Chapter XXI (3)

“‘Oh, it’s the crazy minister, sir. He used to preach in that old church; but he’s been crazy for a long time, and often he dresses himself in a long white robe, and goes and sits in the pulpit of that old church all day. He’s very gentle, she added, turning to me, ‘and wouldn’t hurt anybody for the world; but I don’t wonder you got a good fright.’ So ends my ghost story; and now, if you are ready for more horrors, I will tell you my other adventure.”

“Our detention near the old church, and the state of the roads, rendered heavy by late rains, made it impossible for us to reach the town at which we had hoped to spend the night; and we had made up our minds that we would stop at the first _promising_-looking establishment we should see, when the coming up of a sudden storm left us no option, but made us hail gladly the first human dwelling we came to, though that was but a rough, rambling old hut, built of unhewn logs.”

“There was only an old woman at home when we stopped at the door, and I fancied she looked rather _too well pleased_ when we asked if she could accommodate us for the night. I must confess to you, my dear children, I felt rather nervous after the fright of that afternoon; I, who used to boast that I was ignorant of the fact of possessing such a thing as nerves; but I do think I must have been nervous, for very little things troubled me that evening, and my imagination had never been so busy before. In a very few moments, an old man, and three strapping, rough-looking youths, entered, with their axes over their shoulders, and dripping with rain; and now I began to imagine that I saw suspicious glances passing between these young men, and I certainly heard a long whispered conversation pass between two of them and the old woman in the next room. I looked towards my old friend the clergyman; but he, good, unsuspicious old soul, was nodding in his chair by the log fire. I grew more and more uncomfortable, and heartily wished we had jogged on in the pelting rain, rather than trust ourselves to such very questionable hospitality. One thing I made up my mind to, which was this—that I would not close my eyes to sleep that night, but would keep on the watch for whatever might happen.”

“The old woman gave us a very comfortable supper, and soon afterwards she asked me if I would like to go to bed. Not liking to show any distrust of my hosts, I assented with apparent readiness, and followed the old woman into a hall, and up a rude ladder, which I should have found it very difficult to mount had it not been for my early exercise in this kind of gymnastics, when searching for hen’s eggs in the barn, at my New England home.”

“At the head of the ladder was a small passageway, from which we entered the room which was to be my sleeping apartment. Whether there had ever been any door to this room or not I do not know; certain it is there was no door now; the only other room I could perceive in the upper part of the house, was a sort of a granary filled with bins to hold different kinds of grain.”

“‘Is the old gentleman with whom I came, to sleep in this part of the house?’ I asked in as careless a tone as I could assume.”

“‘No, he sleeps in the loft of the other part where the boys sleep;’ answered the old woman, and then looking at me with a grin which I thought gave her the appearance of an ugly old hag, she said, ‘Why ye ain’t afeard on us, be ye?’”

“‘I told her I had had quite a fright that day, and felt a little nervous.’”

“‘Well,’ said she, ‘ye can just go to sleep without any frights here. We shan’t do ye no harm, I reckon,’ and she left me and descended the ladder.”

“Before going to bed I took my light, and stepping out softly I went to reconnoitre the other room, the door of which we had passed on the way to the room in which I was to spend the night: I was obliged to descend two steps to enter this room, where I found nothing frightful to be sure, there being only some old clothes hanging up, and the bins of grain of which I have spoken before. I returned to my room, and with great difficulty moved a rude chest of drawers, across the place where a door should be, on this I placed my little trunk, and the only chair in the room, an old shovel, and a broken pitcher, determined that if any one did enter the room, it should not be without noise enough to give me warning. Before this barricade I set my candle, hoping it might continue to burn all night.”

“I laid down without undressing, determined that I would only rest; I would not even close my eyes to sleep. I had laid thus as I supposed an hour, listening to the voices of the old people and their sons, as in subdued tones they talked together below. At the end of that time the door opened, and I heard stealthy steps ascending the ladder. My heart, as the saying is, was in my throat, and I could hear its every throb. The steps came nearer and nearer, and as the first foot-fall sounded on the floor of the little passage, which led to my room, I shrieked, ‘Who is there? what do you want?’”

“‘Bless your soul it’s only me; you need not scream so,’ said the old woman. ‘I’m only going to the bin for some corn-meal to make mush for your breakfast.’”

