Jack’s Hymn

CHAPTER II.

IN the early afternoon of this same day on which the lads were talking in the sunny alcove, in a handsomely furnished room many miles from St. Innocent’s Hospital two young girls were arranging a quantity of cut flowers. They were at the same time conversing in low tones. Now and then they glanced toward a lady lying, apparently asleep, on a lounge near them, as though fearful of disturbing her.

“She is resting nicely,” said the younger of the girls. “Poor Mamma! Easter time is always so hard for her to bear now.  You know that it was on Easter Monday two years ago that Jack was killed.”

“I suppose it all comes back to her so freshly. Do you think she will come over to church? The decorations are lovely this year.”

“Oh, if only she would! But it is of no use to ask her. Jack was one of the chorister boys there, and he used to sing like a little angel. Mamma was so proud of his voice, even when he was a baby, almost. All this year that we have been in Europe we couldn’t get her to go into a cathedral, for she was so afraid she might hear the boys singing somewhere. Papa and I both wish that she would go out more, and could get interested in something or somebody; she would be so much happier. But she seems to just live in the past with Jack.”

“It is too bad. There, this bunch is large enough, don’t you think so? I never saw such exquisite roses.”

“Yes; Papa always gets the nicest ones. We arrange them ourselves, and Mamma takes them to the cemetery. Sometimes we go, too; but she spends every morning at Jack’s grave. At Easter we always have a great many more than at any other time.”

“They must cost much money,” said Mildred, looking around at the numerous baskets filled with rare and perfect blossoms. “They do cost a great deal,” replied Alice. “You would hardly believe if I told you. It seems to me almost wicked to do it, even for Jack, when there are so many poor little children in the world. Papa and I often talk of it, and wish Mamma would be willing to adopt a little boy, not in Jack’s place, of course, for no one could ever be to any of us what he was, but to take care of and to love. I believe if Jack could come back and talk to Mamma, he would want her to do this, for he was as generous and tender-hearted as he could be. He never could bear to see any one unhappy. But I don’t suppose such a thing could ever happen—as Mamma’s thinking of doing this, I mean,” said Alice, sadly. “Dear Mamma used to love all the children, but she is so changed now. Our home doesn’t seem like home any more. Mamma is so still and sad! Sometimes I think her heart is really broken, and that she can’t love any one—not even Papa and me.”

Tears were dropping on the flowers she held, and her lips quivered so that she could not speak.

“I’m so sorry!” murmured Mildred.

“I know you are,” replied Alice, wiping her eyes, and trying to say cheerfully, “I’m not often such a baby. I cannot be, for Papa’s sake; and I do try to be a comfort to Mamma. But—there, don’t let us talk about it any more. We have these nearly finished. Then we’ll run over to Hill’s for another bunch of violets. Mamma likes them best of all.”

They were not fairly out of the house before Mrs. Hunter arose. She had not been asleep. She had heard every word spoken by the girls.

They had pierced through the thick gloom in which her stricken heart had enshrouded itself.  They strengthened a resolution which she had often made, but had always found herself powerless to carry out—a resolution to emerge from the seclusion of her grief, and arouse herself to her duties toward the dear ones still left to her.  She loved them truly. She mourned over their shadowed home. She appreciated fully their exceeding tenderness and indulgence. But whenever she attempted, even in thought, to live again the active life which now seemed to have ended ages before, she shrank from it with inexpressible dread. How could she work and laugh and chat, and that without the dear presence of her beloved boy?

But lately she had dreamed of him, and he had always seemed troubled. Once he had pulled at her heavy mourning veil, shaking his head as if in disapproval. Was he really unhappy over her selfishness (for she knew in her heart that she was selfish), or was it the disquieting influence of an uneasy conscience which haunted her sleeping hours? These and many other questions had been pressing upon her with insistent force which she had tried to ignore, but Alice’s words and tears had aroused her effectually at last.

She called her carriage; in a few minutes she left the house, and the next two or three hours were busy ones.  Having resolved to lay aside her somber garments, she determined that this day should be the last to see them worn. She was a woman who did nothing by halves, and she knew that a resolute will can accomplish much in a short time. At one of the large city establishments she found a suitable dress and wrap of soft, delicate gray.  They needed but little alteration, which she patiently waited to have done.  A bonnet—gray, too—with a lovely bunch of delicate blush-roses, half hidden among the lace, and long gray gloves, were soon purchased.

“These will do nicely for to-morrow,” she thought, “but to-night? My courage fails me now as I look down at this black dress.”

When, at last, she went home, the seat opposite her was piled high with packages. Alice, meanwhile, had returned, and was much surprised to find that her mother had gone out.

“In the carriage, and alone, Celia? I can hardly believe you.”

Celia smiled. She, too, had been surprised at the unwonted animation of her mistress. “Yes, Miss Alice. And she told me to tell you to please go down to Hill’s and get her some red roses. He has some particularly fine ones.”

It was quite dusk when she returned. As she ran up the steps she noticed that the house was more brilliantly lighted than usual; but she was wholly unprepared to be met at the parlor door by her mother. She looked incredulously at the pretty arrangement of her hair, so long combed plainly back; at the gown of soft, white wool, with its creamy laces. She stood absolutely speechless as Mrs. Hunter took the roses from her hand and fastened a part of them on her breast.

“You wear the rest, dear,” she said to the wondering girl. “And hurry, for Papa will soon be here.”

Alice turned and went up the stairs without saying a word.  She dressed with trembling haste, scarcely knowing what to think. This was certainly the sweet and lovely Mamma that she and Jack had been so proud of, but what had brought her back? When she came down, fresh and charming in her simple dress, with the roses for her only adornment, her mother met her again. She kissed her lovingly; and arm in arm they walked up and down the long, fragrant room, which had taken on its long-lost homelike air.

“I did not thank you for taking that long walk for me, dear. To tell you the truth, I wanted to surprise you, as I could not unless you were far away. You have been so good and watchful of me that you don’t let me stay long out of your sight. But I am going to take care of you now, Alice. I think you have lived without a mother long enough.”

“Oh, Mamma!” was all Alice could say.

She felt overcome with joy and wonder. “Some other time, my dear, good child, we will talk together about it.  Now we must keep our faces bright for Papa. Here he comes!”

Still holding Alice by the hand, Mrs. Hunter moved forward to the hall and faced her husband as he entered the door. As the girl had done, he looked about the room an instant in surprise; but his gaze soon centered upon the figures before him.

“We are glad you have come home, Jack,” Mrs. Hunter said. It was the first time she had called him by his old, familiar name since little Jack had left them.

“Thank You, Jesus! Thank You, Jesus!” he exclaimed, tears flooding his eyes as he drew them both into his arms.