Mr. Weston and Phillis returned to the sick-room from the funeral. Fever
was doing its work with the fair being, the beloved of many hearts, who was
unconscious of aught that was passing around her. There was a startling
light from the depths of her blue eyes; their natural softness of
expression gone. The crimson glow had flushed into a hectic; the hot breath
from her parted lips was drying away their moisture. The rich, mournful
tones of her voice echoed in sad wailing through the chambers; it
constantly and plaintively said Mother! though that mother answered in vain
to its appeal. The air circulated through the room, bearing the odor of the
woods, but for her it had no reviving power; it could not stay the beatings
of her pulse, nor relieve the oppression of her panting bosom. Oh! what
beauty was about that bed of sickness. The perfect shape of every feature,
the graceful turn of the head, the luxuriant auburn hair, the contour of
her rounded limbs. There was no vacancy in her face. Alas! visions of
sorrow were passing in her mind. A sad intelligence was expressed in every
glance, but not to the objects about her. The soul, subdued by the
suffering of its tenement, was wandering afar off, perchance endeavoring to
dive into the future, perchance essaying to forget the past.
What says that vision of languishing and loveliness to the old man whose
eyes are fixed in grief upon it? "Thou seest, O Christian! the uselessness
of laying up thy treasures here. Where are now the hopes of half thy
lifetime, where the consummation of all thy anxious plans? She who has been
like an angel by thy side, how wearily throbs her young heart! Will she
perpetuate the name of thy race? Will she close thine eyes with her loving
hand? Will she drop upon thy breast a daughter's tear?"
What does the vision say to thee, oh! aged woman? "There is still more for
thee to do, more for thee to suffer. It is not yet enough of this mortal
strife! Thou mayest again see a fair flower crushed by the rude wind of
death; perchance she may precede thee, to open for thine entrance the
eternal gates!"
And what to thee, thou faithful servant?
"There are tears in thine eye, and for me. For me! Whom thou thoughtest
above a touch of aught that could bring sorrow or pain. Thou seest, not
alone on thy doomed race rests a curse; the fierce anger of God, denounced
against sin--the _curse_, falls upon his dearest children. I must, like
you, abide by God's dealing with the children of men. But we shall be
redeemed."
What to thee, oh, mother? Thou canst not read the interpretation--a cloud
of darkness sweeps by thy soul's vision. Will it pass, or will it rest upon
thee forever?
Yet the voice of God speaks to each one; faintly it may be to the mother,
but even to her. There is a rainbow of hope in the deluge of her sorrow;
she sees death in the multitude that passes her sight, but there is another
there, one whose form is like unto the Son of God. She remembers how He
wept over Lazarus, and raised him from the dead; oh! what comfort to place
her case in his pitying bosom!
Many were the friends who wept, and hoped, and prayed with them. Full of
grief were the affectionate servants, but most of all, Phillis.
It was useless to try and persuade her to take her usual rest, to remind
her of her children, and her cares; to offer her the choice morsel to tempt
her appetite, the refreshing drink she so much required. She wanted nothing
but to weep with those who wept--nor rest, nor food, nor refreshing.
* * * * *
It is universal, the consideration that is shown to the servants at the
South, as regards their times of eating and of rest. Whatever may have
occurred, whatever fatigue the different members of the family may feel
obliged to undergo, a servant is rarely called upon for extra attendance.
In the Northern country the whole labor of a family is frequently performed
by one female, while five or six will do the same amount of work in the
South. A servant at the South is rarely called upon at night; only in cases
of absolute necessity. Negroes are naturally sleepy-headed--they like to
sit up late at night,--in winter, over a large fire, nodding and bumping
their heads against each other, or in summer, out of doors; but they take
many a nap before they can get courage to undress and go regularly to bed.
They may be much interested in a conversation going on, but it is no
violation of their code of etiquette to smoke themselves to sleep while
listening. Few of the most faithful servants can keep awake well enough to
be of real service in cases of sickness. There is a feeling among their
owners, that they work hard during the day and should be allowed more rest
than those who are not obliged to labor. "Do not disturb servants when they
are eating," is the frequent charge of a Southern mother, "they have not a
great many pleasures within their reach; never do any thing that will
lessen their comforts in the slightest degree." Mrs. Weston, even in her
own deep sorrow, was not unmindful of others; she frequently tried to
induce Phillis to go home, knowing that she must be much fatigued. "I
cannot feel tired, Phillis; a mother could not sleep with her only child as
Alice is; I do not require the rest that you do."
"You needs it more, Miss Anna, though you don't think so now. I can take
care of myself. Unless you drive me away, I shan't go until God's will be
done, for life or death."
