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

Thursday, August 6th.

We were aroused from sleep last night by a thundering knock at the door. Frank threw up the window, when a man called out, "Doctor, won't you come as quick as you can to Squire Lee's. He's had a fit, and they think he is dying." Frank dressed and was gone in a moment. I could not sleep, but lay revolving in my mind Lucy's situation. I thought how I should love to offer her a home, where Allen Mansfield could come to see her. I went through all the marriage ceremony, thinking what a lovely bride Lucy would make when the heavy cloud had passed away, and her heart was free from sorrow or care.

Frank did not return until after I was seated at the breakfast-table. He looked very serious and only shook his head in answer to the question, whether the old gentleman was better. "He will probably never be better." I was shocked. "And Lucy?" I inquired.

"She has passed from one fainting to another."

"Horrible! But how is she now?" I really shuddered at the thought that she might not be living.

"She is conscious, but very much exhausted." After prayers he took my hand as he sat by me on the sofa. "Cora," he asked, "can you control your feelings?"

I quickly answered that I could, and would.

"Squire Lee received a letter from his son which so enraged him against his poor innocent daughter, that he sent for a lawyer to his office and disinherited her unless she would consent to marry Arnold, and that too without delay. With this legal document in his hand he summoned her into his presence, where with horrible oaths, he told her what he had done.

"She begged him to allow her to take care of him in his old age. She would promise never to see her dear Allen; but she could not consent to marry Arnold. She had rather die. She threw herself at his feet, when he cursed her and spurned her from him with scorn. A heavy fall caused Mrs. Burns to rush into the room. She had followed her dear young mistress to the door and had heard all that passed.

"The sweet girl was insensible. The kind woman rang for Jacob the porter; and they lifted her gently, and carried her to her bed. Her father soon after was seen going to his room.

"About eleven o'clock, one of the servants was passing through the apartment next that which he occupied, when she was startled by loud snoring. She stopped to listen, when finding it continue, she hastily called the housekeeper, and together they entered the room. The Squire lay in what seemed to them a heavy slumber; but they could not arouse him. The sound was like the snorting of a brute, more than like the breathing of a human being.

"By this time they were thoroughly frightened, and sent in haste for the Doctor."

Immediately after he had told me this, he returned to the wretched house, wretched in the midst of luxury and splendor! I waited in vain for him to return to dinner, but received a note toward night, telling me not to be alarmed, if he did not return until morning. Lucy was rather better, but would not consent to his leaving the house, while her father lived. He would probably not survive many hours.

Dr. Clapp called in the evening, and told me he had received a hasty note from the Doctor, requesting him to take the care of his other patients, with a list of those upon whom it would be necessary to call.

Friday, August 7th.

Contrary to the Doctor's expectations, Squire Lee is still living; and there is slight hope that he may be better. Frank pursued the most vigorous course of treatment; applying cups to the temples, and blisters to the back of the neck. He left him in a natural sleep.

Lucy has been carried to the room where she sits near the bed. She wishes to be near him when he recovers his consciousness, hoping before his death that he may revoke his dreadful curse.

Tuesday, August 11th.

Mother and Emily returned last Saturday, and as mother feared, a terrible reaction has taken place. Sister is now as excitable as she was impassive. She laughs so merrily that the sound rings through the house. Then with as little reason, she weeps violently. I led Pauline to the cottage to try and amuse the poor girl; but the little creature was afraid of her aunt, and clung convulsively to me, if Emily tried to force her from my arms. There is a dreadful wildness in her eye, which alarms me.

Squire Lee is so much better, Frank is of opinion that, if he has no relapse, he will soon be able to leave his bed. Lucy is with him constantly; indeed he cannot bear her out of his sight a moment. Sometimes he mistakes her for her mother, and calls her "wife," and "Mary!"

The Doctor has insisted that he shall have watchers, so that she may have regular sleep; and that she shall take exercise in the open air, at least an hour every day. Joseph returned Saturday, but as the Doctor would not allow him to go into the sickroom, telling him he would not be responsible for the consequences, the young man left again for the city early Monday morning.

Frank also told him, Lucy had informed her father of her determination not to marry Arnold. Joseph swore dreadfully, that she would be the death of her father yet. All his object now was to see if "the old fellow," as he called him, had acted upon his suggestion.

