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The Merryweathers, a fiction by Laura E. Richards |
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Chapter 11. Mrs. Merryweather's Vigil |
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_ CHAPTER XI. MRS. MERRYWEATHER'S VIGIL MRS. MERRYWEATHER had had a busy day. There had been a picnic at Oak Island, which had taken all the morning and a good part of the afternoon; then there had been a dozen letters to write for the late mail; and finally she had taken Kitty's turn with Willy at getting supper, as Kitty had a headache. The sisters protested, each one claiming her right to take the extra duty; but Mrs. Merryweather had her own reasons for being glad of the hour of play-work with her little boy. Willy had been rather out of spirits, which meant that he, as well as his sister, had eaten too many huckleberries; this afternoon he had been decidedly cross, and required treatment. Coming into the kitchen at five o'clock, she found the fire lighted, and the kettle on, for Willy was a faithful soul; but he was frowning heavily over his chopping-tray. "I wish mince-meat had never been invented!" he said, gloomily. "Do you?" said his mother. "I don't! I am glad it was, even if I did not have three helps last night." "I was so hungry, I had to eat something," said Willy, in an injured tone. "When I grow up, I mean to have beefsteak every day, and never have anything made over at all." "I'll remember that, the next time we have brown-bread brewis!" said his mother smiling. "Oh! that's different!" said Willy. "Most things are different," said Mrs. Merryweather, "if you look at them in a different way. Is that ready, son?" "As ready as it is ever going to be. I've chopped till my arm is almost broken." "So I see! It looks as if you had cracked it. Well, now, it isn't time yet to make the rolls, so we can take breath a bit. Come out on the porch, and let us play something till the kettle boils." "I don't feel like playing!" said Willy, dolefully; "I don't feel like doing anything, Mammy." Mrs. Merryweather looked at him a moment; then taking his hands in hers, she said suddenly, "'For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings!' That is a passage from Richard II., and it seems to fit the occasion. Sit down, Willy; right here on the floor by me; I'll begin. Two minutes for composition!" She was silent, looking out over the water, while Willy glanced sidewise at her, half-interested in spite of himself. "I have it!" she said, presently.
"Oh, Mammy, I can't play!" "But you _are_ playing. Only one minute more." "Well, then--does it have to be the real way they died? because I don't know." "No! facts not required in this game." "Well, then--
"Time's up!" cried Willy, beginning to kindle. "Oh! is it? What short minutes! Let me see! "Oh! I wanted Xerxes. Wait, Mammy. I have one! "King David
"Yes, but 'bit' is more savage. I like 'bit.' Your time's up, Mammy!" "Oh! Willy, I am going to give you a subtle one this time; one in which something is left to the imagination.
"No, but the physician did." "Really?" "No, not really. What do you think of this game?" "I think it's bully. Did you really just make it up, Mammy?" "Just! Now the kettle is boiling, and we must come in; but as we go, let me inform you that--
The effect of this and other mental exercises, added to a cup of tea, was such that when bed-time came, Mrs. Merryweather found herself singularly wide awake. In vain she counted hundreds; in vain she ransacked her memory for saints, kings, and cities alphabetically arranged; in vain she made a list of Johns, beginning with the Baptist and ending with John O'Groats; the second hundred found her wider awake than ever, as she tossed on her narrow cot. Mr. Merryweather, in the opposite cot, was breathing deep and regularly; he was sound asleep, at least, and that was a good thing. Other than this, no sound broke the perfect stillness of the night. The full moon rode high, and lake and woodland were flooded with silver light. A glorious night! Mrs. Merryweather sighed; what was the use of staying in bed on such a night as this, when one could not sleep? If only there were some excuse for getting up! Suddenly she remembered that, the night being very warm, and the two children apparently entirely recovered from their slight indisposition, they had been allowed to sleep out on the Point, in accordance with a promise made some days ago by their father. She had not been quite willing, but had yielded to pressure, and they had gone out, very happy, with their blankets and the india-rubber floor-cloth. Mrs. Merryweather sat up in bed. "I ought to go and see if those chicks are all right!" she said. "After all, they certainly were not quite well this afternoon, whatever Miles may say." She glanced half-defiantly at the other cot, but Miles said nothing. She rose quietly, put on wrapper and slippers, and opening noiselessly the screen-door of the tent, slipped out into the open, and stood for a moment looking about her. How beautiful it was! what a wonderful silver world! Sleep was good, but surely, to be awake, on such a night as this, was better. She stole past the other tents, pausing an instant at the door of each to listen for the regular breathing which is the sweetest music a mother can hear; then she made her way out to the Point, through the sweet tangle of