'Mr. Meeker!'
There was no answer.
'Mr. Meeker!'
The accent was one of sudden distress and alarm. There was a short
pause, when the call was renewed.
'Mr. Meeker!'
'What is it? What is the matter? Is anything the matter?'
A slight groan.
Mr. Meeker sprang from his bed as if he were a young man, and made haste
to light a candle.
'My dear, are you ill?'
'I don't know. It's something strange.'
Mrs. Meeker's voice sounded so unnatural that her husband hurried to the
other side of the bed. He found his wife helpless, unable to change her
position. Her articulation was very difficult, and her countenance
presented a ghastly appearance, for one half of her appeared to be
completely paralyzed.
It was the work of a few moments to alarm the house and despatch a
messenger for the doctor. But what could a physician avail when nature
refused longer to perform her office? The doctor could investigate, and
the result of his examination was most alarming. Voluntary action over
one half the frame quite suspended; what was worse, there was little or
no sensation. The poor woman essayed to speak from time to time, but
with repulsive contortions, so that her words sounded like idiotic
babble. As her husband bent over her, she seized his arm with the hand
still _live_, and with distinctness said:
'_Send for Hiram._'
This was in time for the mail which closed in twenty minutes.
* * * * *
Hiram rose the morning after the long session at Mr. Tenant's house,
cool and refreshed by his undisturbed slumber. Arriving at his counting
room, he received, among his other correspondence, a letter, which read
as follows:
MY DEAR SON: Your mother has been taken alarmingly ill. Come home
at once. Your affectionate father,
F. MEEKER.
What a load off Hiram's mind by the receipt of this brief note! The idea
of a fond, devoted mother, struck down by a possibly fatal illness, did
not present itself for an instant, or if it did, it was without effect
on him.
He breathed a deep _relieved_ respiration, while he articulated, just
above a whisper, '_How very Providential!_'
The New Haven boat left at one o'clock. Hiram spent a most active
morning. Hill was summoned, and kept on the run all the time. No
explanations, though, except "a sudden call out of town." Arrangements
were made which looked to an absence prolonged into weeks. The bank was
visited with reference to what might be required, and the news of his
mother's dangerous illness turned to advantage in the most effective
way.
All was ready.
It was just half past twelve o'clock. Hiram sat down, and taking up a
torn piece of paper, scratched off a blurred and nearly unintelligible
scrawl as follows:
12-1/2 P.M.
DEAR EMMA: I have this moment received the enclosed. I leave in
fifteen minutes. Barely time to send this.
H.
This note he despatched by a messenger, and went directly on board the
boat. There he found his brother, Dr. Frank, who had also been summoned
by his father, although not mentioned in Mrs. Meeker's request. The
brothers shook hands. The Doctor's heart was softened by the afflictive
intelligence, and Hiram felt in a very placable humor, in consequence of
the 'special interposition' that day made in his behalf. They did not
converse much, however. Hiram sat most of the time quietly in a corner
of the boat, looking over various commercial papers, while Dr. Frank
walked up and down the deck, enjoying the cool breeze and the pleasant
landscape presented on either side, despite the melancholy thoughts
which were from time to time forced on him, in view of the alarming
letter he had received. But he was familiar with disease and every
corporeal malady. His nature was buoyant and sanguine. He had the
confidence of a man of true genius in his own powers, and this did not
permit any very grave doubts about the result of his mother's illness.
* * * * *
When Emma Tenant received Hiram's note, she expressed but one feeling,
one sensation: that of earnest and profound sympathy from the bottom of
a heart earnest and sympathetic.
'Poor Hiram,' she said to herself. 'Poor, dear Hiram. He has been
obliged to leave suddenly without a word of consolation and kindness
from me. And I was unkind to him last night. I know I was. Poor fellow;
but I will make up for it when he comes back. I will never distrust him
again. Never.'
* * * * *
The stage reached Hampton at the usual time. The passengers had ridden
all night, and now descended glum and stiff to stretch their limbs for
breakfast. A nice double wagon stood waiting. It was driven by the
younger brother.
'How are you, Ned?' said the Doctor, first getting out. 'How is mother?'
'Oh, very bad, Frank; very bad. Past all hope, the doctors say.'
