Chapter IV
Twelve days later.
Mother and child were lingering in the grip of the hideous disease. Of hope for either there was little. The aged sisters looked white and worn, but they would not give up their posts. Their hearts were breaking, poor old things, but their grit was steadfast and indestructible. All the twelve days the mother had pined for the child, and the child for the mother, but both knew that the prayer of these longings could not be granted. When the mother was told on the first day that her disease was typhoid, she was frightened, and asked if there was danger that Helen could have contracted it the day before, when she was in the sick-chamber on that confession visit. Hester told her the doctor had poo-pooed the idea. It troubled Hester to say it, although it was true, for she had not believed the doctor; but when she saw the mothers joy in the news, the pain in her conscience lost something of its force a result which made her ashamed of the constructive deception which she had practiced, though not ashamed enough to make her distinctly and definitely wish she had refrained from it. From that moment the sick woman understood that her daughter must remain away, and she said she would reconcile herself to the separation the best she could, for she would rather suffer death than have her childs health imperiled. That afternoon Helen had to take to her bed, ill. She grew worse during the night. In the morning her mother asked after her:
Is she well?
Hester turned cold; she opened her lips, but the words refused to come. The mother lay languidly looking, musing, waiting; suddenly she turned white and gasped out:
Oh, my God! what is it? is she sick?
Then the poor aunts tortured heart rose in rebellion, and words came:
No be comforted; she is well.
The sick woman put all her happy heart in her gratitude:
Thank God for those dear words! Kiss me. How I worship you for saying them!
Hester told this incident to Hannah, who received it with a rebuking look, and said, coldly:
Sister, it was a lie.
Hesters lips trembled piteously; she choked down a sob, and said:
Oh, Hannah, it was a sin, but I could not help it. I could not endure the fright and the misery that were in her face.
No matter. It was a lie. God will hold you to account for it.
Oh, I know it, I know it, cried Hester, wringing her hands, but even if it were now, I could not help it. I know I should do it again.
Then take my place with Helen in the morning. I will make the report myself.
Hester clung to her sister, begging and imploring.
Dont, Hannah, oh, dont you will kill her.
I will at least speak the truth.
In the morning she had a cruel report to bear to the mother, and she braced herself for the trial. When she returned from her mission, Hester was waiting, pale and trembling, in the hall. She whispered:
Oh, how did she take it that poor, desolate mother?
Hannahs eyes were swimming in tears. She said:
God forgive me, I told her the child was well!
Hester gathered her to her heart, with a grateful God bless you, Hannah! and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping praises.
After that, the two knew the limit of their strength, and accepted their fate. They surrendered humbly, and abandoned themselves to the hard requirements of the situation. Daily they told the morning lie, and confessed their sin in prayer; not asking forgiveness, as not being worthy of it, but only wishing to make record that they realized their wickedness and were not desiring to hide it or excuse it.
Daily, as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower, the sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young beauty to the wan mother, and winced under the stabs her ecstasies of joy and gratitude gave them.
In the first days, while the child had strength to hold a pencil, she wrote fond little love-notes to her mother, in which she concealed her illness; and these the mother read and reread through happy eyes wet with thankful tears, and kissed them over and over again, and treasured them as precious things under her pillow.
Then came a day when the strength was gone from the hand, and the mind wandered, and the tongue babbled pathetic incoherences. This was a sore dilemma for the poor aunts. There were no love-notes for the mother. They did not know what to do. Hester began a carefully studied and plausible explanation, but lost the track of it and grew confused; suspicion began to show in the mothers face, then alarm. Hester saw it, recognized the imminence of the danger, and descended to the emergency, pulling herself resolutely together and plucking victor from the open jaws of defeat. In a placid and convincing voice she said:
I thought it might distress you to know it, but Helen spent the night at the Sloanes. There was a little party there, and, although she did not want to go, and you so sick, we persuaded her, she being young and needing the innocent pastimes of youth, and we believing you would approve. Be sure she will write the moment she comes.
