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

Wednesday, June 10th, 1840.

Dearest Mother, – It is a week since sister Nelly sailed for home. I am so lost without her, that I have determined to resume my journal which has been interrupted for nearly two years.

I can never sufficiently thank you for sparing her to me so long. I sent many messages by her which I could not find time to write. If you are as much interested in my friends as she was, she will give you the latest intelligence from them. She would not be contented until she had received an introduction in person. Many of them exceedingly regret her departure.

The family of Mrs. Reynolds, she liked much, though she could not see Anna, as she was adopted by her uncle Edward soon after his marriage, and lives in New York. My suspicions were very soon confirmed with regard to him, by an invitation to a wedding at his sister's, where I was introduced to a Miss Grant, who in a few moments became Mrs. Edward Ryland.

Miss Grant had waited patiently for her lover all these years; with a woman's true heart refusing to listen for a moment to other proposals of marriage. Even her own parents were not aware of the state of her affections, and had often urged her to give a reason for not wishing to settle in life. All the reason the poor girl could give, was that she did not love the suitor. But her faithfulness is now rewarded, and Mr. Ryland hastened with his bride to New York to become a partner in the firm for which he went to India.

Mrs. Reynolds was very unwilling to part with Anna, more especially on account of her husband's health, who would, she feared, miss the lovely child. At that time William was very feeble, and it was feared that his exposures in his wanderings from home in former years might bring on consumption. But for a year past he has enjoyed perfect health. I suppose, Nelly will tell you that a little miss has come to take Anna's place, and that she is called Cora Lenox Reynolds. I never liked the name better than when I have seen the little creature come shyly up to me, turning her head one side and the other, and looking out from under her curls to take something I had carried; and heard her lisp out her name, "Cowa Lenox." The Doctor makes a great pet of her, and is so much delighted with her name that it would be no wonder to me, if by and by there should be quite a regiment of Cora Lenoxes among his patients. In that case I should find it cheaper to import a quantity of silver cups than to purchase them here.

I have no doubt much as Nelly desired to see the dear home friends, that long ere this she has wished herself back for one more frolic with her little namesake. When I say to the darling, "Baby want to see Aunt Nelly?" she crows and screams with delight. We all think her very like sister; the same deep blue eyes, and fair complexion, so different from her beautiful brother who looked far more like a Lenox. I sometimes smile as strangers notice the striking resemblance of Pauline to her father. I used to fancy the same thing myself when she was a baby.

I long for the return of our dear friends Allen and Lucy, who took sister in charge as far as New York, and saw her safely on board ship. They enclosed me a short note from her, with her last farewell just before she sailed. Emily says, "it seems as if half Crawford were gone." We are all lonely without the lively girl.

Miss Nelly calls and I must obey. Frank says, I am not half as strict with her as I was with Pauline or Walter; and it may be true; I feel so uncertain of her life, since our sweet boy was taken away so suddenly.

Thursday, June 18th.

Allen and Lucy returned yesterday, and we all went in to spend the evening with them. Miss Emily Mansfield was allowed to sit up to welcome her mamma, and could not be persuaded to leave her for a moment. Sister is very proud of her little namesake.

We had been talking of sister Nelly and other topics in a lively manner, when Lucy suddenly started, saying, "Bye the bye, Emily, who do you think we saw on our way to Philadelphia?" and without waiting for a reply, "Mr. Benson, who used to be settled in Waverley. I thought at one time that he was a flame of yours; but he is married now; and to one of the most beautiful creatures I ever saw. She was leaning on his arm and looking up in his face with the most wife-like fondness."

Lucy talked so rapidly, and was so rejoiced to be the first to tell the news, that she did not appear to notice the effect it had on her hearers. If I had done anything, I should have burst out crying. I had woven so many pretty romances about his coming home faithful to sister, and all that, and finding out she did love him.

As no one spoke, Frank said with the utmost calmness, "he married Miss Karswell, I suppose, sister of the young man with whom he has been travelling."

