The sun had gone down; the gay, busy voices of the children were hushed
as twilight came on. Jennie put down her silk, which she was patiently
trying to untangle. Lillie laid aside her stocking, and Rosie crept
to Miss Lane, putting her brown head on the lady’s knee, while Frank
stretched himself with Tan on the rug before the crackling fire.
The wind whistled and howled and moaned, the sky was gray and wintry;
but within doors everything was comfortable and nice.
“It is just the time for a story!” suggested Lillie, slyly, and—“Oh,
please do,” began Rosie, while Frank and Jennie started forward eagerly.
“I think I have nearly exhausted myself: it would really be a
difficult matter to get up a story now, I have told you so many.”
“Oh! tell us one about yourself—something about you when you were a
little girl,” exclaimed Rosie.
“Well, I will tell you about something that happened to me once. I
cannot promise that it will be very interesting, but it is all true.
My mother died when I was only a little baby, and I had always been
with my father. He took the care of me that usually falls to a mother’s
share. I was very fond of him, indeed, and he called me his ‘Joy.’
He gave me a great many beautiful things, and taught me every day. I
never played with other children, because I scarcely ever saw any, and
did not go to school. I think I shall never forget our long evenings
together, when sometimes we sat for hours without speaking, and papa
only roused himself when the light began to grow dim.
“I was timid, and used to be very much afraid of going through the long
hall alone to my own room, but I never told papa of it, and kept up my
courage by feeling that God was around me always.
“It was a lonesome old house, too, with heavy, trailing vines covering
the long porch and darkening the lower windows. We seldom entered the
parlor; it was a dark room, with rich, thick carpet, and old, heavy
furniture, and between the two front windows was an immense mirror,
which always showed me my demure, frightened little figure, the first
thing when the door was opened.
“There were dark, curiously shaped vases on the tables, and over the
mantelpiece hung my mother’s portrait. I used to stand in awe of that,
though the face was a young and laughing one, but the bright, dark
eyes seemed to follow me wherever I moved, and the half-opened lips
seemed ever going to speak. I used to have such a longing to hear one
word from those lips. I could remember nothing of my mother, and papa
never mentioned her name. It was only when I went to my aunt’s that I
learned the manner of her death even, and I was ever yearning, with
the curiosity of childish love, to know something of her.
“In papa’s room there was a casket of letters, and another of jewels,
and under a glass case were kept a crimson riding cap, with a long
black feather, and a pretty silver-handled whip, with a pair of tiny
gloves, which they told me had once been my mother’s; but he never
spoke to me of them.
“I think I was very happy then, too, though they declared I was
unnaturally quiet and moping. In the summer time I gathered flowers,
and papa told me marvellous stories of their meaning and form, until
the frailest anemone seemed to me like some wonderful, beautiful
friend, and I could find the modest, smiling faces of the very earliest
violets, and purple and pink-tinged hepaticas under the green, graceful
lady ferns, or among the moss that covered the rocks in the glen.
“There was a certain mysterious, dear, delightful garret, too, with
its store of enchantment for rainy days, in the shape of old chests
filled with various wonders,—such as worn, but most charming books
and magazines, and curious old pictures, while others held dresses,
antiquated cloaks, bonnets, and shoes, and many a beautiful thing gone
out of fashion long ago.
“Many an hour I sat there, oblivious of dinner, absorbed in some
entrancing book, or speculating about the wearers of these cast off
garments, until the shadows of evening warned me that papa must be
waiting for me down stairs.
“But I had certain warm, living friends there, about which I must not
forget to tell you. At the head of the stairs, behind the chimney,
there was a hollow log, in which some little, brown birds made a nest
every year. There was a little round hole in the side of the house,
which served them for a door, and they came flitting in and out there
many times in the day. I used to be in a state of great excitement from
the time of their spring house-cleaning till the first egg was laid,
and was a shy, silent, but frequent visitor while the lady-mother was
sitting.
“I think she must have learned to know me very well, for after a while
she scarcely stirred when I approached, and used to turn her cunning,
black eyes upon me, with her little head on one side by way of welcome.
I should have clapped my hands the first time this happened, had I not
been afraid of startling her, as she had such quiet ways; but nothing
could restrain the expression of my perfect delight when the wee,
helpless, open-mouthed birdies appeared. Then I shouted till papa came
in amazement to see what was the matter, and even sober Allie and James
hastened out of the kitchen to see what it all meant.
