THE GRANDMOTHER RELENTING.
The widow Allen sat by her kitchen fire, and a sterner, sadder woman
never drew breath than she appeared on the day after that stormy visit
from the doctor. She was waiting for him now. Her eyes, full of sullen
thought, dwelt on the fire. Her feet were planted hard on the
hearth--every thing about her looked unyielding and stiff--the
high-backed chair, the full borders of her cap, and the white kerchief
folded over her bosom--the very grief in her features seemed frozen
there.
"Mother!"
This voice came from an inner room, the one which Mrs. Allen had
occupied during her sickness. Its faint sweetness drew the old woman
from her sombre mood. She arose and entered the apartment where her
daughter lay.
The room was dimly lighted, for besides the usual blinds, a patch-work
quilt, glowing with gorgeous colors, had been stretched across the only
window it contained. As a great proportion of scarlet and green
predominated in the quilt, it gave a richness to the atmosphere somewhat
like that which streams through stained glass in a chancel window.
Katharine lay upon the bed among pillows, white as the snow drifting
outside, and with a pretty cap shading her delicate features.
"Did you call, Katharine?" questioned the mother, in her clear, cold
way.
"Yes, mother; my head begins to ache. A little while ago I was cold, now
hot flushes are running all over me. Is this fever, do you think?"
The old woman lifted a corner of the quilt from over the window, and
looked in her daughter's face.
Katharine shrunk from the glance.
"Oh, mother, don't look at me so--it makes me tremble!"
Mrs. Allen dropped the quilt, and, ignoring the fears of her child,
answered to the first question.
"You are getting excited, but I think not feverish."
"Mother."
"Well, Katharine."
"I want--I wish--"
The poor thing made an effort to pull down the bed-clothes, but her hand
trembled so violently that she could only make a faint signal before it
fell.
The mother was touched. What woman, however aggrieved, would have
resisted those mournful eyes? She went close to the bed, and turned down
the blanket. A babe lay sleeping on that young creature's bosom, its
little hand resting like a rose leaf, on her neck. A cloud of soft,
golden hair covered its head. Mrs. Allen turned her face away, but the
magnetism of those blue eyes drew it softly toward the child.
"You are its grandmother--and oh, tell me if I am your child yet?"
The young creature began to tremble as she uttered these words. This
disturbed the infant, and the grandmother found a pair of soft, dreamy
eyes looking into hers. The angels who guard little children may have
thrown a heavenly earnestness into the child's look; I do not know--but
it touched that stern heart more than the young mother's appeal had
done. She stooped and took the babe in her arms; a thousand sweet,
maternal recollections rose in her bosom as she pillowed it there, and
laid her face against its velvet cheek.
Katharine smiled. "Mother, is it like me--like what I was once?"
"Yes."
The woman could not utter another word. When a rock is cleft, the
fragments half choke up the waters that gush through them.
"Mother, my head troubles me, and I'm afraid if fever comes I may lose
my senses; but I know every thing now, and want you to believe me. All
that I have told you is true. It isn't because I am ashamed, but he will
be here in a few days--I am sure of that. It is now more than three
months, and he promised solemnly to come by that time. This is why we
must not say any thing to the neighbors; they might not credit me, you
know; but when he is here, who will dare turn against me? You believe
that we are married, dear mother?"
"Yes, I believe it, Katharine."
"If I should be worse, you will find the paper in the garret, between
one of the rafters and the shingles. Nobody must be allowed to say a
word against this child when I am dead."
"Nor against _my_ child while I live!" answered Mrs. Allen. "For this
reason, it must be made known in the neighborhood that you are that
man's wife."
"Not quite yet. It will be time enough when some one comes," pleaded the
young creature. "Nelson may be on the road now. The doctor won't tell,
he promised me."
She was getting excited with opposition; her cheeks were scarlet. The
soft blue eyes began to glitter.
"Promise, mother! It kills me to think what the neighbors will say; but
when he comes, I shall be so proud to take my baby in my
arms--and--and--" She broke off, and lifting one hand to her head, began
waving it to and fro.
Mrs. Allen saw that there was great danger in this agitation, and
attempted to soothe it.
"Promise not to tell! promise not to tell!" cried the invalid, panting
for breath, and moving restlessly on her pillow.
"Yes, Katharine; I promise not to say any thing for a week at least."
"He will be here in a week! he will be here in a week."
Katharine kept whispering this over and over again, until she fell
asleep from pure exhaustion. It was some time before the crimson flush
left her face, or the quick breath subsided to the calm respiration that
followed; but at last she slept tranquilly as the infant which still lay
on its grandmother's bosom.
Mrs. Allen sat down by the kitchen fire. She could not find it in her
heart to put the babe away after its little face had once touched her
own. Seating herself in the high-backed chair, she began rocking to and
fro--and as the love of that little child crept, like a perfume, to her
heart, hatred to its father slowly disappeared, as a kingly essence
destroys all evil odors. She began to think how pleasant it would be to
live in closer connection with the good old couple over the hill, and
how much she had to be thankful for, that her daughter was not, in fact,
the outcast she had almost believed her. As this spirit of gratitude
took possession of her heart, she began to hum over a cradle song, which
had almost died out of her memory, and tender dews stole into her eyes,
of which she was quite unconscious, until the fire began to look hazy
under her steady glance.
