneasy at last, he thought of
changing the subject, perhaps to quiet some inward misgiving;
and straightway, after shifting about in the chair, and then drumming
nervously with his fingers on the table, and wiping his
mouth, and swallowing two or three times, he added, —
“And then, too, — in the midst of all these alarming changes
throughout the commercial world, — the wealthiest bankers failing,
and offering them for sale at prices unheard of before, and going
into smaller houses, where they can get along with less help, or
if they have daughters, like Mr. Stone, with a single servant,
perhaps, or into lodgings; men of high character betraying their
trust, or betrayed by their friends and partners, long after they
had withdrawn from business, and anchored for life, as they supposed,
beyond the reach of a peradventure, storm, or darkness.”
“Very sad, brother.”
“And mournful, too, — disheartening to the bravest and best,
— for good men are beginning to feel afraid of those whom they
have always known, and never questioned till now. And cases
are happening every day, or coming to light, rather, every day,
where it often appears that misrepresentation, cruel fraud, or
complicated treachery has continued, year after year, without being
suspected; while the fatherless and the widow are spoiled,
and the credit of our largest and safest institutions is imperilled,
and would sometimes appear to have had no foundation whatever.”
“Let us not be unjust, my dear brother. It is not so with all;
and I am quite sure, if we ride through Broadway and the other
large business-streets of the city, we shall be satisfied that the
worst is over; that the failures are, after all, but few and far between,
judging by the stores and places of business that are
closed, and amount, perhaps, to but a small percentage of the
whole.”
“I dare say you are right, Elizabeth; but —” and again
he stopped, as if he had forgotten what he wanted to say, and
seemed bewildered.
“And we must not overlook the charities that still thrive in
our midst, the Five Points Mission and the Nursery; nor these
prayer-meetings, which seem to be multiplying all over the
land; nor the great religious interest, which is not only felt, but
acknowledged, by thousands and tens of thousands, who have
hitherto held themselves aloof, scoffing and sneering at all such
demonstrations, as downright methodism or fanaticism.”
“Very true, sister. The largest halls of our largest cities are
not large enough; they are crowded at noonday, and many, if
at different hours, morning, noon, and night, for prayer.”
“Yes, mother, and in passing by the Stuyvesant Institute yesterday,”
added Arthur, “I saw a large poster by the door, inviting
all to drop in at 5 P. M., just when people are going to their
dinner.”
Mrs. Maynard turned with a look of earnest inquiry upon
Arthur, as he continued, —
“And they have just entered into a new arrangement away
down Broadway, — I have seen the notice myself up at the Exchange,
— saying that the business-men's prayer-meeting would
be open every day at No. — I forget the number, though I
know where it is, for they have lately come over from the other
side of the street, lower down, where they had the whole second
story of a large warehouse, which became `too strait for them,'
as they called it; and now they have hired this, near the
corner of — there it is again. I always forget names, you
know.”
His mother looked more and more pleased; and though she
said nothing, she interchanged a look with Julia, and pressed
her brother's arm, so that he understood her, and knew that her
heart was full — brimful, and running over.
“And then, there's the prayer-meeting at Burton's Theatre —
and another at the Fulton Street Church, every day, and always
crowded to overflowing, I am told.”
“You are told, Arthur?” said his mother, and her countenance
changed.
“The papers all say so; and I hear it from others. And —
there, there, don't be troubled — give me one good, hearty, honest,
old-fashioned kiss, dear mother,” going up to her, and throwing
his arms round her neck, “and I will own up, like a good
boy.”
That mother's eyes filled, and there was a slight trembling of
the mouth, and Uncle George waked up all at once, and poor
Julia turned away to hide her emotion, as Arthur added, somewhat
mysteriously, —
“To tell you the truth, dear mother, I have seen something of
all this for myself. I have dropped into most of these meetings,
all out of curiosity, nothing more; do not misunderstand me; do
not expect much of me, dear mother, for you know how changeable
I am, and I wanted to satisfy myself as an eye-witness —
nothing more.”
“Better go from curiosity, than not go at all,” suggested
Uncle George.
“Yes, brother; go, whatever may be the motive; a chance
word, a chance arrow, may reach the heart; and they that go to
scoff, may remain to pray. And what has been the result, Arthur?
