“Well,” said the doctor; “even so, I go in for saving in my line by an instinct apart from my reason, an instinct as blind as Nature’s when she sets out to heal a broken bone in the right arm of a scalawag, who never used his arm for anything but thrashing his wife and children, and making himself a general nuisance; yet I have been amazed sometimes to see how kindly and patiently old Mother Nature will work for such a man. Well, I am something like her. I have the blind instinct of healing in my profession, and I confess to sitting up all night, watching to keep the breath of life in sick babies that I know ought to be dead, and had better be dead, inasmuch as there’s no chance for them to be even decent and respectable, if they live; but. I can’t let ’em die, any more than Nature can, without a struggle. The fact is, reason is one thing and the human heart another; and, as St. Paul says, ‘these two are contrary one to the other, so that ye cannot do the thing ye would.’ You and your husband, Mrs. Henderson, have got a good deal of this troublesome human heart in you, so that you cannot act reasonably any more than I can.”
“That’s it, Doctor,” said Eva, with a bright, sudden movement towards him and laying her hand on his arm, “let’s not act reasonably — let’s act by something higher. I know there is something higher — something we dare to do and feel able to do in our best moments. You are a Christian in heart, Doctor, if not in faith.”
“Me? I’m the most terrible heretic in all the continent.”
“But when you sit up all night with a sick baby from mere love of saving, you are a Christian; for, doesn’t Christ say, ‘Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these, ye did it unto me’? Christians are those who have Christ’s spirit, as I think, and sacrifice themselves to save others.” —
“May the angels be of your opinion when I try the gate hereafter,” said the doctor. “But now, seriously, about this Maggie. I apprehend that you will have trouble from the fact that, having been kept on stimulants in a rambling, loose, disorderly life, she will not be able long to accommodate herself to any regular habits. I don’t know how much of a craving for drink there may be in her case, but it is a usual complication of such cases. Such people may go for weeks without yielding, and then the furor comes upon them, and away they go. Perhaps she may not be one of those worst cases; but, in any event, the sudden cessation of all the tumultuous excitement she has been accustomed to may lead to a running down of the nervous system that will make her act unreasonably. Her mother, and people of her class, may be relied on for doing the very worst thing that the case admits of, with the very best intentions. And now if these complications get you into any trouble, rely upon me so far as I can do anything to help. Don’t hesitate to command me at any hour and to any extent, because I mean to see the thing through with you. When spring comes on, if you get her through the winter, we must try and find her a place in some decent, quiet farmer’s family in the country, where she may feed chickens and ducks, and make butter, and live a natural, healthful, outdoor life; and, in my opinion, that will be the best and safest way for her.”
“Come, Doctor,” said Harry, “will you walk up town with me? It’s time I was off.”
“Now, Harry, please remember; don’t forget to match. that worsted,” said Eva. “Oh! and that tea must be changed. You just call in and tell Haskins that.”
“Anything else?” said Harry, buttoning on his overcoat.
“No; only be sure you come back early, for mamma says Aunt Maria is coming down here upon me, and I shall want you to strengthen me. The doctor appreciates Aunt Maria.”
“Certainly I do,” said the doctor; “a devoted relation who carries you all in her heart hourly, and therefore has an undoubted right to make you as uncomfortable as she pleases. That’s the beauty of relations. If you have them you are bothered with them, and if you haven’t you are bothered for want of ‘em. So it goes. Now I would give all the world if I had a good aunt or grandmother to haul me over the coals, and fight me, out of pure love — a fellow feels lonesome when he knows nobody would care if he went to the devil.”
“Oh, as to that,” said Eva, “come here whenever you ‘re lonesome, and we’ll fight and abuse you to your heart’s content; and you sha’n’t go to that improper person without our making a fuss about it. We’ll abuse you as if you were one of the family.”
“Good,” said the doctor, as he stepped towards the front window; “but here, to be sure, is your aunt, bright and early.”
