Chapter 26 The Broken Circle
Chapter 26
The Broken Circle
Arthur was gone, and his little room, where he had given himself to God as a young boy, remained as a Bethel for more than one of the weeping household. His mother knelt there often while her children slept, and sought consolation for herself and them. Lucy loved going there to catch the spirit of her departed brother, and so prepare herself for cheerfully performing the pressing duties of the day. And Hatty too would often steal to this little sanctuary, hide her face in his pillow, and cry tears that did not need to be repented of. Her previously thoughtless heart breathed prayers that could only come through sorrow. Even the little boys felt heaven very near when they could creep noiselessly into dear Arthur’s room, look at his well-arranged books, and recall holy words he had often spoken to them there.
A quiet serenity settled down on them all, and soon it might have seemed that everything went on as before. Sadly, every bereaved heart knows it could not have been so! Death cannot enter a family circle and snatch the least of its members, without leaving traces of his icy fingers on many a chilled hope, on many a silenced spring of action. Rivers of water cannot wash away his footprints from the family hearthstone. Ages of sunshine can never restore its original warmth!
To Arthur’s parents, this affliction was one of the last drops in a cup that had been filling to its brim. Yet it was a new experience of life. Amid all their trials and cares, they had been spared losing their children. Up to this time, the circle had remained unbroken, and whatever may be said to the contrary, a beloved child is not less missed and mourned in the large family than the small. Each child takes his special place in the affections of the rest, and death leaves that place vacant; no one else can perfectly fill the empty, aching spot. Who, of all that large family of children could become Arthur? Not one!
To Hatty, the death of Arthur was the first step in that process by which the great Refiner purified her unto Himself. Who is fit to live in this world, or to die and enter the next, who has not suffered? One might as well gather the unripe grain in the harvest!
“The loving discipline of pain!” How good it is, how needful! The curtain which hides from the common eye the realities of life, for Lucy was torn in two. She now saw clearly those truths she had only vaguely understood before and the emptiness and nothingness of those things that once seemed full and substantial. Laying firmer hold on those truths that are as an anchor to the soul, she returned soberly, but at once, to the duties of life. For, changed as the world was to her, and that forever; deep and imperishable as her grief was, there was nothing morbid or selfish in her. They who saw her smile light up the dark chamber of death, who marked her cheerful submission, her unshrinking faith, were taught lessons not easily learned, yet not easy to forget. There had always been special love and understanding between her and Arthur, and his maturity of mind had lessened the distance years had placed between them. Very sorrowfully she wrote to her aunt, “If you and Helen had seen him, I would mourn him less!” Yet this was but one of those delusions the bereaved heart indulges itself with. It must leave these tearful “ifs” before it can find rest. The minute details of our afflictions are directed by Him who sends the sorrow with just these painful accompaniments. In time Lucy learned this and saw that submission to the great sorrow involved submission to its peculiarities. Whom that has suffered has not found something in his lot that is unusual and unique?
Mrs. Grant’s health had been failing for some years. Her cheerful temper, combined with not a little power of endurance, kept her up when many would have fallen fainting by the wayside. But Arthur’s sickness and death developed her already existing disease, and gradually she was unable to work. She gave up one care after another, reluctantly, and after a struggle. At first, she seemed to be among them as much as ever, but little by little, her seat at the table became vacant. One day she was not up in time for breakfast—the next, both breakfast and dinner went silently through without her.
Thus, over time, all the household care fell on Lucy. She became the “sister-mother.” The books she had brought home with her, that she had felt sure she could find a little time each day to study, lay untouched in her room. She rose early, toiled all day, and went late to bed. The work was never done. For, however nicely it ended with the day, did it not begin again the next morning, just as it did yesterday? But she carried no repining heart to her daily task. She felt that if their lives were all spared, there was nothing else to ask for but grateful hearts; and to her, at least, it came with the asking.
This winter offered a strong contrast to the last. Then she was the admired, envied, advancing scholar, surrounded by luxuries, and free as the air she breathed. Now she lived almost unknown and unnoticed, in an obscure country village, appreciated and understood only at home. She was a mere household laborer outwardly, bound with chains that confined her to a treadmill of monotonous, ever-recurring tasks. Very patiently she resigned herself to her fate. Every day’s discipline, unconsciously to herself, mellowed and softened her character, making her more Christlike, compassionate, and gentle. She was taught to live as she prayed to live. Not merely by direct supplies of grace, but by temptations and trials, developing and strengthening the new life within, and forcing her to a closer union with the Author of that life.
She was not without comforting of another kind. The affection of her parents was like a living spring, and the satisfaction of making their last years their best was very great. The children, too, entertained and cheered her. She felt that they were better teachers than books. Then there were long, kind, loving letters from her aunt and Helen and Mrs. Lee. Sometimes, too, Miss Prigott’s old-fashioned handwriting found its way to the village post office, and from there to Lucy’s heart. Since Arthur’s death, Hatty had ceased from her restless, capricious mode of life. She patiently shared Lucy’s labors and proved herself most efficient and skillful.
Meanwhile, John secretly carried on a series of experiments in one corner of the wood-house, where he had made himself a workshop. A sign on the door in large letters read, “Keep Out.’’ He had “sowed his wild oats,” he told Lucy, and would not distress her or his mother by going to sea. He thought he would invent something that would astonish her in due time, so early in the morning, and at all other free moments, he could be heard busy at his workbench. Now and then the cheerful whistle would suddenly subside into a lower, sadder key, finally ceasing altogether. A remembrance of Arthur, an impulse to call him to look at his work, the image of the loving lost brother. These were getting the victory for the moment. But soon the boyish spirits would rise again. The whistle again came cheerily in at the open doors as Lucy was busy with her work, and the new invention grew quickly into actual form and shape.
