Cora and The Doctor: or, Revelations of A Physician's Wife

"In the unwearied pursuit of worldly enjoyment, all other things faded from my mind. Yet there were times when conscience sounded an alarm, and the thought that perhaps I too should be cut off, as my sisters had been, in the morning of life, made the blood stagnate in my veins, and my heart cease to beat.

"I was a regular attendant at church, and one of the prominent members of the choir. But I never listened to the sermons. I studiously avoided hearing them; especially when they treated of death, the judgment, and eternity. I have often sat in church, very devout in the eyes of those about me, but engaged in making all my plans for the coming week; and then quieted myself with the thought that I had not sinned half so much, as if I had heard the sermon, and not profited by it. I was often praised for my regular attendance. Alas! He who looks into the heart knows I went to the sanctuary far more to exhibit myself, to hear people say of me, 'how handsome! what a fine voice!' than to worship my Maker, who had bestowed these gifts upon me.

"About a year since, I took a violent cold upon my lungs. I had previously felt languid and unwell, but would not acknowledge it to mother, lest I should be kept from singing school, and places of amusement. Soon after this, the Doctor was called, and never was there a harder or more rebellious heart than mine, when he, in the kindest, most fatherly manner, told me that the disease would probably prove fatal. It was not in the power of man, he added, to effect a cure. He said that possibly I might be better, and live for years; but the disease was upon me and could not be shaken off.

"That was the thought that twinged every nerve in my body. I hated my Creator for making me sick. I hated my physician for telling me of it. I hated my parents and every one who believed it. But oh! I hated myself more than all, when I began to see a little into my own heart.

"I had always been called amiable; and I believed myself to be so. But now I was actually frightened at the tumult of hard and angry thoughts in my awakened soul. In the night, I frequently awoke, trembling with affright; an angry God seemed ready to consume me with his fierce wrath. This state of mind continued with some abatement for several months; and the conflict of my feelings operated injuriously upon my health.

"One day your husband came in, when he could stop longer than usual. He sat down by my bed and tried to talk with me. But I would not speak. I pretended not to hear what he said. Some of his words, however, arrested my attention, and without intending it, I turned my face toward him. He understood the whole of my hardness and guilt. He asked me if I had ever realized how great was the love of Jesus, who left the blessedness of heaven, to suffer and die for us, and who having made atonement, now endures neglect and reproach from the guilty souls, he came to save. It is human, said he, when man offers a favor to his fellow, and is treated with neglect and scorn, to withdraw the offer. But the Divine Lord who endures indifference, ridicule and contempt, still says, 'Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'

"Oh, those blessed, blessed words! I listened as if I had never heard them before. Was I not weary with wrestling with the Almighty? Oh! was I not heavily laden with sins, more than I could bear? Why may I not come? For the first time, tears of real penitence filled my eyes, and with a subdued voice, I said, 'Will you pray for me?' He did pray, as he had done many times before; but I never heard till then. He wept as he besought God earnestly in my behalf. God in mercy answered.

"When he arose, Christ had taken my burden, and I was at rest. I had never disbelieved the Bible. But now its truths came home to my heart, and I was made free.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, almost in rapture, "the goodness and long suffering of God, to me a poor lost sinner."

The excitement of speaking had carried her beyond her strength; and as she lay with her hands clasped, and eyes closed, she looked so pale, I feared she had fainted. But she presently opened her eyes, while a heavenly smile played around her mouth. I kissed her forehead; but I could not speak.

Her mother, not hearing the bell for some time, looked into the room to see if she were asleep; but perceiving me, she returned to her work.

"Dear Mrs. Lenox," said the sweet girl, "you'll pray with me." I hesitated. "For your husband's sake, please."

I could not deny her, but saying I would return after a moment, I left the room. I had seen from the window that Cæsar had difficulty in keeping the horse quiet on account of the heat and flies. I told him to ride on a short distance and call for me in about ten minutes.

When I returned, and was about to close the door, Caroline said "no one will disturb us, and the room is very warm."

With my hand in hers, and my face on her pillow, I for the first time addressed my Heavenly Father in presence of a fellow creature. But I was not embarrassed. He who looks from above, put words in my mouth and was near me.