"No, not sister," replied Lucy, "but a cousin, who accompanied his sisters. Our informant who knew the family well, told me that Charles was not altogether pleased, as he wished to marry his cousin himself. She is a Southerner; and they were on their way to the south. He is so much altered that I should hardly have known him, if it were not for his mouth and voice. I stood near them in the boat, and heard him say, he wished her parents were to meet them in Philadelphia instead of Charleston, for it would be extremely warm there at this season. She replied, 'it shall be my endeavor to make it so delightful to you, that you will forget the heat.'"

"Didn't you speak to them?" I asked, recovering my voice.

"Yes, but it was just as we were leaving. He seemed really annoyed that I had not made myself known at once. I told him I was not sure for some time whether it were really he."

"'Am I then so much altered?' said he sadly; but at the same time a beautiful smile played for one instant around his mouth, and vanished."

"Then you were not introduced to his lady?"

"No, though she kept tight hold of his arm, and seemed almost impatient that he stopped even that short space. Altogether he was the most distinguished gentleman on board the boat, always excepting my own husband," she added, with a merry glance at him.

When the conversation turned to another theme, I ventured to look at Emily. To my astonishment, she appeared to be wholly engrossed in a new book, she had taken from the table; but on looking a moment I perceived a deadly pallor about her mouth; and suddenly remembered that we were making a very long call upon persons just returned.

When we were at home, I merely ran to take a peep into the nursery, and finding all quiet, I begged Frank to excuse me for a few moments.

"Where is Emily?" I asked of mother.

"She went to her room to lay aside her bonnet."

I followed, and found the poor girl in the very abandonment of grief. She had tossed her bonnet into a chair, and was kneeling by the bed, with her arms thrown over her head, which was buried in the pillow.

I knelt by her side, putting my arms around her. "Dear sister," I said, "don't weep so. Do let me comfort you." But I stopped; what could I say?

After a few moments, she arose and sat by me. "Oh, Emily!" I said, "if you look so, you will break my heart."

"I believe," she replied in a mournful tone, putting her hand to her side, "that mine is broken. I thought I had schooled myself to hear this. I ought to have expected it; but oh! I have deceived myself."

I was never more embarrassed for words to express sympathy, and was awkwardly silent.

"Cora," said she, looking at me, "there is no human being but yourself whom I would allow to witness my" – she hesitated, "my grief at this intelligence. My poor mother would be so pained, if she knew her daughter loved another woman's husband." This last sentence was spoken in her old bitter tone, and carried me back to past years. "And it shall not be. To-morrow you will see me the same as ever. Please, dear sister," she added, in a softened tone, "never allude to my grief. It will soon be over."

It was only when she spoke of herself that her voice was harsh and severe. I looked with admiration at her as she drew up her form, and revealed the Lenox will, Frank sometimes refers to.

Mother looked very happy as her daughter came in smiling and talking of Lucy's improved appearance since her return. My face was by far the sadder of the two. I have never been able to conceal my feelings. "Dear mother," I thought as I bid her good night, "you would not sleep much if you knew what an aching heart lay beneath that smiling face."

Saturday, June 20th.

Cæsar carried me and my smaller treasures this afternoon to see Aunt Susy, who has been rather failing in health this summer. Pauline has been with me several times, and is always delighted to accompany me there. But now I was going to introduce my little Nelly, though not without some fears that the squeezing she would get, would frighten the timid little thing. Aunt Susy is no longer able to watch at the door to see who goes by; but her heart has not grown cold while sitting in her easy chair. I stepped into the entry and knocked at the inner door.

"Walk right in!" In obedience to this invitation, I opened the door, and with Nelly in my arms, went up to the old lady. She looked over her glasses for a moment as if she did not recognize me with my baby, and before she could say anything, I laid the little miss in her lap.

"Bless its little soul," said Aunt Susy, carefully laying aside her knitting where the needles couldn't hurt the child. "Well Miss Lenox, if that don't beat all. I never know'd you'd got another;" and to pay for being kept in ignorance, she began in good earnest to squeeze it to her large warm heart. The baby crowed with delight, and as oft as she had a kiss, would give a snatch for the glasses. All this time Pauline and her mother stood by unnoticed, while the dear child had her little red lips made up for a kiss.

