THE COMFORTER

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXVII, Issue 6, 11 February 1909, Page 203

THE COMFORTER

There had been hope to th<j last; he was so strong, so animated, so filled with the very essence of "life that it did not seem possible for Mm to die; his father, his mother, every- member of the household- expected him to recover. He was very ill, of course ;' dangerously so, they >knew,-but that he would not eventually pull through and be his bright, childish self again never oecurredto them. They were wealthy people, and he was the only -child; the frets of poverty were_ not added to their other troubles ; everything that could be done for him was don^. The . town's leading physician, the ablest," most untiring trained .x nurses labored together to keep death at bay; they fought as perhaps they Tiad never fouglrt before, spurred to heroic effort by his mother's anguished- appeals. They were sorry for his father, of course. It was hard lines to lose an only child, and that one- who bore your, name, but it was the mother's frantic .' Save him for me, doctor; save my little child!' that inspired the zeal of the life-savers'. . . They had known her as a beauty and a belle, the leader n of the old town's gaiety and fashion', and in their hearts they had not deemed her capable of deep feeling; her hollow-eyed misery now hurt their consciences and made them eager to 1 atone. - She rarely left the boy. They could hardly persuade her to eat. It was only by reminding her that she would not be strong enough to nurse him later that she was even induced to rest. Everything known to science, everything that love could suggest, was .tried, but day by day the child's hoKl on life weakened. He ceased to play with his toys; he no longer asked for his mother ; he did not try to smile when his father stooped over him and called him by -his pet name. StilL-ahd white and spent with suffering, he lay on his liftle cot, indifferent to the -hard fight they were making -"'•'for his life. •.One evening, just as twilight was falling, "the 1 dread change came. The doctor, his hand on the' falling pulse, motioned to the young father. 'He cannot last long now; try and make Mrs. Greyson understand.' > Greyson approached his wife. -, - f , ' Constance,' he ~- began slowly, /, Constance, my poor darling, the doctor says our little boy cannot live.' ~ ' Let me have him,"' she cried sharply ; dully, then with a low moan of terror pushed past him to the bed. ' " 'Let me have him,' she cried sharply; 'give my baby to me.' - . The nurse instantly made way for her. At another time the willing concession would have alarmed her, but she was past heeding trifles now. . r ' \ ' Archie,' she crooned/ gathering him to her warm bosom, ' mother's little man, don't you know your mother, baby ?' The grey shadows were" closing in} the end of the journey was already in sight, but the mother-cry "pierced even the cold ear of death. To the. bewilderment of "the watchers the boy's long lashes lifted. ' Mother, 5 he said distinctly, ' mother's little boy,' then with a sigh his head fell heavily against her arm. She clasped him to her in an ecstasy of joy. 'He "knew me, doctor; he must be stionger than you think; he - spoke to me.' . " . But at that triumphant cry her -husband turned abruptly away. It did not need the doctqr's./^he is gone' to tell him that the struggle had beeir in vain, that the tired spirit, freed from its earthly bonds, had slipped . away -from earth. ' Madam,' said one of the nurses^ gently, ' all is over!' . But with the boy's soft tones, still echoing in her ears .it was impossible to convince herj 'and " when the truth -['finally beat its way into her consciousness she was as one -^bereft" of • reason. • _ . . . In one -breath she upbraided the doctors for letting him die; in the next apologised gently- for her discourtesy, explaining jvith cold gravity that, 'df 'course, she know they had done their best; that It was not their fault, but what chance had they to save Mm, when every one — the whole, wide, miserable world — was at the mercy of a relentless power to whom breaking motlier-hearts meant nothing?' ' It is God who is cruel,' sh-e cried, and bent dry-eyed over her child's still form. ' ' , > . ' . When his nurse, the old Bervant wRb had been with her all her life, came in softly, bringing fresh, fair linen, she said again : * God is very cruel, -mjimmy ; He has^ torn my baby from me. 5 Tears rained down the old woman's cheeks. ;

