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Stepping Heavenward

<h3 id="id00604" style="margin-top: 3em">Chapter 9</h3> <h5 id="id00605">IX.</h5> <h5 id="id00606">OCT. 10.</h5> WE have very sad news from Aunty. She says my Uncle is quite broken down with some obscure disease that has been creeping stealthily along for months. All his physicians agree that he must give up his business and try the effect of a year's rest. Dr. Elliott proposes his going to Europe, which seems to me about as formidable as going to the next world. Aunty makes the best she can of it, but she says the thought of being separated from Uncle a whole year is dreadful. I pray for her day and night, that this wild project may be given up. Why, he would be on the ocean ever so many weeks, exposed to all the discomforts of narrow quarters and poor food, and that just as winter is drawing nigh! OCT. 12.-Aunty writes that the voyage to Europe has been decided on, and that Dr. Elliott is to accompany Uncle, travel with him, amuse him, and bring him home a well man. I hope Dr. E.'s power to amuse may exist somewhere, but must own it was in a most latent form when I had the pleasure of knowing him. Poor Aunty! How much better it would be for her to go with Uncle! There are the children, to be sure. Well, I hope Uncle may be the better for this great undertaking, but I don't like the idea of it. OCT. 15.-Another letter from Aunty, and new plans! The Dr. is to stay at home, Aunty is to go with Uncle, and we-mother and myself-are to take possession of the house and children during their absence! In other words, all this is to be if we say amen. Could anything be more frightful? To refuse would be selfish and cruel. If we consent I thrust myself under Dr. Elliott's very nose. OCT. 16.-Mother is surprised that I can hesitate one instant. She seems to have forgotten all about Dr. E. She says we can easily find a family to take this house for a year, and that she is delighted to do anything for Aunty that can be done. Nov. 4.-Here we are, the whole thing settled. Uncle and Aunty started a week ago, and we are monarchs of all we survey, and this is a great deal. I am determined that mother shall not be worn out with these children, although of course I could not manage them without her advice and help. It is to be hoped they won't all have the measles in a body, or anything of that sort; I am sure it would be annoying to Dr. E. to come here now. Nov. 25.-Of course the baby must go on teething if only to have the doctor sent for to lance his gums. I told mother I was sure I could not be present when this was being done, so, though she looked surprised, and said people should accustom themselves to such things, she volunteered to hold baby herself. Nov. 26.-The baby was afraid of mother, not being used to her, so she sent for me. As I entered the room she gave him to me with an apology for doing so, since I shrank from witnessing the operation. What must Dr. E. think I am made of if I can't bear to see a child's gums lanced? However, it is my own fault that he thinks me such a coward, for I made mother think me one. It was very embarrassing to hold baby and have the doctor's face so close to mine. I really wonder mother should not see how awkwardly I am situated here. Nov. 27.-We have a good many visitors, friends of Uncle and Aunty. How uninteresting most people are! They all say the same thing, namely, how strange that Aunty had courage to undertake such a voyage, and to leave her children, etc., etc., etc., and what was Dr. Elliott thinking of to let them go, etc, etc., etc. Dr. Embury called to-day, with a pretty little fresh creature, his new wife, who hangs on his arm like a work-bag. He is Dr. Elliott's intimate friend, and spoke of him very warmly, and so did his wife, who says she has known him always, as they were born and brought up in the same village. I wonder he did not marry her himself, instead of leaving her for Dr. Embury! She says he, Dr. Elliott, I mean, was the most devoted son she ever saw, and that he deserves his present success because he has made such sacrifices for his parents. I never met any one whom I liked so well on so short acquaintance—I mean Mrs. Embury, though you might fancy, you poor deluded journal you, that I meant somebody else. Nov. 30.-I have so much to do that I have little time for writing. The way the children wear out their shoes and stockings, the speed with which their hair grows, the way they bump their heads and pinch their fingers, and the insatiable demand for stories, is something next to miraculous. Not a day passes that somebody doesn't need something bought; that somebody else doesn't choke itself, and that I don't have to tell stories till I feel my intellect reduced to the size of a pea. If ever I was alive and wide awake, however, it is just now, and in spite of some vague shadows of, I don't know what, I am very happy indeed. So is dear mother. She and the doctor have become bosom friends. He keeps her making beef-tea, scraping lint, and boiling calves feet for jelly, till the house smells like an hospital. I suppose he thinks me a poor, selfish, frivolous girl, whom nothing would tempt to raise a finger for his invalids. But, of course, I do not care what he thinks. Dec. 4.