Lewie Part 9

"'Edwards! Edwards!' said he; 'there is but one person of that name that I know of in all the village; but he can't be brother to such a lady as you.'"

"'Perhaps you have not been here long,' I said."

"'O yes, ma'am, nearly fifteen years,' he answered."

"'And what is the name of this man of whom you speak?'"

"'Richard, I think; they always call him d.i.c.k Edwards about here,'

answered the landlord."

"I did not tell him that was my brother's name, but with a trembling heart I asked him to point me to the house of this Richard Edwards of whom he spoke."

"There was something of pity in the tone of the landlord's voice, as he told me to turn down the second lane I should come to, and go on to the last hut on the right hand. 'But I advise you not to go,' he continued, 'for I'm sure there must be some mistake.'"

I was too heart-sick to answer, but, taking my travelling-bag on my arm, I followed the directions of the landlord, and picked my way as well as I could through the mud of the miserable, filthy lane he had mentioned to me, all the time saying to myself, 'It cannot be--there surely must be some mistake,' and yet impelled irresistibly to go on.

"As I approached the door of the hut at which I knew I was to stop, I heard the sound of singing and shouting; and as I came nearer, the words of a low drinking chorus sounded on my ear. I paused before the door, and a feeling of faintness came over me. I thought, 'I will turn back, and give up the attempt. Better never to find my brother, than to find him here, and thus.' But again something impelled me to tap at the door.

It would be such an inexpressible relief, I thought, to find myself mistaken."

"It was some time before I could make myself heard above the noise of drunken revelry which sounded within the hovel; but at length the door was opened by a wretched, frightened-looking woman, and a scene of indescribable misery was presented to my eyes. Around a table were seated three or four brutish-looking men, with a jug and some gla.s.ses before them. On the table was a pack of greasy-looking cards; but those who surrounded the table were too far gone to play now; they could only drink, and sing, and shout, and drink again; and one of them, in attempting to rise from the table, fell, and lay in a state of utter helplessness on the floor."

"The man of the house was not so far gone as the rest; and when he came staggering forward, a few words sufficed to explain the reason of my appearance."

"His answer seemed to seal my fate."

"'Ho! you're Rhoda, then! I wrote to you. I thought likely enough you'd got some money. We're pretty hard up here.' This was said with a silly laugh and hiccough, which filled me with an indescribable loathing."

"And was this miserable, bloated wretch my brother--that brother whom I had so longed and prayed once more to see, of whom I had thought by day, and dreamed by night, for so many long years! I turned to go without another word, but fell at the door, and lay, I know not how long, without sense or motion. When I revived, I found the woman (who, I suppose, was my sister-in-law) bathing my face. I have a dim recollection, too, of seeing some dirty, miserable-looking children, and of being asked for _money_. I laid all that I had about me on the table, and, while they were eagerly catching for it, I left the wretched place; and grasping by the fence to steady my feeble footsteps, I made my way back to the inn. I took the next stage, and then the boat, for the home of my kind old friend at Springdale, and arrived there ill in body and mind. From there I wrote you, when partially recovered. As soon as I was able, I began my school, and before long became much interested in my little scholars; and in the hospitable home of my kind old friends, regained tranquillity of mind, and after a time even cheerfulness. But other trials awaited me. My head is weary, and I must rest before I relate to you the remainder of my melancholy story."

"There was a young physician in that place, who had recently come from the East, and settled there. He was a man of agreeable person and manners, of much general information, and of very winning address; at least, so he seemed to me. He was entirely different from all whom I had met in that new country, and was the only person, besides my old friend the clergyman and his wife, with whom it was really pleasant to converse; and I felt perfectly at ease in his society, having been a.s.sured that he was engaged to a certain Miss G----, the daughter of a merchant in the village. Though much surprised at this, she having appeared to me but a mere flippant gossip, and he a man of refined and cultivated intellect, still I had no reason to doubt it, and was completely taken by surprise when, after an acquaintance of a few weeks, he one day made an offer of his hand and heart to _me_. I told him what I had heard of his engagement to another, but he a.s.sured me it was the idlest village gossip. 'There was nowhere else to go,' he said, 'till I came there, and so he had occasionally visited at Mr. G----'s, but without the slightest intention of paying any serious attention to either of his daughters, who were girls not at all to his taste.'"

"The idea of this gentleman appearing in the character of a lover of _mine_ was so new to me that I was obliged to take time to accustom myself to it, and to ascertain the nature of my own feelings, which I soon found were such as to satisfy me that I should commit no perjury in giving him my hand. I will not tell you how I loved him! I cannot write about it now! But for a short time I was very, very happy, and even my bitter disappointments were forgotten. But suddenly he ceased to visit me. Day after day pa.s.sed and he did not come; and yet I knew that he was in the village. At length I could no longer conceal my distress from my old friend; who, being very indignant at this treatment, called my truant lover to account."