Have you satisfied yourself?”
“Not altogether; but I must acknowledge that I have been
greatly astonished.”
“Astonished! — how?”
“At the sobriety, earnestness, and evident sincerity of the
people; there have been, I believe in my conscience, no acting
— no counterfeiting — no extravagance — no sudden outbreaks,
nor loud cries, nor indecorum, such as I was prepared to see,
from what I knew of the great revival here, about a hundred
years ago. Only one single exception do I now remember;
and then I was nearly carried away myself. A young man rose
in Burton's Theatre, near me, and said something like this: that
he little thought one year ago, when he used to tread that very
stage, — while his poor broken-hearted mother was trying to
hold him back, — that he should ever be found at a prayer-meeting,
and in the same place. Two or three exclamations followed,
in different parts of the house; and, just by me, an elderly
gentleman so far forgot himself, as to applaud with his cane. I
was on the point of clapping, but both of us came to our senses
before any mischief was done; for the prayers and exhortations
were limited to three minutes, and no exceptions were allowed
while I was there.”
A long silence followed. You might have heard the breathing
of the poor mother.
“How wonderful!” said she at last, “how unaccountable, —
for, if I am rightly informed, these are Union meetings, and people
meet together in prayer, day after day, and week after
week, who never looked into each other's faces before, and never
seems to know, or care, to what denomination his neighbor belongs,
if he but finds him praying to a common Father.”
“Nor in what language he prays; for a Hindoo, or a South
Sea Islander, might pray in his own language,” added Mr. Pendleton,
“and the people would understand by his intonation, or
look, or attitude, that he was praying, and they would pray with
him.”
“In such a case, however, according to St. Paul,” said Arthur,
with a mischievous look at Julia, “there ought to be an
interpreter.”
“My son,” said his mother very seriously, “when Paul
speaks of interpreters, declaring that he would `rather speak five
words with his understanding, that by his voice he might teach
others also, than a thousand words in an unknown tongue,' he is
dealing with the brethren, who claimed to have the gift of
tongues.”
“And he says too, I believe,” added Julia, in a very low
voice, “that he would rather so speak in the church; does he
not?”
“Yes, Julia, he does indeed; thank you, my love.”
“But,” continued Arthur, a little piqued perhaps, and growing
somewhat wilful, “he says too, if I am not mistaken, something
like this: `How is the unlearned to say amen, at the giving of
thanks, seeing he understandeth not what thou sayest?'”
Uncle George smiled, and patted him on the back; but his
mother grew more and more serious, and Julia more and more
troubled. Both were afraid of that lurking disputatious temper,
which had always characterized Arthur.
“I think, my dear son,” said his mother, with a quiet gentleness
of manner, and a soothing voice, which wrought wondrously
upon her boy, “I think I must leave you to argue this question
with yourself; but perhaps it may do no harm to remind you,
that we oftentimes pray with people whose low voices and
broken utterance render it very hard to understand them.”
“To say nothing of their bad English, mother.”
“My son!” said she, somewhat reproachfully.
“Forgive me, dear mother; I did not mean to hurt your feelings;
do something toward convincing myself. Many times have I
seen people at prayer so far off that I could not hear one syllable;
and once, upon a scaffold, I saw a poor woman with locked
hands, and streaming eyes, trying to make herself understood —
but all in vain; her sobbing and her agony were all that we
could hear.”
“And yet she was understood, hey?”
“Yes, Uncle George; and now that I am in for it, I am willing
to go further, and acknowledge that she was not only understood,
without an interpreter, but that we were all ready enough
to cry amen! to her prayer. There! will that do, mother?”
His mother smiled sorrowfully.
“What you said a moment ago, my dear patient hopeful
mother, — hopeful notwithstanding my waywardness and folly,
— brings to my mind something that happened at the businessmen's
prayer-meeting, in Broadway, not a week ago. Bishop
M'Ilvaine, a bishop of the Protestant Episcopal Church, took
charge of the meeting; and we had prayers from a few, and
exhortations from a score of preachers and laymen of different
persuasions, from all parts of the land. Among others, was
the Rev. Mr. Watkins of Baltimore, who owed his conversion
to the prayers and faith of his mother, when he was a babe in
the cradle, given over by the physicians, and gasping for breath.