As I arose and stood by the bed, I was startled by the moving of a shadow; and turning quickly to the door I saw my husband standing on the steps with his face buried in his handkerchief.

Passing through this part of the town to visit a patient, he had stopped this morning instead of returning here this afternoon. I do not think he heard me; and if he did, I ought not to feel ashamed, when I dared speak in the presence of the High and Holy One. But I must confess it. I felt for the first time in my life sorry to see him.

"How came you here?" he asked in surprise.

"You forgot you gave me permission to ride out."

"And Cæsar, where is he?"

"There," said I, pointing to the carriage, which was just stopping at the gate. "You must not talk much with her," I said smiling. "But you may talk a little to her if she will be very quiet. I fear she has already had too much company." Promising to visit her again as soon as possible, I went with Frank to the carriage, when he returned to his patient. I found Pauline struggling hard to keep her eyes open, and on consulting my watch, concluded to postpone my call upon Mr. Lewis until another day. So I merely left the flowers in passing, saying to his wife that I would endeavor to make him an early call.

"He has been lotting upon seeing you, maam. He says of the two, you better understand his feelings, seeing you've had the same." We hastened home, where the sleepy girl was glad to drink some milk and go to bed.

And now, dear mother, with remembrances of affection to the dear home-circle, I close this part of my journal, which I hope will interest you. I intend writing to Bell and Nelly in answer to theirs just received.

Thursday, June 18th.

I gladly resume my journal; I feel lost without my writing. Emily appears really better. Of course she knows nothing of Mr. Benson's intended departure. I have not been able to learn when he sails. He only says in his note, "as soon as his arrangements can be made." Emily seems indifferent to every thing; and, when mother and I talk cheerfully, turns her face away. But I have seen the tears trickle through her fingers when she thought herself unnoticed. To-day, however, she is brighter, and though not by any means as she once was, she appears to have made her mind up to some course; and to feel better for her decision. But this is mere suspicion. Time will show whether I am correct. This afternoon she sat up in the easy chair more than an hour, and amused herself with Pauline, who looked at her very seriously at first, as if she did not quite understand all these changes.

Early this morning, I begged a ride with Frank as far as Mr. Lewis's, and told him my intention was to walk back. To the latter part of my proposition, he very unwillingly consented, as it is half a mile, and the heat is great. But with my parasol I thought I might venture.

Mrs. Lewis came into the little entry to receive me, and told me in a low tone, her husband was failing fast, and she thought, could not live many days. "He will be right pleased to see you. He has set his heart upon it." I then followed her up-stairs to the room. He is now wholly confined to the bed.

Every article of furniture, I observed, was scrupulously neat; and something in the appearance and conversation of the family reminded me forcibly of the household of the Dairyman, as described in Legh Richmond's well known tract entitled "The Dairyman's Daughter." There was an air of respectability, which is often felt, but which cannot easily be described.

Mr. Lewis was sitting bolstered up in bed. He could not breathe when lying down; and could only speak in a broken whisper, with long intervals between his words. Sitting with him was a married sister, who had followed him to this country, and who had now come to remain with him until after the closing scene.

I took my seat near the bed, and begged Mrs. Lewis to allow me to pass him the cordial with which he was constantly obliged to wet his lips. With a courtesy she thanked me and resumed her sewing, while I addressed a few words to the poor sufferer.

"I am afraid you are too sick to hear me talk, you seem very ill this morning."

"All – peace – here," he whispered, laying his emaciated hand upon his breast.

I expressed very great pleasure that God had heard his prayer, and asked whether he felt any of the fears with which he was troubled at my last visit.

He shook his head; and when I held the cup to his mouth said, "I – can – trust – him. He – will – do – right."

This, then, was the source of his peace. My eyes filled with tears as I quoted the passage of Scripture which came into my mind. "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose soul is staid on Thee." I noticed that he looked exceedingly faint, and motioned to his wife, who immediately held some camphor to his nostrils, saying as she did so, that he could take no nourishment.

When he revived, I thought I had better retire; but he looked wistfully first at me, then at his wife, who caught his meaning and said, "He would like to have you read and pray with him as the Doctor does."

