It was now becoming late, and we returned home. I cannot help thinking how much good a pious physician has it in his power to do. He gains the affections of his patients; and they will listen to religious conversation which they would not hear from a stranger. Frank cares for their souls as well as their bodies, especially as the one commonly affects the other.
CHAPTER V.
"Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain,
Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain?" Cowper.
Sabbath morning, June 14th.
Dear Mother,—I must write you a few lines to tell you how happy I am. Yesterday, you remember, I was to decide whether I would conduct the family devotions when Frank is absent. My mind was so much occupied during the afternoon, I hardly thought of it; but in the evening, I retired to my closet, determined to ask for strength from one who is ever ready to help the weak in the performance of duty.
When I arose from my knees, my fear was all dispelled. It appeared almost like a privilege to do what I had so much dreaded. While I was yet speaking, God answered.
This morning, when I was dressing my little daughter, an employment in which I delight, Frank came in and inquired, "Have you thought upon the subject I proposed yesterday?"
"Yes," was my reply.
"And what have you decided?"
"I will, at least, attempt the duty." My hand trembled so much, I could scarcely button Pauline's dress; but I think he did not notice it, for he walked quickly out of the room. I was taking her to Ann for her breakfast, when he returned, and with such evident marks of strong feeling on his countenance, I looked at him anxiously.
He took my hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying, "Will you soon return to your boudoir?" I rang for Ann, and then followed him. He clasped me in his arms, as he exclaimed, "my own Cora, you were never before so dear to me. You little know what a struggle it has cost me to see the conflict in your mind, and neither say or do anything for your relief. I have blamed myself severely for expecting so much of you, my dear child. Many times yesterday I was on the point of withdrawing my request; but I hesitated. I felt sure you would decide aright, and that I should rest satisfied with your decision. It is not the first time you have set me an example. When I heard your decision, I considered it a great triumph of duty over inclination."
"But you do not know all the naughty thoughts I had," said I, raising my eyes for the first time. "I even wished,"—
"My own wife," said Frank, pressing me to his heart!—"And have all these hard thoughts of your husband gone? Did you wish," he asked, turning my face to his, "that you had never left home to live with such an exacting man?"
"Oh, Frank! I never wished so; I did not say that. How could I be happy as I am, if I felt thus? I wished something worse; which I had rather not tell."
"You had better make a clean breast of it," said he, smiling.
"I wished," said I in a low tone, "that you were not quite so good; and then you would not expect so much of me."
Frank looked very much amused. "That's the last thing in the world, I expected my wife to complain of. But seriously, Cora, I have learned many a lesson from you. One of your looks of wonder, a year since, upset my favorite theory, and in the end secured to me the most precious wife in the world."
Monday, June 15th.
Poor Emily! I wonder if she knew Mr. Benson was to exchange with Mr. Munroe, yesterday. If so, she did not speak of it. I never saw a man so changed; he looked as if he had had a severe fit of sickness.
"He withers at his heart, and looks as wan
As the pale spectre of a murder'd man."
But his sermon was really sublime, and lifted me above myself. The text was the last verse of the forty-second Psalm: "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."
Trust in God, was his subject. Amid all the trials and vicissitudes of life, trust in God is the only sure source of happiness for the Christian. Trust him to bring good out of seeming ill; to make these very trials "work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." If he withdraws the light of his countenance; if our beloved friends sicken and die before our eyes; if our worldly estate takes to itself wings and flies away; if our fondest hopes are suddenly dashed to the ground; if we are ever left to call out in agony of spirit, "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me?" we may, by Divine grace, also exclaim, "hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."
In the pale countenance of the speaker, I could read the struggle, and the victory. I was actually startled at Emily's looks, as we turned to come out of the pew. She caught my hand to save herself from falling; and from the motion of her lips I understood her to say, "faint" though no articulate sound came forth.
I whispered, "Dear Emily! lean upon me; don't faint here; try to arouse yourself."
Never was I more thankful than when we reached the carriage and had assisted the poor girl into it, without attracting notice. There was not a particle of color in her face or lips. I drew off her gloves, and chafed her hands, while mother loosed her bonnet strings, and applied the smelling drops to her nose.
With a deep sigh she recovered her consciousness, and was ashamed and mortified that her feelings should have been betrayed even to her loving friends. She tried to conceal them with the flimsy excuse, that she arose in the morning with a head-ache, and the heat of the house had overcome her.
I wonder if Emily thinks, she really deceives us, or is she deceiving herself? In the afternoon, she declared that she was fully able to go to church; and when, at the last moment, she was forced to acknowledge herself sick, and mother was removing her own bonnet to remain with her, she insisted that she had rather be left alone, and mother very reluctantly left her.
"Poor girl!" I exclaimed, as mother related the circumstance, "my heart aches for her."
"I never saw a child so changed," said mother sadly; "I cannot but think, she regrets her hasty decision. I have never before known her to be irritable. It seems to annoy her exceedingly to have me notice her languor or want of spirits. Frank," she continued, "I wish you would persuade Emily to take an anodyne. I think the want of sleep is partly the cause of her head ache." Frank asked if she would be likely to come over to the house to tea; but mother could not tell; she was so changeable in her feelings.
I could not help thinking, Mr. Benson noticed sister's absence. He looked very sad. I was so anxious about the poor girl, that I must confess, I could not confine my thoughts to the discourse. Frank, too, was called out; and mother looked pale and troubled. Altogether, I worked myself up into quite a fever of excitement; and was glad when the services were through.
While we waited a moment in the porch for Cæsar to bring the carriage to the door, Mr. Benson passed down from the pulpit and came out. He would evidently have avoided the meeting, if possible; but mother stepped forward with much kindness and thanked him for his faithful discourses. He unbent at once, and inquired for my health and that of the family.
I told him, I was well, but quite anxious about my sister, as she had a severe head-ache which detained her at home. What could have come over the man to look so pleased that she was ill?
Fearing I had said something to compromise her delicacy, I added, "she has had the head-ache for several days." Now I think of