"Weep not for him that dieth,
For he hath ceased from tears."
--_Mrs. Norton._
There was much unselfish love for their mamma and for each other
displayed by the young Travillas in those sad days immediately following
the death of their dearly loved father.
Every heart ached sorely with its own burden of grief--excepting that of
little Walter, who was too young to understand or realize his loss, yet
was most solicitous to assuage that of the brothers and sisters, but
especially to comfort and help "poor, dear, dear mamma."
They were filled with alarm as they saw their grandfather almost carry
her to her room, then close the door upon them.
"Oh," cried Violet, clinging to her older sister, and giving way to a
burst of terrified weeping, "I knew it would be so! mamma will die too.
Oh mamma, mamma!"
"Dear child, no!" said Rose, laying a caressing hand on the young
weeper's arm; "do not be alarmed; your dear mother is worn out with
grief and nursing--she has scarcely slept for several days and
nights--but is not ill otherwise, and I trust that rest and the
consolations of God will still restore her to her wonted health and
cheerfulness."
"O grandma," sobbed Elsie, "do you think mamma can ever be cheerful and
happy again? I am sure she can never forget papa."
"No, she will never forget him, never cease to miss the delight of his
companionship; but she can learn to be happy in the thought of his
eternal blessedness and the sure reunion that awaits them when God shall
call her home; and in the love of Jesus and of her dear children."
Rose had thrown one arm about Elsie's waist, the other round Violet, and
drawn them to a seat, while Edward and the younger children grouped
themselves about her, Rose and Walter leaning on her lap.
They all loved her, and now hung upon her words, finding comfort in
them, though listening with many tears and sobs.
She went on to speak at length of the glory and bliss of heaven, of the
joy of being with Christ and free from sin; done with sorrow and
sighing, pain and sickness and death; of the delight with which their
sister Lily, their Grandmother Travilla, and other dear ones gone
before, must have welcomed the coming of their father; and of the glad
greeting he would give to each of them when they too should reach the
gate of the Celestial City.
"Yes, grandma, papa told us all to come," said little Rosie.
"I know he did, dear child; and do you know the way?"
"Yes, grandma, Jesus said, 'I am the way.' He died to save sinners, and
He will save all who love Him and trust in Him alone, not thinking
anything they can do is going to help to save them."
"Save them from what, darling?"
"From their sins, grandma, and from going to live with Satan and his
wicked angels, and wicked people that die and go there."
"Yes, that is all so, and oh what love it was that led the dear Saviour
to suffer and die upon the cross that we might live! Dear children, it
was His death that bought eternal life for your beloved father and has
purchased it for us all if we will but take it as His free, unmerited
gift."
"But, grandma," sobbed Harold, "why didn't He let our dear papa stay
with us a little longer? Oh I don't know how we can ever, ever live
without him!"
This called forth a fresh burst of grief from all, even little Walter
crying piteously, "I want my papa! I want my own dear papa!"
Rose lifted him to her lap and caressed him tenderly, her tears falling
fast.
"Dear children," she said, as the storm of grief subsided a little, "we
must not be selfish in our sorrow; we must try to rejoice that your
beloved father is far, far happier than he could ever be here. I think
the dear Saviour took him home because He loved him so much that He
could no longer spare him out of heaven. And He, Jesus, will be your
Father now even more than He was before: 'A father of the fatherless and
a judge of the widows is God in his holy habitation.'"
"I'm very glad the Bible tells us that," remarked Herbert, checking his
sobs. "I have heard and read the words often, but they never seemed half
so sweet before."
"No," said Harold, putting an arm about him (the two were very strongly
attached and almost inseparable); "and we have grandpa too: papa said he
would be a father to us."
"And he will, dear children," said Rose. "I do not think he could love
you much more than he does if he were really your own father, as he is
your dear mamma's."
"And I am to try to fill papa's place," said Edward, with a strong but
vain effort to steady his voice. "I am far from competent, I know, but I
shall try to do my very best."
"And God will help you if you ask Him," said Rose; "help you to be a
great comfort and assistance to your mother and younger brothers and
sisters."
