And Cicely had told him he mustn't go in a swimmin'. But he went; and because it made his mother feel bad, he would deceive her jest as good-natured as you ever see.
Why, once he come in with his pretty brown curls all wet, and his little shirt on wrong side out.
He was kinder whistlin', and tryin' to act indifferent and innocent. And when his mother questioned him about it, he said,—
“He had drinked so much water, that it had soaked through somehow to his hair. And he turned his shirt gettin' over the fence. And we might ask Let Peedick if it wuzn't so.”
We could hear Letty a whistlin' out to the barn, and we knew he stood ready to say “he see the shirt turn.”
But we didn't ask.
But when the boy see that his actin' and behavin' made his mother feel real bad, he would ask her forgiveness jest as sweet; and I knew he meant to do jest right, and mebby he would for as much as an hour, or till some temptation come along—or boy.
But the good-tempered easiness to be led astray made Cicely feel like death: she had seen it in another; she see it was a inherited trait. And she could see jest how hard it was goin' to make his future: she would try her best to break him of it. But how, how was she goin' to do it, with them weak, good-natured lips, and that chin?
But she tried, and she prayed.
And, oh, how we all loved the boy! We loved him as we did the apples in our eyes.
But as I said, he was a child that had his spells. Sometimes he would be very truthful and honest,—most too much so. That was when he had his sort o' dreamy spells.
I know one day, she that wus Kezier Lum come here a visitin'. She is middlin' old, and dretful humbly.
Paul sot and looked at her face for a long time, with that sort of a dreamy look of hisen; and finally he says,—
“Was you ever a young child?”
And she says,—
“Why, law me! yes, I s'pose so.”
And he says,—
“I think I would rather have died young, than to grow up, and be so homely.”
I riz up, and led him out of the room quick, and told him “never to talk so agin.”
And he says,—
“Why, I told the truth, aunt Samantha.”
“Wall, truth hain't to be spoken at all times.”
“Mother punished me last night for not telling the truth, and told me to tell it always.”
And then I tried to explain things to him; and he looked sweet, and said “he would try and remember not to hurt folks'es feelin's.”
He never thought of doin' it in the first place, and I knew it. And I declare, I thought to myself, as I went back into the room,—
“We whip children for tellin' lies, and shake 'em for tellin' the truth. Poor little creeters! they have a hard time of it, anyway.”
But when I went back into the room, I see Kezier was mad. And she said in the course of our conversation, that “she thought Cicely was too much took up on the subject of intemperance, and some folks said she was crazy on the subject.”
Kezier was always a high-headed sort of a woman, without a nerve in her body. I don't believe her teeth has got nerves; though I wouldn't want to swear to it, never havin' filled any for her.
And I says back to her, for it made me mad to see Cicely run,—
Says I, “She hain't the first one that has been called crazy, when they wus workin' for truth and right. And if the old possles stood it, to be called crazy, and drunken with new wine—why, I s'pose Cicely can.”
“Wall,” says she, “don't you believe she is almost crazy on that subject?”
Says I, deep and earnest, “It is a good crazy, if it is. And,” says I, “to s'posen the case,—s'posen the one we loved best in the world, your Ebineezer, or my Josiah, should have been ruined, and led into murder, by drinkin' milk, don't you believe we should have been sort o' crazy ever afterwards on the milk question?”
“Why,” says she, “milk won't make anybody crazy.”
There it wuz—she hadn't no imagination.
Says I, “I am s'posen milk, I don't mean it.” Says I, “Cicely means well.”
And so she did, sweet little soul.
But day by day I could see that her eagerness to accomplish what she had sot out to, her awful anxiety about the boy's future, wus a wearin' on her: the active, keen mind, the throbbin', achin' heart, was a wearin' out the tender body.
Her eyes got bigger and bigger every day; and her face got the solemnest, curiusest look to it, that I ever see.
And her cheeks looked more and more like the pure white blow of the Sweet Cicely, only at times there would be a red upon 'em, as if a leaf out of a scarlet rose had dropped dowrn upon their pure whiteness.
That would be in the afternoon; and there would be such a dazzlin' brightness in her eyes, that I used to wonder if it was the fire of immortality a bein' kindled there, in them big, sad eyes.
