THE INFLUENCES OF A GOOD HOME.
Ten years have elapsed. On a stormy September afternoon, in a room
of a two-storeyed cottage, situate at the bottom of the Rohais, a
woman lay dying. Her husband knelt beside her bed, holding his
wife's hand.
The stillness that prevailed was only disturbed by an occasional sob
from the husband, and the short irregular breathing of the dying
woman.
The breathing suddenly became more regular. The husband looked at
his wife. He saw that she wanted to speak to him, and immediately
approached his head nearer to her.
"I am going, John," said the woman in a faint tone; "I feel that I
am rapidly drawing nearer the end. I know you will take care of our
son, and--if ever you marry----"
Here she paused as if unable to go on.
"Oh! don't mention that, I will never marry again, dearest. I will
look forward with eagerness to our second meeting. I shall meet you
there, Annie," he said, and, pressing her hand between both his own,
he gazed earnestly into his wife's half-closed eyes.
Mrs. Mathers sank back on her pillow, exhausted with the effort
which she had made to speak those few words. Presently a change came
over her face. Her husband beckoned to Marie, the servant, who
hardly dared to approach, awed as she was at having to witness a
person in the grip of death.
The end came, swift and pangless. The soul passed from the body to
its eternal resting place.
Marie stood beside the bed, her big eyes fixed on the corpse, hardly
able to believe her senses.
"But, I thought Madame was better, much better," she said, half
aloud, half to herself.
"Ah! unfortunately," said the widower, "'twas only the lull before
the storm--a state which is common to people dying from consumption.
Make haste," he continued to the bewildered Abigail, "put the blinds
down."
Marie did as she was told and the man proceeded downstairs.
In the kitchen, seated on a chair, a boy was sobbing. His father had
just told him that death had visited them. And the boy felt
completely weighed down with grief. His mother had been so good to
him. "Such an excellent mother," he said to himself; "ah, how I
shall miss her."
He sobbed silently; the hot tears were few and far between. His
grief was too intense to be demonstrative.
He stayed there for fully an hour, in the same attitude, bowed down
as it were by this heavy load which had fallen upon him.
Let us go back into Frank Mathers' history--for Frank Mathers it was
who mourned his mother's loss--for a few years.
Mr. Mathers, his wife and only son were seated round the fire one
evening.
"You will be fourteen years of age to-morrow," said Frank's father,
"it is time for me to think of finding you a situation."
Frank did not answer, the idea of leaving school did not please him;
he looked up from his book for an instant, then pretended to resume
his reading.
"I shall talk to Mr. Baker, the grain merchant; as you have a liking
for books, I think you would do well in his office. Would you like
to go?" said his father.
"If you think I am old enough to leave school," mumbled Frank.
"Certainly you are old enough," said his father, "we can't afford to
keep you at school all your life."
Mrs. Mathers looked at her son sympathetically, she knew he loved
his school immensely.
"You will only have to be at the office from nine till five, and, if
you are diligent, you shall be able to study a few hours every day,"
she said.
"Yes," said the boy reluctantly.
In less than a week after this, Frank had left school and was
settled in Mr. Baker's employment.
The winter was beginning to make itself felt, and the days were
growing shorter and shorter. Ah! how Frank liked these winter
evenings. He took his books, and, drawing his chair near a small
table close to the fire, he kept plodding on, evening after evening,
educating himself constantly.
At the age of nineteen, he obtained a situation as clerk in a bank.
He possessed a good knowledge of English and French. He was also
acquainted with German, Latin and Mathematics.
He had learnt unaided two systems of shorthand: one English and one
French.
Neither was he ignorant of other useful sciences, of which he had
striven to acquire at least a few elements.
Thus armed for the world's battle, he thought himself almost
invulnerable. "I am bound to succeed," he sometimes said to himself.
"I have done all that I possibly could do towards that end. I don't
believe in chance. 'What a man soweth, that shall he also reap.'"
If ever a youth deserved to succeed, it certainly was Frank Mathers.
He had sacrificed many pleasures for the sake of better fitting
himself for life's struggle. Often, when his companions invited him
to spend an evening in questionable pleasures; "No, he would answer,
I have no time for that." At last, they ceased to torment him.
He liked these evenings spent at home, quietly, near the fire, alone
with his mother, who sometimes lifted her eyes from her knitting or
sewing, and affectionately gazed for a few moments upon her son.
They were nearly always alone, mother and son; for the father, who
was a carpenter, spent his evenings in the workshop.
As her son neared his twentieth birthday, Mrs. Mathers felt that she
would never live to see it. She was very anxious for her son's
future. After all, would he always keep in the path in which he was
now walking?
