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Stepping Heavenward (version 2)

<h3 id="id00745" style="margin-top: 3em">Chapter 10</h3> <h5 id="id00746">X</h5> <h5 id="id00747">APRIL 20.</h5> YESTERDAY I felt better than I have done since the accident. I ran about the house quite cheerily, for me. I wanted to see mother for something, and flew singing into the parlor, where I had left her shortly before. But she was not there, and Dr. Elliott was. I started back, and was about to leave the room, but he detained me. "Come in, I beg of you," he said, his voice grow mg hoarser and hoarser. "Let us put a stop to this." "To what?" I asked, going nearer and nearer, and looking up into his face, which was quite pale. "To your evident terror of being alone with me, of hearing me speak. Let me assure you, once for all, that nothing would tempt me to annoy you by urging myself upon you, as you seem to fear I may be tempted to do. I cannot force you to love me, nor would I if I could. If you ever want a friend you will find one in me. But do not think of me as your lover, or treat me as if I were always lying in wait for a chance to remind you of it. That I shall never do, never." "Oh, no, of course not!" I broke forth, my face all in a glow, and tears of mortification raining down my cheeks. "I knew you did not care for me I! knew you had got over it!" I don't know which of us began it, I don't think he did, and I am sure I did not, but the next moment I was folded all up in his great long arms, and a new life had begun! Mother opened the door not long after, and seeing what was going on, trotted away on her dear feet as fast as she could. APRIL 21.-I am too happy to write journals. To think how we love each other. Mother behaves beautifully. APRIL 25.-One does not feel like saying much about it, when one is as happy as I am. I walk the streets as one treading on air. I fly about the house as on wings. I kiss everybody I see. Now that I look at Ernest (for he makes me call him so) with unprejudiced eyes, I wonder I ever thought him clumsy. And how ridiculous it was in me to confound his dignity and manliness with age! It is very odd, however, that such a cautious, well-balanced man should have fallen in love with me that day at Sunday-school. And still stranger that with my headlong, impulsive nature, I deliberately walked into love with him! I believe we shall never get through with what we have to say to each other. I am afraid we are rather selfish to leave mother to herself every evening. SEPT. 5.-This has been a delightful summer. To be sure, we had to take the children to the country for a couple of months, but Ernest's letters are almost better than Ernest himself. I have written enough to him to fill a dozen books. We are going back to the city now. In his last letter Ernest says he has been home, and that his mother is delighted to hear of his engagement. He says, too, that he went to see an old lady, one of the friends of his boyhood, to tell the news to her. "When I told her," he goes on, "that I had found the most beautiful, the noblest, the most loving of human beings, she only said, 'Of course, of course!' "Now you know, dear, that it is not at all of course, but the very strangest, most wonderful event in the history of the world." And then he described a scene he had just witnessed at the deathbed of a young girl of my own age, who left this world and every possible earthly joy, with a delight in the going to be with Christ, that made him really eloquent. Oh, how glad I am that God has cast in my lot with a man whose whole business is to minister to others! I am sure this will, of itself, keep him unworldly and unselfish. How delicious it is to love such a character, and how happy I shall be to go with him to sick-rooms and to dying-beds! He has already taught me that lessons learned in such scenes far outweigh in value what books and sermons, even, can teach. And now, my dear old journal, let me tell you a secret that has to do with life, and not with death. I am going to be married! To think that I am always to be with Ernest! To sit at the table with him every day, to pray with him, to go to church with him, to have him all mine! I am sure that there is not another man on earth whom I could love as I love him. The thought of marrying Ch—-, I mean of having that silly, school-girl engagement end in marriage, was always repugnant to me. But I give myself to Ernest joyfully and with all my heart. How good God has been to me! I do hope and pray that this new, this absorbing love, has not detached my soul from Him, will not detach it. If I knew it would, could I, should I have courage to cut it off and cast it from me? JAN. 16, 1837.-Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is my wedding-day. We meant to celebrate the one with the other, but Sunday would come this year on the fifteenth. I am dressed, and have turned everybody out of this room, where I have suffered so much mortification, and experienced so much joy, that before I give myself to Ernest, and before I leave home forever, I may once more give myself away to God. I have been too much absorbed in my earthly love, and am shocked to find how it fills my thoughts. But I will belong to God. I will begin my married life in His fear, depending on Him to make me an unselfish, devoted wife. JAN. 25.-We had a delightful trip after the wedding was over. Ernest proposed to take me to his own home that I might see his mother and sister. He never has said that he wanted them to see me. But his mother is not well. I am heartily glad of it. I mean I was glad to escape going there to be examined and criticised. Every one of them would pick at me, I am sure, and I don't like to be picked at. We have a home of our own, and I am trying to take kindly to housekeeping. Ernest is away a great deal more than I expected he would be. I am fearfully lonely. Aunty comes to see me as often as she can, and I go there almost every day, but that doesn't amount to much. As soon as I can venture to it, I shall ask Ernest to let me invite mother to come and live with us. It is not right for her to be left all alone so I hoped he would do that himself. But men are not like women. We think of everything. FEB. 15.