THE MOTHER AND SON.
But this was not the thought that weighed heaviest, when all but Mrs.
Gilman had forgotten their plans and their pleasures in sleep.
As she sat alone by the broad flagging of the hearth, she could hear the
heavy breathing of her husband in the next room, the ceaseless ticking of
the clock, the purr of the cat, in its warm corner by the ashes. Overhead
were her sleeping children, she alone, watchful and anxious. Slowly
the old clock marked the passing hour, the brands mouldered with a dim
redness, then broke, and fell with a shower of sparks upon the hearth.
The rising wind rattled the loose window frames, the cold snow drifted
upon the sill, white and chilling. She had kept many a midnight watch
since she had been a wife, but this was the dreariest of all. She did not
bury her face in her hands, and sob—her habitual industry had retained
the coarse stocking, and her hands moved rapidly to the monotonous click
of the needles, while hot tears gathered slowly in her eyes, and plashed
down upon them. She did not wipe them away,—she did not know they were
there. She was thinking over all the long time since her marriage; how
very happy she had been at first, with her dear baby in the cradle, and
her young husband, so fond of her and his first born, and the gradual
and entire change that had since come over him and over their home. She
had never ceased to hope through it all, that the time would come when
he should be given back to her “in his right mind.” How earnestly she
had prayed for it, sitting there, watching patiently night after night,
trying to keep cheerful through all things; to make his home pleasant
for him, when he least deserved it. And this was the end. She knew he
was going, she felt it from that first abrupt announcement, and with the
perils of the sea, and that new country, he might not return. She must go
out from that old homestead, must see even the very burial-place owned by
others, and he who had promised to love and protect her was the cause
of all. It was hard to put down the bitter, reproachful feeling that
had tempted her before, and to think of him with love, of God’s will,
with submission and hope. Then came a picture of her husband, suffering,
sick, dying on that long journey, for she knew how his health had been
weakened, and how little fitted he was to bear exposure. This was
terrible. If some friend, some one she could trust, was going with him,
instead of that bad man, she could bear it better.
A noise that she would not have noticed in the stir of daylight, made her
look up. It was only her boy’s cap, which he had hung carelessly behind
the door, falling from the nail. “How strong and well he is,” thought the
lonely woman—“why could not he go, and take care of his father?”
When she first tried to reason with herself about the future, he had
seemed her only comfort and stay. Must she give him up too?
Mrs. Gilman did not often act from impulse, but she had become restless,
and eager, thinking these things over. She took the candle, already
burned to the very socket, hurried up the narrow winding stairs leading
from the room in which she sat, to the “garret chamber,” chosen by her
boy as his winter sleeping room, for the greater convenience of disposing
of and watching over his hoard of treasures. They were few enough, but
invaluable to him. The ears of corn he had saved for parching, hung by
their braided husks, the soft pine blocks, prepared for whittling,—his
skates, his new sled, not yet trusted to the doorless barn, the pile of
hickory nuts in the corner, were nearly all that he owned; but no money
could have purchased him more valued possessions.
The boy was sleeping soundly after the day’s hard work and exercise. His
mother put down the light upon the chest that served him for a table, and
sat down upon the bed beside him. He looked very beautiful to her, his
long brown hair thrown back over the pillow, and his face flushed with
a red glow of health. One arm was thrown above his head in a careless,
graceful way, the brown hand bent, as if reaching to grasp a branch above
him. Should she, who had held him in her arms, with the first prayerful
thrill of a mother’s love, innocent and pure, send him forth to contact
with the world unshielded! To see vice, and perhaps crime in every
form—to be the companion of those long familiar with it! But, surely, it
was a sacred mission to watch over and care for an erring parent, perhaps
to save him from still greater degradation. Would not God reward her for
this loving sacrifice, by keeping him in the charge of all good angels!
Her strong faith trusted in this, as she knelt down, still watching his
heaving chest, and laid her hand lightly in unconscious blessing upon his
broad forehead. It may have been that blessing which bore him through
strange trials and temptations. We know that those who ask “in faith,”
nothing wavering, have their reward; and what can exceed the yearning
faithfulness of a mother’s love?
“No, nothing is the matter, my son,” Mrs. Gilman answered to the boy’s
start of surprise, and half frightened, half sleepy question. “I did not
mean to wake you up, Sam, I came to see if you were asleep yet and quite
comfortable. Are you sure you have clothes enough? It’s going to be a
very cold night.”
“Plenty, mother,—it’s just like you to be worried. I thought it must be
morning first, or father was sick, or something. Good night,” and he
turned still drowsily to his pillow.
“Sam, did you know your father had concluded to go to California?”
“Goodness, mother!” and all sleepiness was gone in an instant, the boy
sat up in bed, and looked at his mother eagerly.
“Yes, he has decided to go, and I’ve been thinking if it wouldn’t be
better for you to go along.”
“Me?”
