Cora and The Doctor: or, Revelations of A Physician's Wife

CHAPTER XIX

 
"Kindness has resistless charms,
All things else but weakly move;
Fiercest anger it disarms,
And clips the wings of flying love." Rochester.
 

Saturday, December 31st.

Dear Mother, – I must not forget to tell you that I received a call in the parlor yesterday from Mrs. Thomas Jones. She was dressed so differently that at first I hardly knew her. Thomas and his wife after a suitable time for examination and trial, made a public profession of religion in our church; and have since conducted themselves and their household in such a manner as to give the strongest evidence of the sincerity of their profession.

Mrs. Jones called to see me with reference to William Reynolds, for whom both she and her husband feel a lively interest; and from her I received these incidents. Mrs. Reynolds with her interesting children, was long ago removed to a decent tenement in the village, where she has supported herself comfortably by her skill as a tailoress. During the past year she has seen nothing of her husband, who wandered away when released from his confinement.

Now he has returned, pale and haggard, worn out in body and mind. He loitered around the streets all one day, not daring to ask for his family. At length, Thomas met him and took him to his own home.

"I could not but think," said the kind-hearted woman with tears starting to her eyes, "of the time when my husband used to return from a drunken frolic, looking pretty near as forlorn as he. But Thomas brushed him up, and we made him look as smart as we could, though we couldn't restore the ruddy cheeks, or the bright eyes he used to have; and then I jest stepped over to Anna Reynolds's. She was a sitting so kind o' comfortable hearing her little girl read a nice book, she got from Sabbath-school, while Willie was whittling into a basket, that I couldn't help feeling kind o' guilty, to think how soon the errand, I'd come on might destroy all her peace. For you know, her husband had been gone so long she'd got settled like to have him away. But I knew who was waiting at home, and so I made bold to walk in.

"'Good evening, Miss Reynolds,' I says.

"She looked up as pleasant as could be, and says she,'good evening, Miss Jones,' and then she got up and set me a chair by the fire. I allus said she was a born lady, and so is her little Anna. After all I didn't know how to bring in my message, and I begun to wish I hadn't come, for fear she'd faint away or something. She looked up from her work while I was trying to think how I could begin, and says she, 'can't you stop and spend the evening?'

"'Oh! no,' says I, 'I'm expected home. Miss Reynolds,' says I, my heart beating so I was feared she'd hear it, 'who do you think's over to our house?'

"'I can't say indeed,' says she. Then she smiled and asked, 'has Samuel returned?'

"'No' says I, 'but your husband has' and with that I burst right out a crying, I couldn't help it, I'd tried to keep in so long. Miss Reynolds turned jest as white as a sheet; and her work fell out of her lap to the floor. 'Oh, dear!' says I, 'I didn't mean to tell you of it so sudden.'

"'Is it true?' says she, whispering with her white lips; her voice was clean gone.

"'Yes, 'tis true,' says I, 'Thomas brought him home when he came from work,' and then I was jest a going to tell her that he was a sitting with one of Thomas's coats on a waiting to see her; but somehow I thought that wouldn't be just the thing.

"'Is he himself?' she asked.

"'He's all right,' says I, meaning here, raising her hand to her head,' but he isn't very well.'

"She started right up, and took her bonnet and shawl down from a nail, and said, 'come' before I could hardly think what to do next. She almost flew across the road and up the lane. I had to run all the way to keep up. She stopped a minute in the entry to kind o' prepare herself, and then I opened the door; and them two sprang right into each other's arms. I declare, I acted like a fool, and stood behind the door crying as hard as ever I could, I was so astonished. She started and pushed him off a little to see if it was really her own husband, and then she hugged him tighter'n ever.

"'Anna,' says William, when he could speak, wiping his eyes with an old rag of an handkercher, 'can you forgive me all?'

"'Yes, all,' says she, 'if you'll only be my own William again,' and then she took his hand to lead him home. 'You'll hardly know the children,' says she.

"He put on the old slouched thing, he called a hat, when he suddenly bethought himself he'd got on Thomas's best coat, almost bran new; and with that he begun to pull it right off. But Thomas wouldn't let him. 'Reynolds,' says he, 'if you'll promise to be a good husband to her, as I know you will be, if you'll let rum alone, I'll make you welcome to it.'

