The chamber in which the sick woman
lay was furnished with every thing that taste could
desire or comfort demand. Yet, from none of these
elegant surroundings came there an opiate for the weary
spirit, or a balm to soothe the pain from which she
suffered. With heavy eyes, contracted brow, and
face almost as white as the lace-fringed pillow it
pressed, canopied with rich curtains, she reclined,
sighing away the weary hours, or giving, voice to her
discontent in fruitless complainings.
She was alone. A little while
before, her attendant had left the room, taking with
her a child, whose glad spirits-glad because
admitted to his mother’s presence-had
disturbed her.
“Take him out,” she had said, fretfully.
“You must go back to the nursery,
dear.” The attendant spoke kindly, as she
stooped to lift the child in her arms.
“No-no-no.
I want to stay here. Do let me stay here, won’t
you?”
“Mamma is sick, and you disturb her,”
was answered.
“Oh no. I won’t disturb her.
I’ll be so good.”
“Why don’t you take him
out at once?” exclaimed the mother, in a harsh,
excited voice. “It’s too much that
I can’t have a little quiet! He’s
made my head ache already. What does nurse mean
by letting him come over here?”
As the screaming child was borne from
the room, the sick woman clasped her hand to her temples,
murmuring-
“My poor head! It was almost
quiet; but now it throbs as if every vein were ready
to burst! Why don’t they soothe that child?”
But the child screamed on, and his
voice came ringing upon her ears. Nurse was cross,
and took no pains to hush his cries; so the mother’s
special attendant remained, for some time, away from
the sick-chamber. By slow degrees she succeeded
in diverting the child’s mind from his disappointment;
but it was many minutes after his crying ceased before
he would consent to her leaving him.
In the mean time the sun’s bright
rays had found a small opening in one of the curtains
that draped the windows, and commenced pouring in
a few pencils of light, which fell, in a bright spot,
on a picture that hung against the wall; resting,
in fact upon the fair forehead of a beautiful maiden,
and giving a hue of life to the features. It
was like a bit of fairy-work-a touch almost
of enchantment. The eyes of the invalid were
resting on this picture as the magic change began
to take place.
How the lovely vision, if it might
so be called, won her from thoughts of pain!
Ah, if we could say so? Raising herself, she
grasped the pendent tassel of the bell-rope, and rang
with a violent hand; then sank down with a groan,
exhausted by the effort, shut her eyes, and buried
her face in the pillow. Leaving the only half-comforted
child, her attendant hastily obeyed the summons.
“The sun is blinding me!”
said the unhappy invalid, as she entered the chamber.
“How could you be so careless in arranging the
curtains!”
A touch, and the sweet vision which
had smiled all so vainly for the poor sufferer, was
lost in shadows. There was a subdued light, and
almost pulseless silence in the chamber.
“Do take those flowers away,
their odour is dreadful to me!”
A beautiful bouquet of sweet flowers,
sent by a sympathizing friend, was removed from the
chamber. Half an hour afterward-the
attendant thought her sleeping-she exclaimed-
“Oh, how that does worry me!”
“What worries you, ma’am?” was kindly
asked.
“That doll on the mantel.
It is entirely out of place here. I wish you
would remove it. Oh, dear, dear! And that
toilette-glass-straighten it, if you please.
I can’t bear any thing crooked. And there’s
Mary’s rigolette on the bureau; the careless
child! She never puts any thing away.”
These little annoyances were removed,
and the invalid was quiet again-externally
quiet, but within all was fretfulness and mental pain.
“There come the children from
school,” she said, as the ringing of the door-bell
and gay voices were heard below. “You must
keep them from my room. I feel unusually nervous
to-day, and my head aches badly.”
Yet, even while she spoke, two little
girls came bounding into the room, crying-
“Oh, mother! Dear mother!
