University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

The morning came, late and dark, with a dreary March
rain, the commencement of that revolutionary anarchy in the
weather, through which the despotism of Winter is overthrown,
and the sweet republic of Spring established on the
Earth. Even Woodbury, as he looked out on the writhing
trees, the dripping roofs, and the fields of soggy, soaked snow,
could not suppress a sigh of loneliness and yearning. Bute,
whose disappointment, bitter though it was, failed to counteract
the lulling warmth of the blankets after his ride home
against the wind, and who had therefore slept soundly all
night, awoke to a sense of hollowness and wretchedness which
he had never experienced before. His duties about the barn
attended to, and breakfast over, he returned to his bedroom
to make his usual Sunday toilet. Mr. Woodbury had decided
not to go to church, and Bute, therefore, had nothing but his
own thoughts, or the newspapers, to entertain him through the
day. Having washed his neck and breast, put on the clean
shirt which Mrs. Babb took care to have ready for him, and
combed his yellow locks, he took a good look at himself in the
little mirror.

“I a'n't handsome, that's a fact,” he thought to himself,
“but nuther is she, for that matter. I've got good healthy
blood in me, though, and if my face is sunburnt, it don't look
like taller. I don't see why all the slab-sided, lantern-jawed,
holler-breasted fellows should have no trouble o' gittin' wives,
and me, of a darned sight better breed, though I do say it, to

have sich bad luck! I can't stand it. I've got every thing
here that a man could want, but 'ta'n't enough. O Lord! to
think her children should have somebody else than me for a
father!”

Bute groaned and threw himself on the bed, where he
thrust both hands through his carefully combed hair. His
strong masculine nature felt itself wronged, and the struggle
was none the less severe, because it included no finer spiritual
disappointment. He possessed only a true, honest, tender
heart, as the guide to his instincts, and these, when baffled,
suggested no revenge, such as might occur to a more reckless
or more imaginative nature. His life had been blameless,
heretofore, from the simple force of habit, and the pure atmosphere
in which he lived. To confess the truth, he was not
particularly shocked by the grosser experiences of some of his
friends, but to adopt them himself involved a change so violent
that he knew not where it might carry him. If the
thought crossed his mind at all, it was dismissed without a
moment's hospitality. He did not see, because he did not
seek, any escape from the sore, weary, thirsty sensation which
his disappointment left behind. The fibres of his nature, which
were accustomed to give out a sharp, ringing, lusty twang to
every touch of Life, were now muffled and deadened in tone:
that was all.

It might have been some consolation to Bute, if he could
have known that his presumed rival was equally unfortunate.
In the case of the latter, however, there was less of the pang
of blighted hopes than of the spiteful bitterness of wounded
vanity. Seth Wattles was accustomed to look upon himself,
and not without grounds of self-justification, as an unusual
man. The son of a poor laborer, orphaned at an early age,
and taken in charge by a tailor of Ptolemy, who brought him
up to his own business, he owed his education mostly to a
quick ear and a ready tongue. His brain, though shallow,
was active, its propelling power being his personal conceit; but
he was destitute of imagination, and hence his attempted

flights of eloquence were often hopelessly confused and illogical.
The pioneer orators of Abolition and Temperance, who
visited Ptolemy, found in him a willing convert, and he was
quick enough to see and to secure the social consideration
which he had gained in the small community of “Reformers”—
an advantage which the conservative society of the village denied
to him. Indeed, the abuse to which he was occasionally
subjected, was in itself flattering; for only men of importance,
he thought, are thus persecuted. Among his associates, it was
customary to judge men by no other standard than their views
on the chosen reforms, and he, of course, stood among the
highest. His cant, his presumption, his want of delicacy,
were all overlooked, out of regard to an advocacy of “high
moral truths,” which was considered to be, and doubtless was,
sincere.

Let us not, therefore, judge the disappointed tailor too
harshly. His weaknesses, indeed, were a part of his mental
constitution, and could, under no circumstances, have been
wholly cured; but it was his own fault that they had so
thoroughly usurped his nature.