“‘I do believe the gal thinks we are going to murder her in her bed,’ I heard her say with a loud laugh as she descended the ladder; ‘you ought to see the _chist_, and the things she’s got piled on top of it, all standing in the door-way.’”

“At this the men’s voices joined in the laugh, and they sounded horribly to me. ‘Yes,’ I thought to myself, ‘how easy it would be for them to murder us in our beds, and there would be no one to tell the tale.’ Soon after this, in spite of my resolution to keep awake, sleep must have overpowered me, for I was awakened by a tremendous crash, as if the house was falling, and I opened my eyes to find myself in total darkness, and to hear soft footsteps in my room.”

“Oh, how I shrieked this time! I believe I cried ‘help! help! murder!’ and I soon heard footsteps approaching, and saw a light gleaming up the ladder way, and soon the old woman’s night-cap appeared over the chest. ‘What _is_ the matter now?’ she cried with some impatience, ‘you certainly are the most _narvous_ lodger I’ve ever had yet.’”

“‘Matter enough,’ said I, ‘there is some one in my room. Didn’t you hear that awful crash?’”

“‘Pshaw! it’s only our old black cat!’ said the old woman; ‘he always comes up to this room to sleep, but we thought we had shut him out.’”

“‘Can he climb the ladder?’ I asked.”

“‘Just like a _human_,’ said the old woman; and, pushing aside the chest, she seized the cat, and raising the only window in the room, threw him out.”

“Again weariness overpowered me, and I slept; only to awake to new horrors; for now I heard cautious footsteps and whispered voices, and outside the grindstone was at work making something very sharp. Then the door opened, and a smothered voice said, ‘Mother, is the water hot?’”

“‘Yes, bilin’,’ answered the old woman; ‘are the knives sharp?’”

“‘All ready,’ answered the young man; ‘where’s father?’”

“‘He’s gone to the loft,’ said the old woman; and then came some whispered words, which I could not catch. You will most probably laugh at me, but my mind was now so worked up by all the agitation I had experienced, that I had not the smallest doubt that we were now to be murdered, and that the dreadful work was already going on in the loft, my kind old friend being the first victim. Still I thought I might be in time to save him yet, and there might be a bare possibility of our escape. Springing from my bed in great haste and agitation, I hurried on my shawl, and cautiously descended the ladder; but my blood froze with horror, as just then I heard a piercing shriek. In the passage below I encountered the old woman; she had just come into the house, and had an old shawl over her head, and a lantern in her hand, I thought she gave a guilty start when she saw me, as she exclaimed:”

“‘Why, bless me, gal! what are you down at this time in the morning for?’”

“‘What are _you_ all up so early in the morning for?’ I asked, in a voice which I meant should strike terror to her heart.”

“‘Why, my old man and the boys had determined to kill hogs this morning,’ she answered; ‘but we tried to keep so quiet as not to disturb ye. I was afeared, though, that the squealing of the hogs would wake ye.’”

“The relief was so sudden, that I could hardly refrain from putting my arms round the old woman’s neck, and confessing all my unjust suspicions, but the fear of hurting her feelings prevented. With a tranquil mind I again climbed the ladder, and sought my humble bed, and was soon in such a sound slumber, that even the squealing of the hogs, in their dying agonies, failed to rouse me.”

“Seen by the morning light, as we were seated around the breakfast table, these midnight robbers and murderers of my fancy appeared a family of honest, hardy New Englanders, who had bought a tract of land in Western Virginia. They showed us, at a little distance, a clearing where they were just erecting a larger and more comfortable log dwelling; and the old woman assured us that if we would stop and visit them, if we ever passed that way again, we should not have to climb a ladder, for they were going to have a ‘reg’lar stairway in t’other house.’”

“When the time came for parting with our kind hosts, and we offered to remunerate them for their trouble, they rejected the proffered money almost with scorn.”

“‘No, no,’ said the old man, ‘we haven’t got quite so low as that yet; and I hope that I nor none of mine will ever come to taking pay for a night’s lodging from a traveller. We don’t keep _tavern_ here.’”

“The old woman’s parting advice to me was to try and ‘git over my _narvousness_; and she thought I hadn’t better drink no more strong green tea.’”

