Mary Erskine, Jacob Abbott [booksvooks txt] 📗

Mary Erskine, after the funeral. They all, however, went away about sunset, leaving Mary Erskine alone with her children.

As soon as her friends had gone, Mary Erskine took the children and sat down in a rocking-chair, before the fire, holding them both in her lap, the baby upon one side and Bella upon the other, and began to rock back and forth with great rapidity. She kissed the children again and again, with many tears, and sometimes she groaned aloud, in the excess of her anguish. She remained sitting thus for half an hour. The twilight gradually faded away. The flickering flame, which rose from the fire in the fire-place, seemed to grow brighter as the daylight disappeared, and to illuminate the whole interior of the room, so as to give it a genial and cheerful expression. Mary Erskine gradually became calm. The children, first the baby, and then Bella, fell asleep. Finally Mary Erskine herself, who was by this time entirely exhausted with watching, care, and sorrow, fell asleep too. Mary Erskine slept sweetly for two full hours, and then was awaked by the nestling of the baby.

[Illustration: THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS.]

When Mary Erskine awoke she was astonished to find her mind perfectly calm, tranquil, and happy. She looked down upon her children Bella asleep and the baby just awaking with a heart full of maternal joy and pleasure. Her room, it seemed to her, never appeared so bright and cheerful and happy as then. She carried Bella to the bed and laid her gently down in Albert's place, and then, going back to the fire, she gave the baby the food which it required, and rocked it to sleep. Her heart was resigned, and tranquil, and happy, She put the baby, at length, into the cradle, and then, kneeling down, she thanked God with her whole soul for having heard her prayer, and granted her the spirit of resignation and peace. She then pushed open the curtains, and reclined herself upon the bed, where she lay for some time, with a peaceful smile upon her countenance, watching the flashing of a little tongue, of flame, which broke out at intervals from the end of a brand in the fire. After lying quietly thus, for a little while, she closed her eyes, and gradually fell asleep again.

She slept very profoundly. It was a summer night, although, as usual, Mary Erskine had a fire. Clouds rose in the west, bringing with them gusts of wind and rain. The wind and the rain beat against the window, but they did not wake her. It thundered. The thunder did not wake her. The shower passed over, and the sky became, serene again, while Mary Erskine slept tranquilly on. At length the baby began to move in the cradle. Mary Erskine heard the first sound that its nestling made, and raised herself up suddenly. The fire had nearly gone out. There was no flame, and the room was lighted only by the glow of the burning embers. Mary Erskine was frightened to find herself alone. The tranquillity and happiness which she had experienced a few hours ago were all gone, and her mind was filled, instead, with an undefined and mysterious distress and terror. She went to the fire-place and built a new fire, for the sake of its company. She took the baby from the cradle and sat down in the rocking-chair, determining not to go to bed again till morning. She went to the window and looked out at the stars, to see if she could tell by them how long it would be before the morning would come. She felt afraid, though she knew not why, and holding the baby in her arms, with its head upon her shoulder, she walked back and forth across the room, in great distress and anguish, longing for the morning to come. Such is the capriciousness of grief.


CHAPTER V.

CONSULTATIONS.


Mrs. Bell went home on the evening of the funeral, very much exhausted and fatigued under the combined effects of watching, anxiety, and exertion. She went to bed, and slept very soundly until nearly midnight. The thunder awaked her.

She felt solitary and afraid. Mary Bell, who was then about nine years old, was asleep in a crib, in a corner of the room. There was a little night lamp, burning dimly on the table, and it shed a faint and dismal gleam upon the objects around it. Every few minutes, however, the lightning would flash into the windows and glare a moment upon the walls, and then leave the room in deeper darkness than ever. The little night lamp, whose feeble beam had been for the moment entirely overpowered, would then gradually come out to view again, to diffuse once more its faint illumination, until another flash of lightning came to extinguish it as before.

Mrs. Bell rose from her bed, and went to the crib to see if Mary Bell was safe. She found her sleeping quietly. Mrs. Bell drew the crib out a little way from the wall, supposing that she should thus put it into a somewhat safer position. Then she lighted a large lamp. Then she closed all the shutters of the room, in order to shut out the lightning. Then she went to bed again, and tried to go to sleep. But she could not. She was thinking of Mary Erskine, and endeavoring to form some plan for her future life. She could not, however, determine what it was best for her to do.

