[Boston—Monday, 29 April 1867]
Monday April 29th The day opened exquisitely serene with that still beauty of summer which spring mornings will put on some times by way of promising what is to be by and by, afterwards the east winds come up with mist and chill and we remember with a shudder that the New England spring is not yet ripe. Last night was the last of four receptions. There were about 30 people. Longfellow and old Mr Dana (father of “Two Years”) & Mrs Hawthorne who has been passing a day or two here among them. It was a lovely occasion to us and talk flowed pleasantly all round.
In the afternoon Mrs Hawthorne made me her confidant with regard to Una. She did not prepare me at all for what she was about to say but as soon as we were alone she exclaimed “Annie I cannot bear it any longer,—I must tell you—Una loves and is beloved!”
Having said these words sitting upright on the couch where I had prepared the pillows for her to lie down she said—“now I have said so much I can rest and tell you all”. She could not however tell me everything for the time had not come to divulge the name and Una had extorted a promise from her that she should not, but she recounted to me in a touching way the agony of joy which poor Una had experienced. The matter was consummated it seems one day on the way to Boston and when Una returned home her mother was absent in the village. When Mrs Hawthorne came back to the house at night she was met by Julian whose face was full of anxieties and who said at once “Mamma, I am so glad you have come for Una has something to tell us which she says we must all bear together. She is on the bed up in her room and she wishes us all there.” “So,” said Sophia “we went tremblingly to her and she took a pillow and laid upon my knees so we could not see her face and tried to speak but she was seized with such violent sobbing that she could utter nothing but that she was afraid I could not bear it. I told her I thought I could but her grief continued to be so violent that Rose began to sob also and flung herself into Julian’s arms who stood trembling from anxiety.” After two hours and a half the poor child managed to tell them of this happiness which has so nearly slain her. Her heart all the time throbbing terribly yet while she writhed with the pain she said “Oh Mamma I am so glad to feel my heart again. I was almost afraid it was dead, for since Papa died it has been like a lump of lead and our very grief has been a barrier between us two, so I could not come to you—but now, I feel again that I have a heart!” That night she could not go to bed but lay on the table with her hand upon her side tossing about with the pain and throbbing—“do not speak Mamma” she would say, “I can not bear a word, but how blessed I am to have my mother to tell of my happiness, and a brother and my dear Rose, my sister!” She was wild and exhausted by tears all that night but the next day they thought it best for Mrs Hawthorne to come to town and for her to be alone with Julian whose influence consoles her. In a note Julian wrote to his mother yesterday he said, “Una is like clay which has never been hardened in the sun.”
Dear child! she seems to me almost more like dew which the morning sun must dissipate into too ethereal vapors for our sight.
Monday. Very weary after so much exhausting talk but drove about town all day with Mrs Hawthorne seeing persons and doing errands, came home for a quiet dinner at night, we four—obliged to have a new servant but she does seem excellent—the sister of Ann Deonie died, and as she was obliged to leave, the other small child goes off too so I am obliged to break in two more.
