DEATH IN THE LITTLE COTTAGE.
Phebe was not mistaken in her heart's emotions, as the years proved. She
_did_ love Willie with all of the ardor of her young affections. His
wish was her law; his reproofs her severest chastisements. But the
stern, cold Fanny found no place in her love. She trembled under her
frowns and anger only to hasten from them that she might hide the
bitterness which her secret tears could alone soothe. There was no need
of all this. Fanny did not _hate_ the child; no, not even dislike her;
but there was no summer within her soul--no glad sunshine in her
obdurate heart. Yet beneath the icy covering the world saw, which
chilled and frosted the tendrils of love her woman's nature possessed,
there was a clear silvery fountain of emotion, which would have driven
away many a dark hour, with the merry music of its gushing waters, had
not a thick cloud of selfishness shut it in, and the frosts of
discontent sealed it from human vision. But God saw it all, and looked
pityingly into the perverted heart where its rich treasures lay hidden.
"The child is very well," she would say, "as good as children usually
are, I suppose, but of no use. She does not pay for the salt she eats."
"I do not agree with you," replied the mother. "See how much happier
your brother is since he has a companion to talk to and confide in. _I_
was too old to understand his little wants, or even to sympathize with
his poor heart's sorrows. I feel it all now. This is the lesson I have
learned since Phebe has been with us. We were too selfish, Fanny--your
mother and yourself. It may be I was at fault in not tilling and
uprooting the evils in your young heart when it was in my power to do
so, my daughter, and I am willing to confess it to you now. There should
be more flowers growing in the garden of our souls, and less hardy,
sturdy shrubs that yield no fragrance and woo no summer birds to come
and make music for us. Life has changed its aspects for me within a few
short months. It seems all spread out where I can look back upon it;
_not_ sparkling and glowing with good works and love and gentleness, as
it should be; but there are dark places--cold, chill damps that creep
over me at times when I scan the crooked paths over which I have led
you, while one so smooth and flowery, so full of pleasant places and
radiant with beauty, is plainly discernable close beside it, into which
our feet should have turned. God forgive me!" she murmured, while a tear
glistened for one moment in her clear blue eyes. "I did not mean to do
you a wrong; I was worldly and ambitious for your _temporal_ good, but
blinded to your spiritual prosperity. God forgive me!"
"I cannot see where you have committed any such a great sin," replied
the daughter with much feeling. "I have no doubt but that you intended
to to do your duty, and must say my opinion is that you succeeded well.
We had to toil hard to gain our present ease and comfort, but no one can
accuse us of either crime or dishonesty, Mother. I did not speak of the
child because I did not want her here. I only think she might make
herself more useful. I am willing she should read when Willie wants her
to, but she would never do anything else if she could help it."
The door was suddenly opened and Phebe came rushing in, with a light
buoyant step, her cheeks glowing with exercise and her dark eyes
sparkling with joy and animation.
"O Mother! Father is in Boston, but will not be home for two or three
days. You can _never_ guess what he has for Willie," and the happy child
danced about the floor in the exuberance of her glee.
"What business have you to open our letters?" inquired Fanny, beneath
the dark cloud that had gathered during the short recital.
The mirth of the little girl suddenly ceased as she looked at her
interrogator for a moment, but made no reply. Willie, however, appeared
in the door and answered for her.
"The letter was written to _us_, wasn't it, Phebe?"
"It was written to _you_; and Father is going to bring him a large dog
all trained to draw him. O Willie, was there ever anything so nice!" Her
quick anger was gone, and the brightness of the joyous anticipations of
the _something_ that was to bring so much to one she so dearly loved
daguerreotyped itself on her expressive features. Willie saw it all, and
when he had seated himself by the side of his mother on the lounge he
beckoned Phebe to him.
"You are sorry about something, my little sister," he said; "tell me
what it is."
"No, no; I am not sorry. I was only thinking. You will not want little
Phebe when Rover comes. And--and I _do_ like to draw you so much!" and
her lips quivered as she strove to keep back the tears.
