I wish that I could tell you all that was in those little worn blank books. Every word of them had been written by her own hand. She began with his birth, the first entry being made as soon as she was able to hold a pen. She chronicled religiously every event that bore even the remotest relation to the boy. You could see how he grew into her life, how he became a part of it, and, finally, as the years passed by, all of it. There was nothing that he did or said which was not noted. His most trivial actions, his most unimportant words, were all faithfully set down and commented upon. In those books was the history of the development of a human being,—nay, the development of a great passion as well.
As he grew older, and his mother lost successively his father and the two little girls, it was easy to see how the boy became more and more to her. The entries were longer and more connected,—more coherent, I should say. There were whole pages filled with her speculations concerning him. She set down the ambitions she had cherished for his work, the hopes born in her heart for his future, her dreams of his achievements that were to be; she quoted freely from his letters when he was away at school. She inserted photographs of him in all stages of development. She wrote out the prayers she made for his welfare.
The entries abounded with expressions of her ever-growing, absorbing love for him. Yes, and when he had his boyish flirtations and had evidently written to her about charming girls he had met, the jealousy of a mother's heart spoke in her comments. It was quite evident to me as I read on, absorbed in it all, that she would never be able to bear the idea of any one coming between her and that lad. How she rejoiced in his successes and love for her! There were troubles, too,—illnesses, scrapes; but her love never wavered, and things always seemed to come right in the end.
I could see that the keeping of that diary had become a passion with her. She confessed herself to it as a devotee might to some spiritual adviser. She poured out her heart on those pages which no living eye but mine had ever seen, I verily believe. She was absolutely true; entirely frank. The book was a self-revelation, all unconscious. I could see the ennobling effect of that great passion. She grew greater as I read on and on. A soul was laid bare in the written pages. I seemed to be treading on hallowed ground as I tenderly turned the faded leaves. No one could ever have spoken aloud as she wrote. It's not in nature to do so. It was her secret heart, her most sacred feelings, her inmost soul that lived and vibrated in the silent letters. I seemed to be looking upon things not meant for mortal eyes.
And through it all there was a note of depreciation. Was she, could she, be worthy of him? Oh, the sweetness of the humility of a mother!
But I cannot linger to tell all the story, all I read, all I divined. At last came the entries of the present year. When he had gone away she had sworn she would be brave. He was a soldier, he must do his duty and uphold the honored name of his father; but, oh, the anxiety of it all! I could see that it had almost killed her; yet she had kept up under the dreadful strain until the news of his death came.
I am not ashamed to say that I put the book down and cried like a baby when I read what she had written. Broken-hearted sentences, bits of prayer, words of Scripture, "Oh, Absalom, my son, my son!" Tears on the pages. The leaves were alive with her words. As I said, they spoke as no human voice could have spoken. They told a tale which humanity could not have revealed. And her heart was broken.
Then came the entry on the day when I had told her she was doomed. The subdued joy with which she heard the news, with which she looked forward to the prospect of a speedy meeting, was quite evident. One phrase struck me on that page:
"The work of years is over; I lay down the pen," she had written. "Sonny Boy"—she never failed to use that title; she clung to it the more tenaciously as he grew older; it seemed very sweet to me—"is gone and I am going, thank God! In death as in life we will be together. 'The book may close over' and be opened no more. He cannot return to me, but I shall go to him. I shall write no more. I have left directions that this story of a life—or two lives, his and mine—shall be burned when I am gone to meet Sonny Boy."
But on the next page the entries began again. She had taken up her wonted life-long task once more when she found that he was living. Curiously enough, while there was joy in the pages now, I seemed to read in them more of regret—in spite of herself. The doom written against her could not be revoked. Yet the conditions were changed. She had to look forward to a long parting instead of an eternal meeting, and it hurt her. Yet she must live until he came back. I saw it was her will power alone that kept her up. She must see him again before she went out into the dark, or the light rather, to wait for him.