And right about this time the executor (and I wish he could have been executed with a horse-whip: he knew how she felt about it)—he wuz sot, a good man, but sot. Why, his own sir name wuz never more sot in the ground than he wuz sot on top of it. And he didn't like a woman's interference. He wrote to her that one of her stores, that he had always rented for the sale of factory-cloth and sheep's clothin', lamb's-wool blankets, and etcetery, he had had such a good offer for it, to open a new saloon and billiard-room, that he had rented it for that purpose; and he told how much more he got for it. That made 4 drinkin' saloons, that wuz in the boy's property. Every one of 'em, so Cicely felt, a drawin' some other mother's boys down to ruin.
Cicely thought of it nights a sight, so she said,—said she was afraid the curses of these mothers would fall on the boy.
And her eyes kep' a growin' bigger and solemner like, and her face grew thinner and thinner, and that red flush would burn onto her cheeks regular every afternoon, and she begun to cough bad.
But one day she felt better, and was anxious to go. So she and I went to see the executor, Condelick Post.
We left the boy with Philury. Josiah took us to the cars, and we arrove there at 1 P.M. We went to the tarven, and got dinner, and then sot out for Mr. Post'ses office.
He greeted Cicely with so much politeness and courtesy, and smiled so at her, that I knew in my own mind that all she would have to do would be to tell her errent. I knew he would do every thing jest as she wanted him to. His smile was truly bland—I don't think I ever see a blander one, or amiabler.
I guess she was kinder encouraged, too, for she begun real sort o' cheerful a tellin' what she come for,—that she wanted him to rent these buildin's for some other purpose than drinkin' and billiard saloons.
And he went on in jest as cheerful a way, almost jokeuler, to tell her “that he couldn't do any thing of the kind, and he was doing the business to the best of his ability, and he couldn't change it at all.”
And then Cicely, in a courteus, reasonable voice, begun to argue with him; told him jest how bad she felt about it, and urged him to grant her request.
But no, the pyramids couldn't be no more sot than he wuz, nor not half so polite.
And then she dropped her own sufferings in the matter, and argued the right of the thing.
She said when she was married, her husband took the whole of her property, and invested it for her in these very buildings. And in reality, it was her own property. The most of her husband's wealth was in the mills and government bonds. But she wanted her money invested here, because she wanted a larger interest. And she was intending to let the interest accumulate, and found a free library, and build a chapel, for the workmen at the mills.
And says she, “Is it right that my own property should be used for what I consider such wicked purposes?”
“Wicked? why, my dear madam! it brings in a larger interest than any other investment that I have been able to make. And you know your husband's will provides handsomely for you—the yearly allowance is very handsome indeed.”
“It is all I wish, and more than I care for. I am not speaking of that.”
“Yes, it is very handsome indeed. And by the time Paul is of age, in the way I am managing the property now, he will be the richest young man in this section of the State. The revenue of which you make complaints, will be of itself a handsome property, a large patrimony.”
“It will seem to be loaded with curses, weighed down with the weight of heavy hearts, broken hearts, ruined lives.”
“All imagination, my dear madam! You have a vivid imagination. But there will be nothing of the kind, I assure you,” says he, with a patronizing smile. “It will all be invested in government bonds,—good, honest dollars, with nothing more haunting than the American eagle on them.”
“Yes, and these words, 'In God we trust.' But do you know,” says she, with the red spot growin' brighter on her cheek, and her eyes brighter,—“do you know, if one did not possess great faith, they would be apt to doubt the existence of a God, who can allow such injustice?”
“What injustice, my dear madam?” says he, smilin' blandly.
“You know, Mr. Post, just how my husband died: you know he was killed by intemperance. A drinking-saloon was just as surely the cause of his death, as the sword is, that pierces through a man's heart. Intemperance was the cause of his crime. He, the one I loved better than my own self, infinitely better, was made a murderer by it. I have lost him,” says she, a throwin' out her arms with a wild gesture that skairt me. “I have lost him by it.”
And her eyes looked as big and wild and wretched, as if she was lookin' down the endless ages of eternity, a tryin' to find her love, and knew she couldn't. All this was in her eyes, in her voice. But she seemed to conquer her emotion by a mighty effort, tried to smother it down, and speak calmly for the sake of her boy.
