Cora and The Doctor; or, Revelations of A Physician's Wife. Leslie Madeline
seeing there was no hope for him or his dearly beloved Lucy, suddenly caught her in his arms, held her for one brief moment to his breast, bade her farewell, and left the house. There was a sincerity in his grief, a dignity in his manner, which made even the hard hearts of both brother and father quail.
Here at Emily's request, Lucy continued the narrative. "I cannot remember what immediately followed; but when I recovered my consciousness, I was in my own room. Mrs. Burns the house-keeper, almost my only friend and confidant, stood bathing my hands and face. From that time I gave up all hope of happiness with Allen, though he has never ceased to write me the most tender letters, urging me not to despair, but to hope on, and hope ever."
"Love in the earnest mind is not a dream,
To fade in sorrow, or grow dim by age,
But a most true outpouring of the soul;
A pledge of faith, that looking from the past,
And through the present—sees beyond it all
Hope unaffected by earth's weary change."
"I have never written in reply, but have sent messages of unchangeable and undying love. I begged Mrs. Burns, through whom alone we could communicate, to tell my dear Allen, that though I could not marry him in defiance of my father's command; yet I would not marry another. He would never cease to be dearer to me than life."
The distressed girl wept so much, that Emily resumed. Weeks passed on, and Joseph encouraged by her passive obedience, began to think he could now bestow her hand to his own advantage.
Among the vile acquaintances which he had formed in a neighboring city, was Mr. William Arnold, a man about thirty years of age, of whose elegant dress and accomplishments Joseph was never tired of talking. He was often at the house, and Lucy from an instinctive feeling of dislike avoided him as much as possible. She was obliged to meet him at the table, and to treat him with civility as a guest. She says she has sometimes questioned herself as to the ground of her prejudice against him. He is tall, of an elegant figure, and very free, easy manners. He converses well, and has rendered himself a favorite with the old gentleman; but there is a look in his eye which she says cannot be trusted. Then the fact of his being so intimate with her brother is strongly against him.
But when Mr. Arnold began to exhibit a fondness for her society, and whispered soft nothings in her ear, she says "she absolutely loathed him."
"His passionate eye," exclaimed Lucy, starting from her seat in great excitement, "actually makes all my bones to shake. I would willingly have confined myself to my room; but this I was not allowed to do. My father," she added with a deep sigh, "no doubt instigated to such a course by my brother, commands me to appear, as he says whatever company he chooses to invite to the house is only too good for me. I pined and wept in secret, but was required to appear cheerful in the presence of my now avowed admirer."
With a look of horror, the wretched girl said "I had rather die than marry him." She acknowledged, however, that she dared not openly resist her brother's wishes. "When he has been drinking he is—" she checked herself, "very unlike a brother," and she shuddered with fear at the thought.
"I am willing to give up Allen, though he is so very dear to me; but why need they force me to marry this vile man." She said when the Doctor called she longed to ask his advice; but fear restrained her; and then she knew it could do no good. This was said almost in a tone of despair.
In her indignation, Emily was for sending a police officer to take father and son and lock them up in jail. I was silent from astonishment; I had known of cases in France where children were forced to marry against their will; but can it be so, thought I, in this free country? Why then this boast of liberty? I am so much interested in this sweet girl that I have given you a full account of her trials, embracing what was told me during this interview, and what I learned from mother and Frank after her departure. I gave the poor girl all my sympathy, while Emily was very free with her advice, some of which from Lucy's shake of the head, I foresaw it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her to follow. But we both urged her to be firm in refusing to give her hand to one whom she did not respect, and therefore could not love. In this advice we were joined by my husband and mother.
After she left, we sat late talking about Squire Lee. I gathered from what they said, that when the old gentleman first came to the village, he was a poor boy, and was employed as a clerk in a grocer's store. Being a shrewd, active lad, he had worked his way up to be a partner in the firm. Then he married his partner's daughter, at which time they increased their business, and built their distillery. This proved so much more profitable than their grocery, that they sold out their store and devoted themselves entirely to the manufacture of New England rum.
When his father-in-law died, the whole manufactory and trade fell into his hands; and now he is possessed of great wealth. It was certainly known that many houses and farms had passed into his hands; and that a large number of families had been reduced from independence and comfort to beggary through their connection with this ruinous business; this soul-killing establishment.
Frank said his father had often remarked the deplorable effect this traffic had upon the mind and character of his neighbor. From being apparently a kind hearted man, he had gradually become hard, unfeeling and inhuman. Mammon and Bacchus were his gods. Personal ease and domestic tranquillity, neighbors and friends, family and home, his body and his soul, he had sacrificed to these divinities.
Friday, July 3d.
Great preparations are making for the celebration of the Fourth of July, which is the anniversary of the national independence.
I really think Lucy's visit has been of service to Emily by taking her mind from herself. She gave me a sealed note to-day directed to Rev. Frederic Benson, which Frank has enclosed in a wrapper to Mr. Karswell.
Saturday, July 4th.
On many accounts this has been a trying day to me. I suppose I do not yet feel patriotic enough to bear the noise patiently. This morning we were awakened with the first streak of light, by the booming of cannons on a neighboring height. My poor little Pauline screamed and cried. When I took her from her crib into my bed, her teeth chattered from her affright. I tried to talk with her and soothe her; but in truth I had as much as I could do to calm myself. The continued roar made me tremble so much that I could easily sympathize with the frightened girl.
Doctor Frank expressed much sorrow for us, and would gladly have prevented it, if possible; but he said there was no help for it but patience. He comforted both Pauline and myself, by saying he would hurry through his morning calls, as he has no very sick patients, and take us all out into the country beyond the reach of the noise.
After an early dinner we started to rid ourselves of the noise of cannons and bells, which were to commence again their tumult at noon. We had a delightful ride and picnic in a grove. We carried cold chicken, ham and condiments in a basket, and spread them out on a cloth under the trees. Pauline forgot all her troubles, and amused us much by her gayety. She danced and tried to sing in her delight.
When she was tired, she went to Frank and turned her back for him to lift her up. He pretended not to know what she wanted, so as to have the pleasure of hearing her say, "please, papa, take Pauline." It is really amusing to watch them together. She goes quite as a matter of course to him when he sits in the library, and asks him to "take her," waiting patiently for half an hour, it may be, for him to finish reading his paper. Then she is sure of a frolic.
It often makes me laugh till the tears run down my cheeks, to see him dancing about the room, with Pauline perched upon his shoulder, holding tightly to his hair. It is fortunate for the young miss, it is curly, else her hold would not be quite so firm. I wonder what Madame Le Row or Mademoiselle Blanche would say to see Dr. Lenox, "the graceful, refined, but rather too serious Dr. Lenox," capering about the room in that style.
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