Miss Janet often laid down and slept for an hour or two, and returned
refreshed to the sick chamber. Her voice retained its cheerfulness and kept
Mrs. Weston's heart from failing. "Hope on, Anna," she would say, "as long
as she breathes we must not give her up; how many have been thought
entirely gone, and then revived. We must hope, and God will do the rest."
This "hoping on" was one great cause of Cousin Janet's usefulness during a
long life; religion and reason alike demand it of us. Many grand and noble
actions have been done in the world, that never could have been
accomplished without hoping on. When we become discouraged, how heavy the
task before us; it is like drooping the eyes, and feebly putting forth the
hands to find the way, when all appears to us darkness; but let the eye be
lifted and the heart hope on, and there is found a glimmering of light
which enables the trembling one to penetrate the gloom. Alice's symptoms
had been so violent from the first, her disease had progressed so rapidly,
that her condition was almost hopeless; ere Mr. Weston thought of the
propriety of informing Arthur of her condition. The first time it occurred
to him, he felt convinced that he ought not to delay. He knew that Arthur
never could be consoled, if Alice, his dearly loved, his affianced wife,
should die without his having the consolation of a parting word or look. He
asked Cousin Janet her opinion.
She recalled all that had passed previous to Alice's illness. As she looked
into Mr. Weston's grieved and honest face, the question suggested
itself,--Is it right thus, to keep him in ignorance? She only wavered a
moment. Already the traces of agitation caused by his niece's illness, were
visible in his flushed face and nervous frame; what then might be the
result of laying before him a subject in which his happiness was so nearly
concerned? Besides, she felt convinced that even should Alice improve, the
suffering which had been one cause of her sickness, might be renewed with
double force if suggested by Arthur's presence.
"I know, my dear cousin," she said, "it will be a terrible grief to Arthur,
should Alice be taken from us, yet I think you had better not write. Dr.
Lawton says, that a very short time must decide her case; and were the
worst we fear to occur, Arthur could not reach here in time to see her with
any satisfaction. If he lose her, it will probably be better for him to
remember her in health and beauty."
Mr. Weston trembled, and burst into tears. "Try and not give way," said
Miss Janet again; "we are doing all we can. We must hope and pray. I feel a
great deal of hope. God is so merciful, he will not bring this stroke upon
you in your old age, unless it is necessary. Why do you judge for him? He
is mighty to save. 'The Lord on high, is mightier than the noise of many
waters, yea, than the mighty waves of the sea.' Think of His mercy and
power to save, and trust in Him."
In these most trying scenes of life, how little do we sympathize with the
physician. How much oppressed he must feel, with the charge upon him. He is
the adviser--to him is left the direction of the potions which may be the
healing medicine or the deadly poison. He may select a remedy powerful to
cure, he may prescribe one fatal to the invalid. How is he to draw the nice
line of distinction? he must consider the disease, the constitution, the
probable causes of the attack. His reputation is at stake--his
happiness--for many eyes are turned to him, to read an opinion he may not
choose to give in words.
If he would be like the great Healer, he thinks not only of the bodily
sufferings that he is anxious to assuage, but of the immortal soul on the
verge of the great Interview, deciding its eternal destiny. He trembles to
think, should he fail, it may be hurried to its account. If he be a friend,
how do the ties of association add to his burden. Here is one whom he has
loved, whose voice he is accustomed to hear; shall he, through neglect or
mismanagement, make a void in many hearts? Shall he, from want of skill,
bring weeping and desolation to a house where health and joy have been?
Alice was very dear to Dr. Lawton, she was the companion of his daughters;
he had been accustomed to regard her as one of them; he was untiring in his
attendance, but from the first, had feared the result. Mrs. Weston had
concealed nothing from him, she knew that he considered a physician bound
in honour to know the affairs of a family only among themselves--she had no
reserves, thus giving him every assistance in her power, in conducting the
case. She detailed to him, explicitly, all that might have contributed to
produce it.
"You know, my dear madam," the doctor said, "that at this season we have,
even in our healthy country, severe fevers. Alice's is one of the usual
nature; it could have been produced by natural causes. We cannot say, it
may be that the circumstances you have been kind enough to confide to me,
have had a bad effect upon her. The effort to do right, and the fear lest
she should err, may have strained her sensitive mind. She must have felt
much distress in parting with Walter, whom she has always loved as a
brother. You have only done your duty. I should not like to see a daughter
of mine interested in that young man. I fear he inherits his father's
violent passions, yet his early training may bring the promised blessing.
Alice has that sort of mind, that is always influenced by what is passing
at the time; remember what a child she was when Arthur left. There are no
more broken hearts now-a-days--sometimes they bend a little, but they can
be straightened again. If Alice gets well, you need not fear the future;
though you know I disapprove of cousins marrying."
