 | CHAPTER III.
LAUNCHED. Barriers burned away |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
LAUNCHED.
Scarcely was the last word spoken when a sudden glory
filled the room. So brilliant was the light that mother
and son were startled. Then they saw what had been unnoted
before, that day had broken, and that the sun,
emerging from a single dark cloud, was shining, full
orbed, into the apartment with a light that, reflected from
myriads of snowy crystals, was doubly luminous. Nevertheless
it seemed to them a good omen, an earnest, an
emblem of the purer, whiter light into which his cleansed
and pardoned spirit had entered. The snow-wrapped
prairie was indeed pure and bright, but it was cold, whereas
no tropical Summer was ever so warm as the Father's embrace,
receiving home the long absent, erring, but forgiven
child.
Though the bereaved wife believed that a brighter
dawn than that which made the world resplendent around
her, had come for her husband, still a sense of desolation
came over her, which only those can understand who
have known the loss of one who filled the greater part of
time, thought, and heart. As she saw her first and only
love, the companion of a life which, though hard, still had
the light and solace of mutual affection—as she saw him
so still, and realized that she would hear him speak no
more—complain no more—(for even the weaknesses of
those we love are sadly missed after death)—a flood of
never designed to prevent, overwhelmed her, and she gave
way utterly.
Her son took her in his arms and held her silently,
believing that unspoken sympathy was worth more at such
a time than any words.
After the convulsive sobbing had somewhat ceased, he
struck the right chord by saying—“Mother, father is not
lost to us. He himself said good-bye only for a little
while. Then you have us to love and think of; and remember,
what could we do without you?”
The unselfish woman would have tried to rise from a
bed of death to do anything needed by her loved ones,
and this reminding her of those still dependent on her
care, proved the most potent of restoratives. She at once
arose and said,
“Dennis, you are right. It is indeed wrong for me to
give way thus, when I have so much to be thankful for—
so much to live for. But, oh Dennis, you cannot understand
this separation of husband and wife, for God said,
“they twain shall be one flesh; and it seems as if half my
very life had gone, as if half my heart had been wrenched
away, and only a bleeding fragment left.”
The patter of feet was heard on the kitchen floor; the
door opened, and two little figures in white trailing night-gowns
entered. At first they looked in shy wonder and
perplexity at their tall brother, whom they had not seen
for months, but at his familiar voice, recalling many a
romp and merry time together, they rushed to his arms
as of old.
Then they drew near the bed to give their father his
accustomed morning kiss; but as they approached, he
seemed so still that awe began to creep over their little
faces. A dim recollection of the farewell kiss given a few
hours before, when scarcely awake, recurred to them.
“Father,” said the eldest, (about five), “we want to
give you good-morning kiss.”
Seldom had their father been so sick or irritable but
that he reached out his arms to his little ones and gave
them a warm embrace that soothed and did him more
good than he realized. The influence of trusting children
is sometimes the most subtile oil that can be thrown
on the troubled waters of life.
But as the little ones saw that their father made no response
to their approach and appeal, they timidly drew a
step nearer, and looked into his wasted, yet peaceful face,
with its closed eyes and motionless repose, and then turning
to their mother, said in a loud whisper, with faces full
of perplexity and trouble,
“Is papa asleep?”
The little figures in their white drapery, standing over
their dead father, waiting to perform the usual, well-remembered
household rite, proved a scene too touching
for the poor mother's self-control, and again she gave way
to an irresistible burst of sorrow. But her son, true to
his resolution to be the stay and strength of the family,
hastened to the children, and taking them by the hand,
said gently,
“Yes, little ones, papa is asleep. It may be a long
time before he wakes up, but he surely will by-and-by, and
then he will never be sick any more. Come, we will go
into the other room and sing a pretty hymn about papa's
sleep.”
The thought of hearing their brother sing, lured them
away at once, for he had a mellow tenor voice that seemed
to the little girl's sweeter than a bird's. A moment later
the widow's heart was comforted by hearing those words
that have been balm for so many wounds:
From which none ever wakes to weep.”
Then putting on his sisters' flannel wrappers, he sat
them down by the fire, telling stories in the meantime to
divert their thoughts from the scene they had just witnessed.
Thus no horror of death was suffered to enter their
young minds. They were not brought face to face with a
dreadful mystery they could not understand, but which
would leave a sinister impression for life. Gradually they
would learn the truth, but still the first impression would
remain, and their father's death would ever be to them a
sleep from which he would wake by-and-by, “never to be
sick any more.”
He set about preparations for their simple morning
meal so deftly and easily as to show that it was no unaccustomed
task. A sister older than himself had died
while yet an infant, leaving a heartache till he came—
God's best remedy. Then two sisters had died after his
day, and he was compelled to be to his mother daughter
as well as son, to make himself useful in every household
task. His father had been wrapped up in useless inventions,
vain enterprises, and was much away. So mother
and son were constantly together. He had early become
a great comfort and help to her, God blessing her in this
vital respect, though her lot seemed hard in other ways.