“‘I think your tea _was_ strong last night, my friend,’ said I; ‘and that, together with the sight of the ghost, of which I have been telling you, made me very uneasy and restless.’”

“‘Well,’ said the old woman, ‘I hope ye won’t be so suspicious of us next time ye come; for it’s a _cartain_ fact, that we never murdered any _human_ yet. We do kill _hogs_; that I won’t deny.’ And she laughed so heartily, that I felt quite sure she had seen through all my fears and suspicions of the night before. So ends the murder story.”

“I wish you could have heard my old clergyman laugh, as I related to him all the horrors of the night; and when I came to mistaking the last squeal of a dying pig for his own death groan, I thought he would have rolled out of the gig. That night, which was _last_ night, found us in the old gentleman’s hospitable home, where his kind lady gave me as cordial a welcome as I could desire. Here I am still with these good friends, only waiting for my trunks; and then, with God’s blessing, two days more will find me in the home of my own dear brother.—And here, with many kind remembrances to the dear ones at Brook Farm, Miss Edwards’ letter closed.”

VIII. Bitter Disappointments.

“Oh! art thou found?
But yet to find thee thus!”
VESPERS OF PALERMO.

It may be as well for us to continue the history of Miss Edwards here, though its sad sequel was not known to the family of Mr. Wharton till a long time after she had left them. The letter with which the preceding chapter closes, was the last heard from her for many weeks. Various were the surmises in the family as to the reasons for her unaccountable silence, but at length they settled down in the belief that she must have fallen a victim to some of the diseases of a new country; though why they should not have received some tidings of her fate from her brother, still remained a mystery.

At last, after many weeks, there came a letter from her, but it was short, and sad, and unsatisfactory in all respects. She had had a terrible disappointment she said, but her friends must have forbearance with her, and excuse her from detailing the events of the past few weeks. She was now at Springdale with her kind old friend, the clergyman, and was just recovering from a long and tedious illness; she hoped soon to be able to be at work again, and a little school was ready for her, as soon as she should be sufficiently restored to take charge of it. Not one word was said of her brother, or of her reasons for returning to the home of the old clergyman.

“She is evidently very unhappy,” said Mr. Wharton, “and perhaps her funds are exhausted. She must return to us, and for this purpose I will send her the means without delay.”

But still Miss Edwards did not come, and her letters were few and far between. At length there came one written in much better spirits, and in her old cheerful style, in which she informed them that she was engaged to be married to a young physician of that place. She seemed now very happy, and full of bright anticipations, not the least cheering of which, was the prospect of visiting her kind friends once more, when she should travel to the east on her bridal tour. And this was the last letter they ever received from Miss Edwards.

That same summer a package came to Mr. Wharton, directed in an unknown hand, from a place, the name of which he had never heard before. It was from a physician, and ran thus:

SIR,—I was called a few weeks since to attend a young lady, who was lying dangerously ill, at the only tavern in our little village. I found her raving in delirium, and your name, and the names of many whom I suppose to be members of your family, were constantly mingled with her ravings. She had stopped at the tavern the night before in the stage; and when the other passengers went on was too ill to proceed with them. I attended her constantly for a week or ten days, and at the end of that time, I had the happiness to find that her fever had entirely left her, and her mind was quite restored. She was, however, extremely weak, and feeling assured, she said, that she should never be able to reach the home of her kind friends, (mentioning the name of your family,) she begged earnestly for writing materials, and though I remonstrated and entreated, I found it impossible to prevent her writing. She said she had a communication which it was due to you that she should make, and she charged me over and over again, to remember your direction, and send the package to you in case she did not leave that place alive. She was busily engaged in writing one day, when the noise of wheels attracted her to the window, which she reached in time to see a gentleman alight from a chaise, who proceeded to hand out a lady. A person in the room with her, saw her put her hands to her head, and then she rushed from the back door of the house, and did not stop till she reached the woods. When found she was a raving maniac, and is so still. We have been obliged to place her in the county house, where she is confined in the apartment devoted to Lunatics, and is as comfortable as she can be made under the circumstances. The accompanying package I found just as she left it, when she dropped her pen and hastened to the window, and I now comply with her earnest request and enclose it to you.

