Chapter VI: A Dream of Darkness 221 (7)

----Nelly only stoops to drop a little kiss of pleading on your forehead.

----"Well, Nelly," (it is hard to speak roundly,) "give me your hand;--here, Will,--take it:--she's a wild girl;--be kind to her, Will."

"God bless you, sir!"

And Nelly throws herself, sobbing, upon your bosom.

----"Not here,--not here now, Nell!--Will is yonder!"

----Sobbing, sobbing still! Nelly, Nelly,--who would have thought that your merry face covered such a heart of tenderness!

III.

_Grief and Joy of Age._

The Winter has its piercing storms,--even as Autumn hath. Hoary age, crowned with honor and with years, bears no immunity from suffering. It is the common heritage of us all: if it come not in the spring or in the summer of our day, it will surely find us in the autumn, or amid the frosts of winter. It is the penalty humanity pays for pleasure; human joys will have their balance. Nature never makes false weight. The east wind is followed by a wind from the west; and every smile will have its equivalent in a tear!

You have lived long and joyously with that dear one who has made your life a holy pilgrimage. She has seemed to lead you into ways of pleasantness, and has kindled in you--as the damps of the world came near to extinguish them--those hopes and aspirations which rest not in life, but soar to the realm of spirits.

You have sometimes shuddered with the thought of parting; you have trembled even at the leave-taking of a year, or of months, and have suffered bitterly as some danger threatened a parting forever. That danger threatens now. Nor is it a sudden fear to startle you into a paroxysm of dread: nothing of this. Nature is kinder,--or she is less kind.

It is a slow and certain approach of danger which you read in the feeble step,--in the wan eye, lighting up from time to time into a brightness, that seems no longer of this world. You read it in the new and ceaseless attentions of the fond child, who yet blesses your home, and who conceals from you the bitterness of the coming grief.

Frank is away--over-seas; and as the mother mentions that name with a tremor of love and of regret, that he is not now with you all,--you recall that other death, when you too were not there. Then, you knew little of a parent's feeling; now, its intensity is present!

Day after day, as summer passes, she is ripening for that world where her faith and her hope have so long lived. Her pressure of your hand at some casual parting for a day is full of a gentle warning, as if she said,--prepare for a longer adieu!

Her language, too, without direct mention steeps your thought in the bitter certainty that she foresees her approaching doom, and that she dreads it only so far as she dreads the grief that will be left in her broken home. Madge--the daughter--glides through the duties of that household like an angel of mercy: she lingers at the sick-bed,--blessing, and taking blessings.

* * * * *

The sun shines warmly without, and through the open casement beats warmly upon the floor within. The birds sing in the joyousness of full-robed summer; the drowsy hum of the bees, stealing sweets from the honeysuckle that bowers the window, lulls the air to a gentle quiet. Her breathing scarce breaks the summer stillness. Yet, she knows it is nearly over. Madge, too,--with features saddened, yet struggling against grief,--feels--that it is nearly over.

It is very hard to think it; how much harder to know it! But there is no mistaking her look now--so placid, so gentle, so resigned! And her grasp of your hand--so warm--so full of meaning!

----"Madge, Madge, must it be?" And a pleasant smile lights her eye; and her grasp is warmer; and her look is--upward!

----"Must it--must it be, dear Madge?"--A holier smile,--loftier,--lit up of angels, beams on her faded features. The hand relaxes its clasp, and you cling to it faster--harder,--joined close to the frail wreck of your love,--joined tightly--but oh, how far apart!

She is in Heaven;--and you, struggling against the grief of a lorn, old man!

But sorrow, however great it be, must be subdued in the presence of a child. Its fevered outbursts must be kept for those silent hours when no young eyes are watching, and no young hearts will "catch the trick of grief."

When the household is quiet and darkened,--when Madge is away from you, and your boy Frank slumbering--as youth slumbers upon sorrow,--when you are alone with God and the night,--in that room so long hallowed by her presence, but now--deserted--silent,--then you may yield yourself to such frenzy of tears as your strength will let you! And in your solitary rambles through the churchyard you can loiter of a summer's noon over _her_ fresh-made grave, and let your pent heart speak, and your spirit lean toward the Rest where her love has led you!

Thornton, the clergyman, whose prayer over the dead has dwelt with you, comes from time to time to light up your solitary hearth with his talk of the Rest for all men. He is young, but his earnest and gentle speech win their way to your heart, and to your understanding. You love his counsels; you make of him a friend, whose visits are long and often repeated.