“And now, after I have suffered by it as I have, is it right, is it just, that I should be compelled to allow my property to be used to make other women's hearts, other mothers' hearts, ache as mine must ache forever?”
“But, my dear madam, the law, as it is now, gives me the right to do as I am doing.”
“I am pleading for justice, right: you have it in your power to grant my prayer. Women have no other weapon they can use, only just to plead, to beg for mercy.”
“O my dear madam! you are quite wrong: you are entirely wrong. Women are the real rulers of the world. They, in reality, rule us men, with a rod of iron. Their dainty white hands, their rosy smiles, are the real autocrats of—of the breakfast-table, and of life.”
You see, he went on, as men used to went on, to females years ago. He forgot that that Alonzo and Melissa style of talkin' to wimmen had almost entirely gone out of fashion. And it was a good deal more stylish now to talk to wimmen as if they wuz human bein's, and men wuz too.
But Cicely looked at him calm and earnest, and says,—
“Will you do as I wish you to in this matter?”
“Well, really, my dear madam, I don't quite get at your meaning.”
“Will you let this store remain as it is, and rent those other saloons to honest business men for some other purpose than drinking-saloons?”
“O my dear, dear madam! What can you be thinking of? The rent that I get from those four buildings is equal in amount to any eight of the other buildings of the same size. I cannot, I cannot, consent to make any changes whatever.”
“You will not, then, do as I wish?”
“I cannot, my dear madam: I prefer to put it in that way,—I cannot. I do not see as you do in the matter. And as the law empowers me to use my own discretion in renting the buildings, investing money, etc., I shall be obliged to do so.”
Cicely got up: she was white as snow now, but as quiet as snow ever wus.
Mr. Post got up, too, about the politest actin' man I ever see, a movin' chairs out of the way, and a smilin', and a waitin' on us out. He was ready to give plenty of politeness to Cicely, but no justice.
And I guess he was kinder sorry to see how white and sad she looked, for he spoke out in a sort of a comfortin' voice,—
“You have had great sorrows, Mrs. Slide, but you have also a great deal to comfort you. Just think of how many other widows have been left in poverty, or, as you may say, penury, and you are rich.”
Cicely turned then, and made the longest speech I ever heard her make.
“Yes, many a drunkard's wife is clothed in rags, and goes hungry to bed at night, with her hungry children crying for bread about her. She can lie on her cold pile of rags, with the snow sifting down on her, and think that her husband, a sober, honest man once, was made a low, brutal wretch by intemperance; that he drank up all his property, killed himself by strong drink, was buried in a pauper's grave, and left a starving wife and children, to live if they could. The cold of winter freezes her, the want of food makes her faint, and to see her little ones starving about her makes her heart ache, no doubt. I have plenty of money, fine clothes, dainty food, diamonds on my fingers.”
Says she, stretching out her little white hands, and smilin' the bitterest smile I ever see on Cicely's face,—
“But do you not think, that, as I lie on my warm, soft couch at night, my heart is wrung by a keener pang than that drunkard's wife can ever know? I can lie and think that by my means, my wealth, I am making just such homes as that, making just such broken hearts, just such starving children, filling just such paupers' graves,—laying up a long store of curses and judgments, for my boy's inheritance. And I am powerless to do any thing but suffer.”
And she opened the door, and walked right out. And Mr. Post stood and smiled till we got to the bottom of the stairs.
“Good-afternoon, good-afternoon, my clear madam, call again; happy to see you—Good-afternoon.”
Wall, Cicely went right to bed the minute we got home; and she never eat a mite of supper, only drinked a cup of tea, and thanked me so pretty for bringin' it to her.
And there was such a sad and helpless, and sort of a outraged, look in her pretty brown eyes, some as a noble animal might have, who wus at bay with the cruel hunters all round it. And so I told Josiah after I went down-stairs.
And the boy overheard me, and asked me 87 questions about “a animal at bay,” and what kind of a bay it was—was it the bay to a barn? or on the water? or—
Oh my land! my land! How I did suffer!
But Cicely grew worse fast, from that very day. She seemed to run right down.
One day Cicely had been worryin' dretfully all the forenoon about the boy. And I declare, it seemed so pitiful to hear her talk and forebode about him, with her face lookin' so wan and white, and her big eyes so sorrowful lookin', as if they was lookin' onto all the sadness and trouble of the world, and couldn't help herself—such a sort of a hopeless look, and lovin' and broken-hearted, that it was all I could do to stand it without breakin' right down, and cry in' with her.
