CHAPTER XII.
AN INTRODUCTION.
I woke one morning, after a sound sleep,--not so sound, however, but that
I had been dreaming, and that, when I awoke, I could recall my dream. It
was a very odd one. I thought I was a hen, strutting about amongst ricks
of corn, picking here and scratching there, followed by a whole brood
of chickens, toward which I felt exceedingly benevolent and attentive.
Suddenly I heard the scream of a hawk in the air above me, and instantly
gave the proper cry to fetch the little creatures under my wings. They
came scurrying to me as fast as their legs could carry them,--all but one,
which wouldn't mind my cry, although I kept repeating it again and again.
Meantime the hawk kept screaming; and I felt as if I didn't care for any
of those that were safe under my wings, but only for the solitary creature
that kept pecking away as if nothing was the matter. About it I grew so
terribly anxious, that at length I woke with a cry of misery and terror.
The moment I opened my eyes, there was my mother standing beside me. The
room was so dark that I thought for a moment what a fog there must be; but
the next, I forgot every thing at hearing a little cry, which I verily
believe, in my stupid dream, I had taken for the voice of the hawk; whereas
it was the cry of my first and only chicken, which I had not yet seen, but
which my mother now held in her grandmotherly arms, ready to hand her to
me. I dared not speak; for I felt very weak, and was afraid of crying from
delight. I looked in my mother's face; and she folded back the clothes, and
laid the baby down beside me, with its little head resting on my arm.
"Draw back the curtain a little bit, mother dear," I whispered, "and let me
see what it is like."
I believe I said _it_, for I was not quite a mother yet. My mother did
as I requested; a ray of clear spring light fell upon the face of the
little white thing by my side,--for white she was, though most babies are
red,--and if I dared not speak before, I could not now. My mother went
away again, and sat down by the fireside, leaving me with my baby. Never
shall I forget the unutterable content of that hour. It was not gladness,
nor was it thankfulness, that filled my heart, but a certain absolute
contentment,--just on the point, but for my want of strength, of blossoming
into unspeakable gladness and thankfulness. Somehow, too, there was mingled
with it a sense of dignity, as if I had vindicated for myself a right
to a part in the creation; for was I not proved at least a link in the
marvellous chain of existence, in carrying on the designs of the great
Maker? Not that the thought was there,--only the feeling, which afterwards
found the thought, in order to account for its own being. Besides, the
state of perfect repose after what had passed was in itself bliss; the very
sense of weakness was delightful, for I had earned the right to be weak, to
rest as much as I pleased, to be important, and to be congratulated.
Somehow I had got through. The trouble lay behind me; and here, for the
sake of any one who will read my poor words, I record the conviction, that,
in one way or other, special individual help is given to every creature
to endure to the end. I think I have heard my father say, and hitherto it
has been my own experience, that always when suffering, whether mental or
bodily, approached the point where further endurance appeared impossible,
the pulse of it began to ebb, and a lull ensued. I do not venture to found
any general assertion upon this: I only state it as a fact of my own
experience. He who does not allow any man to be tempted above that he is
able to bear, doubtless acts in the same way in all kinds of trials.
I was listening to the gentle talk about me in the darkened room--not
listening, indeed, only aware that loving words were spoken. Whether I was
dozing, I do not know; but something touched my lips. I did not start. I
had been dreadfully given to starting for a long time,--so much so that I
was quite ashamed sometimes, for I would even cry out,--I who had always
been so sharp on feminine affectations before; but now it seemed as if
nothing could startle me. I only opened my eyes; and there was my great
big huge bear looking down on me, with something in his eyes I had never
seen there before. But even his presence could not ripple the waters of my
deep rest. I gave him half a smile,--I knew it was but half a smile, but I
thought it would do,--closed my eyes, and sunk again, not into sleep, but
into that same blessed repose. I remember wondering if I should feel any
thing like that for the first hour or two after I was dead. May there not
one day be such a repose for all,--only the heavenly counterpart, coming of
perfect activity instead of weary success?
