My mother smiled the ghastly smile of death; but waved her hand, with loathing, at his suggestion.
“All this is now too late, Mr. Goldencalf,” she answered, speaking with a distinctness and an energy for which she had long been reserving her strength. “Food and raiment are no longer among my wants.”
“Well, well, Betsey, one that is in want of neither food nor raiment, cannot be said to be in great suffering, after all; and I am glad that thou art so much at ease. Dr. Etherington tells me thou art far from being well bodily, however, and I am come expressly to see if I can order anything that will help to make thee more easy.”
“Mr. Goldencalf, you can. My wants for this life are nearly over; a short hour or two will remove me beyond the world, its cares, its vanities, its—” My poor mother probably meant to add, its heartlessness or its selfishness; but she rebuked herself, and paused: “By the mercy of our blessed Redeemer, and through the benevolent agency of this excellent man,” she resumed, glancing her eye upwards at first with holy reverence, and then at the divine with meek gratitude, “I quit you without alarm, and were it not for one thing, I might say without care.”
“And what is there to distress thee, in particular, Betsey?” asked my father, blowing his nose, and speaking with unusual tenderness; “if it be in my power to set thy heart at ease on this, or on any other point, name it, and I will give orders to have it immediately performed. Thou hast been a good pious woman, and canst have little to reproach thyself with.”
My mother looked earnestly and wistfully at her husband. Never before had he betrayed so strong an interest in her happiness, and had it not, alas! been too late, this glimmering of kindness might have lighted the matrimonial torch into a brighter flame than had ever yet glowed upon the past.
“Mr. Goldencalf, we have an only son—”
“We have, Betsey, and it may gladden thee to hear that the physician thinks the boy more likely to live than either of his poor brothers and sisters.”
I cannot explain the holy and mysterious principle of maternal nature that caused my mother to clasp her hands, to raise her eyes to heaven, and, while a gleam flitted athwart her glassy eyes and wan cheeks, to murmur her thanks to God for the boon. She was herself hastening away to the eternal bliss of the pure of mind and the redeemed, and her imagination, quiet and simple as it was, had drawn pictures in which she and her departed babes were standing before the throne of the Most High, chanting his glory, and shining amid the stars—and yet was she now rejoicing that the last and the most cherished of all her offsprings was likely to be left exposed to the evils, the vices, nay, to the enormities, of the state of being that she herself so willingly resigned.
“It is of our boy that I wish now to speak, Mr. Goldencalf,” replied my mother, when her secret devotion was ended. “The child will have need of instruction and care; in short, of both mother and father.”