Whatever spiritual disturbance he might have experienced,
on awaking next morning to the realities of the world, the
woman who rejected him was much more deeply and painfully
troubled. Years had passed since her heart had known so
profound an agitation. She felt that the repose which she had
only won after many struggles, had deceived herself. It was
a false calm. The smooth mirror, wherein the sunshine and
the stars saw themselves by turns, was only smooth so long
as the south-wind failed to blow. One warm breath, coming
over the hills from some far-off, unknown region, broke into
fragments the steady images of her life. With a strange conflict
of feeling, in which there was some joy and much humiliation,
she said to herself: “I am not yet the mistress of my fate.”

She rose late, unrefreshed by her short, broken sleep, and
uncheered by the dark, cold, and wet picture of the valley. It
was one of those days when only a heart filled to the brim

with unmingled happiness can take delight in life—when the
simplest daily duties present themselves as weary tasks—when
every string we touch is out of tune, and every work attempted
is one discord the more. Descending to the sitting-room,
she found her mother in the rocking-chair, before a
brisk fire, while the little servant-girl was busy, preparing
the table for breakfast—a work which Hannah herself usually
performed.

“Thee's rather late, Hannah,” said the widow. “I thought
thee might be tired, and might as well sleep, while Jane set
the table. She must learn it some time, thee knows.”

“I'm obliged to thee, mother,” the daughter replied. “I
have not slept well, and have a little headache this morning.
It is the weather, I think.”

“Now thee mentions it, I see that thee's quite pale. Jane,
put two spoonfuls of tea in the pot; or, stay, thee'd better
bring it here and let me make it.”

Hannah had yielded to the dietetic ideas of her friends, so
far as to give up the use of tea and coffee—a step in which
the widow was not able to follow her. A few months before,
the former would have declined the proposal to break her
habit of living, even on the plea of indisposition; she would
have resisted the natural craving for a stimulant or a sedative
as something morbid; but now she was too listless,
too careless of such minor questions, to refuse. The unaccustomed
beverage warmed and cheered her, and she rose
from the table strengthened to resume her usual manner.

“I thought it would do thee good,” said the widow, noting
the effect, slight as it was, with the quick eye of a mother.
“I'm afraid, Hannah, thee carries thy notions about diet a
little too far.”

“Perhaps thee's right, mother,” was the answer. She had
no inclination to commence a new discussion of one of the few
subjects on which the two could not agree.

After the house had been put in order for the day, preparations
made for the frugal dinner, and the servant-girl despatched

to the Cimmerian Church, Hannah took her usual
seat by the window, saying: “Shall I read to thee, mother?”

“If thee pleases.”

There was no Quaker Meeting nearer than Tiberius, and
hence it had been the widow's custom, on “First-Days,”
to read, or hear her daughter read, from the classics of the
sect. To Hannah, also, in spite of her partial emancipation,
there was a great charm in the sweet simplicity and sincerity
of the early Friends, and she read the writings of Fox, Barclay,
Elwood, and William Penn, with a sense of refreshment
and peace. To these were added some other works of a similar
character, which the more cultivated Quakers have indorsed
as being inspired by the true spirit—Thomas à Kempis,
Jeremy Taylor, Madame Guyon, and Pascal. She now took
the oft-read “No Cross, No Crown,” of William Penn, the
tone of which was always consoling to her; but this time its
sweet, serious utterances seemed to have lost their effect.
She gave the words in her pure, distinct voice, and strove to
take them into her mind and make them her own: in vain!
something interposed itself between her and the familiar
meaning, and made the task mechanical. The widow felt, by
a sympathetic presentiment, rather than from any external
evidence which she could detect, that her daughter's mind
was in some way disturbed; yet that respectful reserve which
was habitual in this, as in most Quaker families, prevented
her from prying into the nature of the trouble. If it was a
serious concern, she thought to herself, Hannah would mention
it voluntarily. There are spiritual anxieties and struggles,
she knew, which must be solved in solitude. No one,
not even a mother, should knock at the door of that chamber
where the heart keeps its privacies, but patiently and silently
wait until bidden to approach and enter.