We’ve got something good to tell you. Miss
Martin says we’ve been two of the best” -
The attendant’s imperative “H-u-s-h!”
and the mother’s hand waving toward the door,
the motion enforced by a frowning brow, were successful
in silencing the pleased and excited children, who,
without being permitted to tell the good news they
had brought from school, and which they had fondly
believed would prove so pleasant to their mother’s
ears, were almost pushed from the chamber.
No matter of surprise is it that a
quick revulsion took place in their feelings.
If the voice of wrangling reached, soon after, the
mother’s ears, and pained her to the very soul,
it lessened not the pressure on her feelings to think
that a little self-denial on her part, a little forgetfulness
of her own feelings, and a thoughtfulness for them,
would have prevented unhappy discord.
And so the day passed; and when evening
brought her husband to her bedside, his kind inquiries
were answered only by complainings-complainings
that made, from mental reactions, bodily suffering
the greater. For so long a time had this state
of things existed that her husband was fast losing
his wonted cheerfulness of temper. He was in
no way indifferent to his wife’s condition; few
men, in fact, could have sympathized more deeply, or
sought with more untiring assiduity to lighten the
burden which ill-health had laid upon her. But,
in her case, thought was all turned to self. It
was like the blood flowing back in congestion upon
the heart, instead of diffusing itself healthfully
over the system.
Thus it went on-the invalid
growing worse instead of better. Not a want was
expressed that money did not supply; not a caprice
or fancy or appetite, which met not a proffered gratification.
But all availed not. Her worst disease was mental,
having its origin in inordinate selfishness.
It never came into her mind to deny herself for the
sake of others; to stifle her complaints lest they
should pain the ears of her husband, children, or
friends; to bear the weight of suffering laid upon
her with at least an effort at cheerfulness.
And so she became a burden to those who loved her.
In her presence the sweet voices of children were
hushed, and smiles faded away. Nothing that was
gay, or glad, or cheerful came near her that it did
not instantly change into sobriety or sadness.
Not very far away from the beautiful
home of this unhappy invalid, is another sufferer
from ill-health. We will look in upon her.
The chamber is poorly furnished, containing scarcely
an article the absence of which would not have abridged
the comfort of its occupant. We enter.
What a light has come into those sunken
eyes, and over that pale face! We take the thin,
white hand; a touch of sadness is in our voice that
will not be repressed, as we make inquiries about her
health; but she answers cheerfully and hopefully.
“Do you suffer pain?”
“Yes; but mostly at night.
All day long I find so much to interest me, and so
many thoughts about my children fill my mind, that
I hardly find time to think of my own feelings.
Care is a blessing.”
With what a patient, heavenly smile
this is said! How much of life’s true philosophy
is contained in that closing sentence! Yes, care
is a blessing. What countless thousands would,
but for daily care, be unutterably miserable.
And yet we are ever trying to throw off care; to rise
into positions where we will be free from action or
duty.
The voice of a child is now heard. It is crying.
“Dear little Aggy! What
can ail her?” says the mother, tenderly.
And she inclines an ear, listening earnestly.
The crying continues.
“Poor child! Something
is wrong with her. Won’t you open the door
a moment?”
The door is opened, and the sick mother
calls the name of “Aggy” two or three
times. But her voice too feeble to reach the distant
apartment.
We second the mother’s wishes,
and go for the grieving little one.
“Mother wants Aggy.”
What magic words! The crying
has ceased instantly, and rainbow smiles are seen
through falling tears.
“Dear little dove! What
has troubled it?” How tender and soothing and
full of love is the voice that utters these words!
We lift Aggy upon the bed. A moment, and her
fresh warm cheek is close to the pale face of her
mother; while her hand is nestling in her bosom.
The smile that plays so beautifully
over the invalid’s face has already answered
the question we were about to ask-“Will
not the child disturb you?” But our face has
betrayed our thoughts, and she says-
“I can’t bear to have
Aggy away from me. She rarely annoys me.
A dear, good child-yet only a child, for
whom only a mother can think wisely. She rarely
leaves my room that she doesn’t get into some
trouble; but my presence quickly restores the sunshine.”
