Cora and The Doctor: or, Revelations of A Physician's Wife

Poor Emily! I wonder if she knew Mr. Benson was to exchange with Mr. Munroe, yesterday. If so, she did not speak of it. I never saw a man so changed; he looked as if he had had a severe fit of sickness.

"He withers at his heart, and looks as wan
As the pale spectre of a murder'd man."

But his sermon was really sublime, and lifted me above myself. The text was the last verse of the forty-second Psalm: "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

Trust in God, was his subject. Amid all the trials and vicissitudes of life, trust in God is the only sure source of happiness for the Christian. Trust him to bring good out of seeming ill; to make these very trials "work out for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory." If he withdraws the light of his countenance; if our beloved friends sicken and die before our eyes; if our worldly estate takes to itself wings and flies away; if our fondest hopes are suddenly dashed to the ground; if we are ever left to call out in agony of spirit, "Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me?" we may, by Divine grace, also exclaim, "hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."

In the pale countenance of the speaker, I could read the struggle, and the victory. I was actually startled at Emily's looks, as we turned to come out of the pew. She caught my hand to save herself from falling; and from the motion of her lips I understood her to say, "faint" though no articulate sound came forth.

I whispered, "Dear Emily! lean upon me; don't faint here; try to arouse yourself."

Never was I more thankful than when we reached the carriage and had assisted the poor girl into it, without attracting notice. There was not a particle of color in her face or lips. I drew off her gloves, and chafed her hands, while mother loosed her bonnet strings, and applied the smelling drops to her nose.

With a deep sigh she recovered her consciousness, and was ashamed and mortified that her feelings should have been betrayed even to her loving friends. She tried to conceal them with the flimsy excuse, that she arose in the morning with a head-ache, and the heat of the house had overcome her.

I wonder if Emily thinks, she really deceives us, or is she deceiving herself? In the afternoon, she declared that she was fully able to go to church; and when, at the last moment, she was forced to acknowledge herself sick, and mother was removing her own bonnet to remain with her, she insisted that she had rather be left alone, and mother very reluctantly left her.

"Poor girl!" I exclaimed, as mother related the circumstance, "my heart aches for her."

"I never saw a child so changed," said mother sadly; "I cannot but think, she regrets her hasty decision. I have never before known her to be irritable. It seems to annoy her exceedingly to have me notice her languor or want of spirits. Frank," she continued, "I wish you would persuade Emily to take an anodyne. I think the want of sleep is partly the cause of her head ache." Frank asked if she would be likely to come over to the house to tea; but mother could not tell; she was so changeable in her feelings.

I could not help thinking, Mr. Benson noticed sister's absence. He looked very sad. I was so anxious about the poor girl, that I must confess, I could not confine my thoughts to the discourse. Frank, too, was called out; and mother looked pale and troubled. Altogether, I worked myself up into quite a fever of excitement; and was glad when the services were through.

While we waited a moment in the porch for Cæsar to bring the carriage to the door, Mr. Benson passed down from the pulpit and came out. He would evidently have avoided the meeting, if possible; but mother stepped forward with much kindness and thanked him for his faithful discourses. He unbent at once, and inquired for my health and that of the family.

I told him, I was well, but quite anxious about my sister, as she had a severe head-ache which detained her at home. What could have come over the man to look so pleased that she was ill?

Fearing I had said something to compromise her delicacy, I added, "she has had the head-ache for several days." Now I think of it, I only made it worse. He spoke, as he conducted us to the carriage, of his sorrow at the intelligence, while he looked perfectly delighted.

When we reached home, Phebe met us at the door, and said "Misse Emily here, and my pinion is dere's mighty smart chance for her to have a fever if Mass'r Frank don't doctor her."

As we entered the parlor, sister started up, and looked eagerly for a moment as if expecting some one with us; and then sank back again on the sofa pillow, evidently disappointed. Could it be that she thought Mr. Benson would return with us?

Cæsar went toward the village to meet his master, and soon returned with him. The Doctor had been called to a child in a fit from indigestion. That reminds me to tell you that in accordance with his wish, I have restricted Pauline's diet to bread and milk, which she eats heartily, sitting in Ann's lap.

