True womanhood a tale |
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 | CHAPTER VII. True womanhood |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
Another week has gone by, and great changes are in contemplation.
What they are, nobody knows but the brother and
sister, who spend most of their time together in the examination
of old papers, and weather-worn letters, most of which are destroyed,
while others are filed away, and labelled with the greatest
care.
Mr. Pendleton is better and stronger; and the look of discouragement
and self-distrust, which so troubled Mrs. Maynard,
has given way to something worthier and more hopeful — an expression
of settled purpose, and patient forecast.
Julia and Arthur, too, are both busy; and though unacquainted
with the plans of dear Uncle George, are so thankful to find him
growing better, day by day, and beginning to take an interest
in something, — it matters little what, — anything were better
than the weary listlessness and helplessness they had seen so
much of, month after month, that they no longer watch him as
they did, nor trouble themselves about his breathing, or the steadfastness
of his look into the fire, when they are sitting together in
silence after dinner; nor about the play of his fingers upon the
table or chair, when he is left long to himself. They are even
getting reconciled to the smell of burnt paper; and do not much
mind being left by themselves, and kept in the dark, while the
brother and sister have long consultations together, every day
of their lives, and a stately, solemn, gray-headed legal adviser
comes and goes without ceremony, always looking more and more
thoughtful and troubled every time he goes away.
“What can it all mean?” said Julia to Arthur, as they were
sitting together, long after the usual hour of bedtime, waiting
keep Aunt Elizabeth up to so late an hour.”
“I wish I knew,” said Arthur, leaning back in his chair,
shading his eyes from the light with a book, which he had held
open for a whole hour, without having understood a paragraph,
watching the play of Julia's beautiful countenance unobserved,
and wondering at himself that he should be satisfied with such a
humdrum, sleepy way of passing his time. “I really do wish I
knew,” he repeated. “I am not curious about other people's
affairs; I am not apprehensive, as you know, Julia; and I am
not inquisitive.”
Julia smiled.
“By nature, I mean, of course. I am too indolent, or perhaps
I had better say, too lazy; but I defy any human being not to
become a little anxious, when there is so much of whispering, and
telegraphing, and beckoning, all about him; with the slow, cautious
opening and shutting of doors unexpectedly, and shadows
creeping through the passage-ways; and faces looking out, and
signals given, and whispers interchanged between Peter and
Jerry and Bessie, twenty times a day; and that old, stately,
gray-headed lawyer going in and out, so quietly and softly, at all
hours, just as if he had the run of the house.”
“I have no doubt we shall know whatever your dear mother
may think we ought to know — all in due time; but Arthur,
how are they getting along up at the house? I am tired to death
of this hotel-life, and long to be under our own roof once more.”
Arthur fidgeted in his chair, but made no reply.
“You have been up there to-day, I suppose?”
“No, Julia. I am tired of going there. To tell you the
truth, I do not half like their movements; I do not see that anything
has been done for the last three weeks.”
“Indeed!”
“And what is more, I have an idea that there must be some
hindrance in the way; and that one cause of the trouble we have
had with poor Uncle George, is the delay in finishing that confounded
house, the weather being so unfavorable. I do not wonder
you are sick of hotels; but I wonder more that mother does
not insist on going at once into private lodgings, if the house
thinks more highly of the St. Nicholas than I do, and I could
get along very well here, by myself.”
“And without me!” said Julia; and a pleasant smile played
for a moment, like inward light, over her whole countenance.
“Yes, Julia; and without mother, and without Uncle George;
for you are all three domesticated, and must have a home, — a
home that belongs to you, — while I can live anywhere, and almost
anyhow, after the rough and tumble of so many years. By
the way though Julia, isn't it very strange that Uncle George,
of all people on earth, should have had to dicker with that chaffering
Aunt Marie, as they call her, without any suspicion of the
truth, till the title had to be investigated, after what happened
here the first morning we ever saw her?”
“Rather strange, I confess; but we knew the family abroad,
many years ago; and I have some recollection of meeting her
at one of the cheap watering-places that abound along the
English coast, — Ramsgate, or Margate, or Broadstairs, I forget
which.”
“O, that explains it; for she has taken a great fancy to you, it
appears, and talks about you, as if you had been playfellows in
your childhood, or gone to school together.”
Julia could not help laughing; and Arthur thought she had
never looked so handsome — Ah! —
The door opened softly, and as they both turned to see who it
was, a beckoning hand appeared, and the name of Julia was uttered
in a whisper.
Somewhat startled, Julia did not instantly recognize the voice,
though she went to the door.
