CHAPTER FORTY
THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
When the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable, and
tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased affection
which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of trouble. They
put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward making that last
year a happy one.
The pleasantest room in the house was set apart for Beth, and in it was
gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano, the
little worktable, and the beloved pussies. Father’s best books found their
way there, Mother’s easy chair, Jo’s desk, Amy’s finest sketches, and every
day Meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for
Aunty Beth. John quietly set apart a little sum, that he might enjoy the
pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed
for. Old Hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a
capricious appetite, dropping tears as she worked, and from across the sea
came little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth
and fragrance from lands that know no winter.
Here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat Beth, tranquil and
busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature, and even
while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for those who
should remain behind. The feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her
pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to
and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple
hands, a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for
young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-
loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of
the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and
came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above
there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and
needs. If Beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little faces
always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little
letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.
The first few months were very happy ones, and Beth often used to look
round, and say “How beautiful this is!” as they all sat together in her sunny
room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and sisters
working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old
books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable
now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a paternal priest
taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that
hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation possible. Simple
sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who listened, for the
father’s heart was in the minister’s religion, and the frequent falter in the
voice gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.
It was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation
for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, Beth said the needle was ‘so
heavy’, and put it down forever. Talking wearied her, faces troubled her,
pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully
perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh. Ah me! Such heavy days,
such long, long nights, such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when
those who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to
them beseechingly, to hear the bitter cry, “Help me, help me!” and to feel
that there was no help. A sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of
the young life with death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the
natural rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever. With
the wreck of her frail body, Beth’s soul grew strong, and though she said
little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim
called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore, trying to
see the Shining Ones coming to receive her when she crossed the river.
Jo never left her for an hour since Beth had said “I feel stronger when
you are here.” She slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the
fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for
anything, and ‘tried not to be a trouble’. All day she haunted the room,
jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any
honor her life ever brought her. Precious and helpful hours to Jo, for now
her heart received the teaching that it needed. Lessons in patience were so
sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them, charity for all, the
lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty
that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but
trusts undoubtingly.
Often when she woke Jo found Beth reading in her well-worn little book,
heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her lean her
face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the transparent
fingers, and Jo would lie watching her with thoughts too deep for tears,
feeling that Beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself
from the dear old life, and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred words
of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.
Seeing this did more for Jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns,
the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter. For with eyes made
clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest sorrow, she
recognized the beauty of her sister’s life—uneventful, unambitious, yet full
of the genuine virtues which ‘smell sweet, and blossom in the dust’, the
self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in
heaven, the true success which is possible to all.
One night when Beth looked among the books upon her table, to find
something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard
to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, Pilgrims’s
Progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in Jo’s hand. The name
caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had
fallen on it.
“Poor Jo! She’s fast asleep, so I won’t wake her to ask leave. She shows
me all her things, and I don’t think she’ll mind if I look at this”, thought
Beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside
her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.
MY BETH
Sitting patient in the shadow
Till the blessed light shall come,
A serene and saintly presence
Sanctifies our troubled home.
Earthly joys and hopes and sorrows
Break like ripples on the strand
Of the deep and solemn river
Where her willing feet now stand.
O my sister, passing from me,
Out of human care and strife,
Leave me, as a gift, those virtues
Which have beautified your life.
Dear, bequeath me that great patience
Which has power to sustain
A cheerful, uncomplaining spirit
In its prison-house of pain.
Give me, for I need it sorely,
Of that courage, wise and sweet,
Which has made the path of duty
Green beneath your willing feet.
Give me that unselfish nature,
That with charity divine
Can pardon wrong for love’s dear sake—
Meek heart, forgive me mine!
Thus our parting daily loseth
Something of its bitter pain,
And while learning this hard lesson,
My great loss becomes my gain.
For the touch of grief will render
My wild nature more serene,
Give to life new aspirations,
A new trust in the unseen.
Henceforth, safe across the river,
I shall see forever more
A beloved, household spirit
Waiting for me on the shore.
Hope and faith, born of my sorrow,
Guardian angels shall become,
And the sister gone before me
By their hands shall lead me home.
Blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought a
look of inexpressible comfort to Beth’s face, for her one regret had been
that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that her life had not
been useless, that her death would not bring the despair she feared. As she
sat with the paper folded between her hands, the charred log fell asunder. Jo
started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping Beth slept.
“Not asleep, but so happy, dear. See, I found this and read it. I knew you
wouldn’t care. Have I been all that to you, Jo?” she asked, with wistful,
humble earnestness.
“Oh, Beth, so much, so much!” and Jo’s head went down upon the pillow
beside her sister’s.
“Then I don’t feel as if I’d wasted my life. I’m not so good as you make
me, but I have tried to do right. And now, when it’s too late to begin even to
do better, it’s such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and
feels as if I’d helped them.”
“More than any one in the world, Beth. I used to think I couldn’t let you
go, but I’m learning to feel that I don’t lose you, that you’ll be more to me
than ever, and death can’t part us, though it seems to.”
“I know it cannot, and I don’t fear it any longer, for I’m sure I shall be
your Beth still, to love and help you more than ever. You must take my
place, Jo, and be everything to Father and Mother when I’m gone. They will
turn to you, don’t fail them, and if it’s hard to work alone, remember that I
don’t forget you, and that you’ll be happier in doing that than writing
splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is the only thing that we can
carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy.”
“I’ll try, Beth.” and then and there Jo renounced her old ambition,
pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of other
desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of love.
So the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth
greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time to
say goodbye to Beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands
that had led her all her life, as Father and Mother guided her tenderly
through the Valley of the Shadow, and gave her up to God.
Seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions,
or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many
parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as
sleep. As Beth had hoped, the ‘tide went out easily’, and in the dark hour
before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she
quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.
With tears and prayers and tender hands, Mother and sisters made her
ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with
grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patience
that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent joy that to
their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.
When morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out,
Jo’s place was empty, and the room was very still. But a bird sang blithely
on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the
window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over the
placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace that those who
loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked God that Beth was well
at last.