She knelt in her agony, and promised to dedicate her child to
God, if he would but spare him. The prayer was heard. The
child grew; and after years of headstrong folly and resisting
waywardness, he became a preacher, almost in his boyhood.
After the meeting was over, I saw a little gathering on the side-walk,
and, stopping a moment, I overheard Dr. Bethune tell a
gentleman, — the very person, by the way, who applauded the
actor at Burton's, by pounding on the floor with his gold-headed
cane, — I knew him instantly, — well, Dr. Bethune told him that
his own case was exactly parallel to that of Mr. Watkins; for
when a little child, he was at the point of death; an old Scotch
Presbyterian was sent for, and requested by his mother to pray
for the child — to pray for its life; but he would do no such
thing, and all his prayer was that God would raise him up and
and `here I am, a living witness of the truth!' said the Doctor,
in his jovial, hearty way, which made us all the happier, I assure
you.”
The conversation grew more and more serious; and long after
the breakfast things were cleared away, and the work-baskets,
and magazines, and new books were spread out for the day, it
would break out afresh every few minutes, and run of itself in
the very same channel.
Mr. Pendleton stretched himself on the sofa, which was drawn
up to the fire; and Arthur lingered, as if to help his mother
and Julia, — he cared not how, — whether by holding a skein of
silk on his hands, reading aloud, or watching the changes of his
uncle's countenance. Though haggard and pale, there was a
warmth of color — a sudden flush — at times, which so entirely
overspread it as to alarm his mother; and when it passed away,
there would oftentimes follow a change of position, with a look
or gesture of impatience, almost fretfulness, which nobody had
ever seen before in Uncle George. He was evidently laboring
with some great inward trial and strife.
“The strangest thing to me,” said Arthur at last, throwing
aside a religious paper he had just been overlooking, “is that
believers are not more troubled about unbelievers. If our
houses were on fire in the dead of night — if we were swallowing
poison — if we had taken a path leading over a precipice,
would they not insist on being heard? Would they be satisfied
with occasionally mentioning the subject?”
“You are right, Arthur,” said his uncle. “It is indeed
strange, — and stranger now perhaps than ever, — now that we
have such wonderful evidence of God's presence and power, and
of his willingness to hear prayer and answer prayer. Unbelievers
are waiting for believers to speak to them; and if they
are disappointed, how can they believe in our sincerity — our
truthfulness? In other words, how can they believe that we believe?
As the followers of Christ, we are literally on trial for
our lives, before the world, every day and every hour.”
“Very true, brother. The world are looking for evidence;
and if we are unfaithful, where shall they find it?”
“And then, too, let us remember,” said the Major, “that he,
who is not for the truth, is against it.”
“And he who gathereth not, scattereth,” added Mrs. Maynard;
“but, after all, perhaps too much is expected of Christians by
others. Being at best but men and women, — and more men
and women, after all, than they are anything else, — large allowances
ought to be made for them.”
“I don't know that, dear mother. Christians profess to be
something more and better than we are; and I think they are
entitled to less indulgence, and ought to be more narrowly
watched.”
“And I agree with you so far, nephew,” said Uncle George.
“But I do not understand the Christian to say, `I am holier than
thou; stand thou apart.' He only says, and says truly, that the
longer he lives, and the better acquainted he is with his own
character, the more reason he has to be dissatisfied with himself.
What were once trifles, hardly worth striving against, become at
last very serious matters, if not besetting sins.”
“Poor encouragement, uncle!” and then seeing his mother
look troubled, he added, —
“Don't look at me so, dear mother; pray don't, you make me
feel ashamed of myself.”
A flash of sunshine overspread the face of that beloved mother,
and both Julia and Uncle George seemed equally pleased, though
nothing more was said, till Arthur began talking to himself in a
low dreamy voice. “To linger over a new book,” murmured he,
— handing a volume to Julia as he spoke, into which he had been
prying and peeping, as if it were a forbidden thing, or a confidential
manuscript, — “to linger as I do over this, and be unwilling
to come to the end, as a cat would play with a mouse, toying
with the fruitage that hangs in our way, dallying with what we
most love, and tasting and forbearing; these are to me the highest
evidence of a true flavor, and a right appreciation.”
