THE DEATH DREAM.
While the splendid festivities which succeeded Helen's marriage
afforded a topic of conversation for the _bon ton_ of three cities, May
was quietly preparing to leave the old house, beneath whose roof she
had learned so many lessons of self-denial, patience, and constancy;
while she found time, each day, to pay her accustomed visit to old
Mabel, who was approaching nearer and nearer her eternal rest. In
serving her, May felt richly rewarded by the edification she derived
from her simple piety, and the perfect resignation and joyful
submission she evinced to the Divine Will. She was frequently
astonished at the untaught eloquence of her expressions, and the
beautiful humility of her language, when she spoke of the mercy of
Almighty God, and lifted up her heart in joyful aspirations and
effusions of love, to JESUS and MARY. The sacred and crucified,
Humanity of ONE, and the suffering and anguish of the Humanity of the
OTHER, seemed to condescend so entirely to her low estate, that the
divinity of JESUS, and the measureless love of MARY, His Mother, were
folded like a garment around her, and strengthened, and consoled, and
brightened her path, as she approached the shadow through which she was
to pass. And while May's inmost heart united its pure emotions in
harmony with the mysteries of faith and grace, the words of an old
English poet rippled through her mind in sweet accord with them.
"If bliss had lay in art or strength,
None but the wise or strong had gained it;
Where now by faith, all arms are of a length,
One size doth all conditions fit.
A peasant may believe as much
As a great clerk, and reach the highest stature;
Thus dost Thou make proud knowledge bend and crouch,
_While grace fills up uneven nature_." [1]
When May had proposed to Mrs. Tabb to live, or, rather, lodge with her,
nothing of its kind could exceed the enthusiastic reception she met.
She poured out a torrent of exclamations and superlatives, which set
all the rules of grammar at defiance. Then she broke out in the
vociferous indignation at "the old miser's meanness," and last, and
more outrageous than all, were her reflections on "upstartish misses,
who drop from the clouds when no one expects them, and get all and
every thing that them ought to had, who had been waiting, and bearing
with people's meanness and ill-humor from their cradels up." And if,
at that moment, she had not tilted her snuff-box, which was filled with
Scotch snuff, over, under May's nose, whereupon both were seized with a
paroxysm of sneezing, which was an effectual interruption to her
tirade, she would have been silenced by a few charitable explanations.
When May returned home, she found Mr. Jerrold waiting in the parlor.
He offered his hand; and there was such an air of sincerity in his
manner, that it dispelled all May's reserve.
"I have brought Helen's love," he said, while he uncovered a
magnificent bouquet, "and these roses and violets. They are the first
of the season."
"These are _very, very_ beautiful and fragrant, and I thank you most
heartily for them. How is Helen?"
"She is looking well, but she falls occasionally into fits of
despondency, which is either the result of much fatigue and
excitement, or some cause which she does not wish to explain. I wish
you would come and live with us. Helen needs a sister," said the young
man.
"Dear Mr. Jerrold," said old-fashioned May, "I have tried to find my
way to Helen's heart, but, to be frank with you, our ways lie too
differently. Helen will have none of my friendship on those terms on
which I alone can give it. But you do not understand it all.--You are
a Protestant, and wish to see Helen one; therefore, _I_ should be a
discord in your house, because, if there, _my duty_ would not allow me
to hold my peace."
"Helen is too young and beautiful to mope about religion," he said,
carelessly. "When she gets older, and is more tied down by domestic
cares, it will be necessary and respectable for her to be religious;
and then, egad, if she wishes it, I'd as lief she'd be a Catholic as
any thing else."
"Helen will be ill-prepared, I fear, for a life of pious example, if
she devotes all of her energies now to the world. _Grace_, you know,
sir, is not a human thing which can be bought with money, or worldly
eloquence," replied May, earnestly.
"Helen has no truer friend, I believe, on my honor, May, than yourself;
but, really, she must enjoy life a little longer; then I will turn her
over to you and her father confessor;--but I came for a purpose,
to-day."
"A friendly one, I am sure!" said May.