Mrs. Burns had picked up the paper which lay upon the floor, after the dreadful interview between father and daughter, and having glanced at its contents, and seen that he had indeed left every cent of his property to Joseph, was strongly tempted to destroy it; but knowing she had no right to do this, she carefully locked it in a private desk where she had sometimes seen her master put his papers, and kept the key. She told Frank of the fact, who strengthened her in the resolution to restore it to no one but her master.

After Joseph's departure on Monday, however, it was ascertained beyond a doubt, that he had taken the desk with him.

CHAPTER XII

 
.   "No, I'll not weep;
I have full cause for weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I'll weep; – O fool, I shall go mad!" Shakspeare.
 

Thursday, August 13th.

Dear Mother, – Yesterday was a fearfully exciting day. About noon mother Lenox came over from the cottage to go back with Emily.

I asked where sister had gone. She looked at me with fright and wonder. "Emily," she exclaimed, "started for the house early this morning, purposely, as she said, to see her brother before he went out upon his calls."

"She has not been here to my knowledge," I replied. We instantly went to the kitchen to ascertain whether Phebe or Cæsar had seen her. Cæsar was absent; but neither Ann nor Phebe had seen anything of their young mistress. We were now really alarmed, and waited with impatience for Frank's return, while the women searched the house and grounds.

Cæsar was soon heard coming up the hill with the wagon, when his wife ran to meet him. He stopped the horse to hear what she was in such a hurry to say, but mother beckoned for him to come to the door. He said "I'se heb seen missus 'bout seven or it might be nigh upon eight. She be all dressed out for de walk, and was g'wine down de hill. I'se stopped de wagon, and axed missus if I'se go back and take de carriage and carry her where she was g'wine. But missus say no, she only g'wine on a piece for ole missus. She 'peared in mighty hurry," ended the old man.

Mother went back to the library, sat down in a chair, and covered her face with her hands. "I will send Cæsar to find his master," said I, earnestly.

Phebe, however, had anticipated me, for when I heard Cæsar, as I thought, drive to the barn, he had only turned back and gone to the office in the village. In a very few moments, we heard Frank's welcome voice. I sprang to meet him and led him to our distressed mother.

"Emily is gone!" she repeated after me; but oh! I cannot describe the mournfulness of the tone.

"Dear mother, don't be alarmed," he said, in a cheerful voice, "I will soon find the runaway and bring her back." I looked earnestly at him to see if he really were so hopeful, but could detect nothing to make me think otherwise, except that he was very pale about the mouth. He then ascertained from Cæsar the direction she had taken, and rode hastily away.

In about two hours, which had seemed equal to a whole day, I received the following hasty note by a messenger: —

"Dear Cora,

"I regret to say that I have so far been unsuccessful in my search. Let Cæsar procure men and horses from the village, and start off in every direction. I am on my way to Waverley, where I have slight encouragement to hope I may find her. A young woman was seen hastily running in that direction, and was observed to look frequently behind her, as if apprehending pursuit.

"May God in mercy grant this to be our dear distracted sister. Pray for us; but this I know you will do. I am stopping for ten minutes to rest and water my horse. Sweet wife, take care of yourself and our dear mother.

Your Frank.

I instantly rang for Cæsar, and gave him his master's orders, directing him to send in every other direction except that taken by the Doctor, and make inquiries at every house. Mother was so distressed, I felt that I must not give way to my feelings. So I walked the room holding Pauline tightly in my arms, or leading her by my side.

Not a tear did mother shed. She knelt by the sofa, with her face buried in her hands, for half an hour at a time. At the least noise, she would start up and look eagerly for a moment, and then relapse into her former state.

I tried to pray, but could not command my thoughts; I could only lift up my heart, as I walked the room. "O God! restore unto us our dear, lost one!"

I cannot describe to you the intense grief of mother, as hour after hour passed away, and we still heard nothing from the fugitive. By this time, the whole village was aroused, and messengers were continually coming to the house to report their want of success, or to make inquiries whether the poor girl had been found.

