THE ANGEL OF THE PINES.
The unexpected arrival of their master’s sister and her cortége at “The
Pines,” as Mr. Delafield’s plantation was called, produced quite a
sensation among the blacks, who hastened to receive their guests with
many demonstrations of joy, rather more affected than real, for Mrs.
Lansing was not very popular with them. Halbert and Jessie, on the
contrary, were general favorites among the servants, who thought them
little less than angels, particularly Jessie, who, with her sweet, young
face, laughing eyes, and wavy hair, flitted like a sunbeam from cabin to
cabin, asking after this old Aunty, or that old Uncle, and screaming
with delight when in one hut she found _three babies_, all of an age,
and belonging to the same mother, who boasted of having given to her
master “fifteen as likely girls and boys as there were in Georgy.”
As yet the triplets had no names, but the arrival of the family
suggested a new idea to Hannah, who, seating herself by Jessie, proposed
that they be called, “Richard Delafield, Ada Montrose, and Jessie
Lansing.”
With the first and last the little girl was well pleased, but she
objected to the middle name, and taking one of the infants upon her lap,
she told the story of her beloved teacher, who was dying at Cedar Grove,
and asked that the child she held might be called for her. So, baptized
by Jessie’s tears, which fell like rain upon its dark and wrinkled face,
the babe was christened “Rosa Lee.”
The house which Mrs. Lansing termed her country residence (for she
always spoke of her brother’s possessions as her own), was a large,
double log building, containing nothing very elegant in the way of
furniture, but still presenting an air of neatness and comfort; for
_Aunt Dinah_, who had charge of it, prided herself upon keeping it neat
and clean, as her master was likely to come upon her at any time without
warning, and she liked to impress him with her rare qualifications as
housekeeper. With Mrs. Lansing, however, she was less pleased, but still
as the sister of “Mars’r Richard,” she was entitled to consideration,
and now in high turban, and all the dignity of her position, the old
lady bustled about from room to room, jingling her keys, kicking the
dogs, cuffing the woolly pate of any luckless wight who chanced to be in
her way, and occasionally stooping down to kiss little Jessie, who,
being of rather a domestic turn, followed her from place to place,
herself assisting in spreading the supper table, which, with its snowy
cloth, corn cake, iced milk, hot coffee, and smoking steaks, soon
presented a most inviting aspect.
Relieved of their fears and thinking themselves beyond the reach of
danger, Mrs. Lansing and Ada gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the
hour, talking and laughing gaily, without a thought of the sick girl
they had left behind, and who that night was to have been a bride. Once,
indeed, when after sunset they were assembled upon the rude piazza, Ada
spoke of her, wondering if she were _dead_, and how long it would be ere
Dr. Clayton would marry another! Such is the world, to which Ada formed
no exception, for how often do we hear the future companion of a
broken-hearted man selected, even before the wife of his bosom is
removed forever from his sight!
For a long time Mrs. Lansing sat there with Ada and her children,
talking on indifferent subjects and occasionally congratulating herself
that they were beyond reach of the fever, unless, indeed, Jessie had
contracted it by her foolish carelessness! On her lap rested the little
golden head of the child, who was humming snatches of “The Happy Land,”
a favorite song which her uncle had taught her, and which she had often
sung with her teacher, asking numerous questions concerning the better
world, where
“Saints in glory stand,
Bright, bright as day,”
and wondering if, when she died, Jesus would take her there to sing,
“Worthy is our Saviour King.”
Very naturally, now, her thoughts reverted to her governess, and as she
listened to the whispering wind sighing through the trees, she fancied
it was the voice of Rose bidding her, “come to the Happy Land.” Sweet
little Jessie, it was the voices of angel children, which you heard thus
calling through the pines; for from their shining ranks one beauteous
form was missing, and they would fain allure it back to its native sky.
Come I now to the saddest part of my story. Beneath the evergreens of
the sunny South is a little mound, over which the shining stars keep
watch, and the cypress spreads its long green boughs, while the children
of the plantation, dark browed though they are, tread softly near that
grave, which they daily strew with flowers, speaking in low tones of
“the Angel of the Pines,” as they term the fair young girl, who passed
so suddenly from their midst. It was now nearly five weeks since Mrs.
