Married and Single CHAPTER 6.
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As soon as Henry had parted with his friend at the door, he hurried up to the chamber where Edith had retired, his heart trembling with anxiety. Their child was asleep upon her bosom.
"How is he?" was asked with eagerness.
"He is not well," the mother replied, in a low, sad voice. "Just feel his little head — it is very hot."
"I will go for the doctor this moment," Trueman said, as soon as he had ascertained for himself the fact just stated by his wife.
"Perhaps there is no necessity for doing so tonight," returned Edith. "Suppose we wait until morning; he may be much better by that time."
"But if he should be worse — how much time would be lost! I will go at once. Delays are dangerous!"
And so the doctor was brought. He treated the matter lightly; said it was often the case that infants were feverish for a few hours, and then as well again as ever. A prescription, however, was left, to satisfy the parents. It did not call for a very powerful dose. On the next morning the child's skin was cool and moist, and he, to all appearance, as well as ever. The parents breathed more freely, but still remained anxious. During the day, Trueman and Lane met.
"How is your child?" asked the latter.
"He is better, thank you. But I still feel very uneasy about him."
"It's nothing serious, I hope."
"I hope not. But still, I can't help being troubled."
The friends parted.
"Can't help being troubled. Humph!" said Lane to himself, as he walked away. "Is that to be wondered at? Was there ever a married man who didn't feel troubled? This is only a little beginning. You'll have your heart full by-and-by. I told you so, but you wouldn't believe me."
At dinner-time, Trueman hurried home, feeling still anxious. Happily, no more unfavorable symptoms had shown themselves. The babe slept peacefully in his cradle, over which the father bent with a thankful heart. When evening came, the young parents felt relieved from all concern about their child. Its pulse was as calm and its skin as cool as ever. But the suddenly-awakened fear of losing it had caused a tenderer feeling to pervade their bosoms. They loved it with increased affection.
"Dear, innocent creature!" Trueman would say, over and over again, as he turned from the page he was reading, or paused in some conversation with Edith to look at it long and earnestly as it lay in its cradle. "Heaven grant that our treasure may be spared to us!"
Time passed. Days, weeks, and months were added to the babe. From a mere passive emblem of innocence — a bud of beautiful promise, its young mind began gradually to open, as its bodily powers were developed. The smiles that wreathed about its lips had in them more of intelligent affection — the light of its eye was kindled by thought. Twelve moons had waxed and waned since it saw the light of this beautiful world, when it became dangerously ill. A well-developed brain, while it gave quicker perceptions of external things, and made the child doubly interesting to those who were with it constantly — involved a dangerous predisposition towards problems of the head. The slightest bodily derangement was almost always attended with a disturbance of the cerebral region. The parents had often noticed this, but did not know the real cause. Had the physician given them a hint to this effect, they would never have had a moment's peace. As far as they were concerned, it might well be said, "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."
But mere ignorance of a danger does not ward it off. Their child was now dangerously ill with an illness so resembling dropsy of the brain, that the doctor seriously feared for his life. The parents were, of course, in terrible alarm. Little Henry had grown, in a year, to a beautiful boy. There was everything about him to interest their hearts. To see him in great suffering, and to have, at the same time, the dreadful fear of losing him — took from them nearly all rational control over themselves. It seemed to them that they could not bear to have him taken away — that it would kill them. But death does not pause, when his bow is bent, to let the fatal arrow fly, because hearts may bleed. The most tenderly loved, as well as those for whom no tears will fall — are alike his victims.
After a week of great suffering, the disease terminated in convulsions of a most distressing character. These continued for hours, until the father's heart so bled at witnessing the anguish of his boy, that he prayed wildly for God to give him rest, even if it were in death.
Into that sleep which knows no waking in this life, the child at last sunk. Heart-sick at witnessing its painful writhings and bodily contortions, and in listening to its unnatural cries when a convulsion seized it, Trueman had left the chamber for a few moments and lain himself upon a bed in an adjoining room. He had been there about ten minutes when Edith came rushing in, half frantically.
"He is gone, Henry!" she sobbed, throwing herself beside him upon the bed and burying her tearful face in his bosom.
"Thank God!" murmured Trueman fervently. "No more anguish, no more suffering. Our loss is his great gain. I would not now recall the angel-child."
The father's voice was firm when he ejaculated, "thank God!" After the first few words it began to tremble. The last sentence was sobbed, rather than spoken. For a long time, the tears of the bereaved parents flowed freely. Then they grew calmer. It was night. They had not slept for many hours. A quiet stole over their spirits; they sunk into a deep slumber, and remained unconscious of all external things for many hours. When they awoke, a bright sun was pouring his beams into their chamber. All in the house was hushed into a stillness that was only broken occasionally by a softly-gliding footstep, a whispered word, or the faint sound of a door closed gently by some careful hand. There was death in the dwelling!
"Such a dream as I have had, Edith!" Trueman said, as he arose from the bed, and half turning, looked earnestly into the face of his wife, which had never worn so sad a look as now.
