The Continental Monthly, Vol. 4, No. 1, July, 1863

Honest, simple-minded Mr. Tenant! How he is chattering away to his wife, repeating again and again his encomiums on Hiram, till she is really convinced. Why should she not be?

Meanwhile Hiram has reached his lodgings. He goes through with his usual devotions, and is soon sound asleep. From his composed manner it may reasonably be inferred that he has made up his mind just what course to take.

CHAPTER VII

'Mr. Meeker!'

There was no answer.

'Mr. Meeker!'

The accent was one of sudden distress and alarm. There was a short pause, when the call was renewed.

'Mr. Meeker!'

'What is it? What is the matter? Is anything the matter?'

A slight groan.

Mr. Meeker sprang from his bed as if he were a young man, and made haste to light a candle.

'My dear, are you ill?'

'I don't know. It's something strange.'

Mrs. Meeker's voice sounded so unnatural that her husband hurried to the other side of the bed. He found his wife helpless, unable to change her position. Her articulation was very difficult, and her countenance presented a ghastly appearance, for one half of her appeared to be completely paralyzed.

It was the work of a few moments to alarm the house and despatch a messenger for the doctor. But what could a physician avail when nature refused longer to perform her office? The doctor could investigate, and the result of his examination was most alarming. Voluntary action over one half the frame quite suspended; what was worse, there was little or no sensation. The poor woman essayed to speak from time to time, but with repulsive contortions, so that her words sounded like idiotic babble. As her husband bent over her, she seized his arm with the hand still live, and with distinctness said:

'Send for Hiram.'

This was in time for the mail which closed in twenty minutes.

Hiram rose the morning after the long session at Mr. Tenant's house, cool and refreshed by his undisturbed slumber. Arriving at his counting room, he received, among his other correspondence, a letter, which read as follows:

My dear Son: Your mother has been taken alarmingly ill. Come home at once.

Your affectionate father,F. Meeker.

What a load off Hiram's mind by the receipt of this brief note! The idea of a fond, devoted mother, struck down by a possibly fatal illness, did not present itself for an instant, or if it did, it was without effect on him.

He breathed a deep relieved respiration, while he articulated, just above a whisper, 'How very Providential!'

The New Haven boat left at one o'clock. Hiram spent a most active morning. Hill was summoned, and kept on the run all the time. No explanations, though, except "a sudden call out of town." Arrangements were made which looked to an absence prolonged into weeks. The bank was visited with reference to what might be required, and the news of his mother's dangerous illness turned to advantage in the most effective way.

All was ready.

It was just half past twelve o'clock. Hiram sat down, and taking up a torn piece of paper, scratched off a blurred and nearly unintelligible scrawl as follows:

12½ P.M.

Dear Emma: I have this moment received the enclosed. I leave in fifteen minutes. Barely time to send this.

H.

This note he despatched by a messenger, and went directly on board the boat. There he found his brother, Dr. Frank, who had also been summoned by his father, although not mentioned in Mrs. Meeker's request. The brothers shook hands. The Doctor's heart was softened by the afflictive intelligence, and Hiram felt in a very placable humor, in consequence of the 'special interposition' that day made in his behalf. They did not converse much, however. Hiram sat most of the time quietly in a corner of the boat, looking over various commercial papers, while Dr. Frank walked up and down the deck, enjoying the cool breeze and the pleasant landscape presented on either side, despite the melancholy thoughts which were from time to time forced on him, in view of the alarming letter he had received. But he was familiar with disease and every corporeal malady. His nature was buoyant and sanguine. He had the confidence of a man of true genius in his own powers, and this did not permit any very grave doubts about the result of his mother's illness.

When Emma Tenant received Hiram's note, she expressed but one feeling, one sensation: that of earnest and profound sympathy from the bottom of a heart earnest and sympathetic.

'Poor Hiram,' she said to herself. 'Poor, dear Hiram. He has been obliged to leave suddenly without a word of consolation and kindness from me. And I was unkind to him last night. I know I was. Poor fellow; but I will make up for it when he comes back. I will never distrust him again. Never.'

