THE FLIGHT OF HERMAN.
Tread softly--bow the head--
In reverent silence bow;
There's one in that poor shed,
One by that humble bed,
Greater than thou!
Oh, change! Stupendous change!
Fled the immortal one!
A moment here, so low,
So agonized, and now--
Beyond the sun!
--_Caroline Bowles_.
For some time Hannah Worth and Herman Brudenell remained standing by the
bedside, and gazing in awful silence upon the beautiful clay extended
before them, upon which the spirit in parting had left the impress of
its last earthly smile!
Then the bitter grief of the bereaved woman burst through all outward
restraints, and she threw herself upon the bed and clasped the dead body
of her sister to her breast, and broke into a tempest of tears and sobs
and lamentations.
"Oh, Nora! my darling! are you really dead and gone from me forever?
Shall I never hear the sound of your light step coming in, nor meet the
beamings of your soft eyes, nor feel your warm arms around my neck, nor
listen to your coaxing voice, pleading for some little indulgence which
half the time I refused you?
"How could I have refused you, my darling, anything, hard-hearted that I
was! Ah! how little did I think how soon you would be taken from me, and
I should never be able to give you anything more! Oh, Nora, come back to
me, and I will give you everything I have--yes, my eyes, and my life,
and my soul, if they could bring you back and make you happy!
"My beautiful darling, you were the light of my eyes and the pulse of my
heart and the joy of my life! You were all that I had in the world! my
little sister and my daughter and my baby, all in one! How could you die
and leave me all alone in the world, for the love of a man? me who loves
you more than all the men on the earth could love!
"Nora, I shall look up from my loom and see your little wheel standing
still--and where the spinner? I shall sit down to my solitary meals and
see your vacant chair--and where my companion? I shall wake in the dark
night and stretch out my arms to your empty place beside me--and where
my warm loving sister? In the grave! in the cold, dark, still grave!
"Oh, Heaven! Heaven! how can I bear it?--I, all day in the lonely house!
all night in the lonely bed! all my life in the lonely world! the black,
freezing, desolate world! and she in her grave! I cannot bear it! Oh,
no, I cannot bear it! Angels in heaven, you know that I cannot! Speak to
the Lord, and ask him to take me!
"Lord, Lord, please to take me along with my child. We were but two! two
orphan sisters! I have grown gray in taking care of her! She cannot do
without me, nor I without her! We were but two! Why should one be taken
and the other left? It is not fair, Lord! I say it is not fair!" raved
the mourner, in that blind and passionate abandonment of grief which is
sure at its climax to reach frenzy, and break into open rebellion
against Omnipotent Power.
And it is well for us that the Father is more merciful than our
tenderest thoughts, for he pardons the rebel and heals his wounds.
The sorrow of the young man, deepened by remorse, was too profound for
such outward vent. He leaned against the bedpost, seemingly colder,
paler, and more lifeless than the dead body before him.
At length the tempest of Hannah's grief raged itself into temporary
rest. She arose, composed the form of her sister, and turned and laid
her hand upon the shoulder of Herman, saying calmly:
"It is all over. Go, young gentleman, and wrestle with your sorrow and
your remorse, as you may. Such wrestlings will be the only punishment
your rashness will receive in this world! Be free of dread from me. She
left you her forgiveness as a legacy, and you are sacred from my
pursuit. Go, and leave me with my dead."
Herman dropped upon his knees beside the bed of death, took the cold
hand of Nora between his own, and bowed his head upon it for a little
while in penitential homage, and then arose and silently left the hut.
After he had gone, Hannah remained for a few minutes standing where he
had left her, gazing in silent anguish upon the dark eyes of Nora, now
glazed in death, and then, with reverential tenderness, she pressed down
the white lids, closing them until the light of the resurrection morning
should open them again.
While engaged in this holy duty, Hannah was interrupted by the
re-entrance of Herman.
He came in tottering, as if under the influence of intoxication; but we
all know that excessive sorrow takes away the strength and senses as
surely as intoxication does. There is such a state as being drunken with
grief when we have drained the bitter cup dry!
"Hannah," he faltered, "there are some things which should be remembered
even in this awful hour."
The sorrowing woman, her fingers still softly pressing down her sister's
eyelids, looked up in mute inquiry.
"Your necessities and--Nora's child must be provided for. Will you give
me some writing materials?" And the speaker dropped, as if totally
prostrated, into a chair by the table.