I made no reply. What could I say? She arose and gave me an old, well-preserved family Bible; and turning to the fourth of Hebrews, I was just commencing to read about "the rest that remaineth to the people of God," when a gentle knock at the outer door called Mrs. Lewis from the room. I went on, however, in compliance with a wistful look from the invalid, and read through the chapter, having in the mean time come to the conclusion, that if the sister would leave the room, I would try to comply with the dying man's request. Just as I closed the book, she stepped softly behind me, and desired me to go below for a moment. Explaining this in a word to Mr. Lewis, I complied with her wish.

Entering the lower room, I found Mr. Munroe, who had been requested by the Doctor to call. I was much interested in the account given by Mrs. Lewis to her pastor; and which she narrated in language above her station. I have often noticed that persons in humble life when speaking upon religious topics, are elevated by their theme, and by their familiarity with the language of scripture.

Mr. Lewis was born of pious parents who early dedicated him to God, and sought prayerfully to educate him in the fear of his Maker. He had lived a perfectly moral and peaceful life, having been able to support his family at least in comfort, until laid low by disease. When he was unable longer to work, they had moved to Crawford, as a place where his wife could find employment for her needle.

They had three children, the girl and boy I mentioned, and one between the ages of these two, who was at school. Mrs. Lewis felt that her husband was a Christian, and had been, for many years. But he was of an eminently timid spirit, distrustful of himself, and as he could not tell the exact time of his conversion, not having been exercised in mind like his wife, and many others whose experience he had heard or read, he had been unwilling to make a public profession of religion. He had, however, been in the daily habit of secret prayer, and of reading the scriptures; had taught his children faithfully, not only the practical duties of religion, but had endeavored to instil into their young minds the sacred doctrines of the gospel, as he had been taught them by his parents.

During the visit of the Doctor on Tuesday, the patient had given evidence of a saving change; and he had urged the sick man to give glory to God, and to hope in his mercy. This view of his case led the poor man to a train of reflection, which ended in the calm but complete trust he put in his Heavenly Father.

He had none of the rapture with which Caroline was sometimes borne as on angel wings, to heaven; but there were reasons to hope he was as truly a monument of grace. At the Doctor's last call, he had humbly but earnestly expressed a desire to unite himself to the people of God, and to taste, at least, once on earth, of that feast of which our risen Lord has said, "Do this in remembrance of me."

The Doctor had requested our pastor to call and converse with him upon this subject. I expressed my fear that the invalid was too much fatigued; but Mr. Munroe said he should be very brief.

I waited below for about ten minutes, when Mrs. Lewis invited me to go up and join them in prayer. The regular season for the administration of the ordinance here will be the first Sabbath in July, but as Mr. Lewis will not probably live so long, it was concluded to have the service privately administered to him next Sabbath afternoon. Mrs. Lewis invited me to be present with the Doctor, which I promised to do, and left accompanied by Mr. Munroe, whose house lay in the same direction.

Mrs. Munroe has been absent ever since my arrival in Crawford, on a visit to her father's. I told her husband, I anticipated much pleasure in her acquaintance.

He says, he is under great obligation to the Doctor, for informing him of such cases as the one we had just witnessed. He is still so much of a stranger in the place, he has not found out who are the members of his parish. He enlarged particularly upon the great aid it was to a clergyman, as well as upon the great advantage it was to the town, to have a pious physician. He said it was often the case when physicians were otherwise, that they were unwilling to have a pastor visit their patients, vainly imagining that they might frighten and injure them. Here he said, he everywhere met with evidence of the Doctor's faithfulness to the souls as well as to the bodies of those to whom he was called.

This exactly accords with my own observation. I thank God that he has made my dear Frank an instrument of good.

As we were approaching Mr. Munroe's house, he said, "I have been much surprised to hear that our neighbor Mr. Benson intends to leave his people, and to go to Europe. He said nothing to me upon the subject," he added, "when I met him on Sabbath morning. I should have supposed that he would have wished to spend the last Sabbath among his own people. There is some mystery about it."

I made no reply; and after a pause, he inquired "Is he out of health?"

