"Has he, Smith, been here?"
"No."
"What is it, then?"
"The child has seen _some_ one."
"Seen whom? Who? Who has been here?"
"I did not see it; but--but I am sure the child saw--that is, _thought_
she saw _him_;--the person you have named. Oh, God, in mercy deliver us!
What shall I do--what shall I do!"
Thus saying, the dear little woman burst into tears, and crying, as if
her heart would break, sobbed out an entreaty that I would look at baby;
adding, that she herself had not courage to see whether her darling was
sleeping or dead.
"Dead!" I exclaimed. "Tut, tut, my darling; you must not give way to such
morbid fancies--he is very well, I see him breathing;" and so saying, I
went over to the bed where our little boy was lying. He was slumbering;
though it seemed to me very heavily, and his cheeks were flushed.
"Sleeping tranquilly, my darling--tranquilly, and deeply; and with a
warm colour in his cheeks," I said, rearranging the coverlet, and
retiring to my wife, who sate almost breathless whilst I was looking at
our little boy.
"Thank God--thank God," she said quietly; and she wept again; and rising,
came to his bedside.
"Yes, yes--alive; thank God; but it seems to me he is breathing very
short, and with difficulty, and he looks--_does_ he not look hot and
feverish? Yes, he _is_ very hot; feel his little hand--feel his neck;
merciful heaven! he is burning."
It was, indeed, very true, that his skin was unnaturally dry and hot; his
little pulse, too, was going at a fearful rate.
"I do think," said I--resolved to conceal the extent of my own
apprehensions--"I do think that he is just a _little_ feverish; but he
has often been much more so; and will, I dare say, in the morning, be
perfectly well again. I dare say, but for little Fanny's _dream_, we
should not have observed it at all."
"Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling!" sobbed the poor little woman,
leaning over the bed, with her hands locked together, and looking the
very picture of despair. "Oh, my darling, what has happened to you? I put
you into your bed, looking so well and beautiful, this evening, and here
you are, stricken with sickness, my own little love. Oh, you will
not--you cannot, leave your poor mother!"
It was quite plain that she despaired of the child from the moment we had
ascertained that it was unwell. As it happened, her presentiment was but
too truly prophetic. The apothecary said the child's ailment was
"suppressed small-pox"; the physician pronounced it "typhus." The only
certainty about it was the issue--the child died.
To me few things appear so beautiful as a very young child in its
shroud. The little innocent face looks so sublimely simple and confiding
amongst the cold terrors of death--crimeless, and fearless, that little
mortal has passed alone under the shadow, and explored the mystery of
dissolution. There is death in its sublimest and purest image--no
hatred, no hypocrisy, no suspicion, no care for the morrow ever darkened
that little face; death has come lovingly upon it; there is nothing
cruel, or harsh, in his victory. The yearnings of love, indeed, cannot
be stifled; for the prattle, and smiles, and all the little world of
thoughts that were so delightful, are gone for ever. Awe, too, will
overcast us in its presence--for we are looking on death; but we do not
fear for the little, lonely voyager--for the child has gone, simple and
trusting, into the presence of its all-wise Father; and of such, we
know, is the kingdom of heaven.
And so we parted from poor little baby. I and his poor old nurse
drove in a mourning carriage, in which lay the little coffin, early
in the morning, to the churchyard of ----. Sore, indeed, was my
heart, as I followed that little coffin to the grave! Another burial
had just concluded as we entered the churchyard, and the mourners
stood in clusters round the grave, into which the sexton was now
shovelling the mould.
As I stood, with head uncovered, listening to the sublime and touching
service which our ritual prescribes, I found that a gentleman had drawn
near also, and was standing at my elbow. I did not turn to look at him
until the earth had closed over my darling boy; I then walked a little
way apart, that I might be alone, and drying my eyes, sat down upon a
tombstone, to let the confusion of my mind subside.
While I was thus lost in a sorrowful reverie, the gentleman who had stood
near me at the grave was once more at my side. The face of the stranger,
though I could not call it handsome, was very remarkable; its expression
was the purest and noblest I could conceive, and it was made very
beautiful by a look of such compassion as I never saw before.
"Why do you sorrow as one without hope?" he said, gently.
"I _have_ no hope," I answered.
"Nay, I think you have," he answered again; "and I am sure you will soon
have more. That little child for which you grieve, has escaped the
dangers and miseries of life; its body has perished; but he will receive
in the end the crown of life. God has given him an early victory."
I know not what it was in him that rebuked my sullen pride, and humbled
and saddened me, as I listened to this man. He was dressed in deep
mourning, and looked more serene, noble, and sweet than any I had ever
seen. He was young, too, as I have said, and his voice very clear and
harmonious. He talked to me for a long time, and I listened to him with
involuntary reverence. At last, however, he left me, saying he had often
seen me walking into town, about the same hour that he used to go that
way, and that if he saw me again he would walk with me, and so we might
reason of these things together.
It was late when I returned to my home, now a house of mourning.