But I knew her state, and held firm. And she went over all the old grounds agin to me, that she had foreboded on; and I went over all the old grounds of soothing agin and agin.
Why, good land! I had had practice enough. For every day, and every night, would she forebode and forebode, and I would soothe and soothe, till I declare for't, I should have felt (to myself) a good deal like a bread-and-milk poultice, or even lobelia or catnip, if my feelin's on the subject hadn't been so dretful deep and solemn, deeper than any poultice that was ever made—and solemner.
Why, Tirzah Ann says to me one day,—she had been settin' with Cicely for a hour or two; and she come out a cryin', and says she,—
“Mother, I don't see how you can stand it. It would break my heart to see Cicely's broken-hearted look, and hear her talk for half a day; and you have to hear her all the time.” And she wiped her eyes.
And I says, “Tongue can't tell, Tirzah Ann, how your ma's heart does ache for her. And,” says I, “if I knew myself, I had got to die and leave a boy in the world with such temptations round him, and such a chin on him, why, I don't know what I should do, and what I shouldn't do.”
And says Tirzah Ann, “That is jest the way I feel, mother;” and we both of us wiped our eyes.
But I held firm before her, and reminded her every time, of what she knew already,—“that there was One who was strong, who comforted her in her hour of need, and He would watch over the boy.”
And sometimes she would be soothed for a little while, and sometimes she wouldn't.
Wall, this day, as I said, she had worried and worried and worried. And at last I had soothed her down, real soothed. And she asked me before I went down-stairs, for a poem, a favorite one of hers,—“The Celestial Country.” And I gin it to her. And she said I might shet the door, and she would read a spell, and she guessed she should drop to sleep.
And as I was goin' out of the room, she called me back to hear a verse or two she particularly liked, about the “endless, ageless peace of Syon:”—
And I stood calm, and heard her with a smooth, placid face, though I knew my pies was a scorchin' in the oven, for I smelt 'em. I did well by Cicely.
After she finished it, I told her it was perfectly beautiful, and I left her feelin' quite bright; and there wuzn't but one of my pies spilte, and I didn't care if it wuz. I wuzn't goin' to have her feelin's hurt, pies or no pies.
After I got my pies out, I went into my nearest neighbor's on a errent, tellin' Josiah to stay in Thomas Jefferson's room, just acrost from Cicely's, so's if she wanted any thing, he could get it for her. I wuzn't gone over a hour, and, when I went back, I went up-stairs the first thing; and I found Cicely a cryin,' though there was a softer, more contented look in her eyes than I had seen there for a long time.
And I says, “What is the matter, Cicely?”
And she says,—
“Oh! if I had been a better woman, I could have seen my mother! she has been here!”
“Why, Cicely!” says I. “Here, take some of this jell.”
But she put it away, and says in a sort of a solemn, happy tone,—
“She has been here!”
She said it jest as earnest and serene as I ever heard any thing said; and there was a look in her eyes some as there wuz when she come home from her aunt Mary's, and told me “she almost wished her aunt had died while she was there, because she felt that her mother would be the angel sent from heaven to convey her aunt's soul home—and she could have seen her.”
There was that same sort of deep, soulful, sad, and yet happy look to her eyes, as she repeated,—
“She has been here! I was lying here, aunt Samantha, reading 'The Celestial Country,' not thinking of any thing but my book, when suddenly I felt something fanning my forehead, like a wing passing gently over my face. And then something said to me just as plain as I am speaking to you, only, instead of being spoken aloud, it was said to my soul,—
“'You have wanted to see your mother: she is here with you.'
“And I dropped my book, and sprung up, and stood trembling, and reached out my hands, and cried,—“'Mother! mother! where are you? Oh! how I have wanted you, mother!'
“And then that same voice said to my heart again,—
“'God will take care of the boy.'
“And as I stood there trembling, the room seemed full. You know how you would feel if your eyes were shut, and you were placed in a room full of people. You would know they were there—you would feel their presence, though you couldn't see them. You know what the Bible says,—'Seeing we are encompassed about by so great a cloud of witnesses.' That word just describes what I felt. There seemed to be all about me, a great cloud of people. And I put my arms out, and made a rush through them, as you would through a dense crowd, and said again,—
“'Mother! mother! where are you? Speak to me again.'
