AFFLICTION.
One day Mr. Townsend came home earlier in the afternoon than usual, his
face wearing a troubled look. He found his wife and daughters alone in
the parlors.
“I’ve just received letters from New Orleans,” he said.
“How is John?” eagerly asked Mrs. Townsend, interrupting him.
“He is sick,” was replied.
“Sick! Not dangerously, I hope?”
“I am afraid so. One of his clerks has written.”
“What is the matter with him?”
“He does not say--but I will read you his letter.”
And Mr. Townsend drew forth a letter and read:
“I regret to inform you that your son, Mr. John Townsend, has been
quite ill for several days with a violent fever. He has desired me not
to write to you, lest you should be unnecessarily alarmed, but I have
felt it to be my duty to act contrary to his wishes. I have just seen
the doctor, who says I ought to inform you of your son’s illness. He
does not answer any of my inquiries satisfactorily, which makes me fear
that the case is dangerous. I will write you to-morrow, and every day,
until there is some change.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed the mother, striking her hands together, and
bursting into tears. “It is the yellow fever!”
“I fear it is,” replied Mr. Townsend, striving to keep his feelings
under control. “The sickly season has commenced earlier than usual, and
before John could make his arrangements to come north.”
Oh! how anxiously did that family wait, for the next twenty-four hours,
the arrival of another mail from New Orleans! Mrs. Townsend and her
daughter did little but weep all the time, and Mr. Townsend in vain
attempted to fix his mind upon business. Long before the southern mail
could be assorted, he was at the post-office; and when the window was
thrown open, his face was the first one presented to the clerk. He
received a package of letters, and hastily retired. One bore the New
Orleans post mark. All the rest were hurriedly thrust into his pocket.
Breaking the seal of this, with trembling hands, he read--
“Your son is no better. All last night he was delirious under the
raging violence of the fever. The doctors say but little. I have deemed
it right to call in additional medical aid. Rest assured, sir, that all
shall be done that medicine and careful attention can accomplish. I was
with him all last night, and shall remain constantly by his side. All
that human power can do shall be done; the result is with Him in whose
hands are the issues of life.”
The whole letter, up to the last sentence, deeply agitated Mr.
Townsend; but that sentence, like a knell of doom, subdued the wild
struggles of human passion, and crushed all suddenly down into
hopelessness. He had already discovered that there was a Power above
the human will, and a Disposer of events against whose designs human
prudence was nothing; and he felt that into the hands of this higher
Power he had come, with his very household treasures as well as his
worldly wealth, and that these, too, or a part of these, were to be
taken away. Thus, the very words meant to suggest confidence and
resignation, destroyed the balance of his mind, and overwhelmed it with
the thickest clouds.
At home, he found an anxious and agitated circle awaiting him.
“He is no better,” he said, as he entered the room where his wife and
daughter were sitting.
Tears followed the announcement, that were renewed when the letter he
had received was read.
Anxiously passed another day. Mr. Townsend was at the post-office,
impatiently awaiting the opening of the mail, long before it could
be distributed; but there was no letter. The southern mail had been
delayed beyond Richmond. Two letters came to hand on the next day.
That of the last date was torn open and read, with eyes that took in
sentences rather than words. It ran thus:
“I wrote you yesterday, stating that there were some favorable
symptoms; that the fever had yielded to the efforts of Mr. Townsend’s
physicians. To-day he lies in a very low state. Life seems scarcely
to beat in his pulses. But still there is life, and the disease has
abated; we may, therefore, confidently hope that the vital spark will
slowly rekindle. The attack was most malignant, and bore him down with
great rapidity. To-morrow I hope to be able to say that every thing is
progressing toward recovery.”
“God grant that the issue may be favorable!” murmured the father, as
he crushed the letter in his hand, and hurried away toward the anxious
ones at home.
It was the first prayer that had ever ascended from the heart of
the merchant--the first deeply-felt acknowledgment of his own
powerlessness, and dependence upon a Supreme Being.
To the mother and sister this last intelligence brought a ray of hope,
feeble though it was, and scarcely to be called light.
Three days more went by, and in all that time--an age of
suspense--there came no word of the sick son and brother.
“Has there been a failure of the southern mail?” asked Mr. Townsend
every day. The answer “No,” fell each time upon his feelings like a
stroke from a hammer; for to his mind it indicated the worst. If there
had been any improvement, the clerk would most certainly have written.
At last another letter came. It was brought to the house of Mr.
Townsend by his clerk immediately on the arrival and distribution of
the mail. The merchant had not been out that day. His distress of mind
had become so great that he could attend to no business. This letter
he received as he sat in the midst of his family. He did not break
the seal until the servant who handed it in had retired. A short time
before the letter came, he was walking about the room in an agitated
manner, listening for the ringing of the street bell, as it was full
time for his clerk to be there from the post-office, and had just
seated himself with a deep sigh. Now he was calm, and broke the seal
with strange deliberation.
“I have waited three days in the hope of having favorable news to send
you; but, alas! I have waited in vain. Your son expired--”
A heavy groan broke from the lips of the unhappy father as the letter
fell from his nerveless hand; and at the same time a wild cry of
anguish burst from the mother’s heart. Eunice alone was externally
calm, though she felt the bereavement as deeply, perhaps, as any; but
it was not felt in the same way. It did not strike down, as in the
father’s case, the selfish hopes of a worldly mind.