With respect, &c. JAMES MASTEN.

The manuscript, when opened, was found to be in Miss Edwards’ well known hand-writing, though the fingers that held the pen, had evidently trembled from weakness and agitation. It was with the saddest emotions, that those who had loved her so tenderly, read the following communication:

“Painful and harrowing to my feelings as the task must be which I have undertaken, I feel that it is due to my kind and ever sympathising friends, to make them acquainted with the sad trials through which I have passed, and the bitter disappointments I have met with. I have tried to bear up with the spirit of a Christian, and to feel that these trials are sent by One who orders all things in justice and righteousness; I do submit; I am not inclined to murmur; I hope I am resigned; but heart, and flesh, and mind, are weak, and these alas! are all failing.”

“With the fondest anticipations I reached the village, where I expected to be received in the arms of my long lost brother. Oh, how my heart bounded, as the prolonged sound of the stage-horn told me we were approaching the end of my journey! and how my imagination pictured the joyful meeting, the cordial welcome, the fond embrace once more of my own loved kindred! I was much surprised that my brother was not at the tavern to meet me, and more so when, on asking for his residence, the landlord hesitated, as if perplexed.”

“‘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 Dick 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 glasses 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 assured 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 assured 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 passed 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 God; 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 God, 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 hoarse 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 associations, 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 circumstances, 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 passed had done their work upon her constitution, 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 assurance 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 pass 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.

At length, one day, the minister came, and as he walked up the steps of the front piazza, those who caught sight of his face, saw that it was pale and agitated, and that he looked as if important matters for him were at stake. And he asked for Emily. There was no bright blush in her cheek now as she descended the stairs; it was pale and cold as marble. The interview was a long one, and when at length Mr. Malcolm mounted his horse and rode slowly away, his face was as white as when he came, but the look of suspense and expectation had passed away, and in its place was that of settled and fixed despair. Emily went to her room, and to her bed, which she did not leave for some days; when she again appeared in the family she was calm and sweet as ever, but a shade more pensive.

And the young minister came no more. That was all.

He was sometimes seen in the distant road riding rapidly by, to or from the Hemlocks, but though the horse from long custom, invariably turned his head towards Mr. Wharton’s lane, he was not permitted to follow his inclinations, but was speedily hurried by.

And Emily grew paler and thinner day by day, and there was sometimes a contraction about the brow which told of intense suffering; and sometimes, early in the evening she would leave the parlor, and not appear again for the remainder of the evening. On one of these occasions Agnes followed her, as she had observed the deadly paleness of her countenance, and feared she would faint before she reached her room. As Emily ascended the stairs, Agnes thought she heard groans, as of one in extreme pain. Emily closed her door and Agnes stood upon the outside; and now the groans were plainly to be distinguished.

“Cousin Emily,” Agnes called, “dear cousin Emily, may I come in?”

There was no answer, but those same deep groans and now and then a plaintive moaning. Agnes opened the door gently, and saw Emily upon her knees, and yet writhing as if in intense agony. She seemed to be trying to pray, and Agnes caught the words, “Oh, for strength, for strength to endure this agony, and not to murmur.”

Putting her arm around her, Agnes said: “What is it, cousin Emily? Can you not tell _me_?”

Emily started at finding that she was not alone, and then said:

“Help me to rise, Agnes, and hand me those drops. I am glad that it is you: better you than any of the others. Fasten the door, Agnes.”

Emily reclined upon the sofa, weak and exhausted, the cold beads of perspiration standing on her brow. Agnes sat in silence beside her, holding her thin white hands in hers. At length Emily said:

“Agnes, I try to be patient; I make an endeavor even to be cheerful; but I am indeed a great sufferer, and the anguish I endure seems, at times, more than mortal frame can bear. It is only by escaping to the solitude of my own room, to endure the agony in secret, that I am enabled to keep it to myself. I am obliged to practice evasion to escape aunty’s anxious interrogatories; for, in her present state of health, I would not for the world cause her the anxiety and trouble which the knowledge of my sufferings would bring upon her.”

Then, with frequent pauses for rest, Emily told the weeping Agnes _all_.

