CHAPTER VIII
A GREAT SORROW
Norman cut his foot the following day, which was Saturday; notseriously, yet deep enough to need a couple of stitches taken in it, andto necessitate the wearing of a bandage instead of a shoe for awhile.Sunday morning, by the aid of a broom stick, he hopped out to thehammock in the shady side yard, and proceeded to enjoy to the fullesthis disabled condition. For some reason there was no service in thelittle school-house which usually took the place of a chapel on theSabbath, and he openly rejoiced that his family would be free tominister to his comfort and entertainment all day long.
The hammock hung so near the side window of the kitchen that he couldlook in and see Mary and his mother washing up the breakfast china intheir deft, dainty way. Jack was doing the morning chores usuallyallotted to his younger brother. It was with a sense of luxurious easethat Norman lolled in the hammock, watching Jack bring in wood andwater, carry out ashes and sweep the porch. In his role of invalid hefelt privileged to ask to be waited upon at intervals, also to demandhis favorite dessert for dinner. He did this through the kitchen window,taking part in the conversation which went on as a brisk accompanimentto the quick movements of busy hands.
It was a perfect June day, the kind that makes one feel that with a skyso fair and an earth so sweet life is too full to ask anything more ofheaven. Time and again in the pauses that fell between their remarks,Mary's voice jubilantly broke out in the refrain of an old hymn thatthey all loved: "Happy day, oh, happy day!" And when Jack's deep bassout on the porch and Mrs. Ware's sweet alto in the pantry took up thewords to the accompaniment of swishing broom and clattering cups, Normanhummed them too, like a big, contented bumblebee in a field of clover.
Years afterward Mary used to look back to that day and fondly re-liveevery hour of it. Somehow every little incident stood out so vividlythat she could recall even the feeling of unusual well-being andcontentment which seemed to imbue them all.
They had spread the table out under the trees at Norman's insistence,and she had only to close her eyes to recall how each one looked asthey gathered around it. She could remember even the pearl gray tie thatJack wore, and the way Norman's hair curled in little rings around hisforehead. And she could see her mother's quick smile of appreciationwhen Jack slipped a cushion into her chair, and her affectionate glancewhen Norman reached out and fingered a fold of her white dress. Both theboys liked to see her in white, and never failed to comment on itadmiringly when she put it on to please them.
All afternoon they stayed out-doors, part of the time reading aloud inturn; and that evening in the afterglow, when the western mountain topswere turning from gold to rose and pearl and purple, they sat out on thefront porch watching the glory fade, and ending the day with Jack'sfavorite song, "Pilgrims of the Night."
And the reason that this day stood out so vividly from all the others inher life was because it was the last day that they had their mother withthem. That night the old pain came again, just for an instant, but longenough to stop the beating of the brave heart which would never feel itsclutch again.
There are some pages in every one's life better skipped than read. Whatthose next few hours brought to Mary and the boys can never be told.She found herself in her own room, after awhile, lying across the footof her bed and trying to thrust away from her the awful truth that wasgradually forcing itself upon her consciousness. Dazed and bewildered,like one who has just had a heavy blow on the head, she could not adjustherself to the new conditions. She could not imagine an existence inwhich her mother had no part. She wondered dully how it would bepossible to go on living without her. Aunt Sally Doane came in presentlyand took her in her arms and said the comforting things people usuallysay at such times, and Mary submitted dumbly, as if it were a part of abewildering dream. At times she was sure that she must wake up presentlyand find that she had been in the grip of a dreadful nightmare. It wasthat certainty which helped her through the next few hours.
It helped her to a strange calmness when Jack came in to ask her aboutthe trip to Plainsville. She was the one to decide that he must go aloneto the quiet little God's Acre at their old home, because Norman's footwould not allow him to travel, and she could not leave him behind withjust the neighbors at such a time. It was the sound of Norman's sobbingin the next room which made her decide this, and yet at the same timeshe was thinking, "This is one of the most vivid dreams I ever had in mywhole life, and the most horrible."
Hours after, when all the neighbors had gone but Aunt Sally and the oldCaptain, who stayed to keep faithful vigil, Mary stole out of her roomto look at the clock. It seemed as if the night would never end. A dimlight burning in the living-room showed that everything there wasunchanged, while the old clock ticked along with its accustomed clatterof "All _right_! All _right_!" Surely, with the daylight everythingwould be all right, and would awaken to the usual round of life.Anything else was unbelievable, unthinkable!