“Your uncle wants to see you immediately; run up to him,
and I will wait for you here,” said Mrs. Maynard, entering on
tiptoe, and taking a seat by the fire in silence, as Julia hurried
up the stairs.
Arthur turned to speak to her, and to make some inquiries
about Uncle George, when, struck by her uncommon seriousness,
and great paleness, he stopped suddenly, and sat looking at her
in breathless expectation, while his mother had her eyes fixed
upon the door, and seemed to be listening. It was near midnight,
could be the matter? What new mystery was gathering about
their way? And why, of all women alive, should that dear
mother, who hated all sorts of managing, and manœuvring, and
whispering, and hitherto would have no more been guilty of it,
in her openness and womanly self-respect, than she would have
listened at a chamber-door in passing, or have read an open letter
lying in her way, — why should she be wandering about the
house like a spirit, and making signs through a half-open door,
in the dead of night? Before he could make up his mind, Julia
reappeared, and, without speaking, hurried into her little dressing-room,
and after rummaging there awhile, came back with her
little net purse and a portfolio in her hand, looking troubled
and anxious, and was about returning to her uncle's room;
when, just as her hand touched the lock of the door, Mrs. Maynard
inquired if she was wanted up stairs.
“No, I believe not,” said Julia; “what Uncle George desires
to say to me, I think from what has already happened, he means
to be confidential for the present.”
Saying this, and throwing the end of her shawl over the portfolio
she carried, as if to hide it even from the watchful eyes of
Arthur, she left the room, with a light, hurried step, leaving her
Aunt Elizabeth looking after her in blank astonishment, and her
Cousin Arthur watching his mother's countenance, and waiting
for her to speak first.
On returning to the room of Uncle George, Julia found him
standing bolt upright, just within the door, as if expecting somebody
else to appear.
“Come in, Julia,” said he, taking her hand as he spoke, and
turning the key of the door very slowly and cautiously; “be
seated, my love, — come nearer the fire,” lowering his voice, and
glancing at the keyhole of the door, — “hush! do you hear anything?”
“Nothing,” said Julia. “You will find the notes you inquired
about in this little purse.”
“Are they all there, Julia?”
“All, I believe; though I have brought my portfolio, to see if
by any chance one might have been left behind or overlooked.”
Mr. Pendleton grew paler and paler; breathing more and
more laboriously, as he fumbled at the clasp, with hands that
shook so as to frighten the poor child.
“Open it for me, Julia, — I am very weak and foolish; but
my mind is made up.”
“There!” said she at last; “there they are, I believe, just
as they came into my hands after the — just as I saw them
last.”
“I understand you, Julia,” taking the notes, almost snatching
them, indeed, from her hand, as it lay in her lap; “one — two —
three — four — five; only five, Julia? What has become of
the others? And the largest of all, the fifty-pound note? You
do not answer me, Julia — dear Julia — but I must know. It
is a matter of life and death, my poor child! Have you” —
hesitating, and fastening his large eyes on the door, with a look
of gloomy determination — “Have you parted with it, Julia?”
Instead of answering, Julia had opened her portfolio, and after
a little rummaging she found three more notes, which her uncle
seized with a suddenness that startled her.
“Five, six, seven, Julia,” — said her uncle, counting them over
hurriedly, and crushing them together in his hand, — “you must
have had more; what have you done with them? Tell me, I
beseech you, — have no concealment, — or you may bring upon
all our heads a swift and overwhelming retribution!”
“Retribution, Uncle George?”
“Yes, Julia, retribution; for he that sows the wind shall reap
the whirlwind! Once more, I ask you, have you passed any of
these notes? — don't be frightened, my love. You think I am
wandering; I wish I were.”
“I will answer you, dear uncle. I have not passed any of
them.”
“God bless you, my child.”
“I have not even offered to pass one since that evening when
the smallest I had about me — a twenty, I believe — was refused
at the bar, and I exchanged it for gold.”
“Refused! O, I remember. And now, dearest child, as you
have neither passed them, nor offered to pass them, let me know,
I beseech you, just what you have done with them. I have my
— shuddering — “but I must know from your own lips
where the largest is, and the two missing twenties?”
“Dear uncle, forgive me; but as you already know so much,
and as the secret cannot be kept much longer, I must tell you
everything.”
“There's a brave girl!”
“Nearly two months ago I received a mysterious note from
poor Charles, and in my reply, through an appointed channel, I
enclosed the fifty-pound note and two of the twenties.”
A half-smothered groan escaped from her uncle's ashy lips
as he sprang up, and running his eye over the notes once more,
gave them a twist, crushed them together, and flung them into
the fire.
