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Elsie's Widowhood

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<h2>[38] CHAPTER IV.</h2> <div class="block18"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Death is another life." —Bailey. </div> </div></div> "Oh Elsie, Elsie, what shall we do! But it can't, it can't be true!" sobbed Violet, clinging to her sister in a heart-breaking paroxysm of grief. "Oh it will kill mamma, and we shall lose her too!" "No, no, honey, not so," said Aunt Chloe; "my bressed young missus will lib for yo' sake, for her chillens' sake. An' you ain't gwine to lose massa: he's only gwine home a little while 'fore de rest." "Dear Vi, we must try to be composed for both their sakes," whispered Elsie, scarcely able to speak for weeping. "Dear bressed Lord help dem, help dese po' chillens," ejaculated Aunt Chloe. "Come, chillens, we's losin' precious time." They wiped away their tears, checked their sobs by a determined effort, and hand in hand followed her to the sick-room. Perfect ease had taken the place of the agonizing pain which for many hours had racked Mr. Travilla's frame, but it was the relief afforded not by returning health, but by approaching dissolution; death's seal was on his brow;[39] even his children could read it as they gathered, weeping, about his bed. He had a few words of fatherly counsel, of tender, loving farewell for each—Elsie, Violet, Edward:—to the last saying, "My son, I commit your mother to your tender care. You have almost reached man's estate; take your father's place, and let her lean on your young, vigorous arm; yet fail not in filial reverence and obedience; be ever ready to yield to her wise, gentle guidance." "I will, father, I will," returned the lad in a choking voice. "And may not I too, and Herbert, papa?" sobbed Harold. "Yes, dear son, and all of you, love and cherish mamma and try to fill my place to her. And love and obey your kind grandpa as you have always loved and obeyed me." One after another had received a last caress, a special parting word, till it had come to the turn of the youngest darling of all—little four-year-old Walter. They lifted him on to the bed, and creeping close to his father, he softly stroked the dying face, and kissing the lips, the cheeks, the brow, cooed in sweet baby accents, "Me so glad to see my dear papa. Papa doin' det well now. Isn't you, papa?" "Yes, papa's dear pet; I'm going where sickness[40] and pain can never come. My little boy must love the dear Saviour and trust in him, and then one day he shall follow me to that blessed land. Ah, little son, you are too young to remember your father. He will soon be forgotten!" "No, no, dearest," said his weeping wife, "not so; your pictured face and our constant mention of you shall keep you in remembrance even with him." "Thanks, dearest," he said, turning a loving gaze on her, "it is a pleasant thought that my name will not be a forgotten sound among the dear ones left behind. We shall meet again, beloved wife, meet again beyond the river. I shall be waiting for you on the farther shore. I am passing through the waters, but He is with me, He who hath washed me from my sins in His own blood. And you, dearest wife—does He sustain you in this hour?" "Yes," she said, "His grace is sufficient for me. Dear, dear husband, do not fear to leave me to his care." Tears were coursing down her white cheeks, but the low, sweet tones of her voice were calm and even. She was resolutely putting aside all thought of self and the sore bereavement that awaited her and her children, that she might smooth his passage to the tomb; she would not that he should be disturbed by one anxious thought of them. [41] He forgot none of his household. Molly and her mother were brought in for a gentle, loving farewell word; then each of the servants. He lingered still for some hours, but his wife never left him for an instant; her hand was clasped in his when the messenger came; his last look of love was for her, his last whisper, "Precious little wife, eternity is ours!" Friends carried him to his quiet resting place beside the little daughter who had preceded him to the better land, and widow and children returned without him to the home hitherto made so bright and happy by his loved presence. Elsie, leaning on her father's arm, slowly ascended the steps of the veranda, but on the threshold drew back with a shudder and a low, gasping sob. Her father drew her to his breast. "My darling, do not go in. Come with me to the Oaks; let me take you all there for a time." "No, dear papa; 'twould be but putting off the evil day—the trial that must be borne sooner or later," she said in trembling, tearful tones. "But—if you will stay with me—" "Surely, dearest, as long as you will. I could not leave you now, my poor stricken one! Let me assist you to your room. You are completely worn out, and must take some rest." "My poor children—" she faltered. [42] "For their sakes you must take care of yourself," he said. "Your mamma is here. She and I will take charge of everything until you are able to resume your duties as mother and mistress." He led her to her apartments, made her lie down on a couch, darkened the room, and sitting down beside her, took her hand in