One evening when she felt worse than usual, her anxiousness for her
son's welfare rose to such a pitch that she ventured to speak a few
words to him.
"Frank," she began, "you know that I am not in very good health."
"Yes, mother."
"I don't think I shall live long," continued she, "and, I should so
much like to know if you have formed a decision to be a noble,
good, and upright man."
"You are not going to die," said the youth in a half-frightened
tone, "you will be better soon, I hope."
"No," she said, "I am slowly but steadily declining;" then she added
in a very affectionate tone: "Will you promise me, Frank, that you
will always strive to do what is right?"
"Mother," replied the son, his voice quivering with emotion: "I will
be good."
Neither of them said another word for a few minutes. Their hearts
were too full. Affectionate love, grief and resignation were filling
their souls.
Soon, the father entered and the family retired.
Next day Mrs. Mather's prophecies were fulfilled. She felt much
worse and stayed in bed. In less than a week, she was dead and
buried.
Thus deprived of his mother, Frank Mathers felt intensely lonely. He
suppressed his grief as much as possible, but it could be seen that
he suffered.
He had his father, 'tis true, but Mr. Mathers was a man of a gloomy
temperament. But a young man of nineteen ought not to be attached to
his mother's pinafore! The house seemed so empty, it seemed quite
large now, a roomy house with no furniture. The air he breathed was
not perfumed with the sweet breath of love as it was wont to be.
He grew melancholy. He had never been of a very bright temperament,
and the life of self-sacrifice which he had hitherto led, had not
helped him towards being cheerful.
Besides, there was no one to cheer him now, no kind word to spur him
on. "Ah! life without love," he sighed, "life without love is
hardly worth living."
From bad he went to worse. He almost ceased to eat. He lost a great
deal of his former activity and was often absent-minded. His
employers noticed this, for he often made false entries in the
books.
One morning, the manager of the bank thought fit to speak to him. "I
cannot make out what ails you," he said, "but you will have to be
more careful in the future."
"Pull yourself up, Mr. Mathers, try and take more interest in your
work, or I shall feel obliged to dispense with your services
altogether."
"I must try," answered Frank. "I _will_ try, Sir."
And try he did, but all to no purpose.
A cloud seemed to hang over him; he was in a state of lethargy. "Am
I going mad?" he said to himself more than once. No! he was not
insane, not yet at any rate; he simply took no interest in life.
Nothing seemed to distract him; he cared for nothing, spoke to no
one except when questioned.
His father and Marie often tried to coax him into conversation.
In answer he sometimes said "Bah! life is but an empty bubble,"
oftener, he said nothing at all, but gazed fixedly at the floor all
the time.
A few days after the manager had spoken to him, he ceased to go to
work altogether. He did not send a letter to his employers, telling
them of his intention to leave; of what use was it? everything was
nothing to him.
It was not for his departed mother that he grieved. He grieved not.
He hardly gave her a thought now, and, when he did, his eyes seemed
to brighten up and his lips muttered: "Thou art happy."
The doctor who examined him shrugged his shoulders. "Hypochondria,"
he said as he met the enquiring glance of Mr. Mathers; then he
added: "He will probably be better in a few weeks."
The neighbours, without being consulted, said: "He is mad."
The days came and went, and after a few months of melancholiness he
grew a little bit better. His father noticed that he began to take
an interest in the culture of the garden.
"I shall have to find work for him," thought Mr. Mathers, and, one
day, when his son seemed in a more joyous mood than usual, he spoke
to him.
"Do you think that if I built a greenhouse you could take care of
it?" he questioned.
"I think so," said his son.
"Work is slack just now," went on Mr. Mathers, "I might as well put
up one in the garden as do nothing."
"I think I should very much like to grow tomatoes and grapes," Frank
remarked.
"You feel better now, then," said the father. These were the first
words which he ventured to speak to his son about his health, now
that the latter's senses seemed to have returned to him.
"Have I been ill?" said Frank; and then after a pause----"Of course,
I have not been very well lately,--yes, I am better, I think I am
myself again."
"Well;" said his father, "it is agreed, we shall have a greenhouse.
I think you had better go in the garden and see if you can find
something to do there."
Frank did as he was requested. The garden at the back of the house
was a small one, covering some twenty-five perches; of these eight
were to be blessed, or cursed, with a glass covering.
While Frank was engaged in tying up some Chrysanthemums, he was
joined by Marie, the servant.
"Doin' a bit o' work, Master Frank," she said.
"Yes, a little," he replied.
"Well, that's better than mopin' about doing nothing," was the not
over-particular rejoinder.
Frank smiled. "Well," he said, "a fellow must do something when he
can, but there are times when he cannot."