On the way back to her room Mary's glance fell on her mother's sewingbasket in its accustomed corner. A long strip of exquisitely wroughtembroidery lay folded on top. It was the piece which she had finishedfor Betty on the day that Mrs. Downs was taken ill, that afternoon whenthey sat and watched the little procession file over the hill to thegrove of cedars. How plainly Mary could recall the scene. How clearlyshe could hear her mother saying, "It is a happy way for the one whogoes, dear, to go suddenly. It is the way of all others I would choosefor myself."
And then with a force that made her heart give a great jump and go onthrobbing wildly, Mary realized that she was not dreaming, that hermother was really gone; that this bit of embroidery with the needlesticking just where she had left it after the final stitch, was the lastthat the patient fingers would ever do. Dear tired fingers, that throughso many years had wrought unselfishly for her children; so unfailing intheir gentleness, in their power to comfort!
With a rush of tears that blinded her so that she could no longer seethe beautiful handiwork which seemed such a symbol of her mother'sfinished life, Mary rushed back to her room to throw herself across thebed again, and sob herself into a state of exhaustion. Then after a longtime, sleep came mercifully to her relief.
When she awakened, the early light of a June dawn was stealing into theroom, and the birds were singing jubilantly. She lay there a moment,wondering why she was so stiff and uncomfortable. Then she was awarethat she was still dressed, and memory came back in a rush, with a painso overwhelming that she felt utterly powerless to get up and face theday which lay ahead of her, and all the stretch of dreary existencebeyond it.
An irresistible impulse seemed drawing her towards her mother's room.Presently she opened the door a little way and stood looking in. Thenstep by step she advanced into the room. It looked just as it had theday before in its spotless Sabbath orderliness, except that the rosebudsin the glass vase on the table had opened into full bloom in the night.The white dress that Mrs. Ware had worn the day before lay across achair, the sleeves still round and creased with the imprint of the armsthat had slipped out of them.
As Mary stood by the bed, looking down on the still form with the smileof ineffable peace on its sweet face, her first thought was that she hadnever seen such gentle sleep; and then the knowledge slowly dawned onher, overwhelmingly, with a great feeling of awe that stilled her intoutter calm, that that was not her mother lying there; only the familiarand beloved garment that had clothed her. She had slipped out of it asher body had slipped out of the white dress, lying there across thechair. A holy thing it was, to be sure, hallowed by the beautiful spiritwhich had tabernacled in it so long, and bearing her mother's imprint inevery part, as the white gown still held the imprint of the form thathad worn it; but no more than that.
Somehow there was a deep strange comfort in the knowledge, even whilethe mystery of it baffled her. And her mother's words came back to heras forcibly as if she were hearing them for the first time:
"_She is still ours. Her love flows out to us just the same. Thes
eparation cannot make her any less our own! . . . That's all that deathis, Mary, just a going away into another country, as Joyce has done. . . .A beautiful mystery through which we pass as through an open gate, withglad surprise at the things that shall be made plain to us, and with agreat sense of triumph!_"
Now, as Mary faced this mystery, a belief began to grow up in her heart,so soothing, so comforting, that she felt it was surely heaven-sent.Somewhere in God's universe, this sunny June morning, her mother wasalive and well. She was loving them all just as tenderly and deeply asshe had loved them yesterday, when they all worked together, singing"Happy Day." And just as it would have grieved her then to have seenthem mourning over any sorrow, so it would grieve her now to know thatthey were heart-broken over her going away.
Mary picked up the white dress with reverent fingers and laid her cheekagainst its soft folds a moment before she hung it away in the closet.Then she turned again to that other garment which had clothed her motherso long; the form which was so like her, and yet so mysteriouslydifferent, now that her warm, living personality no longer filled it.
"Dear," she whispered, her eyes brimming over, "you were too unselfishto let me see your loneliness when I wanted to go away to my HappyValley; now that you have gone to a happier one to be with papa, Imustn't think of _my_ part of it, only of yours."
There was untold comfort in that thought. She clung to it all throughthe hours that followed, through the simple service, and through Jack'sgoing away, and she brought it out to comfort Norman when the two wereleft alone together.
"She's just away," she repeated, trying to console him with the beliefwhich was beginning to bring a peace that passed her understanding.Every room in the house seemed to bear the imprint of the belovedpresence, just as they had done during those weeks when she waited everyday for her mother to come home from the Downs.
"We must think of her absence in that way," she repeated, "as if it isonly till nightfall. We can bear almost anything that long, if we takeit only one day at a time. It's when we get to piling up all the daysahead of us and thinking of the years that we'll have to do without herthat it seems so unbearable. And you know, Norman, if she were hereshe'd say by all means for you to go with Billy when he comes along withthe buggy. She'd want you to spend all this afternoon in the bright outof doors instead of grieving here at home."
"But what about leaving you here alone?" asked Norman, with a newconsideration for her which touched her deeply.
