Part 5

During the first year of her residence in New York, Harriet wrote every few weeks; but the intervals between her letters lengthened, and the apology was the necessity of giving dinner-parties, making calls, and attending to mantua-makers. To Jane, who was constantly working to nurse and support her dear ones, they seemed like letters in a foreign language, of which we can study out the meaning, but in which it is impossible for us to think. She felt herself more really separated from the friend of her girlhood than she could have been by visible mountains. They were not only living in different worlds, but the ways of each world did not interest the other. The correspondence finally ceased altogether, and years passed without any communication.

The circle of Jane’s duties enlarged. Her husband’s parents became feeble in health; they needed the presence of children, and could also assist their invalid son by receiving him into their house. So Frank May and his wife removed to their home, in a country village of Massachusetts. Her parents, unwilling to relinquish the light of her presence, removed with them. There was, of course, great increase of care, to which was added the necessity for vigilant economy; but the energy of the young matron grew with the demands upon it. Her husband’s mother was a little unreasonable at times, but it was obvious that she considered her son very fortunate in his wife; and Jane thankfully accepted her somewhat reluctant affection. If a neighbor alluded to her numerous cares, she replied cheerfully: “Yes, it is true that I have a good deal on my shoulders; but somehow it never seems very heavy. The fact is,” she added, smiling, “there’s great satisfaction in feeling one’s self of so much importance. There are my husband, my two children, my two fathers, and my two mothers, all telling me that they couldn’t get along without me; and I think that’s blessing enough for one poor woman. Nobody can tell, until they try it, what a satisfaction there is in making old folks comfortable. They cling so to those that take good care of them, that, I declare, I find it does me about as much good as it did to tend upon my babies.” Blessed woman! she carried sunshine within her, and so external circumstances could not darken her life.

The external pressure increased as years passed on. Her husband, her parents, her son, departed from her, one after another. Still she smiled through her tears, and said: “God has been very merciful to me. It was such a comfort to be able to tend upon them to the last, and to have them die blessing me!” The daughter married and removed to Illinois. The heart of the bereaved mother yearned to follow her; but her husband’s parents were very infirm, and she had become necessary to their comfort. When she gave the farewell kiss to her child, she said: “There is no one to take good care of the old folks if I leave them. I will stay and close their eyes, and then, if it be God’s will, I will come to you.”

Two years afterward, the old father died, but his wife survived him several years. When the estates of both fathers were settled, there remained for the two widowed women a small house, an acre of land, and a thousand dollars in the bank. There they lived alone. The rooms that had been so full of voices were silent now. Only, as Jane moved about, “on household cares intent,” she was often heard singing the tune her dear Frank used to sing under the apple-tree by her window, in their old courting days:--

“The moon was shining silver bright. No cloud the eye could view; Her lover’s step, in silent night, Well pleased, the damsel knew.”

Sometimes the blue eyes moistened as she sang, but, ere the tears fell, tender memories would modulate themselves into the tune of “Auld lang syne.” And sometimes the old mother, who sat knitting in the sunshine, would say: “Sing that again, Jenny. How my old man used to love to hear you sing it! Don’t you remember he used to say you sung like a thrush?” Jenny would smile, and say, “Yes, mother,” and sing it over again. Then, tenderly adapting herself to the old woman’s memories, she would strike into “John Anderson, my Jo,” to which her aged companion would listen with an expression of serene satisfaction. It was indeed a pleasure to listen; for Jenny’s sweet voice remained unbroken by years; its tones were as silvery as her hair. Time, the old crow, had traversed her face and left his footprints there; and the ploughshare of successive sorrows had cut deep lines into the once smooth surface; but the beauty of the soul illumined her faded countenance, as moonlight softens and glorifies ruins. When she carefully arranged the pillows of the easy-chair, the aged mother, ere she settled down for her afternoon’s nap, would often look up gratefully, and say, “Your eyes are just as good as a baby’s.” It was a pleasant sound to the dutiful daughter’s ears, and made her forget the querulous complaints in which her infirm companion sometimes indulged.