"Doctor," said Mrs. Weston, "I know you have not given her up!"
"I never give anybody up," said the doctor. "Who will say what God intends
to do? I trust she will struggle through. Many a storm assails the fair
ship on her first voyage over the seas. She may be sadly tossed about with
the wind and waves; but may breast it gallantly, and come back safe, after
all. We must do what we can, and hope for the best." These words
strengthened the mother's heart to watch and hope.
The doctor laid down to sleep for an hour or two in the afternoon. Cousin
Janet, Mrs. Weston, and Phillis kept their watch in silence. The latter
gently fanned Alice, who lay gazing, but unconscious; now looking
inquiringly into her mother's face, now closing her eyes to every thing.
There was no tossing or excitement about her, _that_ was over. Her cheek
was pale, and her eyes languid and faded. One would not have believed, to
have looked upon her, how high the fever still raged. Suddenly she repeated
the word that had often been on her lips--"Mother." Then, with an effort to
raise herself, she sank back upon her pillow, exhausted. A sorrowful look,
like death, suffused itself over her countenance. Ah! how throbbed those
hearts! Was the dreaded messenger here?
"Miss Anna," whispered Phillis, "she is not gone, her pulse is no lower; it
is the same."
"Is it the same? are you sure?" said Mrs. Weston, who, for a few moments,
had been unable to speak, or even to place her finger on the pulse.
"It is no worse, if you'll believe me," said Phillis; "it may be a little
better, but it is no worse."
"Had I not better wake the doctor?" said Mrs. Weston, who hardly knew what
to believe.
Miss Janet gently touched the wrist of the invalid.
"Do not wake him, my dear; Phillis is right in saying she is no worse; it
was a fainting, which is passing away. See! she looks as usual. Give her
the medicine, it is time; and leave her quiet, the doctor may be disturbed
to-night."
The night had passed, and the morning was just visible, as symptoms of the
same nature affected the patient. Dr. Lawton had seen her very late at
night, and had requested them to awaken him should there be any change in
her appearance or condition. Oh, how these anxious hearts feared and hoped
through this night. What might it bring forth; joy or endless weeping?
This dread crisis past, and what would be the result?
"Doctor," said Phillis, gently awaking him, "I'm sorry to disturb you. Miss
Alice has had another little turn, and you'd better see her."
"How is her pulse?" said the doctor, quickly. "Is it failing?"
"'Pears to me not, sir; but you can see."
They went to the room, and the doctor took Alice's small wrist, and lightly
felt her pulse. Then did the mother watch his face, to see its writing.
What was there?
Nothing but deep attention. The wrist was gently laid down, and the
doctor's hand passed lightly over the white arm. Softly it touched the
forehead, and lay beneath the straying curl. There is no expression yet;
but he takes the wrist again, and, laying one hand beneath it, he touches
the pulse. Softly, like the first glance of moonlight on the dark waters, a
smile is seen on that kind face. There is something else besides the smile.
Large tears dropped from the physician's eyes; tears that he did not think
to wipe away. He stooped towards the fragile sufferer, and gently as the
morning air breathes upon the drooping violet, he kissed her brow. "Alice,
sweet one," he said, "God has given you to us again."
Where is that mother? Has she heard those cheering words? She hears them,
and is gone; gone even from the side of her only one. The soul, when there
is too much joy, longs for God. She must lay her rich burden at the
mercy-seat. Now, that mother kneels, but utters no word. The incense of her
heart knows no language and needs none; for God requires it not. The
sacrifice of praise from a rejoicing heart, is a grateful offering that he
accepts.
"Miss Anna," said Phillis, with trembling voice, but beaming eye, "go to
bed now; days and nights you have been up. How can you stand it? The doctor
says she is a great deal better, but she may be ill for a good while yet,
and you will give out. I will stay with her if you will take a sleep."
"Sleep;" said Mrs. Weston. "No, no, faithful Phillis not yet; joy is too
new to me. God for ever bless you for your kindness to me and my child. You
shall go home and sleep, and to-night, if she continue to do well, I will
trust her with you, and take some rest myself."
Mr. Weston awoke to hear glad tidings. Again and again, through the long
day, he repeated to himself his favorite Psalm, "Praise the Lord, oh my
soul."
Miss Janet's joy, deep but silent, was visible in her happy countenance.
Nor were these feelings confined to the family; every servant on the estate
made his master's joy his own. They sorrowed with him when he sorrowed, but
now that his drooping head was lifted up, many an honest face regarded him
with humble congratulation, as kindly received as if it had come from the
highest in the land.