All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography Part 16

On the twenty-second of May, 1853, my daughter Eliza was born, a bright, beautiful girl, who certainly brought her soul with her--a girl who all her life has been the good genius of extremities--never quailing before any calamity, but always sure there was a road over the mountains of difficulty, which we could find, as soon as we reached them. And, I may add, she always found the road.

I recovered rapidly, for I was fed daily on fresh hopes, and, in spite of the uncertainty surrounding these hopes, I was happy, for I believed in my dreams. Then there came a letter from Father, asking in his modest, unselfish way, for the return of Mother. It was enough to alarm us, for we knew well he had felt the necessity, though he voiced it with so little urgency; and, as this letter is the only sc.r.a.p of my Father's writing that has survived the constant chances and changes of nearly half a century, I will transcribe it:

MY DEAR AMELIA,

I can a.s.sure you the very sight of your letter afforded us unspeakable delight. Yes, we do feel grateful to that Divine and attentive Providence, which has been with you the last few weeks.

We may, and do, attribute much to means, but what are all means without His sanction, and His blessing? To Him be all the praise!

I hope, my dear, if spared, you will evince your grat.i.tude by a devotion of all to Him. Give yourself, give your dear little ones to Him. You know well what is meant by that. G.o.d bless you! G.o.d bless the little stranger! She has come into a cold world; still she has friends who love and pray for her. Kiss her for me.

As to Mother, I am sure she has done all in her power, and she would do it so differently to any one else. I can a.s.sure you, at the time she left me, it was no small trial; but it was _for Amelia_, and only on this ground could I have been induced to make the sacrifice. Now, that you are so far improved, do not detain her. I fear another painful visitation. Think of Father. He has thought of Amelia. Give my love to dear Mother. The little girls are going to school, and send their love to you, and to dear Mr.

Barr.

Amelia, I am what I ever was to you,

FATHER.

O Father! Father! If, in the stress of my labors and sorrows, I have forgotten your lovely, patient, helpful life, forgive me this day. Let my tears wash away my fault, and be still to me, what you ever were,

Father!

As soon as it was possible for me to do so, I faithfully read all I could read about Australia, India, Canada, and the United States, and very early came to the conclusion, that we must sail westward. I held in reserve a possible Canadian settlement, but I was sure that we must first go to New York. Australia, I had no hesitation in putting out of consideration; its climate, its strange natural conditions, and its doubtful early population, as well as its great distance from England, were definitely against it. But India to me was a land of romance.

There were inconceivable possibilities in India. Anything wonderful could happen in those rich cities of the upper Ganges. The Huddleston s.h.i.+ps had been early fond of Indian voyages, and Robert had several friends in Calcutta and Benares, who were making fortunes rapidly. We could not put India summarily out of our desires and calculations. My notes about it lay side by side with those of the United States, and for some time neither Robert nor I could honestly say "I prefer this or that, before the other."

One night we had swiveled a great deal between New York and Calcutta as points of landing, Robert having had that day a letter from Andrew Blair, an old school friend, who was doing well in Delhi, and I went to sleep thinking that the children would require nothing in the way of an outfit but some white muslin. Then I dreamed a dream, and when I awakened from it I said softly, "Are you sleeping, Robert?" And he answered at once. "No. I heard you cry out in your sleep, and I was going to speak to you, if you cried again. What frightened you?"

"I thought we were in Calcutta, and we stood alone on a silent street, knowing not where to go. The sky was black as pitch, the air hot and heavy, and red as blood, and a great cry, like a woman's cry, rang through it, and seemed to be taken up by the whole earth. Then a voice at my side said, 'Look!' and I saw that Calcutta was built entirely of great blocks of coal, and that, in the center of each block, there was a fierce fire burning. I must then have cried out, and awakened myself."

For a few moments Robert did not speak, then he said in a hushed voice, "We cannot go to India. Blair told me in his letter that the whole country was restless, and the army mutinous, and that he felt a little uneasy. But that is such an old complaint, I did not heed it, and did not think it wise to trouble your decision by just a say-so."

"Well, then, Robert," I said, "you got the word, both for you and yours, and, as you did not heed it, another messenger was sent. I wonder if putting our own judgment first of all, and not delivering the entire message, will be counted as answering 'No' to the heavenly command."

