Books: His Sombre Rivals

E >> E. P. Roe >> His Sombre Rivals

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He looked at her almost perfect features with the bloom of health upon
them, into her dark eyes with their depths of motherly pride and joy,
at her snowy neck and ivory arms bare to the summer heat, and longest
at the wavy silver of her hair, that crowned her beauty with an almost
supernatural charm.

"Don't I see you as you are, Grace?" he said. "Well, I am often
spellbound by what I do see. If Hilda becomes like you, excepting your
sorrows, my dearest wish in her behalf will be fulfilled."

Old Aunt Sheba, standing behind the baby's chair, felt a chill at
heart as she thought: "Dey'se all a-worshippin' de chile and each
oder. I sees it so plain dat I'se all ob a-tremble."

Surely the dark shadows of the past have no place near that birthday
feast, but they are coming nearer, closing in, remorseless, relentless
as ever, and among them are the gloomy rivals against whom Graham
struggled so long. He thought he had vanquished them, but they are
stealing upon him again like vindictive, unforgiving savages.

There was a jar of thunder upon the still air, but it was not heeded.
The room began to darken, but they thought only of a shower that would
banish the sultriness of the day. Darker shadows than those of
thunder-clouds were falling upon them, had they known it.

The wine was brought, and the health of the baby drank. Then Graham,
ordering all glasses to be filled, said reverently: "To the memory of
Warren Hilland! May the child who is named for him ever remind us of
his noble life and heroic death."

They drank in silence, then put down the glasses and sat for moments
with bowed heads, Grace's tears falling softly. Without, nature seemed
equally hushed. Not a breath stirred the sultry air, until at last a
heavier and nearer jar of thunder vibrated in the distance.

The unseen shadows are closing around the little Hilda, whose eyelids
are heavy with satiety. Aunt Sheba is about to take her from her
chair, when a swift gust, cold and spray-laden, rushes through the
house, crushing to the doors and whirling all light articles into a
carnival of disorder.

The little gossamer-clad girl shivered, and, while others hastily
closed windows, Grace ran for a shawl in which to wrap her darling.

The shower passed, bringing welcome coolness. Hilda slept quietly
through its turmoil and swishing torrents--slept on into the twilight,
until Aunt Sheba seemed a shadow herself. But there were darker
shadows brooding over her.

Suddenly, in her sleep, the child gave an ominous barking cough.

"Oh, de good Lor'!" cried Aunt Sheba, springing to her feet. Then with
a swiftness in which there was no sign of age, she went to the landing
and called, "Mas'r Graham."

Grace was in the room before him. "What is it?" she asked
breathlessly.

"Well, Missy Grace, don't be 'larmed, but I tinks Mas'r Graham 'ud
better sen' for de doctor, jes' for caution like."

Again came that peculiar cough, terror-inspiring to all mothers.

"Alford, Alford, lose not a moment!" she cried. "It's the croup."

The soldier acted as if his camp were attacked at midnight. There were
swift feet, the trampling of a horse; and soon the skill of science,
the experience of age, and motherly tenderness confronted the black
shadows, but they remained immovable.

The child gasped and struggled for life. Grace, half frantic, followed
the doctor's directions with trembling hands, seeking to do everything
for her idol herself as far as possible. Mrs. Mayburn, gray, grim,
with face of ashen hue, hovered near and assisted. Aunt Sheba, praying
often audibly, proved by her deft hands that the experience of her
long-past motherhood was of service now. The servants gathered at the
door, eager and impatient to do something for "de bressed chile." The
poor old major thumped restlessly back and forth on his crutches in
the hall below, half swearing, half praying. Dr. Markham, pale with
anxiety, but cool and collected as a veteran general in battle, put
forth his whole skill to baffle the destroyer. Graham, standing in the
background with clenched hands, more excited, more desperate than he
had ever been when sitting on his horse waiting for the bugle to sound
the charge, watched his wife and child with eyes that burned in the
intensity of his feeling.

Time, of which no notice was taken, passed, although moments seemed
like hours. The child still struggled and gasped, but more and more
feebly. At last, in the dawn, the little Hilda lay still, looked up
and smiled. Was it at her mother's face, or something beyond?

"She is better," cried Grace, turning her imploring eyes to the
physician, who held the little hand.

Alas! it was growing cold in his. He turned quickly to Graham and
whispered: "Support your wife. The end is near."

He came mechanically and put his arm around her.

"Grace, dear Grace," he faltered, hoarsely, "can you not bear this
sorrow also for my sake?"

"Alford!" she panted with horror in her tones--"Alford! why, why, her
hand is growing cold!"

There was a long low sigh from the little one, and then she was still.

"Take your wife away," said Dr. Markham, in a low, authoritative tone.

Graham sought to obey in the same mechanical manner. She sprang from
him and stood aloof. There was a terrible light in her eyes, before
which he quailed.