'What is it?'
'Paralysis.'
'Good God! you don't tell me so?'
The other nodded.
All this time Hiram stood calmly listening, but not saying a word. _He_
was greatly relieved. He felt sure that he could not return to New York
for two or three weeks, and--he was to be married in three weeks.
Dr. Frank was the first to enter the sick room. Though a physician,
accustomed to every form of disease, he was appalled at the change in
his mother's appearance. On this, however, we will not dwell. Mrs.
Meeker had been gradually sinking since the first attack. She was quite
sensible, however. Dr. Frank approached the bed and kneeled down and
addressed his mother tenderly.
The poor woman tried to articulate, and after many efforts, she
gasped--'_Hiram_.'
'He has come,' replied Dr. Frank, 'and will be with you in a moment.'
This seemed to relieve her, and the Doctor proceeded to investigate the
case as far as was necessary. There could be but one conclusion--Mrs.
Meeker was soon to pass away from this world. She was beyond the reach
of medical aid.
Dr. Frank stepped into the sitting room, and beckoned Hiram to go in.
Then came a very touching scene. When the mother became conscious of the
presence of her darling boy, she essayed to give exhibitions of her
feelings. It is impossible to describe these. To have him hold her
lifeless hand, to endeavor to press his own with the one which was still
in part vital, to pass her fingers over his face, and strive to put her
arm around his neck, seemed to render her perfectly happy. But her
strength was soon exhausted, and she was obliged to rest. What appeared
to afflict her most was that she could not articulate with distinctness.
She evidently wished to commune with her son, but it was impossible. She
did, however, give utterance to a few words, which were perhaps an index
to her thoughts:
'_Good--be good--good man_,' were plainly intelligible. '_Too
worldly--not_' * * * (the words were not audible). '_Treasure in
heaven--in heaven._'
By which disconnected sentences one might hope, and, I think, reasonably
infer that Mrs. Meeker, in view of that eternity for which she had been
so long, as she thought, preparing, suddenly saw things in a new and
different light, and desired effectually and lovingly, to impress the
same on her favorite child. Hiram, during the interview, behaved like a
model son--pliant, sorrowful, devoted, affectionate. But it would make
you shudder if you could have looked into his heart.
* * * * *
When his mother became exhausted, so as no longer to be sensible of his
presence, he stole softly out of the room, and breathed long and freely,
as one safely through with some difficult performance or operation.
Meanwhile Dr. Frank was sitting with his father. Very affecting was the
interview. The old man had at no time been ready to believe the
attending physician, who could give him no hope. When 'Frank' came, _he_
would know all about it. And so he did, but his knowledge could bring no
comfort--only a confirmation of what had already been announced.
'She can't recover, father. She can't recover,' and the stout man began
to sob. In the presence of his parent he was again a child, and the
latter instinctively became consoler. Mr. Meeker, as we have intimated,
though old, was not infirm, and it was a curious sight to witness his
efforts to comfort his boy, while he himself so much more required
sympathy.
* * * * *
So the day passed. The next morning Dr. Frank was obliged to return to
the city, for his patients demanded his presence. He first had a
consultation with the attending physician. Nothing remained for Mrs.
Meeker but wearisome days and nights till death should release her, and
all that a medical man could do was to make her as comfortable as
possible.
There was a small room adjoining the one where Mrs. Meeker lay, which
Hiram took possession of. It had a pleasant window looking out on the
garden, and it contained a small cot bedstead, besides a table and
chairs. Here Hiram spent most of his time busily occupied. By every mail
he received letters from New York, detailing with minuteness just what
took place in his affairs from day to day. In short, his private office
was moved from New York to Hampton, and the only apparent inconvenience
was that he did business at arm's length, as they say. Daily came a
letter from Hill, although Hill was not in Hiram's counting room. Daily
was an answer returned.
There was some one else who wrote Hiram just as regularly. Among the
business letters, written in various hands and on various kinds of
paper, could always be seen a small, neatly folded sheet, having a
refined and delicate superscription. It was from Emma Tenant. She had
forgotten all that was unpleasant and disagreeable in their last
interview, on receiving her lover's hurried-_looking_ scrawl, and, as if
by a sudden rebound, her sympathies were roused to an extraordinary
degree for 'poor Hiram--dear Hiram,' whom she 'treated so coldly' the
last time they met. I need not say her notes were full of the most
tender sympathy and condolence.
