Chapter LXIII: The Mother’s Last Sacrifice

Lydia was in the room, moving restlessly about. Sometimes this faithful creature grew tyrannical with her mistress, and out of the depths of a great love scolded her with affectionate violence. She saw the lady come in, pale as a ghost, her dress draggled with dew, and a damp white shawl trailing down it, sweeping the floor.

“This is just one thing too much, marm—such a night.”

“Hush!”

Mrs. Canfield lifted her arm, with the white drapery of the shawl clinging to it, and the gesture was so ghostly, in its slow motion, that Lydia’s very breath was hushed before that one word reached her ear.

“Well, hush it is, marm,” she said, recovering herself; “but do go to bed at once, or it’ll be death you’ve catched. I’ve got the bed all fixed, and your mar is making a smasher of hot drink, though how you could do it—out into the wet grass—but you said hush, and hush it is.”

The damp shawl dropped from Mrs. Canfield’s shoulder. She made a feeble effort to unfasten her dress, but sat down when it was half-unbuttoned, and with her eyes on the floor fell into thought.

The door opened suddenly.

“Mother—oh, mamma, have you come in? How cruel of you? Precious old darling—her hair is wet as if it had been rained on.”

Bertha smoothed the hair tenderly with both hands, and kissed her mother, in all the fervor of her penitence. Her own eyes were heavy with weeping, and her voice shook, for she had been seized with great terror when told that her mother had gone off toward the river quite alone. While her grandfather had searched one way, she took another, and had just come in, distracted with strange fears.

“And her poor little feet cold as stones. Come, rub them, Lydia, while I get off this tiresome dress.”

Lydia dropped on her knees, took the tiny white feet in her lap, and began to rub them; but no pink flush answered to the friction of her palm, and all her kindly efforts seemed spent on marble.

“There, I have got these things off at last,” said Bertha; “now for burying her in a snow drift.”

Lying across the bed was a long garment of white linen, frosted at the sleeves and bosom with delicate lace, all so spotlessly cold that the girl took it up with a chill at the heart.

The woman allowed herself to be buried in this garment for a moment, and then sat, with a faint smile gleaming over the solemn whiteness of her face, while Bertha fastened the night robe about her throat and wrists.

“Now be a good old darling, and take your blessed rest,” said Bertha, turning down the bed-clothes and smoothing the pillows.

Mrs. Canfield sat a moment, gazing upon the snowy folds of her night-robe, then she lifted her eyes to Bertha, with a look that went with the girl to her dying day.

“Bertha, you will never know how much I have loved you,” she said, in a low, pathetic voice, which seemed to struggle against some strong pressure of feeling.

“Yes, I do—I do! No sweeter mother ever lived.”

Bertha threw both arms around her mother, and kissed her with passionate tenderness, as her head touched the pillow; but this loving warmth fell on a locked face, which seemed turning to absolute stone; for one instant those frail arms were clasped around the girl, with a strain which seemed to break rather than loosen itself, but the hands fell down like dead things when they did unclasp.

“Good-night, mother; sleep well!”

No human lips answered Bertha’s sweet good-night, but a pair of wild eyes, black with agony, followed her from the room.

“Lydia!”

“Did you say Lydia, marm?”

“Lydia, you have been a good, faithful girl.”

“Yes, marm.”

“I can trust you?”

“Marm, don’t be angry but I’m true as steel, having tried myself.”

“You will stay with me till morning, Lydia—alone, quite alone?”

“Yes, marm, I will, with the door locked.”

“There is a folded paper—after I am sound asleep you will find it under my pillow—read it then, but never tell any human being what is in it.”

“Mistress, I never will.”

For what seemed a long time to Lydia, Mrs. Canfield lay upon her pillow, motionless and silent: then she spoke again.

“Is Bertha asleep yet?”

Lydia arose, opened the door of Bertha’s chamber, and stole in on tip-toe. Directly she came back again.

“Yes, marm, she is, with one hand under her cheek like a baby.”

Something like a sob broke from the bed, but when Lydia went up to it, the face upon the pillow was locked and still as before.

Again some long minutes passed, and everything was quiet in the room; then a faint movement on the bed, and that same low voice:

“Lydia, go down and get that drink now.”

Lydia hesitated, something seemed to hold her back; but those large, wistful eyes were turned upon her, and she went away, heavy in her step, and heavy at heart.

The moment she was gone Mrs. Canfield arose, and, moving softly, like a ghost, stole into Bertha’s room and sat down on the bed, looking at her beautiful child as she slept. A smile was on the girl’s lips—those aching eyes saw it as the moon came out from under a cloud and threw a silvery veil down upon the sleeper. Could she smile, then, even in slumber? Then came to the heart of this poor woman a vivid memory of our Saviour, when he came from that place of agonized prayer and found his Apostles sleeping tranquilly, and at first her soul cried out against it with infinite compassion; but, by-and-by, she bent down, kissed those smiling lips and glided away. Human suffering had reached its climax then—something like calm fell upon her.

With her bare feet upon the carpet, and her long nightdress trailing over them, she went to a bureau and poured some water into a glass, which she placed on a little table within reach of her hand. Then she took from one of the drawers a tiny vial, touched with gold, such as bring our attar-of-rose from the East, which she held close in the palm of her hand while getting into bed again.

Lydia had been gone some time now. She might come back at any moment.

The woman rose to her elbow and listened, then fell back with a dull horror on her face. The door opened softly, and a shadow filled the open space.

“Thee is not to be disturbed, daughter. It is only I, going to bed. Good-night and sleep well.”

Sleep well! Did that sweet old voice, like the rest, lure her on? The same good-night from mother and daughter. Sleep well!

She arose to her elbow again, uncorked the tiny bottle with her teeth, and reaching for the goblet, emptied a few drops of some liquid it contained into the water.

This was done with slow deliberation. Feeling itself had grown numb in that motionless bosom, since that last look upon her child. Her only sensation was an intense longing for rest. The perfume of bitter almonds that came up from the goblet was pleasant. She lifted the glass to her lips.

“Here it comes, smoking hot, with a slice of lemon floating on the top.”

With the words came a crash of glass upon the floor, a leap, such as frightened panthers give, and the goblet was hurled from Mrs. Canfield’s hand half across the room.

Too late—too late! That poor woman was dead!