A BRIGHT DREAM AND PEACEFUL END.
The seeming favorable turn of my mother's disease proved, as Aunt
Patience had feared, of but short duration. She was soon again almost
entirely confined to her bed; except that, in the after-noons for the
sake of the change, she would recline for a short time upon the sofa in
the parlor. But this was only for a few days, and then she was unable to
leave her own apartment.
As I have said so little regarding my own feelings, in view of my
mother's death, the reader may be led to think that I felt less keenly
than I might have been supposed to do. If I have said little, it is for
the reason that I have no words adequate to describe what my feelings
were at the time. I felt stunned as by a heavy blow; and it seemed to me
if my mother died I certainly could not live. I had yet to learn that
grief does not kill--that is, not suddenly.
I have often since looked back to that time, and felt deeply humbled,
while thinking how little I felt resigned to the will of heaven. I could
not then, as I have since done, recognize the hand of a kind and loving
Father in the stroke. I could only feel that my mother was leaving me,
and all was darkness beyond. I now scarcely ever left my mother's room,
except when Aunt Patience would almost compel me for a short time, to
retire to my own apartment, that I might obtain a little rest. But the
thought that soon I would have no mother was ever present to my mind,
and I wished to remain with her as long as she might be spared to me.
About three weeks previous to my mother's death, Aunt Patience urgently
requested me one afternoon to retire to my own room and seek some rest,
saying I looked entirely worn out. After obtaining from her a promise
that she would not allow me to sleep too long, I complied. My room
seemed very cool and refreshing that sultry afternoon, and, lying down
upon my bed, I soon sank into a profound slumber, which continued for
three or four hours. Upon my going down stairs, I was surprised at the
lateness of the hour, and enquired of Aunt Patience why she had not
called me? She replied that as my mother had seemed quite comfortable,
she thought it best to let me enjoy a sound sleep. I persuaded Aunt
Patience to retire to rest soon after tea, as I intended watching that
night by my mother. Thus far we had ourselves been able to attend to the
wants of my mother, without assistance, as it pleased her better that
either Aunt Patience or I should attend to her; but we had lately
allowed a friend to sleep in the house, as we did not like to be left
alone. That evening, after my mother had partaken of a little light
refreshment, she seemed inclined to sleep. I took up a book and tried to
become interested in its pages. As my mother now seemed to enjoy a
peaceful slumber, I remember I thought her dreams must have been happy
ones, for I often noticed a smile upon her countenance. I think she had
slept nearly two hours, when she awoke, and requested me to give her a
drink. I supported her upon my arm as I held to her lips a glass in
which I had mixed some wine and water. Laying her gently back upon her
pillows I enquired if I could do anything farther for her comfort? She
replied that she felt quite comfortable; and, thinking that she might
again fall asleep, I resumed my reading. After remaining quiet for
sometime she softly called my name. As I stepped hastily to her
bed-side, she said,--
"Come and sit near me, Clara, I have something to say to you."
Obedient to her request, I drew my chair near to her bedside, and seated
myself. She clasped my hand in both hers, as she said,--
"My dear Clara, I have long wished to ask you if you are aware that I
must soon leave you?"
As she said these words the grief of my overburdened heart defied
control, and, burying my face in her pillows I sobbed convulsively. This
sudden near approach to death sent an icy chill over my whole being.
"You must endeavor to compose yourself, my daughter," said my mother,
"and listen to me."
I tried to restrain my tears as my mother continued.
