The $30,000 Bequest, Mark Twain [best book club books for discussion TXT] 📗
- Author: Mark Twain
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it again.”
“Then take my place with Helen in the morning. I will make
the report myself.”
Hester clung to her sister, begging and imploring.
“Don’t, Hannah, oh, don’t—you will kill her.”
“I will at least speak the truth.”
In the morning she had a cruel report to bear to the mother,
and she braced herself for the trial. When she returned from
her mission, Hester was waiting, pale and trembling, in the hall.
She whispered:
“Oh, how did she take it—that poor, desolate mother?”
Hannah’s eyes were swimming in tears. She said:
“God forgive me, I told her the child was well!”
Hester gathered her to her heart, with a grateful “God bless you, Hannah!”
and poured out her thankfulness in an inundation of worshiping praises.
After that, the two knew the limit of their strength, and accepted
their fate. They surrendered humbly, and abandoned themselves to the
hard requirements of the situation. Daily they told the morning lie,
and confessed their sin in prayer; not asking forgiveness, as not
being worthy of it, but only wishing to make record that they
realized their wickedness and were not desiring to hide it or excuse it.
Daily, as the fair young idol of the house sank lower and lower,
the sorrowful old aunts painted her glowing bloom and her fresh young
beauty to the wan mother, and winced under the stabs her ecstasies
of joy and gratitude gave them.
In the first days, while the child had strength to hold a pencil,
she wrote fond little love-notes to her mother, in which she concealed
her illness; and these the mother read and reread through happy
eyes wet with thankful tears, and kissed them over and over again,
and treasured them as precious things under her pillow.
Then came a day when the strength was gone from the hand, and the
mind wandered, and the tongue babbled pathetic incoherences.
this was a sore dilemma for the poor aunts. There were no love-notes
for the mother. They did not know what to do. Hester began a
carefully studied and plausible explanation, but lost the track of it
and grew confused; suspicion began to show in the mother’s face,
then alarm. Hester saw it, recognized the imminence of the danger,
and descended to the emergency, pulling herself resolutely together
and plucking victor from the open jaws of defeat. In a placid
and convincing voice she said:
“I thought it might distress you to know it, but Helen spent the night
at the Sloanes’. There was a little party there, and, although she
did not want to go, and you so sick, we persuaded her, she being
young and needing the innocent pastimes of youth, and we believing
you would approve. Be sure she will write the moment she comes.”
“How good you are, and how dear and thoughtful for us both!
Approve? Why, I thank you with all my heart. My poor little exile!
Tell her I want her to have every pleasure she can—I would not rob
her of one. Only let her keep her health, that is all I ask.
Don’t let that suffer; I could not bear it. How thankful I am that she
escaped this infection—and what a narrow risk she ran, Aunt Hester!
Think of that lovely face all dulled and burned with fever.
I can’t bear the thought of it. Keep her health. Keep her bloom!
I can see her now, the dainty creature—with the big, blue, earnest eyes;
and sweet, oh, so sweet and gentle and winning! Is she as beautiful
as ever, dear Aunt Hester?”
“Oh, more beautiful and bright and charming than ever she was before,
if such a thing can be”—and Hester turned away and fumbled with
the medicine-bottles, to hide her shame and grief.
After a little, both aunts were laboring upon a difficult and baffling
work in Helen’s chamber. Patiently and earnestly, with their stiff
old fingers, they were trying to forge the required note. They made
failure after failure, but they improved little by little all the time.
The pity of it all, the pathetic humor of it, there was none to see;
they themselves were unconscious of it. Often their tears fell
upon the notes and spoiled them; sometimes a single misformed word
made a note risky which could have been ventured but for that;
but at last Hannah produced one whose script was a good enough
imitation of Helen’s to pass any but a suspicious eye, and bountifully
enriched it with the petting phrases and loving nicknames that
had been familiar on the child’s lips from her nursery days.
She carried it to the mother, who took it with avidity, and kissed it,
and fondled it, reading its precious words over and over again,
and dwelling with deep contentment upon its closing paragraph:
“Mousie darling, if I could only see you, and kiss your eyes,
and feel your arms about me! I am so glad my practicing does not
disturb you. Get well soon. Everybody is good to me, but I am
so lonesome without you, dear mamma.”
“The poor child, I know just how she feels. She cannot be quite
happy without me; and I—oh, I live in the light of her eyes!
Tell her she must practice all she pleases; and, Aunt Hannah—
tell her I can’t hear the piano this far, nor hear dear voice
when she sings: God knows I wish I could. No one knows how sweet
that voice is to me; and to think—some day it will be silent!
What are you crying for?”
“Only because—because—it was just a memory. When I came away she
was singing, ‘Loch Lomond.’ The pathos of it! It always moves
me so when she sings that.”