Our God uses little children as instruments of great tenderness. They
want no key to the hardest heart; but go in, without knocking, and
nestle themselves like birds in a strange nest, carrying gentleness and
blessings with them. So it was with this little mite of humanity. In the
helplessness of its animal life, it appealed to the stern woman's heart
without challenging the stubborn pride that nothing could conquer. So
she softened down, and from touching the little face, began to kiss it,
and finally converted her lap into a cradle and commenced trotting the
baby on her knees with the most womanly gentleness.
The doctor found her in this condition when he came in the afternoon.
Katharine was still asleep, and the two held a confidential talk on the
hearth-stone, in which the young creature's condition was thoroughly
discussed. When told of the great dread which the young mother felt
regarding any present publicity being given to her marriage, or the
existence of the child, the doctor rather sided with that view of the
question.
"The truth is," he said, "we should have gossip and questions, guesses
and scandal, running through the neighborhood like wildfire. Let the
young fellow come back and settle the whole matter for himself. There is
no reason on earth why you should see company. Besides, the state of the
roads will keep everybody away."
"I never have much company, and don't want any just now; as for
explaining what----"
"Is nobody's business; why, it's just what you dislike, and the thought
of it has, by your own account, driven the young creature half beside
herself. Just let the thing alone, Mrs. Allen; where there is no one to
talk with, there is nothing to tell."
"I will neither seek my neighbors, nor withhold the truth if they demand
it of me," said the widow.
The doctor gathered up his crutches, with a show of impatience, and
muttered something not over complimentary to the sea, and all that
followed it.
His voice aroused the patient in the next room, who called out:
"Who is there, mother? Has he come?"
The doctor stumped across the room, and stood balanced on his crutches
looking at her.
"Oh, is it you, doctor?" she said, in a voice that plainly spoke the
disappointment that she felt.
"Well, it seems impossible to mistake myself for anybody else, or I
should deny being fool enough to come this road twice."
"But you are here. It is very, very kind. You don't know how much I feel
it; besides, I want to say something."
"Never mind, I know what it is; have been talking it over in the next
room. Want to be quiet, natural; sick people always do. Hate to have a
lot of old women screeching over the baby, and asking questions enough
to drive a Christian mother into Bedlam--natural again, why not?
nuisance--women ought to be prohibited as a sex by act of Congress--a
few exceptions, no doubt; but patriotic women are ready to be flung
overboard for the general good."
Katharine looked a little bewildered, and quite weary. She was thinking
about her own troubles, and had not strength enough for any thing else.
"Did any one ask you about us, doctor?"
"About you? no--about where I was going, fifty."
"And you told them?"
"Yes, of course I told 'em; why not?"
Katharine turned very white, and gasped for breath.
"You told them about me--about my baby?"
"Bah child, no; but I told 'em old Lane had caught the whooping-cough,
and that will keep the whole town in gossip at least a week."
Katharine began to laugh--she was but a young thing, and the idea amused
her excessively.
"Stop that, or it'll end in hysterics," he said, frowning upon her with
comical affectation; but she smiled yet, and her pale cheek flushed.
Still, the anxieties that pressed upon her were too real, and she became
grave again.
"You wont say anything about it, please," she murmured. "The minute he
comes, they shall know everything. I'm not very strong; if it wasn't for
that you should read the certificate now; but it's up-stairs, and so we
must wait."
"Never mind, my little Katy-did, I can wait, and so shall the rest of
them; never fear."
"You're very good!" murmured Katharine, faintly; "I shall sleep without
dreaming such frightful things after this."
She closed her eyes a moment, and then opened them with a start.
"Where's the baby?"
"In your mother's lap--don't you hear her buzzing over it like a bumble
bee?"
"Is it--is that her?" whispered the young mother, and a beautiful smile
stole into her eyes. "I don't remember ever hearing her sing before."
"Oh, she'll soon break in--no fool like a grandmother."
"How pleasant it sounds," murmured the young mother, listening to the
low hum which came from the next room, and ignoring the doctor's speech
entirely. "I didn't know mother's voice was so sweet. It makes me
sleepy."
"Then shut your eyes and go to dreaming at once; a good sleep will do
you more good than I can," said the doctor, wheeling round on his
crutches, and stumping off into the next room. Here he gave Mrs. Allen a
quaint reprimand for allowing her patient to put herself into a fever,
and warned her that the next excitement might go to the brain and raise
the mischief. Then he chucked the baby under its mite of a chin, which
the little thing returned with an incipient hiccough instead of a smile,
which was altogether beyond its powers, after which he mounted his horse
and rode off, chuckling over the mystifications which all questioners
were sure to get, on his way home.