"He certainly appeared so the day he preached," I replied. I did my best to appear unembarrassed, but cannot say that I entirely succeeded. He looked intently at me for a moment, but said no more.

When I left him, he added, he should not be surprised if Mr. Lewis did not live until the Sabbath, but he thought him prepared to die.

CHAPTER VII

"Give him not all his desire, so shalt thou strengthen him in hope;

Neither stop with indulgence the fountain of his tears, so shall he fear thy firmness.

Above all things, graft on him subjection, yea in the veriest trifle." Tupper.

Friday Evening, June 19th.

Emily continues convalescent, and her eye begins to have its former lustre. She has sat in the chair nearly all the afternoon, while mother and I were sewing and Pauline played with her toys upon the floor. I am more than ever convinced that Emily's sickness is connected with her mental trouble.

I am likely to have full employment for my needle. Little girls need so many changes, and Miss Pauline had none, on her arrival, however large her wardrobe may have originally been. Mother wishes to assist me; but I declined her kind offer.

Poor little Pauline! she had a hard time this morning, and so did her mamma. We had quite a controversy; but I will explain. Cæsar was going to market in the village; and I told him if he would take the carriage, I would ride with him, as I wished to make a few purchases.

It is very warm; and I did not think it best for Pauline to accompany me, as she had generally done of late. She thought this very hard, and began to cry. I stepped back, and said, "Aunty sick; Pauline mustn't cry," when she fairly screamed, and showed a very naughty temper. I saw there was to be a contest; and I told Cæsar not to wait. "I must postpone my ride until another time." Then taking her in my arms I carried her to a room the farthest removed from Emily's, and laying off my bonnet, attempted to take her into my lap.

But no, she would not come to me. She ran across the room and threw herself down on the floor, kicking and screaming. I was astonished, and did not know what to do. I was afraid if she cried so, she would make herself sick; at the same time I knew that she ought to be made to obey. It was in my heart to take her up and coax her to be good; but this I knew would injure her, and destroy my authority. In a low firm voice I said, "Get up, Pauline, and come to mamma." She only kicked the more, and screamed the louder. I had not supposed the child had half the strength of limb or lungs. This was her first exhibition of temper. Till now she had been uniformly yielding and mild, though to be sure, as Frank says, this was the first time her wishes were ever crossed.

I never was so perplexed; and if Frank had been in the house I should have left her with him, and ran off where I couldn't hear her scream. I kept repeating my commands; but she paid no attention, though I spoke as gently and caressingly as I could, and asked her to be mamma's dear little girl. She would stop screaming a moment and look at me; and when I thought she was going to yield, she would begin afresh.

I tried to think she did not understand me, and was thankful for any excuse for her. But in this I soon found I was mistaken; for I told her to pick up a block and put it in the chair. This she did readily; then when I told her to come to me, she lay down and began to kick and scream with all her might.

I left her on the floor, and calling mother out of Emily's room, told her in a whisper my trouble, and asked her what I could do. I even begged her to go in, and try her skill. But she said that would not answer the purpose; Pauline must be made to submit to me, as her parent. She encouraged me by saying, "I once had just such a contest with Frank; but when he yielded, it was for life."

I therefore returned to the room, with a heavy heart, where the noise had entirely subsided. Finding, however, that she was no more ready to obey, but had stopped from sheer exhaustion, I kneeled by the chair, and asked God to give me wisdom and strength for this emergency. And if chastisement were necessary, I prayed that it might be administered in a right spirit.

I arose and took my seat. "Pauline," said I, "if you do not come to mamma, she will have to punish you." She looked at me earnestly, attracted by the tone of my voice, which was very decided; but she did not seem to know what punishing meant. "Will you come?" I repeated. She shook her head decidedly. I went to her and taking her hand struck it with mine. Oh, dear, how it made my heart ache! Her lip quivered, and then she burst out afresh. Both the command and the punishment, I had to repeat five or six times; but at length, when I resumed my seat and asked, "Now will my little Pauline come to mamma?"

She ran and threw herself into my arms. The contest was over. I carried her back two or three times, and then called her, when she readily obeyed. Now I could act out the impulses of my heart; I kissed her, and wept over her. Then I pressed her tightly in my arms, while I told her mamma was sorry, her little girl had been so naughty. She took her apron to wipe away my tears, and seeing me still weep, she sobbed aloud.