“Well, and what then?” said his mother, looking up in astonishment,
and waiting to see how the speech was to end.
“Really,” said Uncle George, turning toward Arthur, “I
should like to understand what you are thinking of just now, and
what you are driving at.”
Arthur laughed, — “I wish I could tell you,” said he, and appealed
to Julia.
But Julia smiled, and said nothing.
“Well, if I must, I must,” continued Arthur, — shaking back
his abundant hair with a toss, like that of a young romp running
wild, with her hat off, and playing over the hill-side in the fresh
summer wind, — “it seemed a pretty thing to say, on the whole,
and I was wondering how it would apply in serious matters.”
“I hardly know how to deal with you, my dear son; there are
times when I am obliged to say to myself that I do not understand
you.”
“Just so with me,” said Uncle George. “How often, after a
conversation like this with him, and we have been talking together
like two brothers, he startles me — you cannot deny it,
Arthur — by some such out-of-the-way remark as we have just
heard, so that I hardly know what to think of him, nor when he
is in earnest and when otherwise, or whether I have not been
dreaming.”
“All very true, Uncle George; but the fault is in my nature;
and it sometimes happens that I myself do not know whether I
am in earnest, or whether I have not been dreaming.”
“This will never do, nephew. You must be serious. You
have much to be thankful for, and must not be allowed to throw
the blame upon your nature; as if your nature were something
different from yourself, and you were not answerable for the
doings of what you call your nature.”
Julia looked at Mr. Pendleton, as if heartily approving of
what he said.
“And the teachings of our heavenly Father, my dear son,
are all opposed to your theory, whatever may be our nature, as
you call it, or natural temper or disposition. Whatever we may
do, under its promptings and impulses, or deliberately, we are to
answer for hereafter, and, perhaps, here.”
“That which a man soweth, shall he not also reap?” added
Uncle George.
“Even so, dear brother, but with this great aggravation: He
does not reap just what he sowed, but much more abundantly.
If he sow the wind, he shall reap, not the wind only, but the
whirlwind.”
Arthur felt this, and the smile died away upon his lip, and
a swift shadow hurried athwart his high pale forehead, as he
saw a look of intelligence interchanged between his mother and
uncle.
“You have not forgotten, Arthur, how near you came to the
very death you have always most dreaded, only a few months
ago?”
Arthur shuddered, and Julia turned very pale, and her little
hand shook so, that she was obliged to lay down the slipper she
was working.
“Nor how many times you have been raised up from the bed
of sickness, nor how often we have been left mourning for you,
and, but for the consolation of prayer, without hope; and yet you
have been spared, and have always seemed thankful for a time,
and almost ready to look the greatest of all questions in the face,
even that of life or death hereafter; but you are no sooner lifted
up and sent on your way rejoicing, than the nature you complain
of — instead of your watching over it, or upbraiding yourself —
resumes her mastery over you, and you become careless, thoughtless,
disputatious, and presumptuous. I must be plain with you,
my dear child, and you must bear with me, if not for my sake,
for the sake of your dead father.”
“Mother, dear mother, in mercy spare me! I feel every
word you say, like an arrow in my heart. I remember all that
my poor father used to urge upon me, and upon you, as we sat
together in that pleasant death-chamber, with the evening sky
and the wide water before us; when he seemed to be lifted up
from the earth, and we were lifted up with him, as he held our
hands in his, and now and then a slight murmur, just above his
breath, would reveal to us that he felt himself in the presence-chamber
of the Most High, and was chiefly anxious for your
comfort, my dear mother, and for the salvation of his boy.
How well do I remember all this, and how thankful we were
that he had his senses at last; and then, when he passed away,
though his wonderful eyes were uplifted, as if he saw the heavens
opening, he never let go our hands for a single moment,
until he had breathed his last. It was to me, dear mother, as if
he wanted to take us with him; as if he could not bear to leave
us behind.”
