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Stepping Heavenward

<h3 id="id01058" style="margin-top: 3em">Chapter 14</h3> <h5 id="id01059">XIV.</h5> <h5 id="id01060">JAN. 30.</h5> WHO would have thought I would have anything more to do with poor old Susan Green? Dr. Cabot came to see me to-day, and told me the strangest thing! It seems that the nurse who performed the last offices for her was taken sick about six months ago, and that Dr. Cabot visited her from time to time. Her physician said she needed nothing but rest and good, nourishing food to restore her strength, yet she did not improve at all, and at last it came out that she was not taking the food the doctor ordered, because she could not afford to do so, having lost what little money she had contrived to save. Dr. Cabot, on learning this, gave her enough out of Susan's legacy to meet her case, and in doing so told her about that extraordinary will. The nurse then assured him that when she reached Susan's room and found the state that she was in, and that I was praying with her, she had remained waiting in silence, fearing to interrupt me. She saw me faint, and sprang forward just in time to catch me and keep me from falling. "I take great pleasure, therefore," Dr. Cabot continued, "in making over Susan's little property to you, to whom it belongs; and I cannot help congratulating you that you have had the honor and the privilege of perhaps leading that poor, benighted soul to Christ, even at the eleventh hour." "Oh, Dr. Cabot," I cried, "what a relief it is to hear you say that! For I have always reproached myself for the cowardice that made me afraid to speak to her of her Saviour. It takes less courage to speak to God than to man." "It is my belief," replied Dr. Cabot, "that every prayer offered in the name of Jesus is sure to have its answer. Every such prayer is dictated by the Holy Spirit, and therefore finds acceptance with God; and if your cry for mercy on poor Susan's soul did not prevail with Him in her behalf, as we may hope it did, then He has answered it in some other way." These words impressed me very much. To think that every one of my poor prayers is answered! Every one! Dr. Cabot then returned to the subject of Susan's will, and in spite of all I could say to the contrary, insisted that he had no legal right to this money, and that I had. He said he hoped that it would help to relieve us from some of the petty economies now rendered necessary by Ernest's struggle to meet his father's liabilities. Instantly my idol was rudely thrown down from his pedestal. How could he reveal to Dr. Cabot a secret he had pretended it cost him so much to confide to me, his wife? I could hardly restrain tears of shame and vexation, but did control myself so far as to say that I would sooner die than appropriate Susan's hard earnings to such a purpose, and that I should use it for the poor, as I was sure he would have done. He then advised me to invest the principal, and use the interest from year to year, as occasions presented themselves. So, I shall have more than a hundred dollars to give away each year, as long as I live! How perfectly delightful! I can hardly conceive of anything that give me so much pleasure! Poor old Susan! How many hearts she shall cause to sing for joy! Feb. 25.-Things have not gone on well of late. Dearly as I love Ernest, he has lowered himself in my eye by telling that to Dr. Cabot. It would have been far nobler to be silent concerning his sacrifices; and he certainly grows harder, graver, sterner every day. He is all shut up within himself, and I am growing afraid of him. It must be that he is bitterly disappointed in me, and takes refuge in this awful silence. Oh, if I could only please him, and know that I pleased him, how different my life would be! Baby does not seem well. I have often plumed myself on the thought that having a doctor for his father would be such an advantage to him, as he would be ready 'to attack the first symptoms of disease. But Ernest hardly listens to me when I express anxiety about this or that, and if I ask a question he replies, "Oh, you know better than I do. Mothers know by instinct how to manage babies." But I do not know by instinct, or in any other way, and I often wish that the time I spent over my music had been spent learning how to meet all the little emergencies that are constantly arising since baby came. How I used to laugh in my sleeve at those anxious mothers who lived near us and always seemed to be in hot water. Martha will take baby when I have other things to attend to, and she keeps him every Sunday afternoon that I may go to church, but she knows no more about his physical training than I do. If my dear mother were only here! I feel a good deal worn out. What with the care of baby, who is restless at night, and with whom I walk about lest he should keep Ernest awake, the depressing influence of father's presence, Martha's disdain, and Ernest keeping so aloof from me, life seems to me little better than a burden that I have not strength to carry and would gladly lay down. MARCH 3.