MRS. MERRYWEATHER'S VIGIL
MRS. MERRYWEATHER had had a busy day. There had been a picnic at Oak
Island, which had taken all the morning and a good part of the
afternoon; then there had been a dozen letters to write for the late
mail; and finally she had taken Kitty's turn with Willy at getting
supper, as Kitty had a headache. The sisters protested, each one
claiming her right to take the extra duty; but Mrs. Merryweather had her
own reasons for being glad of the hour of play-work with her little boy.
Willy had been rather out of spirits, which meant that he, as well as
his sister, had eaten too many huckleberries; this afternoon he had
been decidedly cross, and required treatment.
Coming into the kitchen at five o'clock, she found the fire lighted, and
the kettle on, for Willy was a faithful soul; but he was frowning
heavily over his chopping-tray.
"I wish mince-meat had never been invented!" he said, gloomily.
"Do you?" said his mother. "I don't! I am glad it was, even if I did not
have three helps last night."
"I was so hungry, I had to eat something," said Willy, in an injured
tone. "When I grow up, I mean to have beefsteak every day, and never
have anything made over at all."
"I'll remember that, the next time we have brown-bread brewis!" said his
mother smiling.
"Oh! that's different!" said Willy.
"Most things are different," said Mrs. Merryweather, "if you look at
them in a different way. Is that ready, son?"
"As ready as it is ever going to be. I've chopped till my arm is almost
broken."
"So I see! It looks as if you had cracked it. Well, now, it isn't time
yet to make the rolls, so we can take breath a bit. Come out on the
porch, and let us play something till the kettle boils."
"I don't feel like playing!" said Willy, dolefully; "I don't feel like
doing anything, Mammy."
Mrs. Merryweather looked at him a moment; then taking his hands in hers,
she said suddenly, "'For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground, and
tell sad stories of the death of kings!' That is a passage from Richard
II., and it seems to fit the occasion. Sit down, Willy; right here on
the floor by me; I'll begin. Two minutes for composition!"
She was silent, looking out over the water, while Willy glanced sidewise
at her, half-interested in spite of himself.
"I have it!" she said, presently.
"King John put on such frightful airs,
He met his death by eating pears.
"Your turn, Willy! two minutes!"
"Oh, Mammy, I can't play!"
"But you _are_ playing. Only one minute more."
"Well, then--does it have to be the real way they died? because I don't
know."
"No! facts not required in this game."
"Well, then--
"King Og
Was lost in a bog."
"Your metre is faulty," said his mother, thoughtfully, "but the
statement is interesting. My turn; you shall hold the watch for me."
"Time's up!" cried Willy, beginning to kindle.
"Oh! is it? What short minutes! Let me see!
"King Xerxes
Was killed by Turkses."
[Illustration: MRS. MERRYWEATHER'S VIGIL.]
"Oh! I wanted Xerxes. Wait, Mammy. I have one!
"King David
Could not be saved!"
"Good!" cried his mother. "That is the best yet. But we might branch out
a little, I think, Willy. This condensed couplet is forcible, but not
very graceful. How do you like this?
"Tiglath-pileser, Tiglath-pileser,
He tried to buy a lemon-squeezer;
But no such thing had e'er been seen,
So in a melancholy green,
Oh, very green, and very yellow,
He pined away and died, poor fellow!"
"That is splendid," said Willy, "but you took a little more than two
minutes. My turn now!
"The great and mighty Alexander
Was bit to death by a salamander."
"_Done_ to death is more poetic!" said his mother.
"Yes, but 'bit' is more savage. I like 'bit.' Your time's up, Mammy!"
"Oh! Willy, I am going to give you a subtle one this time; one in which
something is left to the imagination.
"The Emperor Domitian
Consulted a physician!"
"But you didn't kill him."
"No, but the physician did."
"Really?"
"No, not really. What do you think of this game?"
"I think it's bully. Did you really just make it up, Mammy?"
"Just! Now the kettle is boiling, and we must come in; but as we go, let
me inform you that--
"The Emperor Tiberius
He died of something serious;
But now we'll stop,
And make the pop-
Ov_ers_ before we weary us!"
Willy's gloom was effectually banished, and he continued to slaughter
kings till the supper-horn blew.
The effect of this and other mental exercises, added to a cup of tea,
was such that when bed-time came, Mrs. Merryweather found herself
singularly wide awake. In vain she counted hundreds; in vain she
ransacked her memory for saints, kings, and cities alphabetically
arranged; in vain she made a list of Johns, beginning with the Baptist
and ending with John O'Groats; the second hundred found her wider awake
than ever, as she tossed on her narrow cot. Mr. Merryweather, in the
opposite cot, was breathing deep and regularly; he was sound asleep, at
least, and that was a good thing. Other than this, no sound broke the
perfect stillness of the night. The full moon rode high, and lake and
woodland were flooded with silver light. A glorious night! Mrs.
Merryweather sighed; what was the use of staying in bed on such a night
as this, when one could not sleep? If only there were some excuse for
getting up!
Suddenly she remembered that, the night being very warm, and the two
children apparently entirely recovered from their slight indisposition,
they had been allowed to sleep out on the Point, in accordance with a
promise made some days ago by their father. She had not been quite
willing, but had yielded to pressure, and they had gone out, very happy,
with their blankets and the india-rubber floor-cloth.
