THE weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocentchildhood--beautiful still, though its animating spirit hadfled--and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When shelifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Thenthe father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled theemotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, withaudible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two theygazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow,and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one presentexperienced a momentary feeling of suffocation.
As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the familypassed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossipingneighbours--such as, with no particular acquaintance with theprincipal members of a household, know all about the internalmanagement of every dwelling in the square--assembled close by, andthus discoursed of the events connected with the burying.
"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of thatsweet little fellow!"
"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked asour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as wellas we poor folks."
No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentarysilence.
"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker."Little Willie only died yesterday morning."
"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth.
"Hardly," said the other.
"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who madethe allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, thechambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her toborrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were allhard enough put to it to know where to get something decent toattend the funeral in."
"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they didabout the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group.
"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about anyone," replied the woman who had first spoken.
"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their worksye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being sodreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such ato-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and longblack veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellentcounterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all themoney that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, therewould be less misery in the world by a great deal."
And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thusexercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion,carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the wholepassed out of sight.
It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned,and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, thedifferent members retired to their chambers, and at an early hoursought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep.
On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke theoppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fiftydollars.
"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with anexpression of grave inquiry.
"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time isto be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as abargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to goout this morning and buy the goods."
Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep andsomewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wifesteadily in the face, but with a kind expression on hiscountenance--
"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourningcannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear littleone," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word,and the moisture dimmed his eyes.
"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to puton mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea ofnon-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented toher mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrowawakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can youthink of such a thing?"
"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldestdaughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if Iwere to neglect so binding a duty."
"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceivedat once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourninggarments.
"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have anything at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, andneed no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garmentscannot add to our sorrow."
But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads,and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings wereloosened, and the required amount of money handed over.
After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, aboutan hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her andJane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; andit was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in thefamily when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases.This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen.
The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat andcomfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two.One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon abed. The other is seated by a window, sewing.
"I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen," said the former,raising herself up with an effort.
"I wouldn't, if I were you, Margaret," replied the other, droppingher work and coming to the bedside. "You had better keep still, orthat distressing cough may come back again."
"Indeed, sister," returned the invalid, "I feel so restless that itis almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, andI am sure I shall feel better."
Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her to a largerocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed herwork.
"I can't help thinking of Mrs. Condy's little Willie," said Ellen,after a pause. "Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel hisloss."
"He is better off, though," remarked the sister; but even that ideacould not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death alwaysreferred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows andthe dark valley.
"Yes, he is with the angels," was the brief response of Ellen.
Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy's chambermaidentered.
"Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?" said Ellen, rising. "How isMrs. Condy and all the family?"
"They are very well, Miss Ellen," replied Lucy. "Mrs. Condy wantsyou to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for thefamily. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, andpart of next, too."
Ellen glanced at her sister, involuntarily, and then said--
"I am afraid, Lucy, that I can't go. Margaret is very poorly, and Idon't see how I can possibly leave her."
"O yes, you can go, Ellen," said Margaret. "You can fix me what Iwant, and come home every night. I'll do well enough."
Ellen paused a few moments, and then turning to Lucy, said--
"Tell Mrs. Condy that I will come round in the course of half anhour."
Lucy went away, and Ellen, after sitting irresolute for someminutes, said--
"I don't think, sister, that I can do any thing more for Mrs. Condythan her shopping. I wouldn't like to leave you alone. You know howbad your cough is sometimes."
"I'll do well enough through the day, Ellen," replied Margaret,though her feeble voice and languid manner told too plainly that shecould not do very well at any time. "You know that our rent will bedue in two weeks, and that you haven't yet got enough to pay it."
"That is very true," said Ellen, somewhat sadly. "Anyhow, I'll go toMrs. Condy's, and will think about the matter."
After dressing herself, Ellen insisted that her sister should liedown. She then placed a small table close to the bed, upon which wasset a few articles of food, and a vial of cough medicine. Aftercharging Margaret to keep very quiet, and to try to sleep, sheturned upon her a look of deep and yearning affection, and thenhurried away.