“But how soon was all this forgotten, my dear Arthur,” added
Uncle George, wiping his eyes. “Every day of my life do I
reproach myself, dear Elizabeth, for having misunderstood that
man, year after year, as I did.”
“Hush, brother, hush! We are wandering off into by and
forbidden paths. Let the past be forgotten, I pray you; and
let us be more thankful, and patient, and hopeful, and cheerful.”
There was a meaning in her low sweet voice, which deepened
into earnest pathos, and a strange significance, thought
Arthur, as she continued, — “for we have always so much to be
thankful for.”
“Always, mother?”
“Always, my dear, so long as we have our reason; so long as
we are able to reckon up the blessings we have left, — blessings
not only unacknowledged, but unfelt, in the day of untroubled
prosperity, — we shall always find that we have more to be thankful
for than to complain of, a thousand times over.”
Uncle George looked up in astonishment, and even Arthur
seemed bewildered; though Julia, if one might judge by the deep
serenity of her countenance, entertained the same settled belief
that her aunt was acknowledging.
“Yes, brother, our greatest blessings, after all, are the commonest;
are they not? Good air, good water, good health, reason,
hope, the word of truth, untroubled sleep, our eyesight and
our hearing, the gift of speech, and the comforts of household
relationship.”
“Upon my word, sister, I believe you are right!” said Uncle
George. “I never thought of this before.”
But Arthur shook his head. It was clear that he had something
to say on the other side.
“Not until I get through, if you please, my son,” said his
mother, smiling at the earnestness of his look, and the preter-natural
brightness of his eager eyes. “Wait a moment; for I
am only saying what I have heard your father say over and
over again, when we were most troubled, and our sorrows and
bereavements were most unbearable; and up to the last hour of
his life, he continued to maintain the same opinions. `If we are
wronged and spoiled, if we are pillaged and stripped, Elizabeth,'
for; let us compare ourselves with others who are worse off.
Wealth, honor, distinction, popular favor, what are all these
weighed against good health, a clear understanding, a pleasant
temper, social and religious privileges, the power of moving
our limbs at will, and of using our bodily faculties undisturbed?
What in fact are they really worth to us here, in comparison
with air and water, and the gift of seeing, and hearing, and feeling,
or of sound and refreshing sleep?'”
“How strange,” said Arthur; “and yet, on the whole, how
true! What are pearls to the hungry man, who wants a handful
of wheat, or a drop of water? When we were put upon short
allowance for a few days only, what was our California gold
worth?”
“Yes, Arthur,” added Uncle George, “and the fresh air we
so much undervalue, merely because, like water, it is so common?
What would the poor fellows in the black hole of Calcutta have
given for a single gulp? or Tippoo Sahib himself, had he been
there? — all the riches of his empire, gold and jewels, and sceptre
and throne!”
“All very true, I dare say,” continued Arthur, in a doubtful
way, as if trying to find a different answer; “I only wish it
could be proved.”
“Proved!” murmured Julia. “Why, Cousin Arthur, what
do you mean? Have you not just proved it for yourself?”
“Yes; but —”
“Arthur! Arthur, my son! You must watch yourself! You
are in danger. While professing to seek the truth, you are
liable to be turned aside by the adversary, at any moment.”
Arthur looked somewhat abashed for an instant; but he soon
recovered himself. “Excuse me, dear mother. I do not mean
to deny the beautiful truth in question; I am even willing to
acknowledge it, and to abide by it.”
“Ah!”
“But —”
“O, confound your buts!” said Uncle George.
Arthur laughed outright; and then, seeing his mother look
troubled, he added, “All I want to say is, that while I acknowledge
are our greatest blessings, I only wish it could be proved — in
some other way; for, when my head is aching, how am I to
remember just then that my limbs are safe, or that my neighbor's
are not?”
“Is there any other way, Cousin Arthur?” whispered Julia.
“What we are ready to give in exchange for something else cannot
be worth so much in our estimation.”
“Very fair, Julia.”
“But, my dear son, we will not argue the question further —
unless you desire to take the other side?”
“I understand you, dear mother,” said he, after musing awhile;
and then, with a sudden change of manner, quite startling, he
added, “You are right, and the truth can be proved to a demonstration,
without going to Calcutta!”
