MARY.
Jerry was missed at home;—to be sure, his departure was not felt so
sensibly as it would have been, had he acted the part of a dutiful
son and an affectionate brother. Still, all mourned his sudden
disappearance; especially, as they knew not what had become of him.
For a while, Mrs. Preston looked up the road, many times every day, to
see if she could discern anything of the runaway, for she had strong
expectations that he would return. But he did not come, nor were any
tidings received from him. In her distress and anxiety on his account,
she forgot all his bad conduct, and only remembered that he was her
son,—her only son. Little Mary, too, was much troubled at the loss of
her brother. She did not fully comprehend the occasion of his absence,
and as little was said in her presence about it, she somehow got the
notion into her head that Jerry had been seized and carried off by
certain wicked people whom she called “bugaboos.” “Mother,” she would
say, “when Jerry gets to be a great-big man, wont he get away from the
bugaboos; and come back again?” And then her mother would look sad, and
reply, “I hope so, my dear.”
About a fortnight after Jerry’s departure, Mrs. Preston received a
letter from her husband’s brother in Boston. She opened it with mingled
hope and trembling, for it was in reply to one she had addressed him,
the day after Jerry left home. But it gave her no information in regard
to his whereabouts. Jerry’s uncle simply stated that he had been absent
from home, and did not get her letter till a few days previous; that he
had made inquiries, but could learn nothing of Jerry; and that he would
be on the look-out for him, and give her immediate information should
he hear anything concerning the runaway. She laid the letter down with
a sigh; and that evening she wrote to her husband, informing him of the
situation of affairs,—for she had delayed doing so until now, in hope
of hearing what had become of Jerry. Being at work in the woods, far
away from any post-office, Mr. Preston did not receive this letter
until it had got to be quite an old affair, and so he did not think it
worth while to return home, to look after his son.
Clinton continued to be a frequent visiter at Mrs. Preston’s, and was
regarded as one of the family, rather than a stranger. When riding
down to the Cross Roads, he always stopped to inquire if they had any
errands to be done at the store; and often, when going back and forth,
he would drop in a few moments, to chat with the children, or join
in their sports. There was in the yard a great image of snow, twice
as large as a man, which Clinton had made to amuse little Mary. The
frequent thawings and freezings to which this snow giant was subjected,
gave him a smooth, thick coating of ice, so that a snow ball made
no impression upon him. This, Clinton said, was his coat of mail.
By causing water to drop down its chin, when it was freezing cold,
Clinton made a beard of icicles for the image, which gave it a very
grotesque look. One morning, after a thaw, Mary was highly delighted
with a discovery she made of a long icicle hanging from the nose of
the “old man,” as she called him. A few days after there was a heavy
fall of moist snow, which swelled the image to gigantic proportions,
the outline of the figure being still preserved; but soon it tumbled
to pieces of its own weight, and only a heap of hardened snow and ice
remained to tell its story.
[Illustration: The snow image]
Clinton was a favorite with the family, and his visits gave them much
pleasure; yet Mrs. Preston could not look upon him without a feeling
of sadness, for his presence always reminded her of her own son—the
playmate from infancy of Clinton. Nor could she help contrasting their
characters and prospects. She thought what a difference a few years had
made, in the two boys; and then she wondered whether this difference
was to go on, ever widening, to the end of their lives.
Thus week after week passed away, and the family were beginning to
recover from the melancholy occasioned by Jerry’s flight from home,
when a new and unwelcome guest entered the house. This guest was
sickness, and Mary was its victim. She grew ill so alarmingly fast,
from the hour of her attack, that James was soon despatched for the
doctor. When this functionary arrived, he felt of Mary’s pulse and
temples, looked at her tongue, and made some inquiries of her mother in
relation to her symptoms. He then pronounced her to be in a fever, but
expressed some hope of being able to throw it off. Opening the little
leathern trunk, which he always carried with him in his professional
visits, he took from it several kinds of medicines, and gave them
to Mary’s mother, with directions how to administer them. But Mary
continued to grow worse and worse, in spite of the good doctor’s
medicine. She tossed about on her little bed, moaning piteously, and
complaining continually of the dreadful pain in her head. Night came,
and she could not sleep, although the lamp in the room was shaded, and
her mother moved noiselessly about in her gentle ministries to the sick
one. Every little while she would call for drink, for she said she was
burning up with the heat; but she ate nothing.
The doctor called the next day, and after the usual examination, he
left some more medicine, and departed. But his little patient grew no
better. And so daily he repeated his visits, and each time remained
longer, and looked more anxious; but his skill seemed to be of little
avail. At length one morning, as Emily and Harriet were sitting at the
bed-side of the sufferer, while their mother was necessarily absent,
Mary awoke from a short, troubled sleep, and, with a wild, unnatural
look, began to talk very fast and very singularly about a great many
different things.