“And then, suddenly, there seemed to be a stir, a movement in the room, something I was conscious of with some finer, more vivid sense than hearing. It seemed to be a great crowd moving, receding. And farther off, but clear, these words came to me again, sweet and solemn,—
“'God will take care of the boy.'
“And then I seemed to be alone. And I went out into the hall; and uncle Josiah heard me, and he came out, and asked me what the matter was.
“And I told him 'I didn't know.' And my strength left me then; and he took me up in his arms, and brought me back into my room, and laid me on the lounge, and gave me some wine, and I couldn't help crying.”
“What for, dear?” says I.
“Because I wasn't good enough to see my mother. If I had only been good enough, I could have seen her. For she was here, aunt Samantha, right in this room.”
Her eyes wus so big and solemn and earnest, that I knew she meant what she said. But I soothed her down as well as I could, and I says,—
“Mebby you had dropped to sleep, Cicely: mebby you dremp it.”
“Yes,” says Josiah, who had come in, and heard my last words.
“Yes, Cicely, you dremp it.”
Wall, after a while Cicely stopped cryin', and dropped to sleep.
And now what I am goin' to tell you is the truth. You can believe it, or not, jest as you are a mind to; but it is the truth.
That night, at sundown, Thomas J. come in with a telegram for Cicely; and she says, without actin' a mite surprised,—
“Aunt Mary is dead.”
And sure enough, when she opened it, it was so. She died jest before the time Cicely come out into the hall. Josiah remembered plain. The clock had jest struck two as she opened the door.
Her aunt died at two.
This is the plain truth; and I will make oath to it, and so will Josiah. And whether Cicely dremp it, or whether she didn't; whether it wus jest a coincidin' coincidence, her havin' these feelin's at exactly the time her aunt died, or not,—I don't know any more than you do. I jest put down the facts, and you can draw your own inferences from 'em, and draw 'em jest as fur as you want to, and as many of 'em.
But that night, way along in the night, as I lay awake a musin' on it, and a wonderin',—for I say plain that my specks hain't strong enough to see through the mysteries that wrap us round on every side,—I s'posed my companion wus asleep; but he spoke out sudden like, and decided, as if I had been a disputin' of him,—
“Yes, most probable she dremp it.”
“Wall,” says I, “I hain't disputed you.”
“Hain't you a goin' to?” says he.
“No,” says I. And that seemed to quiet him down, and he went to sleep.
And I give up, that most probable she did, or didn't, one of the two.
But anyway, from that night, she didn't worry one bit about the boy.
She would talk to him sights about his bein' a good boy, but she would act and talk as if she was sure he would. She would look at him, not with the old, pitiful, agonized look, but with a sweet and happy light in her eyes.
And I guessed that she thought that the laws would be changed before the boy was of age. I thought that she felt real encouraged to think the march of civilization was a marchin' on, pretty slow but sure, and, before the boy got old enough to go out into a world full of temptations, there would be wiser laws, purer influences, to help the boy to be a good and noble man, which is about the best thing we know of, here below.
No, she never worried one worry about him after that day, not a single worry. But she made her will, and it was fixed lawful too. She wanted Paul to stay with us till he was old enough to send off to school and college. And she wanted her property and Paul's too, if he should die before he was of age, should be used to found a school, and a home for the children of drunkards. A good school and a Christian home, to teach them and help them to be good, and good citizens.
Josiah Allen and Thomas J. and I was appinted to see to it, appinted by law. It was to be right in them buildings that wus used now for dram-shops: them very housen was to be used to send out good influences and spirits into the world instead of the vile, murderous, brutal spirits, they wus sendin' out now.
And wuzn't it sort o' pitiful to think on, that Cicely had to die before her property could be used as she wanted it to be,—could be used to send out blessings into the world, instead of 'cursings and wickedness, as it was now? It was pitiful to look on it with the eye of a woman; but I kep' still, and tried to look on it with the eye of the United States, and held firm.
And we give her our solemn promises, that in case the job fell to us to do, it should be tended to, to the very best of our three abilities. Thomas J., bein' a good lawyer, could be relied on.