-Dr. Elliott came this morning to ask mother to go with him to see a child who had met with a horrible accident. She turned pale, and pressed her lips together, but went at once to get ready. Then my long-suppressed wrath burst out. "How can you ask poor mother to go and see such sights?" I cried. "You must think her nothing but a stone, if you suppose that after the way in which my father died-" "It was indeed most thoughtless in me," he interrupted; "but your mother is such a rare woman, so decided and self-controlled, yet so gentle, so full of tender sympathy, that I hardly know where to look for just the help I need to-day. If you could see this poor child, even you would justify me." "Even you!" you monster of selfishness, heart of stone, floating bubble, "even you would justify it!" How cruel, how unjust, how unforgiving he is! I rushed out of the room, and cried until I was tired. DEC. 6.-Mother says she feels really grateful to Dr. E. for taking her to see that child, and to help soothe and comfort it while he went through with a severe, painful operation which she would not describe, because she fancied I looked pale. I said I should think the child's mother the most proper person to soothe it on such an occasion. "The poor thing has no mother," she said, reproachfully. "What has got into you, Kate? You do not seem at all like yourself." "I should think you had enough to do with this great house to keep in order, so many mouths to fill, and so many servants to oversee, without wearing yourself out with nursing all Dr. Elliott's poor folks," I said, gloomily. "The more I have to do the happier I am," she replied. "Dear Katy, the old wound isn't healed yet, and I like to be with those who have wounds and bruises of their own. And Dr. Elliott seems to have divined this by instinct." I ran and kissed her dear, pale face, which grows more beautiful every day. No wonder she misses father so! He loved and honored her beyond description, and never forgot one of those little courtesies which must have a great deal to do with a wife's happiness. People said of him that he was a gentleman of the old school, and that race is dying out. I feel a good deal out of sorts myself. Oh, I do so wish to get above myself and all my childish, petty ways, and to live in a region where there is no temptation and no sin! DEC. 22.-I have been to see Mrs. Embury to-day. She did not receive me as cordially as usual, and I very soon resolved to come away. She detained me, however. "Would you mind my speaking to you on a certain subject?" she asked, with some embarrassment. I felt myself flush up. "I do not want to meddle with affairs that don't concern me," she went on, "but Dr. Elliott and I have been intimate friends all our lives. And his disappointment has really distressed me." One of my moods came on, and I couldn't speak a word. "You are not at all the sort of a girl I supposed he would fancy," she continued. "He always has said he was waiting to find some one just like his mother, and she is one of the gentlest, meekest, sweetest, and fairest among women." "You ought to rejoice then that he has escaped the snare," I said, in a husky voice, "and is free to marry his ideal, when he finds her." "But that is just what troubles me. He is not free. He does not attach himself readily, and I am afraid that it will be a long, long time before he gets over this unlucky passion for you." "Passion!" I cried, contemptuously. She looked at me with some surprise, and then went on. "Most girls would jump at the chance of getting such a husband." "I don't know that I particularly care to be classed with 'most girls,'" I replied, loftily. "But if you only knew him as well as I do. He is so noble, so disinterested, and is so beloved by his patients. I could tell you scores of anecdotes about him that would show just what he is." "Thank you," I said, "I think we have discussed Dr. Elliott quite enough already. I cannot say that he has elevated himself in my opinion by making you take up the cudgels in his defence." "You do him injustice, when you say that," she cried. "His sister, the only person to whom he confided the state of things, begged me to find out, if I could, whether you had any other attachment, and if her brother's case was quite hopeless. But I am sorry I undertook the task as it has annoyed you so much." I came away a good deal ruffled. When I got home mother said she was glad I had been out at last for a little recreation, and that she wished I did not confine myself so to the children. I said that I did not confine myself more than Aunty did. "But that is different," mother objected. "She is their own mother, and love helps her to bear her burden." "So it does me," I returned. "I love the children exactly as if they were my own." "That," she said, "is impossible." "I certainly do," I persisted. Mother would not dispute with me, though I wished she would. "A mother," she went on, "receives her children one at a time, and gradually adjusts herself to gradually increasing burdens. But you