"Here, Aunt Susy," I said, "give me the baby, this young lady is waiting her turn."

The good woman went into the business fundamentally, and now that she undertook with Pauline, she was in no haste to get through. When they stopped to take breath she looked in Pauline's face. "La! it beats all natur how she grows like her pa."

The dear soul had forgotten the fact which interested her so much years ago, and really supposed the child to be our own.

"There's – what do you call her?"

"Ellen," I answered.

"There's Ellen now, looks more like you, while Pauline is clear father. I'll venture he sets a sight by her."

Pauline laughed, though she didn't know exactly the meaning of the latter phrase.

"Blessed little soul," she resumed with another squeeze, "what made you think o' that?"

"Because," said Pauline, "you are so kind."

I looked inquiringly at the whisperer.

"La!" said Aunt Susy wiping her eyes, "the dear little cretur says she loves me, and I don't know what it's for, if 'taint that I loved your pa long enough afore you was born; and I used to hold him on my lap, and sing 'Ride a jack horse to Banbury cross,' and he'd laugh as hearty as the baby did just now."

At this very moment Mrs. Wilson returned from the garden, when her mother called out, "Darter, did you ever hear tell that Doctor Frank had had another baby?"

"Oh, yes, mother!" she answered, shaking hands with me, "and you knew it too at the time, but you've forgotten."

"Well, p'r'aps I did," she said with a sigh, "my memory's grown very poor; but I haven't forgotten where my Saviour is," she added, her countenance brightening, "nor he wont forget me; though sometimes I'm almost tempted to fear he don't altogether remember how long I've been expecting he'd send for me to go home. Every morning I ask him if it's God's will to take me before night; and every night I pray to go before the sun rises. But he knows best, and I try not to feel impatient o' waiting for him."

I cannot describe the holy expression of the dear old lady as she said this.

Thursday, June 25th.

How little I thought when I wrote the last sentence, that I should never more feel that warm embrace; never meet those eyes beaming with love. The dear blessed woman is now where she so longed and prayed to be. Her Saviour had not forgotten her, but came during the silent watches of the night and took her home.

So silently did she resign her spirit to her beloved Lord, that not even her daughter, whose room joins hers, and who heard her whispering her prayers and hymns after she retired, knew aught of the solemn visitor. But he was not unexpected, or unwelcome to the sleeper. She was so impatient to answer the summons, she could not stop to bid farewell to her earthly friends. Her Saviour called, and she hastened to obey.

In the morning Mrs. Wilson, after waiting beyond the usual time, stepped softly to the bed side of her mother. Struck dumb by the gloriously joyous expression, she went back to the sitting room and beckoned her husband to look before she awoke the sleeper, then leaning forward, said, "mother, mother!"

"Oh! wonder not, motherless daughter, that she is deaf to your call. Her ears are listening to notes of heavenly music which ravish her soul. Her eyes are feasting on her Saviour, and she is satisfied, now that she beholds his face in glory!"

I could not resist the wish to see that beautiful countenance once more before it was forever buried from sight; and my dear Frank went with me to the chamber of death. I felt very sad as we approached the house; but when I entered the room where I had always seen her, and looked beneath the linen cloth which covered her from view, I could not weep. I felt as if I had caught a glimpse of heaven.

"Surely," said I, "that wonderful smile is not of earth."

"Perhaps," said Frank, "it was the smile of welcome to the messenger who summoned her home. Death was a welcome guest to her."

As we gazed we could follow her rapt spirit to the mansions of the blessed, and behold her heart ever more expanding with love to her Saviour and her God.

"Thy faceIs all at once spread over with a calmMore beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy."Wednesday, July 29th.

We have heard that there are great preparations making in Waverley for the welcome of their former pastor. It is now more than a year since Mr. Tyler left them for another field of labor; and when the parish heard that Mr. Benson had returned, they gave him a unanimous call to resettle with them. They have not received a regular answer to their call; but only that he will be with them, providence permitting, the second Sabbath in August. They seem to feel sure, however, that he will prefer to settle with the people of his first love. And they are ready to offer him a better support than they were able to do formerly. The young men are fitting up the grounds about the parsonage, and the whole village is alive with interest. I can't tell whether to be glad or sorry. Perhaps if Emily were to see him often, she would the sooner conquer any remaining interest she may feel for him.