These letters bored Hiram exceedingly. The second day after reaching
Hampton he had written Emma another of his hastily got up epistles,
which contained just six lines, stating that he had found his mother in
a dying condition, and was watching at her bedside. He did not intend to
write again, but Emma's letters were so persistent that, despite his
resolution, he did despatch two other notes, each more hasty and
illegible and more distracted in tenor than the previous one. In fact
the last had no signature at all.
At length Emma was so completely carried away by Hiram's distress, that
she actually desired to proceed to Hampton, where she felt her presence
would act like a balm to his sorrowful and bruised heart. Her mother, of
course, would permit no such indiscreet step, so that Emma had to rest
satisfied with writing long, loving letters.
Hiram, meantime, was not without his harmless recreations.
[All the town seemed to have been informed how devoted Hiram was to his
sick mother. Nobody knew, however, of the secret of the little room
adjoining, and of our hero's busy hours there.]
In the cool of the afternoon he would take a walk into the village. He
called on his old master, Benjamin Jessup, who still maintained the
opposition store as against the Smiths. Jessup was the same
good-natured, jovial fellow as ever, but all token of familiarity died
away when Hiram, entering his place, saluted him with the quiet air and
manner of recognized superiority--yet, as you would say, pleasantly
enough. The rich New York shipping merchant inspired the country
storekeeper with awe.
Hiram enjoyed all this vastly, and talked amiably with Jessup about old
times. He walked complacently over the village, stopping every few steps
to have a word with his numerous acquaintances.
One afternoon, as he was taking his usual walk to the village, and had
nearly reached it, he met a lady whom at first he did not recognize, but
who appeared to know him from a distance.
It was Mary Jessup--now Mrs. Mary Williams--who stopped the way, and
whose face crimsoned as she approached. She had been married four or
five years--well married, as the phrase is. Her appearance had greatly
improved. Her form was finely developed. She had become stouter, and was
really more blooming than when she was a girl.
I have said she blushed, but not from any sense of mortification, such
as is not unfrequently experienced when one of the sex, feeling
conscious that time has not dealt kindly with her, meets an old friend
after a lapse of years, and dreads the first scrutinizing gaze. On the
contrary, Mary Williams was fully sensible of her improved good looks,
and this gave to her a certain self-possession of manner which prevented
the least awkwardness on her part.
Still she blushed--from old recollections, doubtless, and because Hiram
had not before greeted her as a married woman.
'Why, how do you do, Mr. Meeker? I am very glad to see you, even by
accident. I heard of you at father's, and I think you might, for old
acquaintance, sake, have stepped in to see me. Mr. Williams, too--you
used to know him--would be very glad to see you.'
Mrs. Williams was determined to have the first word, and she took
advantage of it. She looked very handsome, and acted more and more at
ease as she proceeded, especially after the reference to Mr. Williams.
[Women always like to allude to their husbands in presence of an old
admirer; as much as to say, 'Don't think I am without somebody to care
for and protect me;' or, 'Don't fancy I mean to forget my husband
because I choose to be chattering with you;' or--or--or--a dozen things
else.]
Hiram replied in his old artful way, very seriously, and with an air of
sadness (as he made allusion to his mother's situation), yet with a
touch of embarrassment (all assumed), while his voice assumed a
tenderness of feeling which it would seem impossible for him to restrain
in consequence of the suddenness of the meeting.
'Is she indeed so ill?' asked Mrs. Williams. 'We understood she was
greatly afflicted by a stroke of paralysis, but I had no thought of
immediate danger.'
'She cannot live,' replied Hiram, his lips quivering.
'Oh, Mr. Meeker, do not say that. I cannot bear to hear it. You know
how attached I always was to your mother.'
'Call me Hiram,' was the response. 'It will put me in mind of old
times.'
'Well, I don't know but it _is_ more natural, for I declare I have
hardly set eyes on you since you left our house.'
Hiram sighed.
'Well, I suppose I shall not see you again for another five years; so I
had best say, 'Good-by.''
They were standing at a point where a lane led off from the main street.