“And now,” said she, “dear Agnes, you are very young for scenes like this; but I know that you possess uncommon nerve and courage. Can you, do you think, sit by my side, and hold my hand through a painful operation? I _can_ endure it alone, dear, and I intended to; but as accident has revealed my sufferings to you, I feel that it would be a comfort to me to have my hand in that of one I love at that time.”

“I _think_ I can, cousin Emily. I believe I could do _anything_ for you, dear cousin Emily.”

“I do not want aunty and uncle to know of this till it is all over, Agnes. They go to the Springs to-morrow, to remain some days, as you know: and I have arranged with Dr. Rodney to come while they are gone, and bring a surgeon from the city, and it will all be over before they return.”

“And is there no _danger_, cousin Emily?”

“Danger of what, dear?—of death? Oh yes; the chances are many against me; and even if the operation is safely performed, it may not arrest the disease. But to one who suffers the torture which it is the will of Heaven that I should bear, speedy death would only be a happy release. And yet, Agnes, do not misunderstand me; I would not for the world do anything to shorten my life of suffering. Oh no! ‘All the years of my appointed time will I wait till my change come.’ The course I am going to pursue is advised by the physicians, and it may be the means of restoration to health, at least for some years. Agnes, pray for me.”

When Mrs. Wharton kissed Emily for good-bye, and told her to be a good girl, and take care of her health, she little imagined the suffering through which her gentle niece was to pass before they met again. No one dreamed of it but Agnes.

The next day, in answer to a message from Emily, the physicians came. They found her courageous and cheerful; for she was sustained by an arm all-powerful. Strength was given to her for the day and the occasion; a wonderful fortitude sustained her; and the precious promise was verified to her—“When thou goest through the waters, I will be with thee.”

And Agnes, who sat with one hand over her eyes, and the other clasping that of Emily, knew only by a sudden and long-continued pressure of the hand that the knife was doing its work. There was not a groan—only one long-drawn sigh—and it was over; and the result was better than their most sanguine hopes.

Mrs. Wharton returned, after an absence necessarily prolonged to some weeks. She found Emily sitting on the sofa, looking much as she had done when they parted; and it was not till long afterward that she discovered what had been the cause of Emily’s illness, and learned how much she had endured. She understood many things now which had been mysteries to her before, realizing, in some degree, the torment of mind and body through which this gentle one had passed, and the reason of the bidding down of the tenderest feelings of her heart.

Poor Emily! None but He who seeth in secret had known the agony which wrung thy loving heart to its very depths, causing even the keen torture of physical suffering to be at times forgotten. But He can, and He _does_, give strength for the occasion, whatever it may be, and however sore the trial; and leaning on His arm, His people pass securely through fires of tribulation, which, in the prospect, would seem utterly unendurable, and come out purified, even as gold from the furnace.

X. The Tutor and the Pupil.

“Untutor’d lad, thou art too malapert.”—HENRY VI.

Mr. Wharton had endeavored to give Mr. Malcolm a correct understanding of the nature of the case he was about to undertake, in becoming the instructor of the spoiled and wayward Lewie. He told him of his natural good qualities, never suffered to develop themselves, and of the many evil ones, fostered and encouraged by the unwise indulgence of his fond and foolish mother. And yet, when the young clergyman had fairly entered upon his duties as tutor at the Hemlocks, he found, that “the half had not been told him.”

Lewie chafed and fretted under the slightest restraint, and had not the remotest idea of doing anything that was not in all respects agreeable to his own inclinations. The idea of compulsion was so new to him, that he was overwhelmed with amazement one day, when his tutor (after trying various means to induce him to learn a particular lesson) finally told him that that lesson must be learned, and recited, before he could leave the library. Master Lewie, fully determined in his own mind to ascertain whose will was the strongest, and whose resolution would soonest give out, now openly rebelled, and informed his master that “he would _not_ learn that lesson.”

With his handsome face flushed with passion, he struggled from his tutor, rushed to the door, and endeavored to open it; but Mr. Malcolm was before-hand with him, and quietly turning the key in the lock, and putting it in his pocket, he walked back to the table. The frantic boy now endeavored to open the windows and spring out, but being foiled in this attempt likewise, as they were securely fastened, he threw himself upon the floor as he had been in the habit of doing when crossed, ever since his baby-hood, and screamed with all the strength of baffled rage.