“I guess it’s best, Sam. I don’t see how I can spare you very well: but
your father will need you more than we shall; we shall make out to get
along somehow. You will be coming home some day with a fortune, like the
young princes in the story books.”
Mrs. Gilman tried to speak playfully, but it was hard work to keep down
the sobs.
“It isn’t like you, mother, to want me to leave you and the girls, just
to make money. I’ve heard you say too many times, that you would be
contented to live any way, so long as we could all be together, and work
for each other. What put it into your mind?”
There was an earnest directness in the boy’s manner Mrs. Gilman could not
evade. She had never before alluded to her husband’s weakness to one of
his children. It was hard now, but it was right Sam should know all.
“You can remember, Sam, when we were all a great deal happier; before
father took to going to the corner every day. You know how he comes home
night after night, and how bad company has changed him. Bill Colcord has
followed him every where, and has persuaded him into this. If father has
you with him, he’ll think of us oftener, and perhaps it will keep him
from doing a great many things Colcord might lead him into. You are old
enough to know what’s right and what’s wrong.”
“I ought to, mother, when I’ve had you to tell me ever since I was a
baby.”
“God knows I’ve _tried_ to do my duty,” Mrs. Gilman said, clasping her
hands together, “I’ve _tried_, Sam, and I’m trying now, though it’s hard
to see whether it’s right to send you away with that bad man. But it
_must be_! Look out for your father just as I would. Keep right yourself,
and then he will listen to you. But it’s all in your Bible; and you
won’t forget to read it, will you? You say your prayers, don’t you, like
a good boy?”
“Sometimes I forget till I am almost asleep,” the boy confessed honestly.
“But I don’t sleep half so well, I think, or wake up so good-natured at
any rate. When is father going—does he know you want me to?”
“Not yet, but we must not mind that—Colcord won’t want you. Something
tells me you ought to. Sam, I only want you to make me one promise. Never
to touch a drop of any thing that could hurt you—you know what I mean,
any spirit, and keep father from it as much as you can. You will, won’t
you?”
“I never tasted spirit yet, mother, and I never will, so long as I can
remember to-night. I’ll swear it on the Bible if you want me to.”
“No, I don’t ask that, only your promise. If you wouldn’t keep a solemn
promise, you wouldn’t keep an oath. And never let yourself get lazy.
People sit ’round and do nothing, and so they are tempted to drink just
to pass away the time, and most men who will drink, will swear or do
any thing else. I don’t say _all_ will;” and a painful flush rose to
the poor woman’s forehead as she thought of her misguided husband, “but
it leads into mischief they never would think of or consent to in their
sober senses. Don’t be afraid of hard work. I never was, and my father
was called well off. If one kind of work is not handy do something else,
it keeps away bad thoughts, and _hard_ thoughts too, sometimes.”
It seemed that Mrs. Gilman could not bear to leave her son. It was the
first time she had ever opened her heart to him at all. He was too
young to understand half its silent loneliness and care; but he loved
her better than anybody in the world, and was ready to do any thing or
promise any thing that would make her look happier. He did not get asleep
for a long time after she went away, though the candle had burnt out, and
the snow sifting against the window made it very dark. He turned over the
pillow, and drew up the quilt, but it was no use. To any boy of his age,
the novelty of going to sea would have been exciting. And California!—he
knew as much about it as any of his elders and betters. The boys had been
talking about it once, as they helped Ben Chase shell a double quantity
of corn, so that he could go skating with them after school, Monday;
and boasting, as boys will, of what _they_ would do, if they could only
get there! How astonished they would be to find he was going! He could
not help feeling very important, and suddenly improved almost to man’s
estate, even in his own eyes. Then his imagination rambled on to a very
distant and undefined future. How he would come home with piles and piles
of gold—great bags full, and give five to his mother, and one to each of
the girls, and buy back the farm. Whether he should put the old house
in splendid order, or build a new one, he could not quite make up his
mind. But there would be time enough for that. One thing was certain.
His mother should have every thing she wanted, and never do another bit
of work, if she didn’t choose to. His mother’s troubled face brought him
back very suddenly to the present. He understood better than ever he did
before, how many things she must have to worry her, especially about his
father. He thought about this a long time, and made new resolution to
keep his promise, and be very good and industrious. His good resolves
were a little confused and misty at the last, mixed with wandering
thoughts about the ship, for he had never seen one, and Ben Chase’s new
skates, which had been the object of his highest ambition three hours
before. Then he slept as soundly as if the whole plan of his life had not
been changed that eventful day; unconscious of the hardships, the trials,
and the temptations that were to mark every step of his future path
through boyhood.
So it happened that our young hero, as his mother had said, like a
prince in some marvellous fairy tale, “went out to seek his fortune.” He
had no “shoes of swiftness,” or “invisible cap,” nor yet the “purse of
Fortunatus,” _that_ he expected to find. But he carried a light heart,
willing hands, and a determination to do right, whatever happened, “three
gifts” that perhaps could bring him as much in the end.