“And me, too. How heartbreakingly beautiful it is when some youthful
sorrow is brooding in her breast and she sings it for the mystic
healing it brings… . Aunt Hannah?”
“Dear Margaret?”
“I am very ill. Sometimes it comes over me that I shall never hear
that dear voice again.”
“Oh, don’t—don’t, Margaret! I can’t bear it!”
Margaret was moved and distressed, and said, gently:
“There—there—let me put my arms around you.
Don’t cry. There—put your cheek to mine. Be comforted.
I wish to live. I will live if I can. Ah, what could she
do without me! … Does she often speak of me?—but I know she does.”
“Oh, all the time—all the time!”
“My sweet child! She wrote the note the moment she came home?”
“Yes—the first moment. She would not wait to take off her things.”
“I knew it. It is her dear, impulsive, affectionate way. I knew it
without asking, but I wanted to hear you say it. The petted wife
knows she is loved, but she makes her husband tell her so every day,
just for the joy of hearing it… . She used the pen this time.
That is better; the pencil-marks could rub out, and I should grieve
for that. Did you suggest that she use the pen?”
“Y—no—she—it was her own idea.”
The mother looked her pleasure, and said:
“I was hoping you would say that. There was never such a dear
and thoughtful child! … Aunt Hannah?”
“Dear Margaret?”
“Go and tell her I think of her all the time, and worship her.
Why—you are crying again. Don’t be so worried about me, dear;
I think there is nothing to fear, yet.”
The grieving messenger carried her message, and piously delivered
it to unheeding ears. The girl babbled on unaware; looking up
at her with wondering and startled eyes flaming with fever,
eyes in which was no light of recognition:
“Are you—no, you are not my mother. I want her—oh, I want her!
She was here a minute ago—I did not see her go. Will she come? will
she come quickly? will she come now? … There are so many houses
… and they oppress me so … and everything whirls and turns
and whirls … oh, my head, my head!”—and so she wandered on
and on, in her pain, flitting from one torturing fancy to another,
and tossing her arms about in a weary and ceaseless persecution
of unrest.
Poor old Hannah wetted the parched lips and softly stroked the
hot brow, murmuring endearing and pitying words, and thanking
the Father of all that the mother was happy and did not know.
Daily the child sank lower and steadily lower towards the grave,
and daily the sorrowing old watchers carried gilded tidings of her
radiant health and loveliness to the happy mother, whose pilgrimage
was also now nearing its end. And daily they forged loving and cheery
notes in the child’s hand, and stood by with remorseful consciences
and bleeding hearts, and wept to see the grateful mother devour
them and adore them and treasure them away as things beyond price,
because of their sweet source, and sacred because her child’s hand
had touched them.
At last came that kindly friend who brings healing and peace to all.
The lights were burning low. In the solemn hush which precedes the
dawn vague figures flitted soundless along the dim hall and gathered
silent and awed in Helen’s chamber, and grouped themselves about
her bed, for a warning had gone forth, and they knew. The dying
girl lay with closed lids, and unconscious, the drapery upon her
breast faintly rising and falling as her wasting life ebbed away.
At intervals a sigh or a muffled sob broke upon the stillness.
The same haunting thought was in all minds there: the pity of
this death, the going out into the great darkness, and the mother
not here to help and hearten and bless.
Helen stirred; her hands began to grope wistfully about as if they
sought something—she had been blind some hours. The end was come;
all knew it. With a great sob Hester gathered her to her breast,
crying, “Oh, my child, my darling!” A rapturous light broke in the
dying girl’s face, for it was mercifully vouchsafed her to mistake
those sheltering arms for another’s; and she went to her rest murmuring,
“Oh, mamma, I am so happy—I longed for you—now I can die.”
Two hours later Hester made her report. The mother asked:
“How is it with the child?”
“She is well.”
A sheaf of white crape and black was hung upon the door of the house,
and there it swayed and rustled in the wind and whispered its tidings.
At noon the preparation of the dead was finished, and in the
coffin lay the fair young form, beautiful, and in the sweet face
a great peace. Two mourners sat by it, grieving and worshipping—
Hannah and the black woman Tilly. Hester came, and she was trembling,
for a great trouble was upon her spirit. She said:
“She asks for a note.”
Hannah’s face blanched. She had not thought of this; it had seemed
that that pathetic service was ended. But she realized now that
that could not be. For a little while the two women stood looking
into each other’s face, with vacant eyes; then Hannah said:
“There is no way out of it—she must have it; she will suspect, else.”
“And she would find out.”
“Yes. It would break her heart.” She looked at the dead face,
and her eyes filled. “I will write it,” she said.
Hester carried it. The closing line said:
“Darling Mousie, dear sweet mother, we shall soon be together again.
Is not that good news? And it is true; they
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