"William snatched hold of his hands as if he was going to cry, and says he, 'I don't dare to promise, oh, how I wish I could!'

"'Well, well,' says Thomas, 'I'll see you again,' for he thought 'twa'n't just the time to say more. I couldn't help feelin proud o' my man, then, though I'm 'fraid 'twas kind o' wicked.'"

Kind Mrs. Jones! she was obliged to stop and find her pocket-handkerchief. The tears were streaming down her honest face, and I must confess, I wept with her. She resumed, "The next morning Anna came in and brought the coat all wrapped up in a towel, and says she, 'I thank your kind husband, Miss Jones, but William will soon be able to earn himself a coat with my help.'

"I urged her to keep it, and told her we both made her welcome to it, for I know what it is to want help and to have it too. But no, she wouldn't take it, and with that I asked her to wait a minute, and I ran up garret where Thomas had a good warm overcoat a little too small, and I'd laid it by to make Samuel one out of it. 'Here, Miss Reynolds,' says I, 'is a coat,'tain't no kind o' use to Thomas, 'cause it's too small; and I want the nail desprit bad, where it hung, so I'll be behoven to you, if you'll give it house room.'

"'Oh, Miss Jones,' says she, 'I can see through your kindness, and I shall be very grateful for the coat,' and so she took it and went home. Now Thomas and I have been putting our heads together to get some work for Reynolds, so he wont have to go to the distillery for it. And at last we concluded to ask the Doctor's advice."

Monday, March 6th, 1837.

How little I thought when I wrote last that so long a time would pass before I should write again. I should hardly prove a very good correspondent, did not Frank fill up and make amends for all my deficiencies.

The sickness of Pauline, which, I think, I mentioned in my last, and which probably reached you more than a month since, proved to be the worst kind of measles. We were very much alarmed for a time, as they did not come out; and the poor child was burning up with fever.

I kept Walter over at mother's for more than a fortnight, while Emily remained here to assist me in the care of the little sufferer. Even when her face was so much swollen as to close her eyes, she was patient and gentle as a lamb. "Dear mamma," she would say, "will God let me see my little brother again? Please ask God to make me well quick; this don't make Pauline's face feel nice."

When she had repeatedly begged that Walter might be brought to the bed where she could hear his voice, I explained to her that we feared, if he came, he would be sick too, and his eyes just like hers. After this, the patient sufferer with true self-denial, said, "Mamma, won't you be sick too? I will try to lie still if you can't come. I want to get well to see my brother, but he mustn't come here, because he will take the sick too," she repeated to every one after this.

Frank began to grow seriously alarmed, as week after week passed away, and she had nearly recovered from the effects of the measles, to find that her cough still continued. He feared lest her lungs might be affected. From being a very plump, rosy child, she had become extremely pale and thin. Her eyes looked unnaturally large and thoughtful. Her complexion which in health is the richest brunette, was almost sallow. I felt that she was growing too mature. Her questions were so serious and showed so much thought, that I would often catch her in my arms, and feel that I could not give her up. I saw that Frank watched her very closely, and administered to her with the tenderest care. But I dared not ask him what he thought.

"Mamma," said Pauline one day, "will you please teach me a little hymn?"

"Why, my love!" I asked, struck by the expression of her countenance.

"I want more hymns to say in the night. I have said 'Mary had a little lamb,' and 'I knew a little cottage girl,' and all my other hymns, and then I say 'Now I lay me' a great many times over, because that's so short, and I want to learn more."

"But, Pauline, why don't you shut your eyes, and go to sleep?"

"I do shut my eyes, mamma; but they won't stay shut, and the moon looks so bright, I like to see it. Then I say, 'God made the sky that looks so blue.' Is there a hymn, mamma, about the moon?"

I taught her "twinkle, twinkle little star," but with a sad weight at my heart. That night I took Frank alone, and asked him if he knew Pauline lay awake at night repeating hymns.

He tried to turn away as he replied that he had often heard her whispering to herself.

"Frank," said I, detaining him, "tell me, do you think her dangerously ill?"

"Oh, no, not now!"