From the remark of one of them that they had been "dragging the pond," I for the first time realized what must be the agony felt by my dear, distracted mother, who with a low wail put her hand suddenly to her heart. I sprang to her side, and clasping my arms around her neck, wept bitterly. That dreadful thought had never before entered my mind. But it was what had distracted her.

Alas! what torment in that fear! I trembled at every sound. Dear, kind Miss Proctor, who instantly came to us in our sorrow, begged us to go up stairs, where we could be more retired. She promised to come to us with the first intelligence.

Ann came to put Pauline to bed, and brought tea on a waiter; but I shook my head, I could not swallow. Mother seemed not to see or hear her.

It must have been nearly nine in the evening, when I heard a faint sound in the distance. I listened eagerly, and then again I heard a shout. This time it aroused mother, who looked at me with dreadful apprehension and horror of the cause.

"Hark!" said I, as the sound was again borne on the breeze, "what do they say?" and now, as they approached nearer and nearer, we distinctly heard the words, "She's found! SHE'S FOUND!!"

We stopped but for one convulsive embrace, and then started quickly to go below; but the sudden relief was too great for mother's overborne heart; and she fell prostrate upon the floor. Miss Proctor, with Ann's assistance, raised her, and soon restored her to consciousness, having motioned me to go below.

The carriage stopped at the door. A boy was sitting on a cricket driving, while Frank held his unconscious sister in his arms. With Cæsar's assistance he carried her to her bed, from which I fear the poor girl will not soon rise. She was very wild all night, during which her devoted brother never left her. This morning he pronounces her suffering from the worst form of brain fever. God only knows the result.

Dear mother shared my room with me, and in compliance with Frank's earnestly expressed wishes, forced herself to remain in bed. But I hardly think she closed her eyes. This morning he has procured an excellent nurse, and will himself remain most of the time with her.

He will not allow me to be in the room, and says he has no desire to multiply such patients. He confessed to me this morning that for many hours yesterday he feared a more dreadful result; and added, "God only knows what I suffered in the thought that she had rushed into eternity unprepared."

I will go now and see if I can prevail upon mother to eat something and lie down. "For Emily's sake," is the only successful plea.

Wednesday, August 19th.

This is truly a sad house. Scarcely a sound is to be heard in it from morning to night. The door bells are muffled, and the outer gates are barred; no carriage enters the enclosure, and even neighbors and friends, who come to inquire, tread lightly as they pass round to the back door. We meet and pass each other in the halls, or sit at table one at a time, often in the vain attempt to eat; but we dare not trust ourselves to speak, our hearts are too full. Each of us pour out in secret the overflowings of a burdened heart. We cannot even meet around the family altar. God, who reads our thoughts, knows our only hope is in his rich mercy, and that, from morning till night, our desires go forth to Him in whose hand life and death are.

For several days our darling, precious sister has lain at the point of death; and we have no well-grounded hope of her preparation to meet her God. Oh, dreadful thought! It is this which makes our hearts sink within us. Surely, "the sting of death is sin." If we could feel that Emily, dear Emily, was prepared to die, I think I could say, "it is well;" but my heart cries out with Esther, "How can I endure to see the destruction of my kindred!" O, may God, in infinite compassion, restore our darling to reason, ere she goes hence to be here no more! She has lain for two days unconscious of all around her. I dare not ask Frank whether there is hope. There is none in his pale, mournful face.

Friday, August 21st.

Dearest mother, rejoice with us! We are permitted to hope. My own dear Frank, who had not left the sick room for many weary hours, came noiselessly out of it this morning; advanced toward mother and myself who sat silently hand in hand, awaiting the long feared, and long expected summons.

"Can you command your feelings?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. We bowed our assent. He led us to the bed-side of the pale sufferer, where, with emotions of joy and gratitude which I cannot describe, we saw her, ghastly and pale indeed, but in a calm and natural slumber.

With a finger on his lip, Frank pointed to the sweet expression of the mouth, and the calm serenity of the brow, which had taken the place of the previous signs of intense suffering. Leaving the sympathizing nurse with her, we stole softly from the room. I wanted to get into the air. My heart was swelling within me, and the tears, which I had forced back, were choking me. Frank accompanied us to the library, where we knelt together to express our gratitude and praise.

