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A STRAY SOUND.
Mary went to see Letty as often as she could, and that was not
seldom; but she had scarcely a chance of seeing Tom; either he
was not up, or had gone--to the office, Letty supposed: she had
no more idea of where the office was, or of the other localities
haunted by Tom, than he himself had of what spirit he was of.
One day, when Mary could not help remarking upon her pale, weary
looks, Letty burst into tears, and confided to her a secret of
which she was not the less proud that it caused her anxiety and
fear. As soon as she began to talk about it, the joy of its hope
began to predominate, and before Mary left her she might have
seemed to a stranger the most blessed little creature in the
world. The greatness of her delight made Mary sad for her. To any
thoughtful heart it must be sad to think what a little time the
joy of so many mothers lasts--not because their babies die, but
because they live; but Mary's mournfulness was caused by the fear
that the splendid dawn of mother-hope would soon be swallowed in
dismal clouds of father-fault. For mothers and for wives there is
no redemption, no unchaining of love, save by the coming of the
kingdom--in themselves. Oh! why do not mothers, sore-
hearted mothers at least, if none else on the face of the earth,
rush to the feet of the Son of Mary?
Yet every birth is but another link in the golden chain by which
the world shall be lifted to the feet of God. It is only by the
birth of new children, ever fresh material for the creative
Spirit of the Son of Man to work upon, that the world can finally
be redeemed. Letty had no ideas about children, only the
usual instincts of appropriation and indulgence; Mary had a few,
for she recalled with delight some of her father's ways with
herself. Him she knew as, next to God, the source of her life, so
well had he fulfilled that first duty of all parents--the
transmission of life. About such things she tried to talk to
Letty, but soon perceived that not a particle of her thought
found its way into Letty's mind: she cared nothing for any duty
concerned--only for the joy of being a mother.
She grew paler yet and thinner; dark hollows came about her eyes;
she was parting with life to give it to her child; she lost the
girlish gayety Tom used to admire, and the something more lovely
that was taking its place he was not capable of seeing. He gave
her less and less of his company. His countenance did not shine
on her; in her heart she grew aware that she feared him, and,
ever as she shrunk, he withdrew. Had it not now been for Mary,
she would likely have died. She did all for her that friend
could. As often as she seemed able, she would take her for a
drive, or on the river, that the wind, like a sensible presence
of God, might blow upon her, and give her fresh life to take home
with her. So little progress did she make with Hesper, that she
could not help thinking it must have been for Letty's sake she
was allowed to go to London.
Mr. and Mrs. Redmain went again to Durnmelling, but Mary begged
Hesper to leave her behind. She told her the reason, without
mentioning the name of the friend she desired to tend. Hesper
shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say she wondered at her
taste; but she did not believe that was in reality the cause of
her wish, and, setting herself to find another, concluded she did
not choose to show herself at Testbridge in her new position,
and, afraid of losing if she opposed her, let her have her way.
Nor, indeed, was she so necessary to her at Durnmelling, where
there were few visitors, and comparatively little dressing was
required: for the mere routine of such ordinary days, Jemima was
enough, who, now and then called by Mary to her aid, had proved
herself handy and capable, and had learned much. So, all through
the hottest of the late summer and autumn weather, Mary remained
in London, where every pavement seemed like the floor of a
baker's oven, and, for all the life with which the city swarmed,
the little winds that wandered through it seemed to have lost
their vitality. How she longed for the common and the fields and
the woods, where the very essence of life seemed to dwell in the
atmosphere even when stillest, and the joy that came pouring from
the throats of the birds seemed to flow first from her own soul
into them! The very streets and lanes of Testbridge looked like
paradise to Mary in Lon-don. But she never wished herself in the
shop again, although almost every night she dreamed of the glad
old time when her father was in it with her, and when, although
they might not speak from morning to night, their souls kept
talking across crowd and counters, and each was always aware of
the other's supporting presence.
Longing, however, is not necessarily pain--it may, indeed, be
intensest bliss; and, if Mary longed for the freedom of the
country, it was not to be miserable that she could not have it.
Her mere thought of it was to her a greater delight than the
presence of all its joys is to many who desire them the most.