“But the first time I put my hand, all trembling with eagerness, into
the warm nest, and took out a soft, round, brown creature, scarcely
daring to kiss the pretty head, and putting it back in all haste, lest
it should be hurt, such a thrill of love and ecstasy passed over me
that it was almost painful to bear.
“So these tiny, twittering elves grew so near and dear to me, that
when the time came for them to fly away, I used to feel sadly lonely
and forlorn for many days. And when spring came, I mounted the garret
stairs daily, in expectation of their return.
“Then there was my music. Papa brought the piano out of the gloomy
parlor and put it into his own pleasant study, and there he taught me
to play. So it was an ever new pleasure to sit before it hour after
hour, playing whatever suited my fancy.
“We had an Æolian harp, too, in my own little window; and I used to
gather roses, white and crimson, by putting my hand out through that
window.
“Papa taught me to keep my room in perfect order. He was very
particular, and could not tolerate dust or confusion. I soon became
so very precise that Allie used to shake her head and declare I was
born for an old maid. When I came to be with other children, I found
that this being so _set_, as she called it, in my own ways, was rather
inconvenient, and it was a hard lesson to learn that I must give up my
cherished plans, for others’ pleasure, till I saw how selfish it was to
persist in my own ways—orderly, systematic, and right as they were,
in one sense—without any regard to the wishes or inclinations of any
one around me. It has taken me many long years to _unlearn_ some things
which my isolated child life taught me, and the lesson has been a very
hard one.”
Miss Lane was silent a moment, and the children heard her sigh. But she
proceeded:
“So the summer and winter days went on, and papa began to walk feebly
and to look pale: he coughed, too, and ceased to run and play with me
as he had formerly done; and once or twice Dr. Lee came to see him. I
knew nothing of sickness, and death seemed like something far off in
the future, that had come to my mother, I knew, but I fancied it could
not approach papa or me. The years that stretched far before me, seemed
unending, and I had never dreamed of a life without papa. He was as my
life. Never for one day had I been out of his sight: he seemed a part
of me.
“It came upon me very suddenly, that I might lose my dear father. I was
sitting in the library one afternoon, partly hidden by the curtain of
the window, reading; and I had been quiet so long that, I suppose, papa
had forgotten I was in the room. I remember it all quite as well as if
it had been yesterday. Dr. Lee came in, and he and papa began to talk.
I did not quite understand at first; but when Dr. Lee said:
“‘You’ll never get well—there’s no physician on earth can cure you;
but you may prolong your life by going abroad,’ it all came upon me. My
heart seemed to stand still. I peeped out, panting, from my screen, and
saw the dear, mild face, with the settled paleness and gravity on its
features which I had ever seen there, the tall figure a little bent,
the beautiful hair growing gray about the temples; and, as the doctor
spoke, his hollow cough began to sound through the room: and then I
knew he must leave me! The word of doom had gone forth.
“I rushed from the room, I ran up stairs, thinking only to hide myself
from the sunshine and from everything. Oh! my dear, dear father—how
could I bear it? I lay on the floor in agony, sobbing and thinking
God _would_ not leave me so alone, till I grew quiet from the very
intensity of my suffering; and when I lifted my head, throbbing
with pain, the darkness was resting upon the room, and shadows were
flickering on the wall.
“I half fancied I must have been asleep, and it was all a horrible
dream: but in a moment, the anguish and heartache returned, and,
fleeing as if from some awful presence of grief, I sped down stairs
again. I reached the door and put my hand upon the knob. But my heart
failed me—I could not open it. I heard a step—a slow, feeble step. A
thrill of piercing sorrow made me shudder—for how long was I to hear
that step?—and then I opened the door.
“Papa turned round, and I stood quite still. He saw my face and my
tears, I suppose, for he stopped and held out his hands—and, in a
moment, I threw myself on his breast, only able to cry as if my soul
were leaving my body,
“‘Oh, papa, papa, papa!’
“‘Poor, poor Mary,’ he said, smoothing my hair, and pressing me tightly
in his arms, and kissing my cheek till I grew quiet. I looked up at
last—he was there with me—I held his hand, his eyes were just as
kind—he was alive—he spoke to me, my great love must keep him—I put
my arms round him as if I would _never_ let him go—and resolved to die
when he died—never, never to loose myself from him. Surely, surely, I
could keep him, I thought. God must know how dreary the world would be
to me without him.
“Papa was so calm that I began to lose my fear at last, and to think it
was not true; when, as I lifted my face to kiss him, there dropped on
my cheeks two bitter, awful, _man’s_ tears. I shrank back affrighted.
I bit my lips to keep from screaming. I clasped my father as if I must
grow to him, and began to gasp and sob as if my heart was broken.