"What was it, dear?" murmured Edith, scarcely daring to trust herself to speak.
"I saw our sweet one with the angels."
"Oh, Henry!" and Edith clasped her hands together. Tears were slowly falling from her eyes.
"Yes, we know that he is with them. And I saw him as plainly as I ever saw him with my bodily eyes. At first there were two angels alone, who seemed of the female gender. I looked into their faces, that beamed with the tenderest affection. They were evidently waiting with delighted eagerness for the arrival of someone. In a little while one of them drew her hands tenderly to her bosom, as if receiving and infolding an infant. In the next moment my heart thrilled with joy. Our dear child lay upon her bosom. Oh, the sweet, holy, tender, loving smile that beamed from her beautiful face as she clasped the cherub in her arms! Not less delighted seemed her companion-angel. She, too, bent over our little one, and smiled a smile of heavenly affection. Then it seemed as if we were all rising up, up, up, for a long time, I still at a distance and unobserved by them, yet seeing all most distinctly. At last they came to a beautiful green lawn, surrounded by flower-beds, where bloomed flowers of brighter hues and sweeter perfume than are ever seen upon the earth. There were trees also around this lawn, amid the branches of which birds sung the most enchanting strains. On the grass were resting snow-white lambs, many of their necks adorned with flower-wreaths. But the loveliest sight of all was a company of little children with their attendant angels, beautiful beings, that looked like forms of heavenly love. As the angels who had first received our little Henry entered the happy company, one of the attendant angels separated herself from the little group and came forward to meet them. In no mortal face did I ever see pictured a mother's tender, joyful love, so perfectly as upon hers. The child was resigned to her care, and those who brought it turned and passed gradually far off, until I could see them no more. Then was sung a song of welcome, in which innumerable voices seemed to blend, each expressive of some modification of filial or maternal love. The song ceased. Little groups of children gathered around their angel-mothers, all happier than I ever saw children upon the earth. Among these I saw our dear little boy. But, while many sported in circles around their attendants, he clung to the side of the angel who had received him, ever and always gazing up into her love-beaming face with a happy smile. While I stood looking on, one came to me and said,
"These are those who, when they lived upon earth, most tenderly loved infants and children. Rejoice, then, rather than mourn, that your child has been removed to this happy company. It is beyond the reach of danger — beyond the reach of sin, and pain, and sorrow. It is guarded, and guided, and loved as no earthly parent can guard, and guide, and love their offspring. Mourn not its loss. Lift rather your heart up to that Heaven where your treasure has been removed. This will sustain you; this will make what seems grievous and hard — to be borne a blessing."
"Just then the angel-mother, to whose care our dear one had been consigned, approached me with looks of the tenderest maternal affection. She bore our loved child in her arms. He smiled sweetly as he saw me, but leaned closer to his new-found friend. My heart was touched at this. It seemed that I could not bear to have him love a stranger better than he had loved me. The feeling caused all to become dark as midnight around me. Then I awoke, and found that it was a dream!"
Who could chide the tears that mingled freely as the bereaved father closed his narration? But who will say that in their grief, there was not a sweet compensation? There was! Far down in their heart of hearts a hidden fountain had been revealed by the light of a star never before seen in their firmament, that mirrored itself in the gushing waters. Were they less happy, even then, than the childless? Go ask them if they regret that ever a child was born to them, and hear their eloquent, half-indignant reply.
Not they who move quietly along on the cold, passionless surface — are the happiest. No! There are regions of the mind opened by painful trials, griefs, sorrows, bereavements, from whence flow down into manifest perception delights that, to those in whom such regions remain closed, are inconceivable. Ah! while that young mother's heart was bleeding at every pore for the loss of her child — she was sustained by a deep inner joy, springing from the consciousness that she had given one to the company of angelic hosts; one who, rising higher and higher in the reception of intelligence and wisdom, would be growing wiser, and better, and happier forever. In such a delight — unselfish as it must be — the soul is strengthened, and in a degree perfected. It receives a positive good; it is inspired with the Godlike love of seeing others outside of itself happy; of rejoicing at another's good — even though it suffers as the means of the other's exaltation.
While their treasure still remained in their clinging grasp, while there was still hope of retaining it, they knew no other feeling than one of bitter anguish. But now the struggle was over. Hope had plumed her wings and flown away. Their child was dead. The sun had gone down, and all was darkness and gloom. Over this darkness, another heavenly expanse was extended; a morning-star arose — then came a mild auroral precursor of day, and finally the sun came up from the chambers of light. It was a new day. There had been a tempest of feeling, and its ravages were yet fresh, and its wounds painful. But the air was clearer and brighter — the sun shone with an intenser light, even though it lit up many a sparkling tear-drop which hung from rifled flower and fallen leaf.