fern and berry-bushes, under the bending trees that dropped dew on her head as she passed. The Point lay like the prow of some great vessel in a silver sea. One tall pine stood for the mast; under this pine, rolled in scarlet blankets, their rosy faces turned toward the moon, lay the children, sound asleep. Willy had curled one arm under his head, and his other hand was locked in his sister's. "Dear little things!" murmured their mother. "That means that Kitty-my-pretty was a little bit frightened before she went to sleep. Dear little things!" She stood there for some time looking down at them. "The moon is full on their faces!" she said. "My old nurse would tell me that they would be moonstruck 'for sartain sure!' How terrified I used to be, lest a ray of moonlight should shine on my bed, and I should wake a lunatic!" She glanced up at the moon; looked again, and yet again. "That is very singular!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "Something seems to be happening to the moon." Something _was_ happening to the moon. It was as if a piece had been bitten out of the shining round. Was it a little cloud? no! no cloud could possibly look like that, so black, so thick, so--"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Merryweather; "it is an eclipse!" An eclipse it certainly was. Slowly, surely, the black shadow crept, crept, over the silver disk; now a quarter of its surface was hidden; now it went creeping, creeping on toward the half. "It is going to be a total eclipse!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "I suppose I ought to wake some of them." She stood a moment more, looking irresolutely at the sleeping children. "I cannot possibly wake them!" she said at last. "Little lambs! they are sleeping so beautifully, and they certainly were _not_ quite themselves this afternoon. Besides, there will be plenty more eclipses; I'll go and wake some of the others." The black shadow crept on. Hardly less silent, Mrs. Merryweather paused before the tent where her daughters slept. Bell and Gertrude scorned cots, and their mattresses were spread on the floor at night, and rolled up in the daytime. There the two girls lay, still and placid, statue-like, save for the gentle heaving of their quiet breasts. A fair picture for a mother to look on. Miranda Merryweather looked, and drew a happy breath; looked again, and shook her head. "I cannot wake them!" she murmured to herself. "They are both tired after that expedition; Bell paddled very hard on the way back; she was much more flushed than I like to see her, when she came in. And Gertrude sleeps so lightly, I fear she might not get to sleep again if I were to wake her now." The black shadow crept on; the mother crept into the boys' tent, and stood beside Gerald's cot. The lad lay with his arms flung wide apart; his curly hair was tossed over his broad open forehead; his clear-cut features were set as if in marble. "He has such a beautiful forehead!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He sleeps so very sound, that if I were to wake him he might not be able to sleep again. Dear Jerry!" She moved over to Phil's cot: Phil was uneasy, and as she stopped to straighten the bedclothes, he turned on his side, muttering something that sounded like "Bother breakfast!" "Poor laddie!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He looks as if he might have a headache. I wish I had made him take a nice little cup of hot malted milk before he went to bed. It is out of the question to wake him, when he is sleeping so uneasily." She left the tent, with hardly a glance toward Jack Ferrers, who lay in the farthest cot. The idea of waking him, and having him disturb her own boys, was too preposterous to be entertained for an instant. The black shadow had crept entirely over the moon; no silver disk now, only a shield of dull bronze; "like some of the Pompeiian bronzes!" Mrs. Merryweather thought. "It is very extraordinary. I suppose I really _ought_ to wake Miles." She entered her own tent, and stood by her husband's cot. Miles Merryweather was sleeping quite as soundly as any of his children; in fact, he was a very statue of sleep; but his wife laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "Miles!" she said; it must be confessed that she did not speak very loud. "Miles, there is an eclipse!" Mr. Merryweather did not stir. "Miles! do you want to wake up?" No reply; no motion of the long, still form. Mrs. Merryweather breathed more freely. "Miles was more tired to-night than I have seen him all summer!" she said. "He cannot remember that we are not twenty-five any more. It is very bad for a man to get overtired when he is no longer young. Well, I certainly did try to wake him; but such a _very_ sound sleep as this shows how much he needed it. I am sure it is much more important for him to sleep than to see the eclipse; it isn't as if he had not seen plenty of eclipses in his life. Of course, if it had been the sun, it would have been different." She stood at the door of the tent, watching. Slowly, slowly, the black shadow passed; slowly, slowly, the silver crescent widened to a broad arc, and finally to the perfect argent round; once more the whole world lay bathed in silver light. Mrs. Merryweather gazed on peacefully, and murmured under her breath certain words that she loved:
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