Lansing had fled from the pestilence which walked at noonday, and though
it had in a measure abated in the village, there were still frequent
cases, and she would not have deemed it safe to return, even if typhoid
fever, which she feared nearly as much, had not been in her own house.
So there was no alternative but to stay, uncomfortable though she was,
for the weather was intensely hot, and she missed many of the luxuries
of her home. Still it was healthy there, and this in a measure
reconciled her to remain. Occasionally, it is true, she heard rumors of
the cholera, on some distant plantation, but it seldom visited the pine
regions—it would not come there; she was sure of that; and secure in
this belief, she rested in comparative quiet, while each day the heat
became more and more intense. The sun came up red, fiery, and heated
like a furnace; the clouds gave forth no rain; the brooks were dried up;
the leaves withered upon the trees, while the air was full of humming
insects, which at night fed upon their helpless, sleeping victims.
At the close of one of these scorching, sultry days, Mrs. Lansing and
Ada sat upon the piazza, panting for a breath of pure, cool air. At the
side of each stood a negro girl, industriously fanning their mistresses,
who scolded them as if they were to blame, because the air thus set in
motion was hot and burning as the winds which blow over the great desert
of Sahara. As they sat there thus, an old man came up from the negro
quarters, saying “his woman done got sick wid the cramps,” and he wished
“his mistis jest come down see her.”
But Mrs. Lansing felt herself too languid for exertion of any kind, and
telling Uncle Abel that she herself was fully as sick as his wife, who
was undoubtedly feigning, she sent him back with a sinking heart to the
rude cabin, where his old wife lay, groaning aloud whenever the
_cramps_, as she termed them, seized her. Scarcely, however, had he
entered the low doorway, when a fairy form came flitting down the narrow
pathway, her white dress gleaming through the dusky twilight, and her
golden hair streaming out behind. It was little Jessie, who, from her
crib, had heard her mother’s refusal to accompany Uncle Abel, and,
stealing away unobserved, she had come herself to see Aunt Chloe, with
whom she was quite a favorite.
Unaccustomed as Jessie was to sickness, she saw at a glance that this
was no ordinary case, and, kneeling down beside the negress, who lay
upon the floor, she took her head upon her lap, and gently pushing back,
beneath the gay turban, the matted, grizzly hair, she asked where the
pain was.
“Bress de sweet chile,” answered Chloe, “you can’t tache me with the
pint of a cambric needle whar ’tain’t, and seems ef ebery jint in me was
onsoderin’ when de cramp is on.”
As if to verify the truth of this remark, she suddenly bent up nearly
double, and rolling upon her face, groaned aloud. At this moment a
negro, who had gained some notoriety among his companions as a
physician, came in, and after looking a moment at the prostrate form of
Chloe, who was now vomiting freely, he whispered a word which cleared
the cabin in a moment, for the mention of _cholera_ had a power to
curdle the blood of the terrified blacks, who fled to their own
dwellings, where they cried aloud, and praying, some of them, “that de
Lord would have mercy on ’em, and take somebody else to kingdom come, ef
he must have a nigger anyway.”
Utterly fearless, Jessie stayed by, and when _John_, or as he was more
familiarly known, “Doctor,” proposed going for her mother, she answered,
“No, no; Uncle Abel has been for her once, but she won’t come; and if
she knows it is cholera, she’ll take me away.”
This convinced the “Doctor,” who proceeded to put in practice the
medical skill which he had picked up at intervals, and which was
considerable for one of his capacity. By this time, a few of the women,
more daring than the rest and curious to know the fate of their
companion, ventured near the door, where they stood gazing wonderingly
upon the poor old creature, who was fast floating out upon the broad
river of death. It was a most violent attack, and its malignity was
increased by a quantity of unripe fruit which she had eaten that
morning.
“Will somebody make a pra’r?” she said, feebly, as she felt her life
fast ebbing away. “Abel, you pray for poor Chloe,” and her glassy eyes
turned beseechingly towards her husband, who was noted at camp-meetings
for praying the loudest and longest of any one.
