THE LAND OF BEULAH
It is now about a month after the conversation which we have recorded,
and during that time the process which was to loose from this present
life had been going on in Mara with a soft, insensible, but steady
power. When she ceased to make efforts beyond her strength, and allowed
herself that languor and repose which nature claimed, all around her
soon became aware how her strength was failing; and yet a cheerful
repose seemed to hallow the atmosphere around her. The sight of her
every day in family worship, sitting by in such tender tranquillity,
with such a smile on her face, seemed like a present inspiration. And
though the aged pair knew that she was no more for this world, yet she
was comforting and inspiring to their view as the angel who of old
rolled back the stone from the sepulchre and sat upon it. They saw in
her eyes, not death, but the solemn victory which Christ gives over
death.
Bunyan has no more lovely poem than the image he gives of that land of
pleasant waiting which borders the river of death, where the chosen of
the Lord repose, while shining messengers, constantly passing and
repassing, bear tidings from the celestial shore, opening a way between
earth and heaven. It was so, that through the very thought of Mara an
influence of tenderness and tranquillity passed through the whole
neighborhood, keeping hearts fresh with sympathy, and causing thought
and conversation to rest on those bright mysteries of eternal joy which
were reflected on her face.
Sally Kittridge was almost a constant inmate of the brown house, ever
ready in watching and waiting; and one only needed to mark the
expression of her face to feel that a holy charm was silently working
upon her higher and spiritual nature. Those great, dark, sparkling eyes
that once seemed to express only the brightness of animal vivacity, and
glittered like a brook in unsympathetic gayety, had in them now
mysterious depths, and tender, fleeting shadows, and the very tone of
her voice had a subdued tremor. The capricious elf, the tricksy sprite,
was melting away in the immortal soul, and the deep pathetic power of a
noble heart was being born. Some influence sprung of sorrow is necessary
always to perfect beauty in womanly nature. We feel its absence in many
whose sparkling wit and high spirits give grace and vivacity to life,
but in whom we vainly seek for some spot of quiet tenderness and
sympathetic repose. Sally was, ignorantly to herself, changing in the
expression of her face and the tone of her character, as she ministered
in the daily wants which sickness brings in a simple household.
For the rest of the neighborhood, the shelves and larder of Mrs. Pennel
were constantly crowded with the tributes which one or another sent in
for the invalid. There was jelly of Iceland moss sent across by Miss
Emily, and brought by Mr. Sewell, whose calls were almost daily. There
were custards and preserves, and every form of cake and other
confections in which the housekeeping talent of the neighbors delighted,
and which were sent in under the old superstition that sick people must
be kept eating at all hazards.
At church, Sunday after Sunday, the simple note requested the prayers of
the church and congregation for Mara Lincoln, who was, as the note
phrased it, drawing near her end, that she and all concerned might be
prepared for the great and last change. One familiar with New England
customs must have remembered with what a plaintive power the reading of
such a note, from Sunday to Sunday, has drawn the thoughts and
sympathies of a congregation to some chamber of sickness; and in a
village church, where every individual is known from childhood to every
other, the power of this simple custom is still greater.
Then the prayers of the minister would dwell on the case, and thanks
would be rendered to God for the great light and peace with which he had
deigned to visit his young handmaid; and then would follow a prayer that
when these sad tidings should reach a distant friend who had gone down
to do business on the great waters, they might be sanctified to his
spiritual and everlasting good. Then on Sunday noons, as the people ate
their dinners together in a room adjoining the church, all that she said
and did was talked over and over,--how quickly she had gained the
victory of submission, the peace of a will united with God's, mixed with
harmless gossip of the sick chamber,--as to what she ate and how she
slept, and who had sent her gruel with raisins in it, and who jelly with
wine, and how she had praised this and eaten that twice with a relish,
but how the other had seemed to disagree with her. Thereafter would come
scraps of nursing information, recipes against coughing, specifics
against short breath, speculations about watchers, how soon she would
need them, and long legends of other death-beds where the fear of death
had been slain by the power of an endless life.
Yet through all the gossip, and through much that might have been called
at other times commonplace cant of religion, there was spread a tender
earnestness, and the whole air seemed to be enchanted with the fragrance
of that fading rose. Each one spoke more gently, more lovingly to each,
for the thought of her.
It was now a bright September morning, and the early frosts had changed
the maples in the pine-woods to scarlet, and touched the white birches
with gold, when one morning Miss Roxy presented herself at an early hour
at Captain Kittridge's.
They were at breakfast, and Sally was dispensing the tea at the head of
the table, Mrs. Kittridge having been prevailed on to abdicate in her
favor.
"It is such a fine morning," she said, looking out at the window, which
showed a waveless expanse of ocean. "I do hope Mara has had a good
night."
"I'm a-goin' to make her some jelly this very forenoon," said Mrs.
Kittridge. "Aunt Roxy was a-tellin' me yesterday that she was a-goin'
down to stay at the house regular, for she needed so much done now."
"It's 'most an amazin' thing we don't hear from Moses Pennel," said
Captain Kittridge. "If he don't make haste, he may never see her."
"There's Aunt Roxy at this minute," said Sally.
In truth, the door opened at this moment, and Aunt Roxy entered with a
little blue bandbox and a bundle tied up in a checked handkerchief.