"Why, my pretty sister, your eyes were so bright when I first told you,
and I thought that my new possessions were going to make _you_ as happy
as myself; and only a moment ago you exclaimed, 'was there ever anything
so _nice_!' Can you not think so now? It is true I shall not need you
for my horse," he continued, laughing. "But just think how dreary it
will be to ride alone, with no one to speak to or enjoy the sunshine and
cool breezes with me, or gather the pretty flowers along the road, or
the lilies from off the lake! No, no, Phebe; I _cannot_ go alone, and
Father may take the dog back, if you will not go with me. Or perhaps you
imagine that Rover can talk, as well as do many other remarkable things.
Besides you must have forgotten that Father wrote that the wagon is
large enough for two such 'chicks' as we are. So do not feel badly; you
are to go with me, and Rover is to draw us both."
Mrs. Evans clasped them in her arms and drew them tenderly to her.
"My dear children, will you always love each other as you do now? Will
you always be his sister Phebe, and never take away the affection that
makes him so happy? I shall not always be with with you, my children;
but before I leave you, promise me, Phebe, that you will _never_ forsake
him, and I will trust you, young as you are. The time will come when
both of you will pass beyond these years of childhood, and great changes
may come to you; there will be separations, and other homes where it may
be you will live apart. But, Phebe, he is your brother; remember _I_
have given him to you. It is a sacred trust, but you understand it. Will
it be kept safe and firm when he has no mother to lean upon, and no hand
but yours to attend to his wants? Phebe, I love you, and thank God every
day that he sent the lonely 'mariner' to our home, and for the sake of
that love will you be true to my dear boy?"
"I could never live without Willie," and she threw her arms passionately
around the neck of the crippled boy. "I will never leave him Mother; he
couldn't do without _me_, could you Willie?" The boy drew her more
closely to him but could not speak, for his heart was full of his
mother's sad words. He had noticed that her cheek had paled with the
fading of the summer flowers; that her step had grown more feeble and
her kiss more tender as she smoothed his pillow at night and whispered
"God will take care of you my dear, dear boy." And now as he looked into
the pale face and saw the tear-drops glisten on her drooping lashes a
fearful foreboding stole over him, and placing an arm about her neck he
sobbed:
"Mother, do _not_ talk of leaving me! What could your helpless boy do
without you? I must always creep about in the dust for the thoughtless
and cruel to point at, and there is nothing in the future to hope for or
look forward to. O Mother! It is dreadful to be a _cripple_ with no
prospect of being any body or doing any good to others; only a poor,
helpless boy for every passer-by to _pity_!"
"Please do not Willie; it breaks my heart! Remember what God has said,
'the Lord thy God is a merciful God, He will not forsake thee, neither
destroy thee, nor forget the covenant of thy fathers which he sware unto
them.' I have many times laid you, all helpless as you are, as a
cheerful testimony of my poor trembling faith at His feet, and somehow,
Willie, I have felt that he has accepted my precious gift, and that my
boy will be ever under his especial care and love. Look up, there is
sunshine on the other side of the clouds, and its bright beams will gild
your darkness if you will permit them to do so." The slumbering fountain
of the daughter's love was stirred at the sight before her and bowing
her head she wept!
"Mother," she said at last with much emotion; "have you forgotten that
_I_ am his sister? Can you not leave him to _my_ care? I will never
forsake him, and all that I can do to make his life pleasanter _I_ will
gladly do! Did you forget _me_ Mother?"
"Forget you Fanny? You were my first born--my _all_ for many years!
Together we have worked and talked, but, my daughter, you are older and
sterner by nature than my poor helpless one. He wants companionship,
sympathy in his little trials that must ever be peculiar to himself, and
no one can do this as well as one who has suffered and been lonely as he
will always be. No Fanny, _you_ will of course be kind to him and your
reward will be sure."
Phebe had been an inmate of the new home for more than three years.
Happy years they had been, notwithstanding the many trials she had been
obliged to encounter. Her foster-parents were always kind, and it was
there her heart had first learned the luxury of loving and being loved.
How true had been the promise to her "when thy father and thy mother
forsake thee then the Lord will take thee up!" He had taken her and she
was being fitted by his providences for the life that was before her. A
dark shadow was creeping over her path with its sombre forebodings, and
young as she was her soul was chilled by it. She had not noticed it
before, and it was hard to realize even now that it was so distinctly
brought before her. Of one thing, however, she was sure. Willie was
suffering and her little heart poured itself out in words of tenderness
and sympathy.