This was all but the beginning of endlessly varied pleasures. I dare say
the mothers would let me go on for a good while in this direction,--perhaps
even some of the fathers could stand a little more of it; but I must
remember, that, if anybody reads this at all, it will have multitudes of
readers in whom the chord which could alone respond to such experiences
hangs loose over the sounding-board of their being.
By slow degrees the daylight, the light of work, that is, began to
penetrate me, or rather to rise in my being from its own hidden sun. First
I began to wash and dress my baby myself. One who has not tried that
kind of amusement cannot know what endless pleasure it affords. I do not
doubt that to the paternal spectator it appears monotonous, unproductive,
unprogressive; but then he, looking upon it from the outside, and regarding
the process with a speculative compassion, and not with sympathy, so cannot
know the communion into which it brings you with the baby. I remember well
enough what my father has written about it in "The Seaboard Parish;" but he
is all wrong--I mean him to confess that before this is printed. If things
were done as he proposes, the tenderness of mothers would be far less
developed, and the moral training of children would be postponed to an
indefinite period. There, papa! that's something in your own style!
Next I began to order the dinners; and the very day on which I first
ordered the dinner, I took my place at the head of the table. A happier
little party--well, of course, I saw it all through the rose-mists of
my motherhood, but I am nevertheless bold to assert that my husband was
happy, and that my mother was happy; and if there was one more guest at
the table concerning whom I am not prepared to assert that he was happy,
I can confidently affirm that he was merry and gracious and talkative,
originating three parts of the laughter of the evening. To watch him with
the baby was a pleasure even to the heart of a mother, anxious as she must
be when any one, especially a gentleman, more especially a bachelor, and
most especially a young bachelor, takes her precious little wax-doll in
his arms, and pretends to know all about the management of such. It was he
indeed who introduced her to the dining-room; for, leaving the table during
dessert, he returned bearing her in his arms, to my astonishment, and even
mild maternal indignation at the liberty. Resuming his seat, and pouring
out for his charge, as he pretended, a glass of old port, he said in the
soberest voice:--
"Charles Percivale, with all the solemnity suitable to the occasion, I,
the old moon, with the new moon in my arms, propose the health of Miss
Percivale on her first visit to this boring bullet of a world. By the way,
what a mercy it is that she carries her atmosphere with her!"
Here I, stupidly thinking he reflected on the atmosphere of baby, rose to
take her from him with suppressed indignation; for why should a man, who
assumes a baby unbidden, be so very much nicer than a woman who accepts her
as given, and makes the best of it? But he declined giving her up.
"I'm not pinching her," he said.
"No; but I am afraid you find her disagreeable."
"On the contrary, she is the nicest of little ladies; for she lets you talk
all the nonsense you like, and never takes the least offence."
I sat down again directly.
"I propose her health," he repeated, "coupled with that of her mother,
to whom I, for one, am more obliged than I can explain, for at length
convincing me that I belong no more to the youth of my country, but am an
uncle with a homuncle in his arms."
"Wifie, your health! Baby, yours too!" said my husband; and the ladies
drank the toast in silence.
It is time I explained who this fourth--or should I say fifth?--person in
our family party was. He was the younger brother of my Percivale, by name
Roger,--still more unsuccessful than he; of similar trustworthiness, but
less equanimity; for he was subject to sudden elevations and depressions
of the inner barometer. I shall have more to tell about him by and by.
Meantime it is enough to mention that my daughter--how grand I thought it
when I first said _my daughter_!--now began her acquaintance with him.
Before long he was her chief favorite next to her mother and--I am sorry
I cannot conscientiously add _father_; for, at a certain early period of
her history, the child showed a decided preference for her uncle over her
father.
But it is time I put a stop to this ooze of maternal memories. Having thus
introduced my baby and her Uncle Roger, I close the chapter.