"Oh, Aunt Roxy," said Mrs. Kittridge, "you are on your way, are you? Do
sit down, right here, and get a cup of strong tea."
"Thank you," said Aunt Roxy, "but Ruey gave me a humming cup before I
came away."
"Aunt Roxy, have they heard anything from Moses?" said the Captain.
"No, father, I know they haven't," said Sally. "Mara has written to him,
and so has Mr. Sewell, but it is very uncertain whether he ever got the
letters."
"It's most time to be a-lookin' for him home," said the Captain. "I
shouldn't be surprised to see him any day."
At this moment Sally, who sat where she could see from the window, gave
a sudden start and a half scream, and rising from the table, darted
first to the window and then to the door, whence she rushed out eagerly.
"Well, what now?" said the Captain.
"I am sure I don't know what's come over her," said Mrs. Kittridge,
rising to look out.
"Why, Aunt Roxy, do look; I believe to my soul that ar's Moses Pennel!"
And so it was. He met Sally, as she ran out, with a gloomy brow and
scarcely a look even of recognition; but he seized her hand and wrung it
in the stress of his emotion so that she almost screamed with the pain.
"Tell me, Sally," he said, "tell me the truth. I dared not go home
without I knew. Those gossiping, lying reports are always exaggerated.
They are dreadful exaggerations,--they frighten a sick person into the
grave; but you have good sense and a hopeful, cheerful temper,--you must
see and know how things are. Mara is not so very--very"--He held Sally's
hand and looked at her with a burning eagerness. "Say, what do you think
of her?"
"We all think that we cannot long keep her with us," said Sally. "And
oh, Moses, I am so glad you have come."
"It's false,--it must be false," he said, violently; "nothing is more
deceptive than these ideas that doctors and nurses pile on when a
sensitive person is going down a little. I know Mara; everything depends
on the mind with her. I shall wake her up out of this dream. She is not
to die. She shall not die,--I come to save her."
"Oh, if you could!" said Sally, mournfully.
"It cannot be; it is not to be," he said again, as if to convince
himself. "No such thing is to be thought of. Tell me, Sally, have you
tried to keep up the cheerful side of things to her,--have you?"
"Oh, you cannot tell, Moses, how it is, unless you see her. She is
cheerful, happy; the only really joyous one among us."
"Cheerful! joyous! happy! She does not believe, then, these frightful
things? I thought she would keep up; she is a brave little thing."
"No, Moses, she does believe. She has given up all hope of life,--all
wish to live; and oh, she is so lovely,--so sweet,--so dear."
Sally covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Moses stood still,
looking at her a moment in a confused way, and then he answered,--
"Come, get your bonnet, Sally, and go with me. You must go in and tell
them; tell her that I am come, you know."
"Yes, I will," said Sally, as she ran quickly back to the house.
Moses stood listlessly looking after her. A moment after she came out of
the door again, and Miss Roxy behind. Sally hurried up to Moses.
"Where's that black old raven going?" said Moses, in a low voice,
looking back on Miss Roxy, who stood on the steps.
"What, Aunt Roxy?" said Sally; "why, she's going up to nurse Mara, and
take care of her. Mrs. Pennel is so old and infirm she needs somebody to
depend on."
"I can't bear her," said Moses. "I always think of sick-rooms and
coffins and a stifling smell of camphor when I see her. I never could
endure her. She's an old harpy going to carry off my dove."
"Now, Moses, you must _not_ talk so. She loves Mara dearly, the poor
old soul, and Mara loves her, and there is no earthly thing she would
not do for her. And she knows what to do for sickness better than you or
I. I have found out one thing, that it isn't mere love and good-will
that is needed in a sick-room; it needs knowledge and experience."
Moses assented in gloomy silence, and they walked on together the way
that they had so often taken laughing and chatting. When they came
within sight of the house, Moses said,--
"Here she came running to meet us; do you remember?"
"Yes," said Sally.
"I was never half worthy of her. I never said half what I ought to," he
added. "She _must_ live! I must have one more chance."
When they came up to the house, Zephaniah Pennel was sitting in the
door, with his gray head bent over the leaves of the great family Bible.
He rose up at their coming, and with that suppression of all external
signs of feeling for which the New Englander is remarkable, simply shook
the hand of Moses, saying,--
"Well, my boy, we are glad you have come."
Mrs. Pennel, who was busied in some domestic work in the back part of
the kitchen, turned away and hid her face in her apron when she saw him.
There fell a great silence among them, in the midst of which the old
clock ticked loudly and importunately, like the inevitable approach of
fate.
"I will go up and see her, and get her ready," said Sally, in a whisper
to Moses. "I'll come and call you."
Moses sat down and looked around on the old familiar scene; there was
the great fireplace where, in their childish days, they had sat together
winter nights,--her fair, spiritual face enlivened by the blaze, while
she knit and looked thoughtfully into the coals; there she had played
checkers, or fox and geese, with him; or studied with him the Latin
lessons; or sat by, grave and thoughtful, hemming his toyship sails,
while he cut the moulds for his anchors, or tried experiments on
pulleys; and in all these years he could not remember one selfish
action,--one unlovely word,--and he thought to himself, "I hoped to
possess this angel as a mortal wife! God forgive my presumption."