The time came when this duty was finished also; and Mrs. Frank May found herself all alone in the house, whither she had carried her sunshine thirty years before. She wrote to her daughter that, as soon as she could sell or let her little homestead, she would start for Illinois. She busied herself to hasten the necessary arrangements; for her lonely heart was longing for her only child, whose face she had not seen for seven years. One afternoon, as she sat by the window adding up accounts, her plans for the journey to meet her daughter gradually melted into loving reminiscences of her childhood, till she seemed to see again the little smiling face that had looked to her the most beautiful in all the world, and to hear again the little pattering feet that once made sweetest music in her ears. As she sat thus in reverie at the open window, the setting sun brightened the broad meadows, crowned the distant hill-tops with glory, and threw a ribbon of gold across the wall of her humble little room. The breath of lilacs floated in, and with it came memories of how her little children used to come in with their arms full of spring-blossoms, filling every mug and pitcher they could find. The current of her thoughts was interrupted by the sound of a wagon. It stopped before her house. A stranger with two little children! Who could it be? She opened the door. The stranger, taking off his hat and bowing respectfully, said, “Are you Mrs. Frank May?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“Well, then,” rejoined he, “if you please, I’ll walk in, for I’ve got some news to tell you. But first I’ll bring in the children, for the little things have been riding all day, and are pretty tired.”

“Certainly, sir, bring them in and let them rest, and I will give them a cup of milk,” replied the kindly matron.

A little boy and girl were lifted from the wagon and led in. Mrs. May made an exclamation of joyful surprise. The very vision she had had in her mind a few minutes previous stood before her bodily! She took the little girl in her arms and covered her face with kisses. “Why, bless your little soul!” she exclaimed; “how much you look like my daughter Jenny!”

“My name ith Jenny,” lisped the little one.

“Why, you see, ma’am--” stammered the stranger; he paused, in an embarrassed way, and smoothed the nap of his hat with his sleeve. “You see, ma’am--” he resumed; then, breaking down again, he suddenly seized the boy by the hand, led him up to her, and said, “There, Robin! that’s your good old granny, you’ve heard so much about.”

With a look of astonishment, Mrs. May said to him: “And where is my daughter, sir? Surely these little children wouldn’t come so far without their mother.”

The man again began to say, “You see, ma’am--” but his heart came up and choked his voice with a great sob. The old mother understood its meaning. She encircled the two children with her arms, and drew them closely to her side. After a brief silence, she asked, in a subdued voice, “When did she die?”

Her calmness reassured the stranger, and with a steady voice he replied: “You see, ma’am, your daughter and her husband have been neighbors of mine ever since they went to Illinois. There’s been an epidemic fever raging among us, and they both died of it. The last words your daughter said were, ‘Carry the children to my good mother.’ I’ve been wanting to come and see my old father, who lives about three miles from here, so I brought them along with me. It’s sorrowful news for you, ma’am, and I meant to have sort of prepared you for it; but somehow I lost my presence of mind, and forgot what I was going to say. But I’m glad to see you so sustained under it, ma’am.”

“I thank God that these are left,” she replied; and she kissed the little faces that were upturned to hers with an expression that seemed to say they thought they should like their grandmother.

“I’m so glad you’re helped to take it so,” rejoined the stranger. “Your daughter always told me you was a woman that went straight ahead and did your duty, trusting the Lord to bring you through.”

“I am forgetting my duty now,” she replied. “You must be hungry and tired. If you’ll drive to Neighbor Harrington’s barn, he will take good care of your horse, and I will prepare your supper.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am; but I must jog on to my old father’s, to take supper with him.”

Some boxes containing the clothing of the children and their mother were brought in; and, having deposited them, the stranger departed amid thanks and benedictions.

Mrs. Harrington had seen the wagon stop at Mrs. May’s door, and go off without the children. Being of an inquiring mind, she straightway put on her cape-bonnet, and went to see about it. She found her worthy neighbor pinning towels round the children’s necks, preparatory to their supper of brown bread and molasses, which they were in a great hurry to eat.

“Why who on earth have you got here!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington.

“They are my daughter’s children,” replied Mrs. May. “Bless their little souls! if I’d have known they were coming, I’d have had some turnovers ready for them.”

“I guess you’ll find they’ll make turnovers enough,” replied Mrs. Harrington smiling. “That boy looks to me like a born rogue. But where’s your daughter? I didn’t see any woman in the wagon.”

“The Lord has taken her to himself,” replied Mrs. May, in quivering tones.

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Neighbor Harrington, raising both hands. “Bless me! if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have come right in upon you so sudden.”

They sat down and began to talk over the particulars which the stranger had related. Meanwhile, the children, in hungry haste, were daubing their chins and fingers with molasses. The little four-year-old Jenny was the first to pause. Drawing a long breath, expressive of great satisfaction, she lisped out, “O Bubby! larthiz top on bread! what can be gooder?”