Julia uttered an exclamation of terror, as she started up and
tried to save them, but she was too late; a sudden flash, and they
were swept off, all blazing, up the chimney; and when she turned
to see if her uncle had really gone mad upon the spot, she found
him upon his knees, with his face buried in the sofa-pillows; and
for a few minutes, in the awful stillness of the room, there was
nothing to be heard but a sound of smothered sobbing, and low
murmuring and supplication.
“God bless you, dear Julia! God forever bless you!” said her
uncle, rising from prayer, and lifting his locked hands high up
over her bowed head. “Leave me now, it is very late; say
nothing, not one word of all this, to any living creature, I beseech
you; not even to your Aunt Elizabeth, who will know
everything at a proper time. Good-night.”
Julia had reached the door, when she was arrested by another
brief question.
“Where was your brother at the time he wrote you?”
“If you insist, dear uncle, —”
“No, I do not insist, my love; but perhaps you can tell me
whether he received your letter in reply?”
“No, I cannot. I have not heard from him since.”
“Have you any sure way of communication with him now?”
“Nothing certain, till I hear again; though perhaps a letter
might reach him through the channel he first mentioned.”
“Stop, stay, there is another question I would ask; but you
may not be able to answer it.”
“Perhaps I may.”
“Well, then, if your letter with the notes did not reach him,
do you know whether it would go to our General Post-Office at
Washington, or to a foreign post-office?”
“No, I am not sure. It would be likely to follow him over
sea, I think.”
“Well, then, Julia,” continued her uncle, after musing awhile,
“there is nothing more to be done, till we know more. Meanwhile,
write your brother immediately, and write several times,
and tell him not to make use of the notes you sent him, under
any circumstances; and, in fact, you may as well beg him to destroy
them at once, and say you do so at my desire.”
“I do not understand you, Uncle George; you frighten me.”
“I cannot stop to explain the dreadful mystery now, my dear
Julia; but you saw me burn a handful of these notes before your
face not five minutes ago; and you know enough of me, however
much I may have changed of late, enfeebled as I have been by
sickness and threatened death, and literally haunted with spectres
and phantoms and hobgoblins night and day, enough, I am sure,
my dear child, to believe, notwithstanding appearances, that I am
still in my right mind, and that I had good reasons for what I
did.”
Julia grew faint and pale; but the look interchanged between
her uncle and herself as he opened the door to her, showed that
she understood him, without another word of explanation. But
although she said nothing, and asked no questions, it was altogether
impossible for her not to think, until, as she entered the
room below, where she found her aunt and cousin sitting together
in dead silence — Arthur leaning upon his mother's shoulder, and
the mother holding him fast by the hand, and both gazing into
the fire — she was half inclined to throw herself into her Aunt
Elizabeth's arms, and ask to have the fearful mystery cleared up,
whatever might be the consequences to herself. And then she
thought of her brother, and a dark portentous foreshadowing fell
upon her, with a shuddering sense of impending calamity, not to
be spoken of, and of utter helplessness and coming woe.
“Sit down, dear Julia,” said her aunt, as she entered and
stood by the fire, looking first at her aunt and then at Arthur,
as if undetermined whether to go to bed at once, or to linger
awhile in that comfortable and pleasant home atmosphere, in
the hope that something might be said by her Aunt Elizabeth, or
by Arthur, to comfort her. “Late as it is, we had better sit up
awhile; for, judging by your looks, and by my experience for
the last fortnight, we are none of us likely to sleep if we go to
bed.”
A mournful, patient smile was the only answer Julia could
trust herself to make; but she stole round to the other side of
her aunt, and took the other hand into both of hers, and bowing
her face upon it, in speechless and helpless expectation, waited
for the word of comfort she so much wanted.
After a long and almost painful silence, followed by a brief
struggle, Mrs. Maynard drew toward her the large Bible that
always lay within reach upon a work-table in the corner, and
opening at the seventy-seventh psalm, pushed it in front of
Arthur, as if to prepare the way for something else, and asked
him to read it for them.
When he had finished, there was another long silence, and a
sound of low breathing and whispering, so that even Arthur began
to feel oppressed and troubled; and while the deep, calm seriousness
of his dear mother set him thinking at large of the past,
when his father was alive, and music, and the reading of a psalm,
and wise-hearted conversation were always a part of their evening
exercise in the sick-chamber, the sadness of poor Julia, and the
expression of unutterable woe in her unchanging eyes and parted
lips, filled him with a vague terror. It was clear to him, as he
afterwards acknowledged, that she was longing to ask a question,
but afraid to open her mouth, lest her voice might break forth into
sobbing; for she seemed ready to cry out with old Lear, — “not
there! not there! for that way madness lies!” — whenever the
thought presented itself — whatever it was — a thought she would
sooner die than breathe aloud. Meanwhile a hot flush had passed
over her forehead, while Arthur was watching her; and he saw
his mother look at her, as if alarmed at the silent inward struggle
she felt, in the continual change of her position, as the poor child
conceal her agitation.