When she became composed, I carried her to mother, where, though her lip still quivered, she was Pauline again. She kissed them all, and told them, "mamma sorry," which she repeated to papa, and Ann. My grief made a great impression upon her tender heart.

I know, dear mother, you will sympathize with me in this trial. I think, however, it will do the child good. Frank remarked at dinner, that I looked very pale, and I certainly felt worse for the excitement; but he, and all the rest, rejoiced with me in the happy termination. Pauline sobbed a long time after she was asleep; but this afternoon she has been like a little lamb, coming every time she looked up from her play and met my eye, to give me a sweet kiss.

Saturday, June 20th.

This morning I went to the village, and though I trembled for my daughter, lest the scene of yesterday should be repeated, she behaved well; and I promised her a ride this afternoon with papa. Did I tell you, I had taught her to say "Papa?" I had no idea of being her only parent.

During the forenoon, I received a very pleasant call from Lucy Lee, the daughter of Squire Lee, our richest citizen, who made his money, as I have told you, by his distillery. She is a beautiful girl, modest and sweet in her manners, but looked to-day very pale and careworn. My thoughts recurred to what I had heard of her domestic trials. I was glad she was unaccompanied by her brother, who is very disagreeable to me with his talk of "our place, our horses, our store." It seems hardly possible that he can be her own brother.

Lucy is said to be like her mother, now deceased. Joseph is like his father, and has been so much indulged, especially since his mother's death, that he is now the master. Emily says the whole family are afraid of him; and that Lucy, with whom she is intimate, lives a very sad life in the midst of all their splendor.

I invited the dear girl to come to tea next week, to which she cheerfully consented. I hope, by that time Emily may be down stairs.

This afternoon I persuaded mother to take my place with Frank for a drive. She has confined herself closely for the last week. Pauline was delighted to accompany them, though she did not like to leave mamma. I took my sewing into sister's room, where we were soon busy in conversation. After a little time, she interrupted me, as I was beginning a remark, "Cora, I want to say something to you while mother is gone. I wish your advice and assistance."

"Well, dear Emily, it is very easy to give advice;" but while I spoke, my heart began to beat very fast. I feared it would be something about Mr. Benson, and then the truth concerning him would have to be told.

Emily suddenly covered her face with her handkerchief, "I have treated him shamefully."

"Who?"

She looked at me as if she wondered that I should not know of whom she was speaking, and could not bear to mention his name. As I still looked inquiringly, she added, "Mr. Benson," and blushed crimson. "He made proposals of marriage to me the evening after our ride to Waverley, and I indignantly refused him. I treated him as no lady should treat a gentleman under such circumstances, even if she cannot love him. But I did love him! I do love him now!" she repeated earnestly, again hiding her face.

"Then why, dearest Emily, did you treat him so cruelly? I think you were very much in the wrong."

"I know it, I confess it," she replied, beginning to weep.

"I can't understand you, Emily. You loved him dearly?" She bowed her head; "and yet refused him with scorn?" She bowed her head still lower. "Why?" I again asked.

"Because," she said passionately, "he seemed so certain I should make a courtesy, and say 'Yes, sir, I thank you.' I suppose he expected I should fall right into his arms the moment he gave me leave. I loved him when he was away, yet there was something in his manner toward me which roused all my pride, and more ugly feelings than I knew I possessed. He showed his love too openly, as if he were sure of success."

"I thought," said I with a smile, "that you wished the one you married to be very loving and often assure you of his love."

"Pooh!" said she, trying to laugh, "that was all my nonsense. I would rather a dozen times, that he would be like Frank. Now he almost worships you; but he is not always talking about it, and showing it in such silly ways." I now began to blush in earnest. "But it is foolish to talk of all this now. The die is cast, and I have no one but myself to blame. I have been thinking it all over, and have brought down my pride to asking his forgiveness for my haughty manner; mind, I say for the manner of my refusal. But it has cost me a hard struggle."

"What made you treat him so the night he called when you were sick?"

