rejoiced with me in the happy termination. Pauline sobbed a long time after she was asleep; but this afternoon she has been like a little lamb, coming every time she looked up from her play and met my eye, to give me a sweet kiss.
This morning I went to the village, and though I trembled for my daughter, lest the scene of yesterday should be repeated, she behaved well; and I promised her a ride this afternoon with papa. Did I tell you, I had taught her to say "Papa?" I had no idea of being her only parent.
During the forenoon, I received a very pleasant call from Lucy Lee, the daughter of Squire Lee, our richest citizen, who made his money, as I have told you, by his distillery. She is a beautiful girl, modest and sweet in her manners, but looked to-day very pale and careworn. My thoughts recurred to what I had heard of her domestic trials. I was glad she was unaccompanied by her brother, who is very disagreeable to me with his talk of "our place, our horses, our store." It seems hardly possible that he can be her own brother.
Lucy is said to be like her mother, now deceased. Joseph is like his father, and has been so much indulged, especially since his mother's death, that he is now the master. Emily says the whole family are afraid of him; and that Lucy, with whom she is intimate, lives a very sad life in the midst of all their splendor.
I invited the dear girl to come to tea next week, to which she cheerfully consented. I hope, by that time Emily may be down stairs.
This afternoon I persuaded mother to take my place with Frank for a drive. She has confined herself closely for the last week. Pauline was delighted to accompany them, though she did not like to leave mamma. I took my sewing into sister's room, where we were soon busy in conversation. After a little time, she interrupted me, as I was beginning a remark, "Cora, I want to say something to you while mother is gone. I wish your advice and assistance."
"Well, dear Emily, it is very easy to give advice;" but while I spoke, my heart began to beat very fast. I feared it would be something about Mr. Benson, and then the truth concerning him would have to be told.
Emily suddenly covered her face with her handkerchief, "I have treated him shamefully."
"Who?"
She looked at me as if she wondered that I should not know of whom she was speaking, and could not bear to mention his name. As I still looked inquiringly, she added, "Mr. Benson," and blushed crimson. "He made proposals of marriage to me the evening after our ride to Waverley, and I indignantly refused him. I treated him as no lady should treat a gentleman under such circumstances, even if she cannot love him. But I did love him! I do love him now!" she repeated earnestly, again hiding her face.
"Then why, dearest Emily, did you treat him so cruelly? I think you were very much in the wrong."
"I know it, I confess it," she replied, beginning to weep.
"I can't understand you, Emily. You loved him dearly?" She bowed her head; "and yet refused him with scorn?" She bowed her head still lower. "Why?" I again asked.
"Because," she said passionately, "he seemed so certain I should make a courtesy, and say 'Yes, sir, I thank you.' I suppose he expected I should fall right into his arms the moment he gave me leave. I loved him when he was away, yet there was something in his manner toward me which roused all my pride, and more ugly feelings than I knew I possessed. He showed his love too openly, as if he were sure of success."
"I thought," said I with a smile, "that you wished the one you married to be very loving and often assure you of his love."
"Pooh!" said she, trying to laugh, "that was all my nonsense. I would rather a dozen times, that he would be like Frank. Now he almost worships you; but he is not always talking about it, and showing it in such silly ways." I now began to blush in earnest. "But it is foolish to talk of all this now. The die is cast, and I have no one but myself to blame. I have been thinking it all over, and have brought down my pride to asking his forgiveness for my haughty manner; mind, I say for the manner of my refusal. But it has cost me a hard struggle."
"What made you treat him so the night he called when you were sick?"
"I don't know," she replied, sadly; "I believe I was possessed with some evil spirit. If he had come in an hour earlier, he would have found me humble enough."
"Did you expect him?"
"I half expected he would call," covering her face to hide her blushes. "But my mind was all worked up, and my head ached so, and – and I thought he'd think I was mourning for him. But I've suffered enough for my foolish pride."
"Poor girl!" I thought; "if she knew what I do, she would suffer more." "Emily," said I, rising and taking her hand, "I pity you sincerely; but I cannot help telling you, I think you have been greatly to blame."
"Well, I'm willing to hear that from you; and I have acknowledged it."
"In the first place," I continued, "it was entirely your imagination with regard to him. His manner, as far as I saw it, was uniformly respectful and tender, perhaps too openly the latter to suit my taste; but not the least bordering on undue confidence in your attachment. Indeed, I thought he did not sufficiently respect himself, and was too distrustful. Then I can't understand how you could love him, and yet give him such pain. You saw how very pale he looked."
"Oh, don't repeat it! I have thought of nothing else;" and the poor girl wept bitterly. Suddenly she looked up, as she heard the carriage, and trying to wipe away her tears, said quickly, "Not a word of all this for the world. I want you to take charge of a note from me, and send it to him."
"When shall you write it?"
"Some time next week," she answered, putting her finger on her lip, as she heard mother at the door.
I was glad to escape from the room; and ran down to take Pauline from papa. My head was all in a whirl. I am glad I did not promise secrecy, for I must tell Frank the first chance I get. He will know what to do.
I remained at home with sister this morning, while mother went to church. It is a rainy day. I suppose we ought to be thankful, for the earth was very dry and dusty; but I do love a pleasant Sabbath. This afternoon I went with Frank to church, and from thence to the house of Mr. Lewis. Mr. Munroe and Deacon Jackson rode with us, and after the horse had been driven under a shed, we all proceeded to the sick room, the deacon carrying with him a basket containing the sacred elements.
One of the tenants of the house had opened her room opposite, for the convenience of the company; and I was surprised as I passed up the stairs to see that it was crowded with people; many of them, I suppose, members of the church who came in to unite in the ordinance.
A clean white linen cloth was spread over the table at the foot of the bed, upon which Deacon Jackson placed two cups of wine and a plate of bread, covering the whole with a napkin. In the midst of intense feeling, I noticed all this, with pleasure, as evidence of the reverence and awe with which he handled the elements which were to represent the body and blood of our Lord.
The poor dying man, in clean clothing, lay on his bed with everything about him spotless and white as snow. Though he looked exceedingly pale, yet there was an elevation and glory in his face, which showed that his soul had communion with his Saviour, and that the gracious Spirit was strengthening him for this solemn occasion.
Though it rained very hard, yet the window near the bed was open to give the poor man fresh air, while his wife stood near him with a fan. I was affected to see that she had reserved two seats near the bed for the Doctor and myself.