"Yes. I saw Mr. Fielding this morning, and consulted him about the
expediency of your remaining _here_, as you wont live with us. We wish
the place kept up;--it is a _curioso_ in its way--an _antique_ with all
its appurtenances; and I do not know any one more in keeping with it,
than cousin May."
May laughed. "You think that, as we harmonize so exactly, we should be
a mutual protection to each other?"
"Precisely. Will you remain?"
"No. It would be pleasant on some accounts, but would not be at all
suitable on others. A residence here would very materially interrupt
the objects and aims of my life, in which pursuit I can alone be happy."
"Dodona's Cave! How oracular!" said Mr. Jerrold, laughing outright.
"Explain, dear Sopho, your argument!"
"Will you understand? But _how_ can you, a Protestant, understand the
motive power of a Catholic heart?" said May.
"Proceed. I will give you oracle for oracle. I am a Protestant in
principle, but not in fact," was the light reply.
"I have always felt that while I ate no idle bread I was of some use on
earth. I have always been accustomed to an active life. Labor gives
one an opportunity of learning many virtues;--_patience_ amongst them,
and not the least, humility. I should have nothing to do, here. The
necessity for exertion would be gone; and, really, I am too much afraid
of _myself_, to trust to exigencies. No, no! I must have an aim which
will require the exercise of my most active energies. Dependence will
not suit me."
"That is it," broke in Mr. Jerrold. "Pride is at the bottom of the
whole argument. May! this moment you are as proud as the devil!"
"Oh, sir! pray do not think that. I really feel extremely grateful for
your kind intentions," said May, looking distressed. "I have other
reasons, which I cannot very well explain, for choosing the way of life
that I have. Only please to understand this, that I should be very
miserable, if I were placed, _now_, in a situation which would leave me
without responsibility."
"You are a paradox. You ought to be ten feet high, May, with such a
will as yours. You won't live with us, because we are so wicked that
you'd have to preach to us about our sins; and you won't live here,
because you're afraid you'll get as bad as we are. Well, well! be
happy your own way, and come and see Helen when you can," said Mr.
Jerrold, laughing, as he got up to leave.
"I feel your kindness deeply, Mr. Jerrold. I hope you are not hurt or
offended?"
"Not in the least. I think you are bearing your wrongs like a saint;
and I wish I was only half as good," replied Mr. Jerrold, shaking hands
with her.
"Tell Helen that I am thankful for the flowers, and will offer them
this evening, with a prayer for her conversion, to OUR MOTHER," said
May.
"I thought her mother was dead and buried!" thought Mr. Jerrold, as he
walked down the street. "What a curious little soul she is!"
After dinner, May went to inform Father Fabian that she had declined
Mr. Fielding's offer, and would remove to Mrs. Tabb's in the course of
a day or two. But she saw him in the garden walk in the rear of the
house, walking to and fro, reading his office, and went into the
church, where she offered the rich bouquet Helen had sent her, on the
shrine of _Our Lady, the refuge_; after which, she said, with great
devotion, a decade of the rosary, for her conversion. Father Fabian
was standing in the door when she returned, and watched her, as she
approached, with a grave, but quizzical, expression of countenance.
"I am glad to see you, my child, in your long dresses yet," he said,
holding out his hand, kindly.
"Sir," said May, looking perplexed.
"I did not feel sure but that you had adopted the new school so much in
favor with your sex, judging from all that I have heard," he replied,
laughing.
"What new school? What have you heard, Father?" she asked, anxiously.
"The strong-minded women's-school!"
"I see that you have some jest at my expense, and I must be patient
until it is explained," said May, sitting down.
"Yes, yes; be patient."
"Will you not tell me, Father, what I have done?"
"May, do you believe that you burned the will the night your uncle lay
dying?" asked Father Fabian, abruptly.
"I do not think I did. I may, however, have done so."
"Mr. Fielding intends to endeavor to set aside the will which was
found. He had good legal reasons to expect that he can secure you an
equal share of your uncle's estate with your cousin."
"I hope he will do no such thing, sir. I am quite satisfied."
"But he and the witnesses to the _other will_ are not, because there
are very important public and religious interests involved in its loss."
"If that is the case, I can only object so far as I am individually
concerned," said May; "but I hope most earnestly that Mr. Fielding will
let the matter rest a short time longer--a few months, for the longer I
think of it that I did not burn the will, and I feel a presentiment
that it will come to light," said May, earnestly.