But I insisted upon knowing the worst, and seeing my fears were fully aroused, he confessed that he had been anxious about her cough. "I would give a good deal to know," said he, as if speaking to himself; "whether her family were consumptive."

"Husband," said I, catching hold of his arm, "I had really forgotten that the child was not my own;" and then the word consumptive struck like a fearful knell upon my heart.

"Cora," said the Doctor, "you take it too seriously. Pauline has always appeared to have an excellent constitution; I really am not at all sure that this is not the remains of the measles, only aggravated from other causes. I intend to take her out in the open air, just as soon as these bleak winds have gone." On the whole I felt relieved by this conversation.

Tuesday, March 7th.

Joseph Morgan has come to make the long promised visit. He has become very much attached to his cousin Emily, and seems to feel that as he must have fun with somebody, it will be safer to take one who has no husband to call him to account. Sister, I will venture to say, has not laughed so much for a long, long time. He has evidently indulged no small curiosity to see Pauline; but though he will not of course say anything to wound my feelings, yet it was plain enough to see, he thought much more of a lively game at romps with Walter, than he did of trying to draw out Pauline, timid and retiring, as she always appears before strangers.

The little fellow will not allow his cousin one moment's peace when in the house. He creeps across the floor in a twinkling, climbs up to Joseph's knee, and by expressive pulls and gestures, signifies his wish that his cousin should instantly get down upon the carpet for a play. If this goes on, I shall soon be obliged to have new furniture. Chairs and lounges tumble over, and my work-basket has received a terrible wound in the side, through which I am constantly losing scissors, thimble, and cotton. Joseph expresses great sorrow, but in ten minutes does the same again. I try to look grave, and call Ann to put the room in order; but before I am aware, I am laughing until the tears roll down my cheeks.

Monday, March 20th.

Pauline has become quite free with her cousin, and goes directly to him when he calls her to sit on his knee. It is amusing to hear him talk with her. While with every one else he will have his joke, so that Cæsar opens his mouth to its fullest extent in anticipation, yet with Pauline he is grave and gentle, and never makes fun of what she says. He told me once, when she was absent from the room, that he must mind his ps and qs, for he heard her telling Phebe part of a foolish story, he had told Emily in her hearing. Phebe laughed as if she did not believe it, when Pauline said earnestly, "You mustn't laugh, Phebe, my cousin said so."

Phebe said, "Oh! misse, he's only fooling."

Pauline didn't understand that, and turning around saw him. "Here he is!" she exclaimed triumphantly, "will you please tell Phebe, you did say that."

Joseph confessed he was decidedly confused. "She looked so earnest and solemn with those large eyes of hers. I wouldn't like her to catch me fibbing. I couldn't look her in the face for a month. By the way, coz, have you ever found out her parentage? She speaks when occasion requires, like a princess. You should have heard her reprove Phebe for laughing."

I hinted to Joseph that I disliked to hear any allusion to Pauline's parentage.

"It is a great wonder," said he, "that I did not blab it right out."

Tuesday, March 21st.

To-day has been mild and pleasant as summer. Joseph, who is a skilful equestrian, rode up to the door, waiting for Cæsar to bring the riding whip. Pauline stood with her little face pressed close to the window, at the imminent hazard of flattening her nose. Joseph motioned to me to throw up the sash. I did so, setting down the child from the chair.

"Let Pauline come," said he.

I shook my head.

"It will do her good; the day is delightful; dress her warm, and let her come. I'll bring her back safely."

I turned in doubt to the child, when she put her hand in mine, while a bright flush passed over her face. "Please, mamma," she said, "I should like to go with my cousin."

This decided me, and nodding assent from the window, I hastened to prepare her for the ride. Cæsar took her in his arms and gave her to Joseph; but he was not yet ready. He asked Cæsar, if there were not somewhere about the premises, a soft cushion suitable for a princess to ride upon.

Pauline gave him a quick look from under her long lashes.

"Well," said he, correcting himself – "for a nice little girl." He gently placed her before him, held her tightly with one arm, and nodding adieu, they rode away. But Joseph forgot himself again before he reached the gate, and shouted back, "You need not expect us till night."

"Oh! please cousin don't stay so long, mamma would be very anxious," and she looked distressed.