How good you are, and how dear and thoughtful for us both! Approve? Why, I thank you with all my heart. My poor little exile! Tell her I want her to have every pleasure she can I would not rob her of one. Only let her keep her health, that is all I ask. Dont let that suffer; I could not bear it. How thankful I am that she escaped this infection and what a narrow risk she ran, Aunt Hester! Think of that lovely face all dulled and burned with fever. I cant bear the thought of it. Keep her health. Keep her bloom! I can see her now, the dainty creature with the big, blue, earnest eyes; and sweet, oh, so sweet and gentle and winning! Is she as beautiful as ever, dear Aunt Hester?
Oh, more beautiful and bright and charming than ever she was before, if such a thing can beand Hester turned away and fumbled with the medicine-bottles, to hide her shame and grief.
Chapter V
After a little, both aunts were laboring upon a difficult and baffling work in Helens chamber. Patiently and earnestly, with their stiff old fingers, they were trying to forge the required note. They made failure after failure, but they improved little by little all the time. The pity of it all, the pathetic humor of it, there was none to see; they themselves were unconscious of it. Often their tears fell upon the notes and spoiled them; sometimes a single misformed word made a note risky which could have been ventured but for that; but at last Hannah produced one whose script was a good enough imitation of Helens to pass any but a suspicious eye, and bountifully enriched it with the petting phrases and loving nicknames that had been familiar on the childs lips from her nursery days. She carried it to the mother, who took it with avidity, and kissed it, and fondled it, reading its precious words over and over again, and dwelling with deep contentment upon its closing paragraph:
Mousie darling, if I could only see you, and kiss your eyes, and feel your arms about me! I am so glad my practicing does not disturb you. Get well soon. Everybody is good to me, but I am so lonesome without you, dear mamma.
The poor child, I know just how she feels. She cannot be quite happy without me; and I oh, I live in the light of her eyes! Tell her she must practice all she pleases; and, Aunt Hannah tell her I cant hear the piano this far, nor hear dear voice when she sings: God knows I wish I could. No one knows how sweet that voice is to me; and to think some day it will be silent! What are you crying for?
Only because because it was just a memory. When I came away she was singing, Loch Lomond. The pathos of it! It always moves me so when she sings that.
And me, too. How heartbreakingly beautiful it is when some youthful sorrow is brooding in her breast and she sings it for the mystic healing it brings. Aunt Hannah?
Dear Margaret?
I am very ill. Sometimes it comes over me that I shall never hear that dear voice again.
Oh, dont dont, Margaret! I cant bear it!
Margaret was moved and distressed, and said, gently:
There there let me put my arms around you. Dont cry. There put your cheek to mine. Be comforted. I wish to live. I will live if I can. Ah, what could she do without me!.. Does she often speak of me? but I know she does.
Oh, all the time all the time!
My sweet child! She wrote the note the moment she came home?
Yes the first moment. She would not wait to take off her things.
I knew it. It is her dear, impulsive, affectionate way. I knew it without asking, but I wanted to hear you say it. The petted wife knows she is loved, but she makes her husband tell her so every day, just for the joy of hearing it. She used the pen this time. That is better; the pencil-marks could rub out, and I should grieve for that. Did you suggest that she use the pen?
Y no she it was her own idea.
The mother looked her pleasure, and said:
I was hoping you would say that. There was never such a dear and thoughtful child!.. Aunt Hannah?
Dear Margaret?
Go and tell her I think of her all the time, and worship her. Why you are crying again. Dont be so worried about me, dear; I think there is nothing to fear, yet.
The grieving messenger carried her message, and piously delivered it to unheeding ears. The girl babbled on unaware; looking up at her with wondering and startled eyes flaming with fever, eyes in which was no light of recognition:
Are you no, you are not my mother. I want her oh, I want her! She was here a minute ago I did not see her go. Will she come? will she come quickly? will she come now? There are so many houses and they oppress me so and everything whirls and turns and whirls oh, my head, my head!and so she wandered on and on, in her pain, flitting from one torturing fancy to another, and tossing her arms about in a weary and ceaseless persecution of unrest.
Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the hot brow, murmuring endearing and pitying words, and thanking the Father of all that the mother was happy and did not know.
Chapter VI
Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave, and daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her radiant health and loveliness to the happy mother, whose pilgrimage was also now nearing its end. And daily they forged loving and cheery notes in the childs hand, and stood by with remorseful consciences and bleeding hearts, and wept to see the grateful mother devour them and adore them and treasure them away as things beyond price, because of their sweet source, and sacred because her childs hand had touched them.
At last came that kindly friend who brings healing and peace to all. The lights were burning low. In the solemn hush which precedes the dawn vague figures flitted soundless along the dim hall and gathered silent and awed in Helens chamber, and grouped themselves about her bed, for a warning had gone forth, and they knew. The dying girl lay with closed lids, and unconscious, the drapery upon her breast faintly rising and falling as her wasting life ebbed away. At intervals a sigh or a muffled sob broke upon the stillness. The same haunting thought was in all minds there: the pity of this death, the going out into the great darkness, and the mother not here to help and hearten and bless.
Helen stirred; her hands began to grope wistfully about as if they sought something she had been blind some hours. The end was come; all knew it. With a great sob Hester gathered her to her breast, crying, Oh, my child, my darling! A rapturous light broke in the dying girls face, for it was mercifully vouchsafed her to mistake those sheltering arms for anothers; and she went to her rest murmuring, Oh, mamma, I am so happy I longed for you now I can die.
Two hours later Hester made her report. The mother asked:
How is it with the child?
She is well.
Chapter VII
A sheaf of white crape and black was hung upon the door of the house, and there it swayed and rustled in the wind and whispered its tidings. At noon the preparation of the dead was finished, and in the coffin lay the fair young form, beautiful, and in the sweet face a great peace. Two mourners sat by it, grieving and worshipping Hannah and the black woman Tilly. Hester came, and she was trembling, for a great trouble was upon her spirit. She said:
She asks for a note.
Hannahs face blanched. She had not thought of this; it had seemed that that pathetic service was ended. But she realized now that that could not be. For a little while the two women stood looking into each others face, with vacant eyes; then Hannah said:
There is no way out of it she must have it; she will suspect, else.
And she would find out.
Yes. It would break her heart. She looked at the dead face, and her eyes filled. I will write it, she said.
Hester carried it. The closing line said:
Darling Mousie, dear sweet mother, we shall soon be together again. Is not that good news? And it is true; they all say it is true.
The mother mourned, saying:
Poor child, how will she bear it when she knows? I shall never see her again in life. It is hard, so hard. She does not suspect? You guard her from that?
She thinks you will soon be well.
How good you are, and careful, dear Aunt Hester! None goes near herr who could carry the infection?
It would be a crime.
But you see her?
With a distance between yes.
That is so good. Others one could not trust; but you two guardian angels steel is not so true as you. Others would be unfaithful; and many would deceive, and lie.
Hesters eyes fell, and her poor old lips trembled.
Let me kiss you for her, Aunt Hester; and when I am gone, and the danger is past, place the kiss upon her dear lips some day, and say her mother sent it, and all her mothers broken heart is in it.
Within the hour, Hester, raining tears upon the dead face, performed her pathetic mission.
Chapter VIII
Another day dawned, and grew, and spread its sunshine in the earth. Aunt Hannah brought comforting news to the failing mother, and a happy note, which said again, We have but a little time to wait, darling mother, then we shall be together.
The deep note of a bell came moaning down the wind.
Aunt Hannah, it is tolling. Some poor soul is at rest. As I shall be soon. You will not let her forget me?
Oh, God knows she never will!
Do not you hear strange noises, Aunt Hannah? It sounds like the shuffling of many feet.
We hoped you would not hear it, dear. It is a little company gathering, for for Helens sake, poor little prisoner. There will be music and she loves it so. We thought you would not mind.
Mind? Oh no, no oh, give her everything her dear heart can desire. How good you two are to her, and how good to me! God bless you both always!