The executor consented to it,—I s'pose because he was so dretful polite, and he thought it would be a comfort to Cicely. He knew there wuzn't much danger of its ever takin' place, for Paul was a healthy child. And his appetite was perfectly startlin' to any one who never see a child's appetite.
I estimated, and estimated calmly, that there wuzn't a hour of the day that he couldn't eat a good, hearty meal. But truly, it needed a strong diet to keep up his strength. For oh! oh! the questions that child would ask! He would get me and Philury pantin' for breath in the house, and then go out with calmness and strength to fatigue his uncle Josiah and Ury nearly unto death.
But they loved him, and so did I, with a deep, pantin', tired-out affection. We loved him better and better as the days rolled by: the tireder we got with him seemin'ly, the more we loved him.
But one hope that had boyed me up durin' the first weeks of my intercourse with him, died out. I did think, that, in the course of time, he would get all asked out. There wouldn't be a thing more in heavens or on earth, or under the earth, that he hadn't enquired in perticular about.
But as days passed by, I see the fallicy of my hopes. Insperation seemed to come to him; questions would spring up spontanious in his mind; the more he asked, the more spontaniouser they seemed to spring.
Now, for instance, one evenin' he asked me about 3,000 questions about the Atlantic Ocian, its whales and sharks and tides and steamships and islands and pirates and cable and sailors and coral and salt, and etc., etc., and etcetery; and after a hour or two he couldn't think of another thing to ask, seemin'ly. And I begun to get real encouraged, though fagged to the very outmost limit of fag, when he drew a long breath, and says with a perfectly fresh, vigorous look,—
“Now less begin on the Pacific.”
And I answered kindly, but with firmness,—
“I can't tackle any more ocians to-night, I am too tuckered out.”
“Well,” says he, glancin' out of the window at the new moon which hung like a slender golden bow in the west, “don't you think the moon to-night is shaped some like a hammock? and if I set down in it with my feet hanging out, would I be dizzy? and if I should curl my feet up, and lay back in it, and sail—and sail—and sail up into the sky, could I find out about things up in the heavens? Could I find the One up there that set me to breathing? And who made the One that made me? And where was I before I was made?—and uncle Josiah and Ury? And why wouldn't I tell him where we was before we was anywhere? and if we wasn't anywhere, did I suppose we would want to be somewhere? and say—SAY”—
Oh, dear me! dear me! how I did suffer!
But a better child never lived than he was, and I would have loved to seen anybody dispute it. He was a lovely child, and very deep.
And he would back up to you, and get up into your lap, with such a calm, assured air of owning you, as if you was his possession by right of discovery. And he would look up into your face with such a trustin', angelic look as he tackled you, that, no matter how tuckered out you would get, you was jest as ready for him the next time, jest as ready to be tackled and tuckered.
He was up with his mother a good deal. He would get up on the bed, and lay by her side; and she would hold him close, and talk good to him, dretful good.
I heard her tellin' him one day, that, “if ever he had a man's influence and strength, he must use them wisely, and deal tenderly and gently by those who were weaker, and in his power. That a manly man was never ashamed of doing what was right, no matter how many opposed him; that it was manly and noble to be pure and good, and helpful to all who needed help.
“And he must remember, if he ever got tired out and discouraged trying to be good himself, and helping others to be good, that he was never alone, that his loving Father would always be with him, and she should. She should never be far away from her boy.
“And it would only be a little while at the longest, before she should take him in her arms again, before life here would end, and the new and glorious life begin, that he must fit himself for. That life here was so short that it wasn't worth while to spend any part of it in less worthy work than in loving and serving with all his strength God and man.”
And I thought as I listened to her, that her talk had the simplicity of a child, and the wisdom of all the philosiphers.
Yes, she would talk to him dretful good, a holdin' him close in her arms, and lookin' on him with that fur-off, happy look in her eyes, that I loved and hated to see,—loved to see because it was so beautiful and sweet, hated to see because it seemed to set her so fur apart from all of us.
It seemed as though, while her body was here below, she herself was a livin' in another world than ourn: you could see its bright radience in her eyes, hear its sweet and peaceful echoes in her voice.
She was with us, and she wuzn't with us; and I'd smile and cry about it, and cry and smile, and couldn't help it, and didn't want to.