Joseph turned the horse at once, rode back to the door where we still stood looking after them, and motioning me to come to the step, said, "We shall probably be absent about half an hour."

I smiled.

"Dear coz," he resumed, "I hope you'll have something warm for me when I return. I fancy, I shall be black and blue inside here, trying to conform my conversation to my companion's strict sense of propriety."

It was nearly an hour, however, before they returned, and Pauline's eyes were so bright, her cheeks and lips so red that I gazed at her with admiration. When in answer to my question, whether she had enjoyed herself, she replied that she had had a beautiful time, and that her cousin "talked to her so good." He said with a bow, "I am more than repaid for all my efforts at self-control."

Thursday, March 23d.

Another beautiful day, and another ride for Pauline. Her father is much encouraged already. She ate with more appetite yesterday than since her sickness. We have elected Joseph assistant physician to the Doctor, and he is to take the patients to ride when that is prescribed.

He said, "I always knew that sometime or other, the right kind of employment would come to me, if I only had patience to wait for it. Now duty and inclination point the same way, my course is clear." Instead of a sign, Joseph is to take Pauline upon the horse, and ride back and forth through the town, when he has no doubt applications will flow in upon him like a flood.

Though this dear cousin is to appearance such a harum-scarum sort of a fellow, yet I feel assured he is not without his serious moments, when he realizes that it is "not all of life to live." How can it be otherwise, educated as he has been. From his birth, daily prayer has been offered in his behalf. I am well convinced, that he often puts on this kind of foolery, as he calls it, for a cover to deeper feelings. I told him to-day that Pauline, (who always frames her own petitions,) had prayed for him, and thanked God for giving her such a nice cousin, and letting her take such beautiful rides. I told him I sometimes heard her whispering to herself when she took a tiny chair her father gave her, "thank you God for my pretty chair."

Joseph looked very serious and said, "I should value her prayers far more than those of many professing Christians I could name. Why, coz," he added after a pause, "I never saw such a little matter of fact thing in my life. If she goes on so, I prophesy people around her will have to walk straight. I thought at first that she was tame; but she has plenty of spirit, only that she keeps it under control. Yes," he added, warming with the subject, "I have seen her eye flash, and her cheeks burn for an instant, and then it would all be over, and she would speak in the gentlest, sweetest voice imaginable. It sounds like Italian music."

Friday, March 24th.

This morning after prayers, cousin came to the nursery door and knocked. I was hearing Pauline repeat her letters, after which I often tell her a Bible story. He sat down quietly until I had finished. "Cousin Cora," said he, "I don't believe I shall ever be good; I've tried, and tried, since I have been here; I resolve every night I will be better, but I go on just the same."

I confess that for a moment, I did not know what reply to make. Pauline had not left my side; she opened wide her large eyes, and looked first at me and then at her cousin. After a moment, she walked across to the place where he sat and put her hand in his. "Dear cousin, if you pray to God, he will tell you how to be good, and mamma will pray for you."

The tears started to Joseph's eyes, as he kissed the little hand in his, and went quickly out of the room.

An hour or two afterward, two young gentlemen from the village called to invite him to join them in an excursion to the lake. I was much pleased with this attention to my cousin, and accepted their invitation in his name. But to my astonishment Joseph, when sent for from the cottage, declined the courtesy with many thanks, upon the plea of a previous engagement. I looked at him for an explanation, little thinking the promise of a ride he had made Pauline, would be in his mind a sufficient excuse.

He read my look. "You know, Cora," he said, turning to me, "it would be awkward for me to be sued for a breach of promise."

The young gentlemen soon departed to join their party, and he turned to leave the room. "I cannot bear to have you give up so pleasant an excursion," said I, detaining him, "especially on Pauline's account. I had just before you came in, told them you would be delighted to accompany them."

"I should be far more delighted," he answered, "to give my sweet little cousin pleasure, and I had promised her the ride." No more was said at the time. Cæsar led the horse around to the door, ready saddled and cushioned; and the child was almost in an ecstasy of delight. She had really begun to look like her former self, and my hopes rose high for her permanent recovery. She looked really brilliant as she stood equipped waiting for Joseph; her eyes danced with joy, and her whole face was radiant with happiness.

"Am I not well paid, coz?" said the young man glancing at the little figure before him.