"Don't say unpleasant things, Milly," was Robert's reply, and I was silent until he added, "We cannot go to India now, I suppose?"

"I would not go, for the whole wide world."

"Then it must be America."

"Yes, somewhere in America."

In a very positive voice, Robert said, "It must be Canada. I am not going to give up my English citizens.h.i.+p for anything."

"That is right," I answered. "You can keep it anywhere. It is fine in you to guard your English citizens.h.i.+p. I have none to guard. It makes no difference to me where I live."

"My citizens.h.i.+p is yours."

"Oh, no! I do not exercise any of your citizens.h.i.+p rights, and they do not protect me."

"I exercise them for you."

"Well and good, but I am glad you do not eat, and drink, and sleep for me, and I would not like you to dream for me. You would not likely tell me the whole dream."

"Now you are cross, Milly, and I will go to sleep."

But I lay long awake, and felt anew, all through the silent hours, the horror and terror of that prophetic dream. For I need hardly remind my readers, that it was awfully verified in the unspeakable atrocities of the Sepoy rebellion, barely two years afterwards. And I do not believe Robert slept, but he could not endure allusions to the wrongs of women--a subject then beginning to find a voice here and there, among English women "who dared."

CHAPTER X

Pa.s.sENGERS FOR NEW YORK

"The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee, But I'll win back--O never, To my ain countree!

"But I am leal to heaven, Where soon I hope to be, And there I'll meet the loved, From my ain countree!"

Events that are predestined require but little management. They manage themselves. They slip into place while we sleep, and suddenly we are aware that the thing we fear to attempt, is already accomplished. It was somewhat in this way, all our preparations for America were finished. We did not speak of our intentions to any one, neither did we try to conceal them, excepting in the case already mentioned. But somehow they went forward, and that with all the certainty of appointed things.

A month after Mother left us, Robert brought home one day the tickets for our pa.s.sage from Liverpool to New York, in the steams.h.i.+p _Atlantic_, then the finest boat sailing between the two ports. "You have now, Milly," he said, "nearly four weeks to prepare for our new life. We shall sail on the twentieth of August"; and his face was glad, and his voice full of pleasure.

"And what of your preparations, Robert?" I asked.

"They go well with me. I have today made an arrangement for the closing up of my business on the twenty-second of August. And that day Forbes takes possession. He will sell my stock, and pay all I owe, which, thank G.o.d, is not much! Mother and Jessy will be in Arran; we shall be on the Atlantic. I shall have all I love and all I possess with me, and I will cast these last miserable two years out of my memory forever."

"But, Robert," I asked timidly, "have you money enough for such a change?"

"Quite sufficient. Donald's legacy has turned out much better than I dared to hope. A syndicate has bought the land for building purposes.

I expected three thousand pounds for it; they have paid me five thousand, and I have already transmitted it to the Bank of New York.

Next," he continued, "I will sell this furniture, and we will take the proceeds with us."

"But we must get rid of Kitty first," I answered. "If Kitty saw an article leave the house, she would write to your mother, and she, with David and Jessy, would be here by the next boat."

"Listen!" he replied, with a confident smile. "On Monday, the fifteenth, you will tell Kitty that you and the children are going to Kendal. Let her help you pack your trunk, give her a sovereign, and bid her take a month's holiday. She will be glad enough to get away.

On Tuesday morning let her go to the Kendal train with you, bid her good-bye there, and advise her to take the next train for Greenock, from which place she can easily get pa.s.sage to Campbeltown. She will not hurry out of Greenock, if she has money, and it may be two weeks before she sees Mother."

"I shall reach Kendal on Tuesday afternoon, and you, Robert, when?"

"I will come for you on Thursday. On Friday we will go to Manchester, stay all night there, as you wish to see your sister, and early on Sat.u.r.day morning take the train for Liverpool. The _Atlantic_ sails about four in the afternoon; do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand what I am to do. What are your own plans?"

"As soon as you have left on Tuesday morning, I will bring home the large packing cases already ordered. These I will fill with our personal belongings, which you must quietly place in your own wardrobe, and the drawers and presses in the spare room. The boxes are very large, and you need not deny yourself anything that is comfortable, or dear to you."

"I know the boxes; I have seen them."

"Impossible! They are not yet made."