And seein' her so satisfied about the boy—why, seein' her feel so good about him, made us feel good too. And seein' her so contented and happy, made us contented and happy—some.
And so the peaceful weeks went by, Cicely growin' weaker and weaker all the time in body, but happier and happier in her mind; so sweet and serene, that we all felt, that, instead of being sad, it was somethin' beautiful to die.
And as the long, sweet days passed by, the look in her eyes grew clearer,—the look that reminded us of the summer skies in early mornin', soft and dark, with a prophecy in them of the coming brightness and glory of the full day.
The mornin' of the last day in June Cicely was not so well; and I sent for the doctor in the mornin', and told Ury to have Tirzah Ann and Maggie come home and spend the day. Which they did.
And in the afternoon she grew worse so fast, that towards night I sent for the doctor again.
He didn't give any hope, and said the end was very near. A little before night the boys come,—Thomas Jefferson and Whitfield.
The sun went down; and it was a clear, beautiful evenin', though there was no moon. All was still in the house: the lamp was lighted, but the doors and windows was open, and the smell of the blossoms outside come in sweet; and every thing seemed so peacful and calm, that we could not feel sorrowful, much as we loved her.
She had wanted the boy on the bed with her; and I told Josiah and the children we would go out, and leave her alone with him. Only, the doctor sot by the window, with the lamp on a little stand by the side of him, and the mornin'-glories hangin' their clusters down between him and the sweet, still night outside.
Cicely's voice was very low and faint; but we could hear her talkin' to him, good, I know, though I didn't hear her words. At last it was all still, and we heard the doctor go to the bedside; and we all went in,—Josiah and the children and me. And as we stood there, a light fell on Cicely's face,—every one in the room saw it,—a white, pure light, like no other light on earth, unless it was something like that wonderful new light—that has a soul. It was something like that clear white light, falling through a soft shade. It was jest as plainly visible to us as the lamplight at the other end of the room.
It rested there on her sweet face, on her wide-open brown eyes, on her smilin' lips. She lay there, rapt, illumined, glorified, apart from us all. For that strange, beautiful glow on her face wrapped her about, separated her from us all, who stood outside.
The boy had fallen asleep, his dimpled arms around her neck, and his moist, rosy face against her white one. She held him there close to her heart; but in the awe, the wonder of what we saw, we hardly noticed the boy.
She heard voices we could not hear, for she answered them in low tones,—contented, happy tones. She saw faces we couldn't see, for she looked at them with wondern' rapture in her eyes. She was away from us, fur away from us who loved her,—we who were on this earth still. Love still held her here, human love yet held her by a slight link to the human; but her sweet soul had got with its true kindred, the pure in heart.
But still her arms was round the boy,—white, soft arms of flesh, that held him close to her heart. And at the very last, she fixed her eyes on him; and, oh! what a look that was,—a look of such full peace, and rapturous content, as if she knew all, and was satisfied with all that should happen to him. As if her care for him, her love for him, had blossomed, and bore the ripe fruit of blessedness.
At last that beautiful light grew dimmer, and more dim, till it was gone—gone with the pure soul of our sweet Cicely.
That night, way along in the night, I wuzn't sleeping, and I wuzn't crying, though I had loved Cicely so well. No: I felt lifted up in my mind, inspired, as if I had seen somethin' so beautiful that I could never forget it. I felt perhaps somethin' as our old 4 mothers did when they would see an angel standin' with furled wings outside their tents.
I thought Josiah was asleep; but it seems he wuzn't, for he spoke out sort o' decided like,—
“Most probable it was the lamp.”
It was a lovely mornin' about three weeks after Cicely's death. Josiah had to go to Jonesville to mill, and the boy wanted to go to; and so I put on his little cloak and hat, and told him he might go.
We didn't act cast down and gloomy before the boy, Josiah and me didn't. He had worried for his ma dretfully, at first. But we had made every thing of him, and petted him. And I had told him that she had gone to a lovely place, and was there a waitin' for him. And I would say it to him with as cheerful a face as I could. (I knew I could do my own cryin', out to one side.)
And he believed me. He believed every word I said to him. And he would ask me sights and sights of questions about “the place.”
And “if it was inside the gate, that uncle Josiah had read about,—that gate that was big and white, like a pearl? And if it would float down through the sky some day, and stand still in front of him? And would the gate swing open so he could see into the City? and would it be all glorious with golden streets, and shining, and full of light? And would his mamma Cicely stand just inside, and reach out her arms to him?—those pretty white arms.”