"Take me away!" she cried, in a voice that was hoarse, strained, and
unnatural. "Never! Tell me the belief of your heart. Have I lost my
child forever? Is that sweet image of my Hilda nothing but clay? Is
there nothing further for this idol of my heart but horrible
corruption? If this is true, no more learned jargon to me about law
and force! If this is true, I am the creation of a fiend who, with all
the cruel ingenuity of a fiend, has so made me that he can inflict the
utmost degree of torture. If this is true, my motherhood is a lie, and
good is punished, not evil. If this is true, there is neither God nor
law, but only a devil. But let me have the truth: have I lost that
child forever?"

He was dumb, and an awful silence fell upon the chamber of death.

Graham's philosophy failed him at last. His own father-heart could not
accept of corruption as the final end of his child. Indeed, it
revolted at it with a resistless rebound as something horrible,
monstrous, and, as his wife had said, devilish. His old laborious
reasoning was scorched away as by lightning in that moment of intense
consciousness when _his_ soul told him that, if this were true,
his nature also was a lie and a cheat. He knew not what he believed,
or what was true. He was stunned and speechless.

Despair was turning his wife's face into stone, when old Aunt Sheba,
who had been crouching, sobbing and praying at the foot of the little
couch, rose with streaming eyes and stretched out her hands toward the
desperate mother.

"No, Missy Grace," she cried, in tones that rang through the house;
"no, no, no. Your chile am not lost to you; your chile am not dead.
She on'y sleeps. Did not de good Lord say: 'Suffer de little chillen
ter come unter Me'? An' Hilda, de dear little lamb, hab gone ter Him,
an' is in de Good Shepherd's arms. Your little chile am not lost to
you, she's safe at home, de dear bressed home ob heben, whar your
moder is Missy Grace. De Hebenly Father say, 'Little Hilda, you
needn't walk de long flinty, thorny path and suffer like you'se dear
moder. You kin come home now, and I'se 'll take keer ob ye till moder
comes.' Bress de little lamb, she smile when de angels come fer her,
an' she's safe, safe for ebermore. No tears fer little Hilda, no
heartbreak in all her 'ternal life. Dear Missy Grace, my little baby
die, too, but I hain't los' it. No, no. De Good Shepherd is a keepin'
it safe fer me, an' I shall hab my baby again."

It is impossible to describe the effect of this passionate utterance
of faith as it came warm and direct from the heart of another bereaved
mother, whose lowliness only emphasized the universal human need of
something more than negations and theories of law and force. The major
heard it in the hall below, and was awed. Mrs. Mayburn and the
servants sobbed audibly. The stony look went out of Grace's face;
tears welled up into her hot, dry eyes, and she drew near and bent
over her child with an indescribable yearning in her face. Aunt Sheba
ceased, sank down on the floor, and throwing her apron over her face
she rocked back and forth and prayed as before.

Suddenly Grace threw herself on the unconscious little form, and cried
with a voice that pierced every heart: "O God, I turn to Thee, then.
Is my child lost to me forever, or is she in Thy keeping? Was my
mother's faith true? Shall I have my baby once more? Jesus, art Thou a
Shepherd of the little ones? Hast Thou suffered my Hilda to come unto
Thee? Oh, if Thou art, Thou canst reveal Thyself unto me and save a
broken-hearted mother from despair. This child _was_ mine. Is it
mine still?" and she clasped her baby convulsively to her bosom.

"Suffer de little chillen ter come unter me, and forbid dem not,'"
repeated Aunt Sheba in low tones.

Again a deep, awed silence fell upon them all. Grace knelt so long
with her own face pressed against her child's that they thought she
had fainted. The physician motioned Graham to lift her up, but he
shook his head. He was crushed and despairing, feeling that in one
little hour he had lost the belief of his manhood, the child that had
brought into his home a heaven that he at least could understand, and
as he heard his wife's bitter cry he felt that her life and reason
might soon go also. He recognized again the presence of his bitter
rivals, Grief and Death, and felt that at last they had vanquished
him. He had not the courage or the will to make another effort.

"Mrs. Graham, for your husband's sake--" began Dr. Markham.

"Ah! forgive me, Alford," she said, rising weakly; "I should not have
forgotten you for a moment."

She took an uncertain step toward him, and he caught her in his arms.

Laying her head upon his breast, she said gently, "Alford, our baby is
not dead."

"Oh, Grace, darling!" he cried in agony, "don't give way, or we are
both lost. I have no strength left. I cannot save you again. Oh! if
the awful past should come back!"

"It now can never come back. Alford, we have not lost our child. Aunt
Sheba has had a better wisdom than you or I, and from this hour forth
my mother's faith is mine. Do not think me wild or wandering. In my
very soul has come the answer to my cry. Horrible corruption is not
the end of that lovely life. You can't believe it, any more than I.
Dear little sleeper, you are still _my_ baby. I shall go to you,
and you will never suffer as I have suffered. God bless you, Aunt
Sheba! your heaven-inspired words have saved me from despair. Alford,
dear Alford, do not give way so; I'll live and be your true and
faithful wife. I'll teach you the faith that God has taught me."