-Don say dat, honey.,' she~ begged; 'don' say dat; de good Lord gaved yo' ba-by an' now He's jes called Mm , home agin. He's happy ya-nder 1' 'He was happy here. "TJe loved everything— the birds, the flowers, the sunlight through the trees. Do you remember how he liked to run in the wind with the breeze' blowing-thrqugh. his curls P He- didn't want to die; he tried to live; he ought to have lived/ but God was cruel. He would not let him stay.' ' ' Hit was meant ter. be, honey,' soothed the nurse tenderly. 'He's better off dere dan we is hyar — 'taint nothin' but sorrow an' sickness on dis hyar yuth.' ■nn. ' ? W n a , S me - ant to beP> An d why was it meant to be? Why should I suffer like lam suffering now ? Why should I_ lose my all — my little precious child? Is it for this— this maddening torture tha-fc women suffer and endure what. only a woman could suffer and live through? It is not right; it is not jusb; God is cruel!' I The nurse worked on in silence; her thin hands trembled as they tied gathering, strings and fastened slippery buttons, but the mother's hands were firm; the bitterness of her anguish gave her an unnatural composure. When tKe tmy figure, fair -as any flower, lay dressed on his nurse's knee, Mrs. Greyson stooped and lifted him in her arms. • Let me take him to his own room,' she said, and with - his cold cheeks against h-fir own she carried him to the sunshiny nursery where his short life had been spent. She laid him down with his head slightly turned, his cheek upon his hand, as she had so often seen him lie in healthy, happy sleep ; then, motioning the nurse away, crept up. on to the bed beside him. Her husband, when he came - in, found her thus, lying beside the child, smoothing his hair and whispering tender words into his dead ear. One after another the many who loved her and whose hearts bled for her in ker bereavement came and went away sore at heart ; girl companions of her own, awed and . frightened by her tearless grief,, friends of her mother's men comrades of her husband— all who had loved the little lad. The room filled with flowers; one of her girl friends laid a bunch of violets oa the baby's pillow ; the old nurse lighted a lamp in a far corner. Her husband leaned over her tenderly; then someone came in^-a man she had never seen before— who approached her reverently, asking permission to measure the tiny form. At midnight her mother arrived (summoned by telegram). They had hoped much from her mother's presence, but nothing she sa.id could pierce the icy sheath in " which her daughter had folded herself. 'My child ' cried the older woman, 'I kncrw what your suffering isj'l have lost a child of my own. I mourned him just as you are mourning now, yet I know to-night that he is better off; that God s chosen ones are those who go early. Time and God will help you, my darling.' ' God cannot help mW, mother ; it is' God's cruelty that has brought this trouble to me.'

Her mother leaned and stroked the baby's cheek. 'He will never suffer any moi-e, Constance; he is spared life's bitterness and disappointments.'

He loved life.; he w-ould not have been disappointed ; he was meant to live. We must have done something very wrong— his father and I— to provoke God's wrath upon us Mother's boy, mother's lrfctle brown-eyed man!' The morning after the baby's death Miss Allen, one of the nurses who had cared for him was called to the telephone by the doctor.

I suspect you are tired,' he said, ' and I would like you to rest, but old Mrs. Marsham needs you. I don't think she will be a very great strain on your strength.' ' Mrs. Marsham ?' 'Yes, the mother of Marsham, the defaulter. She has been failing ever since his indictment, and his conviction last Friday was, I suppose, the last straw. She is not m bed, not actually- ill, but weak, nervous, not auite hersejif. .

' I will go around at once, doctor.' 'I wish you would; she is very much alone, and it is not good for her. Try her; talk to her about outside things — cheer her if you can.'

Mrs. Marsham received Miss Allen kindly; she was a handsome old lady with snow white hair and the saddest eyes the nurse thought she lad ever seen. She had been the great lady of the town, -the generous dispenser of boundless " hospitality, and so well was she beloved that the righteous ■ wrath of the community against her son did not touch her The very poor people' whom he had robbed and ruined pitied the poor stricken mother, who had idolised him -Her anguish of ..mind was written on her lined face.her spirit's misery looked from her weary eyes. There was nothing in her manner, however, to indicate-a disordered mind beyond an unqxiencliable melancholy. When the nurse returned, after removing her hat, 'she said gently: You do not look very strong; have you beeu

'No, but I have been nursing a very sick patient.' Who recovered ?' ' , .

' Unfortunately, no.' - ' ■ ' Why " unfortunately "?' the l?cUSd%r^ons?' d - '^^ *"* **** mother'V^p^h^^ f6ll ° W ' X remember his R n T,l°i lj 4- She di i- Mrs - M arsham, she did; and. we tried so hard to save him. Wo thought we -could save him It -was a great shock to us when lie failed so suddenly And his mother, poor woman, my heart aches at the thought

