It was a quiet Christmas at Tayne Abbey; we had no visitors, for my
mother required the greatest care; but she did not forget one person in
the house, or one on the estate. Sir Roland laughed when he saw the
preparations--the beef, the blankets, the clothing of all kinds, the
innumerable presents, for she had remembered every one's wants and
needs. Sir Roland laughed.
"My dearest Beatrice," he said; "this will cost far more than a houseful
of guests."
"Never mind the cost," she said; "it will bring down a blessing on us."
A quiet, beautiful Christmas. My father was in the highest of spirits,
and would have the house decorated with holly and mistletoe. He went out
to a few parties, but he was always unwilling to leave my mother, though
she wished him to go; then, when we were quite alone, the wind wailing,
the snow falling and beating up against the windows, she would ask me to
read to her the beautiful gospel story of the star in the East and the
child born in the stable because there was no room for Him in the inn. I
read it to her over and over again; then we used to talk about it. She
loved to picture the streets of Bethlehem, the star in the East, the
herald angels, the shepherds who came from over the hills.
She was never tired, and I wondered why that story, more than any other,
interested her so greatly.
I knew afterward.
It was February; the snowdrops were peeping above the ground; the yellow
and purple crocuses appeared; in the clear, cold air there was a faint
perfume of violets, and the terrible sorrow of our lives began.
I had gone to bed very happy one night, for my fair young mother had
been most loving to me. She had been lying on the sofa in her boudoir
all day; her luncheon and dinner had been carried to her, and, as a
great privilege, I had been permitted to share them with her. She looked
very pale and beautiful, and she was most loving to me. When I bade her
good-night she held me in her arms as though she would never let me go.
What words she whispered to me--so loving that I have never forgotten
them, and never shall while my memory lives. Twice she called me back
when I had reached the door to say good-night again--twice I went back
and kissed the pale, sweet face. It was very pale the last time, and I
was frightened.
"Mamma, darling," I asked, "are you very ill?"
"Why, Laura?" she questioned.
"Because you look so pale, and you are always lying here. You never move
about or dance and play as you used to do."
"But I will, Laura. You will see, the very first game we play at hare
and hounds I shall beat you. God bless my darling child!"
That night seemed to me very strange. There was no rest and no silence.
What could every one be doing? I heard the opening and closing of the
doors, the sound of many footsteps in the dead of the night. I heard the
galloping of horses and a carriage stop at the hall door. I thank Heaven
even now that I did not connect these things with the illness of my
mother. Such a strange night! and when morning light came there was no
nurse to dress me. I lay wondering until, at last, Emma came, her face
pale, her eyes swollen with tears.
"What has been the matter?" I cried. "Oh, Emma, what a strange night it
has been! I have heard all kinds of noises. Has anything been wrong?"
"No, my dear," she replied.
But I felt quite sure she was keeping something from me.
"Emma, you should not tell stories!" I cried, so vehemently that she was
startled. "You know how Heaven punished Ananias and Saphira for their
wickedness."
"Hush, missie!" said my good nurse; "I have told no stories--I speak the
truth; there is nothing wrong. See, I want you to have your breakfast
here in your room this morning, and then Sir Roland wants you."
"How is mamma?" I asked.
"You shall go to her afterward," was the evasive reply.
"But how is she?" I persisted. "You do not say how she is."
"I am not my lady's maid, missie," she replied.
And then my heart sank. She would not tell a story, and she could not
say my mother was better.
My breakfast was brought, but I could not eat it; my heart was heavy,
and then Emma said it was time I went to papa.
When the door of my room was opened the silence that reigned over the
house struck me with a deadly chill. What was it? There was no sound--no
bells ringing, no footsteps, no cheery voices; even the birds that mamma
loved were all quiet--the very silence and quiet of death seemed to hang
over the place. I could feel the blood grow cold in my veins, my heart
grow heavy as lead, my face grew pale as death, but I would say no more
of my fears to Emma.
She opened the library door, where she said Sir Roland was waiting for
me, and left me there.
I went in and sprang to my father's arms--my own clasped together round
his neck--looking eagerly in his face.
Ah, me! how changed it was from the handsome, laughing face of
yesterday--so haggard, so worn, so white, and I could see that he had
shed many tears.
"My little Laura--my darling," he said, "I have something to tell
you--something which has happened since you bade dear mamma good-night."
"Oh, not to her!" I cried, in an agony of tears; "not to her!"
"Mamma is living," he said, and I broke from his arms. I flung myself in
an agony of grief on the ground. Those words, "Mamma is living," seemed
to me only little less terrible than those I had dreaded to hear--
"Mamma is dead."
Ah, my darling, it would have been better had you died then.
"Laura," said my father, gravely, "you must try and control yourself.
You are only a child, I know, but it is just possible"--and here his
voice quivered--"it is just possible that you might be useful to your
mother."
That was enough. I stood erect to show him how brave I could be.
Then he took me in his arms.
"My dearest little Laura," he said, "two angels have been with us during
the night--the angel of life and the angel of death. You have had a
little brother, but he only lived one hour. Now he is dead, and mamma is
very dangerously ill. Tho doctors say that unless she has most perfect
rest she will not get better--there must not be a sound in the house."
A little brother! At first my child's mind was so filled with wonder I
could not realize what it meant. How often I had longed for brothers and
sisters! Now I had had one, and he was dead before I could see him.
"I should like to see my little brother, papa--if I may," I said.
He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes, then answered:
"I am quite sure you may, Laura; I will take you."
We went, without making even the faintest sound, to the pretty rooms
that had been set aside as nurseries. One of them had been beautifully
decorated with white lace and flowers. There in the midst stood the
berceaunette in which I had lain when I was a child.
My father took me up to it--at first I saw only the flowers, pale
snowdrops and blue violets with green leaves; then I saw a sweet waxen
face with closed eyes and lips.
Oh! baby brother, how often I have longed to be at rest with you! I was
not frightened; the beautiful, tiny face, now still in death, had no
horrors for me.
"May I kiss him, papa?" I asked. Oh, baby brother, why not have stayed
with us for a few hours at least? I should like to have seen his pretty
eyes and to have seen him just once with him lips parted; as it was,
they were closed in the sweet, silent smile of death.
"Papa, what name should you have given him had he lived?" I asked.
"Your mother's favorite name--Gerald," he replied. "Ah, Laura, had he
lived, poor little fellow, he would have been 'Sir Gerald Tayne, of
Tayne Abbey.' How much dies in a child--who knows what manner of man
this child might have been or what he might have done?"
"Papa, what is the use of such a tiny life?" I asked.
"Not even a philosopher could answer that question," said my father.
I kissed the sweet, baby face again and again. "Good-by, my little
brother," I said. Ah! where shall I see his face again?