“My dear children,” said the mother at last, taking a hand of
each, and dropping a tear upon Julia's, from her uplifted eyes, “it
is high time for you to know something of what has happened.
You have both wondered at the behavior of your uncle, — at the
strange thoughtfulness you saw, and the stranger forgetfulness of
everybody and everything before he was hurt. I have heard
you both speak of it more than once, and I have been watching
him ever since my arrival here, to find out the real cause, until I
came to the conclusion, about a week ago, that the trouble was
in his mind.”
“Yes, mother.”
“He had never had any secrets from me before; and never
in all his life had he appeared to shrink from any questioning of
mine, so that I knew there must be something very serious, —
overwhelming, perhaps, to a sick man oppressed with care, —
something, whatever it was, which needed probing to the bottom.
To see my poor brother, — a man of such high principle and
lofty purposes, with such a giant will, with such strength of
mind, and such a large experience in the trials and vicissitudes
of life; a religious man, too, acquainted with his own heart, and
knowing whither to go for consolation, — to see such a man giving
way altogether, and at once, under the pressure of a mysterious
grief, — losing his appetite and sleep, and growing peevish
and querulous and gloomy, — taking no interest in our comfort
or companionship, and refusing to seek relief where relief only
could be found — in prayer, and patient, hopeful trust; — O,
heavenly Father! how shall I thank thee for thy goodness, in
showing me the dreadful condition of that beloved brother, before
it was too late! Do you know, dear children, that after what
has happened, I do not believe my poor brother would ever have
left his bed, if I had been kept away much longer, or if I had
not wrestled with him night and day, till he was persuaded to
tell me what his troubles were, what had happened, and what he
feared, and then to cast the burden upon the Lord. You are
astonished, Julia, — and you, too, Arthur; I can see it in your
eyes; and I dare say that both of you are wondering why a
— why it should ever be needful to remind him of prayer, and
of God's faithfulness and love.”
“Yes, mother, you are right,” said Arthur. “Nothing has
ever troubled me so much — and I can answer for Julia, too, I
think — as to see such a man, a declared follower of the meek
and lowly Jesus, a church-member, giving way to — I may as
well say it, perhaps, dear mother, as think it, — giving way
to despair; breaking up all at once; and just when hope was
most needed, abandoning all hope —”
“Well, my dear children, — but this you are never to mention
while you breathe, — having known your dear uncle so many
years, not only by reputation, but personally, as a religious man,
truly humble and pious, a devout and cheerful Christian, and
not a sad, or mournful, or complaining Christian, I do not wonder
that you should be greatly perplexed by such behavior, and
greatly troubled; but when I have told you more, — and it is this
I would not have you mention while you live, out of the family, —
you will not wonder so much, and may, perhaps, find some little
excuse for him.”
“Yes, mother; and I am doubly anxious to find that excuse,
or to find anything like a reason for such a departure in Uncle
George from all the distinguishing habits of his life. Heretofore,
when everybody else would be downhearted, and ready to give
up, — even my dear father at one time, you know, when everything
went wrong for a while, and he thought we were beggared,
— there was nobody on earth to whom we could go with such a
certainty of being always cheered and comforted, as to Uncle
George. How often, too, have I heard him say, that if religion
is to be recommended to the unbelieving, it must be by cheerfulness
— by bearing up against sorrow and trial, disappointed hopes
and bereavement, as the world's people do not, and cannot. We
may get along pretty well without religion, he used to say, so
long as we have nothing to trouble us; but if we desire to know
what religion is good for, and what our heavenly Father's love
is worth, we must be persuaded to go to him; and this we never
do so long as we can help it; in other words, we never do so, till
we have lost all confidence in ourselves and in others, and must
remember the last evening we spent together, before Charles went
off to California? What I have just been saying is but the substance
of all he said to us then. We need to be troubled — we
must be tried, or we forget ourselves, and forget God. And I
believe it.”
His mother lifted his hand to her lips, without speaking; but
another tear fell upon Julia's forehead.
“What can they know of rest, who have never been wearied,
aunt?” whispered Julia; “or they of consolation, who have not
been afflicted?”
