Mr. Graham sat by his daughter's bed, with his elbow resting on her
pillow and his head drooped on his hand. It was noon, and sunshine
sparkled out of doors; but here the heavy curtains swept across the
windows and cast a lurid light over the sickroom. His heart ached as
he looked upon the wreck of his once brilliant and beautiful child,
and he shaded his face to conceal the tears which stole down his
furrowed cheeks. The restless sufferer threw up her arms over the
pillow, and, turning toward him, said in a voice sharpened by
disease:
"Has mother gone? I want to say something to you."
"We are alone, my child; speak to me freely."
"There are a few things I wish to have arranged, and my time is
short. You have never refused me any gratification I desired, and I
know you will grant my last request. Father, if I were a bride to-
day, what would be my portion of the estate? How much would you give
me?"
"I would give every cent I possess to purchase you a life of
happiness."
"You do not understand me. I have always been considered an heiress,
and I want to know how much I would be entitled to, if I should
live? Of course Eugene has an equal share. How much is it?"
"About eighty thousand dollars apiece, I suppose, leaving as much
for your mother. Why do you ask, my daughter?"
"Eighty thousand dollars. How much good might be done with it, if
judiciously distributed and invested! Father, I shall not live to
squander it in frivolous amusements or superfluous luxuries. Are you
willing that I should dispose of a portion of it before my death?"
"Yes, Cornelia, if it will afford you any gratification. My poor,
afflicted child; how can I deny you anything you choose to ask?"
She put up one arm around his neck, and, drawing his head close to
her, said earnestly:
"I only wish to use a part of it. Father, I want to leave Beulah
about five thousand dollars. That sum will enable her to live more
comfortably, and labor less, and I should like to feel, before I
die, that I had been the means of assisting her. Will you invest
that amount in stocks for her, or pay the money into her own hands?
Will you see that it is arranged so that she will certainly receive
it, no matter what happens?"
"Yes, I promise you that she shall have five thousand dollars, to
dispose of as she thinks proper."
"She is proud, and will not receive it willingly; but you must
arrange it so that she will be benefited by it. Father, can you do
this for me?"
"Yes, without difficulty, I think."
"Let it be kept secret, will you?"
"Rest assured it shall have no unnecessary publicity."
"See that it is conveyed to her so securely that no quibbles of law
can wrest it from her at any future day, for none of us knows what
may happen."
"I promise you she shall have it if I live twelve hours longer."
"Then I want five thousand more given to the orphan asylum. Give it
in your own name. You only have the right to give. Don't have my
name mentioned in the matter. Will you promise me this also?"
"Yes; it shall all be done. Is there anything else?"
"Thank you, that is all, as regards money matters. Raise my pillow a
little; there, that will do. Father, can't you do something to save
Eugene? You must see now how reckless he is growing."
"Recently I have expostulated with him, and he seemed disposed to
reform his habits. Acknowledged that his associations had been
injurious, and regretted the excesses into which he had been led. He
has been rather wild since he came from college; but I think, now he
is married, he will sober down. That is one reason why I encouraged
his marrying so early. Intemperance is his only fault, and I trust
his good sense will soon lead him to correct it." A smothered sigh
concluded the sentence.
"Father, Antoinette is not the woman to reform him. Don't trust to
her influence; if you do, Eugene will be ruined. Watch over him
closely yourself; try to win him away from the haunts of
dissipation; I tell you now his wife will never do it. She has duped
you and my mother as to her character, but you will find that she is
as utterly heartless as her own mother was. I always opposed the
match, because I probed her mask of dissimulation, and knew Eugene
could not be happy with her. But the mistake is irretrievable, and
it only remains for you to watch him the more carefully. Lift me,
father; I can't breathe easily. There is the doctor on the steps; I am
too tired to talk any more to-day."
One week later, as Beulah was spending her Sabbath evening in her
own apartment, she was summoned to see her friend for the last time.
It was twilight when she reached Mr. Graham's house and glided
noiselessly up the thickly carpeted stairway. The bells were all
muffled, and a solemn stillness reigned over the mansion. She left
her bonnet and shawl in the hall, and softly entered the chamber
unannounced. Unable to breathe in a horizontal position, Cornelia
was bolstered up in her easychair. Her mother sat near her, with her
face hid on her husband's bosom. Dr. Hartwell leaned against the
mantel, and Eugene stood on the hearth opposite him, with his head
bowed down on his hands. Cornelia drew her breath in quick gasps,
and cold drops glistened on her pallid face. Her sunken eyes
wandered over the group, and when Beulah drew near she extended her
hands eagerly, while a shadowy smile passed swiftly over her
sharpened features.
"Beulah, come close to me--close." She grasped her hands tightly,
and Beulah knelt at the side of her chair.
"Beulah, in a little while I shall be at rest. You will rejoice to
see me free from pain, won't you? I have suffered for so many months
and years. But death is about to release me forever. Beulah, is it
forever?--is it forever? Am I going down into an eternal sleep, on a
marble couch, where grass and flowers will wave over me, and the sun
shine down on me? Yes, it must be so. Who has ever waked from this
last dreamless slumber? Abel was the first to fall asleep, and since
then, who has wakened? No one. Earth is full of pale sleepers; and I
am soon to join the silent band."