-Our honeymoon ends to-day. There hasn't been quite as much honey in it as I expected. I supposed that Ernest would be at home every evening, at least, and that he would read aloud, and have me play and sing, and that we should have delightful times together. But now he has got me he seems satisfied, and goes about his business as if he had been married a hundred years. In the morning he goes off to see his list of patients; he is going in and out all day; after dinner we sit down to have a nice talk together; the door-bell invariably rings, and he is called away. Then in the evening he goes and sits in his office and studies; I don't mean every minute, but he certainly spends hours there. To-day he brought me such a precious letter from dear mother! I could not help crying when I read it, it was so kind and so loving. Ernest looked amazed; he threw down his paper, came and took me in his arms and asked, "What is the matter, darling?" Then it all came out. I said I was lonely, and hadn't been used to spending my evenings all by myself. "You must get some of your friends to come and see you, poor child," he said. "I don't want friends," I sobbed out. "I want you." "Yes, darling; why didn't you tell me so sooner? Of course I will stay with you if you wish it." "If that is your only reason, I am sure I don't want you," I pouted. He looked puzzled. "I really don't know what to do," he said, with a most comical look of perplexity. But he went to his office, and brought up a pile of fusty old books. "Now, dear," he said, "we understand each other I think. I can read here just as well as down stairs. Get your book and we shall be as cosy as possible." My heart felt sore and dissatisfied. Am I unreasonable and childish? What is married life? An occasional meeting, a kiss here and a caress there? or is it the sacred union of the twain who 'walk together side by side, knowing each other's joys and sorrows, and going Heavenward hand in hand? FEB. 17.-Mrs. Embury has been here to-day. I longed to compare notes with her, and find out whether it really is my fault that I am not quite happy. But I could not bear to open my heart to her on so sacred a subject. We had some general conversation, however, which did me good for the time, at least. She said she thought one of the first lessons a wife should learn is self-forgetfulness. I wondered if she had seen anything in me to call forth this remark. We meet pretty often; partly because our husbands are such good friends, partly because she is as fond of music as I am, and we like to sing and play together, and I never see her that she does not do or say something elevating; something that strengthens my own best purposes and desires. But she knows nothing of my conflict and dismay, and never will. Her gentle nature responds at once to holy influences. I feel truly grateful to her for loving me, for she really does love me, and yet she must see my faults. I should like to know if there is any reason on earth why a woman should learn self-forgetfulness that does not apply to a man? FEB. 18.-Uncle says he has no doubt he owes his life to Ernest, who, in the face of opposition to other physicians, insisted on his giving up his business and going off to Europe at just the right moment. For his partner, whose symptoms were very like his own, has been stricken down with paralysis, and will not recover. It is very pleasant to hear Ernest praised, and it is a pleasure I have very often, for his friends come to see me, and speak of him with rapture. A lady told me that through the long illness of a sweet young daughter of hers, he prayed with her every day, ministering so skillfully to her soul, that all fear of death was taken away, and she just longed to go, and did go at last, with perfect delight. I think he spoke of her to me once; but he did not tell me that her preparations for death was his work. I could not conceive of him as doing that. FEB. 24.-Ernest has been gone a week. His mother is worse and he had to go. I wanted to go too, but he said it was not worth while, as he should have to return directly. Dr. Embury takes charge of his patients during his absence, and Mrs. E. and Aunty and the children come to see me very often. I like Mrs. Embury more and more. She is not so audacious as I am, but I believe she agrees with me more than she will own. FEB. 25.-Ernest writes that his mother is dangerously ill, and seems in great distress. I am mean enough to want all his love myself, while I should hate him if he gave none to her. Poor Ernest! If she should die he would be sadly afflicted! FEB. 27.-She died the very day he wrote. How I long to fly to him and to comfort him! I can think of nothing else. I pray day and night that God would make me a better wife. A letter came from mother at the same time with Ernest's. She evidently misses me more than she will own. Just as soon as Ernest returns home I will ask him to let her come and live with us. I am sure he will; he loves her already, and now that his mother has gone he will find her a real comfort. I am sure she will only make our home the happier. FEB. 28.-Such a dreadful thing is going to happen! I have cried and called myself names by turns all day. Ernest writes that it has been decided to give up the old homestead, and scatter the family about among the married sons and daughters. Our share is to be his father and his sister Martha, and he desires me to have two rooms got ready for them at once. So all the glory and the beauty is snatched out of my married life at one swoop! And it is done by the hand I love best, and that I would not have believed could be so unkind. I am rent in pieces by conflicting emotions and passions. One moment I am all tenderness and sympathy for poor Ernest, and ready to sacrifice everything for his pleasure. The next I am bitterly angry with him for disposing of all my happiness in this arbitrary way. If he had let me make common cause with him and share his interests with him, I know I am not so abominably selfish as to feel as I do now. But he forces two perfect strangers upon me and forever shuts our doors against my darling mother. For, of course, she cannot live with us if they do. And who knows what sort of people they are? It is not everybody I can get along with, nor is it everybody can get along with me. Now, if Helen were coming instead of Martha, that would be some relief. I could love her, I am