He drew long, deep breaths. He was like a great ship trying to right
itself in a storm. At last he said, in broken tones:

"Grace, you are right. It's not law or force. It's either God, who in
some way that I can't understand, will bring good out of all this
evil, or else it's all devilish, fiendish. If after this night you can
be resigned, patient, hopeful, your faith shall be mine."

The shadows, affrighted, shrank further away than ever before. "I take
you at your word," she replied, as she drew him gently away. "Come,
let us go and comfort papa."

One after another stole out after them until Mrs. Mayburn was alone
with the dead. Long and motionless she stood, with her eyes fixed on
the quiet, lovely face.

"Hilda," at last she moaned, "little Hilda, shall poor old grandma
ever see our baby again?"

At that moment the sun rose high enough to send a ray through the
lattice, and it lighted the baby's face with what seemed a smile of
unearthly sweetness.

A few moments later Aunt Sheba found the aged woman with her head upon
little Hilda's bosom, and there she received a faith that brought
peace.

A few evenings later there was a grassy mound, covered with roses,
under the apple-tree by the rustic seat; and at the head of the little
grave there was placed a block of marble bearing the simple
inscription:

"Here sleeps our Baby Hilda."

* * * * * * *

Years have passed. The little monument is now near another and a
stately one in a Virginia cemetery. Fresh flowers are on it, showing
that "Our Baby Hilda" is never forgotten. Fresh flowers are beneath
the stately column, proving that the gallant soldier sleeping under it
is never forgotten. Fresh flowers are on the young Confederate's
grave, commemorating a manly and heroic devotion to a cause that was
sacred to him. The cause was lost; and had he lived to green old age
he would have thanked God for it. Not least among the reasons for
thankfulness is the truth that to men and peoples that which their
hearts craved is often denied.

Not far away is a home as unostentatious as the Northern cottage, but
larger, and endowed with every homelike attribute. Sweet Grace Graham
is its mistress. Her lovely features are somewhat marked by time and
her deep experiences, but they have gained a beauty and serenity that
will defy time. Sounds of joyous young life again fill the house, and
in a cradle by her side "little Grace" is sleeping. Grandma Mayburn
still knits slowly by the hearth, but when the days are dry and warm
it is her custom to steal away to the cemetery and remain for hours
with "Our Baby." The major has grown very feeble, but his irritable
protest against age and infirmity has given place to a serene, quiet
waiting till he can rest beside the brave soldiers who have forgotten
their laurels.

Colonel Anderson, now a prosperous planter, has his own happy home
life, and his aged father shares the best there is in it. He still
preaches in the quaint old church, repaired but not modernized, and
his appearance and life give eloquence to his faltering words. The
event of the quiet year is the annual visit of Rita and Captain Windom
with their little brood. Then truly the homes abound in breezy life;
but sturdy, blue-eyed Warren Graham is the natural leader of all the
little people's sport. The gallant black horse Mayburn is still Iss's
pride, but he lets no one mount him except his master. Aunt Sheba
presides at the preparation of state dinners, and sits by the cradle
of baby Grace. She is left, however, most of the time, to her own
devices, and often finds her way also to the cemetery to "wisit dat
dear little lamb, Hilda," murmuring as she creeps slowly with her
cane, "We'se all a-followin' her now, bress de Lord."

Jinny's stories of what she saw and of her experiences abroad have
become so marvellous that they might be true of some other planet, but
not of ours. Dusky faces gather round her by the kitchen fire, and
absolute faith is expressed by their awed looks. Old Jehu has all the
chickens and "sass" he wants without working for them, and his son
Huey has settled down into a steady "hand," who satisfies his former
ruling passion with an occasional coon-hunt. Both of the colonels have
the tastes of sportsmen, and do all in their power to preserve the
game in their vicinity. They have become closer friends with the
lapsing years, and from crossing swords they look forward to the time
when they can cross their family escutcheons by the marriage of the
sturdy Warren with another little Rita, who now romps with him in a
child's happy unconsciousness.

There are flecks of gray in Graham's hair and beard, and deep lines on
his resolute face, but he maintains his erect, soldierly bearing even
when superintending the homely details of the plantation. Every one
respects him; the majority are a little afraid of him, for where his
will has sway there is law and order, but to the poor and sorrowful he
gives increasing reason to bless his name. His wife's faith has become
his. She has proved it true by the sweet logic of her life. In their
belief, the baby Hilda is only at home before them, and the soldier
without fear and without reproach has found the immortality that he
longed for in his dying moments. He is no longer a cherished, honored
memory only; he is the man they loved, grown more manly, more noble in
the perfect conditions of a higher plane of life. The dark mysteries
of evil are still dark to them--problems that cannot be solved by
human reason. But in the Divine Man, toward whose compassionate face
the sorrowful and sinful of all the centuries have turned, they have
found One who has mastered the evil that threatened their lives. They
are content to leave the mystery of evil to Him who has become in
their deepest consciousness Friend and Guide. He stands between them
and the shadows of the past and the future.

THE END

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