Thus while he had the heart and courage of a man, he also
had the quick, supple hand and gentle bearing of a woman,
when occasion required. As proof of his skill, a tempting
meal from the simplest materials was placed smoking on
the table, and the little girls were soon chatting contentedly
over their breakfast. In the meantime the wife within
had drawn near her dead husband and taken his cold
hand. For awhile she dwelt on the past in strong and
tearful agony, then in accordance with long-established
habit, her thoughts went forward into the future. In imagination
she was present at her husband's reception in
feet seemed on the “golden pavement.” The jubilant
clash of heavenly cymbals thrilled her heart. She seemed
taking part in a triumphal march, led by celestial minstrelsy,
toward the throne. She saw her husband mount its
white glistening steps, so changed, and yet so like his
former self when full of love, youth and hope. He appeared
overwhelmed with a sense of unworthiness, but his
reception was all the more kind and reassuring. Then
as he departed from the royal presence, crowned with
God's love and favor forever, though he had all heaven
before him, he seemed looking for her as that he longed
for most, and her strong effort to reach his side aroused
her from her revery as from a dream. But her vision had
strengthened her, as was ever the case, and the bitterness
of grief was past. Imprinting a long kiss on her husband's
cold forehead, she joined her family in the outer room with
calm and quiet mien. Her son saw and understood the
change in his mother's manner, and from long experience
knew its cause.
We need not dwell on what followed—preparations for
burial, the funeral, the return to a home from which one
who had filled so large a place had gone—a home on
which rested the shadow of death. These are old familiar
scenes, acted over and over every day, and yet in the little
households where they occur there is a terrible sense of
novelty as if then happening for the first time. The family
feel as if they were passing through a chaotic period,
the old world breaking up and vanishing, and a new formation
and combination of all elements that make up life,
taking place.
Four days after the death a small procession passed
from the farmhouse to the church, and from thence to the
graveyard. Shivering with cold, on the bleak snow-clad
prairie, they laid away in the frozen earth the body of one
house.”
Many changes followed. Their country home and
farm was given up and sold. Part of a small house in the
village had been rented as their future residence. A very
small annuity from some property in the East, left by her
father, and Dennis's labor, were all the family had to depend
on now—a meagre prospect for the present.
But Dennis was very sanguine. For in this respect
he had his father's temperament. The world was all before
him, and Chicago, the young and giant city of the West,
seemed an Eldorado, where fortune, and perhaps fame,
might soon be won. Not only would he place the family
beyond want, but surround them with every luxury.
Dennis, wise and apt as far as his knowledge went, was
in some respects as simple and ignorant as a child. There
were many phases and conditions of society of which he
had never dreamed. Of the ways of the rich and fashionable,
of the character of artificial life, he had not the
remotest experience. He could not see nor understand
the distinctions and barriers that to the world are more
impassable than those of ignorance, stupidity, and even
gross immorality. He would learn to his infinite surprise,
that even in a Western democratic city, men would be
welcomed in society, whose hand no pure woman or honorable
man ought to touch, while he, a gentleman by birth,
education, and especially character, would not be recognized
at all. He would discover that wealth and the
endorsement of a few fashionable people, though all else
were lacking, would be a better passport than the noblest
qualities and fine abilities. Of course there must be outward
polish. In the former case, entrance would be
secured at once through the jealously guarded barriers;
in the latter it must be won inch by inch.
As we follow him from the seclusion of his simple
all this will become apparent.
Long and earnest was the conversation between mother
and son before they separated. Pure and noble were
the maxims that she sought to instill into his mind. They
may not have been worldly wise, but they were heavenly
wise. Though some of her advice in the letter might avail
little, since she knew less of the world than her son, still
in its spirit it contained the best of all wisdom, profitable
for this life and the life to come. But she sent him forth
to seek his fortune and theirs with less solicitude than most
mothers have just cause to feel, for she knew that he had
Christian principle, and had passed through a discipline
that had sobered and matured him far beyond his years.
She saw however in every word and act his father's sanguine
temperament. He was expecting much, hoping far
more, and she feared that he also was destined to many a
bitter disappointment. Still she believed that he possessed
a good strong substratum of common sense, which, combined
with the lessons of faith and patience that God
had taught him, would prove the ballast his father had
lacked.
She sought to modify his towering hopes and rose-colored
visions, but to little purpose. Young, buoyant, in
splendid health, with a surplus of warm blood tingling in
every vein, how could he take a prudent, distrustful view
of the world? It seemed to beckon him smilingly into
any path of success he might choose. Had not many won
the victory? and who ever felt braver and more determined
than he, with the needs of the dear ones at home
added to his own incentives and ambitions? So, with
many embraces, lingering kisses and farewell words, that
lost not their meaning though said over and over again,
they parted. The stage carried him to the nearest railway
station, and the express train bore him rapidly toward
heart most craves on earth.
Sanguine as his father, constant as his mother, with a
nature that would go right or wrong with tremendous energy,
as direction might be given it, he was destined to
live no tame, colorless life, but would either enjoy much,
or else suffer much. But to his young heart, swelling with
hopes, burning with zeal to distinguish himself and provide
for those he was leaving, even the bleak snow-clad
prairie seemed an arena in which he might accomplish a
vague something.
| CHAPTER III.
LAUNCHED. Barriers burned away | |