The sight of Ellen, and the necessary allusion to the recentafflicting loss, caused the tears of the mother and sisters to flowafresh. But these were soon dried up, and so much were the minds ofeach interested in the idea of the mourning dresses, and in thenecessary directions to be given, that few traces of the realaffliction which had wrung their hearts remained, for the time,perceptible. The orders received by Ellen were promptly filled atthe store where the family usually purchased their dry-goods, andthe various articles sent home. The bundles arrived about the sametime that Ellen returned. Then came a careful examination of theshades of colour and quality of the goods. These provingsatisfactory, Jane said--
"And now, Ellen, mother's dress, and Mary's, and mine must be donethis week. We'll all help you. Mary and I can make the skirts andbind cord for you, and do a good deal on the dresses. You can getthem done, easily enough?"
"Indeed, Miss Jane," replied Ellen, and her voice was not steady, "Ihardly know what to say. Sister is worse than she has ever been; andI don't see how I can leave her alone. She coughs terribly; and isso weak, that she can only sit up a little while. She has failedvery fast within a week."
"But you know this is a case particularly pressing," said Mrs.Condy. "There seems to be no help for it. There is no one we can getbut you, now; and you know we give you all our sewing, and depend onyou. Lucy says that Margaret is willing to have you come, and saysthat she can get on very well."
Ellen paused a moment or two, and then replied, with an expressionof sadness in her voice--"I will make the dresses for you, Mrs.Condy, but you must all help me as much as you can, so that I canget home every evening. It won't do to let Margaret be alone allnight, for her cough is much worse in the evening, and before day inthe morning."
Neither Mrs. Condy nor her daughters replied to this. Mentally, theydeemed it impossible for Ellen to go home at night. But they did notwish to say so. It was Wednesday, and all the afternoon was consumedin cutting, fitting, and basting the dresses. Night came, and Ellen,after tea, prepared to go home. Some slight objection was made; butshe was resolute. It was some time after dark when she came in sightof her chamber window. It showed that there was no light within.Instantly she sprang forward, and soon bounded up the stairs andinto the room.
"Margaret!--How are you, Margaret?" she said, pressing up to thebedside, and putting her hand upon the forehead of her sister. Itwas cold and clammy. A violent fit of coughing prevented a reply. Alight was obtained in a few minutes, and showed the countenance ofMargaret slightly distorted from difficult breathing, and herforehead perceptibly corrugated.
"You are worse, sister!" exclaimed Ellen, kissing her damp forehead.
"No, not much worse. My cough is only a little troublesome," was thequiet reply.
"You have had no supper yet, of course," said Ellen. "A cup of hottea will do you good."
This was soon prepared, and Margaret (sic) eat with a keen appetite.After tea, she was much better. The cold perspiration ceased, andher skin became dry and warm. A brief conversation passed betweenthe sisters, when Margaret fell off into a pleasant slumber. On thenext morning, with much reluctance and many misgivings as to whetherit were right to leave her sister alone, Ellen went to Mrs. Condy's.Before going, however, she asked the kind neighbour who lived below,to look in occasionally, and to see that Margaret had a good cup oftea for dinner. This was promised, and she felt lighter at heart.
Ellen worked hard through that day; but when night came, with allthe help she had received, the first dress was not finished. Unlessone dress were finished each day, the three could not be done bySunday; and this not being the case on the first day, how could shego home that night? for if she worked a few hours longer, thegarment would be ready for the wearer.
"I must run home a little while," said she, mentally, "and then comeback again. But how can I leave Margaret all night? She may die!"The thought caused her to shudder.
At length she said to Mrs. Condy--
"I can't leave sister all night, madam. But I can take your dresshome with me, and by sitting up late, I can easily finish it. Youwill have no objection to my doing this, I hope?"
Mrs. Condy paused a moment, for she did feel an objection to thisbeing done; but humanity prevailed, and she consented. This relievedEllen's mind very greatly, and she bundled up the dress, and hurriedaway with it. Margaret appeared more feeble than she was in themorning; and her cough was very troublesome. It was nearly twelveo'clock when the last stitch was taken in Mrs. Condy's dress. Andthen Ellen retired to her bed. But it was a long time before shecould sleep. The nervous excitement, induced by protracted labourand great anxiety of mind, drove slumber from her eyelids for manyhours. Towards morning she fell into a troubled sleep, and awoke atdaylight unrefreshed.
This day was Friday, and Jane's dress came next in turn. Ellenapplied herself with even greater assiduity than she had used on thepreceding day; but, as Jane's dress required more trimming, and lessassistance was given her on it, the progress she made towards itscompletion was in no way promising. After dinner her head began toache, and continued its throbbing, almost blinding pain, until theevening twilight began to fall, and the darkness compelled her tosuspend her work.
