Cora and The Doctor Part 52

The last words were uttered with difficulty, as if he had not been used to uttering the word "Mother." I replied, "with G.o.d's help, I will."

He covered his face with his hand, and wept long; but his tears seemed to be soothing instead of exciting him. We waited for his agitation to subside, while the Doctor rose and walked to the window, and my tears flowed in sympathy with his.

"You are Christian parents," were his first words, "and with such I need no excuse for my tears." Then becoming more composed, he said, "the burden which has weighed heavily upon me for many years is gone. G.o.d has graciously answered me,"--he broke down again; but instantly resumed, "Doctor, will you express my thanks?"

He rose feebly, and kneeled by his chair; and though I could hear the sobs bursting from his overflowing heart, he arose composed, and refreshed.

The Doctor endeavored to change the conversation for a few moments; but he smiled as he said, "I perceive your kind intention, but I can at present think of nothing else. It will not injure me."

In the course of the interview he said that for many years he had been longing to go home; but for the sake of his son, he had taken every measure to prolong his life. "Eugene's," he added, "is a singular case.

I am not aware that he has a single relative on his mother's side; and none nearer than two or three removes on mine. He has a lovely disposition, though perhaps I may be deemed partial in saying so."

"His adopted mother says the same," I added.

With an ardent expression of grat.i.tude, he continued, "but his yielding temper only leaves him more at the mercy of a cold cruel world. Oh! how many hours of sorrow I have spent in imagining his future, and fearing he might be left to suffer like his father. Eugene remembers little or nothing of his early life. I have never been able to converse with him upon subjects connected with his"--The voice was so low I could not distinguish the rest of the sentence. "I have prepared," he added, "some papers which throw light upon some subjects, which it is natural and right he should know at a proper age. I should be glad to leave them in your hands when I go, with the request that he should have them when he attains his majority. I should also be glad, if Eugene were so inclined, to have him keep this small estate, that the cemetery may not be molested. The steward, who has lived in it for many years, would be glad to continue in it, and give him a suitable rent for the house and furniture. One thing more, and I shall have done for this morning. I fear that I have already taxed you too long. I wish a small monument in every respect like the one in yonder grave yard, placed above my remains, with the single word 'Harry' inscribed upon it. I have already given directions to have my body placed by her side. Now," said he, "receive once more the grat.i.tude of a father, who perceives in your pledge of kindness to his son, a new proof of forgiveness and a.s.surance of pardon and love from his heavenly Father."

_Friday, February 21st._

For several days I have spent much of my time with Colonel Clifford, who after our interview respecting his son, appeared to fail rapidly. On Monday morning the Doctor and I called, and Eugene took the opportunity to go out for his exercise. "Dr. Lenox," said the invalid, "there is one subject, I inadvertently omitted at our late interview, and which I may as well mention at this time. My name is not Henry Clifford, as you suppose, but Henry Clifford Shirley."

Frank sprang to his feet, and was on the point of catching his friend by the hand, but remembering the feebleness of the Colonel, and the danger to him of any sudden excitement, he resumed his seat.

"It is entirely immaterial to me which name Eugene retains," said he, not appearing to have noticed anything unusual in the Doctor's manner, "but as all his property stands registered in the name of Shirley, it was highly desirable that you should be aware of the fact."

Frank walked back and forth across the room evidently very much perplexed how to introduce the communication he wished to make. At length he sat down by the side of the sufferer, and gently said, "Colonel Clifford, many years ago I received a confession from a dying man in relation to a gentleman by the name of Henry Shirley, who was a Colonel in his Majesty's service. I have endeavored in vain to find such a gentleman, in order to confide the confession to him, according to the desire of the penitent man."

Colonel Clifford appeared much agitated, but at length said, "To what did it relate?"

"To certain anonymous letters written to him while abroad, in India, I think he said, with a regiment of the government troops. Shall I go on?"

With his handkerchief to his eyes the sick man bowed a.s.sent.

"As nearly as I can recollect," added Frank, "the gentleman, who was a townsman of mine, met your wife while on a foreign tour, and made proposals to her which she indignantly refused. In order to revenge himself, he wrote to you intimating her guilt in connection with another gentleman."

The distressed man with a dreadful groan fell forward, and would have fallen to the floor had not the Doctor caught him in his arms. He motioned to me to ring the bell, and with the help of a servant who appeared, laid the unconscious man upon the bed. It was some time before he recovered, and when he did, he looked so death-like, that we feared the excitement would terminate his life. I remained until he fell asleep, and then quietly left him with the Doctor.

When Frank returned, he said that the Colonel did not allude to the exciting subject of the interview until just before he left, and then said to him, "I am not equal to continuing the conversation. I have written all that is necessary to my son"--he could go no farther. Since that time the subject has never been alluded to. A holy peace has taken the place of the melancholy expression of his countenance; and he hails with delight every fresh symptom of dissolution. He said yesterday, "G.o.d has granted me delightful views of heaven, and the honor and glory of the Saviour, who is the chief among ten thousand, and the one altogether lovely. Oh," he exclaimed in a rapture, "Eternity will be too short to praise him who has redeemed my guilty soul."