"Perhaps," said Marie, rather absent-mindedly, as if she had not
understood the meaning of his words.
She glanced around her, to make sure that there was no one about;
then she came quite close to Frank. "Have you heard the news?" she
said.
"What news?" questioned Frank.
"Why, they say your father is goin' to marry; didn't you know?"
Frank's face became livid, his lips tightened, his pruning knife
dropped from his hand.
"What?" he exclaimed, as if he had not fully understood.
"Your father's going to marry again," said the servant in an
undertone, "and I'll tell you who told me so, it was Jim Tozer, her
brother; he ought to know."
"The brother of whom?" questioned Frank mechanically.
"The brother of Miss Tozer," informed Marie.
"I should have thought that your father would have stuck a little
more to his word, for when your poor, dear mother was dying, she
mentioned something to your father about marrying. He pretended to
cry, and bawled out: 'Don't mention it, I'll never marry again; I'll
never marry again.'"
"And mother been dead only five months," said Frank, more to himself
than otherwise.
"But it won't be yet, you know," said Marie. "Jim Tozer told me they
would probably wait till next year."
Then seeing Mr. Mathers coming towards them, she pretended to gather
some parsley close by, and quickly re-entered the house.
Frank's father did not talk to his son then, but began taking
measures for the greenhouse.
As for Frank, he was extremely angry with his father. He thought
that his mother's memory was being slighted; but he resolved not to
say a word about it to his father, and to let matters stand as they
were.
Time passed on. The winter was over. It was the month of April. The
birds sang in the trees, the grass was springing up, the fields were
being clothed in verdure. Nature, which had lain so long dormant,
was awakening. From the trees which looked dead a few weeks ago
little buds were peeping forth, taking their first view of the
world.
Frank Mathers was filled with delight as he watched this development
of nature.
One evening when he had just finished planting some tomatoes, he was
surprised to see his father enter the greenhouse.
Mr. Mathers' face was rather pale. He looked agitated.
"They look well," said the father, meaning the tomato plants.
"Yes, they _do_ look well," answered his son; "I was just thinking
as much before you came in."
There was a long silence here. Frank knew that his father had
something to communicate to him, and he guessed what it was.
However, he did not help him out of his embarrassment.
Finally, after several preliminary hems to clear his throat, Mr.
Mathers began: "It is a good thing that the tomatoes are planted;
to-morrow you will not work, I suppose."
"I hope I shall, I have all these boxes to clear away."
"Yes, yes, but to-morrow I am going to be married."
Frank did not answer. He raised his eyes and looked straight at his
father. His lips quivered and refused to utter a sound.
The son's gaze was more than a match for the father's. Mr. Mathers
was not yet so hardened as to laugh and look back defiantly at his
son. He, however, recovered his self-composure, tried to make
himself believe that he was in his perfect right, and in a
well-feigned voice--"Well?" he said interrogatively.
Not a word came from the son's lips; a deep sigh escaped him. He
stepped forward and walked out of the greenhouse, leaving his father
there--alone.
The couple were quietly married at the Greffe the next day.
Frank went about his work as usual, and when he came in to dine, his
step-mother was awaiting him, her face beaming with smiles.
When Frank found himself thus confronted by Mrs. Mathers No. 2, he
did not feel nearly so hostile to her as he had felt towards his
father.
He could not however welcome her warmly when his heart clamoured
otherwise. He was not a hypocrite.
When the husband advanced with his wife, the youth took the
outstretched hand and in a cold tone, his lips still uttering what
his heart did not inspire, he said, as if welcoming a stranger: "I
am happy to make your acquaintance, madam."
He soon perceived that he had gone rather too far. He had acted on
the impulse of the moment. In fact, he had dug the abyss that was
ever to lie between his step-mother and himself.
"After all," he said to himself, "it is better to obey one's heart."
He did not even stop to think that there were two powers at work.
He was more to be pitied than blamed. He had loved his mother
dearly, and now that she was dead, he revered her memory.
He now perceived the influence of a good home. It had rescued him
from a life of idleness and perhaps of vice. The genial atmosphere
of their little parlour had kept him at home even more than his
books, which he, however, cared a good deal for.
But now, it was all finished. This place would no more be home. It
was a house, a comfortable dwelling place; that was all. He would
now have to live amongst unattractive and semi-hostile surroundings.
Through his own fault, he would suffer. One thought however
strengthened him. Thousands of others had suffered for conscience's
sake. He remembered how his blood rushed to his face, when he read
about the tortures of the martyrs of religion; or the driving into
exile of the patriots of Poland.
Strengthened with these thoughts, he rose, more determined than ever
to do right; to champion the good; to work; to study; to strive to
acquire wisdom.