CALAMITY.
Both Mary Erskine and Anne Sophia went on very pleasantly and
prosperously, each in her own way, for several years. Every spring
Albert cut down more trees, and made new openings and clearings. He
built barns and sheds about his house, and gradually accumulated quite
a stock of animals. With the money that he obtained by selling the
grain and the grass seed which he raised upon his land, he bought oxen
and sheep and cows. These animals fed in his pastures in the summer,
and in the winter he gave them hay from his barn.
Mary Erskine used to take the greatest pleasure in getting up early
in the cold winter mornings, and going out with her husband to see
him feed the animals. She always brought in a large pile of wood every
night, the last thing before going to bed, and laid it upon the hearth
where it would be ready at hand for the morning fire. She also had a
pail of water ready, from the spring, and the tea-kettle by the side
of it, ready to be filled. The potatoes, too, which were to be roasted
for breakfast, were always prepared the night before, and placed in an
earthen pan, before the fire. Mary Erskine, in fact, was always very
earnest to make every possible preparation over night, for the work of
the morning. This arose partly from an instinctive impulse which made
her always wish, as she expressed it, "to do every duty as soon as it
came in sight," and partly from the pleasure which she derived from a
morning visit to the animals in the barn. She knew them all by name.
She imagined that they all knew her, and were glad to see her by
the light of her lantern in the morning. It gave her the utmost
satisfaction to see them rise, one after another, from their straw,
and begin eagerly to eat the hay which Albert pitched down to them
from the scaffold, while she, standing below upon the barn floor, held
the lantern so that he could see. She was always very careful to hold
it so that the cows and the oxen could see too.
One day, when Albert came home from the village, he told Mary Erskine
that he had an offer of a loan of two hundred dollars, from Mr. Keep.
Mr. Keep was an elderly gentleman of the village,--of a mild and
gentle expression of countenance, and white hair. He was a man of
large property, and often had money to lend at interest. He had an
office, where he used to do his business. This office was in a wing of
his house, which was a large and handsome house in the center of the
village. Mr. Keep had a son who was a physician, and he used often to
ask his son's opinion and advice about his affairs. One day when Mr.
Keep was sitting in his office, Mr. Gordon came in and told him that
he had some plans for enlarging his business a little, and wished to
know if Mr. Keep had two or three hundred dollars that he would like
to lend for six months. Mr. Keep, who, though he was a very benevolent
and a very honorable man, was very careful in all his money dealings,
said that he would look a little into his accounts, and see how much
he had to spare, and let Mr. Gordon know the next day.
That night Mr. Keep asked his son what he thought of lending Mr.
Gordon two or three hundred dollars. His son said doubtfully that he
did not know. He was somewhat uncertain about it. Mr. Gordon was doing
very well, he believed, but then his expenses were quite heavy, and it
was not quite certain how it would turn with him. Mr. Keep then said
that he had two or three hundred dollars on hand which he must dispose
of in some way or other, and he asked his son what he should do with
it. His son recommended that he should offer it to Albert. Albert
formerly lived at Mr. Keep's, as a hired man, so that Mr. Keep knew
him very well.
"He is going on quite prosperously in his farm, I understand," said
the doctor. "His land is all paid for, and he is getting quite a stock
of cattle, and very comfortable buildings. I think it very likely that
he can buy more stock with the money, and do well with it. And, at all
events, you could not put the money in _safer_ hands."
"I will propose it to him," said Mr. Keep.
He did propose it to him that very afternoon, for it happened that
Albert went to the village that day. Albert told Mr. Keep that he was
very much obliged to him for the offer of the money, and that he would
consider whether it would be best for him to take it or not, and let
him know in the morning. So he told Mary Erskine of the offer that he
had had, as soon as he got home.
"I am very glad to get such an offer," said Albert.
"Shall you take the money?" said his wife.
"I don't know," replied Albert. "I rather think not."
"Then why are you glad to get the offer?" asked Mary Erskine.
"Oh, it shows that my credit is good in the village. It must be very
good, indeed, to lead such a man as Mr. Keep to offer to lend me
money, of his own accord. It is a considerable comfort to know that I
can get money, whenever I want it, even if I never take it."
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "so it is."
"And it is all owing to you," said Albert.
"To me?" said Mary Erskine.
"Yes," said he; "to your prudence and economy, and to your contented
and happy disposition. That is one thing that I always liked you
for. It is so easy to make you happy. There is many a wife, in your
situation, who could not have been happy unless their husband would
build them a handsome house and fill it with handsome furniture--even
if he had to go in debt for his land to pay for it."
Mary Erskine did not reply, though it gratified her very much to hear
her husband commend her.
