All the Days of My Life: An Autobiography Part 36

But He that "turneth man to destruction" says also, "Return ye children of men;" and on Friday, the eleventh, I became conscious of Robert at my side, and of the children pa.s.sing through the room and coming to me. I could feel their soft kisses on my hands and face, and I finally found strength to ask Mary, "How are Calvin and Alice?"

"Calvin is sick, Mamma," she answered. "Papa put him in my room; he wanted to be near you."

"Very sick?" I asked.

"Not as bad as I was."

"Alice?"

"She has the fever very slightly. She is nearly well. Alexander, also, but you, dear Mamma?"

"All is right."

The next day I was much worse. I could not move, and was hardly able to whisper a word or two, and towards midnight Alexander had a relapse. Wringing his hands, and full of a strange reluctance, Robert went out into the dreadful night to try to find a doctor. What happened on that fateful walk, I may not write, but he brought back the doctor, who looked at the child, and then turning to Robert said,

"You will be wanted soon, lie down and sleep. Oh, you must! You must!

I will stay here until you awake."

I know not how long Robert slept. He threw himself on a sofa within sight of my bed, and appeared to fall into a deep sleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. Alexander begged to come to me, and the doctor laid him at my feet, and I felt with an indescribable thrill of love and anguish, his little hand clasp my ankle.

The clock had just struck three, when I heard Robert start suddenly to his feet and cry, "_Yes, sir!_" Then smiting his hands together as if in distress, he cried out still loudly, "_Yes, sir! I am coming!_" The doctor rose and went to him. "Barr," he asked, "what is the matter?"

for Robert was weeping as men seldom weep--long moaning sobs, that were the very language of heart-breaking despair. "What is the trouble, my friend?" the doctor asked again, and Robert answered,

"My father called me twice, and I--I answered him. He has been dead thirty-two years."

"Well then, your father would only come for your relief and help."

"He came for _me_, Doctor; the summons was inexorable, and sure."

"Let us go to the child. He is very ill."

I heard these words, and I felt at the same moment a tighter clasp of the small hand round my ankle, and Robert's kiss upon my cheek. Then the hours went slowly and cruelly by, and in the afternoon the beginning of the end commenced. But just before it, the child had another attack similar to the one he and his brother had shared on the train coming in to Galveston. He was quite unconscious, even of his physical agony, his eyes firmly fixed their vision far, far beyond any earthly horizon. His father sat like a stone gazing at him, and I could not have moved a finger, or spoken a word, no, not to have saved his life.

The trance lasted only a few minutes, but he came out of it sighing, and then asked in a voice of awe and wonder, "_Who is that man waiting for me, Papa?_" He was a.s.sured there was no one waiting, but he replied, "_Yes, there is a man waiting for me. He is in the next room_." Then his father noticed that his eyes had a new, deep look in them, as if some veil had been rent, and he with open face had beheld things wonderful and secret.

About seven o'clock they took him away from me into the next room. He clung to my feet, and begged to stay with me, and I--Oh, I strove as mortals strive with the impossible to speak, to plead, that he might remain! But it could not be. His father lifted him in his arms, and through the next five awful hours he held him there. No! no! It is not writable, unless one could write with blood and tears. At midnight it was over. But as his father laid down the little boy, Mrs. Lee went to him, and said,

"Calvin is very ill. Go and speak to him, while you can."

He went at once and put his arm under the sweet child, and spoke to him. And the first words the dying boy uttered were, "Papa, what is the matter with my brother?"

"He is very ill, Calvin."

"Is he dying?"

"Yes."

"Tell him to wait for me. I am dying, too, Papa! I cannot see you! I am blind! Kiss me, Papa."

These were his last words. He died two hours after his brother, and I do not doubt they went together; and they had "a Man" with them, who knew his way through the constellations. They would go straight to Him whom their souls loved. I was not permitted to see either of them, and on Tuesday afternoon they were buried. I heard them carry out the coffins; I heard their father's bitter grief, and I was dumb and tearless.

After they were buried, Robert came straight to me. "They are laid side by side, Milly, darling," he said. "Now _I also_ must leave you.

Forgive Robert all that he has ever done to grieve you." I tried to tell him I had nothing to forgive, that he was always good to me, but he shook his head sadly, and continued, "O Milly, my love, my wife, farewell! I must go, dearest! I must go! O my dear, dear wife, farewell!" and I could only answer with low sharp cries. I had not a word for this moment. At the open door our eyes met in a long parting gaze, and then I remember nothing more, till it was dark and late, and I heard the sounds of men busy in the next room.

