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CHAPTER IV.
MONDE TO EDITH.
Danville, Dec. 29, 1851.
Isn’t this outrageous bad, Edith? Mr. Marsden brought along, when he came back, a note from Alfred Cullen, saying that he will come to D——; a box of oysters from him for uncle, another of figs for aunt, (and she wants to see me eat them every five minutes; I think it is much the same as if she saw me eating the giver.)
Aunt is so glad to have him come that she hardly knows her head from her feet. She is in danger of stumbling over Ponto, or a foot-cushion, at every turn. She gives more directions to Bessy and Hamlet than ten Bessys and Hamlets could follow. It is well for them that she revokes half of them on the spot; that she modifies the rest according to their liking, and ends with telling them both to go on and do just what they see needs to be done, and to do it in the way they think best. She has no doubt, she says, that it will be done better than she can advise. And so it will assuredly. Bessy has been in the family ten years, Hamlet three; they both have clear brains and strong hands, and, as Bessy says, “have got the hang of every thing from garret to cellar.” This is no light achievement, for one does not often see so large a house, or such overflowing abundance. By the by, do you know that uncle has paid our house rent for the last ten years, and given us money and other things beside? I am thinking that, if you do not, you may be calling him “a miserly old fellow.” He has offered my father land, but my mother dreads leaving the city where she was reared. Now I hope you think, as Aunt Alice and I do, that uncle is the best man on earth, except Kossuth—I must say, except Kossuth always; for I believe he is the best man that breathes, or that has breathed, since the days of Christ. Uncle and I talk about him, we read his speeches, and I keep saying in my heart—“the Christ of the nations! the Christ of the nations!” And often a great fear comes over me, that, in another sense than his truth, his self-immolating goodness, his destiny is to be like that of the Christ. My heart is aching for him now—still I can put back the pain, and say, “Father, let it be as seemeth good in Thy sight; for, whether he lives or dies, in him the great cause of freedom and human progress shall be glorified; and he is strong and patient to drink of the cup that Thou givest him.”
Tuesday, 30th.
I think this Alfred Cullen, who will come to D—— to-morrow or next day, must be altogether precious. Even uncle is moved a little. He gives Hamlet orders touching John, and John’s harness, and the oats John must have, that he and his trappings may be in good condition for Alfred’s use. Aunt looks at me and adds some suggestions about Kate. Kate must be fed well and made sleek as can be; for—perhaps—. Aunt goes no further than this “perhaps” of hers, lately—she has seen, I presume, that her plans which embrace Alfred Cullen and me jointly, annoy me. Indeed, I was quite savage over them before she gave them up. Bessy bakes pies, and loaves of all sorts of cake and ginger-bread, without number, and wipes the dust out of every corner. Aunt praises all that she does and all that Hamlet does, puts her caps in order and sponges her dresses. Paulina Monroe, meanwhile, comes in often to look at my collars, under-sleeves and cuffs, that she may make her some like them. Her dress-maker hurries her sewing on a brown Thibet like mine, made like mine, that it may be finished before to-morrow night. Paulina smiles incessantly, has flutter in her manner, and a red spot on each cheek; so that Ponto and I are the only two who go our ways precisely in the usual mode. In truth, I am not sure that Ponto and I are entirely unaffected; we are out of doors more than heretofore, and when in the house are a little less sedate; I can’t bring my mind to my writing as usual, and I shall be glad when his face is set again toward Boston.
Good-night! I shall finish my letter after he comes. I shall tell you now, however, what a beautiful gift I had yesterday from uncle—a plumed Kossuth hat. This is for me to wear when riding. I wore it to-day, and uncle walked round it and me, saying with kindling eyes—“That is splendid! You never looked half so well, Monde, in any thing!” And according to the revelations of the long mirror, I think I never did. But it is a fact, Edith, my fair one, that I am as brown as a berry. Good-bye.