-If it were not for James I believe I should sink. He is so kind and affectionate, so ready to fill up the gaps Ernest leaves empty, and is so sunshiny and gay that I cannot be entirely sad. Baby, too, is a precious treasure; it would be wicked to cloud his little life with my depression. I try to look at him always with a smiling face, for he already distinguishes between a cheerful and a sad countenance. I am sure that there is something in Christ's gospel that would soothe and sustain me amid these varied trials, if I only knew what it is, and how to put forth my hand and take it. But as it is I feel very desolate. Ernest often congratulates me on having had such a good night's rest, when I have been up and down every hour with baby, half asleep frozen and exhausted. But he shall sleep at any rate. April 5.-The first rays of spring make me more languid than ever. Martha cannot be made to understand that nursing such a large, voracious baby, losing sleep, and confinement within doors, are enough to account for this. She is constantly speaking in terms of praise of those who keep up even when they do feel a little out of sorts, and says she always does. In the evening, after baby gets to sleep, I feel fit for nothing but to lie on the sofa, dozing; but she sees in this only a lazy habit, which ought not to be tolerated, and is constantly devising ways to rouse and set me at work. If I had more leisure for reading, meditation and prayer, I might still be happy. But all the morning, I must have baby till he takes his nap, and as soon as he gets to sleep I must put my room in order, and by that time all the best part of the day is gone. And at night I am so tired that I can hardly feel anything but my weariness. That, too, is my only chance of seeing Ernest and if I lock my door and fall upon my knees, I keep listening for his step, ready to spring to welcome should he come. This is wrong, I know, but how can I live without one loving word from him, and every day I am hoping it will come. MAY 2-Aunty was here to-day. I had not seen her for some weeks. She exclaimed at my looks in a tone that seemed to upbraid Ernest and Martha though of course she did not mean to do that. "You are not fit to have the whole care of that great boy at night," said she, "and you ought to begin to feed him, both for his sake and your own." "I am willing to take the child at night," Martha said, a little stiffly. "But I supposed his mother preferred to keep him herself." "And so I do," I cried. "I should be perfectly miserable if I had to give him up just as he is getting teeth, and so wakeful." "What are you taking to keep up your strength, dear?" asked Aunty. "Nothing in particular," I said. "Very well, it is time the doctor looked after that," she cried. "It really never will do to let you run down in this way. Let me look at baby. Why, my child, his gums need lancing." "So I have told Ernest half a dozen times," I declared. "But he is always in a hurry, and says another time will do." "I hope baby won't have convulsions while he is waiting for that other time," said Aunty, looking almost savagely at Martha. I never saw Aunty so nearly out of humor. At dinner Martha began. "I think, brother, the baby needs attention. Mrs. Crofton has been here and says so. And she seems to find Katherine run down. I am sure if I had known it I should have taken her in hand and built her up. But she did not complain." "She never complains," father here put in, calling all the blood I had into my face, my heart so leaped for joy at his kind word. Ernest looked at me and caught the illumination of my face. "You look well, dear," he said. "But if you do not feel so you ought to tell us. As to baby, I will attend to him directly." So Martha's one word prevailed where my twenty fell to the ground. Baby is much relieved, and has fallen into a sweet sleep. And I have had time to carry my tired, oppressed heart to my compassionate Saviour, and to tell Him what I cannot utter to any human ear. How strange it is that when, through many years of leisure and strength, prayer was only a task, it is now my chief solace if I can only snatch time for it. Mrs. Embury has a little daughter. How glad I am for her! She is going to give it my name. That is a real pleasure. JULY 4.-Baby is ten months old to-day, and in spite of everything is bright and well. I have come home to mother. Ernest waked up at last to see that something must be done, and when he is awake he is very wide awake. So he brought me home. Dear mother is perfectly delighted, only she will make an ado about my health. But I feel a good deal better, and think I shall get nicely rested here. How pleasant it is to feel myself watched by friendly eyes, my faults excused and forgiven, and what is best in me called out. I have been writing to Ernest, and have told him honestly how annoyed and pained I was at learning that he had told his secret to Dr. Cabot. JULY 12.-Ernest writes that he has had no communication with Dr. Cabot or any one else on subject that, touching his father's honor as it does, he regards as a sacred one. "You say, dear," he said, "you often say, that I do not understand you. Are you sure that you understand me?" Of course I don't. How can I? How can I reconcile his marrying me and professing to do it with delight, with his indifference to my society, his reserve, his carelessness about my health? But his letters are very kind, and really warmer than he is. I can hardly wait for them, and then, though my pride bids me to be reticent as he is, my heart runs away with me, and I pour out upon him such floods of affection that I am sure he is half drowned. Mother says baby is splendid. AUGUST 1.