'Which way are you going?' asked Hiram.
'Just a few steps down the lane, and then home.'
'Shall you be detained long?'
'Only a minute. I have just to run in and leave a pattern, if you must
know.'
'Then I will walk along with you, if you have no objections. I am out
for a little necessary exercise.'
'Objections? why, I shall be delighted.' * * *
They sauntered down the lane to the place indicated by Mrs. Williams,
where a sign over the door, 'Fashionable Dressmaker,' explained the
feminine nature of her errand. Leaving there, the two walked on till
they reached a spot where they used to stroll together in old times.
'Now I think of it,' said Mrs. Williams, as she came out of the house
and rejoined her companion, 'I forgot to ask you if you are married,
because if you are, I need make no apology for marching you by a
dressmaker's establishment.
'Don't you know whether I am married or not?'
'Why, how should I? I certainly think you ought to be by this time. Why
don't you marry Miss Burns, or Louise Hawkins, or Charlotte, or--or'--
'Or whom?' asked Hiram.
'Oh, I dare say there are ever so many more, ever so many. So you are
not married?'
'Do you think I am, Mary?' * * *
As I was saying, the two sauntered on till they reached a spot that had
been favorite ground for their sentimental strolls. Both knew well
enough, when Hiram proposed to walk down the lane, where they would
land, for it was in both their minds. Mrs. Williams fancied it would
amuse her and furnish a little variety. She was very sure of herself,
and knew 'just what a flirt Hiram was.'
Hiram--but never mind what _he_ thought.
* * * * *
Although the days were at their longest, it was quite dark before Mrs.
Williams reached her own door. She entered it--after a hurried 'good
evening' to Hiram--flushed, excited, and with feelings generally
disturbed. Contrary to her resolution, in opposition to her judgment,
and, I may say, against her will, she listened to the old familiar
accents breathed in more impassioned tones than ever before, while
relieved by a gloss of sentimental sadness.
What had she been doing, and where had the hours fled? To what was she
listening, whose arm did she hold, and whose hand ventured to enclose
hers?
[It was 'only in sisterly friendship.' That was Hiram's observation as
he took it.]
Before she was aware of it, twilight was disappearing in the darkness.
She started as if recovering herself, and commenced to walk hurriedly
toward home. Hiram by no means relished the pace, but he was forced to
keep up, and, as I have observed, with an abrupt 'good evening' he was
summarily dismissed.
But he had enjoyed himself exceedingly, and he walked slowly toward his
house, recalling every little word which, as he believed, disclosed the
true state of Mary Williams's affections. Scoundrel that he was, he gave
not a thought to what might be the consequence if he persevered in his
wicked attempt to interest her. In fact, he made up his mind that it
would make the time pass less heavily while he was detained in the
neighborhood.
Do not suppose the calculating wretch intended to push the 'flirtation'
beyond what he called brotherly and sisterly conduct. Not he. There
might arise some charge of criminality or wrong, which would endanger
his position, or weaken his claims to the 'kingdom.'
Hiram reached home and found his mother much worse. By signs and every
other manifestation in her power, she had intimated her wish to see him.
Now she was quite speechless.
When Mrs. Williams entered her house, the 'tea table' was still spread,
and her husband wondering what had become of her. Her little girl
shouted in a joyful tone as she came in, 'Here is mamma,' and Mr.
Williams's countenance was instantly relieved from an expression of
suspense.
'Why, Mary, where have you been?'
For an instant Mrs. Williams was on the point of fabricating an answer.
But her better angel was on guard just then. The evil spell was
dissolved, while she replied, with one of her pleasant laughs:
'You could never guess. I met Hiram Meeker on my way to the
dressmaker's. You know he is here attending on his mother. Well, we
undertook to stroll over some of our old walks, and, before I knew it,
talking about old times and old scenes, it was dark. More fool I for
wasting my time and keeping tea waiting.'
'Why did he not come in?'
'To tell you the truth, I never asked him. I was so frightened when I
saw how late it was, I hurried away home, and left him at the door to do
the same.'
Mary Williams was relieved. She went about the duties of her household
with a light heart. And Hiram Meeker, during his stay at Hampton, found
no further opportunity for 'brotherly conferences' with her.