Cora and The Doctor Part 35

"Well, p'r'aps I did," she said with a sigh, "my memory's grown very poor; but I haven't forgotten where my Saviour is," she added, her countenance brightening, "nor he wont forget me; though sometimes I'm almost tempted to fear he don't altogether remember how long I've been expecting he'd send for me to go home. Every morning I ask him if it's G.o.d's will to take me before night; and every night I pray to go before the sun rises. But he knows best, and I try not to feel impatient o'

waiting for him."

I cannot describe the holy expression of the dear old lady as she said this.

_Thursday, June 25th._

How little I thought when I wrote the last sentence, that I should never more feel that warm embrace; never meet those eyes beaming with love.

The dear blessed woman is now where she so longed and prayed to be. Her Saviour had not forgotten her, but came during the silent watches of the night and took her home.

So silently did she resign her spirit to her beloved Lord, that not even her daughter, whose room joins hers, and who heard her whispering her prayers and hymns after she retired, knew aught of the solemn visitor.

But he was not unexpected, or unwelcome to the sleeper. She was so impatient to answer the summons, she could not stop to bid farewell to her earthly friends. Her Saviour called, and she hastened to obey.

In the morning Mrs. Wilson, after waiting beyond the usual time, stepped softly to the bed side of her mother. Struck dumb by the gloriously joyous expression, she went back to the sitting room and beckoned her husband to look before she awoke the sleeper, then leaning forward, said, "mother, _mother_!"

"Oh! wonder not, motherless daughter, that she is deaf to your call. Her ears are listening to notes of heavenly music which ravish her soul. Her eyes are feasting on her Saviour, and she is satisfied, now that she beholds his face in glory!"

I could not resist the wish to see that beautiful countenance once more before it was forever buried from sight; and my dear Frank went with me to the chamber of death. I felt very sad as we approached the house; but when I entered the room where I had always seen her, and looked beneath the linen cloth which covered her from view, I could not weep. I felt as if I had caught a glimpse of heaven.

"Surely," said I, "that wonderful smile is not of earth."

"Perhaps," said Frank, "it was the smile of welcome to the messenger who summoned her home. Death was a welcome guest to her."

As we gazed we could follow her rapt spirit to the mansions of the blessed, and behold her heart ever more expanding with love to her Saviour and her G.o.d.

"Thy face Is all at once spread over with a calm More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy."

_Wednesday, July 29th._

We have heard that there are great preparations making in Waverley for the welcome of their former pastor. It is now more than a year since Mr.

Tyler left them for another field of labor; and when the parish heard that Mr. Benson had returned, they gave him a unanimous call to resettle with them. They have not received a regular answer to their call; but only that he will be with them, providence permitting, the second Sabbath in August. They seem to feel sure, however, that he will prefer to settle with the people of his first love. And they are ready to offer him a better support than they were able to do formerly. The young men are fitting up the grounds about the parsonage, and the whole village is alive with interest. I can't tell whether to be glad or sorry. Perhaps if Emily were to see him often, she would the sooner conquer any remaining interest she may feel for him.

Since that first night, if she is indulging grief, she deceives even me.

Indeed, I told Frank to-day, after she left the room, that I considered her uncommonly cheerful. But he thought otherwise, and gravely shook his head.

_Thursday, July 30th._

The parish committee in Waverley have received a communication from Mr.

Benson, that he hopes to be with them on Thursday, the sixth day of August, and should be happy to meet any of his old people in the vestry or at any place they may appoint. No sooner did they hear this than they determined that it should be a feast of welcome. They are perfectly enthusiastic in their love for him. I only hope his wife may be a suitable help-meet.

Mr. and Mrs. Munroe called here to-day to invite us in behalf of the managing committee to be present on the occasion; I answered vaguely, "that if the Doctor were at liberty," etc., etc.

_Friday, July 31st._

I am astonished at Emily--here she has been planning a journey to C---- and has never let us know it until to-day. I went in this morning to give her and mother the invitation left by Mr. Munroe. She answered gayly, "I should be happy to go, but I shall be far away before that time."

"Where?" I asked in surprise.

"Oh, somewhere among the Catskill Mountains; but," she continued, "Ruth and I have made a nice loaf of cake. It is bride's cake," she added, laughing gayly, as she brought from the closet a large loaf beautifully frosted. I forgot to mention, that cake, fruits, and flowers had been solicited for the occasion.

"Caesar," said Emily, "has promised me two bouquets made in his best style; and remember, Mr. Benson is to hold one and his wife the other."

Then, with a low courtesy in acknowledgment of my profound amazement, she deposited the cake in the closet again.

"Emily," said I, as mother answered a summons from the room, "I do believe you're getting crazed."

"Why?"

"Because you laugh so much, and act so strangely."

"Well, dear sister," said she, growing very grave, "if crying will suit you any better, I can easily do that," and leaning her head upon the table, with her arms for her pillow, she gave way to a pa.s.sionate burst of grief.

"And sorrow too finds some relief In tears which wait upon our grief."

I stood in the middle of the room perfectly confounded, and was hesitating whether I ought not to run home for Frank, when hearing a distant door shut she started up, throwing her arms around my neck, and said hurriedly, "Dear sister, don't look so very sad. It has been a hard struggle; but it is almost over. I seldom give way as I have done now; that is too great a luxury to be indulged in often."

"At times e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief."

She turned to leave me; but I persisted in following her to her room.

We sat down after I had closed the door. Turning from our late subject, she began to say something in a careless tone.

"Don't, Emily, don't speak so, that makes me feel worse than anything."

"Cora," she exclaimed in an excited tone, as unlike the other, as if she were a different person, "_Cora_, what do you think you should do, if after all the years you've loved Frank, you should suddenly find out some day, you were committing sin every moment you continued to love him? Supposing you should some day find out he had another wife?"

"Oh! sister," I answered, "I should die, I couldn't help loving Frank."

"No, that would be too easy; I'll tell you what you should do," drawing herself up to her full height, and looking almost like a queen. "You must tear up your love by the roots; you must never allow one tender thought of him. Drive them out. _Drive them away!_ You must keep saying to yourself, '_It is sin against G.o.d! It is sin against my own soul!_'

Night and day you must do this."

"Dear, darling sister," said I, weeping upon her neck, "Is this the way you have to do?" I stood back and gazed at her with admiration. Never had she seemed more beautiful. Her whole countenance was brilliant with excitement; and she looked like one whose mind was made up to conquer or to die. But as I stood, she put her arm lovingly around me. "Dearest sister, I have done wrong to pain you thus; and for my own sake I must avoid such scenes. I must struggle and conquer alone. No, not alone,"

she added in a subdued voice, "my Saviour will aid me."

I took my leave, wondering if Mr. Benson had ever known a pang like hers. I acknowledged to myself a rising prejudice against the man for loving another.

_Sat.u.r.day, August 1st._

Emily is not quite well, and has postponed her journey until the first of the week. How entirely mother is deceived by her calmness. She spoke to me of it with tears in her eyes, and said she was so thankful that the dear girl was quiet in her feelings. How little we know of the misery that is pa.s.sing before our eyes! But Emily is a n.o.ble hearted woman; and she will not allow her grief, which she always remembers is the effect of her own insincerity, to trouble her friends. I have no doubt, I should sink under such a blow. My heart aches when I think my tender-hearted, sensitive Pauline may be destined to such a trial. But if she has not the Lenox blood in her, she certainly has a great deal of character, and never will make a tame woman. I wonder what her little sister will be?

_Wednesday, August 5th._