"Unhappy!" she repeated. "I don't wonder you are unhappy. You have pained and wounded one of the n.o.blest men that walks the earth."

"It is not my fault. I never tried to make him like me."

"Yes, you did. You were perfectly bewitching whenever he came here.

No mortal man could help being fascinated."

I knew this was not true, and bitterly resented Aunty's injustice.

"If I wanted to 'fascinate' or 'bewitch' a man," I cried, "I should not choose one old enough to be my father, nor one who was as uninteresting, awkward and stiff as Dr. Elliott. Besides, how should I know he was not married? If I thought anything about it at all, I certainly thought of him as a middle-aged man, settled down with a wife, long ago.

"In the first place he is not old, or even middle aged. He is not more than twenty-seven or eight. As to his being uninteresting, perhaps he is to you, who don't know him. And if he were a married man, what business had he to come here to see as he has done?"

"I did not know he came to see me; he never spoke to me. And I always said I would never marry a doctor."

"We all say scores of things we live to repent," she replied. "But I must own that the doctor acted quite out of character when he expected you to take a fancy to him on such short notice, you romantic little thing. Of course knowing him as little as you do, and only seeing him in sick-rooms, you could not have done otherwise than as you did."

"Thank you, Aunty," I said, running and throwing my arms around her; "thank you with all my heart. And now won't you take back what you said about my trying to fascinate him?"

"I suppose I must, you dear child," she said. "I was not half in earnest. The truth is I am so fond of you both that the idea of your misunderstanding each other annoys me extremely. Why, you were made for each other. He would tone you down and keep you straight, and you would stimulate him and keep him awake."

"I don't want to be toned down or kept straight," I remonstrated. "I hate prigs who keep their wives in leading-strings. I do not mean to marry any one, but if I should be left to such a piece of folly, it must be to one who will take me for better for worse; just as I am, and not as a wild plant for him to prune till he has got it into a shape to suit him. now, Aunty, promise me one thing. Never mention Dr. Elliott's name to me again."

"I shall make no such promise," she replied, laughing. "I like him, and I like to talk about him and the more you hate and despise him the more I shall love and admire him. I only wish my Lucy were old enough to be his wife, and that he could fancy her; but he never could!"

"On the contrary I should think that little model of propriety would just suit him," I exclaimed.

"Don't make fun of Lucy," Aunty said, shaking her head. "She is a dear good child, after all."

"After all" means this (for what with my own observation, and what Aunty has told me, Lucy's portrait is easy to paint) The child is the daughter of a man who died from a lingering illness caused by an accident. She entered the family at a most inauspicious moment, two days after this accident. From the outset she comprehended the situation and took the ground that a character of irreproachable dignity and propriety became an infant coming at such a time. She never cried, never put improper objects into her mouth, never b.u.mped her head, or scratched herself. Once put to bed at night, you knew nothing more of her till such time next day as you found it convenient to attend to her. If you forgot her existence, as was not seldom the case under the circ.u.mstances, she vegetated on, unmoved.

It is possible that pangs of hunger sometimes a.s.sailed her, and it is a fact that she teethed, had the measles and the whooping-cough. But these minute ripples on her infant life only showed the more clearly what a waveless, placid little sea it was. She got her teeth in the order laid down in "Dewees on Children"; her measles came out on the appointed day like well-behaved measles as they were and retired decently and in order, as measles should. Her whooping-cough had a well-bred, methodical air, and left her conqueror of the field. As the child pa.s.sed out of her babyhood, she remained still her mother's appendage and glory; a monument of pure white marble, displaying to the human race one instance at least of perfect parental training.

Those smooth, round hands were always magically clean; the dress immaculate and uncrumpled; the hair dutifully shining and tidy. She was a model child, as she had been a model baby. No slamming of doors, no litter of carpets, no pattering of noisy feet on the stairs, no headless dolls, no soiled or torn books indicated her presence. Her dolls were subject to a methodical training, not unlike her own. They rose, they were dressed, they took the air, they retired for the night, with clock-like regularity. At the advanced age of eight, she ceased occupying herself with such trifles, and began a course of instructive reading. Her lessons were received in mute submission, like medicine; so many doses, so many times a day.

An agreeable interlude of needlework was afforded, and Dorcas-like, many were the garments that resulted for the poor. Give her the very eyes out of your head, cut off your right hand for her if you choose, but don't expect a gush of enthusiasm that would crumple you collar; she would as soon strangle herself as run headlong to embrace you. If she has any pa.s.sions or emotions, they are kept under; but who asks for pa.s.sion in blanc-mange, or seeks emotion in a comfortable apple-pudding?

When her father had been dead a year, her mother married a man with a large family of children and a very small purse. Lucy had a hard time of it, especially as her step-father, a quick, impulsive man, took a dislike to her. Aunty had no difficulty persuading them to give the child to her. She took from the purest motives, and it does seem as if she ought to have more reward than she gets. She declares, however, that she has all the reward she could ask in the conviction that G.o.d accepts this attempt to please Him.

