FEBRUARY
February.
The weather is cold. I have more to occupy my time
now. I have learned how to let off the cold air from the radiators, and
then we get more heat. I do it when no one sees me. I shall do all I can
to make myself comfortable, and they all share it. When I arise in the
morning, my first thought is to look up the hall to see if there is fire
in the grate—the one little grate in that large hall, to give warmth
and comfort to us poor prisoners. If the fire is there, I feel pleased;
I go up as soon as the sweeping is done, and try to feel at home. I tell
the nurse I will tend the fire, if she will have the coal left beside
the grate. Sometimes they allow it willingly, and I enjoy it. I brush up
the hearth, and make it look cheerful and homelike as possible. I draw
up the huge, uncomfortable seats to form a circle; they stand round
until I get there; they are happy to sit with me, but they don't know
enough to draw up a seat for themselves. I have found pleasure in this;
it cheers my heart. There is no situation in life, however unpleasant it
may be, but has some bright places in it. I love to cheat Mrs. Mills; I
watch my chance when she is not near, and let off the cold air in the
radiator until the warm air comes, and then close it. I add coal to the
fire, saying to myself, "This castle belongs to the Province, and so do
I. We have a right to all the comforts of life here, and especially so
when five dollars a week is paid for our board; let us have a nice fire
and bask in its comforting rays." I love the heat; if the seats at the
grate get filled up, I come back to the radiator. Perhaps it is warm
enough to afford to have the window open a few moments, to let the
impure air escape—just a little of it; then I sit close by it, calling
it my kitchen fire-place. I am regulating the comfort of this ward in a
measure, but they don't know it.
February.
My dear Lewis has been to see me today. We chat
together as usual; how can he think me crazy? Dr. Steeves tells him I
am, I suppose, and so he thinks it must be so. He is so happy to see me
looking better; he is more loving than ever; he holds my hand in his and
tells me he will take me out for a drive when the weather is fine. And I
said, "Oh Lewis, my dear boy, I am well enough to go home with you to
your hotel now." I so long for some of Mrs. Burns' good dinners; her
meals are all nice, and here we have such horrid stuff. Dark-colored,
sour bakers' bread, with miserable butter, constitutes our breakfast and
tea; there is oatmeal porridge and cheap molasses at breakfast, but I
could not eat that, it would be salts and senna for me. At noon we have
plenty of meat and vegetables, indifferently cooked, but we don't
require food suitable for men working out of doors. We need something to
tempt the appetite a little.
No matter what I say, how earnestly I plead, he believes Dr. Steeves in
preference to me. If I should die here, he will still believe Dr.
Steeves, who looks so well they cannot think he would do so great a
wrong. When I first began to realize that I must stay here all winter, I
begged the Doctor to take me to his table, or change his baker; "I
cannot live on such fare as you give us here." His reply was, "I don't
keep a boarding house." Who does keep this boarding house? Is there any
justice on earth or under heaven? Will this thing always be allowed to
go on? Sometimes I almost sink in despair. One consolation is left
me—some day death will unlock those prison doors, and my freed spirit
will go forth rejoicing in its liberty.
There is a dear girl here whose presence has helped to pass the time
more pleasantly, and yet I am more anxious on her account. How can her
mother leave her so long in such care as this? Ah, they cannot know how
she is faring; she often says, "I used to have nice cake at home, and
could make it, too." She has been teaching school, has over-worked, had
a fever, lost her reason, and came here last June. She is well enough
to go home. I fear if they leave her here much longer she will never
recover her spirits. She is afraid of Mrs. Mills, and dare not ask for
any favor. Mrs. Mills is vexed if she finds her in my room, and does not
like to see us talking. I suppose she fears we will compare notes to her
disadvantage, or detrimental to the rules of the house. I think it is
against the rules of this house that we should be indulged in any of the
comforts of life.
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