There was a flickering light in her eyes, like the flame of a candle
low in its socket, and her panting breath was painful to listen to.
"Cornelia, they say Jesus of Nazareth slept, and woke again; if so,
you will--"
"Ha, but you don't believe that, Beulah. They say, they say! Yes.
but I never believed them before, and I don't want to believe them
now. I will not believe it. It is too late to tell me that now.
Beulah, I shall know very soon; the veil of mystery is being lifted.
Oh, Beulah, I am glad I am going; glad I shall soon have no more
sorrow and pain; but it is all dark, dark! You know what I mean.
Don't live as I have, believing nothing. No matter what your creed
may be, hold fast, have firm faith in it. It is because I believe in
nothing that I am so clouded now. Oh, it is such a dark, dark,
lonely way! If I had a friend to go with me I should not shrink
back; but oh, Beulah, I am so solitary! It seems to me I am going
out into a great starless midnight." She shivered, and her cold
fingers clutched Beulah's convulsively.
"Calm yourself, Cornelia. If Christianity is true, God will see that
you were honest in your skepticism, and judge you leniently. If not,
then death is annihilation, and you have nothing to dread; you will
sink into quiet oblivion of all your griefs."
"Annihilation! then I shall see you all no more! Oh, why was I ever
created, to love others, and then be torn away forever, and go back
to senseless dust? I never have been happy; I have always had
aspirations after purer, higher enjoyments than earth could afford
me, and must they be lost in dead clay? Oh, Beulah, can you give me
no comfort but this? Is this the sum of all your study, as well as
mine? Ah, it is vain, useless; man can find out nothing. We are all
blind; groping our way through mysterious paths, and now I am going
into the last--the great mystery!"
She shook her head with a bitter smile, and closed her eyes, as if
to shut out some hideous specter. Dr. Hartwell gave her a spoonful
of some powerful medicine, and stood watching her face, distorted by
the difficulty of breathing. A long silence ensued, broken only by
the sobs of the parents. Cornelia leaned back, with closed eyes, and
now and then her lips moved, but nothing intelligible escaped them.
It was surprising how she seemed to rally sometimes, and breathe
with perfect ease; then the paroxysms would come on more violent
than ever. Beulah knelt on the floor, with her forehead resting on
the arm of the chair, and her hands still grasped in the firm hold
of the dying girl. Time seemed to stand still to watch the issue,
for moments were long as hours to the few friends of the sufferer.
Beulah felt as if her heart were leaden, and a band of burning iron
seemed drawn about her brow. Was this painful parting to be indeed
eternal? Was there no future home for the dead of this world? Should
the bands of love and friendship, thus rudely severed, be renewed no
more? Was there no land where the broken links might be gathered up
again? What did philosophy say of these grim hours of struggle and
separation? Nothing--absolutely nothing! Was she to see her sister
no more? Was a moldering mass of dust all that remained of the
darling dead--the beautiful angel Lilly, whom she had so idolized?
Oh! was life, then, a great mockery, and the soul, with its noble
aims and impulses, but a delicate machine of matter? Her brain was
in a wild, maddening whirl; she could not weep; her eyes were dry
and burning. Cornelia moved an instant, and murmured audibly:
"'For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come.' Ah!
what is its name? that 'continuing city'! Necropolis?" Again she
remained for some time speechless.
Dr. Hartwell softly wiped away the glistening drops on her brow,
and, opening her eyes, she looked up at him intently. It was an
imploring gaze, which mutely said: "Can't you help me?" He leaned
over, and answered it, sadly enough:
"Courage, Cornelia! It will very soon be over now. The worst is
past, my friend."
"Yes; I know. There is a chill creeping over me. Where is Eugene?"
He came and stood near her; his face full of anguish, which could
not vent itself in tears. Her features became convulsed as she
looked at him; a wailing cry broke from her lips; and, extending her
arms toward him, she said sobbingly:
"Shall I see you no more--no more? Oh, Eugene, my brother, my pride,
my dearest hope! whom I have loved better than my own life, are we
now parted forever--forever!"
He laid her head on his bosom, and endeavored to soothe her; but,
clinging to him, she said huskily:
"Eugene, with my last breath I implore you; forsake your intemperate
companions. Shun them and their haunts. Let me die feeling that at
least my dying prayer will save you! Oh, when I am gone; when I am
silent in the graveyard, remember how the thought of your
intemperance tortured me! Remember how I remonstrated and entreated
you not to ruin yourself! Remember that I loved you above everything
on earth; and that, in my last hour, I prayed you to save yourself!
Oh, Eugene, for my sake! for my sake! quit the wine-cup, and leave
drunkenness for others more degraded!--Promise me!--Where are you?--
Oh, it is all cold and dark!--I can't see you!--Eugene, promise!
promise!--Eugene--"
Her eyes were riveted on his, and her lips moved for some seconds;
then the clasping arms gradually relaxed; the gasps ceased. Eugene
felt a long shudder creep over the limbs, a deep, heavy sigh passed
her lips, and Cornelia Graham's soul was with its God.