Lucy is now nearly fourteen; very large of her age, with a dead white skin, pale blue eyes, and a little light hair. To hear her talk is most edifying. Her babies are all "babes"; she never begins anything but "commences" it; she never cries, she "weeps"; never gets up in the morning, but "rises." But what am I writing all this for? Why, to escape my own thoughts, which are anything but agreeable companions, and to put off answering the question which must be answered, "Have I really made a mistake in refusing Dr. Elliott? Could I not, in time, have come to love a man who has so honored me?"

JULY 5.-Here I am again, safely at home, and very pleasant it seems to be with dear mother again. I have told her about Dr. E. She says very little about it one way or the other.

JULY 10.-Mother sees that I am restless and out of sorts. "What is it, dear?" she asked, this morning. "Has Dr. Elliott anything to do with the unsettled state you are in?"

"Why, no, mother," I answered. "My going away has broken up all my habits; that's all. Still if I knew Dr. Elliott did not care much, and was beginning to forget it, I dare say I should feel better."

If you were perfectly sure that you could never return his affection," she said, "you were quite right in telling him so at once; But if you had any misgivings on the subject, it would have been better to wait, and to ask G.o.d to direct you."

Yes, it would. But at the moment I had no misgivings. In my usual headlong style I settled one of the most weighty questions of my life, without reflection, without so much as one silent appeal to G.o.d, to tell me how to act. And now I have forever repelled, and thrown away a heart that truly loved me. He will go his way and I shall go mine. He never will know, what I am only just. beginning to know myself, that I yearn after his love with unutterable yearning.

I am not going to sit down in sentimental despondency to weep over this irreparable past. No human being could forgive such folly as mine; but G.o.d can. In my sorrowfulness and loneliness I fly to Him, and find, what is better than earthly felicity, the sweetest peace.

He allowed me to bring upon myself, in one hasty moment, a shadow out of which I shall not soon pa.s.s, but He pities and He forgives me, and I have had many precious moments when I could say sincerely and joyfully, "Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none upon earth that I desire besides Thee."

With a character still so undisciplined as mine, I seriously doubt whether I could have made him who has honored me with his unmerited affection. Sometimes I think I am as impetuous and as quick-tempered as ever; I get angry with dear mother, and with James even, if they oppose me; how unfit, then, I am to become the mistress of a household and the wife of a good a man!

How came he to love me? I cannot, cannot imagine!

August 31.-The last day of the very happiest summer I ever spent. If I had only been willing to believe the testimony of others I might have been just as happy long ago. But I wanted to have all there was in G.o.d and all there was in the world, at once, and there was a constant, painful struggle between the two. I hope that struggle is now over. I deliberately choose and prefer G.o.d. I have found a sweet peace in trying to please Him such as I never conceived of. I would not change it for all the best things this world can give.

But I have a great deal to learn. I am like a little child who cannot run to get what he wants, but approaches it step by step, slowly, timidly-and yet approaches it. I am amazed at the patience of my blessed Master and Teacher, but how I love His school!

September.-This, too, has been a delightful month in a certain sense.

Amelia's marriage, at which I had to be present, upset me a little, but it was but a little ruffle on a deep sea of peace.

I saw Dr. Cabot to-day. He is quite well again, ,and speaks of Dr.

Elliott's skill with rapture. He asked about my Sunday scholars and my poor folks, etc., and I could not help letting out a little of the new joy that has taken possession of me.

"This is as it should be," he said. I should be sorry to see a person of your temperament enthusiastic in everything save religion. Do not be discouraged if you still have some ups and downs. 'He that is down need fear no fall'; but you are away up on the heights, and may have one, now and then."

This made me a little uncomfortable. I don't want any falls. I want to go on to perfection.

OCT. 1.-Laura Cabot came to see me today, and seemed very affectionate.

"I hope we may see more of each other than we have done," she began.

"My father wishes it, and so do I."

Katy, mentally.-"Ah! He sees how unworldly, how devoted I am, and so wants Laura under my influence."

Katy, aloud.-" I am sure that is very kind."

Laura.-" Not at all. He knows it will be profitable to me to be with you. I get a good deal discouraged at times, and want a friend to strengthen and help me."

Katy, to herself.-" Yes, yes, he thinks me quite experienced and trustworthy."

Katy, aloud.-" I shall never dare to try to help you.

Laura.-" Oh, yes, you must. I am so far behind you in Christian experience."

But I am ashamed to write down any more. After she had gone I felt delightfully puffed up for a while. But when I came up to my room this evening, and knelt down to pray, everything looked dark and chaotic. G.o.d seemed far away, and I took no pleasure in speaking to Him. I felt sure that I had done something or felt something wrong, and asked Him to show me what it was. There then flashed into my mind the remembrance of the vain, conceited thoughts I had had during Laura's visit and ever since.

How perfectly contemptible! I have had a fall indeed!

I think now my first mistake was in telling Dr. Cabot my secret, sacred joys, as if some merit of mine had earned them for me. That gave Satan a fine chance to triumph over me! After this I am determined to maintain the utmost reserve in respect to my religious experiences. Nothing is gained by running to tell them, and much is lost.

I feel depressed and comfortless.

Chapter 9

IX.