His anxious mother was at the door in an instant, demanding admittance. Mr. Malcolm unfastened the door, stepped out to her in the hall, and gave her a faithful account of her son’s conduct during the morning. “And now, Mrs. Elwyn,” said he, “the promise was, that I was not to be interfered with in my government of your son. As long as he hears your voice at the door, and knows that he has your sympathy on his side, he will continue obstinate and rebellious.”

“But, Mr. Malcolm, excuse me, but you do not know how to manage him, you should soothe and coax him; he will not be driven. Oh, I cannot bear to hear him scream so,” she exclaimed, as a louder roar from Lewie reached her ears; “Oh, Mr. Malcolm, I must go to him.”

“Not unless you desire, madam, that I should resign at once, and forever, the charge of your son,” said Mr. Malcolm, laying his hand upon the lock to prevent her carrying her purpose into execution. “I have spent this whole morning,” he continued, “in expostulation and persuasion, and in endeavoring, as I always do, to make the lessons plain and interesting to my pupil; but Lewie is in one of his perverse humors, and nothing but decision as unyielding as his own obstinacy, will conquer him. If you will return to your own room and allow me the sole management of him, I will remain here to-day till I have subdued him, if the thing is possible.”

“You will not use _severity_, Mr. Malcolm,” said the weeping mother.

“Never in the way of corporeal punishment, madam. When I cannot govern a pupil without having recourse to such means, I will abandon him. But I must stipulate that untill Lewie submits, and learns that lesson, which he could easily learn in a few minutes, if he chose, he goes without food, and remains in the library with me. I am deeply interested in your son, Mrs. Elwyn; he is a boy of fine talents, and of too many good qualities of heart, to be allowed to go to destruction. I would save him if I can, but he must be left to me. I have the hope of yet seeing him a noble and useful character, but I must do it in my own way.”

Mrs. Elwyn silently acquiesced, and withdrew to her own room very wretched. If she had been willing to inflict upon herself one tithe of the pain she suffered now, in controlling her son in his infancy, how different he might have been, as he grew up towards manhood.

Mr. Malcolm returned to the library, and told Lewie that his mother had decided to leave them settle this matter between themselves. He should remain there, he said; he could employ himself very agreeably with the books. Lewie might lie on the floor and scream, or get up and study; but until that lesson was learned, he would not leave the library, or taste a morsel of food.

The shrieks were now renewed in a louder and more agonized tone than ever, and were plainly heard in Mrs. Elwyn’s sitting-room, where, in a state bordering on distraction, she was hurriedly pacing the floor, at times almost determined to insist upon being admitted to the library, that she might take her unhappy son to her arms, and dismiss his inexorable tutor; and then deterred from this course by the promise she had made, and the deep respect which she could not but feel for the young minister. She could not but confess, too, in her inmost heart, that this discipline was really for the good of her passionate boy, though the means resorted to seemed to her severe. Of the two, she was more wretched than Lewie, who really had no small sense of enjoyment, in the consciousness of the pain and annoyance he was causing to others.

The screams now ceased, and the anxious mother really hoped that Lewie was about to comply with his tutor’s wishes, and that she should soon clasp him to her breast, wipe away his tears, and soothe his troubled heart. She was already, in her mind, planning some reward for him for condescending at length to yield his stubborn will. But the quiet was only in consequence of the utter exhaustion of Master Lewie’s lungs, and he took refuge in a dogged silence, still rolling on the floor. Mr. Malcolm sat reading, as much at his ease, and apparently with as much interest, as if he were the only occupant of the library.

At last the young rebel was made aware, by certain ringing sounds, and divers savory odors, that the hour of dinner had arrived; and his appetite being considerably sharpened by the excitement through which he had passed, he began to entertain the suspicion that he had been rather foolish in holding out so long in his obstinacy. He really wished that he had learned the lesson, and was free for the afternoon; but how to come down was the puzzle now. He determined to be as ugly about it as possible, thinking that his tutor might be pretty weary by that time as well as he, and might hail joyfully any tokens of submission.

So Master Lewie began to call out:

“I want my dinner!”

“What is that, Lewie?” said Mr. Malcolm, looking up quietly from his book.

“I want my _dinner_, I tell you!” roared Lewie.