"My cheeks glow with indignation as I write it! A story had been circulated, which was afterwards traced to the G---- 's, that I had left a _husband_ in an Eastern State; and this man, without coming to me for a word of explanation, believed the story and deserted me. I had no friend of long enough standing there to contradict the report; I wrote to you, Mr. Wharton, but the letter could never have reached you, for no answer came; and this only confirmed the suspicions of those who had heard this slanderous story. All but my kind hosts looked upon me with suspicion; the object of the slander was accomplished; my former lover resumed his visits at the house of Mr. G----, and his attentions to his daughter. He was not worthy of a love like mine! Stranger as he had been to me, could I have believed a tale like that of him, without making an effort to investigate its truth, or giving him full opportunity to clear himself from the imputation? That place could no longer be a home for me. I left it, dear friends, and turned my face once more towards those who had been for so many years tried and true to me. But strength failed! I have been here I know not how many weeks, enduring torment of mind and body. My hope of reaching you is dying out. I _have_ no hope but in G.o.d; my friend and refuge in time of trouble! I have--'"

Here the writing ceased; and the next moment she had seen her faithless lover hand his bride from the carriage, and reason fled from her poor brain forever.

The day after this letter was received found Mr. Wharton on his way to the West, to ascertain for himself the condition of Miss Edwards, and to endeavor to devise some means for her comfort and restoration, if possible. Has my reader ever visited a _county house_, and especially the apartment devoted exclusively to Lunatics? If not, I will endeavor to describe a few of the sights which met the eyes of Mr. Wharton, on his sad visit to the county house, which then stood a few miles from----. He proceeded thither in company with the physician who had written to him, and sent him the package from Miss Edwards, and it was with a heavy heart that he first saw the desolate brick building in which she had been placed, and thought, "Is this the only asylum for one so lovely and so gifted, and must she wear out her days in hopeless madness here?" Making their way through the crowd of miserable, hobbling, bandaged, blind and helpless creatures who were standing about the yard and halls, Mr. Wharton and Dr. Masten, guided by the superintendent of the county house, paused before the door of the "crazy room." Sounds of many voices were already heard, in various tones, singing and shouting, and preaching, and when the door was opened the din was such that it was impossible for the gentlemen to hear each other speak.

What a place, thought Mr. Wharton, for those who should be kept quiet and tranquil, and who should have nothing about them but pleasant, cheerful sights. What possible hope is there of the restoration of any here!

About the large and not over clean room, were a number of _cages_, much like those you now see placed around a menagerie tent, though not so large or so comfortable as these cages of wild beasts. In each of these cages was confined a human being, and these poor creatures stricken by the hand of G.o.d, were in various stages of insanity, some wildly raving, others more quiet, and others still in a state of helpless idiocy. One poor creature had preached till her voice had sunk to a hoa.r.s.e whisper, and so she continued to preach, the keeper told them, day and night, till utterly exhausted, when she would fall into a state of insensibility, which could hardly be called _sleep_, but from which she would arouse to preach again, day and night, till again exhausted.

A boy about sixteen years of age sat in one of the cages, with scarcely a rag to cover him, idly pulling through his fingers a bit of cord. This had been his employment for months, the keeper said. He was perfectly quiet, except the cord was taken from him; but then he would be quite frantic. The ends of his fingers were quite worn with drawing this cord between them, and it was necessary to supply him constantly with a new bit of cord. When asked why the boy remained nearly naked, the keeper said, they had never been able to devise any means to keep clothing upon him, or to find anything strong enough to resist the strength of his hands; but if allowed to remain in a state almost of nudity, and to have his bit of cord, he was perfectly quiet and contented.

These, and many more sad and horrible things, were seen and heard during their visit; but Mr. Wharton's first object was to find her for whose sake he had undertaken this long journey. He knew her immediately, though her face was worn with trouble and sickness, and there was an intense and unnatural brightness about her eye. Her beautiful hair was unbound, and falling about her shoulders, as she sat in the farthest corner of her cage, perfectly quiet, and entirely unoccupied.

"Rhoda!" said Mr. Wharton, gently. She started, and put back her thick hair from her ear, at the sound of his familiar voice.

"Rhoda!" said he, "don't you remember me?"

She looked at him intently, and the expression of her eye began to change.

"The children want to see you so much, Rhoda! Emily and Effie, and Agnes and little Grace." He mentioned each name slowly and distinctly, and then spoke of his wife and the other children, and mentioned scenes and incidents connected with his home. Her eye still looked with an earnest gaze into his; her brow contracted, as if she was trying to recall some long forgotten thing; until at length, with the helplessness of an infant, she stretched her arms towards Mr. Wharton, and exclaimed, piteously:

"Oh, take me away!--take me to my home!"

"You shall go with me, Rhoda; I will not leave you here," said Mr.

Wharton; and beckoning to Dr. Masten, he left the room. As he reached the door, he heard a cry of agony, and turning, he saw Miss Edwards at the front of her cage, with both arms extended towards him through the bars, and the most agonized, imploring expression upon her face.

Stepping back to her, he said:

"Rhoda, I _will not_ leave you. Be quiet, and I will come back very soon to take you with me. Did I ever deceive you, Rhoda?"

