Cameron of Lochiel
blue eyes wandered from her mother to heaven and back from heaven to
her mother, only to fix themselves on heaven at last. How proud and
happy was this loving mother when every one praised the beauty of her
child! Her cheeks like the rose just blown, her tresses fair and soft
as the beaten flax and falling over her shoulders in gracious waves!
Immeasurably happy was this good mother.
"At last she lost the child she idolized; and, like Rachel, she would
not be comforted. She passed her days in the cemetery embracing the
little grave. Mad with grief, she kept calling to the child with
ceaseless pleadings:
"'My darling! my darling! listen to your mother, who is come to carry
you to your own bed, where you shall sleep so warmly! Oh, how cold you
must be under the wet sod!'
"She kept her ear close to the earth, as if she expected a response.
She trembled at every slightest noise, and sobbed to discover that
it was but the murmur of the weeping willow moved by the breeze. The
passers-by used to say: 'This grass, so incessantly watered by her
weeping, should be always green; but her tears are so bitter that they
wither it, even like the fierce sun of midday after a heavy shower.'
"She wept beside a brook where the little one had been accustomed to
play with pebbles, and in whose pure stream she had so often washed the
little feet. The passers-by used to say:
"'This mother sheds so many tears that she swells the current of the
stream!'
"She nursed her grief in every room wherein the little one had played.
She opened the trunk in which she kept religiously all the child's
belongings--its clothes, its playthings, the little gold-lined cup of
silver from which she had last given it to drink. Passionately she
kissed the little shoes, and her sobs would have melted a heart of
steel.
"She went continually to the village church to pray, to implore God to
work one miracle in her behalf, and give her back her child. And the
voice of God seemed to answer her:
"'Like David you shall go to her, but she shall not return to you.'
"Then she would cry:
"'When, Lord, when shall such joy be mine?'
"She threw herself down before the image of the blessed Virgin, our
Lady of Sorrows; and it seemed to her that the eyes of the Madonna
rested upon her sadly, and that she read in them these words:
"'Endure with patience, even as I have done, O daughter of Eve, till
the day when your mourning shall be turned into gladness.'
"And the unhappy mother cried anew:
"'But when, when will that blessed day come, O Mother of God?'
"One day the wretched mother, having prayed with more than her usual
fervor, having shed, if possible, more tears than was her wont, fell
asleep in the church, exhausted with her grief. The sexton shut the
doors without noticing her. It must have been about midnight when
she awoke. A ray of moonlight illuminating the altar revealed to her
that she was yet in the church. Far from being terrified, she rather
rejoiced at her situation, if such a thing as joy could be said to find
any place in her sad heart.
"'Now,' said she, 'I can pray alone with God, alone with the Blessed
Virgin, alone with myself!'
"Just as she was going to kneel down a low sound made her raise her
head.
"She saw an old man, who, entering by one of the side doors of the
sacristy, made his way to the altar with a lighted taper in his hand.
She saw with astonishment that it was the former sexton, dead twenty
years before. She felt no fear at the sight, for every sentiment of her
breast had been swallowed up in grief. The specter climbed the altar
steps, lighted the candles, and made the customary preparations for the
celebration of a _requiem_ mass. When he turned she saw that his eyes
were fixed and expressionless, like those of a statue. He re-entered
the sacristy, but reappeared almost at once, followed this time by a
venerable priest bearing a chalice and clothed in full vestments. His
great eyes, wide open, were filled with sadness; his movements were
like those of an automaton. She recognized the old priest, twenty years
dead, who had baptized her and given her her first communion. Far from
being terrified by this marvel, the poor mother, wrapped up in her
sorrow, concluded that her old friend had been touched by her despair,
and had broken the bonds of the sepulchre for her sake.
"All was somber, grim, and silent in this mass thus celebrated and
ministered by the dead. The candles cast a feeble light like that of
a dying lamp. At the moment when the bell of the '_Sanctus_,' striking
with a dull sound, as when a bone is broken by the grave-digger in
some old cemetery, announced the descent of Christ upon the altar, the
door of the sacristy opened anew and admitted a procession of little
children, marching two and two, who traversed the choir and filed into
the space to the right of the altar. These children, the oldest of whom
had had scarce six years of life upon earth, wore crowns of immortelles
and carried in their hands, some of them baskets of flowers, some of
them little vases of perfume, others cups of gold and silver filled
with a transparent liquid. They stepped lightly, and a celestial
rapture shone upon their faces. One only, a little girl at the end of
the procession, appeared to follow the others painfully, loaded down
as she was with two great jars which she could hardly drag. Her little
feet, reddening under the pressure, were lifted heavily, and her crown
of immortelles seemed withered. The poor mother strove to reach out
her arms, to utter a cry of joy on recognizing her own little one, but
she found that she could neither move nor speak. She watched all the
children file past her into the place to the left of the altar, and she
recognized several who had but lately died. When her own child, bending
under her burden, passed before her, she noticed that at every step
the two jars besprinkled the floor with the water that filled them to
the brim. When the little one's eyes met those of her mother, she saw
in their depths a mingling of sadness, tenderness, and reproach. The
poor woman strove to clasp her in her arms, but sight and consciousness
alike fled from her. When she recovered from her swoon the church was
empty.