The stage reached Hampton at the usual time. The passengers had ridden all night, and now descended glum and stiff to stretch their limbs for breakfast. A nice double wagon stood waiting. It was driven by the younger brother.

'How are you, Ned?' said the Doctor, first getting out. 'How is mother?'

'Oh, very bad, Frank; very bad. Past all hope, the doctors say.'

'What is it?'

'Paralysis.'

'Good God! you don't tell me so?'

The other nodded.

All this time Hiram stood calmly listening, but not saying a word. He was greatly relieved. He felt sure that he could not return to New York for two or three weeks, and—he was to be married in three weeks.

Dr. Frank was the first to enter the sick room. Though a physician, accustomed to every form of disease, he was appalled at the change in his mother's appearance. On this, however, we will not dwell. Mrs. Meeker had been gradually sinking since the first attack. She was quite sensible, however. Dr. Frank approached the bed and kneeled down and addressed his mother tenderly.

The poor woman tried to articulate, and after many efforts, she gasped—'Hiram.'

'He has come,' replied Dr. Frank, 'and will be with you in a moment.'

This seemed to relieve her, and the Doctor proceeded to investigate the case as far as was necessary. There could be but one conclusion—Mrs. Meeker was soon to pass away from this world. She was beyond the reach of medical aid.

Dr. Frank stepped into the sitting room, and beckoned Hiram to go in. Then came a very touching scene. When the mother became conscious of the presence of her darling boy, she essayed to give exhibitions of her feelings. It is impossible to describe these. To have him hold her lifeless hand, to endeavor to press his own with the one which was still in part vital, to pass her fingers over his face, and strive to put her arm around his neck, seemed to render her perfectly happy. But her strength was soon exhausted, and she was obliged to rest. What appeared to afflict her most was that she could not articulate with distinctness. She evidently wished to commune with her son, but it was impossible. She did, however, give utterance to a few words, which were perhaps an index to her thoughts:

'Good—be good—good man,' were plainly intelligible. 'Too worldly—not' * * * (the words were not audible). 'Treasure in heaven—in heaven.'

By which disconnected sentences one might hope, and, I think, reasonably infer that Mrs. Meeker, in view of that eternity for which she had been so long, as she thought, preparing, suddenly saw things in a new and different light, and desired effectually and lovingly, to impress the same on her favorite child. Hiram, during the interview, behaved like a model son—pliant, sorrowful, devoted, affectionate. But it would make you shudder if you could have looked into his heart.

When his mother became exhausted, so as no longer to be sensible of his presence, he stole softly out of the room, and breathed long and freely, as one safely through with some difficult performance or operation.

Meanwhile Dr. Frank was sitting with his father. Very affecting was the interview. The old man had at no time been ready to believe the attending physician, who could give him no hope. When 'Frank' came, he would know all about it. And so he did, but his knowledge could bring no comfort—only a confirmation of what had already been announced.

'She can't recover, father. She can't recover,' and the stout man began to sob. In the presence of his parent he was again a child, and the latter instinctively became consoler. Mr. Meeker, as we have intimated, though old, was not infirm, and it was a curious sight to witness his efforts to comfort his boy, while he himself so much more required sympathy.

So the day passed. The next morning Dr. Frank was obliged to return to the city, for his patients demanded his presence. He first had a consultation with the attending physician. Nothing remained for Mrs. Meeker but wearisome days and nights till death should release her, and all that a medical man could do was to make her as comfortable as possible.

There was a small room adjoining the one where Mrs. Meeker lay, which Hiram took possession of. It had a pleasant window looking out on the garden, and it contained a small cot bedstead, besides a table and chairs. Here Hiram spent most of his time busily occupied. By every mail he received letters from New York, detailing with minuteness just what took place in his affairs from day to day. In short, his private office was moved from New York to Hampton, and the only apparent inconvenience was that he did business at arm's length, as they say. Daily came a letter from Hill, although Hill was not in Hiram's counting room. Daily was an answer returned.