"Oh, I shall be busy every minute of the time until you get back. I mustwrite to Joyce and Holland. They'll want to know every little thing. Ifeel so sorry for them, so far away--"
"They'll never get done being thankful now, that they came home lastChristmas," said Norman in the pause that followed her unfinishedsentence.
"And I'll never get done being thankful that I didn't go away," rejoinedMary. "There comes Billy now. You can hop out and show him what to do."
It had been arranged that Billy Downs should stay with them during thefew days of Jack's absence, to keep them company and to do Norman'schores, which his disabled foot prevented him doing himself. Soon afterdinner the two boys started off in the old rattle-trap of a buggy todrive along the shady mountain roads all afternoon in the sweet Juneweather, and Mary went to her letter-writing. It was a hard task, andshe was thankful that she was alone, for time and again in telling ofthat last happy day together she pushed the paper aside to lay her headon the table and sob out, not only her own grief, but her sympathy forHolland and Joyce so far away among strangers at this heart-breakingtime. She had one thing to console her which they had not, and which shetreasured as her dearest memory: her mother's softly spokencommendation, "You've always been a comfort. I've _leaned_ on you so."
By the time the boys came back she had regained her usual composure, forshe spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden, weeding borders anddoing some necessary transplanting, and finding "the soft mute comfortof green things growing," which gardens always hold. Next day in foldingaway some of her mother's things she came across a yellowed envelopewhich contained something of more permanent consolation than even hergarden had given. It was a copy of Kemble's beautiful poem, _Absence_,traced in her mother's fine clear handwriting. The ink was faded and themargin bore the date of her father's death. Several of the lines wereunderscored, and Mary, reading these in the light of her own experience,suddenly found the key to the great courage and serenity of soul withwhich her mother had faced the desolation of her early widowhood.
"_What shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face?_
. . . . . .
"_I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee In worthy deeds, each moment that is told While thou, beloved one! art far from me._
. . . . . .
"_I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task time . . ._
. . . . . .
"_So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence divine._"
Up till this moment there had been one element in Mary's grief which shehad not recognized plainly enough to name. That was a sort of pity forthe incompleteness of her mother's life; the bareness of it. Thework-worn hands folded in their last rest seemed infinitely pathetic toher, and some of her hardest crying spells had been when she thoughthow little they had grasped of the good things of life, and how they hadbeen taken away before she had a chance to fill them herself as she hadso long dreamed of doing. But now, in the light of these underscoredlines, the worn hands no longer looked pathetic. They seemed rather tohave been folded with a glad sense of triumph that they had made such "anoble task time" out of the dreary blank.
"And I shall do the same," whispered Mary resolutely, pressing her lipstogether in a tight line, as she slipped the paper back into itsyellowed envelope and laid it aside to show it to Jack on his return.
So many household duties filled her time, that it was over a week beforeshe resumed her daily trips to the post-office. The first time she wentthe old Captain's first question was:
"Of course you'll stay right on here in Lone-Rock."
"Oh, yes," was the quick answer. "As long as the boys need me." Thenwith a wan little smile, "I've begun to think it was never intended thatI should reach my Promised Land, Captain Doane."
"Does look like it," assented the Captain gravely. "About everythingthere is has stepped in to stop you. Well, your staying here is surelyLone-Rock's gain."
"I shall certainly try to make it so," was Mary's answer. "Next week I'mgoing to start a cooking class for the little Mexican girls. Mamma and Ihad been talking it over for several weeks, and she was so interested inthe plan that I couldn't bear not to carry it out now, for it was heridea. We found ten that will be glad to learn. I'm to have the class inour kitchen, and Mr. Moredock has promised to donate the materials forthe first half-term and Mr. Downs for the second. I'm going down to thestore now to order the first lot."
"Make Pink donate something, too," suggested the Captain.
"Oh, he has, already. He's given a keg of nails and some tools to Normanand Billy, so that they can teach practical carpentry to some of theMexican boys by showing them how to patch up their leaky shanties.Norman is a first-class carpenter for his age. It was Pink's suggestionthat they should do that. I'm so grateful to him for getting Normaninterested in something of the sort. It seemed as if he could never getover the dreadful shock--and--everything."
"I know," nodded the Captain, understandingly. "And there's nothing likeusing your hands for other people to lift the load off your own heart."
The lessons in cooking and carpentry were only a few of the things thatwent to the making of "a noble task time" out of the little mother'sabsence. They kept her always in their lives by loving mention of hername, quoting he
r daily, recalling this preference and that wish, andsettling everything by the question "would mamma want us to do it?" Andgradually time brought its slow healing, as God has mercifully providedit shall, to all wounds, no matter how deep, and the daily round ofliving went on.
PART II