Since that first night, if she is indulging grief, she deceives even me. Indeed, I told Frank to-day, after she left the room, that I considered her uncommonly cheerful. But he thought otherwise, and gravely shook his head.

Thursday, July 30th.

The parish committee in Waverley have received a communication from Mr. Benson, that he hopes to be with them on Thursday, the sixth day of August, and should be happy to meet any of his old people in the vestry or at any place they may appoint. No sooner did they hear this than they determined that it should be a feast of welcome. They are perfectly enthusiastic in their love for him. I only hope his wife may be a suitable help-meet.

Mr. and Mrs. Munroe called here to-day to invite us in behalf of the managing committee to be present on the occasion; I answered vaguely, "that if the Doctor were at liberty," etc., etc.

Friday, July 31st.

I am astonished at Emily – here she has been planning a journey to C – and has never let us know it until to-day. I went in this morning to give her and mother the invitation left by Mr. Munroe. She answered gayly, "I should be happy to go, but I shall be far away before that time."

"Where?" I asked in surprise.

"Oh, somewhere among the Catskill Mountains; but," she continued, "Ruth and I have made a nice loaf of cake. It is bride's cake," she added, laughing gayly, as she brought from the closet a large loaf beautifully frosted. I forgot to mention, that cake, fruits, and flowers had been solicited for the occasion.

"Cæsar," said Emily, "has promised me two bouquets made in his best style; and remember, Mr. Benson is to hold one and his wife the other." Then, with a low courtesy in acknowledgment of my profound amazement, she deposited the cake in the closet again.

"Emily," said I, as mother answered a summons from the room, "I do believe you're getting crazed."

"Why?"

"Because you laugh so much, and act so strangely."

"Well, dear sister," said she, growing very grave, "if crying will suit you any better, I can easily do that," and leaning her head upon the table, with her arms for her pillow, she gave way to a passionate burst of grief.

"And sorrow too finds some reliefIn tears which wait upon our grief."

I stood in the middle of the room perfectly confounded, and was hesitating whether I ought not to run home for Frank, when hearing a distant door shut she started up, throwing her arms around my neck, and said hurriedly, "Dear sister, don't look so very sad. It has been a hard struggle; but it is almost over. I seldom give way as I have done now; that is too great a luxury to be indulged in often."

"At times e'en bitter tears yield sweet relief."

She turned to leave me; but I persisted in following her to her room. We sat down after I had closed the door. Turning from our late subject, she began to say something in a careless tone.

"Don't, Emily, don't speak so, that makes me feel worse than anything."

"Cora," she exclaimed in an excited tone, as unlike the other, as if she were a different person, "Cora, what do you think you should do, if after all the years you've loved Frank, you should suddenly find out some day, you were committing sin every moment you continued to love him? Supposing you should some day find out he had another wife?"

"Oh! sister," I answered, "I should die, I couldn't help loving Frank."

"No, that would be too easy; I'll tell you what you should do," drawing herself up to her full height, and looking almost like a queen. "You must tear up your love by the roots; you must never allow one tender thought of him. Drive them out. Drive them away! You must keep saying to yourself, 'It is sin against God! It is sin against my own soul!' Night and day you must do this."

"Dear, darling sister," said I, weeping upon her neck, "Is this the way you have to do?" I stood back and gazed at her with admiration. Never had she seemed more beautiful. Her whole countenance was brilliant with excitement; and she looked like one whose mind was made up to conquer or to die. But as I stood, she put her arm lovingly around me. "Dearest sister, I have done wrong to pain you thus; and for my own sake I must avoid such scenes. I must struggle and conquer alone. No, not alone," she added in a subdued voice, "my Saviour will aid me."

I took my leave, wondering if Mr. Benson had ever known a pang like hers. I acknowledged to myself a rising prejudice against the man for loving another.

Saturday, August 1st.