sure, and she would put up with my ways. But your Marthas I am afraid of. Oh, dear, dear, what a nest of scorpions this affair has stirred up within me! Who would believe I could be thinking of my own misery while Ernest's mother, whom he loved so dearly, is hardly in her grave! But I have no heart, I am stony and cold. It is well to have found out just what I am! Since I wrote that I have been trying to tell God all about it. But I could not speak for crying. And I have been getting the rooms ready. How many little things I had planned to put in the best one, which I intended for mother I have made myself arrange them just the same for Ernest's father. The stuffed chair I have had in my room, and enjoyed so much, has been rolled in, and the Bible with large print placed on the little table near which I had pictured mother with her sweet, pale face, as sitting year after year. The only thing I have taken away is the copy of father's portrait. He won't want that! When I had finished this business I went and shook my fist at the creature I saw in the glass. "You're beaten!" I cried. "You didn't want to give up the chair, nor your writing-table, nor the Bible in which you expect to record the names of your ten children I But you've had to do it, so there!" MARCH 3.-They all got here at 7 o'clock last night, just in time for tea. I was so glad to get hold of Ernest once more that I was gracious to my guests, too. The very first thing, however, Ernest annoyed me by calling me Katherine, though he knows I hate that name, and want to be called Katy as if I were a lovable person, as I certainly am (sometimes). Of course his father and Martha called me Katherine, too. His father is even taller, darker, blacker eyed, blacker haired than he. Martha is a spinster. I had got up a nice little supper for them, thinking they would need something substantial after their journey. And perhaps there was some vanity in the display of dainties that needed the mortification I felt at seeing my guests both push away their plates in apparent disgust. Ernest, too, looked annoyed, and expressed some regret that they could find nothing to tempt their appetites. Martha said something about not expecting much from young housekeepers, which I inwardly resented, for the light, delicious bread had been sent by Aunty, together with other luxuries from her own table, and I knew they were not the handiwork of a young housekeeper, but of old Chloe, who had lived in her own and her mother's family twenty years. Ernest went out as soon as this unlucky repast was over to hear Dr. Embury's report of his patients, and we passed a dreary evening, as my mind was preoccupied with longing for his return. The more I tried to think of something to say the more I couldn't. At last Martha asked at what time we breakfasted. "At half-past seven, precisely," I answered. "Ernest is very punctual about breakfast. The other meals are more irregular." "That is very late," she returned. "Father rises early and needs his breakfast at once." I said I would see that he had it as early as he liked, while I foresaw that this would cost me a battle with the divinity who reigned in the kitchen. "You need not trouble yourself. I will speak to my brother about it," she said. "Ernest has nothing to do with it," I said, quickly. She looked at me in a speechless way, and then there was a long silence, during which she shook her head a number of times. At last she inquired: "Did you make the bread we had on the table to-night?" "No, I do not know how to make bread," I said, smiling at her look of horror. "Not know how to make bread?" she cried. The very spirit of mischief got into me, and made me ask: "Why, can you?" Now I know there is but one other question I could have asked her, less insulting than this, and that is: "Do you know the Ten Commandments?" A spinster fresh from a farm not know how make bread, to be sure! But in a moment I was ashamed and sorry that I had yielded to myself so far as to forget the courtesy due to her as my guest, and one just home from a scene of sorrow, so I rushed across the room, seized her hand, and said, eagerly: "Do forgive me! It slipped out before I thought!" She looked at me in blank amazement, unconscious that there was anything to forgive. "How you startled me!" she said. "I thought you had suddenly gone crazy." I went back to my seat crestfallen enough. All this time Ernest's father had sat grim and grave in his corner, without a word. But now he spoke. "At what hour does my son have family worship? I should like to retire. I feel very weary." Now family worship at night consists in our kneeling down together hand in hand, the last thing before going to bed, and in our own room. The awful thought of changing this sweet, informal habit into a formal one made me reply quickly: "Oh, Ernest is very irregular about it. He is often out in the evening, and sometimes we are quite late. I hope you never will feel obliged to wait for him." "I trust I shall do my duty, whatever it costs," was the answer. Oh, how I wished they would go to bed! It was now ten o'clock, and I felt tired and restless. When Ernest is out late I usually lie on the sofa and wait for him, and so am bright and fresh when he comes in. But now I had to sit up, and there was no knowing for how long. I poked at the fire and knocked down the shovel and tongs, now I leaned back in my chair, and now I leaned forward, and then I listened for his step. At last he came. "What, are you not all gone to bed?" he asked. As if I could go to bed when I had scarcely seen him a moment since his return! I explained why we waited, and then we had prayer and escorted our guests to their rooms. When we got back to the parlor I was thankful to rest my tired soul in Ernest's arms, and to hear what little he had to tell about his mother's last hours. "You must love me more than ever, now," he said, "for I have lost my best friend." "Yes," I said, "I will." As if that were possible! All the time we were talking I heard the greatest racket overhead, but he did not seem to notice it. I found, this morning, that Martha, or her father, or both together, had changed the positions of article of furniture in the room making it look a fright. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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