There was some one else who wrote Hiram just as regularly. Among the business letters, written in various hands and on various kinds of paper, could always be seen a small, neatly folded sheet, having a refined and delicate superscription. It was from Emma Tenant. She had forgotten all that was unpleasant and disagreeable in their last interview, on receiving her lover's hurried-looking scrawl, and, as if by a sudden rebound, her sympathies were roused to an extraordinary degree for 'poor Hiram—dear Hiram,' whom she 'treated so coldly' the last time they met. I need not say her notes were full of the most tender sympathy and condolence.

These letters bored Hiram exceedingly. The second day after reaching Hampton he had written Emma another of his hastily got up epistles, which contained just six lines, stating that he had found his mother in a dying condition, and was watching at her bedside. He did not intend to write again, but Emma's letters were so persistent that, despite his resolution, he did despatch two other notes, each more hasty and illegible and more distracted in tenor than the previous one. In fact the last had no signature at all.

At length Emma was so completely carried away by Hiram's distress, that she actually desired to proceed to Hampton, where she felt her presence would act like a balm to his sorrowful and bruised heart. Her mother, of course, would permit no such indiscreet step, so that Emma had to rest satisfied with writing long, loving letters.

Hiram, meantime, was not without his harmless recreations.

[All the town seemed to have been informed how devoted Hiram was to his sick mother. Nobody knew, however, of the secret of the little room adjoining, and of our hero's busy hours there.]

In the cool of the afternoon he would take a walk into the village. He called on his old master, Benjamin Jessup, who still maintained the opposition store as against the Smiths. Jessup was the same good-natured, jovial fellow as ever, but all token of familiarity died away when Hiram, entering his place, saluted him with the quiet air and manner of recognized superiority—yet, as you would say, pleasantly enough. The rich New York shipping merchant inspired the country storekeeper with awe.

Hiram enjoyed all this vastly, and talked amiably with Jessup about old times. He walked complacently over the village, stopping every few steps to have a word with his numerous acquaintances.

One afternoon, as he was taking his usual walk to the village, and had nearly reached it, he met a lady whom at first he did not recognize, but who appeared to know him from a distance.

It was Mary Jessup—now Mrs. Mary Williams—who stopped the way, and whose face crimsoned as she approached. She had been married four or five years—well married, as the phrase is. Her appearance had greatly improved. Her form was finely developed. She had become stouter, and was really more blooming than when she was a girl.

I have said she blushed, but not from any sense of mortification, such as is not unfrequently experienced when one of the sex, feeling conscious that time has not dealt kindly with her, meets an old friend after a lapse of years, and dreads the first scrutinizing gaze. On the contrary, Mary Williams was fully sensible of her improved good looks, and this gave to her a certain self-possession of manner which prevented the least awkwardness on her part.

Still she blushed—from old recollections, doubtless, and because Hiram had not before greeted her as a married woman.

'Why, how do you do, Mr. Meeker? I am very glad to see you, even by accident. I heard of you at father's, and I think you might, for old acquaintance, sake, have stepped in to see me. Mr. Williams, too—you used to know him—would be very glad to see you.'

Mrs. Williams was determined to have the first word, and she took advantage of it. She looked very handsome, and acted more and more at ease as she proceeded, especially after the reference to Mr. Williams.

[Women always like to allude to their husbands in presence of an old admirer; as much as to say, 'Don't think I am without somebody to care for and protect me;' or, 'Don't fancy I mean to forget my husband because I choose to be chattering with you;' or—or—or—a dozen things else.]

Hiram replied in his old artful way, very seriously, and with an air of sadness (as he made allusion to his mother's situation), yet with a touch of embarrassment (all assumed), while his voice assumed a tenderness of feeling which it would seem impossible for him to restrain in consequence of the suddenness of the meeting.

'Is she indeed so ill?' asked Mrs. Williams. 'We understood she was greatly afflicted by a stroke of paralysis, but I had no thought of immediate danger.'

'She cannot live,' replied Hiram, his lips quivering.

'Oh, Mr. Meeker, do not say that. I cannot bear to hear it. You know how attached I always was to your mother.'

'Call me Hiram,' was the response. 'It will put me in mind of old times.'

'Well, I don't know but it is more natural, for I declare I have hardly set eyes on you since you left our house.'

Hiram sighed.

'Well, I suppose I shall not see you again for another five years; so I had best say, 'Good-by.''