CHAPTER XXIX
AUNT MARIA FREES HER MIND
THE door opened, to let out the two gentlemen, just as Mrs. Wouvermans was coming up the steps, fresh and crisp as one out betimes on the labors of a good conscience. The dear woman had visited the Willises, at the remote end of the city, had had diplomatic conversations with both mistress and maid in that establishment, and had now arrived as minister plenipotentiary to set all matters right in Eva’s establishment. She had looked all through the subject, made up her mind precisely what Eva ought to do, revolved it in her own mind as she sat apparently attending to a rather drowsy sermon at her church, and was now come, as full of sparkling vigor and brisk purposes as a well-corked bottle of champagne.
Eva met her at the door with the dutiful affection which she had schooled herself to feel towards one whose intentions were always so good, but with a secret reserve of firm resistance as to the lines of her own proper personality.
“I have a great deal to do, to-day,” said the lady, “and so I came out early to see you before you should be gone out or anything, because I had something very particular I wanted to say to you.”
Eva took her aunt’s things and committed them to the care of Maggie, who opened the parlor door at this moment. Aunt Maria turned towards the girl in a grand superior way, and fixed a searching glance on her.
“Maggie,” she said, “is this you? I’m astonished to see you here.” The words were not much, but the intonation and manner were meant to have all the effect of an awful and severe act of judgment on a detected culprit — to express Mrs. Wouvermans’ opinion that Maggie’s presence in any decent house was an impertinence and a disgrace.
Maggie’s pale face turned a shade paler, and her black eyes flashed fire, but she said nothing; she went out and closed the door with violence.
“Did you see that?” said Aunt Maria, turning to Eva.
“I saw it, aunty, and I must say I think it was more your fault than Maggie’s. People in our position ought not to provoke girls, if we do not want to excite temper and have rudeness.”
“Well, Eva, I’ve come up here to have a plain talk with you about this girl, for I think you don’t know what you ‘re doing in taking her into your house. I’ve talked with Mrs. Willis, and with your Aunt Atkins, and with dear Mrs. Elmore about it, and there is but just one opinion — they are all united in the idea that you ought not to take such a girl into your family. You never can do anything with them; they are utterly good for nothing, and they make no end of trouble. I went and talked to your mother, but she is just like a bit of tow string, you can’t trust her any way, and she is afraid to come and tell you what she really thinks, but in her heart she feels just as the rest of us do.”
“Well, now, upon my word, Aunt Maria, I can’t see what right you and Mrs. Willis and Aunt Atkins and Mrs. Elmore have to sit as a jury on my family affairs and send me advice as to my arrangements, and I’m not in the least obliged to you for talking about my affairs to them. I think I told you, some time ago, that Harry and I intend to manage our family according to our own judgment; and, while we respect you, and are desirous of showing that respect in every proper way, we cannot allow you any right to intermeddle in our family matters. I am guided by my husband’s judgment (and you yourself admit that, for a wife, there is no other proper appeal) and Harry and I act as one. We are entirely united in all our family plans.”
“Oh, well, I suppose there is no harm in my taking an interest in your family matters, since you are my godchild, and I brought you up, and have always c
ared as much about you as any mother could do — in fact, I think I have felt more like a mother to you than Nelly has.”
“Well, aunty,” said Eva, “of course, I feel how kind and good you have always been, and I’m sure I thank you with all my heart; but still, after all, we must be firm in saying that you cannot govern our family.”
“Who is wanting to govern your family? — what ridiculous talk that is! Just as if I had ever tried; but you may, of course, allow your old aunt, that has had experience that you haven’t had, to propose arrangements and tell you of things to your advantage, can’t you?”
“Oh, of course, aunty.”
“Well, I went up to the Willises, because they are going to Europe, to be gone for three years, and I thought I could secure their Ann for you. Ann is a treasure. She has been ten years with the Willises, and Mrs. Willis says she don’t know of a fault that she has.”
“Very well; but, aunty, I don’t want Ann, if she were an angel. I have my Mary, and I prefer her to anybody that could be named.”