take a whole houseful upon you at once, and I am sure it is too much for you. You do not look or act like yourself." "It isn't the children," I said. "What is it, then?" "Why, it's nothing," I said, pettishly. "I must say, dear," said mother, not noticing my manner, "that your wonderful devotion to the children, aside from its effect on your health and temper, has given me great delight." "I don't see why," I said. "Very few girls of your age would give up their whole time as you do to such work." "That is because very few girls are as fond of children as I am. There is no virtue in doing exactly what one likes best to do." "There, go away, you contrary child," said mother, laughing. "If you won't be praised, you won't." So I came up here and moped a little. I don't see what ails me. But there is an under-current of peace that is not entirely disturbed by any outside event. In spite of my follies and my shortcomings, I do believe that God loves and pities me, and will yet perfect that which concerneth me. It is a great mystery. But so is everything. Dr. Elliott to Mrs. Crofton: And now, my dear friend, having issued my usual bulletin of health, you may feel quite at ease about your dear children, and I come to a point in your letter which I would gladly pass over in silence. But this would be but a poor return for the interest you express in my affairs. Both ladies are devoted to your little flock, and Miss Mortimer seems not to have a thought but for them. The high opinion I formed of her at the outset is more than justified by all I see of her daily, household life. I know what her faults are, for she seems to take delight in revealing them. But I also know her rare virtues, and what a wealth of affection she has to bestow on the man who is so happy as to win her heart. But I shall never be that man. Her growing aversion to me makes me dread a summons to your house, and I have hardly manliness enough to conceal the pain this gives me. I entreat you, therefore, never again to press this subject upon me. After all, I would not, if I could, dispense with the ministry of disappointment and unrest. Mrs. Crofton, in reply: . . . . So she hates you, does she? I am charmed to hear it. Indifference would be an alarming symptom, but good, cordial hatred, or what looks like it, is a most hopeful sign. The next chance you get to see her alone, assure her that you never shall repeat your first offence. If nothing comes of it I am not a woman, and never was one; nor is she. MARCH 25, 1836.-The New Year and my birthday have come and gone, and this is the first moment I could find for writing down all that has happened. The day after my last date I was full of serious, earnest thoughts, of new desires to live, without one reserve, for God. I was smarting under the remembrance of my folly at Mrs. Embury's, and with a sense of vague disappointment and discomfort, and had to fly closer than ever to Him. In the evening I thought I would go to the usual weekly service. It is true I don't like prayer-meetings, and that is a bad sign, I am afraid. But I am determined to go where good people go, and see if I can't learn to like what they like. Mother went with me, of course. What was my surprise to find that Dr. E. was to preside! I had no idea that he was that sort of a man. The hymns they sang were beautiful, and did me good. So was his prayer. If all prayers were like that, I am sure I should like evening meetings as much as I now dislike them. He so evidently spoke to God in it, and as if he were used to such speaking. He then made a little address on the ministry of disappointments, as he called it. He spoke so cheerfully and hopefully that I began to see almost for the first time God's reason for the petty trials and crosses that help to make up every day of one's life. He said there were few who were not constantly disappointed with themselves, with their slow progress, their childishness and weakness; disappointed with their friends who, strangely enough, were never quite perfect enough, and disappointed with the world, which was always promising so much and giving so little. Then he urged to a wise and patient consent to this discipline, which, if rightly used, would help to temper and strengthen the soul against the day of sorrow and bereavement. But I am not doing him justice in this meagre report; there was something almost heavenly in his expression which words cannot describe. Coming out I heard some one ask, "Who was that young clergyman?" and the answer, "Oh, that is only a doctor!" Well! the next week I went again, with mother. We had hardly taken our seats when Dr. E. marched in with the sweetest looking little creature I ever saw. He was so taken up with her that he did not observe either mother or myself. As she sat by my side I could not see her full face, but her profile was nearly perfect. Her eyes were of that lovely blue one sees in violets and the skies, with long, soft eye-lashes, and her complexion was as pure as a baby's. Yet she was not one of your doll beauties; her face expressed both feeling and character. They sang together from the same book, though I offered her a share