How easy now to feel submissive to the will of God! When we arose, mother clasped her son's hands in hers, and burst into a flood of tears; the first she has shed. I know they will relieve her poor bursting heart. I feel that if Emily is restored to health and reason, I can never again be unhappy. I love every body. I want to sing – I want to scream for joy! I must have my sweet Pauline home, and relieve myself by embracing her. She has been with Miss Proctor every day for a week, only returning at night.

Saturday, August 22d.

Emily recognizes us. We have been in one at a time. She looked at us sweetly, and smiled. "O, Emily!" I even carried Pauline to her room, who just pointed her little finger at aunty, but did not speak.

The Doctor allows not a word of conversation. Now mother has been in, she will not leave, though Frank tells her the nurse can do much better. Her pale, anxious countenance will do his patient no good.

Monday, August 24th.

Still encouraging prospects! For the first time since Emily's sickness, Frank passed an undisturbed and quiet night. Strange as it may appear, my mind has been so occupied with sister's immediate danger, I have never thought to inquire of her brother where he found her. It now appears that the young woman, he mentioned in his hurried note to me, was in reality the insane wanderer. But he lost all trace of her after dark, and was about to return home in despair of success in that quarter, when he overheard two women talking earnestly at the door of a house. His attention was arrested by hearing one of them say, "She is every inch a lady." The reply was in a lower tone.

"Well, I can't tell as to that," added the first speaker; "Here she is, away from all her folks, and what is to be done with her?"

Frank says, his heart sprang into his mouth as he rode up to them, and asked if they had seen or heard anything of a lady who had escaped from her friends in a sudden fit of insanity.

"She is here! she is here!!" they both exclaimed.

Frank speedily made arrangements for a driver, and for shawls to wrap around the poor girl, who was alternately shivering with cold or consumed with heat.

Tuesday Morning, September 1st.

The nurse left us this morning. She was summoned to a family where she had been previously engaged, and we could not detain her. Mother, Miss Proctor, and I take her place. We succeed admirably. Each of us take our turn in sleeping on a couch beside the bed. Frank wished to take my place, but I decidedly refused. He is often called out during the night; and though he says he is used to it, yet I know he needs sleep when he can get it.

Emily requires but little attention. Only toast-water or arrowroot once in a while. She sleeps most of the time.

I rode to-day with Frank to see Caroline, who fails very fast. I was shocked to observe the alteration. She longs to depart, and wished the Doctor, when he was about to pray, to ask God to give her patience to wait her appointed time. Her mother appears deeply affected, and when Frank addressed a few words of consolation to her, she wept aloud. Then, after a short pause, "I am willing to give up my beloved daughter, if it is God's will; but it comes so suddenly upon me, I am not prepared for it."

As we passed Squire Lee's, I begged my husband to stop and let me speak to Lucy. Mrs. Burns came to the carriage and said if I would alight and go into the parlor, she would take Lucy's place with her father, and request her to come down. I imagined the dear girl looked happier than she did when I saw her last. She said "Though my sad duty at home has prevented my going to you in your trouble, yet I have constantly thought of you."

Joseph is still away, and the Squire continues about the same; but Lucy hopes he will soon be better, as he takes neither wine, nor brandy. It was melting to me to hear her speak of him with such affection. What a dutiful heart he has trampled upon!

When I returned to the carriage, I asked Frank what he thought of the old gentleman's case.

"If he abstains entirely from the use of stimulants," he replied, "he may live for years. But his mind is very much enfeebled, and probably he will not be able to transact any business, hardly to leave the house. Any sudden excitement would terminate his life. This I have tried to impress upon Lucy and the servants."

"Dear girl," I replied, "she seems perfectly happy in devoting her life to the comfort of her miserable father."

"Yes," added the Doctor, "and God will reward her."

CHAPTER XIII

"The peace which passeth all understanding disclosed itself in all her movements. It lay on her countenance like a steady unshadowed moonlight."

Coleridge.

Thursday, September 3d.

We assisted Emily up into her chair to-day while Ann put fresh linen upon the bed. How she has changed! What a softened, subdued look there is about her! Mother was the first to notice it. Sister is very grateful for every attention, and has asked us to forgive her for causing us so much anxiety. Yesterday she called her brother to the bed, and asked him in a low voice if it would be too much trouble to call the servants to her room, and have prayers there. He was much affected during the service, while Cæsar and Phebe sobbed audibly. She spoke to each one as they passed out of the room in a most affectionate manner.