Nevertheless, after dinner, when the household order was
again restored, and Hannah, looking from the window upon
the drenched landscape, unconsciously breathed a long, weary
sigh, Friend Thurston felt moved to speak.

“Hannah,” she said, gravely and softly, “thee seems to
have something on thy mind to-day.”

For a minute the daughter made no reply. Turning away
from the window, she looked upon her mother's worn, pale
face, almost spectral in the cloudy light, and then took her
accustomed seat.

“Yes, mother,” she answered, in a low voice, “and I ought
to tell thee.”

“If thee feels so, tell me then. It may lighten thy own
burden, without making mine heavier.”

“It is scarcely a burden, mother,” said Hannah. “I know
that I have done what is right, but I fear that I may have unconsciously
brought it upon myself, when it might have been
avoided.” She then repeated the conversation which had
taken place between Seth Wattles and herself, omitting only
that secret, impassioned dream of her heart, a glimpse of
which she had permitted to escape her. She did not dare to
betray it a second time, and thus her own sense of humiliation
was but half explained.

Friend Thurston waited quietly until the story was finished.
“Thee did right, Hannah,” she said, after a pause, “and I do
not think thee can justly reproach thyself for having given
him encouragement. He is a very vain and ignorant man,
though well-meaning. It is not right to hold prejudice
against any one, but I don't mind telling thee that my feeling
towards him comes very near being that. Thee never could
be happy, Hannah, with a husband whom thee did not respect:
nay, I mean something more—whom thee did not feel
was wiser and stronger than thyself.”

A transient flush passed over the daughter's face, but she
made no reply.

“Thee has a gift, I know,” the widow continued, “and thee
has learned much. There is a knowledge, though, that comes
with experience of life, and though I feel my ignorance in
many ways, compared to thy learning, there are some things
which I am able to see more clearly than thee. It requires no

book-learning to read the heart, and there is less difference in
the hearts of women than thee may suppose. We cannot be
wholly independent of the men: we need their help and companionship:
we acknowledge their power even while we
resist it. There are defects in us which we find supplied in
them, as we supply theirs where marriage is perfect and holy.
But we cannot know this, except through our own experience.
I have agreed with thee in most of thy views about the rights
of our sex, but thee never can be entirely wise on this subject
so long as thee remains single. No, Hannah, thee won't
think hard of me for saying it, but thee does not yet truly
know either woman or man. I have often quietly wished that
thee had not set thy heart against marriage. The Lord
seems to have intended a mate for every one, so that none of
His children should be left alone, and thee should not shut
thy eyes against the signs He gives.

“Mother!”

Even while uttering this exclamation, into which she was
startled by the unexpected words of her mother, Hannah
Thurston felt that she was betraying herself.

“Child! child! thy father's eyes—thee has his very look!
I am concerned on thy account, Hannah. Perhaps I have been
mistaken in thee, as I was mistaken in him. Oh, if I could have
known him in time! I shall not be much longer with thee,
my daughter, and if I tell thee how I failed in my duty it may
help thee to perform thine, if—if my prayers for thy sake
should be fulfilled.”

The widow paused, agitated by the recollections which her
own words evoked. The tears trickled down her pale cheeks,
but she quietly wiped them away. Her countenance thus
changed from its usual placid repose, Hannah was shocked to
see how weak and wasted it had grown during the winter.
The parting, which she did not dare to contemplate, might be
nearer than she had anticipated.

“Do not say any thing that might give thee pain,” she
said.

“Give thyself no concern, child. It will bring me relief.
I have often felt moved to tell thee, but there seemed to be
no fitting time before now.”

“Is it about my father?” Hannah asked.