"I have long wished to talk with you, but have deferred it from time
to time, through fear of giving you pain; but I now feel it an
imperative duty to converse with you upon the subject. Allow me to tell
you a dream which visited me in the slumber from which I awoke a few
minutes since. In my dream I seemed to be walking alone on a calm
summer's evening, without any definite object in view. When I had walked
for a considerable distance the scene suddenly changed, and I found
myself walking by the banks of a placid river. Looking forward, I
observed a person advancing to meet me, whom I at once knew to be your
father. My joy was great at the prospect of meeting him; for in my dream
I recollected that he had been long dead. I enquired of him how it
happened that I met him there? He replied, 'I saw you coming when you
were yet a long way off, and feared you might lose your way.' Turning
back in the direction from whence he had come, he turned towards me,
with a pleasant smile, and said, 'follow me.' As we walked onward, I
observed that the river by which we walked seemed gradually to become
more narrow the further we advanced. He continued to walk onward for
some time, a little in advance of me, when suddenly stopping, he turned
to me and said, 'My dear Alice, look across to the other side of the
river, and behold the place which is now my home.' The breadth of the
river had continued to lessen, till it was now only a narrow line of
water which separated us from the opposite shore. I looked as he
directed me, and, oh! Clara, I can find no words by which to describe to
you what I saw. It so far surpassed anything pertaining to this world
that I am unable to give you any description of it. I felt an intense
desire to cross the narrow stream which separated me from the beautiful
place. I enquired of your father if I could not with him cross the
stream and enter those golden gates, which I could plainly see before
me. He replied, 'No, my dear Alice, every one must cross this river
_alone_. You must go back for a brief period, as you have yet a mission
to perform before taking your final leave of earth. You must comfort the
sorrowing heart of our child 'ere you leave her. Tell her of the home
which I now inherit, where there is also a place prepared for you and
for her, if you so live as to be found worthy to enter those gates which
you see before you.' He then said, 'I must now leave you, and you must
return to our Clara for a few brief days, when you will be summoned to
rejoin me in yonder blissful abode.' I turned to make some further
remark to him, but he had gone from my sight, and I awoke with my mind
deeply impressed by my dream. But now," added my mother, to me, "the
bitterness of death is already past. It is for you only that I grieve. I
trust however, that instead of grieving immoderately for your mother you
will endeavor to discharge your duty in whatever position it may please
God to place you, and so live that whenever you may be called from this
world it may be to meet your mother in Heaven. Since my illness my mind
has been much exercised regarding my own state as a sinner; for be
assured, Clara, that, in the near prospect of death, we find in
ourselves much that is unworthy, which had before escaped our notice
while in the enjoyment of health. But I am now happy while I tell you
that all is peace with me. I now feel willing to depart whenever it is
the will of my Heavenly Father to call me hence, and I feel confident
that in a very few days I shall be summoned from earth. I am sorry to
see you grieve," said my mother, for I was weeping bitterly; "endeavor
to derive consolation from what I have said; and be thankful that when I
leave you it will be to rejoin your dear father where there is neither
sorrow nor sighing."
Seeing that my tears agitated my mother, I succeeded in checking them,
and assumed an air of composure, which I was far from feeling. After the
above conversation with me, my mother enjoyed a night of tranquil
repose. I now felt the certainty of her death, and prayed for strength
to meet the sorrow which that event would bring to me.
So calm and peaceful were the last days of my mother's life that we
could hardly recognize the presence of the King of Terrors, till the
damps of death were gathering upon her brow. She died at sunset on a
mild evening in September. She had passed the day almost entirely free
from pain. Toward evening she slept for an hour; on waking, she said to
me,--
"My dear child, I think the hour of my departure has arrived. I feel
that I am dying."
I now observed that look upon the countenance of my mother which tells
us that a loved friend is no longer ours. She requested me to call Aunt
Patience, which I instantly did. I also sent a hasty summons to her
physician, although it was needless, for she was even then entering the
dark valley. The physician soon arrived, and after one look at my
mother, said to me, in a low voice,--
"My dear Miss Roscom, as a physician, I can be of no further use, but as
a friend, I will remain with you."
The physician was an old and valued friend, being the same who had stood
by the death-bed of my father, and he deeply sympathized with me in
this, my second bereavement.
As I stood by my mother, my grief was not noisy; it was far too deep
and powerful for that. Outwardly, I was quite calm. My mother had
endeavored to prepare my mind for this hour. I had also prayed for
strength to meet it with fortitude and resignation; but those who have
stood by the dying bed of a fond mother may understand my sorrow. My
mother was spared much of the suffering which attends the last moments
of many. She seemed to be softly breathing her life away. After lying
for some time tranquil and quiet, she suddenly opened her eyes and
looked from one to the other of us. As they rested upon me, she made a
sign that I should go nearer to her.