"I don't know," she replied, sadly; "I believe I was possessed with some evil spirit. If he had come in an hour earlier, he would have found me humble enough."

"Did you expect him?"

"I half expected he would call," covering her face to hide her blushes. "But my mind was all worked up, and my head ached so, and – and I thought he'd think I was mourning for him. But I've suffered enough for my foolish pride."

"Poor girl!" I thought; "if she knew what I do, she would suffer more." "Emily," said I, rising and taking her hand, "I pity you sincerely; but I cannot help telling you, I think you have been greatly to blame."

"Well, I'm willing to hear that from you; and I have acknowledged it."

"In the first place," I continued, "it was entirely your imagination with regard to him. His manner, as far as I saw it, was uniformly respectful and tender, perhaps too openly the latter to suit my taste; but not the least bordering on undue confidence in your attachment. Indeed, I thought he did not sufficiently respect himself, and was too distrustful. Then I can't understand how you could love him, and yet give him such pain. You saw how very pale he looked."

"Oh, don't repeat it! I have thought of nothing else;" and the poor girl wept bitterly. Suddenly she looked up, as she heard the carriage, and trying to wipe away her tears, said quickly, "Not a word of all this for the world. I want you to take charge of a note from me, and send it to him."

"When shall you write it?"

"Some time next week," she answered, putting her finger on her lip, as she heard mother at the door.

I was glad to escape from the room; and ran down to take Pauline from papa. My head was all in a whirl. I am glad I did not promise secrecy, for I must tell Frank the first chance I get. He will know what to do.

Sabbath Evening, June 21st.

I remained at home with sister this morning, while mother went to church. It is a rainy day. I suppose we ought to be thankful, for the earth was very dry and dusty; but I do love a pleasant Sabbath. This afternoon I went with Frank to church, and from thence to the house of Mr. Lewis. Mr. Munroe and Deacon Jackson rode with us, and after the horse had been driven under a shed, we all proceeded to the sick room, the deacon carrying with him a basket containing the sacred elements.

One of the tenants of the house had opened her room opposite, for the convenience of the company; and I was surprised as I passed up the stairs to see that it was crowded with people; many of them, I suppose, members of the church who came in to unite in the ordinance.

A clean white linen cloth was spread over the table at the foot of the bed, upon which Deacon Jackson placed two cups of wine and a plate of bread, covering the whole with a napkin. In the midst of intense feeling, I noticed all this, with pleasure, as evidence of the reverence and awe with which he handled the elements which were to represent the body and blood of our Lord.

The poor dying man, in clean clothing, lay on his bed with everything about him spotless and white as snow. Though he looked exceedingly pale, yet there was an elevation and glory in his face, which showed that his soul had communion with his Saviour, and that the gracious Spirit was strengthening him for this solemn occasion.

Though it rained very hard, yet the window near the bed was open to give the poor man fresh air, while his wife stood near him with a fan. I was affected to see that she had reserved two seats near the bed for the Doctor and myself. Mr. Munroe occupied a place at the door that he might be heard in both apartments. Frank gently moved one of the chairs toward her, motioned her to sit in it, and stood by my side.

The solemn service commenced with an invocation, after which the covenant and creed of the church were read, and heartily responded to by the invalid, if I may judge from his rapt attention; then a short prayer consecrating the elements, which were distributed. The Doctor took the cup from Deacon Jackson, and gently raising the sick man, held it to his lips. There was truly a sublime expression on his countenance. With uplifted hands, he whispered, "Dear —dear– Jesus – died – for – me – glory —immortal– GLORY!!"

In a moment the expression changed, and Frank, who was closely watching him, stepped to Mr. Munroe, and told him he feared Mr. Lewis would faint. The clergyman immediately pronounced the benediction, and requested the friends quietly to withdraw.

I stepped to the backside of the room, while the Doctor opened the other windows for a moment to change the air, and with the help of strong restoratives, the patient soon revived, and was able to swallow a little of the wine and water the Doctor had prepared. I went toward the bed to bid him farewell, doubting whether I should ever see him alive again. He looked at me affectionately and gratefully, and pointed up, as if he would ask me to meet him in heaven. I pressed his cold hand to my lips and silently left the room.