"In a monastery about a league from the village, dwelt a monk who was
renowned for his sanctity.
"This old man never left his cell, save to listen with sympathy to the
bitter confessions of sinners, or to succor the afflicted. To the first
he said:
"'I know the corruptness of man's nature, so be not cast down; come to
me with confidence and courage every time you fall, and my arms shall
ever be open to lift you up again.'
"To the second he said: 'Since God, who is so good, lays this burden
upon you now, he is reserving you for infinite joys hereafter.'
"To all he said: 'If I should confess to you the story of my life, you
would be astonished to behold in me a man who has been the sport of
unbridled passion, and my misfortunes would melt you to tears.'
"The poor mother threw herself sobbing at his feet, and told him
the marvelous thing she had seen. The compassionate old man, who
had sounded the depths of the human heart, beheld here a favorable
opportunity to set bounds to this excessive anguish.
"'My dear child,' said he, 'our overwrought imagination often cheats
us with illusions which must be relegated to the realms of dream.
Nevertheless, the Church teaches us that such marvels can really take
place. It is not for us in our ignorance to set limit to the power
of God. It is not for us to question the decrees of Him who took the
worlds into his hand and launched them into space. I accept, then, the
vision, and I will explain it to you. This priest, coming from the tomb
to say a mass, doubtless obtained God's permission to fulfill part
of his sacred ministry which he had left undone; and the sexton, by
forgetfulness or negligence, was probably the cause of his omission.
The children crowned with immortelles are those who died with their
baptismal grace unimpaired. They who carried baskets of flowers or
vases of perfume are those whose mothers gave them up to God with
holy resignation, comforted by the thought that they were exchanging
this world of pain for the celestial country and the ineffable light
about the throne. In the little cups of gold and silver were the tears
of mothers who, though torn by the anguish of their loss yet taught
themselves to cry: "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed
be the name of the Lord."'
"On her knees the poor mother drank in the old man's words. As Martha
exclaimed at the feet of Christ, 'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my
brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatever thou wilt ask
of God, God will give it thee,' even so the poor mother cried in her
ardent faith, 'If thou hadst been with me, my father, my little one
would not have died; but I know that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask
of God, God will give it thee.'
"The good monk reflected a moment and prayed God for wisdom. It was a
sentence of life or of death that he was about to pronounce upon this
mother who appeared inconsolable. He was about to strike a blow which
should either restore her to reason or break her heart forever. He took
her hands in his withered and trembling clasp, and said gently:
"'You loved, then, this child whom you have lost?'
"'Loved her? My God, what a question!' And she threw herself moaning at
his feet. Then, raising herself suddenly, she grasped the skirt of his
cassock and besought him through her sobs: 'You are a saint, my father;
oh, give me back my child--my darling!'
"'Yes,' said the monk, 'you loved your little one. Doubtless you would
have done much to spare her even the lightest grief?'
"'Anything, everything, my father!' exclaimed the poor woman; 'I would
have been rolled on the hot coals to spare her a little burn.'
"'I believe you,' said the monk; 'and doubtless you love her yet?'
"'Do I love her? Merciful Heaven!' cried the wretched mother, springing
to her feet as if bitten by a serpent; 'I see, priest, that you know
little of a mother's love if you imagine death can efface it.' And
trembling from head to foot, she burst again into a torrent of tears.
"'Begone, woman,' said the old man, forcing himself to speak with
sternness; 'begone, woman, who hast come to impose upon me; begone,
woman, who liest to God and to his priest. Thou hast seen thy little
one staggering under the burden of thy tears, which she gathers drop
by drop, and thou tellest me that thou lovest her! She is near thee
now, toiling at her task; and thou sayest that thou lovest her! Begone,
woman, for thou liest to God and to his minister!'
"The eyes of the poor woman were opened as if she were awaking from a
frightful dream. She confessed that her grief had been insensate, and
she besought the pardon of God.
"'Go in peace,' said the old man; 'resign yourself to God's will, and
the peace of God will be shed upon your soul.'
"Some days after, she told the good monk that her little one, radiant
with joy and carrying a basket of flowers, had appeared to her in a
dream and thanked her for having ceased from her tears. The good woman,
who was rich in this world's goods, devoted the rest of days and her
substance to charity. To the children of the poor she gave most loving
attention, and adopted several of them. When she died they wrote upon
her tomb, 'Here lies the mother of the orphans.'"
All were deeply moved by Madame D'Haberville's story, and some were
even in tears. Jules embraced his mother, and left the room to hide his
emotion.
"O God," he cried, "guard this life of mine! for if evil should befall
me, my loving mother would be as inconsolable as the mother in the
story she has just told us."