“But, Eva, Mary is getting old, and she is encumbered with this witch of a daughter, whom she is putting upon your shoulders and making you carry; and I perceive that you’ll be ridden to death — it’s a perfect Old Man of the Sea on your backs. Now, get rid of Mary, and you’ll get rid of the whole trouble. It isn’t worth while, just because you’ve got attached to Mary, to sacrifice your interests for her sake. Just let her go.”
“Well, now, aunty, the short of the matter is, that I will do nothing of the kind. I won’t let Mary go, and I don’t want any other arrangement than just what I have. I am perfectly satisfied.”
“Well, you’ll see that your keeping that girl in your house will bring you all into disgrace yet,” said Aunt Maria, rising hastily. “But it’s no use talking. I spent a good half day attending to this matter, and making arrangements that would have given you the very best of servants; but if you choose to take in tramps, you must take the consequences. I can’t help it,” and Aunt Maria rose vengefully and felt for her bonnet.
Eva opened the door of the little sewing-room, where Maggie had laid it, and saw her vanishing out of the opposite door.
“I hope she did not hear you, aunty,” she said involuntarily.
“I don’t care if she did,” was the reply, as the injured lady resumed her bonnet and departed from the house, figuratively shaking the dust from her feet.
Eva went out also to attend to some of her morning business, and, on her return, was met by Mary with an anxious face. Maggie had gone out and taken all her things with her, and was nowhere to be found. After some search, Eva found a paper pinned to the cushion of her toilet-table, on which was written: —
DEAR MRS. HENDERSON, — You have tried hard to save me; but it’s no use. I am only a trouble to mother, and I disgrace you. So I am going, and don’t try to find me. May God bless you and mother.
MAGGIE.
CHAPTER XXX
A DINNER ON WASHING-DAY
THE world cannot wait for anybody. No matter whose heart breaks or whose limbs ache the world must move on. Life always has its next thing to be done, which comes up imperatively, no matter what happens to you or me. So when it appeared that Maggie was absolutely gone — gone without leaving trace or clue where to look for her, Mary, though distressed and broken-hearted, had small time for lamentations.
For just as Maggie’s note had been found, read, and explained to Mary, and in the midst of grief and wonderment, a note was handed in to Eva by an office-boy, running thus: —
DEAR little WIFIE, — I have caught Selby, and we can have him at dinner to-night; and as I know there’s nothing like you for emergencies, I secured him, and took the liberty of calling in on Alice and Angie, and telling them to come. I shall ask St. John, and Jim, and Bolton, and Campbell — you know, the more the merrier, and, when you are about it, it’s no more trouble to have six or seven than one; and now you have Maggie, one may as well spread a little.
Your own — HARRY.
“Was ever such a man!” said Eva; “poor Mary! I’m sorry all this is to come upon you just as you have so much trouble; but just hear now! Mr. Henderson has invited an English gentleman to dinner, and a whole parcel of folks with him. Well, most of them are our folks, Mary — Miss Angie, and Miss Alice, and Mr. Fellows, and Mr. Bolton, and Mr. St. John — of course we must have him.”
“Oh, well, we must just do the best we can,” said Mary, entering into the situation at once; “but really, the turkey that’s been sent in isn’t enough for so many. If you’d be so good as to step down to Simon’s, ma’am, and order a pair of chickens, I could make a chicken pie, and then there’s most of that cold boiled ham left, and trimmed up with parsley it would do to set on table — you’ll ask him to send parsley — and the celery’s not enough, we shall want two or three more bunches. I’m sorry Mr. Henderson couldn’t have put it off, later in the week, till the washing was out of the way,” she concluded meekly, “but we must do the best we can.”
Now, Christian fortitude has many more showy and sublime forms, but none more real than that of a poor working woman suddenly called upon to change all her plans of operations on washing-day, and more especially if the greatest and most perplexing of life’s troubles meets her at the same moment. Mary’s patience and self-sacrifice showed that the crucifix and rosary and prayer-book in her chamber were something more than ornamental appendages — they were the outward signs of a faith that was real.
