Difference between revisions of "Volume III. The Mother CHAPTER 13."

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A Painful Bereavement.

Thus far in her maternal life, Mrs. Hartley had endured all the pains, cares, anxieties, hopes and fears of a mother — but neither sorrow nor bereavement. Her assiduous care had, thus far, been rewarded by the very best results. But now there came a heart-searching trial, which no act of hers could possibly prevent.

On the day that Mrs. Fielding and her daughter called upon Mrs. Hartley, Lillian did not seem very well. She drooped about, and was quite fretful, a thing very unusual with her. At night she fell off to sleep an hour earlier than usual. When Mr. Hartley came home, and inquired for his little pet, he was told that she was in bed. He loved the child with great tenderness, and missed her bright face and merry voice. Taking up a light, he went over to the chamber where she slept, and stood over her little bed for some time, looking down upon her sweet face. While doing so, Mrs. Hartley joined him.

"Dear little thing," she said, "she has not appeared well all day."

The father placed his hand upon her forehead.

"Why, Anna," he said, "she has a high fever! And listen! how hard she breathes."

Mrs. Hartley laid her hand against the child's cheek, with a feeling of uneasiness. Her children had often been sick with fevers; but never, in the incipient stage of the disease, had she felt the peculiar sensation of uneasiness and oppression that followed the discovery that Lillian was really sick.

In a little while the tea bell rung, and the family gathered around the table to partake of their evening meal. The father and mother felt no appetite, and merely sipped their tea. Marien was silent from some cause. Henry and Fanny were the only ones who had anything to say. On rising from the table, Mr. and Mrs. Hartley repaired to the chamber to look at Lillian again. The child's fever seemed higher, and she had become restless. She coughed occasionally, and there was much oppression on her chest.

"I think we had better call in the Doctor," said Mr. Hartley.

"It may only be a temporary illness, which will subside before morning," remarked the mother.

"Still, it is better to be safe than sorry," returned Mr. Hartley.

"True. But suppose we wait for an hour."

At the expiration of an hour, the child was no better. A physician was called in, who gave some simple medicine, and said he would call in the morning. The morning found the child very ill. What form the disease would ultimately assume, the doctor could not tell — it might be only a violent illness — or it might be some more harmful disease. A sudden gloom fell over the whole household, such as had never been felt before. The mother could not compose herself to do anything — Marien sat by the child's bedside nearly all the time, and Mr. Hartley came home two or three times during the day. What alarmed them most of all, was the constant complaints of Lillian that her throat pained her, and the admission of the doctor that it was highly inflamed. Even hours before the physician declared the disease to be scarlet fever — they were more than half assured that it was nothing else.

On the third day, all their fears were confirmed. The disease began to assume its worst type. The skin was red and blotchy, the throat badly ulcerated, and the face much swollen. Breathing was exceedingly difficult, and there was an eruption of dark scarlet spots on the face, neck and chest. On the fifth day, the little sufferer became delirious — and on the seventh day, she was freed from her pain.

As suddenly as this terrible affliction had fallen upon them, in the brief space that ensued between the illness of the child and her death — the minds of the parents had become, in some degree, prepared for the result that followed. Still the blow stunned them, and it was not until called upon to take the last look at their little one, and to touch her snowy forehead with their lips for the last time, that they realized the full consciousness of what they had lost. Ah! who but those who love tenderly a sweet, pure, and affectionate child, can understand how deep was the anguish of their hearts at the moment when they turned away after taking their last, lingering look at the marble features of their departed Lillian.

How desolate seemed every part of the house for days afterwards. As hard as the mother tried to bear up and to look up in this affliction, she had not the power to dry her tears. For hours, sometimes, she would sit in dreamy absent-mindedness — all interest in things surrounding her having totally subsided.

"Dear Anna," her husband ventured to say to her one day, when he came home and found her in this state, "Time, the Restorer, cannot do his work for us, unless we do our part. You remember Doctor Thompson, in whose family we spent two pleasant weeks last summer. He had a son, just about the age of Clarence — perhaps two years older — who had just passed through his collegiate course with distinguished honors. The Doctor loved that boy with more than ordinary tenderness. 'He was always a good boy,' he said to me, in alluding to his son. 'His love of truth was strong, and his sense of honor most acute. I not only loved him, but I was proud of him.' This son had not been home long, when he became ill, and died. 'I never had anything in my whole life that gave me such anguish of spirit, as the death of that boy,' he said, and his voice even then trembled. 'But, through the whole painful scene of sickness, death and burial — I never missed a patient. I knew that there was only one thing that would sustain me in my affliction; and that was, the steady and faithful performance of my regular duties in life. But for this, I sometimes think I could not have borne the weight that was then laid upon me.'

Dear Anna! Doctor Thompson was a true philosopher, for his was a high Christian philosophy, which sought relief from affliction, in the performance of duty to others."