Friends who had witnessed the anguish which tore the parents' hearts while death stood over their little one with his poised weapon — wondered when they came forth in the morning, with calm, elevated countenances. Wild and passionate grief had been looked for when the mother should bend for the first time over the pale, sweet image of her child, and touch with her lips its cold, marble cheek. But it was not so. She held tightly the hand of her husband, while she looked down upon the lovely form, and smiled through blinding tears — while her poor mother's heart was trembling and fluttering, and almost gushing over with anguish — at the thought that her babe was now far beyond the reach of disease and pain, in company with the blessed angels.
When Milford Lane returned to his lodgings on the evening of that day, he found in his room an invitation to attend the funeral of his friend's child. It was the first intimation he had received of its death.
"Good God!" was his painfully-surprised exclamation, as he threw down the note and commenced pacing his room with agitated steps. "Poor Trueman! It will drive him beside himself."
So affected was Lane by the news of the sad event, that he did not descend to the tea-table when the bell was rung — he had no appetite for food. He had intended making a visit that evening to some pleasant friends, but he had not the heart to go. He could not get out of his mind the sad affliction that had befallen his friend.
Lane came with the rest who were invited to the funeral. He had been in the habit of frequently calling in to see Trueman and his wife, and had so often met their little boy, who was a very interesting and intelligent child, that he had become quite attached to him. Death always makes tender, our feelings towards the departed one. Lane felt this tenderness when he thought of the bright boy now no more in this world. As he stood looking down upon his face, sweet still, though the beauty of his countenance had been marred, his eyes grew dim with tears.
"If I feel it thus," he said to himself, as he pensively retired from the open coffin, "what must they suffer? What must be the anguish of their hearts! Ah! children are precious gifts. But who could desire them on such an uncertain tenure? Surely not I. If that were my child, I believe it would kill me!"
While such thoughts were passing through his mind, there was a movement near the door. He turned his head; the mourners were entering, clad in sable attire. He scarcely dared lift his eyes to the faces of the bereaved parents. When he did so, he saw that they were very pale; but he missed that expression of abandoned grief that, it seemed to him, must accompany this painful dispensation. He saw that, while suffering deeply, they were yet sustained.
The solemn services preceding the removal of the body from the house were repeated by the minister, and then Trueman and his wife were led forward to look their last, long, lingering look upon the face of their beloved treasure. It was a moment of absorbing interest to all. A deathlike stillness pervaded the room. Everyone felt his heart beating heavily in his bosom. Everyone waited in painful suspense for the loud, long, frantic wail of grief from the mother, and half shuddered in anticipation. But no such wail of sorrow arose upon the still air.
For nearly a minute, Edith stood gazing down upon the face of her dead boy, until the tears blinded her, and began to fall fast into the coffin. Then a tremor passed through her frame, which, in a moment after, shook with convulsive sobs, as she bent down and laid her cheek upon the icy cheek of the child. Those who looked at Trueman could see that he was struggling with emotions that well-near overmastered him. But he bore up with a manful spirit. Gently drawing away his almost paralyzed wife, who yielded passively, he left the spot where he had gazed his last upon his boy, and retired with her from the room.
They did not accompany the body to the grave. Trueman felt that his wife had already suffered as much as she could bear; and as for himself, he did not wish to be present when the clods of the valley sounded upon the coffin-lid of his first-born.
Lane went to the grave, and looked down into it. He heard the dreary rattling of the earth on the child's narrow house, and turned away sick at heart. He went home, and sat down in his chamber, feeling gloomy and wretched.
"If I am so miserable — what must be their feelings!" he said to himself. "Poor souls! I wonder how they bore it as they did. I wonder that Edith's heart did not break."
While he mused thus, the father and mother, who had been rendered childless, sat alone in their chamber, where every object reminded them of their loss. But their grief, though deep and heart-searching, did not paralyze them. They saw, in the painful dispensation of Providence, already the hand of mercy. They saw that, in looking into the future for their child, they had thought only of natural life — only of the good things the world had in store. They had forgotten that the child had been born to be in Heaven. In beginning its education, this had not once occurred to them. Natural good was their highest consideration. They not only thought thus, but they talked together of their fault, and acknowledged the mercy that tempered while it gave the blow.
"Had our dear Henry been left in our hands, with our views in regard to him unchanged," Trueman said, "it would doubtless have been worse for both parents and child. Now he is safe, and we can see our error. Let us, then, bless the hand that smote us — the deed was done in mercy."
"I feel and I acknowledge that," Edith murmured, leaning her head against her husband's bosom. Tears gushed from her eyes as she spoke. "But it is a hard affliction to bear."
"Yet, He who sends the storm, will temper the wind to the shorn lamb."
"I know it — I feel it. He has already tempered the keen blast."
"He has, Edith, mercifully tempered it. And He will temper it more and more, if we acknowledge fully, from the heart, His divine goodness in this visitation."
"May He help me thus to acknowledge it," Edith said, fervently.
"May He help us both to do so daily, hourly, momently. Then shall this loss prove to us a great gain, as it has already proved to our child."
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