Frank only lingers for a while; and you bid him again--adieu. It seems to you that it may well be the last; and your blessing trembles on your lip. Yet you look not with dread, but rather with a firm trustfulness toward the day of the end. For your darling Madge, it is true, you have anxieties; you fear to leave her lonely in the world with no protector save the wayward Frank.

* * * * *

It is later August when you call to Madge one day to bring you the little _escritoire_, in which are your cherished papers; among them is your last will and testament. Thornton has just left you, and it seems to you that his repeated kindnesses are deserving of some substantial mark of your regard.

"Maggie," you say, "Mr. Thornton has been very kind to me."

"Very kind, father."

"I mean to leave him here some little legacy, Maggie."

"I would not, father."

"But Madge, my daughter!"

"He is not looking for such return, father."

"But he has been very kind, Madge; I must show him some strong token of my regard. What shall it be, Maggie?"

Madge hesitates,--Madge blushes,--Madge stoops to her father's ear as if the very walls might catch the secret of her heart;--"Would you give _me_ to him, father?"

"But--my dear Madge--has he asked this?"

"Eight months ago, papa."

"And you told him"--

"That I would never leave you, so long as you lived!"

----"My own dear Madge,--come to me,--kiss me! And you love him, Maggie?"

"With all my heart, sir."

----"So like your mother,--the same figure,--the same true, honest heart! It shall be as you wish, dear Madge. Only you will not leave me in my old age,--eh, Maggie?"

----"Never, father,--never."

* * * * *

----And there she leans upon his chair;--her arm around the old man's neck,--her other hand clasped in his,--and her eyes melting with tenderness as she gazes upon his aged face,--all radiant with joy and with hope!

IV.

_The End of Dreams._

A feeble old man, and a young lady who is just now blooming into the maturity of womanhood, are toiling up a gentle slope, where the spring sun lies warmly. The old man totters, though he leans heavily upon his cane; and he pants as he seats himself upon a mossy rock that crowns the summit of the slope. As he recovers breath, he draws the hand of the lady in his, and with a trembling eagerness he points out an old mansion that lies below under the shadow of tall sycamores; and he says,--feebly and brokenly,--"That is it, Maggie,--the old home--the sycamores--the garret--Charlie--Nelly"--

The old man wipes his eyes. Then his hand shifts: he seems groping in darkness; but soon it rests upon a little cottage below, heavily overshadowed.

"That was it, Maggie;--Madge lived there--sweet Madge--your mother"--

Again the old man wipes his eyes, and the lady turns away.

Presently they walk down the hill together. They cross a little valley with slow, faltering steps. The lady guides him carefully, until they reach a little graveyard.

"This must be it, Maggie, but the fence is new. There it is, Maggie, under the willow,--my poor mother's grave!"

The lady weeps.

"Thank you, Madge; you did not know her, but you weep for me. God bless you!"

* * * * *

The old man is in the midst of his household. It is some festive day. He holds feebly his place at the head of the board. He utters in feeble tones--a Thanksgiving.

His married Nelly is there with two blooming children. Frank is there with his bride. Madge--dearest of all--is seated beside the old man, watchful of his comfort, and assisting him as with a shadowy dignity he essays to do the honors of the board. The children prattle merrily: the elder ones talk of the days gone by; and the old man enters feebly, yet with floating glimpses of glee, into the cheer and the rejoicings.

----Poor old man, he is near his tomb! Yet his calm eye, looking upward, seems to show no fear.

* * * * *

The same old man is in his chamber; he cannot leave his chair now. Madge is beside him; Nelly is there too with her eldest-born. Madge has been reading to the old man: it was a passage of promise--of the Bible promise.

"A glorious promise!" says the old man, feebly;--"a promise to me,--a promise to her, poor Madge!"

----"Is her picture there, Maggie?"

Madge brings it to him: he turns his head; but the light is not strong. They wheel his chair to the window. The sun is shining brightly: still the old man cannot see.

"It is getting dark, Maggie."

Madge looks at Nelly--wistfully--sadly.

The old man murmurs something; and Madge stoops.--"Coming," he says,--"coming!"

Nelly brings the little child to take his hand. Perhaps it will revive him. She lifts her boy to kiss his cheek.

The old man does not stir: his eyes do not move: they seem fixed above. The child cries as his lips touch the cold cheek.--It is a tender Spring flower upon the bosom of the dying WINTER!

* * * * *

----The old man is gone: his dream-life is ended.

THE END.