"Ah, if we might only go to mamma!" sighed Violet, when she and Elsie
had withdrawn to the privacy of their own apartment. "Do you think we
might venture now?"
"Not yet awhile, I think--I hope she is resting; and grandpa will let us
know when it will not disturb her to see us."
"O Elsie, can we ever be happy again?" cried Violet, throwing herself
into her sister's arms. "Where, where shall we go for comfort?"
"To Jesus and His word, dear Vi. Let us kneel down together and ask Him
to bless us all and help us to say with our hearts 'Thy will be done,'
all of us children and our dear precious mamma."
"Oh we can't pray for papa any more!" cried Vi, in an agony of grief.
"No, dear Vi, but he no longer needs our prayers. He is so close to the
Master, so happy in being forever with Him, that nothing could add to
his bliss."
Violet hushed her sobs, and with their arms about each other they knelt,
while in low, pleading tones Elsie poured out their grief and their
petitions into the ear of the ever compassionate, loving Saviour.
Fortunately for them in this hour of sore affliction, they were no
strangers to prayer or to the Scriptures, and knew where to turn to find
the many sweet and precious promises suited to their needs.
Some time was given to this, and then Elsie, mindful of the duty and
privilege of filling to the best of her ability her mother's place to
the little ones, went in search of them.
The tea hour brought them all together again--all the children--but
father and mother were missing. Oh this gathering about the table was
almost the hardest thing of all! It had been wont to be a time of glad,
free, cheerful, often mirthful intercourse between parents and children;
no rude and noisy hilarity, but the most enjoyable social converse and
interchange of thought and feeling, in which the young people, while
showing the most perfect respect and deference to their parents, and
unselfish consideration for each other, were yet under no galling
constraint, but might ask questions and give free expression to their
opinions, if they wished; and were indeed encouraged to do so.
But what a change had a few days brought! There was an empty chair that
would never again be filled by him to whom one and all had looked up
with the tenderest filial love and reverence. All eyes turned toward it,
then were suffused with tears, while one and another vainly strove to
suppress the bursting sobs.
They could not sit down to the table. They drew close together in a
little weeping group.
The grandparents came in, and Mr. Dinsmore, trying to gather them all
in his arms, caressed them in turn, saying in broken, tender tones, "My
dear children, my poor dear children! I will be a father to you. I
cannot supply his place, but will do so as nearly as I can. You know, my
darlings, my sweet Elsie's children, that I have a father's love for
you."
"Yes, grandpa, we know it," "Dear grandpa, we're glad we have you left
to us," sobbed one and another.
"And mamma, dear, precious mamma! O grandpa, is she sick?"
"Not exactly sick, my darlings," he said, "but very much worn out. We
must let her rest."
"Can't we see her? can't we go to her?"
"Not now, not to-night, I think. I left her sleeping, and hope she will
not wake for some hours."
At that the little ones seemed nearly heartbroken. "How could they go to
their beds without seeing mamma?"
But Elsie comforted them. She would help mammy to put them to bed; and
oh it was the best of news that dear mamma was sleeping! because if she
did not she would soon be quite ill.
Molly Percival, because of her crippled condition, making locomotion so
difficult, seldom joined the family at table, but took her meals in her
own room, a servant waiting upon her and her mother, who, in her new
devotion to poor Molly, preferred to eat with her.
The appointments of their table were quite as dainty as those of the
other, the fare never less luxurious.
A very tempting repast was spread before them to-night, but Molly could
not eat for weeping.
Her mother, tasting one dish after another with evident enjoyment, at
length thought fit to expostulate with her.
"Molly, why do you cry so? I do wish you would stop it and eat your
supper."
"I'm not hungry, mother."
"That's only because you're fretting so; and what's the use? Mr.
Travilla's better off; and besides he was nothing to you."
"Nothing to me! O mother! he was so good, so kind to me, to Dick, to
everybody about him. He treated me like a daughter, and I loved him as
well as if he had been my own father. He did not forget you or me when
he was dying, mother."
"No; and it was good of him. Still, crying doesn't do any good; and
you'll get weak and sick if you don't eat."