"You are very kind," I replied, "I shall not soon forget it."

A shade passed over his face, and he turned back as if about to speak, but checked himself, and taking Pauline in his arms, placed her on the horse, then with a light bound sprang to her side and rode away. The weather is still mild and warm, and as Ann was busy, I took Walter in his wagon, and drew him around the garden, calling at grandmamma's. The young lad began to be very sleepy, and I was about returning to the house, when the equestrians returned. Joseph left Pauline inside the door, and Cæsar coming forward to lead the horse, he hastened to meet me.

Quietly taking the handle of the carriage he said gravely, "Cousin Cora, I fear you will despise me for what I am going to say, but I can't help it. I sha'n't feel right until I've made a clean breast of it."

As I looked inquiringly, but made no reply he went on, "I deceived you this morning by allowing you to suppose that I was so careful to redeem my promise to Pauline, that I denied myself the pleasure of an excursion upon the lake. Now, I suppose if I had felt inclined to go, I should not have hesitated a moment on that account. But to tell you the truth, I was heartily glad of an excuse."

"But why? I should have supposed that you of all others would have entered into such a frolic."

For a few moments he made no reply, and we reached the door. He intimated that he would like to go the round again; and putting my arm in his, we walked silently on, as master Walter was soundly sleeping.

"Cora," said he at length, "for a few days I have been more miserable than I can tell you. I want to begin life anew; but I don't know how. All connected with this dear family are usefully and happily employed while I have only lived heretofore to please myself. Though I resolve, and re-resolve, I am no better. Even little Pauline has a principle and strength within her to which I am a stranger. Can't you help me, Cora?"

I had never seen Joseph so earnest, and I lifted up my heart for wisdom to direct me, that I might speak a "word in season." I then endeavored in my feeble, imperfect way, to direct my inquiring cousin to the fountain of all strength. I told him while he depended upon himself to keep the resolutions, he formed, he would necessarily fail. But aware as he expressed himself to be of his inability to help himself, if he would humbly and earnestly beseech God for Christ's sake to help him, God would certainly answer his prayer.

"I have tried to pray," he replied, much agitated. "I have always been taught to repeat prayers, but last night I could not sleep, and I got up and tried to pray, but I found no answer. Nothing assured me that I was heard."

"Do not despair, dear cousin. Pray again. I wish you would talk with the Doctor. He would direct you so much better than I can." This, I said, as I saw Frank approaching, having looked in vain through the house for us.

"As you please," he replied with a deep sigh, "but I fear it will do no good." I left him with the carriage, and approaching my husband told him in a few words the substance of our conversation, and requested him to invite Joseph to the library. I then ran forward to call Ann to take Walter up to his crib.

Joseph looked very much embarrassed for a moment; but I knew the Doctor would deal very tenderly with him, and at the same time that he would go to the root of the matter, and I anticipated much good from the interview.

Frank came to my room but for a moment, before he rode away. I saw that the time had not passed without strong emotion on his part. I have as yet had no opportunity to ask him about it.

Monday, March 27th.

Yesterday I was glad to notice the unusual solemnity of Joseph's manner at church. He is a dear, noble-hearted fellow, and I cannot but hope the prayers of his pious parents in his behalf will be answered. I must confess, I have sometimes thought they were too indulgent in their training, and allowed him altogether too much money. Considering how entirely he has been for many years his own master, and how much he has been petted at home, I think he is wonderfully free from faults, especially from that selfishness, prodigality, and disregard of the wishes of others which is too often the result of such training.

Tuesday, April 4th.

Our dear cousin Joseph has this morning left us. I trust his visit here will be of permanent use to him. He expressed his determination to enter at once into some useful employment, saying be had idled away quite too many years of his life. I was struck with the difference between Pauline and Walter in expressing their sorrow at his leaving. The latter screamed as loud as his lungs would allow, and would hardly leave his cousin to come to me. Pauline with a tearful eye, and flushed cheek, stood quietly by until he kissed her farewell, when her lip quivered, but she made no noisy demonstration of her sorrow. I saw that this silent grief went straight to Joseph's heart. He turned back, pressed her tightly in his arms for a moment, said something to her in a low voice and was gone.