Those tears touched me, I have no words to tell how much.
“‘Papa, I cannot bear it—I cannot have it so!’ I cried.
“‘Don’t, my daughter, don’t say so. It is God’s doing.’
“‘Oh! papa!’
“‘It will not be long, my child, that you must be alone!’
“‘But I cannot, cannot live without you—you must not die.’
“‘You have God, my child. It grieves me to hear you speak so.’
“‘But, papa, I cannot see God—He is not near.’
“‘Oh, Mary, He _is_ near, He is about you, He will care for you.’
“I moaned myself to sleep—and woke in the night with a great cry—for
I had dreamed that my father was gone. But he was near to soothe me,
and from that time till our parting, kept me with him, day and night.
“And so there began to be this shadow over my life. It hid the
brightness of the fairest day from my eyes, and came between me and all
childish enjoyment. When papa played, I wept because it was so soon to
be that I could listen no longer, and his laugh sounded hollow, while
my own always ended in a sob. As the time passed, he tried to teach
me to receive the blow in meekness, as coming from the hand of the
All-Father; and it makes me happy to remember that his own faith and
trust in God never wavered.
“So, after a while, I came to think of this life as but a short one
at best, and to look forward to the one in which we could be together
forever. At these times, he spoke of my mother, and I began to know
more of her, and to understand better his joy at the prospect of seeing
her again. By the time the winter had worn away and spring had come,
when I was counting the days, one by one, which we had together, I
had learned, at last, to bear in patience, and did not grieve him by
violent outbreaks of sorrow.
“In May, he was to go to Italy. It was not likely I should ever see
him again, though if I had allowed myself to feel that fully, I could
not have borne it all as I did. He thought it best for me to remain
in America; indeed, it was impossible for me to go with him—though I
poured out my heart in entreaties to be allowed to do so. I am always
sorry when I think of my undisciplined spirit—my unwillingness to
submit at this time; it added to papa’s grief, and he wore himself out
in trying to show me the _good_ in it all, which seemed so hard for me
to see.
“Dr. Lee had told him that to go abroad was the sole chance of adding
to his days, and he thought it his duty to cherish the boon of life as
long as possible; or else, I believe nothing would have induced him
to leave me. I was to stay with aunt Marion Bell, my mamma’s sister,
whom I had never seen; but the prospect of cousins for companions, and
a pony to ride—of a free, fresh country life did not rouse me in the
least from my sadness.
“At last it was all over, and he was gone. He had kissed me again and
again, had bidden ‘God bless me!’ and torn himself away. It was very
dreadful.”
Miss Lane paused, while each of her little hearers remembered the
parting of a year ago, when their dear mother went away.
“But all the time,” she then resumed, “I kept in my mind these last
words of my father: ‘Be patient, my child, be patient always;’ and that
helped the time to pass away.
“At first, I used to wake with the heavy weight of sorrow upon me,
morning after morning, and sit apart, pale and sad, with the tears
starting at the slightest word—and was no doubt an object of wonder
to my merry, boisterous cousins, who looked on me from wide open eyes,
with wondering glances, scarcely ever approaching me or speaking to me.
“But by and by, I began to look out of my corner with some interest
upon this new scene, though as yet I was not an actor in it—and
I had made up my mind not to _live_, only to _wait_ till papa
returned—thinking all those around me, with their ways so different
from his, unworthy of much notice; and as for affection, it had never
even occurred to me that there was enough room in my heart for any body
but my idol.
“There was my grandmother, an old lady, with the daintiest of caps,
and hair as shining white as silver. She always wore a black dress,
with the whitest of inside handkerchiefs fastened by a beautiful
old-fashioned pin of seed pearls, and on her finger glittered a diamond
ring that dazzled my eyes. Those white unwrinkled hands used to be
busied with most delicate work, or with her Bible and Prayer-Book,
which lay always on a table by her side.
“I stayed by her side mostly, and she lavished tender words and
caresses upon me: these made me sad, because they reminded me of papa;
but I was attracted by something in her face that made me think of
mamma’s picture, and so I studied her features with eager, wondering
eyes. One day, while I had been watching her intently, I suddenly
exclaimed:
“‘Grandmamma, tell me something about mamma—you are so like her
picture.’
“Aunt Marion, who was sitting upon the sofa opposite to me, gave me a
quick glance, frowned, and shook her head; then, getting up, said:
“‘Mary, please run and get my thimble out of my work-basket—it is
lying out on the piazza.’