Sabbath, September 6th.

I have been to church all day. I intended to remain with sister this afternoon, but at her special request her brother staid with her, and I went again with mother. A note was read requesting prayers for Caroline Leighton, lying at the point of death; that she might have the presence of her Saviour through the dark valley, and arrive safely at her heavenly home. This was her own dictation. Such notes are common here, and I think very appropriate and salutary.

When I returned from church and was passing into Emily's room, Frank came out and led me to my boudoir. His eyes were inflamed as if he had been weeping. He sat down by me when I had laid off my bonnet, and said softly, "I know, dear Cora, that you will join me in giving God the praise, for salvation has come to this house." He then told me that soon after we left, Emily requested him to bring the Bible to the side of the bed, and read the parable of the prodigal son. He did so, and read in a low tone until he came to the eighteenth verse, when she interrupted him, and with her eyes closed, and her hands clasped as if in prayer, she repeated the words, "I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy child." She remained in the same attitude for a few moments, when she put her hand into her brother's, saying, "dear Frank, God, my Heavenly Father, has forgiven me." He sank down by her side and buried his face in his hands. "Dear brother," she whispered after a short pause, "will you ask God to enable me to consecrate my life to his service? – My life, which has been heretofore worse than wasted." It was some time before he could pray audibly, though his whole soul was filled with gratitude and praise. He had subsequently some delightful conversation with her, in the course of which she exhibited evidence of a regenerate heart.

Wednesday, September 9th.

I have been with my dear husband this afternoon to attend the funeral of Caroline Leighton, who died on Monday evening full of peace and trust in her Saviour. Her last words were uttered but half an hour before she expired, and were, "For I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that day." She had previously left messages of love for all her friends, together with some little parting token of affection. She begged her father to tell the Doctor what comfort and joy she had experienced in her dying hour; and when he suggested that she should send her thanks for all his attention both to her spiritual and temporal wants, she looked up to him with a smile, and said, "tell him no thanks of mine can repay him, but God will reward him." With a true refinement of feeling she presented me with a little collection of hymns which Frank had given her, and in which she had marked those which best expressed her feelings.

 
"Oh, Death!
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee – but thou art not of those
That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey."
 

Thursday, September 10th.

Frank is trying to arrange his business for a journey with me as soon as he can leave Emily, who gains daily. A very free conversation passed between her and mother, relative not only to the new feelings and hopes which fill her soul; but also to her affection for Mr. Benson. On the latter of these subjects, she has heretofore maintained the most rigid reserve, excepting only the passionate expressions which I heard. Since that interview a new tie seems to be formed between them. Mother no longer feels obliged to restrain the outward manifestation of affection for her child, while sister in her softened, subdued state heartily reciprocates her feelings and expressions.

Saturday, September 12th.

I went yesterday with the Doctor to make a call upon Mrs. Dr. Clapp. From a variety of reasons I have been prevented from calling early, as I intended; but with these reasons both the Doctor and his wife were well acquainted. They have rented a little bird cage of a house, where the young bride performs the offices of cook, house-keeper and chambermaid. The proud husband, who is still so unfortunate as to have plenty of leisure, showed us all their conveniences, and evidently thought himself the happiest man, and his wife the dearest woman in the country. She is obviously a keeper at home, shrinking like a sensitive plant from contact with strangers, but unfolding and expanding in the congenial atmosphere of home, and home friends. No doubt the grateful Doctor had set forth in glowing terms "the unprecedented kindness of Dr. Lenox." With many blushes she thanked me cordially for the kind interest we had taken in his welfare. Frank made satisfactory arrangements with Dr. Clapp, as to leaving his business with him during our short absence, and when he began earnestly to express his thanks, my husband cut him short by saying, "I regard myself altogether as the obliged party." We enjoyed the visit much. After returning a few of the many calls made upon me, I was glad to be at home again. "There is no place like home."

Monday, September 14th.