And then the boy would sob and cry. And I'd soothe him, and swaller hard, and say “Yes,” and didn't think it was wicked, when he would be a sobbin' so.
And then he'd ask, “Would she take him in her arms, and be glad to see her own little boy again? And would he have long to wait?”
And I'd comfort him, and tell him, “No, it wouldn't be but a little time to wait.”
And didn't think it was wicked, for it wuzn't long anyway. For “our days are but shadows that flee away.”
Wall, he loved us, some. And we loved him, and did well by him; and bein' a child, we could sometimes comfort him with childish things.
And this mornin' he wus all excitement about goin' to Jonesville with his uncle Josiah. And I gin him some pennys to get some oranges for him and the babe, and they set off feelin' quite chirk.
And I sot down to mend a vest for my Josiah. And I was a settin' there a mendin' it,—one of the pockets had gin out, and it was frayed round the edges.
And I sot there a sewin' on that fray, peaceful and calm and serene as the outside of the vest, which was farmer's satin, and very smooth and shinin'. The weather also wus as mild and serene as the vest, if not serener. I had got my work all done up as slick as a pin: the floor glittered like yellow glass, the stove shone a agreable black, a good dinner was a cookin'. And I sot there, happy, as I say; for though, when I had done so much work that mornin', if that vest had belonged to anybody else, it would have looked like a stent to me, I didn't mind it, for it was for my Josiah: and love makes labor light,—light as day.
I was jest a thinkin' this, and a thinkin' that though I had jest told Josiah, from a sense of duty, that “he had broke that pocket down by luggin' round so much stuff in it, and there was no sense in actin' as if he could carry round a hull car-load of things in his vest-pocket;” though I had spoken to him thus, from a sense of duty, tryin' to keep him straight and upright in his demeaner,—still, I was a thinkin' how pleasant it wuz to work for them you loved, and that loved you: for though he had snapped me up considerable snappish, and said “he should carry round in his pockets as much as he was a minter; and if I didn't want to mend it, I could let it alone,” and had throwed it down in the corner, and slammed the door considerable hard when he went out, still, I knew that this slight pettishness was only the light bubbles that rises above the sparkling wine. I knew his love for me lay pure and clear and sparklin' in the very depths of his soul.
I was a settin' there, thinkin' about it, and thinkin' how true love, such as mine and hisen, glorified a earthly existence, when all of a sudden I heard a rap come onto the kitchen door right behind me; and I says, “Come in.” And a tall, slim feller entered, with light hair, and sort o' thin, and a patient, determined countenance onto him. A sort of a persistent look to him, as if he wuzn't one to be turned round by trifles. I didn't dislike his looks a mite at first, and sot him a chair.
But little did I think what was a comin'. For, if you will believe it, he hadn't much more than got sot down when he says to me right there, in the middle of the forenoon, and right to my face,—the mean, miserable, lowlived scamp,—says he, right there, in broad daylight, and without blushing, or any thing, says he,—
“I called this morning, mom, to see if I couldn't sell you a feller.”
“Sell me a feller!” I jest made out to say, for I wus fairly paralyzed by his impudence. “Sell me a feller!”
“Yes: I have got some of the best kinds they make, and I didn't know but I could sell you one.”
Sez I, gettin' my tongue back, “Buy a feller! you ask me, at my age, and with my respectability, and after carryin' round such principles as I have been carryin' round for years and years, you ask me to buy a feller!”
“Yes: I didn't know but you would want one. I have got the best kind there is made.”
“I'll let you know, young man,” says I, “I'll let you know that I have got a feller of my own, as good a one as was ever made, one I have had for 20 years and over.”
“Wall, mom,” says he, with that stiddy, determined way of hisen, “a feller that you have had for 20 years must be out of gear by this time.”
“Out of gear!” says I, speakin' up sharp. “You will be out of gear yourself, young man, if I hear any more such talk out of your head.”
“I hope you will excuse me, mom,” says he, in that patient way of hisen. “It hain't my way to run down anybody's else's fellers.”
“Wall, I guess you hadn't better try it again in this house,” says I warmly. “I guess it won't be very healthy for you.”