“I ran and brought the thimble. What was this about my mother? Was I
never to know? My face flushed hot, my heart began to beat fast and
loud. My father—oh, my father! Alone, alone—the world seemed so empty
and hard and cold. I suppose grandmamma noticed my loneliness and
sadness, for one day she said to me:
“‘Why don’t you play with your cousins?’
“‘I don’t care to play—they are so rough.’
“‘But, Mary, don’t you know your father wished you to be well and
strong by the time he came back?’
“‘Yes, ma’am.’
“‘You will not become so by moping in this melancholy way. My dear, I
think you take but a poor way of showing your affection for your dear
papa.’
“‘But, grandmamma, I’m quite sure I never can be happy without him;
there is no use in trying. The time will seem so long before he comes
back.’
“‘My dear, I know how much you love him; but I must say to you that
you may have to spend the rest of your life without him; and do you
think that he—that God would be satisfied if it should be passed in
grieving?’
“‘Oh! grandmamma, it cannot be so!’
“‘My child, you must be patient and take what comes. God afflicts us
all our days, and does not tell us why, but we must receive the cup, no
matter how bitter, knowing whose hand it is that offers it. I cannot
bear to see you thus resisting His will.’
“‘I did not think—I did not mean it. I will try to be better; but
indeed, indeed I cannot help feeling the heart-ache about papa, and
sometimes I wake, feeling so sad that I am almost afraid to stay
alone.’
“‘I think it would be very strange and unnatural, my dear, if you did
not grieve; but sorrow may be selfish, too. It is the duty of every one
to strive to be happy and cheerful for the sake of those around. Every
one has a certain influence—the youngest and feeblest of us. Your sad
face makes many an unhappy hour for those around you. I have passed
through more pain and sorrow than you can dream of, my child, and yet
I am content—because I trust it all to God, and know that whatever
befalls, “He doeth all things well.” It is your duty, my dear, to join
with the rest and try to feel more happy.’
“I did not think this possible, and could not understand how I was
to control my _feelings_ at all. I had learned to _act_ according to
certain rules and laws of conscience, but _feeling_ seemed another
thing. I think, if a long letter from papa upon this very subject had
not come to me, I should have gone on in ignorance of the meaning of
her words. He called this trouble my ‘cross,’ and told me to bear it
‘ever patiently, looking upward in hope and cheerfulness.’
“So I tried, and soon learned to laugh and be gay with the rest. I had
been called a good child and gentle tempered; but sometimes the wild,
undisciplined children vexed me beyond measure, and after some outbreak
the tears would come in abundance, for fear I was going backwards, and
papa, when he came, would be disappointed. I used to be frightened
at my own anger and vehemence, and once, after a quarrel, ran to
grandmamma in great grief, to complain that—
“I had never seen such children in my life—that they were making me as
bad as themselves.
“‘My dear,’ answered my wise grandmother, ‘remember, you have never
been with children before—your temper has not been tried—you have
not known yourself—these temptations are showing you to yourself—be
careful not to let them get the better of you. “He that ruleth his own
spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.” The trouble with you is
that you want to have every thing your own way, and because others are
not so neat and so precise as yourself, you lose patience, and so make
trouble about you. There are not two persons in the world alike. If it
were not for love and the beautiful spirit of patience which God gives
us if we ask Him, there would be nothing but jarring and wrangling
everywhere. You cannot live alone; no one will find happiness in such a
life—neither would it be right. Therefore you must learn to bear and
forbear; your life will be a sad mistake if you do not.’
“So I endured Cora’s sleeping in my room and leaving her clothes in a
heap in the middle of the floor, in grim silence. I tried not to wince
when she turned over, so carelessly, my books and music, and when she
overturned my inkstand in my writing desk, I restrained my tears, and
after the first flash of angry feeling, I tried quietly to repair the
damage without a word. Cora seemed much amazed at this conduct, so
unlike the past, and after a stare of astonishment, told me heartily
and freely that she was very sorry.
“By-and-by, much to my amazement, she began to touch my possessions
carefully, and now and then, gathered stray articles of her own off the
sofa or bureau, or from under the bed, with a praiseworthy effort to
set things to rights. Before the summer was over Aunt Marion declared
that Cora was as particular as myself, and I was convinced that
patience was a good rule to live by; and so often was I called upon to
exercise it, that I learned always to be on the watch.”
“There!” Jennie started, “I expected to hear that bell, and here
is papa! Miss Lane, you _will_ tell us more after tea?” she said,
imploringly.
“If you care to hear it!”
“Yes, oh! yes,” cried all in chorus, and the party filed out to tea.