When I went home to breakfast this morning, I found the chairs already gone, except the great arm-chair. Nobody was expected to-day of sufficient dignity to occupy it. I was unwilling to draw it up to the table for myself. I believe I should have taken my breakfast standing, if it had not been that this would have called for explanation. How little I thought, when the Doctor first took his place among us, that a time would come when I should not wish to have his seat filled by any one else! I did not know how much I cared for him, until after he was gone; I do not think I knew it fully until this morning, when I came in and saw that solitary, empty chair. Then it came over me with a pang that he would never lay down the law to me from it again,—never would lean towards me sideways over its arm, to tell me, with moderated tone and softened look, little childish stories of his foster-son.
Karl stayed behind to-day, instead of Tabitha, to warn those who arrived of the place of meeting. He came in with the Lintons, who were late,—the fault of their poor old mule, or rather his misfortune. He fell down, and so broke and otherwise deranged his ingenious harness that the family were obliged to re-manufacture it on the road.
My mother did a courageous thing this morning. When the Hanthams came, she addressed them by name, and, calling the daughter up to her, took her hand and said some kind words to her. I thought they would be thrown away on her, but they were not. Her look to-day had in it less of purpose and more of sympathy. The Blantys were not here. I cannot understand why, in such fine weather. We missed them very much. But all the rest of those who are most to be desired came. We had a happy and united little assemblage.
I read Jeremy Taylor's second sermon on the "Return of Prayers." I am sure that we all heard and felt together, and were left with softened and more trustful hearts; yet doubtless each took away his own peculiar lesson or solace, according to his separate need. What has remained with me is a quickened sense of the Divine munificence, which so often grants us more and better than we pray for. "We beg for a removal of a present sadness, and God gives us that which makes us able to bear twenty sadnesses."
After the services were over, Franket came up and handed me a letter,—a most unexpected and a most welcome one. If I had not seen Harry's writing before, I think I should have known his strong, frank hand. I held the letter up before my mother, and her face brightened with recognition. Harry writes in fine spirits. The Doctor has been very successful. And they met Shaler again. "Perhaps he will be one of us on the nineteenth." That is good news indeed. Altogether this has been a very happy Sunday.
Davis Barton stayed with us until four o'clock, and then I rode part of the way home with him. This boy is becoming of importance to me; he is bringing a new interest into my life. This morning, after I had read Harry's letter aloud, and after my mother had read it over again to herself, I gave it to him to read. His eyes sparkled, and he cast up to me a quick glance of gratitude; for he felt, as I meant he should, that this was a mode of admitting him to full fellowship. I saw, as he walked off before us to the house, that he was a little taller already with the sense of it. Just before we arrived, however, he was overtaken by a sudden humiliation. Looking round at me, who, with Fritz, was carrying my mother's couch, the poor child espied Karl and Tabitha following, both loaded with chairs. He stood for an instant thoroughly shame-stricken, and then darted by us without lifting his eyes. He made so many and such rapid journeys, that he brought back more chairs than anybody, after all. When dinner was over, I gave Davis some engravings to look at, meaning to spend an hour in writing to you. I had taken out my portfolio, but had not yet begun to write, when I found him standing beside me, looking up at me with a pretty, blushing smile, which asked me to ask him what he wanted. He wanted me to teach him.—"What do you want to learn?"—"Whatever I ought to know."—Whatever I am able to teach, then, I will teach him, and perhaps more; for, in thinking out what he ought to know, I shall discover what I ought to know myself. It was soon settled. He is to come over three times a week, very early in the morning. I shall give him an hour before breakfast, and another in the course of the day. I shall have an opportunity of testing some of the theories I have talked over with Harry. Davis has a good mother, and has been pretty well taught, and, what is more important, very well trained, up to this time. I am looking forward to a busier and more useful summer than I have known for a long while.
Monday, April 15, 1844.
"When are we going to see the Shaler plantation?" the Doctor asked me abruptly one morning at breakfast. "We passed it by on our way here, knowing that we should have more pleasure in going over it with you."