All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography Part 19

"Not in your case, any more than in mine," I answered. "You are handsomer than I ever saw you."

"Yes, I dare say that is so. I was worn out when I married. Poor Father's affliction is most trying on those who have to witness it, and a.s.sist him."

"Alas!" I said, "Mother feels it much. She will not live long, unless she has some help."

"Father will have no one but Mother near him. Men are selfish always, and particularly selfish when they are sick. Their wives have to be Providence to them. I pity you, Amelia."

"What for, Jane?"

"Of course it is to please your husband you are going to America. You never would have thought of such a piece of folly."

"When I was six years old, I thought of going to India and China and many other places."

"As a missionary. That makes all the difference. If I understood Mother, you and Mr. Barr are going to America, in order to make more money; leaving a Christian land, to live among pagans for a little money. I do not think that is a justifiable cause, Amelia."

"But Jane, we are not going among pagans. The United States is a Christian country, and----"

"Oh, I have read the missionary reports! In the big cities, like New York, I suppose the people are Christianized, but on what they call the frontier, I am told there are few churches. Will you go to the frontier?"

"I think so."

"Well, dear, do not lose your _a.s.surance_. Among Indians, negroes, cowboys, and atheists of all kinds, hold fast your _a.s.surance_. Let all see that you are a child of G.o.d."

"You need not fear for me, Jane. I will be good, or at least try to be so."

Then Mother and Robert came into the parlor together, and a servant followed them with dinner. Robert was in high spirits. He had spent three or four happy hours among old business friends. Jane looked at him with evident pleasure and he drew her out in her best vein, which was a kind of humorous criticism; she gave him personally its first clever shafts. We had a cheerful meal, and I wondered how Mother and I could laugh, when these were probably--and as time proved--our last hours together. Ah! I have learned since then, how often women laugh when care or poverty or cruel pain, fiercer than the Spartan fox, is gnawing their trembling, suffering hearts.

I do not remember whether Jane's husband or any of her three children were with her. If they were, I have totally forgotten them, which under the circ.u.mstances is very likely. When it was time for her to go, I went with her to the dressing-room, and as she was tying her bonnet, she said approvingly, "I like your husband, Amelia, but I fear he is just a little 'gay.' Is he not?"

"Yes," I answered, "he is a little gay, but I like it. Jane are you going to Liverpool to see us off. If so, you could bring Mother back with you."

"I asked Mother about the time of sailing," she replied. "Mother said it would be about noon. That renders it impossible. I have so many duties at home, and I am a late riser. I think it is a great folly to make a parting that is a grief to both of us, hours longer than it need be."

"You are right, Jane," I answered. "We will say good-bye here," and I kissed her fondly; for I loved her. We had a thousand memories in common, and she was inextricably bound up with my happy early life. I did not see her again for nearly forty years, and I have sometimes wished I had not seen her then; for the long slow years had brought her many sorrows, and had dealt hardly with the beautiful Jane of my youthful memories. But it was evident to me that she lived among things unseen, as well as things seen, and that the mystical appet.i.te for religious service, which she possessed in her youth, had grown steadily. She valued things at their eternal, not their temporal worth. I was then in the first flush of my literary success, but I felt humbled before her. She was still my eldest sister.

After Jane had gone, we talked the midnight away but I was very weary and fell fast asleep in my chair, Mother's low, soft monotone in my ears. For the last time, she had charmed me to sleep. I slept that night until the daylight woke me. Then there was a little hurry, and we only reached the _Atlantic_ half an hour before she sailed. We were all cheerful; Mother had set that tone for our last hours together. "I shall not shed a tear," she said. "Robert has promised me that you shall come to visit us in two years, and he always keeps his word." Like a little child she accepted a promise; she never thought of its being broken. She was delighted with our cabin, and delighted with the s.h.i.+p, and was talking comfortably to me about the quickness with which two years would pa.s.s, when there was the ringing of a bell and an officer politely reminded her, that the call was for those going on sh.o.r.e. She started to her feet with a little cry--a cry like that of a wounded animal--I shall never forget it, and then sobbed,

"Milly! Milly! Two years, dear!"

I could not speak. I cannot write it. They led her away. In a few moments we were parted forever in this world.

I stumbled down to my cabin, and found Robert with the children. There were tears in his eyes, but none in mine. I bowed down heavily as one that mourneth for his mother, but I did not find tears till I was alone with G.o.d, and had my baby at my breast. For Fate or Force seemed closing around me, and but one way stood before me--the way this man I had chosen for my husband, should choose to go. He had already taken me from my father, my mother, my sisters, and my home; the friends of my youth, the land of my birth, what, and where next? Then I glanced at the babe in my arms, and she smiled at me, and with that love and hope counseled me, for in my soul I knew:

"'Twould all be well, no need to care, Though how it would, and when, and where, I could not see, nor yet declare.

