When Nettie came he nodded to Patty, and she read all about the
alabaster box of ointment, very precious, that was broken over the
head of Jesus, and the complaint that it was wasted, with the Lord's
reply.
"You are right, my dear boy," said Doctor Morgan, with effusion,
"what is spent for love is never wasted. It is a very precious box
of ointment that you have broken upon Christ's head, my son. The
Lord will not forget it."
When Kike's mother and Brady rode up to the door on Sunday morning,
the people had already begun to gather in crowds, drawn by the
expectation that Morton would preach in the Hickory Ridge church.
Hearing that Kike, whose piety was famous all the country over, was
dying, they filled Doctor Morgan's house and yard, sitting in sad,
silent groups on the fences and door-steps, and standing in the shade
of the yard trees. As the dying preacher's mother passed through,
the crowd of country people fell back and looked reverently at her.
Kike was already far gone. He was barely able to greet his mother
and the good-hearted Brady, whose demonstrative Irish grief knew no
bounds. Then Kike and Nettie were married, amidst the tears of all.
This sort of a wedding is more hopelessly melancholy than a funeral.
After the marriage Nettie knelt by Kike's side, and he rallied for a
moment and solemnly pronounced a benediction on her. Then he lifted
up his hands, crying faintly, "O Lord! I have kept back nothing.
Amen."
His hands dropped upon the head of Nettie. The people had crowded
into the hall and stood at the windows. For awhile all thought him
dead.
A white pigeon flew in at one of the windows and lighted upon the bed
of the dying man. The early Western people believed in marvels, and
Kike was to them a saint. At sight of the snow-white dove pluming
itself upon his breast they all started back. Was it a heavenly
visitant? Kike opened his eyes and gazed upon the dove a moment.
Then he looked significantly at Nettie, then at the people. The dove
plumed itself a moment longer, looked round on the people out of its
mute and gentle eyes, then flitted out of the window again and
disappeared in the sunlight. A smile overspread the dying man's
face, he clasped his hands upon his bosom, and it was a full minute
before anybody discovered that the pure, heroic spirit of Hezekiah
Lumsden had gone to its rest.
He had requested that no name should be placed over his grave. "Let
God have any glory that may come from my labors, and let everybody
but Nettie forget me," he said. But Doctor Morgan had a slab of the
common blue limestone of the hills--marble was not to be had--cut out
for a headstone. The device upon it was a dove, the only
inscription: "An alabaster box of very precious ointment."
Death is not always matter for grief. If you have ever beheld a rich
sunset from the summit of a lofty mountain, you will remember how the
world was transfigured before you in the glory of resplendent light,
and how, long after the light had faded from the cloud-drapery, and
long after the hills had begun to lose themselves in the abyss of
darkness, there lingered a glory in the western horizon--a joyous
memory of the splendid pomp of the evening. Even so the glory of
Kike's dying made all who saw it feel like those who have witnessed a
sublime spectacle, which they may never see again. The memory of it
lingered with them like the long-lingering glow behind the western
mountains. Sorry that the suffering life had ended in peace, one
could not be; and never did stormy day find more placid sunset than
his. Even Nettie had never felt that he belonged to her. When he
was gone she was as one whom an angel of God had embraced. She
regretted his absence, but rejoiced in the memory of his love; and
she had not entertained any hopes that could be disappointed.
The only commemoration his name received was in the conference
minutes, where, like other such heroes, he was curtly embalmed in the
usual four lines:
"Hezekiah Lumsden was a man of God, who freely gave up his life for
his work. He was tireless in labor, patient in suffering, bold in
rebuking sin, holy in life and conversation, and triumphant in death."
The early Methodists had no time for eulogies. A handful of earth, a
few hurried words of tribute, and the bugle called to the battle.
The man who died was at rest, the men who staid had the more work to
do.
NOTE. In the striking incident of the dove lighting upon Kike's bed,
I have followed strictly the statement of eye-witnesses.--E.E.
_CHAPTER XXXIV._