Mulock_A_Brave_Lady.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
thing my-
self. , you are a good woman ; you
may. man has been the curse of my life.
helped to ruin my husband he blasted the
happiness of my daughter. was a liar, a
profligate, a swindler every thing most
hated, and hate still ! he has been left
to cumber the earth these eighty years a
blessing to no human being, and a torment to
whosoever had to do with him knows!
have thought sometimes, were ,
he should have died long ago, or better, never
been born."
spoke passionately ay, in spite of her
years and her feebleness and her faded eyes
glowed with all the indignation of youth ; only
hers was no personal anger, or desire of venge-
ance, but that righteous wrath against evil and
the doers of it, which we believe to be one of the
attributes of itself.
" do you say, ? me
for dare not judge the matter myself shall
leave him where he is, to die the death of the
wicked, or have pity upon him? or
mercy which shall it be ?"
could not tell ; was utterly bewildered.
one thing came into my mind to say, and
said it : " any body fond of him ?
she fond of him ?"
, the look of her dead 's mo-
ther! shall never forget it. bit-
terness -^ tender remembrance the struggle
to be just, but not unmerciful ; in all these
could trace the faint reflection of what that
terrible grief, buried so long, must once have
been.
length she said, calmly, " are right ;
see it now. , will own the truth ; she
was fond of him. that decides the ques-
tion."
was decided in a very few minutes more,
for she evidently could not brook much discus-
sion of the matter. arranged that m}"^ hus-
band should take upon himself the whole trouble
of discovering how far . 's letter
was true " may not be telling the truth even
yet," de said, bitterly and
then put him into some decent lodging where
he might be taken care of till he died.
" , ," she said, reading his let-
ter over again before she gave it to me to give
to my husband, " think what it must be to have
reached the bridge and shrink in terror from
crossing it; to have come to the end of life
and be afraid of dying. is his case.
soul! ought, perhaps, even to be sorry for
liim ; and am."
said no more, and believe this was the
last time except in one or two brief business
(rommunications with . that she
ever mentioned the name of -
hayes. lived a pensioner on her charity
for some weeks ; then he died and was buried.
is all.
rest of the afternoon, remember, we
spent very peacefully. agitation seemed
to have entirely passed away, leaving her more
gentle, even more cheerful, than usual.
talked no more about the past, but wholly of
the future my future, and that of the little
one that was coming to me. wise and
good words she said as from a mother to a
mother about the bringing up, for 's glo-
ry and its parents' blessing, of that best gift of
, and best teacher under heaven, a lit-
tle, white-souled, innocent child.
she insisted on walking with me to the
park gates, her first walk for many days.
had been an inclement winter, and for weeks
she had been unable to cross the threshold,
even to go to church. to-day was so
mild and bright that she thought she would
venture.
" don't tell ; for can walk
back quite well^lone, with the help of my
capital stick," wifliout which she never walked
a step now. first she had disliked using it
very much; but now she called it "her good
friend." .
it she leaned, gently declining my arm,
saying was the invalid, and she must rather
take care of me ; and so we walked together,
slowly and contentedly, down the elm avenue.
was quite bare of leaves, but beautiful still;
the fine tracery of the branches outlined sharp
against the sky that special loveliness of win-
ter trees which summer never shows. no-
ticed it : noticed, too, with her quick eye for
all these things, the first beginning of spring
a little daisy peeping up through the
grass. then she stood and listened to a
vociferous robin redbreast, opening his mouth
and singing aloud, as winter robins always
seem to do, from the elm-bough overhead.
" like a robin," she said. " is such a
brave bird."
we reached the park gates she turned
a little paler, and leaned heavier on her stick.
was afraid she was very tired, and said so.
