 | Dream life |  |
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
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 recal 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
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
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!
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