His mother smiled; but her lip quivered as she begged him
to continue, till he had answered himself. “It was in the
family,” she added; “there was hardly one of the name who
was ever willing to be convinced by another. All were fond of
controversy to the last; and all were born chess-players, and
oftentimes troublesome logicians.”
This was said pleasantly, but with great seriousness.
“My proof, mother, strikes me as absolutely conclusive.”
“Well?”
“Take away our eyesight, our hearing, or sense of touch, —
paralyze our limbs, — deprive us of speech, — and life itself becomes
comparatively worthless. Yet all these, like air and
water, are the commonest blessings of earth. It is not so with
riches and power, with jewels and gold, nor with most of the
things we chiefly desire and labor for, through long lives of self-denial
and sorrow and strife.”
“Are you satisfied, Arthur?”
“Perfectly, dear mother.”
“Well, then, having come to your senses, let us be thankful.”
“Dear mother!”
“Well, my dear son!”
“We are always unthankful, even for our greatest blessings,
until they are withdrawn, or threatened, are we not?”
“I think so.”
“It is the last loaf we cling to, — the last penny we cannot
bear to part with, — the last few minutes of life we are most
thankful for.”
“Even so, Arthur.”
“How strange! Think you, dear mother, that the man just
healed of his blindness remembered to thank the great Physician
for his hearing, — without which he would never have known that
he was going by, nor have heeded the trampling multitude, — or
for not being a paralytic?”
“No,” said his mother; “and I thank you with all my heart
for propounding such a question.”
Here Arthur looked at his watch, and begging to be excused,
took leave with great seriousness, bowing his head and stepping
softly, as if stealing away from prayer.
A deep and long-continued thoughtfulness ensued. Nobody
felt inclined to talk. Mr. Pendleton had covered his face with a
newspaper, and nothing was to be heard for a while but the low
breathing of the sick man, and the steady, quick snapping of
Julia's needles.
But soon afterwards a coal dropped on the fender, and Uncle
George sprang up, with a look which sadly frightened Julia, and
set her aunt upon a still more searching scrutiny.
“Elizabeth,” said he at last, after a brief inward struggle, “I
hardly know what to think of Arthur; have you any hope?”
“Yes, brother; for while there is life, there is hope; and it is
something to find that he drops in occasionally at one of these
prayer-meetings; and it may be — O, my brother, it may be,
that our prayers will be heard and answered, as many others
have been so clearly of late, and that my poor boy may be
brought to pray for himself.”
“I hope so, dear Elizabeth. God grant that your prayers
may be heard!”
“And why not yours, my brother?”
“Because —” but glancing at Julia, he stopped; and then,
after a short pause, continued, as if a newer thought had taken
possession of his mind, or that he preferred leaving what he
had to say to his sister till they were alone together. “We are
to delusion — our hearts are so deceitful, that I sometimes tremble
for the worthiest and lowliest of all the Christians about me.”
“It is well we should, my brother. The greater our progress,
the less likely are we to be satisfied with ourselves. We are to
work out our salvation with fear and trembling.”
“With fear, sister! Are we not assured that God is love,
and that perfect love casteth out fear?”
“A slavish fear, — a cowardly terror, we are not allowed to
feel; but, with perfect love, we may have a wholesome awe, — a
continual dread of our Father's displeasure, if we step aside,
even for a moment.”
Here Julia stole away, as if she understood the secret purpose
of her aunt, or had received a signal.
The door was hardly shut, when Mrs. Maynard went up to
the sofa, and taking the hand of her brother, and looking at him
steadfastly, said, in a very deliberate manner, and in her lowest
tone, “Dear George, I have long waited for this; I have been
watching day after day, and week after week, for the symptoms
I now see.”
Her brother turned away to avoid her look; but he trembled,
and his forehead flushed.
“And I am now satisfied.”
“Satisfied, Elizabeth!”
“Even so; and when I say, as I do now, `How is it with thee,
my brother?' I am sure that you will understand me, and believe
at once that I see what you are laboring night and day to
hide from us.”
The paper rustled in his hands.
“Well, sister, what do you see? What is it I am trying to
hide from you?” said her brother, without looking at her.
“What is it you have so lately discovered?”
