 | CHAPTER XLII.
CHILDISH. The shadow of Moloch mountain |  |
42. CHAPTER XLII.
CHILDISH.
“You're welcome home, Beatrice, though
you've grown such a stranger,” said Mrs.
Bliss, embracing her niece with a sort of reproachful
fondness. “You've only been down
once since you got back from Europe.”
“I know it, aunt. I should have come
oftener,” said Beatrice wearily.
Mrs. Bliss looked sharply into her face a
moment, then laying both hands upon her
shoulders, as she had often done when charging
her with some childish sin, she said interrogatively:
“You're not happy, Trix?”
Beatrice winced.
“Don't call me Trix, please, aunt. Or, no,
why should I not like it? But it belongs to
the old times, you know, and I have changed
so much that —”
“That what, Beatrice? Are you happy?”
“I suppose so, aunt. But grandpapa—”
“Yes; you shall see him in a moment.
That is, unless you had rather wait.”
“I—I do not think I want to see him,”
stammered Beatrice, turning very pale.
“Not see him at all! Why Beatrice Wansted!”
exclaimed Mrs. Bliss with such genuine
horror and surprise that Beatrice hastened
to add:
“That is, not to-night, aunt. I feel rather
tired and faint after my journey, and you know
I never saw any thing of that sort, and —”
“`Thing of that sort!”' interrupted Rachel,
more and more displeased. “What are you
talking of, Beatrice? Because your grandfather
has died, and his spirit gone to eternal
glory and happiness, has his body become
something to be afraid of and disgusted at?
Just fancy that he's asleep instead of dead—
and in point of fact, it's nothing more; for he
is asleep, and will wake up at the last day
just as good as new.”
“I will see him by-and-by. Aunt Rachel,”
said Beatrice, putting by with dignity the argument
she felt hopeless of supporting. “How
is grandmamma?”
“Poor, dear old lady, she is in a very distressing
condition, too,” said Mrs. Bliss, shaking
her head hopelessly. “She is quite
childish now—has been for a month or more,
and she don't understand any thing about
father's being dead. She thinks he's away
somewhere, and she keeps mourning for him
the whole time. We showed her the body,
and all, but it didn't seem to convince her.
She looked at it, and then hushed us with her
finger, and tiptoed out of the room for fear of
waking him up. But the next minute she
began moaning again just the same way.
She'd forgotten, you see. Hush! she's coming
up-stairs now!”
And Mrs. Bliss, followed by her niece, hastened
out into the passage to meet the widowed
mother, who stood clinging to the railing
beside the stairs, looking about her in a
bewildered manner.
“O Rachel! is that you? And who else is
up here?”
“Only Beatrice, mother — our Trix, you
know. We were just coming down to see
you,” said Rachel very gently.
“Beatrice—oh! yes—Beatrice. Where is
Alice?”
“Why, mother, she is dead long ago. She
died when Beatrice was born; don't you remember?”
“And Arthur—no, Arthur was married to
you—he didn't die, did he?”
“Yes, mother,” said Rachel softly.
“Dear grandmamma, you remember me,
don't you?” asked Beatrice, tenderly leading
the bewildered woman into the chamber they
had just quitted, and seating her in the great
square easy-chair before the fire. “I will stay
here and talk with her a little while, aunt;
and you can go and see after the others,” said
Mrs. Chappelleford aside; and as Rachel softly
left the room, she seated herself upon a low
stool at her grandmother's feet.
“You remember me, dear, don't you?”
asked she again.
And the old lady laid a tremulous hand upon
her bright head, and stooped to look into her
face with the anxious scrutiny of failing
sight.
“Why, of course I remember you, Alice.
What should ail me not to know my own
child?” said she presently, with a little crackling
laugh. “And my favoright child, too; though
the deacon he always said there shouldn't be
any favorights in families. But then, Alice,
you always was so winning and pretty, how
could we help it? And though I knew Rachel
was disappointed, I couldn't blame Arthur
not one mite, not one mite; and then, again,
Rachel married—let me see, she married—
well, I forget his name; but she was married
some time before she died. Have you seen
father, Alice?”
“No, dear grandmamma. My father is in
heaven, they say. Where is heaven, grandmother?”
“Heaven? Why, Alice Barstow, a great
girl like you ask such a simple question!