"And you will not give your consent, as one of the heirs, to go to law?"
"Not yet--not yet, Father. Let us wait a little. If it is mislaid, it
may be found; if any one has wronged me by secreting it, they may
repent."
"Was there ever such a wild goose on earth?" said Father Fabian,
laughing. "You know as much about the world _now_, May, as you did
eighteen years ago, when you were just two months old."
"But, Father, you have always taught me to have faith in God, and told
me in all difficulties to have recourse to him and the Blessed Virgin.
If it is for his glory, and the good of his creatures, the lost will
will be found," she said, earnestly.
"You are right, my child. God's holy will be done," said Father
Fabian, lifting his _bounet-carre_ from his brow. "But, having turned
a theological point against me, can you explain your most obstinate
refusal to accept of Mr. Fielding's and Mr. Jerrold's kind offers of a
home, where ease, luxury, and elegance would attend you? You seem
determined to take a stand against your interests in every way. What
rational objection can you oppose to their offers?"
"Dear Father, are you displeased with your poor child?" asked May, with
humility.
"To be frank, my dear child, I consider your conduct a little unusual,"
said Father Fabian, looking down to conceal the smile that brightened
his eyes. "How could you act so?"
"Simply and frankly because I wished to be _free_."
"Woman's rights! As I suspected, woman's rights!" exclaimed Father
Fabian, lifting his hands with horror.
"_Soul's rights_, Father! _Soul's rights!_" said May, in an
impassioned manner. "I could not live with Helen in peace without
spiritual bondage. Her way of life would leave me no neutral ground to
stand on. She has forsaken her religion; every act of hers is
therefore open rebellion against God, and I must have raised my voice
in one incessant clamor had I lived with her. Had I gone to dear, kind
Mr. Fielding, he might have made demands on time which I have devoted
to religion, which my gratitude might have disposed me to yield to.
But I am grateful to them all for their kind intentions, and I am sure,
if their friendship is real, they will be happier to know that I am
happy in my own way."
"Is this all, May?" asked Father Fabian, who suspected her of
entertaining other reasons still.
"I had hoped to keep it secretly, but I have another reason. You know
that I am blamed for the loss of that will, which made noble bequests
to the poor and destitute. I may be guilty; I cannot pretend to say
that I am not, therefore, as a sort of reparation to those afflicted
ones, who would have been relieved by my uncle's bounty, of which I
perhaps, by an act of carelessness have deprived them, I have made a
vow to dedicate my life, my energies, and will, to the service of the
poor in active and laborious works," said May, with a grave and humble
manner.
"Your motives are good, my child; only let us be careful not to seek
our own gratification too much, either temporal or spiritual, in our
works. I certainly acquit you of all _modern chivalry_. I will see
Mr. Fielding about that affair this evening, and request him to
postpone it."
"If you please, Father," said May, over whose countenance a shadow had
fallen.
"What is the trouble now, little one?" asked Father Fabian.
"Have I been presumptuous, Father? Have I been lifting up my hands to
heaven like the Pharisee, and thanking God that I am not like others?
Oh, Father, I think I should rather die than be self-righteous!"
"I think not, my child. Only we must not rely too much on our
intentions, which may be, morally speaking, good, but spiritually bad,
if they are not united with great humility. I should be false to your
soul's interests if I dealt not plainly with you. But go now to your
old pensioner. I administered to her this morning the last rites of
the Church, and think it more than possible that before another sunrise
she will have passed away from this life of mourning and gloom."
"I thought yesterday evening, when I was there, that her sufferings
were nearly at an end," said May, wiping off a tear.