Emily is not quite well, and has postponed her journey until the first of the week. How entirely mother is deceived by her calmness. She spoke to me of it with tears in her eyes, and said she was so thankful that the dear girl was quiet in her feelings. How little we know of the misery that is passing before our eyes! But Emily is a noble hearted woman; and she will not allow her grief, which she always remembers is the effect of her own insincerity, to trouble her friends. I have no doubt, I should sink under such a blow. My heart aches when I think my tender-hearted, sensitive Pauline may be destined to such a trial. But if she has not the Lenox blood in her, she certainly has a great deal of character, and never will make a tame woman. I wonder what her little sister will be?

Wednesday, August 5th.

If I can steady my hand sufficiently to hold a pen I will tell you some news. I went this afternoon to the village on an errand for Emily, who is still suffering from an attack of her old complaint, the nervous head-ache. In company with Pauline, I was walking home slowly, as it is very warm, when a gentleman passed me on horse-back. I did not recognize him; but when I addressed some remark to Pauline, he turned, sprang from his horse, and was by my side in a moment.

"Mr. Benson!" I exclaimed in a glad voice, for at the time I only felt my old respect for him. His manner was very cordial; and I could not but acknowledge that he was greatly improved by his travels. But as he grew more free, I became more embarrassed, and as he walked by my side leading his horse, I began to wonder what I should do with him. He took great notice of Pauline, in whom he was formerly much interested. He had not yet inquired for sister, and I determined to give him no chance. "I am surprised," I said, "to see you on horse-back."

"I was always fond of the exercise, and I have almost lived on the backs of horses, or rather mules and camels for the last five years."

"But now," said I, hesitating, meaning without his wife.

His countenance brightened with a smile, as he said, "You will find me very little changed in my tastes. I am just the same man."

I blushed with indignation, and wanted to say, "no, you are very much altered, for you are a married man." "Where is your wife?" I asked, after a pause.

He started and looked me full in the face. Seeing I still waited for an answer, he said, "I did not understand you."

"Where is Mrs. Benson?" I repeated.

For an instant he looked terribly stern. Then recovering himself, and evidently forcing a laugh, said, "that is a question far easier to ask than to answer."

I made no reply, but looked at him in astonishment.

Seeing me very serious, he said, "I fear you are laboring under a mistake, and are giving me more than is my due. I have not the happiness to be a married man."

I'm sure, I can't tell whether I screamed, or not; I know I felt like it. "And aren't you about to be married to Miss Karswell, from the South?" I asked eagerly.

He bit his lips as he smiled and looked down, but presently said, "I have not even that honor."

"And not to" – I checked myself in much confusion.

"Dear Mrs. Lenox," said he, taking my hand, "I see you are the same kind friend as ever," and bowing adieu he sprang upon his horse and rode away, looking back to send his regards to my husband. I had not time or presence of mind to invite him to call. But as soon as we were in our own grounds, I flew along the walks, up the steps into the library, hoping Frank had returned. I must tell somebody. Fortunately he was there. I ran across the room, and began to caress him so convulsively that he started up to see what could have happened.

"Why, Cora, you're all in a heat. What excites you so?"

"Wait till I can get my breath," said I, "Oh, Frank! I'm so glad! Mr. Benson isn't married!"

"But where is Miss Karswell from the South?" said he sternly.

"You need not look so grave, I don't care where she is; only I know he is neither married nor engaged to her."

"How do you know?" he inquired in a doubting tone.

"Because I asked him, and he told me so."

Frank now began to be as much astonished, and as eager for news as I wished. I commenced at the beginning and related all the conversation. "Now Frank," said I, when I had finished, "Emily mustn't go to C – . Even if I had not seen Mr. Benson, and found out the mistake under which we were laboring, she is not really well enough to undertake the journey alone; and I feel confident that her only object in going was to avoid meeting him at present."

"I grant all this, my dear, and love you for your enthusiastic interest in your sister; but you are going too fast; and jumping at a conclusion which may be far from true, that because he is not engaged to be married to one particular lady at the South, it necessarily follows that he must be in love with and wishing to marry a lady who haughtily refused him five years ago. I can't say, my dear, I think logic is exactly your forte."