They were standing at a point where a lane led off from the main street.

'Which way are you going?' asked Hiram.

'Just a few steps down the lane, and then home.'

'Shall you be detained long?'

'Only a minute. I have just to run in and leave a pattern, if you must know.'

'Then I will walk along with you, if you have no objections. I am out for a little necessary exercise.'

'Objections? why, I shall be delighted.' * * *

They sauntered down the lane to the place indicated by Mrs. Williams, where a sign over the door, 'Fashionable Dressmaker,' explained the feminine nature of her errand. Leaving there, the two walked on till they reached a spot where they used to stroll together in old times.

'Now I think of it,' said Mrs. Williams, as she came out of the house and rejoined her companion, 'I forgot to ask you if you are married, because if you are, I need make no apology for marching you by a dressmaker's establishment.

'Don't you know whether I am married or not?'

'Why, how should I? I certainly think you ought to be by this time. Why don't you marry Miss Burns, or Louise Hawkins, or Charlotte, or—or'—

'Or whom?' asked Hiram.

'Oh, I dare say there are ever so many more, ever so many. So you are not married?'

'Do you think I am, Mary?' * * *

As I was saying, the two sauntered on till they reached a spot that had been favorite ground for their sentimental strolls. Both knew well enough, when Hiram proposed to walk down the lane, where they would land, for it was in both their minds. Mrs. Williams fancied it would amuse her and furnish a little variety. She was very sure of herself, and knew 'just what a flirt Hiram was.'

Hiram—but never mind what he thought.

Although the days were at their longest, it was quite dark before Mrs. Williams reached her own door. She entered it—after a hurried 'good evening' to Hiram—flushed, excited, and with feelings generally disturbed. Contrary to her resolution, in opposition to her judgment, and, I may say, against her will, she listened to the old familiar accents breathed in more impassioned tones than ever before, while relieved by a gloss of sentimental sadness.

What had she been doing, and where had the hours fled? To what was she listening, whose arm did she hold, and whose hand ventured to enclose hers?

[It was 'only in sisterly friendship.' That was Hiram's observation as he took it.]

Before she was aware of it, twilight was disappearing in the darkness.

She started as if recovering herself, and commenced to walk hurriedly toward home. Hiram by no means relished the pace, but he was forced to keep up, and, as I have observed, with an abrupt 'good evening' he was summarily dismissed.

But he had enjoyed himself exceedingly, and he walked slowly toward his house, recalling every little word which, as he believed, disclosed the true state of Mary Williams's affections. Scoundrel that he was, he gave not a thought to what might be the consequence if he persevered in his wicked attempt to interest her. In fact, he made up his mind that it would make the time pass less heavily while he was detained in the neighborhood.

Do not suppose the calculating wretch intended to push the 'flirtation' beyond what he called brotherly and sisterly conduct. Not he. There might arise some charge of criminality or wrong, which would endanger his position, or weaken his claims to the 'kingdom.'

Hiram reached home and found his mother much worse. By signs and every other manifestation in her power, she had intimated her wish to see him. Now she was quite speechless.

When Mrs. Williams entered her house, the 'tea table' was still spread, and her husband wondering what had become of her. Her little girl shouted in a joyful tone as she came in, 'Here is mamma,' and Mr. Williams's countenance was instantly relieved from an expression of suspense.

'Why, Mary, where have you been?'

For an instant Mrs. Williams was on the point of fabricating an answer. But her better angel was on guard just then. The evil spell was dissolved, while she replied, with one of her pleasant laughs:

'You could never guess. I met Hiram Meeker on my way to the dressmaker's. You know he is here attending on his mother. Well, we undertook to stroll over some of our old walks, and, before I knew it, talking about old times and old scenes, it was dark. More fool I for wasting my time and keeping tea waiting.'

'Why did he not come in?'

'To tell you the truth, I never asked him. I was so frightened when I saw how late it was, I hurried away home, and left him at the door to do the same.'

Mary Williams was relieved. She went about the duties of her household with a light heart. And Hiram Meeker, during his stay at Hampton, found no further opportunity for 'brotherly conferences' with her.