Emily's sickness touched the little girl's heart; I held her in my arms, and let her put her soft-hand on "Aunty's head to make it better." Frank came behind and put his on too, with the tenderness of a woman. He sat down by her side and held her head while she covered her eyes as if she feared, he would read her thoughts.

"Emily," said he, gently, "you have too much heat; I fear you and Cora have lately been unduly excited. I thought yesterday, she was going beyond her strength; and such is also the case with you. I must give you a little powder, which, I hope, will soon afford you relief; does it ache less when I hold it so?" he asked, as he pressed the throbbing head between his hands.

"Oh, yes! sometimes it feels as if it would fly to pieces."

"Poor girl! how it throbs. Cora, will you hold her head while I prepare something for her?"

He soon returned with a wet bandage, which he bound tightly around her head, and then gave her ammonia. I had finished my tea and was returning through the hall, when Cæsar answered the door bell, and to my amazement announced "Mr. Benson."

In my confusion, I ushered him into the parlor where Emily lay upon the sofa, with her face toward the wall. I hoped, she was asleep, and was just coming to my senses, and intending to invite him into the library, when he asked, "Is she then so ill?"

At the sound of his voice, Emily sprang upon her feet, tore the bandage from her head, while the light actually flashed from her eyes at what she fancied an intrusion. But perceiving his ghastly pallor, she sank back upon her seat, saying, "Frank has been making a great fuss over me, as if I were sick." Truly, one would never have thought so at that moment. She was perfectly brilliant with excitement. The fever lit up her cheeks, while her eyes even dazzled my sight.

How I pitied the young suitor! He stood where he did upon his first entrance, with his hat in his hand. His countenance changed as he gazed at her until her eyes fell; then with an air which was almost haughty, he said "Farewell! FAREWELL, FOREVER!!" and left the room.

I followed him silently to the door, my heart being almost paralyzed. He stopped, took my hand in both of his, pressed it warmly and said, "I appreciate your kindness, but you are mistaken." The last words he uttered in a cold, bitter tone, and was gone.

I started to run to my chamber, but remembering my poor, strange sister, I turned back to the parlor, where I found her prostrate upon the floor. I screamed, "Frank! mother!" and soon the whole household came rushing into the room. The Doctor dismissed the servants, and taking Emily in his arms carried her up stairs to the room, she formerly occupied.

It was some time before she revived. When she perceived where she was, her woe-begone look penetrated my heart. Poor mother! How quietly she goes about everything that ought to be done, with an expression of patient suffering! How can Emily make herself and all of us so unhappy! She lies this morning in a deep sleep, and, I hope, will awake refreshed. I have been sitting by her while mother went over to the cottage on some business. She has now returned, and I have persuaded her to lie down on the couch in sister's room. She was so anxious, she scarcely slept at all.

Dear Pauline, what a comfort she is to me! She is the most affectionate little creature I ever saw, and has already woven herself closely around our hearts. Even Frank laughs merrily at her cunning ways.

Phebe wears a turban, generally made of a bandanna handkerchief, or something equally bright. Miss thought, she too must wear one. So she watched her opportunity when Ann laid down her duster, which happened to be an old silk kerchief of similar colors to madam's turban, and tried to weave it round her head. Ann observed her unsuccessful efforts with silent amusement, and perceiving that when one side was arranged, the other came tumbling down, offered to assist her.

Pauline shouted with delight: "Mamma, see! mamma, see!!" The kind hearted girl brought the child to me. I laughed well at her grotesque appearance. Her head was top-heavy with the turban, while the dark short curls peeping out here and there made her look like a boy. She evidently thought it a good joke, and was unwilling to have it taken off. You see, we make a great pet of her; but since I began to manage her aright, she obeys instantly. Sometimes her lip quivers a little, and she looks as if she were about to burst into a hearty cry; and then, with a sigh, restrains herself.

Almost every morning, from eleven till two, I have received calls; and shall have business enough for the fall and winter if they continue. Many of them are formal and ceremonious; others, I suppose, are prompted merely by curiosity to see the stranger. I find the report of my three years' residence in Paris creates quite a sensation. People look at me as if I ought to be something more than Americans who have never been out of their native land, and appear somewhat disappointed to see in me nothing more than a simple, frank girl, just like their daughters or sisters at home.