Heaven is where the whole air is made up of
love, and nothing to hinder or harm love.
God loves men; but somehow we're so far off
down here that we don't always seem to feel
the love; and then again, there's so much
going on in the world that half the time we
forget to love each other with all our might,
same as we're told we ought to. Well, now,
in heaven, you see, close up to God, we shall
breathe in His love, just as we do the common
air here, and so we shall act it out to each
other just as here we act out nater', because
love will be nater' then, don't you see?”
But Beatrice, with her head bowed between
her hands, did not reply, and the old woman
went on:
“Now, there's father and me. When we
were young I don't suppose there ever were
two sweethearts set more by each other than
we did. He'd have given up all the world
for me, and I'd—well, I'd be afraid to say
what I'd have given up for him. And so it
was along for a while after we got married.
But then came the children, and the farm,
and a whole grist of work and trouble and
care, and then he and me sort of fell off, not
from loving, but from talking about it and
showing it out. And then we got old; and
old folks they get sort of crusted over—like
Rachel's preserves, I think. The sweet's all
there just the same, only it can't get through
the snell, and any one that didn't know
would think 'twas sp'ilt. That's the way it
is with old folks like father and me. But,
Alice, when once we get into that heaven full
of love I was telling you of, the crust will
melt right off in the fire of God's love for us
both, and we shall know that we're just the
same to each other that we were in those
young days. Just the same? No! a thousand
times better, and dearer, and worthier;
for then we shall be angels instead of men.
I wonder if father thinks about that? I forgot
to say any thing to him about it. I'll go talk
with him now a little.”
And the old lady rose from her chair almost
with the vigor of youth, stood a moment
looking about her in a bewildered way, then
turned to Beatrice, while over her face, but
now clear and bright as with the reflection of
heavenly light, dropped a sudden veil of human
infirmity and decrepitude.
“Rachel! No—Alice, where's father? I
want father. Where has he gone?” said she
piteously.
“Let us go and see, dear grandmother.
Lean upon me, for I know you are tired.
Won't you come and lie down for a little
while before we look for him?” asked Beatrice
soothingly; and passing her arm around
her grandmother's waist, she led her gently
down-stairs.
“Maybe he's lying down. He has been
rather poorly along back. I'm afraid he hurt
himself haying. Reuben and Israel were
both away, and the heft of the work came
upon the deacon. I guess he's lying down a
spell.”
So maundering, she allowed herself to be
gently led to her bedroom, and persuaded to
lie down and rest a little while waiting for
the object of her ceaseless questioning to appear.
Beatrice sat beside her, pale, sad, and
thoughtful. Once she raised the poor, wasted
hand she held to her lips, and murmured:
“O mother! make me believe as you believe.”
But in the other room Mrs. Bliss was saying
to her brother, who had come without his
wife to attend his father's funeral:
“Poor mother! She is perfectly childish
now. You cannot rely upon a word she
says.”
“She's been a good mother to us, Rachel.
us when we were growing up,” said Israel
Barstow a little reprovingly.
And Rachel mournfully assented.
“You're right, brother. She's been the best
of mothers to us, and now that she's old and
childish, she shall want for nothing that I can
do for her.”
Mr. Barstow was silent. His sister's tone
jarred unpleasantly upon some hidden chord,
but just where or what, he could not tell.
Perhaps the successful merchant, the admiring
husband, the respected citizen had found
nothing since so sweet or so dear as his
mother's love and pride in him. Perhaps
this mother-love, confined in some hearts to a
narrow cell, had been forced by the emptiness
of the other chambers in Israel Barstow's
heart to expand beyond its usual dimensions.
However it may have been, it hurt him sorely
to hear his sister speak, even as kindly and
protectingly as she did, of their mother's
state of second childhood, and he presently
stole away to the bedroom where she lay,
dozing lightly, her hand in that of Beatrice's.
Nodding to his niece, he seated himself
beside her, his strong, broad hand lightly laid
upon his mother's dress; and so they sat together,
silent, and each absorbed in thought,
while the soft April twilight stole into the
room, and the last ray of sunlight quivered
like a glory upon the white hair of the
sleeper, as she murmured in her dream of
“Father, dear!”
| CHAPTER XLII.
CHILDISH. The shadow of Moloch mountain | |