CHAPTER VIII

Mrs. Meeker died the next week.

The funeral took place on the day which had been fixed for Hiram's marriage with Emma Tenant. After it was over, William Meeker removed with his wife from the small house to live with his father, and we will say here that both contributed much to make Mr. Meeker's latter days happy.

Hiram did not wait an hour, but took the stage the same afternoon, while Dr. Frank remained with his father over the next day.

One morning, two or three days after his return, Hiram presented himself at the house and inquired for Mrs. Tenant. On this occasion he was cased in a complete suit of the deepest black, with crape reaching to the very top of his hat. He was the picture of despairing grief.

It happened that Emma was not at home, so that Mrs. Tenant was not surprised that she should be sent for. She did not know Hiram had not inquired for her daughter. She came in with the impression that he was all that he should be; his failure to write often being thought quite excusable under the circumstances.

She had not, however, advanced three steps into the room before feeling there was something wrong.

Hiram, regarded in a certain light, presented a most comical, though most lugubrious appearance. He was so completely acting a part that his very looks and gestures, and, in short, the minutest movements of his body, were manifestly 'got up.' One would think an automaton had been employed and set to work to do a certain amount of mourning, and furnish the requisite quantity of family grief.

Nevertheless Mrs. Tenant advanced and greeted Hiram cordially.

He put out the tips of his fingers, produced his pocket handkerchief, as if to be ready for an overflow, but uttered no word, no articulate sound.

This continued for at least five minutes, Mrs. Tenant endeavoring to say something the while by way of condolence.

'I shall never recover from the shock,' at last he ejaculated; 'never!'

He did not look Mrs. Tenant in the face, but kept his eyes fixed on vacancy.

'I am very sorry Emma is not in, but you will not have to wait long,' remarked Mrs. Tenant at last.

'I do not think I shall be able to see her,' said Hiram, with a groan.

'Not see her; not see Emma? Why, what do you mean?' exclaimed the mother, now fully roused.

'This is no period to devote myself to things of time and sense. I feel that all my thoughts should be centred on eternity.'

[You should have seen the activity Hiram had been displaying in his counting room since his return.]

This was enough for Mrs. Tenant. She understood him now, and determined to bring matters at once to a crisis.

'Mr. Meeker,' she said, 'will you be so kind as to step with me into the library a few moments?'

Hiram acquiesced.

She rang the bell, and said to the servant:

'When Miss Tenant comes in, request her to go to my room, and wait for me there.

'Now, Mr. Meeker,' she said, as soon as they were seated, 'let me ask you a plain question: Is it your intention to break your engagement with my daughter?'

'Really, ma'am, I do not wish to speak on the subject at present,' whispered Hiram, looking at the crape on his hat.

'But you must, you shall speak. Do you think you can trifle with me, sir?'

Hiram was silent.

'Speak! I say. Do you intend to keep your engagement with my daughter?'

Thus invoked, Hiram murmured something about—'under the circumstances'—his 'great affliction'—'change in your own family'—'business troubles'—'not sure of his own situation'—'perhaps it would be best not to consider it a positive engagement'—'that is, for the present'—'after a season should'—

The street-door bell rang, and Mrs. Tenant heard not another word. Her heart scarcely beat as she listened to the footsteps of the old servant along the hall. Agitated by a rush of tumultuous emotions, she was unable to breathe during the short parley between Emma and the domestic.

At length she heard the welcome sound of Emma's step up the staircase, and she drew a long full breath of relief. Then she started up and rang the bell sharply, yes, furiously, and remained standing till the servant, with quickened pace, came in.

'William, show Mr. Meeker the door.'

Hiram sprang to his feet. He did not like the general look matters were assuming.

'Go,' said Mrs. Tenant, pointing to the entrance.

In less than a quarter of a minute Hiram was walking down the street.

'It is over with me, anyhow,' he muttered.

But for once in his life he felt very small. 'To be turned out of doors by a woman; still, nobody will know it.' He was soon busy in his counting room, examining one of Hill's invoices.

Mrs. Tenant threw herself on the sofa, and was apparently lost in thought for several minutes. Then she rose and went to her daughter.