"Weep not, my dear child," said she, in a whisper; "be faithful, and you
will yet meet me in heaven."
She also addressed a few words of like import to Aunt Patience.
Suddenly, she raised her hands, and, as she looked upward, with a smile
upon her countenance, we heard a sigh--and her spirit had returned unto
God Who gave it.
I was borne from the apartment in a state of insensibility, and, when I
awoke to consciousness, the doctor and Aunt Patience were standing at my
bedside. After administering a quieting draught, the physician left us,
saying to Aunt Patience that she must try and induce me to sleep, as
that would help to restore my shattered nerves. Aunt Patience sat by me
during the long hours of that night, but it was not until the day began
to dawn that I sank into a heavy slumber, from which I did not awake
until a late hour in the morning. On first awaking, it seemed to me that
I had had a frightful dream; but, as my mind became more clear, I
realized the sad truth that my mother was no more. I heard a footstep
enter my room, and soon a familiar voice addressed me, saying,--
"My dear Clara, I have come to see if I can be of any assistance to you
in your sorrow."
It was Mrs. Leighton who had thus entered my room, she having hastened
to our dwelling as soon as she learned of my mother's death. I could not
at first reply to her kind words; I could only weep. She did not force
me to talk, but, gently as a mother could have done, did she bathe my
fevered brow and throbbing temples. Telling me to remain quiet for a few
moments, she left the room, and soon returned, bearing a cup of tea,
which she insisted upon my drinking. She assisted me to dress, and
opened a window to admit the cool morning air. I tearfully thanked her
for those kind attentions. She insisted that I should lean upon her for
support, as we descended the stairs, and indeed I felt scarcely able to
walk without assistance.
On going below, I found several kind friends, who had remained with
Aunt Patience to render their assistance in any office of friendship we
might require. Mrs. Leighton accompanied me to the room where lay the
lifeless remains of my mother. I folded back the snowy napkin which
covered her face, and gazed long upon those dear features, now stamped
with the seal of death. As I gazed upon her now peaceful countenance, I
felt that to wish her back again would be almost a sin. I also derived
much comfort from the consoling words of Mrs. Leighton. I cannot dwell
longer upon these sorrows. When I stood at my mother's grave, and looked
down upon her coffin, after it had been lowered into the earth, I almost
wished that I too were resting by her side. Since that period I have
experienced other sorrows; but the sharpest pang I have ever felt, was
when I turned away from the graves where rested the remains of both
father and mother.
As I have before mentioned, Aunt Patience had, in the course of her
life, passed through many trying vicissitudes, and, previous to her
death, my mother had considered that we could make no better return for
the debt of gratitude we owed her than by making provision for her old
age. I say, with good reason, that we owed her a debt of gratitude, for,
during her residence with us, she had shown the utmost kindness to both
my mother and myself. And when my mother's health failed her, the care
and attentions of Aunt Patience were unceasing. With a view of making
provision for Aunt Patience, my mother had made arrangements that our
house should be sold, and the money deposited for her future benefit. In
making this arrangement, my mother wished me to accept of a portion of
the money which the sale of the house would bring; but I declined,
saying that, as she had given me a good education, I was amply able to
support myself, so long as I was blessed with health. My mother assented
to the arrangement, saying that I could draw money from the deposit
should I ever have occasion so to do.
We remained for two months in our lonely home, after the death of my
mother; at the end of which time the new owner took possession of the
dwelling. Aunt Patience had decided upon going to reside with a relative
who lived in Massachusetts, and the interest of the money, deposited for
her use, was to be regularly remitted to her. We disposed of the
furniture, with the exception of a few cherished articles, which I
reserved for myself; these the purchaser kindly allowed me to leave in
one of the upper rooms till I might wish to remove them. The same day
that Aunt Patience set out on her journey to Massachusetts, I returned
to Mrs. Leighton.