"Why, Ellen, Jane's dress isn't nigh done," said Mary, in tones ofsurprise, on coming into the room, at the moment Ellen laid thegarment aside.
"No, but I'll finish it to-night," replied Ellen.
"Why, it'll take you pretty much all night to finish this," shesaid, lifting and examining her sister's dress. "How in the worlddid you get so behindhand, Ellen?"
"This is a harder dress to make than your mother's," replied Ellen;"and besides having had less help on it, my head has ached verybadly all the afternoon."
Without seeming to notice the last reason given, Mary said--
"Well, if you can possibly get it done to-night, Ellen, you must doso. It would never answer in the world not to have all the dressesdone by to-morrow night."
"I will have it done," was the brief reply, made in a low tone.
Jane's dress was taken home that night, unfinished by full six orseven hours' work. As Ellen had feared, she found Margaret sufferingmuch from her cough. After preparing some food for her sister, whoseappetite still remained good, she drank a cup of tea, and then satdown to work upon the mourning garment. Towards midnight, Margaret,who had fallen asleep early in the evening, began to grow restless,and to moan as if in pain. Every now and then, Ellen would pause inher work and look towards the bed, with an anxious countenance; andonce or twice she got up, and stood over her sister; but she did notawake. It was three o'clock when the last stitch was taken, and thenMargaret's cough had awakened her, and she seemed to suffer so muchfrom that and from difficult breathing, that Ellen, even after lyingdown, did not go to sleep for an hour. It was long after sunrisewhen she awoke.
"Must you go to-day, too?" inquired Margaret, looking into hersister's face anxiously, on seeing her, after the hastily preparedbreakfast had been eaten, take up her bonnet and shawl.
"Yes, Margaret, I must go to-day. There is one more dress to bemade, and that must be done. But after to-day, I won't go outanywhere again until you are better."
"I don't think I shall ever be better again, Ellen," said the sickgirl. "I am getting so weak; and I feel just as if I shouldn't stayhere but a little while. You don't know how strange I feelsometimes. Oh, I wish you didn't have to go out to-day!" And shelooked so earnestly into the face of her sister, that the tearssprung into Ellen's eyes.
"If I can persuade them to put this last dress off until next week,and then get some one else to make it, I will," said the sister:"but if I can't, Margaret, try and keep up your spirits. I'll askMrs. Ryland, down-stairs, to come and sit with you a little while ata time through the day; and so if I can't; get off, you won't bealtogether without company."
"I wish you would, sister, for I feel so lonesome sometimes,"replied Margaret, mournfully.
Mrs. Ryland consented, for she was a kind-hearted woman, and likedthe sisters, and Ellen hurried away to Mrs. Condy's.
"You are very late this morning, ain't you?" said Mary Condy, asEllen entered with Jane's finished dress.
"I am a little late, Miss Mary, but I sat up until three o'clockthis morning, and overslept myself in consequence."
"Well, you'll finish my dress to-day, of course?"
"Really, Miss Mary, I hardly know what to say about it. Sister is sovery poorly, that I am almost afraid to leave her alone. Can't youin any way put yours off until next week? I have been up nearly allnight for two nights, and feel very unwell this morning." Andcertainly her pale cheeks, sunken eyes, and haggard countenancefully confirmed her statement.
"It will be impossible, Ellen," was Mary's prompt and positiveresponse. "I must go to church to-morrow, and cannot, of course, goout, without my black dress."
With a sigh, Ellen sat down and resumed her needle. After a whileshe said--
"Miss Mary, I cannot finish your dress, unless you and your sisterhelp me a good deal."
"Oh, we'll do that, of course," replied Mary, getting up and leavingthe room.
It was nearly eleven o'clock before Mary thought of helping Ellenany, and then two or three young ladies came in to pay a visit ofcondolence, and prevented her. Tears were shed at first; and thengradually a more cheerful tone of feeling succeeded, and so muchinterested were the young ladies in each other's company, that themoments passed rapidly away, and advanced the time near on to thedinner hour. It was full three o'clock before Mary and Jane satthemselves down to help Ellen. The afternoon seemed almost to flyaway, and when it was nightfall, the dress was not half finished.
"Will it be possible to get it done to-night?" asked Mrs. Condy.
"It will be hard work, madam," said Ellen, whose heart was with hersister.