In spite of dreams, in spite of thought, 'Tis not in vain, and not for naught, The good wind blows, the good s.h.i.+p goes, Though where it takes me, no one knows."

Very soon Robert, who had carried Mary to the deck with him, returned and I was able to meet him with a smile. "It will be lunch time in ten minutes, Milly," he said.

"I will not go to lunch today," I answered. "They will bring me something for Mary and myself, and after lunch we shall try to sleep.

So, Robert, do not disturb us till four o'clock." However, after lunch I was far from sleep, though the children were good enough to let it take care of them. Then I sent for the stewardess and asked her to hire me a woman from among the steerage pa.s.sengers, who could a.s.sist me in nursing and caring for them. She said, "That can be quickly done;" then she pointed out a siding for the sofa, which slipped easily into places prepared for it, and so made a safe cot for Mary to sleep in.

In two or three hours I had a proper nurse, had put the cabin into comfortable order, and had made all other necessary arrangements for as regular a life as was possible on s.h.i.+pboard. Then I was tired, too tired to dress for dinner, but when the gloaming came I went to the deck with Robert. The blessed sea breeze, full of the potent magic savors of ozone and iodine, soon lifted up my weary body, and my soul and my flesh caught hope and courage, and I talked bravely with Robert of the new life before us.

An hour later I saw a little company gathering near us, and as they turned their faces to the vanis.h.i.+ng land, a clear vibrant voice full of pathos started Thomas Haynes Bayly's unforgettable song, "Isle of Beauty, Fare Thee Well." They sang it with wonderful feeling, and drew a silent crowd of listeners around them. And as they sang my sorrow seemed to escape on the sweet, sad melody, to vanish, to flutter away, and I went back to our cabin, saying softly as I went:

"Land where all my loved ones dwell, Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!"

I found Mary sleeping, but the baby was awake, and I thought it would then be well to carry out an intention I had cherished for some time.

I sent away the nurse, and asked Robert to unfasten the small trunk which we had with us. As soon as this was done I said, "I want some night clothing out, Robert; will you hold _Lilly_ for a few minutes?"

He looked at me inquiringly, and said, "_Lilly!_ Is it to be that? She was baptized Eliza."

"I know," I answered, "but think a moment, Robert. That name would soon become a trial. It is too full of unhappy memories. The child might suffer in more ways than one from being linked with it, and your mother will never know."

"Perhaps you are right. We might love her too much, or go to the other extreme. But why Lilly?"

"Because Lilly is the Scotch abbreviation for both Elizabeth and Eliza. So she will retain her baptismal name."

"Very well," he replied, "that is a good reason for Lilly."

So from that hour to this, my second daughter has been called Lilly.

CHAPTER XI

FROM CHICAGO TO TEXAS

"Our Happiness foundered by one evil Soul."

"G.o.d accomplishes that which is beyond expectation."

"Whatever we gain through suffering is good; we have bought it; we have paid the price."

One voyage across the ocean is very much like another, and the majority of my readers have doubtless taken several. Some may even remember the old steams.h.i.+p _Atlantic_, for I think she was making her regular trips when the war of 1860 began. The great difference between voyages rests not with the s.h.i.+ps, but with the people you meet on them. We met good and evil fortune on the Atlantic, and Robert perversely chose the latter. The good fortune came in a Mr. and Mrs.

Curtis of Boston. They had been to Geneva, Switzerland, to place their sons in some famous school there, and were returning home. It is fifty-nine years since we traveled together, but I have the clearest and pleasantest remembrance of them. Mr. Curtis and Robert were much together, and Mrs. Curtis sat a great deal with me and my children, helping me to take care of them, and telling me about Boston housekeeping and social life. I was charmed with her descriptions, and longed to settle in Boston beside her.

Our evil fortune was represented by a man of about sixty years of age whose name I will not write. He had a military t.i.tle and reputation, had been Governor of his state, was very rich, and had great political influence. He sat opposite to us at the dining-table, and I noticed him the first meal that I ate in the saloon. For he watched Robert with eyes like those the evil angels may look out with, and Robert appeared quite unconscious of the hatred in their glances. But I said nothing about my observations, for within the past few days I had discovered that there was one phase of life, in which my husband was a stranger to me. I had known him hitherto in a very narrow domestic and social circle. I saw him now among business men, lawyers, financiers, and men of the world and fas.h.i.+on. I was astonished. I wondered how I had dared to contradict and advise, and even snub a man whom every one appeared to court and admire; for I can truly say, he held the crowd in his open hand.

For several days his enemy watched him, then I saw them frequently together and apparently on the most friendly terms. One afternoon when I was on deck and watching them in eager conversation, Mrs. Curtis sat down at my side. She looked at them, and then at me, and asked, "Do you like that acquaintances.h.i.+p?"

"No," I answered. "He is a bad man."

"The Governor?"