But his strength had left him now, and kissing the shrivelled face of
his dying wife, he said, “’Scuse me, Chloe; de sperrit is willin’, but
de flesh part is mighty weak and shaky like. Miss Jessie, you pray!” he
continued, as the child came to his side.
“Yes, honey, pray,” gasped Chloe; and, kneeling down, the little girl
began the Lord’s Prayer, occasionally interspersing it with a petition
that “God would take the departing soul to heaven.”
“Yes, dat’s it,” whispered Chloe; “dat’s better dan all dem fine words
’bout kingdom come and daily bread; dey’ll do for white folks, but God
bress old Chloe, de thing for niggers to die on.”
“Sing, honey, sing,” she said, at last; and, mingled with the
lamentations of the blacks, there arose on the evening air the soft
notes of the _Happy Land_, which Jessie sang, bending low towards Chloe,
who, when the song was ended, clasped her in her arms, and calling her
“a shining angel,” went, we trust, to the better land, where bondage is
unknown, and the slave is equal to his master.
Loud and shrill rose the wail of the negroes, increasing in violence
when it was known that into another cabin the pestilence had entered,
prostrating a boy, who, in his agony, called for Jessie and mas’r
Richard, thinking they could save him. Late as it was, Mrs. Lansing,
Ada, and Lina, were still upon the piazza, which was far more
comfortable than their sleeping-room, where they supposed both Halbert
and Jessie were safely in bed. They were just thinking of retiring, when
suddenly the midnight stillness was broken by a cry so shrill that Mrs.
Lansing started to her feet, asking what it was.
From her couch by the open door, Aunt Dinah arose, and going out a few
rods, listened to the sound, which seemed to come from the negro
quarters, whither, at her mistress’s command, she bent her steps. But a
short time elapsed ere she returned with the startling news that, “the
cholera was thar—that Chloe was dead, and another one had got it and was
_vomucking_ all over the night dress of _Miss Jessie_, who was holdin’
his head.”
Wholly overcome with fright, Mrs. Lansing fainted, and was borne to her
room, where, for a time, she remained unconscious, forgetful of Jessie,
who stayed at the quarters long after midnight, ministering to the wants
of the sick, of which, before morning, there were five, while others
showed symptoms of the rapidly spreading disease. As soon as Mrs.
Lansing returned to consciousness, she sent for Jessie, who came
reluctantly, receiving her mother’s reproof in silence, and falling away
to sleep as calmly as if she had not just been looking upon death, whose
shadow was over and around her.
Early the next morning, a man was sent in haste to Cedar Grove, which he
never reached, for the destroyer met him on the road, and in one of the
cabins of a neighboring plantation, he died, forgetting, in the
intensity of his sufferings, the errand on which he had been sent; and
as those who attended him knew nothing of Mrs. Lansing’s being at the
Pines, it was not until the second day after the appearance of the
cholera that she learned the fate of her servant. In a state bordering
almost upon distraction, she waited for her brother, shuddering with
fear whenever a new case was reported to her, and refusing to visit the
sufferers, although among them were some who had played with her in
childhood; and one, an old grey-haired man, who had saved her from a
watery grave, when on the Savannah River she had fallen overboard. But
there was no place for gratitude in her selfish heart, and the miserable
creatures were left to die alone, uncheered by the presence of a pale
face, save little Jessie, who won her mother’s reluctant consent to be
with them, and who, all the day long, went from cabin to cabin, soothing
the sick and dying by her presence, and emboldening others by her own
intrepidity.
Towards sunset, Mrs. Lansing herself was seized with the malady, and
with a wild shriek, she called on Ada to help her; but that young lady
was herself too much intimidated to heed the call, and in an adjoining
room she sat with camphor at her nose and brandy at her side, until a
fierce, darting pain warned her that she, too, was a victim. No longer
afraid of Mrs. Lansing, she made no resistance when borne to the same
apartment, where for hours they lay, bemoaning the fate which had
brought them there, and trembling as they thought of the probable
result.