"Oh, it can be finished," said Mary, "if we all work hard for two orthree hours. The fact is, it must be done. I wouldn't miss having itfor the world."
With a sigh, Ellen turned again to her work; though feeble naturewas wellnigh sinking under the task forced upon her. It was pasteleven o'clock when the dress was finished, and Ellen prepared to gohome to her sister.
"But you are not going home to-night?" said Mr. Condy, who was nowpresent.
"O yes, sir. I haven't seen sister since morning, and she's veryill."
"What is the matter with your sister?" asked Mr. Condy, in a kindtone.
"I'm afraid she's got the consump--" It vas the first time Ellen hadattempted to utter the word, and the sound, even though the whole ofit remained unspoken, broke down her feelings, and she burst intotears.
Instinctively, Mr. Condy reached for his hat and cane, and as he sawEllen recover, by a strong effort, her self-possession, he said--
"It is too late for you to go home alone, Ellen, and as we cannotask you, under the circumstances, to stay all night, I will go withyou."
Ellen looked her gratitude, for she was really afraid to go into thestreet alone at that late hour. As they walked along, Mr. Condy, bymany questions, ascertained that Ellen had been almost compelled towork day and night to make up mourning garments for his family, andto absent herself from her sick sister, while she needed her mostcareful attention. Arrived at her humble dwelling, his benevolentfeelings prompted him to ascertain truly the condition of Margaret,for his heart misgave him that her end was very nigh.
On entering the chamber, they found Mrs. Ryland, the neighbour wholived below, supporting Margaret in the bed, who was gasping forbreath as if every moment in fear of suffocation. Ellen sprungforward with a sudden exclamation, and, taking Mrs. Ryland's place,let the head of her sister fall gently upon her bosom. Mr. Condylooked on for a moment, and then hastily retired. As soon as hereached home, he despatched a servant for the family physician, witha special request to have him visit Ellen's sister immediately. Hethen went into his wife's chamber, where the daughters, with theirmother, were engaged in looking over their new morning apparel.
"I'm afraid," said he, "that you have unintentionally been guilty ofa great wrong."
"How?" asked Mrs. Condy, looking up with sudden surprise.
"In keeping Ellen here so late from her sister, who is, I fear, atthis moment dying."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed the mother and daughters with looks ofalarm.
"It is, I fear, too true. But now, all that can be done is to tryand make some return. I want you, Mary, and your mother, to put onyour bonnets and shawls and go with me. Something may yet be donefor poor Margaret. I have already sent for the doctor."
On the instant Mrs. Condy and Mary prepared themselves, and theformer put into a small basket some sugar and a bottle of wine, andhanded it to her husband, who accompanied them, at that late hour,to the dwelling of the two sisters. On entering the chamber, theyfound no one present but Ellen and Margaret. The latter stillreclined with her head on her sister's bosom, and seemed to havefallen into a gentle slumber, so quiet did she lay. Ellen looked upon the entrance of Mr. and Mrs. Condy, with Mary; and they saw thather eyes were filled with tears, and that two large drops stood uponher cheeks. She made a motion for them to be seated, but did notrise from her place on the bed, nor stir by the least movement ofher body the still sleeper who leaned upon her breast. For nearlyfifteen minutes, the most profound silence reigned throughout thechamber. The visitors understood the whole scene, and almost heldtheir breaths, lest even the respiration, that to them seemedaudible, should disturb the repose of the invalid. At the end ofthis time the physician entered, and broke the oppressive stillness.But neither his voice nor his step, nor the answers and explanationswhich necessarily took place, restored Margaret to apparentconsciousness. After feeling her pulse for some time, he said--
"It will not be necessary to disturb her while she sleeps; but ifshe becomes restless, a little wine may be given. In the morning Iwill see her early," and he made a movement to go.
"Doctor," said Ellen, looking him eagerly in the face, "tell metruly--is she not dying?"
For a moment the physician looked upon the earnest, tearful girl,and read in her countenance that hope and fear held there a painfulstruggle.
"While there is life, there is hope," he replied briefly.
"Tell me the truth, doctor, I can bear it," she urged appealingly."If my sister is going to die, I wish to know it."
"I have seen many recover who appeared nearer to death than she is,"he replied, evasively. "As I have just said, where there is life,there is hope."