We have decided to leave home on Wednesday morning, in order to take P – on our way, to be present at a Quaker wedding, when Elizabeth Estes will become Elizabeth Nelson. We expect to go to B – , a flourishing town in the western part of New York. I pleaded hard to take Pauline with me, as Ann could well be spared for nurse; but the Doctor was inexorable. When he is decided, one might as well undertake to remove the mountains into the sea, as to change his determination. Yet I must confess his decisions are generally wise. Respectful as he always is to his mother, and ready to yield to her wishes, yet when she sees he has fully made up his mind upon a point, she never tries to change his decision. Pauline will remain under the care of mother and Emily. Frank is determined that I shall reap great benefit from this journey, and so I suppose I shall. In truth, my health is his great motive for going. I have grown excessively nervous and low-spirited. I want to sit on a cricket at your feet, and lay my head in your lap, dear mother, and have you comfort and cheer me. I try to reason with myself that I have no occasion to feel thus, but I cannot help it; the next morning I am as bad as ever. Frank tries to comfort me by saying that it is owing to my state of health and to my loss of appetite, and that I shall soon be better.

Tuesday, September 15th.

This morning Ann knocked at my door, and said Phebe begged I would go to the kitchen. I went and found a little girl and boy hand in hand awaiting me. The girl I should judge was six or seven years of age; the boy was not more than four. He kept his eyes fixed upon me, with an earnest, serious expression, while his sister explained her errand, as if the business they came upon, was in their opinion of great importance and magnitude. The little girl, in a singularly sweet voice, asked me humbly if I had any work I wanted to have done. I smiled as I inquired, "is the work for you or for your brother?" She understood the smile and said quickly, "I can weed in a garden, or run of errands, or," turning to Phebe with rather a doubtful look, "scour knives and wash dishes. I'll be very careful not to break them, ma'am."

"Where are your parents, Anna?" I asked when she had given me her name.

"My mother is sick in bed," she replied sadly.

"And your father, is he dead?"

"No, ma'am," she answered, timidly dropping her eyes to the floor, while a burning blush flashed over her pale wan countenance, extending even to her very temples. Her little brother looked at her, and then at me. Encouraged, I suppose, by my sympathy, he said, "Pa aint good. Pa's a bad man, he licks ma when she's sick."

I hastily inquired where they lived, and requesting Phebe to give them some breakfast returned to my room, where Frank was shaving. I told him what I had heard, when he interrupted me, "Ah, Reynolds has been having another spree! I'm sorry for his poor wife and children. This man," said he, turning from the mirror to look at me, "is another of Squire Lee's hopeful protegés. Oh!" he continued after a moment's pause, while he went on with his shaving, "the misery that distillery has caused in this place, would if written down fill volumes."

"What can I do for the poor children," I asked. "They want work."

"Well, give them something to do, and pay them with a basket of food. Mrs. Reynolds would hardly accept it as a gift. I will ride around that way when I am out, and see what can be done."

As I returned to the kitchen, I fairly taxed my ingenuity to find some employment suited to their capacities; but in vain. So I determined to appeal to Phebe. "My good Phebe," said I, "have you no work for these children who are so anxious to be employed?"

"Laws now missus!" answered Phebe, "It's no kinder use settin sich babies to work. There's heaps on em comes here a beggin. If missus would give em a cold bite now to carry to their sick ma, 'pears like dere'd be some use in dat ar."

I wish I could describe to you the anxious expression with which these poor little creatures regarded Phebe as she replied, as if they would implore her to answer more favorably. I saw that the good woman had no idea of the real state of the case, and taking her into the hall I explained to her that they had not been used to begging, and I did not like to break down the independence and delicacy of feeling, I so much admired. With a toss of her turban the truly kind-hearted woman signified that she fully understood me, and when I told her farther that her master was going out directly to the aid of their mother, she was ready to do her full part in assisting them. She stood one moment to think what she should set them about, as she expressed it, when her countenance brightened as she exclaimed, "Wal now, if that ar aint kind o' curus. There's me's been a tellin my ole man how desp't bad I wanted de brush picked up clean out dar in de orchard fore cold wedder comes; but laws, he never has no time for notting." When we returned to the kitchen, the brother and sister had finished their breakfast, and sat awaiting the important decision. I suggested that it would be well for them to carry something previously to their mother, and obtain her consent to remain through the day. She would thus be relieved from all anxiety concerning them.