Molly's only answer was a burst of grief. "Oh poor, poor Cousin Elsie!
her heart must be quite broken, for she idolized her husband. And the
girls and all of them; how they did love their father!"
The servant came in with a plate of hot cakes, and a slender girlish
figure presently stole softly after, without knocking, for the door
stood open, and to the side of Molly's chair. It was Violet, looking, oh
so sad and sweet, so fair and spiritual in her deep mourning dress.
In an instant she and Molly were locked in each other's arms, mingling
their sobs and tears together.
"I'm afraid we have seemed to neglect you, Molly dear," Violet said when
she could speak, "but--"
"No, no, you have _never_ done that!" cried Molly, weeping afresh. "And
how could I expect you to think of me at such a time! O Vi, Vi!"
"Mamma cannot come up, for she is not--not able to leave her room,
and--and O Molly, I'm afraid she's going to be sick!"
Molly tried to comfort and reassure her. "Aunt Rose was in for a while
this afternoon," she said, "and she thinks it is not really sickness,
only that she needs rest and--and comfort. And, Vi, the Lord will
comfort her. Don't you remember those sweet words in Isaiah?--'As one
whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you; and ye shall be
comforted.'"
Violet had come up to see Molly, lest the poor afflicted cousin should
feel neglected, while Elsie was engaged with the little ones--taking
mamma's place in seeing them to bed with a little loving talk on some
profitable theme.
To-night it was the glory and bliss of heaven; leaving in their young
minds, instead of gloomy and dreadful thoughts of death and the cold,
dark grave, bright visions of angelic choirs, of white robes and palms
of victory, of golden crowns and harps, of the river of the water of
life, and the beautiful trees on its banks bearing twelve manner of
fruits; of papa with sweet Lily by his side, both casting their crowns
at Jesus' feet and singing with glad voices, "Worthy is the Lamb that
was slain."
Leaving them at length to their slumbers, she joined Violet and Molly
for a few moments; then Edward came to say that their mother was awake
and grandpa had given permission for them to go to her and just bid her
good-night, if they could be quite composed.
They thought they could; they would try very earnestly.
She was in her dressing-room, reclining in an easy chair, looking, oh so
wan and sorrowful.
She embraced each in turn, holding them to her heart with a whispered
word or two of tender mother love. "God bless you, my dear, dear
children! He will be a father to the fatherless and never leave nor
forsake you."
Violet dared not trust herself to speak. Elsie only murmured, "Dear,
dearest mamma!" and Edward, "Darling, precious mother, don't grieve too
sorely."
"The consolations of God are not small! my dear son," was all she said
in reply, and they withdrew softly and silently as they had come.
The next morning and each following day they were all allowed a few
moments with her, until four days had passed.
On the fifth, as we have said, she came down to the breakfast room
leaning on her father's arm.
As they neared the door she paused, trembling like a leaf, and turning
to him a white, anguished face.
He knew what it meant. She had not been in that room, had not taken her
place at that table, since the morning of the day on which her husband
was taken ill. He was with her then, in apparently perfect health;
now--the places which had known him on earth would know him no more
forever.
Her head dropped on her father's shoulder, a low moan escaping her pale
lips.
"Dear child," he said, drawing her closer to him, and tenderly kissing
her brow, "think how perfectly happy, how blest he is. You would not
call him back?"
"Oh no, no!" came from the quivering lips. "'The spirit is willing, but
the flesh is weak!'"
"Lean on your strong Saviour," he said, "and His grace will be
sufficient for you."
She sent up a silent petition, then lifting her head, "I can bear it
now--He will help me," she said, and suffered him to lead her in.
Her children gathered about her with a joy that was as a cordial to her
fainting spirit; their love was very sweet.
But how her heart yearned over them because they were fatherless; all
the more so that she found her father's love so precious and sustaining
in this time of sorrow and bereavement.
He led her to her accustomed seat, bent over her with a whispered word
of love and encouragement, then took the one opposite--once her
husband's, now his no more.
Perhaps it was not quite so hard as to have seen it empty, but it cost a
heroic effort to restrain a burst of anguish.