 | CHAPTER XI. Tales of the good woman |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
While these events were passing, the disconsolate
Arabella remained in a state of dreadful suspense,
that shook her reason. The good old Hardin
came to see and comfort her.
“No tidings of them yet?” asked she anxiously,
as he entered.
“It is not time; days may pass before we hear
from them.”
“They'll never come again; child, husband,
and poor Anne; all that loved me will be murdered.”
“Hope for the best, dear lady,” said Hardin;
“you have trusted heaven often, and never in
vain; trust it now.”
“I do! I do! but O Hardin, while I am thus
distracted with hopes and fears, I cannot think of
heaven as I ought to do. If it were only certain
—what I dare not think of—I would be resigned
and die. But now I cannot think of the
future. The present has me all.”
“The grave is an inn, where all the race of
mankind, sooner or later take up their last night's
lodging,” quoth Hardin. “Mothers have lost
their children, wives their husbands, and lived afterwards
away.”
“So I have heard,” said she; “but I can never
reach such perfection. I tell you Hardin, they
loved them not, or they had other ties to cling
to, and knit their heart strings whole again.
But I have none but these, and when they are
gone, I stand a wilderness more lonely and desolate
than that which surrounds us here.”
“But remember I beseech thee, dearest lady,”
said the old man; “thy husband and thy child
were as the babes, and husbands of thousands of
wives and mothers that lost them and yet survived
for many years of content and usefulness. They
are no better than others that have died.”
“Not better,” cried the mother, rising into a
passion of grief, “I say they were a hundred
thousand times—millions of times. Did other
husbands love me as he did? Did other children
first receive a soul in this poor house of clay?
Good, but unfeeling Hardin! did other husbands
twine me in their arms, and court my smiles, and
what was a thousand times dearer, kiss the scalding
tears that misery wrung from me in times of
sore distress? Did other children ever call me mother,
and nestle on my beating heart, and feed and
laugh in wanton fullness till they fell asleep. Did
they—O did they ever look like him, and talk, and
laugh, and weep, and kiss like him, and love me
as he did?”
“Think of the just made perfect,” replied Hardin,
whose heart belied the very consolations he
was offering; “they bear their sufferings as does
the silent air, which suffers the ball that is winged
with death to cleave its bosom; yet heals again in
a moment, and bears no scar to show that it was
ever wounded.”
“Ah!—talk—talk—talk,” replied she, scarcely
knowing what she said; “I hear you talk as if my
happiness were to grow out of my misery, like the
flowers that sometimes spring from new made
graves.—Hark! I thought I heard a child's voice
calling!”
Hardin walked hastily to the door, and returned—
“'Tis nothing, all is silent.”
“Silent!” said the poor wandering mother.
“Yes, silence and darkness are the two sister
fiends that shoot their arrows most surely when
no one sees them. Hardin, do you think the birds
will cover my poor babe with leaves?”
“My heart bleeds for you,” answered Hardin,
with tears in his eyes. “O that I could tell you to
hope; but I can only preach of resignation.”
“Well, well, said she; “my time is short, that
is a comfort yet. The little that famine has spared,
grief will make quick work with. But what
are we doing here, wasting our time, when murder
is going on. Let's to the woods—O no—no—I
shall see their mangled bodies there! But let us
of what I used to see. Good Hardin, take me to
the river side that I may look my last look towards
my native England.”
“I will; but madam, there is another land
where none are native, yet where all must go.
Think of that land, dear lady.”
“D'ye hold it a sin to think of our distant home
and absent friends, when we are dying? to take
one parting look at the green earth we are about
to leave, and the blue heavens where we are going?
I hope it cannot be a sin to think of distant
or lost friends, and die blessing them. Come,
come, or else I will go alone.”
“My office is to sooth, not irritate. Come
then, even where you will poor soul!” quoth Hardin,
as he led her out of the hut towards the river
side.
| CHAPTER XI. Tales of the good woman | |