Ah! after twenty-three years of hope and fear, struggling and
questioning, what an exit! Eugene lifted the attenuated form and
placed it on the bed; then threw himself into her vacant chair, and
sobbed like a broken-hearted child. Mr. Graham took his wife from
the room; and, after some minutes, Dr. Hartwell touched the kneeling
figure, with the face still pressed against the chair Eugene now
occupied.
"Come, Beulah; she will want you no more."
She lifted a countenance so full of woe that, as he looked at her,
the moisture gathered in his eyes, and he put his hand tenderly on
her head, saying:
"Come with me, Beulah."
"And this is death? Oh, my God, save me from such a death!"
She clasped her hands over her eyes, and shivered; then, rising from
her kneeling posture, threw herself on a couch, and buried her face
in its cushions. That long night of self-communion was never
forgotten.
The day of the funeral was cold, dark, and dismal. A January wind
howled through the streets, and occasional drizzling showers
enhanced the gloom. The parlors and sitting room were draped, and on
the marble slab of one of the tables stood the coffin, covered with
a velvet pall. Once before Beulah had entered a room similarly
shrouded; and it seemed but yesterday that she stood beside Lilly's
rigid form. She went in alone, and waited some moments near the
coffin, striving to calm the wild tumult of conflicting sorrows in
her oppressed heart; then lifted the covering and looked on the
sleeper. Wan, waxen, and silent. No longer the fitful sleep of
disease, nor the refreshing slumber of health, but the still iciness
of ruthless death. The black locks were curled around the forehead,
and the beautiful hands folded peacefully over the heart that should
throb no more with the anguish of earth. Death had smoothed the brow
and put the trembling mouth at rest, and every feature was in
repose. In life she had never looked so placidly beautiful.
"What availed all her inquiries, and longings, and defiant cries?
She died, no nearer the truth than when she began. She died without
hope and without knowledge. Only death could unseal the mystery,"
thought Beulah, as she looked at the marble face and recalled the
bitterness of its lifelong expression. Persons began to assemble;
gradually the rooms filled. Beulah bent down and kissed the cold
lips for the last time, and, lowering her veil, retired to a dim
corner. She was very miserable, but her eyes were tearless, and she
sat, she knew not how long, unconscious of what passed around her.
She heard the stifled sobs of the bereaved parents as in a painful
dream; and when the solemn silence was broken she started, and saw a
venerable man, a stranger, standing at the head of the coffin; and
these words fell upon her ears like a message from another world:
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; and he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and
whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die!"
Cornelia had not believed; was she utterly lost? Beulah asked
herself this question, and shrank from the answer. She did not
believe; would she die as Cornelia died, without comfort? Was there
but one salvation? When the coffin was borne out, and the procession
formed, she went on mechanically, and found herself seated in a
carriage with Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters. She sank back in
one corner, and the long line of carriages, extending for many
squares, slowly wound through the streets. The wind wailed and
sobbed, as if in sympathy, and the rain drizzled against the window
glass. When the procession reached the cemetery, it was too wet to
think of leaving the carriages, but Beulah could see the coffin
borne from the hearse, and heard the subdued voice of the minister;
and when the shrouded form of the only child was lowered into its
final resting-place, she groaned, and hid her face in her hands.
Should they meet no more? Hitherto Mrs. Asbury had forborne to
address her, but now she passed her arm round the shuddering form,
and said gently:
"My dear Beulah, do not look so hopelessly wretched. In the midst of
life we are in death; but God has given a promise to cheer us all in
sad scenes like this. St. John was told to write, 'From henceforth,
blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, for they rest from, their
labors.'"
"And do you think she is lost forever because she did not believe?
Do you? Can you?" cried Beulah vehemently.
"Beulah, she had the Bible, which promises eternal life. If she
entirely rejected it, she did so voluntarily and deliberately; but
only God knows the heart--only her Maker can judge her. I trust that
even in the last hour the mists rolled from her mind."
Beulah knew better, but said nothing; it was enough to have
witnessed that darkened soul's last hour on earth. As the carriage
stopped at her door Mrs. Asbury said:
"My dear Beulah, stay with me to-night. I think I can help you to
find what you are seeking so earnestly."
Beulah shrank back, and answered:
"No, no. No one can help me; I must help myself. Some other time I
will come."
The rain fell heavily as she reached her own home, and she went to
her room with a heaviness of heart almost unendurable. She sat down
on the rug before the fire, and threw her arms up over a chair, as
she was wont to do in childhood; and, as she remembered that the
winter rain now beat pitilessly on the grave of one who had never
known privation, nor aught of grief that wealth could shield her
from, she moaned bitterly. What lamp had philosophy hung in the
sable chambers of the tomb? The soul was impotent to explain its
origin--how, then, could it possibly read the riddle of final
destiny? Psychologists had wrangled for ages over the question of
'ideas.' Were infants born with or without them? Did ideas arise or
develop them selves independently of experience? The affirmation or
denial of this proposition alone distinguished the numerous schools,
which had so long wrestled with psychology; and if this were
insolvable, how could human intellect question further? Could it
bridge the gulf of Death, and explore the shores of Eternity?