“My dear, good Mary,” said Eva, “it’s just sweet of you to take things so patiently, when I know you ‘re feeling so bad; but the way it came about is this: this gentleman is from England, and he is one that Harry wants very much to show attention to, and he only stays a short time, and so we have to take him when we can get him. You know Mr. Henderson generally is so considerate.”
“Oh, I know,” said Mary, “folks can’t always have things just as they want.”
“And then, you know, Mary, he thought we should have Maggie here to help us. He couldn’t know, you see” —
Mary’s countenance fell, and Eva’s heart smote her, as if she were hard and unsympathetic in forcing her own business upon her in her trouble, and she hastened to add: —
“We sha’n’t give Maggie up. I will tell Mr. Henderson about her when he comes home, and he will know just what to do. You may be sure, Mary, he will stand by you, and leave no stone unturned to help you. We’ll find her yet.”
“It’s my fault partly, I’m afraid; if I’d only done better by her,” said Mary; “and Mike, he was hard on her; she never would bear curbing in, Maggie wouldn’t. But we must just do the best we can,” she added, wiping her eyes with her apron. “What would you have for dessert, ma’am?”
“What would you make easiest, Mary?”
“Well, there’s jelly, blanc-mange, or floating island, though we didn’t take milk enough for that; but I guess I can borrow some of Dinah over the way. Miss Dorcas would be willing, I’m sure.”
“Well, Mary, arrange it just as you please. I’ll go down and order more celery and the chickens, and I know you’ll bring it all right; you always do. Meanwhile, I’ll go to a fruit store, and get some handsome fruit to set off the table.”
And so Eva went out, and Mary, left alone with her troubles, went on picking celery, and preparing to make jelly and blanc-mange, with bitterness in her soul. People must eat, no matter whose hearts break, or who go to destruction; but, on the whole, this incessant drive of the actual in life is not a bad thing for sorrow. If Mary had been a rich woman, with nothing to do but to go to bed with a smelling-bottle, with full leisure to pet and coddle her griefs, she could not have made half as good headway against them as she did by help of her chicken pie, and jelly, and celery and what not, that day.
Eva had, to be sure, given her the only comfort in her power, in the assurance that when her husband came, home she would tell him about it, and they would see if anything could be done to find Maggie and bring her back
. Poor Mary was full of self-reproach for what it was too late to help, and with concern for the trouble which she felt her young mistress had been subjected to. Added to this was the wounded pride of respectability, even more strong in her class than in higher ones, because with them a good name is more nearly an only treasure. To be come of honest, decent folk is with them equivalent to what in a higher class would be called coming of gentle blood. Then Mary’s brother Mike, in his soreness at Maggie’s disgrace, had not failed to blame the mother’s way of bringing her up, after the manner of the world generally when children turn out badly.
“She might have expected this. She ought to have known it would come. She hadn’t held her in tight enough; had given her her head too much; his wife always told him they were making a fool of the girl.”
This was a sharp arrow in Mary’s breast; because Mike’s wife, Bridget, was one on whom Mary had looked down, as in no way an equal match for her brother, and her consequent want of cordiality in receiving her had rankled in Bridget’s mind, so that she was forward to take advantage of Mary’s humiliation.
It is not merely professed enemies, but decent family connections, we are sorry to say, who in time of trouble sometimes say, “Aha! so would we have it.” All whose advice has not been taken, all who have felt themselves outshone or slighted, are prompt with the style of consolation exemplified by Job’s friends, and eager above all things to prove to those in trouble that they have nobody but themselves to thank for it. So, no inconsiderable part of Mary’s bitter herbs this day was the prick and sting of all the possible things which might be said of her and Maggie by Bridget and Mike, and, the rest of the family circle by courtesy included in the term “her best friends.” Eva, tender-hearted and pitiful, could not help feeling a sympathetic cloud coming over her as she watched poor Mary’s woe-struck and dejected air. She felt quite sure that Maggie had listened, and overheard Aunt Maria’s philippic in the parlor, and that thus the final impulse had been given to send her back to her miserable courses; and somehow Eva could not help a vague feeling of blame from attaching to herself for not having made sure that those violent and cruel denunciations should not be overheard.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 396