He came to her one day with a flushed, triumphant face. “My machine works!” he cried. “It works, Lucy! Come out now and see!” She followed him and he showed it to her, explaining its uses, enlarging on its capacities and beauties until she caught his enthusiasm.
“You’ll need money now to carry your scheme through,” she said. “And I’ve got some for you! You can have it all. I’ve been saving it for you. How glad I am!” She was hurrying away in search of the hoarded sum—that allowance forced on her by her uncle, but still unspent.
“Thank you,” said John, catching her by her arm. “I don’t need it. When Uncle was here, he had me blacking his boots one day, and he came out here when I was doing it and saw a windmill and a lot of other things lying about. He examined them all, especially that little steamboat. Don’t you remember I made one once?
“Well at that time when I was so crazy to go to sea and had gotten all ready to go, Uncle wrote me a kind but very odd letter, saying he remembered that I was quite a mechanical genius and that it ought to be the making of me. He sent enough money in the letter to buy a few tools and promised, if I would invent or make something useful, he would soon furnish me with a complete set of the finest tools New York afforded. He also urged me to study hard at mathematics. I told nobody but Arthur a word about it, but I studied hard, as well as I could without help, and now you see the end of it! I mean the beginning! The end will be, that you’ll be able to ride in a coach!”
“I never want to do that or anything like it,” said Lucy smiling, “but I’ve no doubt you’re going to make a great man, and throw us all into the shade!”
Not a month after this conversation, John was established by his uncle in the family of a Mr. Haskins, where he could pursue his mathematical education. Mr. Haskins had been a practical, scientific engineer. An accident had laid him up, and he willingly instructed a few boys. The understanding between John and his uncle was that after the first year he would pay his own way, and this he was able to do with pleasure and ease. One care was now lifted from the shoulders of the anxious mother. Lucy’s labors were also lightened, and the winter ended favorably for them all. Early in the spring, Rebecca came home to spend a few weeks. Her husband had gotten it into his head, she said, to build a larger house; what for, nobody knew but himself, but there was no use reasoning with him. Theirs was going to be torn down or dragged away, she did not know which. So she had come home and was very glad to. At the time of Arthur’s illness, John Wright was laid up with a broken leg, and Rebecca had not been able to leave him for any length of time. Now, she was only too thankful to come and talk with them all about their beloved brother, and tell them many little, interesting things, known only to herself.
“I noticed his cough,” she said, “and spoke to Mother about it. But she thought it was like the one you had, and that it would pass away.”
“I know you did, dear,” replied her mother; “but I was so busy at that time, and beginning to be sick myself. And he seemed so well! I was completely oblivious; I can see that clearly now. But God chose to have it so!”
“I didn’t ever think he would live long; at least, I never did after John spoke to me about it. But I wasn’t ready for it when it came! And it was hard to be away and miss all of his last words!” said Rebecca. “But now I am going to stay and help you all, and not make you cry. When I first came, I missed Arthur so, that I couldn’t talk about anything else.”
She settled herself down among them, and the whole summer passed before her new house was habitable, so she remained and was a comfort and help to them all. Her marriage had improved her not a little. She had been forced to depend on herself as she never had before. Her husband was cheerful and kind and there was only one thing needed to complete her happiness. This was one of the children. She said it seemed strange to see no little folks about the house; that John said it was lonesome, and she must bring back one or two of her brothers with her.
“I’d like to have Willy,” she said, “but I suppose Mother wouldn’t let him go.”
“Oh, no! He’s my baby!” said his mother, laying her hand fondly on his little curly head.
“Joseph would amuse John,” said Rebecca.
“Oh, you can’t have Joseph!” cried all in a breath. “He’s so mischievous too. You couldn’t do a thing with him.”
The little ones would be too much trouble for you, dear,” said her mother. “Tom had the promise of going, but he’s our biggest boy now; the girls need him. He’s getting very useful, now, and you don’t want him for that.”
“No, besides, he’s almost too good to suit John. He wants to frolic with whomever he has. He tried me at first, but it was no use. I couldn’t.”
The idea of grave, moderate, unadventurous Rebecca, getting into a frolic, amused Hatty. She began to laugh as heartily as in old times, but suddenly stopped and burst into tears. “How can I laugh, when Arthur is dead!” she cried.
“Do laugh, dear Hatty,” said Lucy, tenderly. “We all know how much you loved him. Nobody will think you have forgotten him! Dear Hatty! Smile once more, like yourself! I do think it would give me peace if you would!” Hatty smiled through her tears, but it was not the old, sunny smile.
“No, I never can be what I was before!” she said. “But maybe I will be better! I sure hope so!”
“We haven’t decided yet whom Rebecca shall have,” said Lucy. “I think it should be Hatty. It will do her good, and if she wants, she can take one of the children with her, if Mother agrees. We’ll have somebody come to wash and iron. I can do all the rest and Hatty needs change and rest.”
Her mother opposed this plan. She knew that Lucy could not bear all the household care alone. “It’s the will of God that I sit here, almost helpless,” she said. “If it were any will but His, I couldn’t bear it.”
“We’ll get along nicely, Mother,” said Lucy. “I feel well, and able to do a great deal. I’ve got a little money to help us along when we get into hard times, and I’m going to use it to make things easy and pleasant for you. I hear something coming for you now.” She ran out, and soon returned with a comfortable, stuffed chair, in which she helped her mother to sit.
“There!” she cried, “all the books in the world couldn’t make me as happy as this chair does! Or the watches!” she added to herself.