The bell rings. There is a murmur
of voices below; and now light feet come tripping
up the stairs. The door opens and two little
girls enter, just from school. Does the sick mother
put up her hand to enjoin silence? Does she repel
them,-by look or word? Oh no.
“Well, Mary-well,
Anna?” she says, kindly. They bend over
and kiss her gently and lovingly; then speak modestly
to the visitor.
“How do you feel, mother?”
asks the oldest of the two girls. “Does
your head ache?”
“Not now, dear. It ached
a little while ago; but it is better now.”
“What made it ache, mother?”
“Something troubled Aggy, and
her crying sent a pain through my temples. But
it went away with the clouds that passed from her
darling little face.”
“Why, she’s asleep, mother!” exclaimed
Anna.
“So she is. Dear little
lamb! Asleep with a tear on her cheek. Turn
her crib around, love, so that I can lay her in it.”
“No, you mustn’t lift
her,” says Mary. “It will make your
head ache.” And the elder of the children
lifts her baby-sister in her arms, and carefully lays
her in the crib.
“Did you say all your lessons
correctly this morning?” now asks the mother.
“I didn’t miss a word,” answers
Mary.
“Nor I,” says Anna.
“I’m glad of it.
It always does me good to know that you have said
your lessons well. Now go and take a run in the
yard for exercise.”
The little girls leave the chamber,
and soon their happy voices came ringing up from the
yard. The sound is loud, the children in their
merry mood unconscious of the noise they make.
“This is too loud. It will
make your head ache,” we say, making a motion
to rise, as if going to check the exuberance of their
spirits.
“Oh no,” is answered with
a smile. “The happy voices of my children
never disturb me. Were it the sound of wrangling,
my weak head would throb instantly with pain.
But this comes to me like music. They have been
confined for hours in school, and health needs a reaction.
Every buoyant laugh or glad exclamation expands their
lungs, quickens the blood in their veins, and gives
a measure of health to mind as well as body.
The knowledge of this brings to me a sense of pleasure;
and it is better for me, therefore, that they should
be gay and noisy for a time, after coming out of school,
than it would be if they sat down quietly in the house,
or moved about stealthily, speaking to each other
in low tones lest I should be disturbed.”
We could not say nay to this.
It was true, because unselfish, philosophy.
“Doesn’t that hammering annoy you?”
we ask.
“What hammering?”
“In the new building over the way.”
She listens a moment, and then answers-
“Oh no. I did not remark
it until you spoke. Such things never disturb
me, for the reason that my mind is usually too much
occupied to think of them. Though an invalid,
and so weak that my hands are almost useless, I never
let my thoughts lie idle. A mother, with three
children, has enough to occupy her mind usefully-and
useful thoughts, you know, are antidotes to brooding
melancholy, and not unfrequently to bodily pain.
If I were to give way to weaknesses-and
I am not without temptations-I would soon
be an unhappy, nervous, helpless creature, a burden
to myself and all around me.”
“You need sympathy and strength from others,”
we remark.
“And I receive it in full measure,”
is instantly replied. “Not because I demand
it. It comes, the heart-offering of true affection.
Poorly would I repay my husband, children, and friends,
for the thousand kindnesses I receive at their hands,
by making home the gloomiest place on all the earth.
Would it be any the brighter for me that I threw clouds
over their spirits? Would they more truly sympathize
with me, because I was for ever pouring complaints
into their ears? Oh no. I try to make them
forget that I suffer, and, in their forgetfulness,
I often find a sweet oblivion. I love them all
too well to wish them a moment’s sadness.”
What a beautiful glow was on her pale countenance
as she thus spoke!
We turn from the home of this cheerful
invalid with a lesson in our hearts not soon to be
forgotten. Ill-health need not always bring gloom
to our dwellings. Suffering need not always bend
the thoughts painfully to self. The body may
waste, the hands fall nerveless to the side, yet the
heart retain its greenness, and the mind its power
to bless.