of mine. Of course, when people do that it can mean but one thing. So it seems he has forgotten me, and consoled himself with this pretty little thing. No doubt she is like his mother, that "gentlest, meekest, sweetest and fairest among women!" Now if anybody should be sick, and he should come here, I thought, what would become of me? I certainly could not help showing that a love that can so soon take up with a new object could not have been a sentiment of much depth. It is not pleasant to lose even a portion of one's respect and esteem for another. The next day mother went to visit an old friend of hers, who has a beautiful place outside of the city. The baby's nurse had ironing to do, so I promised to sit in the nursery till it was finished. Lucy came, with her books, to sit with me. She always follows like my shadow. After a while Mrs. Embury called. I hesitated a little about trusting the child to Lucy's care, for though her prim ways have given her the reputation of being wise beyond her years, I observe that she is apt to get into trouble which a quick-witted child would either avoid or jump out of in a twinkling. However, children are often left to much younger girls, so, with many cautions, I went down, resolving to stay only a few moments. But I wanted so much to know all about that pretty little friend of Dr. E.'s that I let Mrs. Embury stay on and on, though not a ray of light did I get for my pains. At last I heard Lucy's step coming downstairs. "Cousin Katy," she said, entering the room with her usual propriety, "I was seated by the window, engaged with my studies, and the children were playing about, as usual, when suddenly I heard a shriek, and one of them ran past me, all in a blaze and-" I believe I pushed her out of my way as I rushed upstairs, for I took it for granted I should meet the little figure all in a blaze, coming to meet me. But I found it wrapped in a blanket, the flames extinguished. Meanwhile, Mrs. Embury had roused the whole house, and everybody came running upstairs. "Get the doctor, some of you," I cried, clasping the poor little writhing form in my arms. And then I looked to see which of them it was, and found it was Aunty's pet lamb, everybody's pet lamb, our little loving, gentle Emma. Dr. Elliott must have come on wings, for I had not time to be impatient for his arrival. He was as tender as a woman with Emma; we cut off and tore off her clothes wherever the fire had touched her, and he dressed the burns with his own hands. He did not speak a word to me, or I to him. This time he did not find it necessary to advise me to control myself. I was as cold and hard as a stone. But when poor little Emma's piercing shrieks began to subside, and she came a little under the influence of some soothing drops he had given her at the outset, I began to feel that sensation in the back of my neck that leads to conquest over the most stubborn and the most heroic. I had just time to get Emma into the doctor's arms, and then down I went. I got over it in a minute, and was up again before any one had time to come to the rescue. But Dr. E. gave Emma to Mrs. Embury, who had taken off her things and been crying all the time, and said in a low voice, "I beg you will now leave the room, and lie down. And do not feel obliged to see me when I visit the child. That annoyance, at least, you should spare yourself." "No consideration shall make me neglect little Emma," I replied, defiantly. By this time Mrs. Embury had rocked her to sleep, and she lay, pale and with an air of complete exhaustion, in her arms. "You must lie down now, Miss Mortimer," Dr. Elliott said, as he rose to go. "I will return in a few hours to see how you both do." He stood looking at, Emma, but did not go. Then Mrs. Embury asked the question I had not dared to ask. "Is the poor child in danger?" "I cannot say; I trust not. Miss Mortimer's presence of mind in extinguishing the flames at once, has, I hope, saved its life." "It was not my presence of mind, it was Lucy's!" I cried, eagerly. Oh, how I envied her for being the heroine, and for the surprised, delighted smile with which he went and took her hand, saying, "I congratulate you, Lucy! How your mother will rejoice at this!" I tried to think of nothing but poor little Emma, and of the reward Aunty had had for her kindness to Lucy. But I thought of myself, and how likely it was that under the same circumstances I should have been beside myself, and done nothing. This, and many other emotions, made me burst out crying. "Yes, cry, cry, with all your heart," said Mrs. Embury, laying Emma gently down, and coming to get me into her arms. "It will do you good, poor child!" She cried with me, till at last I could lie down and try to sleep. Well, the days and the weeks were very long after that. Dear mother had a hard time, what with her anxiety about Emma, and my crossness and unreasonableness. Dr. Elliott came and went, came and went. At last he said all danger was over, and that our patient little darling would get well. But his visits did not diminish; he came twice and three times every day. Sometimes I hoped he would tell us about his new flame, and