With some difficulty Hannah sought and found an old inkstand, a stumpy
pen, and a scrap of paper. It was the best she could do. Stationery was
scarce in the poor hut. She laid them on the table before Herman. And
with a trembling hand he wrote out a check upon the local bank and put
it in her hand, saying:
"This sum will provide for the boy, and set you and Gray up in some
little business. You had better marry and go to the West, taking the
child with you. Be a mother to the orphan, Hannah, for he will never
know another parent. And now shake hands and say good-by, for we shall
never meet again in this world."
Too thoroughly bewildered with grief to comprehend the purport of his
words and acts, Hannah mechanically received the check and returned the
pressure of the hand with which it was given.
And the next instant the miserable young man was gone indeed.
Hannah dropped the paper upon the table; she did not in the least
suspect that that little strip of soiled foolscap represented the sum of
five thousand dollars, nor is it likely that she would have taken it had
she known what it really was. Hannah's intellects were chaotic with her
troubles. She returned to the bedside and was once more absorbed in her
sorrowful task, when she was again interrupted.
This time it was by old Dinah, who, having no hand at liberty, shoved
the door open with her foot, and entered the hut.
If "there is but one step between the sublime and the ridiculous," there
is no step at all between the awful and the absurd, which are constantly
seen side by side. Though such a figure as old Dinah presented, standing
in the middle of the death-chamber, is not often to be found in tragic
scenes. Her shoulders were bent beneath the burden of an enormous bundle
of bed clothing, and her arms were dragged down by the weight of two
large baskets of provisions. She was much too absorbed in her own
ostentatious benevolence to look at once towards the bed and see what
had happened there. Probably, if she glanced at the group at all, she
supposed that Hannah was only bathing Nora's head; for instead of going
forward or tendering any sympathy or assistance, she just let her huge
bundle drop from her shoulders and sat her two baskets carefully upon
the table, exclaiming triumphantly:
"Dar! dar's somefin to make de poor gal comfo'ble for a mont' or more!
Dar, in dat bundle is two thick blankets and four pa'r o' sheets an'
pilly cases, all out'n my own precious chist; an' not beholden to ole
mis' for any on 'em," she added, as she carefully untied the bundle and
laid its contents, nicely folded, upon a chair.
"An' dar!" she continued, beginning to unload the large basket--"dar's a
tukky an' two chickuns offen my own precious roost; nor likewise
beholden to ole mis for dem nyder. An' dar! dar's sassidges and blood
puddin's out'n our own dear pig as me an' ole man Jov'al ris an' kilt
ourselves; an' in course no ways beholden to ole mis'," she concluded,
arranging these edibles upon the table.
"An' dar!" she recommenced as she set the smaller basket beside the
other things, "dar's a whole raft o''serves an' jellies and pickles as
may be useful. An' dat's all for dis time! An' now, how is de poor gal,
honey? Is she 'sleep?" she asked, approaching the bed.
"Yes; sleeping her last sleep, Dinah," solemnly replied Hannah.
"De Lor' save us! what does you mean by dat, honey? Is she faint?"
"Look at her, Dinah, and see for yourself!"
"Dead! oh, Lor'-a-mercy!" cried the old woman, drawing back appalled at
the sight that met her eyes; for to the animal nature of the pure
African negro death is very terrible.
For a moment there was silence in the room, and then the voice of Hannah
was heard:
"So you see the comforts you robbed yourself of to bring to Nora will
not be wanted, Dinah. You must take them back again."
"Debil burn my poor, ole, black fingers if I teches of 'em to bring 'em
home again! S'posin' de poor dear gal is gone home? aint you lef wid a
mouf of your own to feed, I wonder? Tell me dat?" sobbed the old woman.
"But, Dinah, I feel as if I should never eat again, and certainly I
shall not care what I eat. And that is your Christmas turkey, too, your
only one, for I know that you poor colored folks never have more."
"Who you call poor? We's rich in grace, I'd have you to know! 'Sides
havin' of a heap o' treasure laid up in heaven, I reckons! Keep de
truck, chile; for 'deed you aint got no oder 'ternative! 'Taint Dinah as
is a-gwine to tote 'em home ag'n. Lor' knows how dey a'mos' broke my
back a-fetchin' of 'em over here. 'Taint likely as I'll be such a
consarned fool as to tote 'em all de way back ag'in. So say no more
'bout it, Miss Hannah! 'Sides which how can we talk o' sich wid de sight
o' she before our eyes! Ah, Miss Nora! Oh, my beauty! Oh, my pet! Is
you really gone an' died an' lef' your poor ole Aunt Dinah behind as
lubbed you like de apple of her eye! What did you do it for, honey? You
know your ole Aunt Dinah wasn't a-goin' to look down on you for nothin'
as is happened of," whined the old woman, stooping and weeping over the
corpse. Then she accidentally touched the sleeping babe, and started up
in dismay, crying:
"What dis? Oh, my good Lor' in heaben, what dis?"