That such things, and the possibility of such sensations from
them, should be in the world, was enough to make Mary jubilant.
But, then, she was at peace with her conscience, and had her
heart full of loving duty. Besides, an active patience is a
heavenly power. Mary could not only walk along a pavement dry and
lifeless as the Sahara, enjoying the summer that brooded all
about and beyond the city, but she bore the re-freshment of
blowing winds and running waters into Letty's hot room, with the
clanging street in front, and the little yard behind, where, from
a cord stretched across between the walls, hung a few pieces of
ill-washed linen, motionless in the glare, two plump sparrows
picking up crumbs in their shadow--into this live death Mary
would carry a tone of breeze, and sailing cloud, and swaying
tree-top. In her the life was so concentrated and active that she
was capable of communicating life--the highest of human
endowments.
One evening, as Letty was telling her how the dressmaker up
stairs had been for some time unwell, and Mary was feeling
reproachful that she had not told her before, that she might have
seen what she could do for her, they became aware, it seemed
gradually, of one softest, sweetest, faintest music-tone coming
from somewhere--but not seeming sufficiently of this world to
disclose whence. Mary went to the window: there was nothing
capable of music within sight. It came again; and intermittingly
came and came. For some time they would hear nothing at all, and
then again the most delicate of tones would creep into their
ears, bringing with it more, it seemed to Mary in the surprise of
its sweetness, than she could have believed single tone capable
of carrying. Once or twice a few consecutive sounds made a
division strangely sweet; and then again, for a time, nothing
would reach them but a note here and a note there of what she was
fain to imagine a wonderful melody. The visitation lasted for
about an hour, then ceased. Letty went to bed, and all night long
dreamed she heard the angels calling her. She woke weeping that
her time was come so early, while as yet she had tasted so little
of the pleasure of life. But the truth was, she had as yet, poor
child, got so little of the good of life, that it was not
at all time for her to go.
When her hour drew near, Tom condescended--unwillingly, I am
sorry to say, for he did not take the trouble to understand her
feelings--to leave word where he might be found if he should be
wanted. Even this assuagement of her fears Letty had to plead
for; Mary's being so much with her was to him reason, and he made
it excuse, for absence; he had begun to dread Mary. Nor, when at
length he was sent for, was he in any great haste; all was well
over ere he arrived. But he was a little touched when, drawing
his face down to hers, she feebly whispered," He's as like to
you, Tom, as ever small thing was to great!" She saw the slight
emotion, and fell asleep comforted.
It was night when she woke. Mary was sitting by her.
"O Mary!" she cried, "the angels have been calling me again. Did
you hear them?"
"No," answered Mary, a little coldly, for, if ever she was
inclined to be hard, it was toward self-sentiment. "Why do you
think the angels should call you? Do you suppose them very
desirous of your company?"
"They do call people," returned Letty, almost crying; "and I
don't know why they mightn't call me. I'm not such a very wicked
person!"
Mary's heart smote her; she was refusing Letty the time God was
giving her! She could not wake her up, and, while God was waking
her, she was impatient!
"I heard the call, too, Letty," she said; "but it was not the
angels. It was the same instrument we heard the other night. Who
can there be in the house to play like that? It was clearer this
time. I thought I could listen to it a whole year."
"Why didn't you wake me?" said Letty.
"Because the more you sleep the better. And the doctor says I
mustn't let you talk. I will get you something, and then you must
go to sleep again."
Tom did not appear any more that night; and, if they had wanted
him now, they would not have known where to find him. He was
about nothing very bad--only supping with some friends--such
friends as he did not even care to tell that he had a son.
He was ashamed of being in London at this time of the year, and,
but that he had not money enough to go anywhere except to his
mother's, he would have gone, and left Letty to shift for
herself.
With his child he was pleased, and would not seldom take him for
a few moments; but, when he cried, he was cross with him, and
showed himself the unreasonable baby of the two.
The angels did not want Letty just yet, and she slowly recovered.
For Mary it was a peaceful time. She was able to read a good
deal, and, although there were no books in Mr. Redmain's house,
she generally succeeded in getting such as she wanted. She was
able also to practice as much as she pleased, for now the grand
piano was entirely at her service, and she took the opportunity
of having a lesson every day.
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