"Well," said she at length, "I am very glad that you have got good
credit. What should you do with the money, if you borrowed it?"
"Why, one thing that I could do," said Albert, "would be to build a
new house."
"No," said Mary Erskine, "I like this house very much. I don't want
any other--certainly not until we can build one with our own money."
"Then," said Albert, "I can buy more stock, and perhaps hire some
help, and get more land cleared this fall, so as to have greater crops
next spring, and then sell the stock when it has grown and increased,
and also the crops, and so get money enough to pay back the debt and
have something over."
"Should you have much over?" asked Mary.
"Why that would depend upon how my business turned out,--and that
would depend upon the weather, and the markets, and other things which
we can not now foresee. I think it probable that we should have a good
deal over."
"Well," said Mary Erskine, "then I would take the money."
"But, then, on the other hand," said Albert, "I should run some risk
of embarrassing myself, if things did not turn out well. If I were
to be sick, so that I could not attend to so much business, or if I
should Jose any of my stock, or if the crops should not do well, then
I might not get enough to pay back the debt."
"And what should you do then?" asked Mary Erskine.
"Why then," replied Albert, "I should have to make up the deficiency
in some other way. I might ask Mr. Keep to put off the payment of the
note, or I might borrow the money of somebody else to pay him, or I
might sell some of my other stock. I could do any of these things well
enough, but it would perhaps cause me some trouble and anxiety."
"Then I would not take the money," said Mary Erskine. "I don't like
anxiety. I can bear any thing else better than anxiety."
"However, I don't know any thing about it," continued Mary Erskine,
after a short pause. "You can judge best."
They conversed on the subject some time longer, Albert being quite
at a loss to know what it was best to do. Mary Erskine, for her part,
seemed perfectly willing that he should borrow the money to buy more
stock, as she liked the idea of having more oxen, sheep, and cows. But
she seemed decidedly opposed to using borrowed money to build a new
house, or to buy new furniture. Her head would ache, she said, to lie
on a pillow of feathers that was not paid for.
Albert finally concluded not to borrow the money, and so Mr. Keep lent
it to Mr. Gordon.
Things went on in this way for about three or four years, and then
Albert began to think seriously of building another house. He had
now money enough of his own to build it with. His stock had become so
large that he had not sufficient barn room for his hay, and he did not
wish to build larger barns where he then lived, for in the course of
his clearings he had found a much better place for a house than the
one which they had at first selected. Then his house was beginning to
be too small for his family, for Mary Erskine had, now, two children.
One was an infant, and the other was about two years old. These
children slept in a trundle-bed, which was pushed under the great bed
in the daytime, but still the room became rather crowded. So Albert
determined to build another house.
Mary Erskine was very much interested in this plan. She would like to
live in a handsome house as well as any other lady, only she preferred
to wait until she could have one of her own. Now that that time had
arrived, she was greatly pleased with the prospect of having her
kitchen, her sitting-room, and her bed-room, in three separate rooms,
instead of having them, as heretofore, all in one. Then the barns and
barn-yards, and the pens and sheds for the sheep and cattle, were all
going to be much more convenient than they had been; so that Albert
could take care of a greater amount of stock than before, with the
same labor. The new house, too, was going to be built in a much more
pleasant situation than the old one, and the road from it to the
corner was to be improved, so that they could go in and out with a
wagon. In a word, Mary Erskine's heart was filled with new hopes and
anticipations, as she saw before her means and sources of happiness,
higher and more extended than she had ever before enjoyed.
When the time approached for moving into the new house Mary Erskine
occupied herself, whenever she had any leisure time, in packing up
such articles as were not in use. One afternoon while she was engaged
in this occupation, Albert came home from the field much earlier than
usual. Mary Erskine was very glad to see him, as she wished him to
nail up the box in which she had been packing her cups and saucers.
She was at work on the stoop, very near the door, so that she could
watch the children. The baby was in the cradle. The other child, whose
name was Bella, was playing about the floor.
Albert stopped a moment to look at Mary Erskine's packing, and then
went in and took his seat upon the settle.
"Tell me when your box is ready," said he, "and I will come and nail
it for you."
Bella walked along toward her father--for she had just learned to
walk--and attempted to climb up into his lap.
"Run away, Bella," said Albert.
Mary Erskine was surprised to hear Albert tell Bella to run away, for
he was usually very glad to have his daughter come to him when he got
home from his work. She looked up to see what was the matter. He was
sitting upon the settle, and leaning his head upon his hand.
Mary Erskine left her work and went to him.
"Are you not well, Albert?" said she.
"My head aches a little. It ached in the field, and that was the
reason why I thought I would come home. But it is better now. Are you
ready for me to come and nail the box?"