In the morning, after breakfast, she sat down at the window, with her knitting work in her hand, looking very thoughtful and sad. Presently she laid her work down in her lap, and seemed lost in some melancholy reverie.

Mary Bell, who had been playing about the floor for some time, came up to her mother, and seeing her look so thoughtful and sorrowful, she said,

"Mother, what is the matter with you?"

"Why, Mary," said Mrs. Bell, in a melancholy tone, "I was thinking of poor Mary Erskine."

"Well, mother," said Mary Bell, "could not you give her a little money, if she is poor? I will give her my ten cents."

[Illustration: MRS. BELL.]

Mary Bell had a silver piece of ten cents, which she kept in a little box, in her mother's room up stairs.

"Oh, she is not poor for want of money," said Mrs. Bell. "Her husband made his will, before he died, and left her all his property."

"Though I told Mr. Keep about it last night," continued Mrs. Bell, talking half to herself and half to Mary, "and he said the will was not good."

"Not good," said Mary. "I think it is a very good will indeed. I am sure Mary Erskine ought to have it all. Who should have it, if not she?"

"The children, I suppose," said her mother.

"The children!" exclaimed Mary Bell. "Hoh! They are not half big enough. They are only two babies; a great baby and a little one."

Mrs. Bell did not answer this, nor did she seem to take much notice of it, but took up her knitting again, and went on musing as before. Mary Bell did not understand very well about the will. The case was this:

The law, in the state where Mary Erskine lived, provided that when a man died, as Albert had done, leaving a wife and children, and a farm, and also stock, and furniture, and other such movable property, if he made no will, the wife was to have a part of the property, and the rest must be saved for the children, in order to be delivered to them, when they should grow up, and be ready to receive it and use it. The farm, when there was a farm, was to be kept until the children should grow up, only their mother was to have one third of the benefit of it, that is, one third of the rent of it, if they could let it until the children became of age. The amount of the other two thirds was to be kept for them. In respect to all movable property, such as stock and tools, and furniture, and other things of that kind, since they could not very conveniently be kept till the children were old enough to use them, they were to be sold, and the wife was to have half the value, and the children the other half.

In respect to the children's part of all the property, they were not, themselves, to have the care of it, but some person was to be appointed to be their guardian. This guardian was to have the care of all their share of the property, until they were of age, when it was to be paid over into their hands.

If, however, the husband, before his death, was disposed to do so, he might make a will, and give all the property to whomsoever he pleased. If he decided, as Albert had done, to give it all to his wife, then it would come wholly under her control, at once. She would be under no obligation to keep any separate account of the children's share, but might expend it all herself, or if she were so inclined, she might keep it safely, and perhaps add to it by the proceeds of her own industry, and then, when the children should grow up, she might give them as much as her maternal affection should dictate.

In order that the property of men who die, should be disposed of properly, according to law, or according to the will, if any will be made, it is required that soon after the death of any person takes place, the state of the case should be reported at a certain public office, instituted to attend to this business. There is such an office in every county in the New England states. It is called the Probate office. The officer, who has this business in charge, is called the Judge of Probate. There is a similar system in force, in all the other states of the Union, though the officers are sometimes called by different names from those which they receive in New England.

Now, while Albert was lying sick upon his bed, he was occupied a great deal of the time, while they thought that he was asleep, in thinking what was to become of his wife and children in case he should die. He knew very well that in case he died without making any will, his property must be divided, under the direction of the Judge of Probate, and one part of it be kept for the children, while Mary Erskine would have the control only of the other part. This is a very excellent arrangement in all ordinary cases, so that the law, in itself, is a very good law. There are, however, some cases, which are exceptions, and Albert thought that Mary Erskine's case was one. It was owing, in a great measure, to her prudence and economy, to her efficient industry, and to her contented and happy disposition, that he had been able to acquire any property, instead of spending all that he earned, like Mr. Gordon, as fast as he earned it. Then, besides, he knew that Mary Erskine would act as conscientiously and faithfully for the benefit of the children, if the property was all her own, as she would if a part of it was theirs, and only held by herself, for safe keeping, as their guardian. Whereas, if this last arrangement went into effect, he feared that it would make her great trouble to keep the accounts, as she