“Yes, Hannah. I wish he could have lived long enough to
leave his face in thy memory, but it was not to be. Thee often
reminds me of him, especially when I feel that there is something
in thy nature beyond my reach. I was past thy age
when we were married, and he was no longer a young
man. We had known each other for some years, but
nothing passed between us that younger persons would
have called love. I was sincerely drawn towards him, and
it seemed right that my life should become a part of his.
It came to me as a natural change. Richard was not a man
of many words; he was considered grave and stern; and
when he first looked upon me with only a gentle smile on his
face, I knew that his heart had made choice of me. From
that time, although it was long before he spoke his mind, I accustomed
myself to think of him as my husband. This may
seem strange to thee, and, indeed, I never confessed it to him.
When we came to live together, and I found, from every circumstance
of our daily life, how good and just he was, how
strong and upright and rigid in the ways that seemed right to
him, I leaned upon him as a helper and looked up to him as a
guide. There was in my heart quite as much reverence as
love. An unkind word never passed between us. When I
happened to be wrong in any thing, he knew how to turn
my mind so gently and kindly that I was set right without
knowing how. He was never wrong. Our married life was
a season of perfect peace—yes, to me, because my own contentment
made me careless, blind.

“I sometimes noticed that his eyes rested on me with a singular
expression, and I wondered what was in his mind. There
was something unsatisfied in his face, a look that asked for I
knew not what, but more than the world contains. Once,
when I said: `Is any thing the matter, Richard?' he turned

quickly away and answered sharply. After that, I said nothing,
and I finally got accustomed to the look. I recollect
when thy brother was born, he seemed like another man,
though there was no outward change. When he spoke to me
his voice was trembly, and sounded strange to my ears; but
my own weakness, I thought, might account for that. He
would take the babe to the window, before its eyes could bear
the light; would pick it up when asleep, and hold it so tightly
as to make the poor thing cry; then he would put it down
quickly and walk out of the room without saying a word. I
noticed all this, as I lay, but it gave me no concern: I knew
not but that all men found their first children so strange and
curious. To a woman, her first babe seems more like something
familiar that is brought back to her, than something entirely
new that is added to her life.

“I scarcely know how to make clear to thy mind another
change that came over thy father while our little Richard still
lived. I never could be entirely certain, indeed, when it commenced,
because I fancied these things were passing moods
connected with his serious thoughts—he was a man much
given to reflection—and did not dream that they concerned
myself. Therein, our quiet, ordered life was a misfortune.
One day was like another, and we both, I think, took things
as they were, without inquiring whether our knowledge of
each other's hearts might not be imperfect. Oh, a storm would
have been better, Hannah—a storm which would have shown
us the wall that had grown up between us, by shaking it down!
But thee will see that from the end—thee will see it, without
my telling thee. Richard seemed graver and sterner, I thought,
but he was much occupied with business matters at that time.
After our child was taken from us, I began to see that he was
growing thinner and paler, and often felt very uneasy about
him. His manner towards me made me shy and a little afraid,
though I could pick out no word or act that was not kind and
tender. When I ventured to ask him what was the matter, he
only answered: `Nothing that can be helped.' I knew, after

that, that all was not right, but my eyes were not opened to
the truth.”

Here Friend Thurston paused, as if to summon strength to
continue her narrative. Her withered hands were trembling,
and she clasped them together in her lap with a nervous energy
which did not escape her daughter's eye. The latter had
listened with breathless attention, waiting with mingled eagerness
and dread for the dénouement, which she felt must be
more or less tragic. Although her mother's agitation touched
her own heart with sympathetic pain, she knew that the story
had now gone too far to be left unfinished. She rose, brought
a glass of water, and silently placed it on the little table beside
her mother's chair. When she had resumed her seat, the latter
continued:

“Within a year after our boy's death, thee was born. It
was a great consolation to me then, although it has been a much
greater one since. I hoped, too, that it would have made
Richard a little more cheerful, but he was, if any thing, quieter
than ever. I sometimes thought him indifferent both to
me and the babe. I longed, in my weakness and my comfort,
to lay my head upon his breast and rest a while there. It
seemed a womanly fancy of mine, but oh, Hannah, if I had had
the courage to say that much! Once he picked thee up,
stood at the window for a long while, with thee in his arms,
then gave thee back to me and went out of the room without
saying a word. The bosom of thy little frock was damp, and
I know now that he must have cried over thee.