"It is Nora's child, Dinah. Didn't you know she had one?" said Hannah;
with a choking voice and a crimson face.
"Neber even s'picioned! I knowed as she'd been led astray, poor thin',
an' as how it was a-breakin' of her heart and a-killin' of her!
Leastways I heard it up yonder at de house; but I didn't know nuffin'
'bout dis yere!"
"But Uncle Jovial did."
"Dat ole sinner has got eyes like gimlets, dey bores into eberyting!"
"But didn't he tell you?"
"Not a singly breaf! he better not! he know bery well it's much as his
ole wool's worf to say a word agin dat gal to me. No, he on'y say how
Miss Nora wer' bery ill, an' in want ob eberyting in de worl' an'
eberyting else besides. An' how here wer' a chance to 'vest our property
to 'vantage, by lendin' of it te de Lor', accordin' te de Scriptur's as
'whoever giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord.' So I hunted up all I
could spare and fotch it ober here, little thinkin' what a sight would
meet my old eyes! Well, Lord!"
"But, Dinah," said the weeping Hannah, "you must not think ill of Nora!
She does not deserve it. And you must not, indeed."
"Chile, it aint for me to judge no poor motherless gal as is already
'peared afore her own Righteous Judge."
"Yes, but you shall judge her! and judge her with righteous judgment,
too! You have known her all your life--all hers, I mean. You put the
first baby clothes on her that she ever wore! And you will put the last
dress that she ever will! And now judge her, Dinah, looking on her pure
brow, and remembering her past life, is she a girl likely to have been
'led astray,' as you call it?"
"No, 'fore my 'Vine Marster in heaben, aint she? As I 'members ob de
time anybody had a-breaved a s'picion ob Miss Nora, I'd jest up'd an'
boxed deir years for 'em good--'deed me! But what staggers of me,
honey, is _dat!_ How de debil we gwine to 'count for _dat?_" questioned
old Dinah, pointing in sorrowful suspicion at the child.
For all answer Hannah beckoned to the old woman to watch her, while she
untied from Nora's neck a narrow black ribbon, and removed from it a
plain gold ring.
"A wedding-ring!" exclaimed Dinah, in perplexity.
"Yes, it was put upon her finger by the man that married her. Then it
was taken off and hung around her neck, because for certain reasons she
could not wear it openly. But now it shall go with her to the grave in
its right place," said Hannah, as she slipped the ring upon the poor
dead finger.
"Lor', child, who was it as married of her?"
"I cannot tell you. I am bound to secrecy."
The old negress shook her head slowly and doubtfully.
"I's no misdoubts as she was innocenter dan a lamb, herself, for she do
look it as she lay dar wid de heabenly smile frozen on her face; but I
do misdoubts dese secrety marriages; I 'siders ob 'em no 'count. Ten to
one, honey, de poor forso'k sinner as married her has anoder wife
some'ers."
Without knowing it the old woman had hit the exact truth.
Hannah sighed deeply, and wondered silently how it was that neither
Dinah nor Jovial had ever once suspected their young master to be the
man.
Old Dinah perceived that her conversation distressed Hannah, and so she
threw off her bonnet and cloak and set herself to work to help the poor
bereaved sister.
There was enough to occupy both women. There was the dead mother to be
prepared for burial, and there was the living child to be cared far.
By the time that they had laid Nora out in her only white dress, and had
fed the babe and put it to sleep, and cleaned up the cottage, the winter
day had drawn to its close and the room was growing dark.
Old Dinah, thinking it was time to light up, took a home-dipped candle
from the cupboard, and seeing a piece of soiled paper on the table,
actually lighted her candle with a check for five thousand dollars!
And thus it happened that the poor boy who, without any fault of his
mother, had come into the world with a stigma on his birth, now, without
any neglect of his father, was left in a state of complete destitution
as well as of entire orphanage.
On the Tuesday following her death poor Nora Worth was laid in her
humble grave under a spreading oak behind the hut.
This spot was selected by Hannah, who wished to keep her sister's last
resting-place always in her sight, and who insisted that every foot of
God's earth, enclosed or unenclosed--consecrated or unconsecrated--was
holy ground.
Jim Morris, Professor of Odd Jobs for the country side, made the coffin,
dug the grave, and managed the funeral.
The Rev. William Wynne, the minister who had performed the fatal nuptial
ceremony of the fair bride, read the funeral services over her dead
body.
No one was present at the burial but Hannah Worth, Reuben Gray, the two
old negroes, Dinah and Jovial, the Professor of Odd Jobs, and the
officiating clergyman.