Intra Muros Part 4

"She is still her father's girl," said my brother, with a fond look.

"She and Carrie, whom you never saw, make a blessed home for me. Where is your sister, daughter?"

"She is at the great music-hall. She has a very rich voice that she is cultivating," Alma said, turning to me. "We were going to find our aunt when she returned," she added.

"True, true," said my brother; "but come."

Then they showed me the lovely home, perfect and charming in every detail. When we came out upon a side veranda, I saw we were so near an adjoining house that we could easily step from one veranda to the other.

"There!" said my brother, lightly lifting me over the intervening s.p.a.ce. "There is some one here you will wish to see." Before I could question him, he led me through the columned doorway, saying, "People in heaven are never 'not at home' to their friends."

The house we entered was almost identical in construction and finish with that of my brother Nell, and, as we entered, three persons came eagerly forward to greet me.

"Dear Aunt Gray!" I cried. "My dear Mary--my dear Martin! What a joy to meet you again!"

"And here," said my aunt reverently.

"Yes, here," I answered in like tone.

It was my father's sister, always a favorite aunt, with her son and his wife. How we did talk and cling to one another, and ask and answer questions!

"Pallas is also here, and Will, but they have gone with Carrie to the music hall," said Martin.

"Martin, can you sing here?" I asked. He always was trying to sing on earth, but could not master a tune.

"A little," he answered, with his old genial laugh and shrug; "we can do almost anything here that we really try to do."

"You should hear him now, cousin, when he tries to sing," said his wife, with a little touch of pride in her voice. "You would not know it was Martin. But is it not nice to have Dr. Nell so near us? We are almost one household, you see. All felt that we must be together."

"It is indeed," I answered, "although you no longer need him in his professional capacity."

"No, thanks to the Father; but we need him quite as much in many other ways."

"I rather think I am the one to be grateful," said my brother. "But, sister, I promised Frank that you should go to your own room awhile; he thought it wise that you should be alone for a time. Shall we go now?"

"I am ready," I answered, "though these delightful reunions leave no desire for rest."

"How blessed," said my aunt, "that there is no limit here to our mutual enjoyment! We have nothing to dread, nothing to fear. We know at parting that we shall meet again. We shall often see each other, my child."

Then my brother went with me to my own home, and, with a loving embrace, left me at the door of my room.

Once within, I lay down upon my couch to think over the events of this wonderful day; but, looking upward at the divine face above me, I forgot all else, and, Christ's peace enfolding me like a mantle, I became "as one whom his mother comforteth." While I lay in this blissful rest, my brother Frank returned, and, without rousing me, bore me in his strong arms again to earth. I did not know, when he left us in our home, upon what mission he was going, though my father knew it was to return to my dear husband and accompany him upon his sad journey to his dead wife; to comfort and sustain and strengthen him in those first lonely hours of sorrow. They deemed it best, for wise reasons, that I should wait awhile before returning, and taste the blessedness of the new life, thus gaining strength for the trial before me.

CHAPTER V.

Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?--Heb. 1: 14.

How oft do they their silver bowers leave, To come to succor us that succor want!

How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant!

They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant.

And all for love, and nothing for reward; O why should heavenly G.o.d to men have such regard!

--[Edmund Spenser.

When I aroused from my sleep it was in the gray light of earth's morning, and I was standing on the doorstep of the house in Kentville that my brother and I had left together, some thirty-six hours before, reckoned by earth-time. I shuddered a little with a strange chill when I saw where we were, and turned quickly to my brother Frank, who stood beside me. He put his arm about me, and with a rea.s.suring smile, said:

"For their sakes be brave and strong, and try to make them understand your blessed change."

I did not try to answer, though I took heart, and entered with him into the house. Everything was very quiet--no one seemed astir. My brother softly opened a door immediately to the right of the entrance, and motioned me to enter. I did so, and he closed it behind me, remaining himself outside.

Something stood in the center of the room, and I soon discovered that it was a pall. It was a great relief to me to see that it was not black, but a soft shade of gray. Someone was kneeling beside it, and as I slowly approached I saw it was my dear son. He was kneeling upon one knee, with his elbow resting on the other knee, and his face buried in his hand. One arm was thrown across the casket, as though he were taking a last embrace of his "little mother." I saw that the form within the casket lay as though peacefully sleeping, and was clad in silver gray, with soft white folds about the neck and breast. I was grateful that they had remembered my wishes so well.

I put my arms about the neck of my darling son, and drew his head gently against my breast, resting my cheek upon his bowed head. Then I whispered, "Dearest, I am here beside you--living, breathing, strong and well. Will you not turn to me, instead of to that lifeless form in the casket? It is only the worn-out tenement--I am your living mother."

He lifted his head as though listening; then, laying his hand tenderly against the white face in the casket he whispered, "Poor, dear little mother!" and again dropped his face into both hands, while his form shook with convulsive sobs.

As I strove to comfort him, the door opened and his lovely girl-wife entered. I turned to meet her as she came slowly towards us. Midway in the room we met, and, taking both her hands tenderly in mine, I whispered, "Comfort him, darling girl, as only you can; he needs human love."

She paused a moment irresolutely, looking directly into my eyes, then pa.s.sed on and knelt beside him, laying her upturned face against his shoulder. I saw his arm steal around her and draw her closely to him, then I pa.s.sed from the room, feeling comforted that they were together.

Outside the door I paused an instant, then, slowly ascending the stairs, I entered the once familiar room, whose door was standing ajar.

All remained as when I had left it, save that no still form lay upon the white bed. As I expected, I found my precious husband in this room. He sat near the bay window, his arm resting upon the table, and his eyes bent sorrowfully upon the floor. My heart's best friend sat near him and seemed trying to comfort him. When I entered the room our brother Frank arose from a chair close beside him and pa.s.sed out, with a sympathetic look at me. I went at once to my dear husband, put my arms about him, and whispered:

"Darling! darling, I am here!"

He stirred restlessly without changing his position. Virginia said, as though continuing a conversation, "I am sure she would say you left nothing undone that could possibly be done for her."

"She is right," I whispered.

"Still she was alone at the last," he moaned.

"Yes, dear, but who could know it was the last? She sank so suddenly under the pain. What can I say to comfort you? Oh, Will, come home with us! She would want you to, I am sure."

He shook his head sadly, while the tears were in his eyes, as he said: "Work is my only salvation. I must go back in a very few days."

She said no more, and he leaned back wearily in his easy-chair. I crept more closely to him and suddenly his arms closed about me. I whispered, "There, dear, do you not see that I am really with you?"

He was very still, and the room was very quiet but for the ticking of my little clock still standing upon the dressing-case. Presently I knew by his regular breathing that he had found a short respite from his sorrow. I slipped gently from his arms and went to my friend, kneeling beside her, and folding my arms about her.

"Virginia, Virginia! You know I am not dead! Why do you grieve?"

She looked over at the worn face of the man before her, then dropped her face into her hand, whispering, as though she had heard me and would answer:

"Oh, Bertha darling, how could you leave him?"

"I am here, dearest! Do realize that I am here!"