“Of course, dear mother, Uncle George has other troubles;
but if we were all beggars, I cannot see how that would justify
such entire self-abandonment in a man of his character, much less
in a follower of Him, who has promised never to leave nor forsake
them that put their trust in Him.”
“`Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth,' my son.”
“Yes, dear aunt,” whispered Julia; “`and when thy father
and thy mother forsake thee,'” her voice trembled, “`then will
the Lord take thee up.'”
“But I interrupted you, dear mother. Please finish what you
had to say.”
“I will. But, first, a word or two upon what you have just
mentioned. Your uncle has met with heavy losses; and worse
yet, he has been cruelly entrapped, and wronged, and betrayed
`by a familiar friend,' in some way, I know not how; and but
for the mercy of God, might have had his character blasted by a
strange concurrence of circumstances, incapable of explanation
without proof, and the proof was beyond his reach.”
Julia hid her face, with a slight shudder. She durst not speak,
nor breathe, nor even look up, in the dread of what might be
coming at last.
“To be beggared, Arthur, we could bear, I trust, with some
degree of composure; but to have your uncle disgraced, — no
matter how, — to have him looked upon as a sharper —”
“A sharper! Uncle George a sharper!”
“Or if not a sharper, at least as a crafty and cold-hearted, if
not a dishonest man; that, I am afraid, we should have all found
be no hope, no possibility of escape, and my poor brother had
no place of refuge on earth, all at once he began to have doubts
of a most alarming character, which threatened to drive him
crazy.”
“What were they, mother? Your look frightens me.”
“I am almost afraid to tell you, my dear children; but that
you may both understand the weakness of poor human nature, —
the craft and power of the Adversary, and where our strength
lies in the day of trouble, — I dare not withhold the truth. Your
Uncle George had been growing worse and worse for two or three
weeks before I came on; and it was not until I had talked with his
physicians, who saw nothing in the nature of his injury to confine
him so long to his bed, that I began to suspect, as I have told
you already, that the trouble was in his mind. As soon as I felt
satisfied, I charged him with it; and after a long and frightful
struggle, he yielded to my tears and prayers, and acknowledged
the truth. And, now, what do you think it was?”
“I have no idea,” said Julia, in a faint voice, while her heart
contradicted her words, and her look almost betrayed her misgivings.
“Nor I,” added Arthur, “I am all at sea, mother.”
“The last thing in the world, perhaps, that either of you would
have thought of. He had begun to doubt his own convictions
—”
“His own convictions! — how? — I do not understand.”
“To believe that he had never been truly converted.”
“Never truly converted!” said Julia, lifting her head in
amazement, “and a church-member!”
“Never truly converted!” added Arthur, “and a communicant
for over twenty years, as I heard him acknowledge once, in a
conversation with father. And pray, what led him to this change
of opinion just at this time? just when, if ever, he most needed
the consolations he had been waiting for, and hoping for, so
long?”
“All at once he had become acquainted with the deceitfulness
of his own heart; and finding no relief in prayer, — no such
comfortable assurance of what he had never so much needed, as
God, looking for consolation, — he straightway began to despair.”
“O, my poor uncle!” whispered Julia.
“But, mother, is there not something beyond all this? I cannot
understand how such a man, after twenty years of experience,
could be self-deceived, nor how he should be able to find out,
after so long a time, that he had been deceived.”
“I must now tell you more, my son. You have attended
some of these prayer-meetings, but you have probably no idea
that your uncle knew more of them than you did, even while he
was questioning you.”
“Indeed!”
“It seems that he had been to Burton's Theatre, and at the
meeting in Fulton Street every day, up to the time of his accident;
and that while there, he had seen such things, and heard
such things, not only from new converts, but from old, though
sluggish professors, that he began to feel uneasy in his mind, and
greatly to fear that he himself, in common with many others he
listened to there, had been under a delusion. The injury following,
that endangered his life, and the business-troubles, and the
treachery of a friend, the stillness of a sick-chamber, with
nothing else to think of, led to the result I have mentioned. But,
dear children, let us remember to thank our heavenly Father,
from this time forward, morning, noon, and night, that your dear
uncle has come out of the cloud at last, and if we are patient
with him, we have little or nothing to fear. And now, good-night,
both! You need not hurry down to-morrow morning.
We shall have a late breakfast, and a great deal of business on
our hands; for your uncle has made up his mind to something
serious and conclusive, which must be finished to-morrow, whatever
may be the consequences; and we shall want your help,
Arthur.”
“Good-night! Good-night!”
And Julia was left alone to her meditations.
| CHAPTER VII. True womanhood | |