his. "Papa, papa!" she cried, starting up in a sudden burst of grief, "take me in your arms, take me in your arms and hold me close as you used to do, as he has done every day that he lived since you gave me to him!" "My poor darling, my poor darling!" he said, straining her to his breast, "God comfort you! May He be the strength of your heart and your portion forever! Remember that Jesus still lives, and that your beloved one is with Him, rejoicing with joy unspeakable and full of glory." "Yes, yes, but oh, the learning to live without him!" she moaned. "How can I! how can I!" "'When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned, neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour,'" he repeated in low, moved tones. "'Behold I have refined thee, but not with silver;[43] I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.' Dear daughter, my heart bleeds for you, and yet I know that He who has sent this sorrow loves you far better than I do, and He means it for good. 'Faith is the better of the free air and of the sharp winter storm in its face. Grace withereth without adversity.'" "Yes, yes," she whispered, clinging to him. "Go on, dear papa, you bring me comfort." "What so comforting as the love of Christ!" he went on; "the assurance that 'in all our afflictions He is afflicted!' My darling, 'the weightiest end of the cross of Christ, which is laid upon you, lieth upon your strong Saviour!'" "And He will never let me sink," she said. "Oh what love is His! and how unworthy am I!" Never very strong, Elsie was, as her father plainly perceived, greatly exhausted by the combined influence of the fatigue of nursing, overwhelming sorrow and the constraint she had put upon herself to control its manifestations while her husband lived. She must have rest from every care and responsibility, must be shielded from all annoyance, and as far as possible from every fresh reminder of her loss. For several days he watched over her with unceasing care and solicitude, doing all in his power to soothe, to comfort and console, allowing[44] only short interviews with Rose and the children, and keeping every one else away except her old mammy. Never had father and daughter seemed nearer and dearer to each other than in these sorrowful days. To lay her weary head upon his breast while his arms folded her close to his heart, gave some relief—more than could anything else—to the unutterable longing to feel the clasp of those other arms whose loving embrace she could never know again on earth. But her nature was too unselfish and affectionate to allow of long indulgence in this life of inactivity and nursing of her grief. She could not resist the anxious, pleading looks of her children. She, their only remaining parent, must now devote herself to them even more entirely than had been her wont. Grandma Rose was kind as kind could be, but mamma's place could be filled by no one but herself. "Dear papa," she said when three days had passed, "I am rested now, and you must please let me go back to my duties. My dear little ones need me; the older ones too. I cannot deprive them of their mother any longer." "Would it not be well to give yourself one more day of rest?" he asked, gazing sadly at the wan cheeks and the mournful eyes that looked so unnaturally large. "I do not think you are strong enough yet for anything like exertion." [45] "I think the sweet work of comforting and caring for my darlings—his children as well as mine," she said with a tremble in her voice, "will do me good." "It is partly for their sakes that I want you to take care of yourself," he said, putting his arm about her, while her head dropped on his shoulder. "Would it not have been his wish? were you not always his first care?" She gave a silent assent, the tears coursing down her cheeks. "And he gave you back to me, making you doubly mine—my own darling, precious child! and your life, health and happiness must be my special charge," he said, caressing her with exceeding tenderness. "My happiness? Then, papa, you will not try to keep me from my darlings. My dear, dear father, do not think I am ungrateful for your loving care. Ah, it is very sweet and restful to lean upon you and feel the strong tender clasp of your arm! but I must rouse myself and become a prop for others to lean upon." "Yes, to some extent—when you are quite rested. But you must bear no burdens, dear daughter, that your father can bear for you." She looked her gratitude out of tear-dimmed eyes. "God has been very good to me, in sparing me, my father," she said. "And my children,[46] my seven darlings—all good and loving. How rich I ought to feel! how rich I do feel, though so sorely bereaved." The tears burst forth afresh. "You will let me go to them?" she said when she could speak again. "To-morrow, if you will try to rest and gain strength to-day. I am quite sure it is what he would have wished—that you should rest a little longer. The children can come to you for an hour or two to-day." She yielded for that time, and the next day he withdrew his opposition and himself led her down to the breakfast parlour, where all were gathered to partake of the morning meal. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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