On Mrs. Lansing’s mind there was a heavy load, and once, when the cold
perspiration stood thickly upon her face, she ordered Jessie and Dinah
from the room, while she confessed to Ada the sin of which she had been
guilty in deceiving both her brother and Rose.
“It was a wicked falsehood,” said she, “and if you survive me, you must
tell them so, will you?”
Ada nodded in token that she would, and then, thinking her own
conscience might be made easier by a similar confession, she told how
she had thought to injure Rose in Mr. Delafield’s estimation, and also
of the blister, which had drawn on Hagar’s back instead of her own! This
done, the two ladies felt greatly relieved, and as the cholera in their
case had been induced mostly by _fear_, it began ere long to yield to
the efficient treatment of Dinah, who to her housekeeping qualities
added that of being a skillful nurse. Towards morning they were
pronounced decidedly better, and as Jessie was asleep and Dinah nodding
in her chair, Mrs. Lansing lifted her head from her pillow, saying to
Ada, “If you please, you needn’t tell what I told you last night, when I
thought I was going to die!”
Ada promised to be silent, and after winning a similar promise from Mrs.
Lansing, they both fell asleep, nor woke again until the sun was high up
in the heavens. So much for a sick-bed repentance!
That day was hotter and more sultry than any which had preceded it; and
about the middle of the afternoon little Jessie came to Dinah’s side and
laying her head upon her lap complained of being both _cold_ and
_tired_. Blankets were wrapped around her, but they brought to her no
warmth, for her blood was chilled by approaching death, and when at dusk
the negroes asked why she came not among them, they were told that she
was dying! With streaming eyes they fell upon their knees, and from
those humble cabins there went up many a fervent prayer for God to spare
the child. But it could not be; she was wanted in heaven; and when old
Uncle Abel, who had also been ill, crept on his hands and knees to her
bedside, calling upon her name, she did not know him, for
unconsciousness was upon her, and in infinite mercy she was spared the
pain usually attendant upon the disease.
Almost bereft of reason and powerless to act, Mrs. Lansing sat by her
child, whose life was fast ebbing away. In a short time all the negroes,
who were able, had come to the house, their dark faces stained with
tears and expressive of the utmost concern, as they looked upon the
little girl, who lay so white and still, with her fair hair floating
over the pillow and her waxen hands folded upon her bosom.
“Sing to me, Uncle Dick,” she said, at last, “sing of the Happy Land not
far away;” but Uncle Dick was not there, and they who watched her were
too much overcome with grief to heed her request.
Slowly the hours wore on, and the spirit was almost home, when again she
murmured, “Sing of the Happy Land;” and as if in answer to her prayer,
the breeze, which all the day long had been hushed and still, now sighed
mournfully through the trees, while a mocking-bird in the distance
struck up his evening lay; and amid the gushing melody of that wondrous
bird of song and the soft breathing notes of the whispering pines,
little Jessie passed to the “Happy Land,” which to those who watched the
going out of her short life, seemed, indeed, “not far away.”
With a bitter cry the bereaved mother fell upon her face and wept aloud,
saying, in her heart, “My God, my God, why have I thus been dealt with?”
In the distance was heard the sound of horses’ feet, and ere long her
brother was with her, weeping as only strong men weep, over the lifeless
form which returned him no answering caress. She had been his idol, and
for a moment he, too, questioned the justice of God in thus afflicting
him.
“Jessie is gone, Rosa is going, and I shall be left alone,” he thought.
“What have I done to deserve a chastisement like this?”
Soon, however, he grew calmer, and saying, “It is well;” he tenderly
kissed the lips and brow of the beautiful child, who seemed to smile on
him even in death; then going out among his people, he comforted them as
best he could, dropping more than one tear to the memory of those who
they told him were dead, and who numbered eight in all. At a short
distance from the house was a tall cypress where Jessie had often
sported, and where now was a play-house, built by her hands but a few
days before. There, by the light of the silvery moon, they made her a
grave, and when the sun was up, its rays fell upon the pile of earth
which hid from view the sunny face and soft blue eyes of Jessie, “the
Angel of the Pines.”