A few have called whom I like exceedingly; who entered into conversation upon subjects profitable and interesting. You, my dear mother, have spoiled me for enjoying the society of persons who cannot talk, except of individual character and conduct; as for instance: "I suppose, your husband has told you of the trouble in Squire Lee's family. He attends there, I believe."

"No," I replied.

"Ah, indeed! Well, Lucy has had to break her engagement with young Mansfield just to please her brother, who is no better than he should be." I remained silent simply because I had nothing to say, and was glad when the entrance of other company put a stop to such gossip.

Of the more select class, are Mr. Munroe, Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, Miss Proctor, – Frank's favorite, – and I must not forget Friend Estes, who frankly said, "I came, my dear, to see thee out of the regard I have for thy husband."

I rather think, she was well enough acquainted with human nature to know, that she was making her way directly to my heart.

"How is Susan, thy mother?" she asked. I stopped and hesitated a moment, before I remembered that the Friends always use the first name. She was overflowing with love and good-will to everybody; and before she went away we grew so friendly, that she kissed me twice and said, "I must bring Jotham to see thee, my dear" – "Cora," I said, seeing she hesitated for the name, – "and thou wilt come with thy husband for a visit to our house." She warmed my heart finely by her praise of Frank.

After all, there are a great many pleasant people in the world. I wish, you could see how kindly her deep blue eyes looked out from her drab poke upon your Cora. Your heart would come across the water to meet hers.

The more I see and hear of Miss Proctor, the better I love and esteem her. She is truly a "Dorcas," in whom the sick and afflicted always find a friend and helper. She has been an efficient aid and cooperator with Frank in his gratuitous practice.

Speaking of this class, I must relate to you an incident, Emily told me. A short time since, when Frank had fairly established himself in his profession, and had collected a good practice, a young physician came to the place, rather to the annoyance of some of his brethren of the profession, who took no pains to call upon him. The Doctor, however, embraced the first opportunity to visit him at his office, to which there was little more than a showy sign, announcing to the public that "Dr. Clapp, Physician and Surgeon, was ready to extract teeth and cut off legs at the shortest notice, and for the lowest price imaginable."

Frank entered into conversation with this young son of Æsculapius, and found, he was well learned in his profession, and had high recommendations from his professors as to his qualifications for his office. My good husband encouraged him to persevere, and offered to recommend him wherever it was in his power.

"I shall never be displeased," he added, "if I hear, you are taking my practice, except in the case of my poor patients. Most of these have grown up with me, and I flatter myself, I am, with them, an exception to the general rule, 'a prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.'"

The sequel to this visit is quite romantic. Dr. Clapp, who is about twenty-four years of age, walked to the window, where he vigorously plied his handkerchief, as if afflicted with a sudden cold. After this operation he was relieved, and came back offering his hand to Frank. He said, or tried to say, for his voice was rather husky, "Your kindness, Dr. Lenox, inspires me with new life and courage. I am yet waiting for my first patient." Then, encouraged by Frank's kind interest, he unburdened his heart, and asked advice with regard to a little private affair of his own.

It appears that, like a great many foolish young men, (I don't say it was foolish in his case, not knowing the circumstances,) he had fallen in love, while in college, with "the most amiable girl in the world." That was five years ago, so that their courtship had been quite protracted. To the ardent lovers, at least, it had seemed sufficiently so.

Harriet Phillips, who, at the time of their engagement, was but fourteen, had now arrived at the mature age of nineteen years, – "Quite old enough," he added, with an inquiring look at the Doctor, "to take charge of a family."

The decided tone in which Frank replied, "Certainly," gave the suitor new courage. To marry, or not to marry, that was now the question; and the judge who was to give the important decision, acknowledged that he found himself in rather a novel predicament. However, he shielded himself as many judges do, behind general principles. He acknowledged the great propriety of a physician being a man of family, and as soon as he could support a wife in comfort, he certainly advised him to marry.

"This," said Dr. Clapp, "is exactly the way I view the subject."

The young man soon after returned the call in the Doctor's absence. With a frankness which seems rather peculiar to him, he told Emily all the first part of the interview, and more than hinted at the latter; so that she, who has a considerable share of curiosity, coaxed Frank to tell her the rest, saying, "I'm sure Dr. Clapp wants me to know about it."