It was a happy day when Mr. Evans returned from his long voyage and
introduced Rover to his new master. The shadows which had been lingering
over the home circle for two long days suddenly vanished. Then came the
long rides, for as the father had said, "the wagon was ample for the
two," and Rover was able and willing.
But in the pleasant sitting-room that looked out upon the fading lawn
where the leaves were falling from the crimson maples there were sad
talks about a coming separation, and faint, wistful looks into the
far-off future. There were smiles and caresses that fell into "life's
eventide" like sunbeams darting through the western clouds as night
approaches. The wife and mother knew that her days were numbered, and
when the winter storms came and mantled the hillside and spread a pall
over the lonely grave beyond the garden where the cold marble stood, and
the winds mingled their sighs with the sobs and moans of bereaved ones,
the chamber of the slumbering one was entered and the loving mother
slept in a dreamless sleep.
A pall of gloom settled down on the inmates of this once cheerful home!
The cord that had so long bound them all together was broken. What would
the future present to each? Where the wisdom to choose; the firmness and
strength to battle and maintain?
The winds moaned and the snow came and went; the "frost-king" fettered
and unloosed; then the spring appeared and with it changes not only in
the outward world but into the little circle of murmuring ones. The
father must go to sea; a summer voyage was before him. It was harder now
than ever to leave his almost helpless boy without a mother's love to
comfort and cheer him; but it must be done!
"I will take as good care of him as I _can_," Fanny remarked one evening
as the father's solicitude broke out into words.
"To be sure I shall have a great deal more to attend to now, but I
suppose Phebe can help me more than she has done. She is a great stout
girl and might make herself useful if she had a mind to do so. She ought
to be made to understand that she is dependent and should do something
to earn her own living! I cannot afford to keep her for nothing!"
"This home is yours, I am fully aware, Fanny," replied Mr. Evans with
some warmth; "and if you wish it I will take my children out of it and
find them another." Fanny burst into tears and arose to leave the room.
"I will endeavor to be a sister to _both_ of them," she stopped to say
in a subdued tone, and the father was alone.
"I must believe her," he thought at last; "she cannot be _cruel_ to her
poor brother at least!" So in a few days, before the early flowers
decked the garden walks, the father and protector was away upon the
waves, and the home was once more desolate!
Ah, there are sad times in life when even hope seems arrayed in the
sombre habiliments of mourning. The future grows darker and darker as we
gaze upon it; there is no light because we are powerless to penetrate
the clouds that are hanging over us. Who shall lead us out? Timid and
shrinking we stretch our trembling hands out into the gloom when to the
surprise of the fainting heart we feel the gentle grasp of love, while
the way brightens and the faltering feet gain a firmer tread as they
step forward where the shadows are broken and the rugged road appears in
full view.
If Phebe had been a _strange_ child when she entered the cottage, the
intimate companionship of the thoughtful studious cripple had not made
her less so. The events of each passing day had imparted their impress
upon her susceptible nature. Her mind had been an open chalice into
which her foster-brother had poured the hoarded wealth of his own; and
she was learned beyond her years. The little "dumpy figure" was now tall
and well-proportioned for her age, and Willie looked upon her with pride
and admiration. More than this, her heart with its far-reaching
mysteries had been guided close to the cross and around it the tendrils
of its unsolved longings twined themselves. Her dreams of the unreal
were no less, but her realizations of the sterner demands of life were
more. Willie had early learned to tell the pitying Redeemer his tales of
sorrow and deprivations, and where he found comfort and sympathy the
restless Phebe had been led. How kind in the potter to prepare the clay
for his grand purposes of use, although sometimes with a rough as well
as masterly hand! And how can its powers be manifested without the
"fashioning process" or its durability secured in the absence of the
"mouldings" and the fire? The master understood his work and Phebe lay
passively in his hands.
Down by the lake where the wild honeysuckle yielded up its luscious
fruits to the children when the blossoms had disappeared, was a little
arbor where tender fingers had woven the slender branches of the
whispering pines together, and in this sweet bower Willie and his
companion sat every day when the snow and frosts were gone and talked of
the absent mother, wishing that the gentle spirit might be ever near to
check the turbulent winds and smooth down the angry waves.
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