Part 4
But now he was dying, he was leaving her forever, and she thought of the long, dark days when she should look for him in vain; she staggered beneath the heavy blow, and in tones as heart broken as those which had fallen from Lina Hastings’ lips, she prayed, ‘If it be possible let this cup pass from me,’ adding, ‘Not my will, oh God, but thine be done.’
‘I will do all things well,’ seemed whispered in her ear, and thus comforted she nerved herself to meet the worst. All the day she watched by her child, chafing his little hands, smoothing his scanty pillow beneath his head, bathing his burning forehead, and forcing down her bitter tears when in his disturbed sleep he would beg of his father to ‘bring him an orange—a nice yellow orange—he was so dry.’
Alas, that father was where the song of the inebriate rose high on the summer air, and he heard not the pleadings of his son. ’Twas a dreary, desolate room where Willie Parkham lay, and when the sun went down and the night shadows fell, it seemed darker, drearier still. On the rude table by the window a candle dimly burned, but as the hours sped on it flickered awhile in its socket, then for an instant flashed up, illuminating the strangely beautiful face of the sleeping boy, and went out.
An hour later, and Willie awoke. Feeling for his mother’s hand, he said, ‘Tell me true, do drunkards go to heaven?’
‘There is for them no promise,’ was the wretched mother’s answer.
‘Then I shall never see pa again. Tell him good-by, good-by forever.’
The next time he spoke it was to ask his mother to come near to him, that he might see her face once more. She did so, bending low and stifling her own great agony, lest it should add one pang to his dying hour.
‘I cannot see you,’ he whispered, ‘it is so dark—so dark.’
Oh, what would not that mother have given then for one of the lights which gleamed from the windows of the stately mansion where Eddie Hastings was watched by careful attendants. But it could not be, and when at last the silvery moon-beams came struggling through the open window and fell upon the white brow of the little boy they did not rouse him, for a far more glorious light had dawned upon his immortal vision—even the light of the Everlasting.
* * * * *
In her tasteful boudoir sat Lina Hastings, and at her side, on a silken lounge, lay Eddie, calmly sleeping. The crisis was past—she knew he would live, and her cup of happiness was full. Suddenly the morning stillness was broken by the sound of a tolling bell. ’Twas the same which, but for God’s mercy, would at that moment, perhaps, have tolled for her boy, and Lina involuntarily shuddered as she listened to the strokes, which, at first, were far between. Then they came faster, and as Lina counted five, she said aloud, ‘’Twas a child but two years older than Eddie.’
Later in the day it came to her that the bereaved one was her early friend, whom now she seldom met. Once Lina would have flown to Mabel’s side, and poured into her ear words of comfort, but her heart had grown hard and selfish, and so she only said, ‘Poor Mabel, she never was as fortunate as I’—and her eyes glanced proudly around the elegantly-furnished room, falling at last upon Eddie, whom she clasped to her bosom passionately, but without thought of Him who had decreed that not then should she be written childless.
* * * * *
The humble funeral was over. The soft, green turf had been broken, and the bright June flowers had fallen beneath the old sexton’s spade as he dug the little grave where Willie Parkham was laid to rest. In the drunkard’s home there was again darkness and a silence which would never be broken by the prattle of the childish voice. Sobered, repentant, and heartbroken, the wretched father laid his head in the lap of his faithful wife, beseeching of her to pray that the vow that morning breathed by Willie’s coffin and renewed by Willie’s grave might be kept unbroken. And she did pray, poor Mabel. With her arms around the neck of the weeping man, she asked that this, her great bereavement, might be sanctified to the salvation of her erring husband.
‘I will do all things well,’ again seemed whispered in her ear, and Mabel felt assured that Willie had not died in vain. ’Twas hard at first for Robert Parkham to break the chains which bound him, but the remembrance of Willie’s touching message—‘Tell pa good-bye, good-bye forever,’ would rush to his mind whenever he essayed to take the poisonous bowl, and thus was he saved, and when the first day of a new year was ushered in, he stood with Mabel at the altar, and on his upturned brow received the baptismal waters, while the man of God broke to him the bread of life. Much that night they missed their child, and Mabel’s tears fell like rain upon the soft, chestnut curls she had severed from his head, but as she looked upon her husband, now strong again in his resorted manhood, she murmured—‘It was for this that Willie died, and I would not that it should be otherwise.’
* * * * *
Fifteen years have passed away since the day when Lina Hastings breathed that almost impious prayer—‘Send upon me any evil but this,’ and upon the deep blue waters of the Pacific a noble vessel lay becalmed. Fiercely the rays of a tropical sun poured down upon her hardy crew, but they heeded it not. With anxious, frightened faces and subdued step, they trod the deck, speaking in whispers of some dreaded event. There had been mutiny on board that man-of-war—a deep-laid plot to murder the commanding officers, and now, at the sunsetting, the instigators, four in number, were to pay the penalty of their crime. Three of them were old and hardened in sin, but the fourth, the fiercest spirit of all ’twas said, was young and beautiful to look upon. In the brown curls of his waving hair there were no threads of silver, and on his brow there were no lines save those of reckless dissipation, while his beardless cheeks was round and smooth as that of a girl. Accustomed from his earliest childhood to rule, he could not brook restraint, and when it was put upon him, he had rebelled against it, stirring up strife, and leading on his comrades, who, used as they were to vice, marvelled that one so young should be so deeply depraved.
* * * * *
The sun was set. Darkness was upon the mighty deep, and the waves moved by the breeze which had sprung up, seemed to chant a mournful dirge for the boy who, far below, lay sleeping in a dishonored grave, if grave it can be called, where
“The purple mullet and gold fish rove, Where the sea flower spreads its leaves of blue Which never are wet with the falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine Far down in the depths of the glassy brine.”
Over the surging billow and away to the northward, other robins are singing in the old maple-tree than those which sang there years ago, when death seemed brooding o’er the place. Again the summer shadows fall aslant the bright green lawn, and the soft breeze laden with the perfume of a thousand flowers, kiss the faded brow of Lina Hastings, but they bring no gladness to her aching heart, for her thoughts are afar on the deep with the wayward boy who, spurning alike her words of love and censure, has gone from her ‘to return no more forever,’ he said, for she felt in her bitter anger. For three years the tall grass has grown over the grave of her husband, who to the last was unloved, and now she is alone in her splendid home, watching at the dawn of day and watching at the hour of eve for the return of her son.
Alas, alas, fond mother, Mabel Parkham in her hour of trial, never felt a throb of such bitter agony as that which wrung your heartstrings when first you heard the dreadful story of your disgrace. There were days and weeks of wild frenzy, during which she would shriek ‘Would to Heaven he had died that night when he was young and innocent,’ and then she grew calm, sinking into a state of imbecility from which naught had power to rouse her.
A year or two more, and they made for her a grave by the side of her husband, and the hearts which in life were so divided, now rest quietly together, while on the costly marble above them there is inscribed the name of their son, who sleeps alone and unwept in the far-off Southern Seas.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Added table of Contents. 2. Diamonds P. 103, changed “a year and a half went by ere I him again. Then he came among us our minister” to “a year and a half went by ere I saw him again. Then he came among us as our minister.”
3. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 4. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 5. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.