The Elm Tree Tales. F. Burge Griswold
voice in his ear, telling him news that made him willing to die. God had sent them a friend! Even when he had been repining at the decrees of His Providence, that Providence was working out his best and truest good. He felt that his days would be few upon the earth, and that his Mary would soon follow him; but their darling Jennie would be sheltered and taught, and that by a true disciple of their Lord and Master. No more anguish lest his precious child should become a prey to the wary and dissolute; no more grief at her withered, cheerless youth; no more sorrowings for the wants that he could not appease. "Oh! too much! too much mercy and goodness hast thou shown toward Thine unworthy servants, my Saviour and my God!" murmured he, and a violent hemorrhage ensued, occasioned by the sudden shock of the unlooked for joy.
CHAPTER V.
Before another week had elapsed, Mr. and Mrs. Grig were comfortably settled in a pleasant cottage belonging to Mrs. Dunmore, whose increasing benevolence had found a delightful impulse in the certainty that the poor woman was no other than one of her school-girl acquaintances, whom she had most dearly loved, but of whom she had heard little since they had completed their studies. They had married, and in their new relationships lost sight of each other, until, by a mysterious Providence, they were now united. It would have been but a mockery in Mrs. Grig to appear at all reluctant to accept the support she so much needed, since her own precarious health, and her husband's approaching dissolution rendered it impossible for her to obtain her own livelihood. Gladly, therefore, and with alacrity, they left the scene of their past troubles and necessities for the pretty cottage and the congenial society of their disinterested friend, yet scarcely were they established in their new abode when the messenger of death came to claim his victim. The child was there, with her young head nestling in her dying father's bosom; the wife stood by with a deep but subdued grief, and the faithful friend was near with pious words of sympathy and comfort.
The sick man had given his parting embrace to the beloved objects of his affection, and had assured them of his perfect confidence in a rest and peace beyond the grave, but now his mind seemed wandering to other scenes.
"Down by the willows, dear Mary," said he, "I wish to cross the river once more; it is chilly here, but do you see how warmly the sun is shining upon the green banks opposite! There are bright flowers there, too, such as we have often gathered, and the birds sing so sweetly! Oh! let us cross the river, once more, dear Mary!" His words grew fainter and fainter, and they heard them no more, for he had crossed the river, and was wandering where the sun shines more resplendently than earthly sun can shine, and where brighter flowers, and sweeter birds than mortal ever saw or heard, forever bloom and sing; but his Mary still lingered on the other shore, detained by an invisible Power, who calleth home whom he will, and when he will. But two short months she lingered, and then the husband and wife were roaming together beside the pure river of life, that floweth out from the Throne of God and of the Lamb, and the child was left, but not alone.
CHAPTER VI.
The month of June saw Mrs. Dunmore settled in her country-house for the summer. It was a pretty, unobtrusive cottage, standing upon a sloping lawn, and facing the east. In the distance lay a sylvan lake, beyond which, through the trees, gleamed the white spires of an adjoining village. All around were lofty mountains covered with verdure and glory. On the north of the house was a dense grove of chestnut, and walnut, and maple, and pine, where multitudes of squirrels had their hiding-places, and the birds sang unmolested.
There little Bella used to love to play, while nurse Nannie gathered flowers to deck the neck of her pet lamb, or, when the nuts began to fall, helped her to fill her tiny basket; and there her mother had her laid, when she could no longer play, with her folded hands clasping some forest-buds, and a wreath of wild-flowers around her brow. There was a pure white monument at the head of her grave, in the sunniest and happiest spot in the whole grove, with a rose carved upon it, and a beauteous bud broken from the parent stem; and there Jennie stood with old Nannie, a few days after their arrival, wondering that the bud on the tombstone should be broken, and listening to Nannie as she talked about the "angel child," as she called her departed darling.
"She was too good for this world, Miss Jennie," said she; and then the faithful old creature rocked to and fro as she sat upon the trunk of a tree that had fallen down, and wiped her eyes with her clean checked-apron, sobbing as if her grief was even then but new.
"You are just like her in all your little ways," continued she, as Jennie stole up to her and patted her black head with her tiny hand, as if to soothe her sorrows; "Missus would have been clean gone and done with this life if she had not lighted upon you to take the sadness out of her heart for her Bella."
"But, Nannie, I am not Bella," said the child. "Do you think I can ever be as dear as she was, so that her mother may forget that she is dead? I saw her weeping the other day as she came from the grove, and I was afraid she did not love me, and was sorry I was here to make her think of her loss."
"Not love you, Miss Jennie! how can you say so, when she took you, poor little beggar as you was, all from the mire and dirt to be her own child."
"You must not tell me of that time, Nannie, it makes me ache here;" said she, putting her hand to her heart. "Many a long day have I gone back and forth on that sad walk, trembling for fear the lumbering omnibuses would run over me, and not one penny did I ever ask, for I could not beg, Nannie, and if some kind gentlemen and ladies had not noticed me, and sometimes given me a sixpence or two, I should have gone home to my poor father and mother with nothing for my hard day's work, and then we must have starved, for dear mamma was not able to get bread for us all, and nurse my sick father besides. You must not speak of that time again, Nannie, for it takes me away from this pleasant sunny spot, and puts me back in a dismal room, with no light, nor warmth, nor greenness."
"What is the matter with my little girl?" said Mrs. Dunmore, who just then approached the child, and perceived the traces of recent tears on her sweet face. "Is she not happy among the birds, and squirrels, and flowers?"
"Oh! yes, very happy indeed, dear mamma," and Jennie took the hand that was extended to her, and kissed it with all the ardor of her impetuous nature; "but I was thinking of the dreary home that was mine before you found me and cared for me."
"Sit down here, my darling, and talk to me a little. Is the thought of the past very sad to my Jennie; and can she see no reason to be grateful, even for that time of darkness and sorrow? Do you remember how the black clouds came yesterday, and quite hid the sun from our sight, and the strong wind shook the house, so that we were almost afraid of its fury, and the heavy rain fell and bowed some of our beauteous shrubs nearly to the ground; then the clouds passed away and the sun shone more brightly than ever, and the fierce winds were hushed, and the shrubs lifted up their drooping heads all the more graceful and lovely for the crushing storm. So it is when God sends trials and sufferings upon us—the world looks black and dreary, and we are bowed very low in our affliction, and His purpose in it all is to make our hearts better and purer, and more beauteous in His sight when the troubles shall have passed away."
"Did the world seem very dismal to you, dear mamma, when Bella died?"
"Very dismal, my child, until God sent me another little daughter to lighten the grief that was pressing me down; now the clouds are parting, and the sunlight comes beaming through, and I think we may be very happy, my darling, if we will. But here comes Mr. Colbert. Let us go to meet him, he used to love dear Bella, and will be glad to see you, I know."
CHAPTER VII.
Mr. Colbert was the clergyman of the parish and lived near Mrs. Dunmore with his widowed mother, and often, as he took his daily walk,