I never saw my husband again. On Wednesday he died. Thank G.o.d, he died as Calvin did, of general congestion. Death mounted from his dead feet to his heart, and head, with a swift sure pace, but he was really dying all the last three days that he was nursing his dying sons. He fell on guard, and Death came as a friend to relieve him:

"And so he pa.s.sed to joy, through bitter woe, As some great galleon through dark may go, Where no star glimmers, and the storm wind wails Until the rose of Morning touch her sails."

Mrs. Lee stayed at his side until the last moment, and when all was finished, she came to me. "He has gone!" she said.

"I know," I answered. "He pa.s.sed me as he went. There was _One_ with him. I thank G.o.d! What time did he go?"

"It was just ten minutes past eleven."

Then I remembered the pendulum of the clock falling at ten minutes past eleven. And the memory gave me a sudden sense of comfort. Some wiser Intelligence than ourselves, had known even then, what was before us; had known when Robert left his home, that he was faring into the shadows in which his grave was hid. His death was not a blind hap-hazard calamity. It was a foreseen event, an end pre-determined by Infinite Wisdom and Love. O mystery of life! From what unexpected sources, spring thy lessons and thy comforts! Whatever life was left in me was quickened by this blow. I felt it to the foundation of being, and though I could not speak to those around me, I could to the _Divine Other_ who was closer to me than breathing, and nearer than hands or feet. Instantly I found myself urging that almighty help.

"I cannot die now," I pleaded. "Oh, I cannot die and leave those three little girls alone--in a strange land, without money, without relative or friend to care for them! Oh, help me to live! Help me to live for their sakes! Not for thy sake, for thou can never see death!

not for my sake, I am but as a dead woman now; but for my children's sake, help me to recover my strength! Help me, and I shall live."

In this manner I silently prayed, with all the fervor of which my soul was capable. And in that central tract of emotion where life and death meet, there are paths of spiritual experience remote and obscure, until some great crisis finds them out--experiences not to be unfolded save to that _one_ Soul, and for which words--however wise--are impotent things. I feel this truth as I write, for I cannot find a way to explain the sure and certain influx of life, that came to me, even as I entreated for it. It came from no drug, no physician, no human help of any kind, but direct from the _Thee in Me_ who works behind the veil, the _More of Life_ in whom we live and move and have our Being.

I do not say that my prayer changed G.o.d's will or purpose concerning me. Oh, no! but G.o.d directed my prayer. He put my pet.i.tion into my heart. The prayer was granted ere I made it. For if we do right, it is G.o.d which teaches us both to will and to do, so that every soul that cries out to the Eternal, finds the Eternal; I care not when, or where. G.o.d is not far from any one of us, and in every case he seeks us, before we have the desire to seek Him.

I had a full and ready answer to my soul's pet.i.tion. I recovered rapidly, and in ten days was able to leave my room, and gather the salvage of my wrecked home around me. No doubt most of my readers have a keen and personal knowledge of that weight of grief, which hangs like lead in the rooms, and on the stairs, where the footsteps of the loved dead have sounded. They know what it is to come back from the grave of their love, and see his hat lying where he threw it down forever, and his slippers at the foot of the bed he died on. And, oh, what a mult.i.tude of mothers that no man could number, know what it means to put away the empty clothing that still keeps a heartbreaking look of the little form that moulded it--or the small worn shoes and stockings, the toys and books, that will never more be needed. Alas it is too common an experience to require words! This grief has but to be named, and at any hour thousands of heavy hearts can fill in all its sad details.

After the month of September the fever, for the very want of victims, began to decline, and about the middle of October there was a storm which shook Galveston Island to its foundation. The waters of the Gulf of Mexico and the Bay of Galveston met, and mingled, in the center of the city. There was a hurtling, roaring tempest around it, and a tremendous battle in the firmament above it. It was "a day of desolation, a day of darkness, of clouds and of thick darkness;" and throughout the hours the storm gathered strength. All night the inhabitants sat still in terror, while the sea beat at their doors, and their homes rocked in the terrific wind.