' You are too sympathetic for a nurse.' " ■ - got on rmTne™" 7 "° """* MrS ' Q ™**™ ' She is resigned to her loss?' ac +i! Re l ig + l i ed 1 ' I x h i av ? , never seen any one less S °J it was as- though the heart had been torn from her body ' MarsS* 6 are W ° rSe sorrows than death,' said old. Mrs. ' • i MisS llei i flushed - 'No one can help her,' she hurried on; 'her husband, her friends, no' one?! Nothing they say does any good "God is cruel," she cries coSuaU^ mil* m6 ' W ° Uld not hav ?- take * baby from -There are crueller losses than death,' said old Mrs Marsham,. and as the nurse did not reply she gazed thought fully out of the open window. It was not the green sward that she saw however, ■ nor the square of shimmering - sky , but a boy's face, white and still against the pillow/ She .heard herself praying wildly: 'Spare him to me, oh lii fd-n Par t hlm t0 T wl V\ lo ™ s llim - Only spare him rrILS ?A 9 m ° re! and , lier prayer ' unlike Constance ijrreyson's, had been answered.

• Miss Allen/ she said, after an interval of deep ?oZ^eelL yO Sr™ S on f " "* •"""■" ' Sh °"' d **> * the^se^X^lrf *" hh ° US6 «" WMkS ' " nd 'But, Mrs. Marsham,' she exclaimed, J are you strong enough? Do yoirfeel equal to the strain?' ? - . 'Quite strong, my dear; but you shall go with me if ~y Oil 11.K6.

f™ Greyson is in ter riWe sorrow/ pursued the nurse. ' She cannot fail to distress you.' pursilea the 'I may help her/ said the other woman "'There are crueller bereavements than death.'

To Constance Greyson brooding b"eside" ; her child— who in a few hours now would be taken" from her for- ever— tp c « r r-i Came iS. c S °l md M° i T a step r . s he /looked up wearily. Why should they not let her be, these wellmeaning friends with their futile words of sympathy P • Constance/ said old Mrs. Marsham, 'I heard of your great loss, and I hays come to help you.' A faint gleam came into Mrs. Greyson's eyes. She hr e S^e d nt d ly mly *** *"*"» had k »°™ »°™ no goodT k yy ° U '' She Sakl C ° ldly> <b 3^ s y™Pathy does me ' I have not come to sympathise.' ' - - Mrs. Greyson frowned. ' • ' T J ien xi pe / h - a TPBT P8 you have come to remind me- that God is good; that He does not willingly afflict; that in aH things He is ever merciful and loving?' The mockery of her tone was indescribable. > - ' , ™^*viy or

Mrs. Marsham walked to the foot of the bed. She stood looking down at the little flower-wreathed figure , Years ago, she began in a passionless voice, 'mv only son lay dying He was a mere child, beautiful, hatfpym love with life. The doctors had given up; they toldLe he could not recover ; that it was ,6nly a Question of a few hours. When I heard the verdict I knelt down and prayed: ■ '^ ,

'Spare him to me, O Lord; sparely only son!" Over and over again I entreated ;_not for strength/not for moral force not for will to resist evil and turn away from - sm— only that his life might be spared to me ' ; Mrs. Greyson was listening; the 'monotonous low-toned voice had caught her attention.

a- a wTV jT' Con I s tance, God granted my prayer. He did what I had besought Him to do-spared my son's life ..spared him that he might dishonor his father's name, ruin those who had trusted him and bring my grey hair in shame to the grave. ■ , . " ~ , f . And he w » s once as pure as your little one yonder as fair, as sweet. O woman !' trembling with passion, < you know not what you do when you rebel against God's will - 3 MM aM £ \ l° m what 1 anguish^ W saved Jour child. He has been good to you. He has taken "your boy ' S^ ay f £ m e Yf h l ?» n ser*r-ifc Htter-temptations-,takeJ him to Himself-stamless; holy, free from sin.- He is safe for all time— safe an God's tender arms. Down on your

knoes and thank your merciful Saviour for His everlasting love and pity.'

Her voice rose so loud that the nurse, waiting in the hall, hurried into the room.

' Don't he frightened,' she said, leading the now exhausted old lady away.

' Mrs. Marsham has had great trouble lately ; she insisted on coming to you; she seemed to think ' She broke off, startled by the change in her listener's face. Its hardness had melted, its bitterness died away; into her eyes came the soft, beautiful expression that had hitherto distinguished them. It- was as though a veil had been lifted, folding her soul with sunlight and giving' to her understanding a sudden vision of divine love.

Breaking into tears, she turned and laid her cheek on the boy's.

' Archie,' she whispered tenderly, ' dear- little hoy, mother's' innocent, stainless little child, I give you back to God. I would not keep you. He knows what is best for you, my precious. -" Father in heaven,' slipping to her knees, ' help Thou my unbelief. Teach me to pray Thy will be done. Thy will be done — on carth — as 'tis in heaven.' — Next) Orleans Daily Picayune. -