Mrs. Merryweather sat up in bed. "I ought to go and see if those chicks
are all right!" she said. "After all, they certainly were not quite well
this afternoon, whatever Miles may say." She glanced half-defiantly at
the other cot, but Miles said nothing. She rose quietly, put on wrapper
and slippers, and opening noiselessly the screen-door of the tent,
slipped out into the open, and stood for a moment looking about her. How
beautiful it was! what a wonderful silver world! Sleep was good, but
surely, to be awake, on such a night as this, was better.
She stole past the other tents, pausing an instant at the door of each
to listen for the regular breathing which is the sweetest music a mother
can hear; then she made her way out to the Point, through the sweet
tangle of fern and berry-bushes, under the bending trees that dropped
dew on her head as she passed.
The Point lay like the prow of some great vessel in a silver sea. One
tall pine stood for the mast; under this pine, rolled in scarlet
blankets, their rosy faces turned toward the moon, lay the children,
sound asleep. Willy had curled one arm under his head, and his other
hand was locked in his sister's.
"Dear little things!" murmured their mother. "That means that
Kitty-my-pretty was a little bit frightened before she went to sleep.
Dear little things!"
She stood there for some time looking down at them.
"The moon is full on their faces!" she said. "My old nurse would tell me
that they would be moonstruck 'for sartain sure!' How terrified I used
to be, lest a ray of moonlight should shine on my bed, and I should wake
a lunatic!"
She glanced up at the moon; looked again, and yet again. "That is very
singular!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "Something seems to be happening to
the moon."
Something _was_ happening to the moon. It was as if a piece had been
bitten out of the shining round. Was it a little cloud? no! no cloud
could possibly look like that, so black, so thick, so--"Good gracious!"
said Mrs. Merryweather; "it is an eclipse!"
An eclipse it certainly was. Slowly, surely, the black shadow crept,
crept, over the silver disk; now a quarter of its surface was hidden;
now it went creeping, creeping on toward the half.
"It is going to be a total eclipse!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "I suppose
I ought to wake some of them."
She stood a moment more, looking irresolutely at the sleeping children.
"I cannot possibly wake them!" she said at last. "Little lambs! they are
sleeping so beautifully, and they certainly were _not_ quite themselves
this afternoon. Besides, there will be plenty more eclipses; I'll go and
wake some of the others."
The black shadow crept on. Hardly less silent, Mrs. Merryweather paused
before the tent where her daughters slept. Bell and Gertrude scorned
cots, and their mattresses were spread on the floor at night, and rolled
up in the daytime. There the two girls lay, still and placid,
statue-like, save for the gentle heaving of their quiet breasts. A fair
picture for a mother to look on. Miranda Merryweather looked, and drew a
happy breath; looked again, and shook her head. "I cannot wake them!"
she murmured to herself. "They are both tired after that expedition;
Bell paddled very hard on the way back; she was much more flushed than I
like to see her, when she came in. And Gertrude sleeps so lightly, I
fear she might not get to sleep again if I were to wake her now."
The black shadow crept on; the mother crept into the boys' tent, and
stood beside Gerald's cot. The lad lay with his arms flung wide apart;
his curly hair was tossed over his broad open forehead; his clear-cut
features were set as if in marble.
"He has such a beautiful forehead!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He sleeps
so very sound, that if I were to wake him he might not be able to sleep
again. Dear Jerry!"
She moved over to Phil's cot: Phil was uneasy, and as she stopped to
straighten the bedclothes, he turned on his side, muttering something
that sounded like "Bother breakfast!"
"Poor laddie!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He looks as if he might have a
headache. I wish I had made him take a nice little cup of hot malted
milk before he went to bed. It is out of the question to wake him, when
he is sleeping so uneasily."
She left the tent, with hardly a glance toward Jack Ferrers, who lay in
the farthest cot. The idea of waking him, and having him disturb her own
boys, was too preposterous to be entertained for an instant.
The black shadow had crept entirely over the moon; no silver disk now,
only a shield of dull bronze; "like some of the Pompeiian bronzes!" Mrs.
Merryweather thought. "It is very extraordinary. I suppose I really
_ought_ to wake Miles."
She entered her own tent, and stood by her husband's cot. Miles
Merryweather was sleeping quite as soundly as any of his children; in
fact, he was a very statue of sleep; but his wife laid her hand gently
on his shoulder. "Miles!" she said; it must be confessed that she did
not speak very loud. "Miles, there is an eclipse!"
Mr. Merryweather did not stir.
"Miles! do you want to wake up?"
No reply; no motion of the long, still form. Mrs. Merryweather breathed
more freely. "Miles was more tired to-night than I have seen him all
summer!" she said. "He cannot remember that we are not twenty-five any
more. It is very bad for a man to get overtired when he is no longer
young. Well, I certainly did try to wake him; but such a _very_ sound
sleep as this shows how much he needed it. I am sure it is much more
important for him to sleep than to see the eclipse; it isn't as if he
had not seen plenty of eclipses in his life. Of course, if it had been
the sun, it would have been different."
She stood at the door of the tent, watching. Slowly, slowly, the black
shadow passed; slowly, slowly, the silver crescent widened to a broad
arc, and finally to the perfect argent round; once more the whole world
lay bathed in silver light. Mrs. Merryweather gazed on peacefully, and
murmured under her breath certain words that she loved:
"'Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is gone to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted measure keep.
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright!'
"But if Roger had been here," said Miranda Merryweather, "I should
certainly have waked him, because he is a scientific man, and it would
have been only right!"