This morning he is much revived, and asked the Doctor to pray that he might be ready and waiting, but not be impatient for the coming of the bridegroom. Eugene is tender, and affectionate as a daughter, in his attentions. It often makes the tears start to my eyes, as I witness the look of unuttered love which beams from the eye of the sufferer upon his devoted son. Every day he insists that Eugene shall take exercise in the open air; but this I fear he would be reluctant to do if it were not for the company of his sisters. When released from the sick room he bounds like a young doe to our door and calls them for a walk.

Pauline has often accompanied him to the grave of his mother. To-day he requested me to do so; when the others were about to follow, with his usual frankness he said, "no, dear Pauline, I want to walk with mamma alone." As we pa.s.sed his house, he ran in and brought out the stool.

When we reached the grave, he said as he placed the seat near by, "Dear mamma, I have chosen this place to make a disclosure to you, that if I have done wrong, the thought that my own mother has long been lying here, and that the simple word 'Imogen,' is all I have of her memory, may incline your heart to forgive."

I was very much affected. "Dear Eugene," I said, "I needed not the influence of this sacred spot in order to do that. I have said that you were to me as a son."

"Oh! let me be indeed a son," he exclaimed, throwing himself on the ground before me. "I love my sister Pauline. I love her with an intensity of which I have but lately become aware. Tell me that I have not done wrong; that you and the Doctor approve my love; and I shall be forever grateful."

"Does Pauline know of this?" I asked.

"Oh no!" he answered, "of course, I could say nothing without your consent,--we are both young. I will wait years,--you shall set the time for our marriage,--if you will only give me leave to love her, and she will consent."

He uttered all this so rapidly, and so earnestly, I had not time to think.

"You do not answer," said he, repressing a sigh; "you do not say you forgive me for having unconsciously loved her. Remember," said he, rising and standing sorrowfully before me, "remember that I have had no mother to teach me to control my feelings," and he pointed sadly to the grave.

"I do remember," I said, taking his hand. "You are a n.o.ble, honorable youth, to tell me your feelings so frankly. I do not love you less, that you love my Pauline; but this is a serious subject; there are many things to be considered, and I must consult the Doctor."

He pressed his lips upon my hand. "Thank you," said he, "that you do not deny me at once. Be a.s.sured I will not betray my feelings to her until you give me leave."

As we pa.s.sed his house on our return, I asked if he had conversed with his father upon the subject.

He blushed as he replied that he had.

"And what was his wish?"

"He smiled when I told him, and said he thought us rather young; but said he had the most implicit confidence in you and the Doctor. But I determined at once, that the only honorable course for me to pursue, was to tell you all."

"Well, my son," I answered, "I shall have great hopes that you will be a useful man, if you carry out all your determinations as well as in this case."

When we drew near the house, I saw Pauline watching us from the window.

Eugene asked in a low voice, "when may I hope for an answer from you?"

"I will walk with you again to-morrow," I answered.

He turned away with merely a bow to Pauline, and returned to his father.

I have come to my room to wait for Frank's return. I think notwithstanding what he said, he will be astonished that his daughter has been sought in marriage at so early a day. But Eugene is a n.o.ble, ingenuous youth; what can I ask more, except that he may be a humble Christian?

_Sat.u.r.day, February 22nd._

Frank returned yesterday, with a letter long expected, and waited for, from cousin Joseph Morgan, who says, owing to the protracted absence of one of the firm, he has not been able to leave Paris; but hopes now to be with us in a few days, when he intends by a long visit to make up for this tedious delay.

When we had read and discussed the letter, I asked Frank to prepare himself for some important business. Seeing I was in earnest he sat down at once, and I related what had pa.s.sed.

"Really," said he, "Eugene has well improved his time. I wonder how Pauline feels. I never saw any particular evidence of affection on her part. Now I always expected that when she felt young Cupid's dart, she would do pretty much as you did under similar circ.u.mstances, blush up to her eyes every time his name was mentioned, and always be out of the way just when she was wanted. Come, come, I didn't mean to set you at it again; but,

"Tell me the charms that lovers seek In the clear eye and blushing cheek, The hues that play O'er rosy lips, and brow of snow.

Ah! where are they?"

"I have seen nothing of all this in Pauline, but there's no such thing as calculating all the intricacies of a woman's heart. I've given up ever since Emily's labyrinthian course in refusing a man whom she dearly loved."

"Perhaps she had no idea of such a termination to his introduction to the family; and probably is not aware of the state of her own feelings."

I determined, however, to sound her upon the subject before I met Eugene again. During the evening, I made an excuse for calling her to my room, that I would read her Joseph's letter, after which I desired some conversation with her. "Here comes Frank's proof," I said to myself as a rosy hue mantled to her very brow; but she immediately said, she would run to her room for her crotcheting, and then return.

"I don't know," said I, when she had taken her seat, "as you remember much of your cousin; you have not seen him for a number of years."