sometimes I felt that I could not hear her mentioned. One day mother was so unwell that I had to help him dress Emma's burns, and I could not help saying: "Even a mother's gentlest touch, full of love as it is, is almost rough compared with that of one trained to such careful handling as you are." He looked gratified, but said: "I am glad you begin to find that even stones feel, sometimes." Another time something was said about the fickleness of women. Mrs. Embury began it. I fired up, of course. He seemed astonished at my attack. "I said nothing," he declared. "No, but you looked a good many things. Now the fact is, women are not fickle. When they lose what they value most, they find it impossible to replace it. But men console themselves with the first good thing that comes along." I dare say I spoke bitterly, for I was thinking how soon Ch——, I mean somebody, replaced me in his shallow heart, and how, with equal speed, Dr. Elliott had helped himself to a new love. "I do not like these sweeping assertions," said Dr. Elliott, looking a good deal annoyed. "I have to say what I think," I persisted. "It is well to think rightly, then," he said, gravely. "By the bye, have you heard from Helen?" Mrs. Embury most irreverently asked. "Yes, I, heard yesterday." "I suppose you will be writing her, then? Will you enclose a little note from me? Or rather let me have the least corner of your sheet?" I was shocked at her want of delicacy. Of course this Helen must be the new love, and how could a woman with two grains of sense imagine he would want to spare her a part of his sheet! I felt tired and irritated. As soon as Dr. Elliott had gone, I began to give her a good setting down. "I could hardly believe my ears," I said, "when I heard you ask leave to write on Dr. Elliott's sheet." "No wonder," she said, laughing. "I suppose you never knew what it was to have to count every shilling, and to deny yourself the pleasure of writing to a friend because of what it would cost. I'm sure I never did till I was married." "But to ask him to let you help write his love-letters," I objected. "Ah! is that the way the wind blows?" she cried, nodding her pretty little head. "Well, then, let me relieve your mind, my dear, by informing you that this 'love-letter' is to his sister, my dearest friend, and the sweetest little thing you ever saw." "Oh!" I said, and immediately felt quite rested, and quite like myself. Like myself! And who is she, pray! Two souls dwell in my poor little body, and which of them is me, and which of them isn't, it would be hard to tell. This is the way they behave: <h5 id="id00724">SCENE FIRST.</h5> Katy, to the other creature, whom I will call Kate.-Your mother looks tired, and you have been very cross. Run and put your arms around her, and tell her how you love her. Kate.-Oh, I can't; it would look queer. I don't like palaver. Besides, who would not be cross who felt as I do? <h5 id="id00727">SCENE SECOND.</h5> Katy.-Little Emma has nothing to do, and ought to be amused. Tell her a story, do. Kate.-I am tired, and need to be amused myself. Katy.-But the dear little thing is so patient and has suffered so much. Kate.-Well, I have suffered, too. If she had not climbed up on the fender she would not have got burned. <h5 id="id00732">SCENE THIRD.</h5> Kate.-You are very irritable to-day. You had better go upstairs to your room and pray for patience. Katy.-One can't be always praying. I don't feel like it. <h5 id="id00735">SCENE FOURTH.</h5> Katy.-You treat Dr. Elliott shamefully. I should think he would really avoid you as you avoid him. Kate-Don't let me hear his name. I don't avoid him. Katy.-You do not deserve his good opinion. Kate.-Yes, I do. <h5 id="id00740">SCENE FIFTH</h5> Just awake in the morning. Katy.-Oh, dear! how hateful I am! I am cross and selfish, and domineering, and vain. I think of myself the whole time; I behave like a heroine when Dr. Elliott is present, and like a naughty, spoiled child when he is not. Poor mother! how can she endure me? As to my piety, it is worse than none. Kate, a few hours later.-Well, nobody can deny that I have a real gift in managing children! And I am very lovable, or mother wouldn't be so fond of me. I am always pleasant unless I am sick, or worried, and my temper is not half so hasty as it used to be. I never think of myself, but am all the time doing something for others. As to Dr. E., I am thankful to say that I have never stooped to attract him by putting on airs and graces. He sees me just as I am. And I am very devout. I love to read good books and to be with good people. I pray a great deal. The bare thought of doing wrong makes me shudder. Mother is proud of me, and I don't wonder. Very few girls would have behaved as I did when Emma was burned. Perhaps I am not as sweet as some people. I am glad of it. I hate sweet people. I have great strength of character, which is much better, and am certainly very high-toned. But, my poor journal, you can't stand any more such stuff, can you? But tell me one thing, am I Katy or am I Kate? <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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