-When I took leave of Ernest I was glad to get away. I thought he would perhaps find after I was gone that he missed something out of his life and would welcome me home with a little of the old love. But I did not dream that he would not find it easy to do without me till summer was over, and when, this morning, he came suddenly upon us, carpet-bag in hand, I could do nothing but cry in his arms like a tired child. And now I had the silly triumph of having mother see that he loved me! "How could you get away?" I asked at last. "And what made you come? And how long can you stay?" "I could get away because I would," he replied. "And I came because I wanted to come. And I can stay three days." Three days of Ernest all to myself! AUGUST 5.-He has gone, but he has left behind him a happy wife and the memory of three happy days. After the first joy of our meeting was over, we had time for just such nice long talks as I delight in. Ernest began by upbraiding me a little for my injustice in fancying he had betrayed his father to Dr. Cabot. "That is not all," I interrupted, "I even thought you had made a boast of the sacrifices you were making." "That explains your coldness," he returned. "My coldness! Of all the ridiculous things in the world!" I cried. "You were cold, for you and I felt it. Don't you know that we undemonstrative men prefer loving winsome little women like you, just because you are our own opposites? And when the pet kitten turns into a cat with claws." "Now, Ernest, that is really too bad! To compare me to a cat!" "You certainly did say some sharp things to me about that time." "Did I, really? Oh, Ernest, how could I?" "And it was at a moment when I particularly needed your help. But do not let us dwell upon it. We love each other; we are both trying to do right in all the details of life. I do not think we shall ever get very far apart." "But, Ernest-tell me-are you very, very much disappointed in me?" "Disappointed? Why, Katy!" "Then what did make you seem so indifferent? What made you so slow to observe how miserably I was, as to health?" "Did I seem indifferent? I am sure I never loved you better. As to your health, I am ashamed of myself. I ought to have seen how feeble you were. But the truth is, I was deceived by your bright ways with baby. For him you were all smiles and gayety." "That was from principle," I said, and felt a good deal elated as I made the announcement. "He fell into a fit of musing, and none of my usual devices for arousing him had any effect. I pulled his hair and his ears, and shook him, but he remained unmoved." At last he began again. "Perhaps I owe it to you, dear, to tell you that when I brought my father and sister home to live with us, I did not dream how trying a thing it would be to you. I did not know that he was a confirmed invalid, or that she would prove to possess a nature so entirely antagonistic to yours. I thought my father would interest himself in reading, visiting, etc, as he used to do. And I thought Martha's judgment would be of service to you, while her household skill would relieve you of some care. But the whole thing has proved a failure. I am harassed by the sight of my father, sitting there in his corner so penetrated with gloom; I reproach myself for it, but I almost dread coming home. When a man has been all day encompassed with sounds and sights of suffering, he naturally longs for cheerful faces and cheerful voices in his own house. Then Martha's pertinacious-I won't say hostility to my little wife-what shall I call it?" "It is only want of sympathy. She is too really good to be hostile to any one. "Thank you, my darling," he said, "I believe you do her justice." "I am afraid I have not been as forbearing with her as I ought," I said. "But, oh, Ernest, it is because I have been jealous of her all along!" "That is really too absurd." "You certainly have treated her with more deference than you have me. You looked up to her and looked down upon me. At least it seemed so." "My dear child, you have misunderstood the whole thing. I gave Martha just what she wanted most; she likes to be looked up to. And I gave you what I thought you wanted most, my tenderest love. And I expected that I should have your sympathy amid the trials with which I am burdened, and that with your strong nature I might look to you to help me bear them. I know you have the worst of it, dear child, but then you have twice my strength. I believe women almost always have more than men." "I have, indeed, misunderstood you. I thought you liked to have them here, and that Martha's not fancying me influenced you against me. But now I know just what you want of me, and I can give it, darling." After this all our cloud melted away. I only long to go home and show Ernest that he shall have one cheerful face about him, and have one cheerful voice. AUGUST 12.-I have had a long letter from Ernest to-day. He says he hopes he has not been selfish and unkind in speaking of his father and sister as he has done, because he truly loves and honors them both, and wants me to do so, if I can. His father had called them up twice to see him die and to receive his last messages. This always happens when Ernest has been up all the previous night; there seems a fatality about it. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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