Harriet Beecher Stowe : Three Novels (191 page)

Page 1088


ture,rather sharp, to be sure, but, when her edge is turned the right way, none the worse for that,and really I thought she had the right of it, to some extent.

People in general are so resigned to have other folks made burnt sacrifices, that it did not appear to me probable that there was a creature in Oldtown who would do anything more than rejoice that Deacon Badger felt able to take the children. After I had made some rather bitter reflections on the world, and its selfishness, in the style that we all practise, the thought suddenly occurred to me, What do you, more than others? and that idea, together with the beauty and charms of the poor little waif, decided me to take this bold step. I shut my eyes, and took it,not without quaking in my shoes for fear of Polly; but I have carried my point in her very face, without so much as saying by your leave.


The little one has just been taken up stairs and tucked up warmly in my own bed, with one of our poor little Emily's old nightgowns on. They fit her exactly, and I exult over her as one that findeth great spoil.

Polly has not yet declared herself, except by slamming the door very hard when she first made the discovery of the child's presence in the house. I presume there is an equinoctial gale gathering, but I say nothing; for, after all, Polly is a good creature, and will blow herself round into the right quarter, in time, as our northeast rain-storms generally do. People always accommodate themselves to certainties.

I cannot but regard the coming of this child to me at this time as a messenger of mercy from God, to save me from sinking into utter despair. I have been so lonely, so miserable, so utterly, inexpressibly wretched of late, that it has seemed that, if something did not happen to help me, I must lose my reason. Our family disposition to melancholy is a hard enough thing to manage under the most prosperous circumstances. I remember my father's paroxysms of gloom: they used to frighten me when I was a little girl, and laid a heavy burden on the heart of out dear angel mother. Whatever that curse is, we all inherit it. In the heart of every one of us children there is that fearful
black drop,
like that which the Koran says the angel showed to Mahomet. It is an inexplicable something which always predisposes us to sadness, but in

Page 1089


which any real, appreciable sorrow strikes a terribly deep and long root. Shakespeare describes this thing, as he does everything else:


"In sooth, I know not why I am so sad: It wearies me,you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff't is made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn."


You have struggled with it by the most rational means,an active out-of-door life, by sea voyages and severe manual labor. A man can fight this dragon as a woman cannot. We women are helpless,tied to places, forms, and rules,chained to our stake. We must meet him as we can.

Of late I have not been able to sleep, and, lying awake all night long in darkness and misery, have asked, if
this
be life, whether an immortal existence is not a curse to be feared, rather than a blessing to be hoped, and if the wretchedness we fear in the eternal world can be worse than what we sometimes suffer now,such sinking of heart, such helplessness of fear, such a vain calling for help that never comes. Well, I will not live it over again, for I dare say you know it all too well. I think I finally wore myself out in trying to cheer poor brother Theodore's darksome way down to death. Can you wonder that he would take opium? God alone can judge people that suffer as he did, and, let people say what they please, I must, I will, think that God has some pity for the work of his hands.

Now, brother, I must, I will, write to you about Emily; though you have said you never wished to hear her name again. What right had you, her brother, to give her up so, and to let the whole burden of this dreadful mystery and sorrow come down on me alone? You are not certain that she has gone astray in the worst sense that a woman can. We only know that she has broken away from us and gone,but where, how, and with whom, you cannot say, nor I. And certainly there was great excuse for her. Consider how the peculiar temperament and constitution of our family wrought upon her. Consider the temptations of her wonderful beauty,

Other books

Just Like Other Daughters by Colleen Faulkner

Werewolves in Love 3: Ready to Run by Kinsey Holley

Curves and Mistletoe by Veronica Hardy

Scorpio's Lot by Ray Smithies

One True Mate 1: Shifter's Sacrifice by Lisa Ladew

The Thorne Maze by Karen Harper

Mary Rose by David Loades

The House of Shattered Wings by Aliette de Bodard

Liberty and Tyranny by Levin, Mark R.

Star Trek: The Original Series - 162 - Shadow of the Machine by Scott Harrison