Ellen turned from him, evidently disappointed at the answer, and thedoctor went down-stairs, accompanied by Mr. Condy. The two remainedsome minutes in conversation below, and when the latter returned hefound his wife and daughter standing by the bedside, and Margaretexhibiting many signs of restlessness. She kept rolling her headupon the pillow, and throwing her hands about uneasily. In a fewminutes she began to moan and mutter incoherently. After a littlewhile her eyes flew suddenly open, and she pronounced the name ofEllen quickly.
"I am here, Margaret," replied the sister, bending over her.
"Oh, Ellen, why did you stay away so long?" she said, looking upinto her face half reproachfully, and seeming not to observe thepresence of others. "I was so lonesome all day; and then at night Iwaited and waited, and you didn't come home! You won't go away anymore--will you, Ellen?"
"No--no, sister, I won't leave you again," said Ellen, soothingly,her tears starting afresh.
The words of Margaret smote upon the heart of Mary, whose greateagerness to get the mourning dress done, so that she could go outon Sunday, had been the cause of Ellen's long detention from hersick sister. She hastily turned away from the bed, and seatedherself by the window, As she sat there, the image of herbaby-brother came up vividly before her mind, and with it thefeeling of desolation which the loss of a dear one always occasions.And with this painful emotion of grief, there arose in her mind adistinct consciousness that, since her thoughts had becomeinterested in the getting and making up of her mourning dress, shehad felt but little of the keen sorrow that had at first overwhelmedher, and that now came back upon her mind like a flood. As she satthus in silent communion with herself, she was enabled to perceivethat, in her own mind, there had been much less of a desire tocommemorate the death of her brother, in putting on mourning, thanto appear before others to be deeply affected with grief. She sawthat the black garments were not to remind herself of the deardeparted one, but to show to others that the babe was stillremembered and still mourned. In her present state of keenperception of interior and true motives, she felt deeply humbled,and inwardly resolved that, on the morrow, she would not go out forthe too vain purpose of displaying her mourning apparel. Just asthis resolution became fixed in her mind, a sudden movement at thebedside arrested her attention, and she again joined the groupthere.
Her heart throbbed with a sudden and quicker pulsation, as her eyefell upon the face of Margaret. A great change had passed upon it;death had placed his sign there, and no eye could misunderstand itsimport. Rapidly now did the work of dissolution go on, and just asthe day dawned, Margaret sank quietly away into that deep sleep thatknows no earthly waking.
After rendering all such offices as were required, Mrs. Condy andMary went home, the latter promising Ellen that she would return andremain with her through the day. At the breakfast table, Mr. Condyso directed the conversation as to give the solemn event they hadbeen called to witness its true impression upon the minds of hisfamily. Before the meal closed, it was resolved that Jane and Maryshould go to the humble dwelling of Ellen, and remain with herthrough the day; and that after the funeral, the expense of whichMr. Condy said he would bear, Ellen should be offered a permanenthome.
The funeral took place on Monday, and was attended by Mr. Condy'sfamily. On the next day Mrs. Condy called on Ellen, and invited herto come home with her, and to remain there. The offer was thankfullyaccepted.
During the day, and while Ellen, assisted by Jane and Mary, was atwork on black dresses for the younger children, Mr. and Mrs. Condycame into the room: the latter had a piece of bombazine in her hand.
"Here is a dress for you, Ellen," she said, handing her the piece ofbombazine.
Ellen looked up with a sudden expression of surprise; her faceflushed an instant, and then grew pale.
"You will want a black dress, Ellen," resumed Mrs. Condy, "and Ihave bought you one."
"I do not wish to put on black," said she, with a slightlyembarrassed look and an effort to smile, while her voice trembledand was hardly audible.
"And why not, Ellen?" urged Mrs. Condy.
"I never liked black," she replied evasively. "And, anyhow, it woulddo no good," she added somewhat mournfully, as if the former reasonstruck her on the instant as being an insufficient one.
"No, child, it wouldn't do any good," said Mr. Condy, tenderly andwith emotion. "And if you don't care about having it, don't takeit."
Mrs. Condy laid the proffered dress aside, and Ellen again bentsilently over her work. The hearts of all present were touched byher simple and true remark, "that it would do no good," and each onerespected her the more, that she shunned all exterior manifestationof the real sorrow that they knew oppressed her spirits. And neverdid they array themselves in their sombre weeds, that the thought ofEllen's unobtrusive grief did not come up and chide them.
THE END.
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