"No," said Mary, "not quite; and besides, it is no matter about it
to-night. I will get you some tea."
"No," said Albert, "finish your packing first, and I will come and
nail it. Then we can put it out of the way."
Mary Erskine accordingly finished her packing, and Albert went to it,
to nail the cover on. He drove one or two nails, and then he put the
hammer down, and sat down himself upon the box, saying that he could
not finish the nailing after all. He was too unwell. He went into the
room, Mary Erskine leading and supporting him. She conducted him to
the bed and opened the curtains so as to let him lie down. She helped
him to undress himself, and then left him, a few minutes while she
began to get some tea. She moved the box, which she had been packing,
away from the stoop door, and put it in a corner. She drew out the
trundle-bed, and made, it ready for Bella. She sat down and gave Bella
some supper, and then put her into the trundle-bed, directing her to
shut up her eyes and go to sleep. Bella obeyed.
Mary Erskine then went to the fire and made some tea and toast for
Albert, doing every thing in as quiet and noiseless a manner as
possible. When the tea and toast were ready she put them upon a small
waiter, and then moving her little work-table up to the side of the
bed, she put the waiter upon it. When every thing was thus ready, she
opened the curtains. Albert was asleep.
He seemed however to be uneasy and restless, and he moaned now and
then as if in pain. Mary Erskine stood leaning over him for some time,
with a countenance filled with anxiety and concern. She then turned
away, saying to herself, "If Albert is going to be sick and to die,
what _will_ become of me?" She kneeled down upon the floor at
the foot of the bed, crossed her arms before her, laid them down very
quietly upon the counterpane, and reclined her forehead upon them. She
remained in that position for some time without speaking a word.
Presently she rose and took the tea and toast upon the waiter, and
set them down by the fire in order to keep them warm. She next went to
look at the children, to see if they were properly covered. Then
she opened the bed-curtains a little way in order that she might see
Albert in case he should wake or move, and having adjusted them as she
wished, she went to the stoop door and took her seat there, with her
knitting-work in her hand, in a position from which, on one side she
could look into the room and observe every thing which took place
there, and on the other side, watch the road and see if any one went
by. She thought it probable that some of the workmen, who had been
employed at the new house, might be going home about that time, and
she wished to send into the village by them to ask Dr. Keep to come.
Mary Erskine succeeded in her design of sending into the village by
one of the workmen, and Dr. Keep came about nine o'clock He prescribed
for Albert, and prepared, and left, some medicine for him. He said he
hoped that he was not going to be very sick, but he could tell better
in the morning when he would come again.
"But you ought not to be here alone," said he to Mary Erskine. "You
ought to have some one with you."
"No," said Mary Erskine, "I can get along very well, alone,
to-night,--and I think he will be better in the morning."
Stories of sickness and suffering are painful to read, as the reality
is painful to witness. We will therefore shorten the tale of Mary
Erskine's anxiety and distress, by saying, at once that Albert grew
worse instead of better, every day for a fortnight, and then died.
During his sickness Mrs. Bell spent a great deal of time at Mary
Erskine's house, and other persons, from the village, came every day
to watch with Albert, and to help take care of the children. There was
a young man also, named Thomas, whom Mary Erskine employed to come and
stay there all day, to take the necessary care of the cattle and of
the farm. They made a bed for Thomas in the scaffold in the barn. They
also made up a bed in the stoop, in a corner which they divided off
by means of a curtain. This bed was for the watchers, and for Mary
Erskine herself, when she or they wished to lie down. Mary Erskine
went to it, herself very seldom. She remained at her husband's bedside
almost all the time, day and night. Albert suffered very little
pain, and seemed to sleep most of the time. He revived a little the
afternoon before he died, and appeared as if he were going to be
better. He looked up into Mary Erskine's face and smiled. It was
plain, however, that he was very feeble.
There was nobody but Mrs. Bell in the house, at that time, besides
Mary Erskine and the baby. Bella had gone to Mrs. Bell's house, and
Mary Bell was taking care of her. Albert beckoned his wife to come to
him, and said to her, in a faint and feeble voice, that he wished Mrs.
Bell to write something for him. Mary Erskine immediately brought her
work-table up to the bedside, opened the drawer, took out one of the
sheets of paper and a pen, opened the inkstand, and thus made every
thing ready for writing. Mrs. Bell took her seat by the table in such
a manner that her head was near to Albert's as it lay upon the pillow.
"I am ready now," said Mrs. Bell.
"I bequeath all my property,"--said Albert.
Mrs. Bell wrote these words upon the paper, and then said,
"Well: I have written that."
"To Mary Erskine my wife," said Albert.
"I have written that," said Mrs. Bell, a minute afterwards.