“There’s my old snow man,” she said, pointing to a bed-post on which
some light-colored clothing was hanging; “old man, old man, old man,
do you know who made you? I know who it was—’twas Clinty. O mother,
see that! see that! isn’t it beautiful! Now it’s gone, and I shan’t
see it again. Yes I will too. There it goes—buz-z-z-z-z—do n’t you
sting me, you naughty bee—I’ll tell my mother if you do. See! see! see!
there he comes—that’s Jerry—no it aint—yes it _is_ too—I tell you it
_is_ Jerry—don’t you see him? O, how glad I am he’s got away from the
bugaboos! Look! look quick! that’s him—there it goes—up there—don’t
you see it way up there, going round and round? By-low baby,—by-low
baby,” she continued, twisting the bed-clothes into something that
seemed to her a doll; and then she repeated a verse of one of her
little songs:—
“Dance, little baby, dance up high;
Never mind, baby, mother is by;
Crow and caper, caper and crow,
There, little baby, there you go.”
Thus she continued to talk, her mind flying from one thing to another
in a most singular manner. Her sisters spoke to her, but she took no
notice of them; and Harriet ran down to her mother, and bursting into
tears, cried:—
“O, mother, do come up stairs—Mary’s gone crazy, and is talking about
everything!”
The poor little sufferer continued in a delirious state most of the
day, though occasionally, for a few moments at a time, reason would
seem to resume its sway. The doctor looked more grave than ever, and
when Mrs. Preston followed him into the entry, and entreated him to
tell her exactly what he thought of the case, he replied:—
“I think she is a very sick child, but as the fever has not reached the
turning-point, it is impossible to tell how it will result. I do not
despair of saving her, however, for I have seen more than one patient
live through as violent an attack as this appears to be.”
Clinton called daily at the house, to inquire after Mary, but as it
was important to keep her as quiet as possible, he did not go into the
sick chamber. His mother, however, came over every day, and sometimes
remained all night, greatly assisting Mrs. Preston in taking care
of the sick one. Mary’s delirium continued with little interruption
for two or three days. When she came out of this state, she cast a
recognizing look at her mother and sisters, who were seated in the
room, and then, in a low voice, inquired:—
“Mother, where is Jerry?”
“Jerry is not here, dear,” replied Mrs. Preston; “he has not yet got
back.”
“Where has he gone?”
“I don’t know where he is—he went away before you was taken sick, but
we hope he will be back soon.”
“But I saw him here yesterday, mother,” continued Mary, who had a
confused remembrance of some of the impressions of her delirium.
“No, darling, you are mistaken, you dreamed that you saw him—that was
all.”
Mary looked disappointed; and as her recollection of Jerry’s
disappearance returned, she added mournfully:—
“Then I shan’t see Jerry again before I die—nor father either.”
“O, yes you will,” quickly replied her mother, startled at these words;
“you will soon get well, I hope, and father will be home, before many
weeks, and Jerry, too, perhaps.”
Mary sadly shook her head, but made no reply. That night she slept
a few hours, but in the morning it was evident that she was rapidly
failing. Calling her mother to the bed-side, she said, with a beautiful
smile upon her face:—
“Dear mother, I am going to-day—I have seen the angel that is to carry
me over the river. O, I wish I could tell you all about it, but I can’t
talk much now. I saw a beautiful country—there was no snow there, but
the grass was all green, and there were flowers of every kind. There
was a great temple, too, as high as the clouds, and it dazzled my eyes
to look at it, it glittered so in the sun. And I saw thousands of
little children, dressed in white, and the Saviour gathered them around
him, and kissed them, and then they all sang, and looked so happy,
and _he_ looked so kind. But there was a dark, ugly river between me
and them, and while I was thinking how I should like to get across, a
tall, beautiful angel came up to me, and asked me if I would not like
to become one of the Saviour’s little lambs. I told him I should, but I
was afraid of the terrible river. Then he kissed me, and told me not to
be afraid, for he would come for me in a few hours, and carry me over;
and he said I never should be sick any more, nor go astray. And I asked
if he, would not take you too, and father, and Jerry, and Emily, and
Harriet, but he said:—‘Not yet.’ And while the angel was talking to me,
the Saviour looked towards us, and stretched out his arms; and so I am
sure that I shall go to heaven to-day.”
Mrs. Preston listened to this recital in tears, and was too much
overpowered with her emotions to make any reply. It was but too
evident that Mary’s presentiment of her approaching death was not
unlikely to prove true. She continued to sink through the day. The
doctor came once more, but he told the weeping mother he could do
nothing more for the sufferer. In the afternoon, Mary desired that
all the members of the family should be gathered around her. In a
few simple, childish words, she bade each a farewell, and looked the
affection which she could not express. And then, remembering the absent
ones, she left messages of love for her father and Jerry. She soon
after sank into a stupor, and apparently did not recognize her mother
and sisters, who sat silently and tearfully watching her breathing,
as each minute it became shorter and more labored. Just as the last
spark of life was expiring, a heavenly smile beamed upon her pure young
face, and the exclamation, “There he is!—the angel is coming!” faintly
trembled upon her lips. A moment after, little Mary was gathered into
the fold of the Good Shepherd, in heaven.
A little grave was dug in the frozen earth, in one corner of
the garden, and there the dust of Mary now sleeps, in hope of a
resurrection. But it is only the body that lies there. _She_ went with
the good angel, we trust, to become one of the lambs in the Saviour’s
flock.
“There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty’s stream for ever flows,
And pleasure’s day no sunset knows.”