"Oh!" said she, putting her hand to her head, "they have all deceived me. Richard deceived me! _He_ deceived me!--oh, so cruelly! Who can I trust? They all desert me. I am _all, all_ alone!" And she sat down; and dropping her head upon her knees, she wept very bitterly.

When Mr. Wharton had again called the doctor from the room, he said to him:

"Doctor, this does not seem to me such a hopeless case. How any sane person could retain his senses in that awful scene, I cannot imagine; I am sure I should soon go crazy myself. But could I once remove Miss Edwards from these terrible a.s.sociations, and place her in one of our Eastern asylums, where she might have cheerful companionships, and pleasant occupation for her mind and fingers, I doubt not she might be completely restored."

The doctor thought it possible, but was not so sanguine on the subject as Mr. Wharton, who, he said, had only seen the young lady in one of her calmer moods. Still he by all means advised the trial. "We have no hope of _cure_" said he, "in placing these lunatics in the County House; the only object is to keep them from injuring themselves or others. They are all of them from the families of the poor, who cannot afford to send them to an Eastern asylum. This young lady was a stranger, and without means, and so violent, at times, that restraint was absolutely necessary; so that the only thing we could do with her was to place her here till I could write to you."

"You did the very best that could be done under the circ.u.mstances, my dear sir," answered Mr. Wharton; "but I sincerely hope the day is not far distant when your State will possess a more comfortable home than this for those afflicted as these poor creatures are. But I feel as if I could not lose a moment in removing my young friend from this place; and if you, doctor, will be so kind as to take the journey with me, and aid me in the care of her, you shall be well rewarded for your loss of time."

It was with no great difficulty that this undertaking was accomplished; and in less than a fortnight from the time when Mr. Wharton found Miss Edwards, caged like a wild beast in the County House at----, she was placed at an asylum where every comfort surrounded her. It was not long before she seemed quite at home amid these new scenes, and began to interest herself in books and work; and though her mind never fully regained its tone, she yet seemed tranquil and happy. But the scenes of trial through which she had pa.s.sed had done their work upon her const.i.tution, and she sank rapidly, until, in a little less than a year from the time of her entering the asylum, Mr. Wharton was summoned to her death-bed. He arrived but a short time before she breathed her last, and had the satisfaction to find that she knew him, to hear from her own lips the a.s.surance that her faith in her Redeemer was firm and unshaken, and to bear her last kind messages to all the dear ones at Brook Farm.

And then the poor sad heart was still--the mind was bright and clear again--for the shattered strings were tuned anew in heaven.

In a quiet nook at Brook Farm, where the willow bends, and the brook murmurs, is a spot marked out for a burying-place, and the first stone planted there bears on it the name of "Rhoda Edwards."

IX.

Emily's Trials.

"And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear, corroding joy and youth?

And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang, even thou must fail to soothe?"--BYRON.

In the meantime the education of Master Lewie was going on as best it might, and in a manner most agreeable to that young gentleman's inclinations. When he chose to do so, he studied, and then no child could make more rapid advancement than he, but as he was brought up without any habits of regular application, study soon became distasteful to him, and at the first puzzling sentence he threw aside his books in disgust, and started off for play. The only thing he really loved, was music, and in his devotion to this delightful accomplishment he was indefatigable, and his proficiency at that tender age was remarkable.

But being now nine or ten years old, his mother, urged to this course by some pretty strong hints from Mr. Wharton, began to determine upon some systematic plan of education for him. And, acting upon Mr.

Wharton's advice, she was so happy as to secure the services of Mr.

Malcolm, the young clergyman at the village, as a tutor for Lewie, upon the condition on his part, that unlimited authority, in no case to be interfered with, should be given to him in his government of the hitherto untrained and petted child.

And so it was settled, that Mr. Malcolm should ride over from the village every morning at a certain hour, and attend to the education of little Lewie Elwyn. It was soon observed, that as the young clergyman rode from the Hemlocks back to the village, it seemed a difficult matter for him to pa.s.s Mr. Wharton's lane, but he often, and then oftener, and at length every day, turned his horse's head up the lane, and stopped to make a call. And the children (than whom there are no quicker observers in matters of this kind) soon made up their minds that the object of Mr. Malcolm's frequent and prolonged visits was sweet cousin Emily. And they thought too, judging by the bright blush that came up in cousin Emily's usually pale cheek when he was announced, and by the look of interest with which she listened to his conversations with her uncle, or replied to him when he addressed a remark to herself, that cousin Emily was by no means indifferent to the young minister.

Having drawn their own conclusions from these premises, and watching with much interest, as children always do the progress of a love affair, they were surprised and disappointed when they found that as Mr.

Malcolm's attentions increased and became more pointed, cousin Emily gradually withdrew from his society, and often declined altogether to come into the sitting room when he was there. Yet they were certain she liked him, for they often found her watching from her window his retreating figure; and sometimes before she knew that she was observed, she would be seen to wipe away the tears which were stealing unbidden down her cheek.