"Now hand it to me to sign," said Albert.
They put the paper upon a book, and raising Albert up in the bed,
they put the pen into his hand. He wrote his name at the bottom of the
writing at the right hand. Then moving his hand to the left, he wrote
the word '_witness_' under the writing on that side. His hand
trembled, but he wrote the word pretty plain. As he finished writing
it he told Mrs. Bell that she must sign her name as witness. When this
had been done he gave back the paper and the pen into Mary Erskine's
hand, and said that she must take good care of that paper, for it was
very important. He then laid his head down again upon the pillow and
shut his eyes. He died that night.
Mary Erskine was entirely overwhelmed with grief, when she found that
all was over. In a few hours, however, she became comparatively calm,
and the next day she began to help Mrs. Bell in making preparations
for the funeral. She sent for Bella to come home immediately. Mrs.
Bell urged her very earnestly to take both the children, and go with
her to _her_ house, after the funeral, and stay there for a few
days at least, till she could determine what to do.
"No," said Mary Erskine. "It will be better for me to come back here."
"What do you think you shall do?" said Mrs. Bell.
"I don't know," said Mary Erskine. "I can't even begin to think now. I
am going to wait a week before I try to think about it at all."
"And in the mean time you are going to stay in this house."
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I think that is best."
"But you must not stay here alone," said Mrs. Bell. "I will come back
with you and stay with you, at least one night."
"No," said Mary Erskine. "I have got to learn to be alone now, and
I may as well begin at once. I am very much obliged to you for all
your--"
Here Mary Erskine's voice faltered, and she suddenly stopped. Mrs.
Bell pitied her with all her heart, but she said no more. She remained
at the house while the funeral procession was gone to the grave; and
some friends came back with Mary Erskine, after the funeral. They all,
however, went away about sunset, leaving Mary Erskine alone with her
children.
As soon as her friends had gone, Mary Erskine took the children and
sat down in a rocking-chair, before the fire, holding them both in
her lap, the baby upon one side and Bella upon the other, and began to
rock back and forth with great rapidity. She kissed the children again
and again, with many tears, and sometimes she groaned aloud, in the
excess of her anguish. She remained sitting thus for half an hour. The
twilight gradually faded away. The flickering flame, which rose from
the fire in the fire-place, seemed to grow brighter as the daylight
disappeared, and to illuminate the whole interior of the room, so as
to give it a genial and cheerful expression. Mary Erskine gradually
became calm. The children, first the baby, and then Bella, fell
asleep. Finally Mary Erskine herself, who was by this time entirely
exhausted with watching, care, and sorrow, fell asleep too. Mary
Erskine slept sweetly for two full hours, and then was awaked by the
nestling of the baby.
[Illustration: THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.]
When Mary Erskine awoke she was astonished to find her mind perfectly
calm, tranquil, and happy. She looked down upon her children--Bella
asleep and the baby just awaking--with a heart full of maternal joy
and pleasure. Her room, it seemed to her, never appeared so bright and
cheerful and happy as then. She carried Bella to the bed and laid her
gently down in Albert's place, and then, going back to the fire, she
gave the baby the food which it required, and rocked it to sleep.
Her heart was resigned, and tranquil, and happy, She put the baby, at
length, into the cradle, and then, kneeling down, she thanked God with
her whole soul for having heard her prayer, and granted her the spirit
of resignation and peace. She then pushed open the curtains, and
reclined herself upon the bed, where she lay for some time, with a
peaceful smile upon her countenance, watching the flashing of a little
tongue, of flame, which broke out at intervals from the end of a brand
in the fire. After lying quietly thus, for a little while, she closed
her eyes, and gradually fell asleep again.
She slept very profoundly. It was a summer night, although, as usual,
Mary Erskine had a fire. Clouds rose in the west, bringing with them
gusts of wind and rain. The wind and the rain beat against the window,
but they did not wake her. It thundered. The thunder did not wake her.
The shower passed over, and the sky became, serene again, while Mary
Erskine slept tranquilly on. At length the baby began to move in the
cradle. Mary Erskine heard the first sound that its nestling made, and
raised herself up suddenly. The fire had nearly gone out. There was
no flame, and the room was lighted only by the glow of the burning
embers. Mary Erskine was frightened to find herself alone. The
tranquillity and happiness which she had experienced a few hours ago
were all gone, and her mind was filled, instead, with an undefined and
mysterious distress and terror. She went to the fire-place and built
a new fire, for the sake of its company. She took the baby from the
cradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go to
bed again till morning. She went to the window and looked out at the
stars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be before
the morning would come. She felt afraid, though she knew not why, and
holding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, she
walked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish,
longing for the morning to come. Such is the capriciousness of grief.