“I had not recovered my full strength when I saw that he
was really ailing. I began to be anxious and uneasy, though
I scarcely knew why, for he still went about his business as
usual. But one morning—it was the nineteenth of the Fifth
month, I remember, and on Seventh-day—he started to go to
the village, and came back to the house in half an hour, looking
fearfully changed. His voice, though, was as steady as
ever. `I believe I am not well, Gulielma,' he said to me;
`perhaps I'd better lie down a while. Don't trouble thyself—

it will soon be over.' I made him undress and go to bed, for
my anxiety gave me strength. Then I sent for the doctor,
without telling Richard what I had done. It was evening
when the doctor came; thee was rather fretful that day, and
I had taken thee into another room, for fear Richard might be
disturbed. I only noticed that the doctor stayed a long time,
but they were old friends, I thought, and might like to talk.
By the time I had put thee to sleep, he had left and Richard was
alone. I went directly to him. `What is thee to take?' I asked.
`Nothing,' he said, so quietly that I ought to have been relieved,
but—I do not know how it was—I turned to him trembling
like a leaf, and cried out: `Richard, thee has not told me all!'

“`Yes, all, Gulielma,' said he, `nothing will help: I must
leave thee.' I stared at him a while, trying to stand still,
while every thing in the room went spinning around me, until
I saw nothing more. I was lying beside him on the bed
when I came to myself. My hair was wet: he had picked me
up, poured water on his handkerchief and bathed my face.
When I opened my eyes, he was leaning over me, looking
into my eyes with a look I cannot describe. He breathed
hard and painfully, and his voice was husky. `I have frightened
thee, Gulielma,' said he; `but—but can thee not resign
thyself to lose me?' His look seemed to draw my very soul
from me; I cried, with a loud and bitter cry, `Richard,
Richard, take me with thee!' and threw my arms around his
neck. Oh, my child, how can I tell thee the rest? He put
away my arms, he held me back, and gasped, as he looked at
me with burning eyes: `Take care what thee says, Gulielma;
I am dying, and thee dare not deceive me; does thee love me
as I love thee—more than life, more, the Lord pardon me,
more than heaven?' For the first time, I knew that I did. If it
was a sin, it has been expiated. I cannot remember what was
said, after that. It was all clear between us, and he would
allow no blame to rest on me; but he could not speak, except
at intervals. He held my hand all night, pressing it faintly in
his sleep. The next day he died.

“He had loved me thus all the time, Hannah, and it was the
pride and the strength of his love which deceived me. He
would not ask for a caress or a tender word, because he
thought that a woman who loved would freely give it—nor
would he offer one, so long as he suspected that the sacred expression
of his heart might be only passively received. Ah, it
was a sad doubt of me on his part, a sad blindness towards
him on mine. When he began to suffer from disease of the
heart, and knew that his life was measured, his self-torture increased.
He purposely tried to subdue the mild, tempered
affection which he supposed I felt for him, in order that his
death might be a lighter grief to me. And I lived with him,
day after day, never guessing that his stern, set manner was
not his real self! I do not dare to think on the cross he must
have borne: my own seems heavy, and my spirit sometimes
grows weary under it, and is moved to complain. Then I remember
that by bearing it cheerfully I am brought nearer to
him, and the burden becomes light.”

Hannah Thurston listened to the last words with her face
buried in her hands, and her heart full of pity and self-reproach.
What was the pang of her own fruitless dream, her baffled
ideal, beside the sharp, inconsolable sorrow which consumed
her mother's years? What availed her studies, her intellectual
triumphs, her fancied comprehension of life, in comparison
with that knowledge of the heart of man thus fearfully won?
Humble, as when, a child, she listened to her mother's words
as the accents of infallible wisdom, she now bowed down
before the sanctity of that mother's experience.

The widow leaned back in her chair, with closed eyes, but
with a happy serenity on her weary face. Hannah took her
hand, and whispered, with a broken voice: “Thank thee,
mother!” The weak old arms drew her gently down, and
the pale lips kissed her own.

“Bless thee, my daughter. Now take thy book and let me
rest a while.”

Hannah took the book, but not to read.