CHAPTER XVIII.
But for the present, curiosity, gratitude, hate, all feelings indeed andpassions, except from the bled vein of love, and the heart-rooted fibresof sorrow, were to be crushed within me. Evening after evening, my dearmother's presence seemed more and more dreamy and shadowy; and nightafter night she went feebler and feebler to bed. In the morning indeedshe had gathered some fragile strength, such strength as so wasted aform could exert, and the breeze and the fresh May sun made believe ofhealth on her cheeks. But no more was I tempted to lay my arm round herwaist, and rally her on its delicate girlish span, nor could I now lookgaily into her eyes, and tell her how much she excelled her child. Thoselittle liberties, which with less than a matron's dignity, and more thana mother's fondness she had so long allowed me, became as she stillexpected, and I could not bear to take them, so many great distresses.Even at night, when I twined in its simple mode her soft brown hair, asI thought how few the times my old task would be needed again, it costme many a shift to prevent her descrying my tears in the glass, orsuspecting them in my voice. For herself, she knew well what wascoming; she had learned how soon she must be my sweet angel instead ofmy mother, and her last trouble was that she could not bring me to thinkthe difference small. So calmly she spoke of her end, not looking at methe while for fear we both should weep, so gently and sweetly she talkedof the time when I should hearken no more, as if she were going to visita garden and hand me the flowers outside. Then, if I broke forth in ananguish of sobs, she would beg my forgiveness, as if she could have donewrong, and mourn for my loneliness after her, as though she could helpforsaking me.
Looking back, even now, on that time, how I condemn and yet pardonmyself, reflecting how little I tried to dissemble my child-like woe.
When all things rejoiced in their young summer strength, and scarcelythe breeze turned the leaves for the songs of the birds, and the purewhite hawthorn was calm as the death of the good, and the soul ofgladness was sad, we talked for the last time together, mother andchild, looking forth on the farewell of sunset. The room under thethatch smelled musty in summer, and I had made up a bed on the sofadownstairs. The wasting low fever was past, and the wearisome coughexhausted, and the flush had ebbed from her cheeks (as the world fromher heart), and of all human passions, and wishes, and cares, not oneleft a trace in her bosom, except a mother's love. This and only thisretarded her flight to heaven, as the sight of his nest delays therising of the lark.
"My child," she began, and her voice was low, but very distinct, "myonly and darling child, who has minded me so long, and laid her youth,and beauty, and high courageous spirit, at the feet of her weak mother;my child, who fostered in wealth and love, will be to-morrow an orphan,cast upon the wide world"--here she fairly broke down, in spite ofreligion, and heaven, and turned her head to the pillow, a true daughterand mother of earth. I would fain have given that fortune, whose lossto me she lamented, for leave to cry freely with her, without adding toher distress.
In a minute or two, she was able to proceed; with her thin hand sheparted the hair shaken purposely over my eyes.
"I am sure that my pet will listen, with kindness and patience, while Itry to say what has lain so long at my heart. You know how painfully Ihave always been moved by any allusion to the death of your dear father.It has been a weakness no doubt on my part, but one which I vainlystrove against; and for which I trust to be pardoned where all is pardonand peace."
Her voice began to tremble, and her eyes became fixed, and I feared areturn of the old disorder; but she shook it off, and spoke againdistinctly, though with great labour:
"This is a bitter subject, and I never could bring myself to it, tillnow, when it seems too late. But, my poor love, I am so anxious aboutit. For the rest--that Providence which has never forsaken us, repineas I would, I can trust that Providence still to protect my darlingchild. There is one thing, and only one, by promising which you willmake my departure quite happy. Then I shall go to rejoin your father,and carry such tidings of you, as will enable us both to wait, in thefulness of time, your coming."
"Oh, that the fulness of time were come!" I cried in my selfishloneliness; "for me it is empty enough."
"My precious, my own darling Clara, you sob so, you make me mostwretched."
"Mother, I will not cry any more;" neither did I, while she could seeme.
"I need not tell you," she said, "what is that promise which I crave foryour own dear sake."
"No, ma'am," I replied, "I know quite well what it is."
I saw that I had grieved her. How could I call her then anything elsethan "mother"?
"My mother dear, you wish me to promise this--that I will forego myrevenge upon him who slew my father."
She bowed her head, with a look I cannot describe. In the harsh way Ihad put it, it seemed as if she were injuring both my father and me.
"Had you asked me anything else, although it were sin against God andman (if you could ask such a thing)--I would have pledged myself to it,as gladly as I would die--die, at least, if my task were done. Butthis, this one thing only--to abandon what I live for, what I was bornto do, to be a traitor to my own father and you--I implore you, mother,by Him whose glory is on you now, do not ask me this."
Her face in its sadness and purity made me bury my eyes and forgetthings.
"Then I must die, and leave my only child possessed with a murderer'sspirit!"
The depth of her last agony, and which I believed would cling to hereven in heaven, was more than I could bear. I knelt on the floor andput my hand to her side. Her worn out heart was throbbing again, withthe pang of her disappointment.
"Mother," I cried, "I will promise you this. When I have discovered, asI must do, that man who has made you a widow and me an orphan, if I findany plea whatever to lessen his crime, or penitence to atone for it, asI hope to see my father and mother in heaven, I will try to spare andforgive him. Can you wish me to rest in ignorance, and forget thatdeed?"
"Clara," she answered weakly, and she spoke more slowly and feebly everytime, "you have promised me all I can hope for. How you loved yourfather! Me too you have loved I cannot say how much. For my sake, youhave borne poverty, trouble, and illness, without a complaining word.By day, and by night, through my countless wants, and long fretfulness."
I put my finger upon her pale lips. How could she tell such a storythen? Her tears came now and then, and would not be stopped, as shelaid her weak hand on my head.
"May the God of the fatherless and the poor, who knows and comforts thewidow's grief, the God who is taking me now to His bosom, bless with allblessings of earth and heaven, and restore to me this my child."
A sudden happiness fell upon her, as if she had seen her prayer'sacceptance. She let her arms fall round me, and laid my cheek by theside of her bright flowing smile. It was the last conscious stir of themind; all the rest seemed the flush of the soul. In the window thenight-scented heath was blooming; outside it, the jessamine crossed in amilky way of white stars, and the lush honeysuckle had flung down herlap in clusters. The fragrance of flowers lay heavy upon us, and we weresore weary with the burden of sorrow and joy. So tranquil and kind wasthe face of death, that sleep, his half-brother, still held his hand.
The voice of the thrush, from the corner laurel, broke the holystillness. Like dreams of home that break our slumbers, his melody wasits own excuse. My mother awoke, and said faintly, with no gleam in hereyes:
"Raise me upon the pillow, my love, that I may hear him once more. Hesings like one your father and I used to listen to every evening, in thedays when we watched your cradle."
I lifted her gently. The voice of nature made way for her passingspirit.
"Now kiss me, my child; once more, my own loved child, my heart is withyou for ever. Light of my eyes, you are growing dim."
She clasped her hands in prayer, with one of mine between them. Myother was round her neck.
Then she spoke sl
owly, and with a waning voice; but firmly, as if it hadbeen her marriage-response.
"Thou art my guide, and my staff. I have no fear, neither shadow oftrembling. Make no long tarrying, oh my God!"
The bird went home to his nest, and she to that refuge where all ishome. Though the hands that held mine grew cold as ice, and her lipsreplied to no kiss, and the smile on her face slept off into stillness,and a grey shade crept on her features;--I could not believe that allthis was death.
CLARA VAUGHAN
BOOK II.