After midnight, when the roaring and crashing and fury of the elements were at their height, it was easy to call to remembrance the magnificent description of just such a storm in Habakkuk, 3:5-12, and as the children drew closer and closer to me, I repeated what I could of it:

"Before him went the pestilence, and burning coals went forth at his feet ... and the everlasting mountains were scattered, the perpetual hills did bow.... I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction.... Was thy wrath against the sea, that thou didst ride upon thine horses and thy chariots of salvation?... The overflowing of the water pa.s.sed by: the deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high. The sun and the moon stood still in their habitation.... Thou wentest forth for the salvation of thy people."

At the dawning, the tempest lulled off with mighty, sobbing winds; sullenly but surely it went, and with it departed entirely the dreadful pestilence. There was not another case known. The Lord had indeed arisen for the salvation of the city, and His angels had driven away the powers of darkness that had been permitted there for a season. Oh, then if our eyes had been opened! If we could have seen the battle in the firmament above us! If we could have seen "the Man Gabriel," or Michael "the great prince which standeth for the children of G.o.d's people against the evil ones," then, no doubt, we should have said with Elisha, "Fear not: for they that be with us are more than they that be with them."

After the hurricane the inhabitants arose as one man, to build up and to repair, and to put out of sight and memory all traces of their great calamity. At this time, and for long after, my diary is a record of the most extraordinary kindness shown me, both by acquaintances and friends. Scotch Brown seemed to consider us under his special care, and this self-imposed trust he filled with such delicacy and generosity, that I feel angry at myself today, when I find such meagre acknowledgment of it. I must have been truly selfish, or grat.i.tude would have caused me to write less concerning my own suffering, and more about Scotch Brown's thoughtfulness in supplying the little comforts of life, that no one else considered. Thus he saw that I had my newspaper and my mail, or if the servant left, he found us another.

His help was always practical help. It had few words, and I do not seem to have realized its wonderful faithfulness and unselfishness.

Many a time afterwards I longed for a friendship like his, but I have never found it, and in the face of my own words, I say, "It serves me right." Mrs. Lee visited me once a day, sometimes twice; Mayor Williams looked after any business that came up, and took the children nearly every day for a drive on the beach. He was Alice's G.o.dfather, and he acted the part of a G.o.dfather to each of the three girls. A great many people are named in this part of my diary, whom I have quite forgotten, but they were distinctly Robert's friends--men whom he had nursed through the fever, or had had business relations with, mostly Glasgow men, or at least Scotchmen, but it did me good to talk with them about him.

On the fifth of December my son Andrew was born at four o'clock A.M. I was so happy that the child was a boy, that I cried with thankfulness and delight. He appeared to be a fine strong infant, but he soon showed signs of yellow fever, contracted before his birth, and died when he was five days old at ten minutes to eleven P.M. The next morning he was laid beside his father and two elder brothers. The cycle of the birthplace and the grave fulfilled his doom of earth.

So far I had endured the will of G.o.d, but I was not resigned. It was so hard to make my heart believe in its great loss. Often as I sat sewing I would say, "Oh, I must be dreaming! I must wake up! I must go to the gate! He may be coming now!" and I would rise to go to the gate, and look and listen, and sometimes I heard the quick strong steps for which I waited and listened. For the ear has its own memory, and listens for an accustomed sound, and the imagination does not always suffer it to be disappointed.

This delusion lasted for many months, and I have no doubt the majority of widows have experienced it. Some one of them, I wish I knew her name, has expressed it for all, in the following lines:

"Half-unbelieving doth my heart remain of its great woe, I waken, and a dull, dead sense of pain, is all I know; Then dimly in the darkness, my mind I feel about, To know what 'tis that troubles me, and find my sorrow out.

And hardly with long pains, my heart I bring its loss to own, It seemeth yet impossible, that thou art gone.

That whatsoever else of good, for me in store remain.

This lieth out of hope, my Love, to see thy face again."

As the year drew to a close, I had fully recovered my strength, indeed I had not been in such fine general health for many years, and with this feeling of physical well-being, there came an urgent sense of the necessity of work. My money, though used with great economy, was decreasing fast, and I had no source for supplying this loss, except by an application to Robert's mother, which I did not wish to make. So I was troubled and anxious and very unhappy. One Sabbath morning about a week before Christmas I was alone in the house, the children had gone to church, the girl in the kitchen to High Ma.s.s. I sat thinking of my position, and wondering what I must do. Naturally, I thought also of the One, who had hitherto taken from my shoulders all the burden and the care of life.