Poor Mrs. Hartley wept bitterly while her husband was speaking. But his words sunk into her heart, and she felt that she was suffering severer pain than would have been her portion if she had acted like Doctor Thompson. From that time she strove, with a great effort, to arouse herself from the dreamy state into which she had fallen. It was difficult to perform all the duties — nay, she could not perform them all — that heretofore claimed her attention. For five years her daily thought and care had been for her youngest born, thenursling of the flock; and now she was taken away. For a time she struggled to act upon her husband's suggestion, but again sunk down; and efforts to elevate her from this state of gloomy depression were again made. She lay weeping, with her head upon her husband's bosom, one night, when he said —

"Anna, dear, would you like to have Lillian back again?"

She did not reply, but sobbed more violently for nearly a minute, and then grew calm. Her husband repeated his inquiry.

"I have never asked myself that question," she answered.

"Think now, and determine in your own mind, whether, if you had the power to recall her — you would do so."

"I do not think I would," was murmured half reluctantly.

"Why not?"

"It is better for her to remain where she is."

"Do you really think so?"

"How can you ask such a question? Is she not now safe in her heavenly home? Is she not loved and cared for by God? She can have no pain, nor grief, where she is gone. She has escaped a life of trial and sorrow. Ah, my dear husband, even in my affliction I can say, that I am thankful that, with her, life's toilsome journey is over — that her probation has been short."

"Spoken like my own dear wife," Mr. Hartley said with emotion; "I, too, grieve over the loss, with a grief that words cannot express, but would not take back the treasure, now safely laid up in Heaven. She cannot return to us — but we will go to her. Our real home is not here on earth. A short time before us has our child gone; we will soon follow after, but not until all the duties we owe to others are paid. We have still four left, and, do our best, we cannot do too much for them."

"Too much! Oh, no; my constant regret is that I do too little. And now that Lillian has been taken away, I seem to have lost the power to do even that little."

"Strive to think more of those who are left — than of the one that is gone. No effort of yours can do her any good, but every effort you make for those who still remain, will add to their happiness. Yesterday, when I came home, I found Fanny sitting alone in the parlor. She looked very sad. 'What is the matter, dear?' I asked. 'Mother cries so, and doesn't talk to me like she did,' she said, the tears coming into her dear little eyes."

"Oh, James, did she say that?"

"Yes, dear. And if you could have seen her face, and heard the tone of her voice — you would have grieved to think how sad the child's heart must be. She, as well as the rest of us, have lost much in the death of Lillian. You know how much she loved the child."

"And I," sobbed the mother, "have left her to bear her grief alone. Alas! How selfish I have been in my sorrow. But it shall no longer be. I will meet my children as a mother should meet them. I will help them to bear their loss."

Mrs. Hartley met her family on the next morning with a calmer brow. She had a word for each; and that word was spoken with an unusual tenderness of expression. Fanny looked earnestly into her mother's face, when she observed the change, and drew close up to her side.

"You love me, dear mother, don't you?" whispered the child, close to her ear.

"Love you, my child! O, yes! A thousand times more than I can tell." And she kissed her fervently.

"And the angels in Heaven love Lillian, don't they?"

"Yes, my love," Mrs. Hartley replied in a husky whisper, struggling to keep the tears from gushing from her eyes.

"I know the good angels will love her, and take care of her just as well as you did, mother."

"O yes; and a great deal better."

"Then we won't cry any more because she is gone."

"Not if we can help it, my love. But we miss her very much."

"Yes. I want to see her all the time. But I know she is in Heaven, and I won't cry for her to come back."

The words of Fanny came near effecting the entire overthrow of Mrs. Hartley's feelings; but by a vigorous struggle with herself, she remained calm, and continued for some time to talk with the child about Lillian in Heaven.

From this period, the mother's love for her children flowed on again in its usual channels, and her care for them was as assiduous as ever. In fact, the loss of one caused her to draw her arms more closely about the rest. But she was changed; and no one who looked upon her could help noting the change. The quiet thoughtfulness of her countenance had given place to a musing expression, as if she were, in spirit, far away with some dearly loved object. Although her love for her children, and her anxiety for their welfare, was increased, if there was any change, yet that love was more brooding than active in its nature. The creative energy of her mind appeared to have suffered a slight paralysis. The bow was unbent.

Marien was quick to perceive this, and by the intuition of love, to glide almost insensibly into her mother's place so far as Henry and Fanny were concerned. The groundwork of home-education had been so well laid by the mother, that the sister's task was not a difficult one. She became Henry's confidante and counselor, and led Fanny gently on in the acquirement of good habits and good principles.

If to no one else, this change was good for Marien. It gave her objects to love intensely, because their well-being depended on her conduct towards them, at an age when the heart needs something upon which to lavish the pure waters of affection which begin to flow forth in gushing profusion.

Another effect was, to make more distant the period when Marien would appear upon the stage of life as a woman; and this was no wrong to the sweet maiden. When she did enter society as a woman, she was a woman fully qualified to act her part with wisdom and prudence.