5. CHAPTER V.
After supper, Mrs. Wilson said that she must go
home for a while, but would come back and stay the
night with her sister-in-law, who, she again prophesied,
might “drop off most any minute.”
No one opposed her departure. In fact, Dora and
Tom watched it with silent joy, while their father hardly
noticed it.
So soon as the evening work was done, the children
went in to sit with their mother. Mrs. Darley seemed
very much better. Her cheeks burned with a hectic
color, and her eyes were bright with fever. She felt
strong enough to sit up in her bed with pillows behind
her, and Tom rather boisterously expressed his delighted
belief that she was “going to get smart again right off.”
Dora said nothing, but her face was very pale, her
eyes very large and bright, her lips very firmly shut.
She had watched the different stages of her mother's
disease, too narrowly to be deceived. Nor did Mrs.
Darley herself believe for a moment that this sudden
rally was other than a fatal symptom. She knew that
her hour had come, and she was ready to meet it with
Christian hope and trust. But she was very glad that
this temporary strength had been given her, for she had
many things to say to her children, and had feared that
she should not be able.
She spoke first to them of the subjects most important
at all times, and now naturally uppermost in her own
mind. She tried her very best to make them feel that
the approaching change she was to undergo was neither
a misfortune nor a punishment, but a sure and blessed
change from a world of sin and sorrow to one all joy
and peace, for such as were fitted for it.
She spoke long and earnestly upon these matters, and
neither of her young hearers ever quite forgot the solemn
and beautiful truths she uttered.
But the mother did not forget that she was to leave her
children in this world, perhaps for many years, and she
desired to point out for them that path through its perils
that scemed to her the safest.”
“Is the door closed, Tom?” asked she, hesitatingly,
after a short silence.
“Yes, mother,” said the boy.
“I have been thinking, Tom, that when I am gone,
and when your father knows that Uncle Pic is gone for
always, he will very likely enter the army.”
“Perhaps so, mother,” said Tom, leaning his arm
against the wall, and hiding his face upon it.
“Perhaps he will want you to go too, my dear boy,
and I have always taught you to obey your father above
all things, except to obey God.”
“I know it, mother,” sobbed poor Tom.
“And I say the same now,” continued the mother,
feebly, for her strength was failing. “But O, my dear
boy, I cannot bear to think of your joining these rebels.
Remember that I was a New England girl. I lived for
twenty years among free men, and I have never learned
to love slavery.
“I have a sister—at least I had; but it is a great many
years since I heard from her. In fact, I never had but
one letter, and that was just after I came here. I cried
so much over that, and was so homesick for weeks afterwards,
that I think your father destroyed any others that
came. At least, I wrote and wrote, and never got an
answer. I never dared write to my father, for Lucy
told me how terribly angry he was when I ran away.
But, Tom, if you and Dora could go to her, I know she
would give my children a home, and put you both in
the way of doing something better than to fight for a rebellion.
“That letter, Dora, is in my bureau drawer, at the
bottom of the little box where I keep my trinkets. All
that I have of such things, dear, are yours now. Take
the letter, and keep it. Perhaps some day it will help
you to find your aunt Lucy. I cannot tell either of you
to leave your father, if he will keep you with him; but
you know now what I wish.
“I had rather, Tom, that you died fighting for freedom,
than lived and rose to the highest rank in the rebel army.
“Dora, comfort and darling of my life, I could die
content if I only knew that you would grow up in the
home of a good and pious New England woman, such as
I am sure my sister is.
“Now kiss me, my darlings, kiss me once again, —
and once again, — and then ask your poor father to come
in and see me, while you stay out there. And, Dora, if
aunt Wilson comes back, ask her to please to sit down
with you a little while. I want to see father all alone.”
The children obeyed, and for the next hour no sound
was heard in the kitchen except Tom's heavy sobs, as he
lay stretched upon the settle, crying out his last boy's
tears, the loud ticking of the clock, and the low murmur
of voices from the bedroom.
Up and down the kitchen softly paced Dora's little
figure, her face white as ashes, except where dark rings
had formed beneath her eyes, her hands knotted and
twisted in each other, her lips pressed firmly together,
her unswerving gaze bent steadily before her. It was a
dumb anguish, as rare as strange in a child's heart, or
on a child's face.
Thus did Mrs. Wilson find her when she returned, and
even her coarse nature recoiled from a grief so terrible
and so uncomplaining.
She went softly towards the bedroom door. Dora
interposed, and pointing to a chair, said, in a low, strange
voice, —
“Mother is talking with father, now. Please to sit
down until he comes out. She said so.”
Mrs. Wilson silently obeyed, and taking out a spotted
red and white cotton pocket handkerchief, she began to
cry in a snuffling, demonstrative manner.
So passed another hour, and then Mr. Darley opened
the bedroom door, and said, in a choked voice, —
“Come, children; come sister: she's going.”
Midnight closed the scene. A mortal had died to
earth, an angel been born to heaven.
