When the first bitterness was over,
the family accepted the inevitable, and tried to bear
it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased
affection which comes to bind households tenderly together
in times of trouble. They put away their grief,
and each did his or her part toward making that last
year a happy one.
The pleasantest room in the house
was set apart for Beth, and in it was gathered everything
that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano,
the little worktable, and the beloved pussies.
Father’s best books found their way there,
Mother’s easy chair, Jo’s desk, Amy’s
finest sketches, and every day Meg brought her babies
on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for Aunty
Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that
he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid
supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for.
Old Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes
to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears as
she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts
and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of
warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.
Here, cherished like a household saint
in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil and busy as ever,
for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature,
and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to
make it happier for those who should remain behind.
The feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her
pleasures was to make little things for the school
children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of
mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands,
a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls,
penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests
of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and
all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant
climbers of the ladder of learning found their way
strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard
the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who
sat above there, and showered down gifts miraculously
suited to their tastes and needs. If Beth had
wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little
faces always turned up to her window, with nods and
smiles, and the droll little letters which came to
her, full of blots and gratitude.
The first few months were very happy
ones, and Beth often used to look round, and say “How
beautiful this is!” as they all sat together
in her sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing
on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and
father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise
old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable
words, as applicable now as when written centuries
ago, a little chapel, where a paternal priest taught
his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying
to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith
make resignation possible. Simple sermons, that
went straight to the souls of those who listened,
for the father’s heart was in the minister’s
religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave
a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.
It was well for all that this peaceful
time was given them as preparation for the sad hours
to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the needle was ‘so
heavy’, and put it down forever. Talking
wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her
for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully
perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh.
Ah me! Such heavy days, such long, long nights,
such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when those
who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands
stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the bitter
cry, “Help me, help me!” and to feel that
there was no help. A sad eclipse of the serene
soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death,
but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural
rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful
than ever. With the wreck of her frail body,
Beth’s soul grew strong, and though she said
little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw
that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest,
and waited with her on the shore, trying to see the
Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed
the river.
Jo never left her for an hour since
Beth had said “I feel stronger when you are
here.” She slept on a couch in the room,
waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or
wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for
anything, and ‘tried not to be a trouble’.
All day she haunted the room, jealous of any other
nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any
honor her life ever brought her. Precious and
helpful hours to Jo, for now her heart received the
teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience
were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail
to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that
can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty
to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere
faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
Often when she woke Jo found Beth
reading in her well-worn little book, heard her singing
softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her
lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped
through the transparent fingers, and Jo would lie
watching her with thoughts too deep for tears, feeling
that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was trying
to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself
for the life to come, by sacred words of comfort,
quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.
Seeing this did more for Jo than the
wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns, the most fervent
prayers that any voice could utter. For with
eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened
by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty
of her sister’s life uneventful,
unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which
’smell sweet, and blossom in the dust’,
the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on
earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success
which is possible to all.
One night when Beth looked among the
books upon her table, to find something to make her
forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard
to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old
favorite, Pilgrims’s Progress, she found a little
paper, scribbled over in Jo’s hand. The
name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines
made her sure that tears had fallen on it.
“Poor Jo! She’s
fast asleep, so I won’t wake her to ask leave.
She shows me all her things, and I don’t think
she’ll mind if I look at this”, thought
Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug,
with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute
the log fell apart.
MY BETH
Sitting patient in the shadow
Till the blessed light shall
come,
A serene and saintly presence
Sanctifies our troubled home.
Earthly joys and hopes and
sorrows
Break like ripples on the
strand
Of the deep and solemn river
Where her willing feet now
stand.
O my sister, passing from
me,
Out of human care and strife,
Leave me, as a gift, those
virtues
Which have beautified your
life.
Dear, bequeath me that great
patience
Which has power to sustain
A cheerful, uncomplaining
spirit
In its prison-house of pain.
Give me, for I need it sorely,
Of that courage, wise and
sweet,
Which has made the path of
duty
Green beneath your willing
feet.
Give me that unselfish nature,
That with charity devine
Can pardon wrong for love’s
dear sake
Meek heart, forgive me mine!
Thus our parting daily loseth
Something of its bitter pain,
And while learning this hard
lesson,
My great loss becomes my gain.
For the touch of grief will
render
My wild nature more serene,
Give to life new aspirations,
A new trust in the unseen.
Henceforth, safe across the
river,
I shall see forever more
A beloved, household spirit
Waiting for me on the shore.
Hope and faith, born of my
sorrow,
Guardian angels shall become,
And the sister gone before
me
By their hands shall lead
me home.
Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble
as the lines were, they brought a look of inexpressible
comfort to Beth’s face, for her one regret had
been that she had done so little, and this seemed to
assure her that her life had not been useless, that
her death would not bring the despair she feared.
As she sat with the paper folded between her hands,
the charred log fell asunder. Jo started up,
revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping
Beth slept.
“Not asleep, but so happy, dear.
See, I found this and read it. I knew you wouldn’t
care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?”
she asked, with wistful, humble earnestness.
“Oh, Beth, so much, so
much!” and Jo’s head went down upon the
pillow beside her sister’s.
“Then I don’t feel as
if I’d wasted my life. I’m not so
good as you make me, but I have tried to do right.
And now, when it’s too late to begin even to
do better, it’s such a comfort to know that someone
loves me so much, and feels as if I’d helped
them.”
“More than any one in the world,
Beth. I used to think I couldn’t let you
go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t
lose you, that you’ll be more to me than ever,
and death can’t part us, though it seems to.”
“I know it cannot, and I don’t
fear it any longer, for I’m sure I shall be
your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever.
You must take my place, Jo, and be everything to
Father and Mother when I’m gone. They will
turn to you, don’t fail them, and if it’s
hard to work alone, remember that I don’t forget
you, and that you’ll be happier in doing that
than writing splendid books or seeing all the world,
for love is the only thing that we can carry with
us when we go, and it makes the end so easy.”
“I’ll try, Beth.”
and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,
pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging
the poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed
solace of a belief in the immortality of love.
So the spring days came and went,
the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers
were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time
to say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful
child, clung to the hands that had led her all her
life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly through
the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.
Seldom except in books do the dying
utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with
beatified countenances, and those who have sped many
parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally
and simply as sleep. As Beth had hoped, the
‘tide went out easily’, and in the dark
hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn
her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with
no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.
With tears and prayers and tender
hands, Mother and sisters made her ready for the long
sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with
grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced
the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts
so long, and feeling with reverent joy that to their
darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom
full of dread.
When morning came, for the first time
in many months the fire was out, Jo’s place
was empty, and the room was very still. But a
bird sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the
snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window, and the
spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over
the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of
painless peace that those who loved it best smiled
through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was
well at last.