“My dear brother, you frighten me. The trouble is deeper
than we have supposed. Our children have been watching me,
while I have been watching you; and, while they share in my
uneasiness, — finding their uncle so unlike himself, and growing
more and more unlike every day, — they have no idea of the
truth.”
“And what is the truth, I pray you?” said the sick man, his
broad chest heaving, and his whole body trembling, as he flung
away from the caressing hand of that beloved sister, and something
like a sob escaped him, and then threw up his arms wildly
into the air.
“O, my brother! my poor brother! For trouble of mind like
yours, for the helpless and the hopeless, there can be no relief,
no comfort, but in prayer. Only by waiting upon God, my
brother, can we hope for consolation!”
At these words, her brother turned toward her, with a pale,
agitated countenance, and said, in a low, rasping, husky voice,
that filled her with a mysterious terror, — “Many are they who
believe themselves to be waiting on God, in prayer, while they
are only waiting for him, sister.”
“Undoubtedly, my dear brother, but —”
“Fools! and self-deceivers! Do they not know, will they
never understand, that whatever God requires of man to do for
himself, no other being, not even God himself, can, or will do
for him?”
Elizabeth was awe-struck. Never in all her life had the voice
of her brother sounded so strangely, so despairingly to her.
There seemed to be in it something of that cry — of that exceeding
great and bitter cry, which was heard from Esau, when he
had been spoiled of his birthright by a brother, and he lifted up
his voice and wept.
“In the name of our heavenly Father, George! what is the
dreadful secret? What have we to fear? Will you not tell me?”
“What have we to fear, sister! Everything! I have lost
all hope!”
“What do you mean, brother?”
“You will drive me mad, Elizabeth, if you persist! I am
weary of life —”
“You cannot mean what you say! Your long and trying
sickness, my dear brother, has enfeebled you, and you mistake
shadows for mountains.”
“Visions and shadows both; and I dream dreams — and such
dreams! They scare me! O, my dear sister!” catching both
of her hands convulsively to his heart.
“Once more, my brother, I must ask you what you mean by
saying you have lost all hope?”
“Very well, then,” — lifting himself up from the sofa, and facing
her with a ghastly quietness of manner that left her speechless.
“If you must know, you shall, — we are ruined!”
Elizabeth grew very pale.
“Absolutely ruined! And I have lost, not only all hope in
man, but all trust in God!”
Amazed and overwhelmed, and filled with consternation, his
poor sister slipped down upon her knees, and covering her face
with her hands, and sobbing as if her heart would break, appeared
to be praying for her brother.
By and by she looked up; and then she rose, and, with a
smile that brought the tears into her brother's eyes, kissed him
on the forehead and lips, and then added, “Be comforted, my
poor brother! be of good cheer! There is one who hath promised
never to leave, nor forsake them that put their trust in Him;
and knowing my brother, as I do, I have no fear, whatever he
may now say or think, that he will be permitted to withdraw his
trust at a time like this. And therefore do I say again, — be
comforted!”
“But, my poor sister, you do not know the worst; you have
no idea of my sufferings, chiefly on your account, and on account
of the dear children.”
“There spoke my dear brother once more!”
“For two whole months,” he gasped out, “I have been looking,
day after day, for my death-warrant!” and saying this, he
fell back upon the sofa, speechless and motionless.
“George! — brother! — Merciful God! what shall I do?
Julia! — Arthur! help! help!” and she sprang for the bell-rope;
and then recollecting herself, turned the key, and seizing
a tumbler of ice-water, sprinkled it over his face, while he lay
gasping for breath, and growing blue about the mouth, and shivering
all over. But signs of returning life soon appeared; and
when she looked into his eyes, the wildness that had so troubled
and frightened her a few minutes before, had vanished, and he
lay before her now, weak and submissive, and patient as a sick
child.
How thankful was the poor sister that she had not called for
help from abroad! that no stranger had been present to hear the
awful words, which, though prompted by delirium, as she thought,
had thrilled her very blood with horror.
Here, then, was a part of the mystery solved; but a part
only. And who should say how much more might remain behind,
to overwhelm her at a future day? God help her!
| CHAPTER VI. True womanhood | |