THE MOTHER.
From the tall trees which shade the desolate old house the leaves
have fallen one by one, and the November rain makes mournful music
as in the stillness of the night it drops upon the withered foliage,
softly, slowly, as if weeping for the sorrow which has come upon the
household. Matty Kennedy is dead; and in the husband's heart there
is a gnawing pain, such as he never felt before; not even when Katy
died; for Katy, though pure and good, was not so wholly unselfish as
Matty had been, and in thinking of her, he could occasionally recall
an impatient word; but from Matty none. Gentle, loving, and
beautiful she had been to him in life; and now, beautiful in death,
she lay in the silent parlor, on the marble table she had brought
from home, while he--oh, who shall tell what thoughts were busy at
his heart, as he sat there alone, that dismal, rainy night.
In one respect his wishes had been gratified; Matty had not turned
from him in death. She had died within his arms; but so long as the
light of reason shone in her blue eyes,--so long had they, rested on
the rose-bush within the window,--the rose-bush brought from Harry's
grave! Nestled among its leaves was a half-opened bud, and when none
could hear, she whispered softly to Janet, "Place it in my bosom
just as you placed one years ago, when I was Harry's bride."
To Nellie and to Maude she had spoken blessed words of comfort,
commending to the latter as to a second mother the little Louis,
who, trembling with fear, had hidden beneath the bedclothes, so that
he could not see the white look upon her face. Then to her husband
she had turned, pleading with all a mother's tenderness for her
youngest born--her unfortunate one.
"Oh, husband," she said, "you will care for him when I am gone. You
will love my poor, crippled boy! Promise me this, and death will not
be hard to meet. Promise me, won't you?" and the voice was very,
very faint.
He could not refuse, and bending low, he said, "Matty, I will, I
will."
"Bless you, my husband, bless you for that," was Matty's dying
words, for she never spoke again.
It was morning then,--early morning, and a long, dreary day had
intervened, until at last it was midnight, and silence reigned
throughout the house. Maude, Nellie, Janet, and John had wept
themselves sick, while in little Louis' bosom there was a sense of
desolation which kept him wakeful, even after Maude had cried
herself to sleep. Many a time that day had he stolen into the
parlor, and climbing into a chair, as best he could, had laid his
baby cheek against the cold, white face, and smoothing with his
dimpled hand the shining hair, had whispered, "Poor, sick mother,
won't you speak to Louis any more?"
He knew better than most children of his age what was meant by
death, and as he lay awake, thinking how dreadful it was to have no
mother, his thoughts turned toward his father, who had that day been
too much absorbed in his own grief to notice him.
"Maybe he'll love me some now ma is dead," he thought, and with that
yearning for paternal sympathy natural to the motherless, he crept
out of bed, and groping his way with his noiseless crutches to his
father's door, he knocked softly for admittance.
"Who's there?" demanded Dr. Kennedy, every nerve thrilling to the
answer.
"It's me, father; won't you let me in, for its dark out here, and
lonesome, with her lying in the parlor. Oh, father, won't you love
me a little, now mother's dead? I can't help it because I'm lame,
and when I'm a man I will earn my own living. I won't be in the way.
Say, pa, will you love me?"
He remembered the charges his father had preferred against him, and
the father remembered them too. She to whom the cruel words were
spoken was gone from him now and her child, their child, was at the
door, pleading for his love. Could he refuse? No, by every kindly
feeling, by every parental tie, we answer, No; he could not; and
opening the door he took the little fellow in his arms, hugging him
to his bosom, while tears, the first he had shed for many a year,
fell like rain upon the face of his crippled boy. Like some mighty
water, which breaking through its prison walls seeks again its
natural channel, so did his love go out toward the child so long
neglected, the child who was not now to him a cripple. He did not
think of the deformity, he did not even see it. He saw only the
beautiful face, the soft brown eyes and silken hair of the little
one, who ere long fell asleep, murmuring in his dreams, "He loves
me, ma, he does."
Surely the father cannot be blamed if, when he looked again upon the
calm face of the dead, he fancied that it wore a happier look, as if
the whispered words of Louis had reached her unconscious ear. Very
beautiful looked Matty in her coffin--for thirty years had but
slightly marred her youthful face, and the doctor, as he gazed upon
her, thought within himself, "she was almost as fair as Maude
Glendower."
Then, as his eye fell upon the rosebud which Janet had laid upon her
bosom, he said, "'Twas kind in Mrs. Blodgett to place it there, for
Matty was fond of flowers;" but he did not dream how closely was
that rosebud connected with a grave made many years before.
Thoughts of Maude Glendower and mementos of Harry Remington meeting
together at Matty's coffin! Alas, that such should be our life!
Underneath the willows, and by the side of Katy, was Matty laid to
rest, and then the desolate old house seemed doubly desolate--Maude
mourning truly for her mother, while the impulsive Nellie, too, wept
bitterly for one whom she had really loved. To the doctor, however,
a new feeling had been born, and in the society of his son he found
a balm for his sorrow, becoming ere long, to all outward appearance,
the same exacting, overbearing man he had been before. The blows are
hard and oft repeated which break the solid rock, and there will
come a time when that selfish nature shall be subdued and broken
down; but 'tis not yet--not yet.
And now, leaving him a while to himself, we will pass on to a period
when Maude herself shall become in reality the heroine of our story.