" dear, am always tired now." ,
patting my hand with a bright smile nay, more
than bright, actually radiant she added, "-
er mind ; shall be all right soon."
watched her, after we had parted just as
we always parted with a tender kiss, and a
warning to " take great care of myself:" watch-
ed her, knew not why, except that so loved
to do it, untjil she was out of sight, and then
went satisfied home ; ignorant oh, how igno-
rant! that it was my last sight of her, con-
sciously, in this world.
night my trouble came upon me una-
wares. had a sore struggle for our lives,
my baby and . remember nothing about ^
her birtli poor little lamb! nor for weeks
after it. head went wrong; and had
rather not think any more than can help,
even now, of that dreadful time.
my delirium, among all the horrible
figures that filled my room, recall one not
horrible, but sweet which came and stood at
.
175
.
ray bedside, looking at me with the saddest,
tenderest eyes. took it, they tell me, for
the , of whom had just read
some legend that the of
comes herself to fetch the souls of all women
who die in childbirth. thought she had come
for mine. she was not the young -
na, fair and calm ; she was grown old, in-
ured to many sorrows, heart-pierced with many
swords, yet living still; , mother of the
, human and full of frailty, yet, like her
, " made perfect through suffering," as,
please ! we all may be made. when
the vision departed, they tell me, missed it,
and mourned for it, and raved for days about
"my ;'* but she never came again.
woke up from my illness was not
at home, but in a quiet lodging by the sea, with
kind though strange faces about me, and my
husband constantly at my side. had never
left me, indeed, but did not know him;
hardly did, even in my right mind. had
grown so much older, and some of his pretty
curly locks little 's are just like
them had turned quite gray.
was he who told me, cautiously and by
slow degrees, how ill had been, and how
had still, by the mercy of , a little -
phine a healthy, living dairghter waiting for
me at. home at .
" who has taken charge of her all this
while^" asked. gradually, as the in-
terests and needs of life came back upon me
again, became excessively anxious and un-
happy, until a new thought struck me : " ,
her godmother ; she would send for baby and
take care of her. she would be quite
safe, know."
husband was silent.
" her godmother seen her?"
"."
" once!" a little disappointed, till
remembered how feeble de
was. " has not got my little lamb with
her, then. she has seen her. will
she see her again when ?"
" day," said, gently, tighten-
ing his hold of my hand. " day, my
wife. her godmother does not want her
now. has her own children again."
so learned, as tenderly as my husband
could break it to me, that de
had, according to the word she used of her own
dear ones, " gone away ;" and that when went
httme to my little should find her
place vacant ; that on this side the grave
should see the face loved no more.
seemed that my vision of the
was reality ; that, hearing of my extreme dan-
ger, .de had risen from her
bed in the middle of the night a wild, stormy
winter's night and come to me ; had sat by
me, tended me, and with her indomitable hope
and courage kept from sinking into utter de-
spair my poor husband and my father, until the
trial was over, and mine and baby's life were
safe. she went home, troubling no one,
complaining to no one, and lay down on her
bed, to rise up no more.
was ill a few days only a few; and
176
.
every one thought she would be better very
soon, until she was actually dying. was
just about midnight, and all her faithful and
attached servants hastily gathered round her,
but too late. knew no one, and said not
a single word to any one, but just lay, sleeping
into death, as it were, as quiet as an hour-old
child. once, a few minutes before her de-
parture, catching suddenly at the hand which
held hers, and opening her eyes wide, she fixed
them steadily upon the empty space at the foot
of her bed.
", !" she said, in a joyful voice.
*' the children the children!"
might have been knows !
******
was spring full, bright, cheerful
when, carrying our little daughter in his arras,
my husband took me for the first time to see
the new grave which had risen up beside the
others in church-yard. sat down by
it ; put its pretty primroses, already so numer-
ous, into my baby's hands, and talked to her
unheeding ears about her godmother.
all the while had no feeling whatever,
and never have had since, that it was really
herself who lay sled|)ing there : she who to the
last day of her long term of years was such a
brave lady ; so full of energy, activity, courage,
and strength whose whole thoughts were not
for herself but for others who was forever busy
doing good. was doing the same some-
where else, was certain; carrying out the
same heroic life, loving with the same warm
heart, rejoicing with a keener and more per-
fect joy.
so think of her still ; and will think
of her, and will not grieve. know that
on earth shall never again behold the like of
my dear de .