"Her dispositions are perfect," continued Father Fabian. "Oh, in the
last hour, if the soul is right before God, how vain appears all human
learning! how little the wisdom of ages! how less than nothing the
splendor and grandeur of riches! Soon--very soon, that ignorant and
poverty-stricken old negro, who, like Lazarus, has been lying at the
door of the rich, great world, humbly thankful for the crumbs she has
received, will be endowed with knowledge and wisdom; she will read and
have solved mysteries which the greatest sages of antiquity, and the
profoundest philosophers of modern times have shrunk from, overwhelmed
with the vastness of their conception. She will have looked on the
face of Him who suffered for her, and be, through his divine mercy, and
the merits of his bitter passion, admitted into eternal rest. Oh
faith, mistress of learning! Oh humility, without which the learned
shall not enter heaven! Possess our hearts--reign in our souls for
ever. But go now; tell her I will see her in the morning, unless she
is beyond my reach."
It was a clear, soft evening. The sky, as the sun declined, was filled
as with the brightness of flashing wings, while the golden light broke
in ripples around the isles of cloud that hung over the deep. The
flute-like whistle of the blue-bird, and the odor of violets, and young
budding leaves, were in the air together--music, light, and fragrance,
like harmonies from the spirit-land, blending softly together. The
earth was clothed in its new garment, for spring had risen from the
grave, and its resurrection was glorious. Over the ways of the city,
and in the suburban lanes; in the glens and dells of the forest, and
the distant slopes of the blue hills; over the mounds of the silent
dead, where the germs of infinite life are planted,--where, like
pearls, lying beneath the earth-billows, they will sleep in their
sealed shells until, from the eastern gates of heaven, springs the
eternal dawn, which shall gather them in, clothed with new light, to be
set amongst the crown-jewels of God,--the sweet clover, the tender
grass, and wild flowers were springing together. In flowed all this
sweetness down to the depths of May's soul, as she walked along, and
led her feelings sweetly up to that clime of which the fairest and
purest of earth-born things are only the gray shadows; and rejoicing in
nature and high hope, she came in sight of Mabel's cottage. She saw
the child who lived with her, and called her grandmother, playing about
the door, and beckoning to her, inquired "how she was?"
"I'se right well, missy. Granny's asleep."
"How is she?" again, asked May.
"She's heap better, missy; she bin sleep dis ever so long."
"Very well. You can play out here a little longer; but don't go away,
and I will go in and wait until Aunt Mabel wakes," said May, giving her
some ginger-bread she had bought for her. The child, glad of its
freedom, remained watching the birds and clouds.
May opened the door, and entered softly. She went towards the bed, and
saw that the mysterious and awful change, which tells that the
inexorable decree is gone forth, and the "arrow fastened," was fast
settling on old Mabel's features. Yet there was nothing uncouth or
grotesque in that shrivelled and swarthy face, because FAITH, which
leads death captive, had shed over them a supernatural calm, which
ennobled them with a solemn sweetness. Her poor old hand, so long
withered and helpless, dropped beside her; the other, around which her
rosary was wrapped, lay on her breast. May took off her bonnet and
scarf, and knelt down to say the dolorous mysteries of the rosary.
"Remember, oh most loving Mother, by these, thy own dolors, the soul of
thy poor servant, who will soon be engaged in her last earthly
conflict. Rescue, oh Mother of Sorrows, through thy intercession, and
the bitter passion and death of thy Divine Son, from the foes who lie
in wait for her soul, and conduct her under thy safeguard to eternal
light and peace." Thus prayed the Christian maiden by the dying slave;
_caste_, _race_, and _fetters_ were falling together into the deep
abyss of death. She would soon know the glorious freedom of one of the
heirs of Christ.
"Oh, lady! oh, beautiful missis! this is a mean place for your crowned
head and shining robes to come into. And who are those beside you,
glorious and fair?" murmured the old woman, suddenly stretching out
_both_ arms towards the door, and looking earnestly beyond May at
something unseen.
"Queen of Heaven! how is it that you come to me? I am not worthy to
lift my eyes to yours, yet you are here," she continued, while an awe,
unspeakable and sweet, fell on May, who did not move.
"To deliver my soul, and conduct me to the feet of your Divine Son?"
she said, after a short pause, as if some one had answered her, and she
repeated the words.
"Oh grace! oh splendor! oh sweetness! oh clemency! oh hope!" she
exclaimed. "If I could, I would be worthy of such love--I would spread
gold and precious things at your feet; but I am only a poor old negro,
covered with patches and shreds. But fill my heart with all the love
it can hold, and take that--it's all I've got to offer." Again, as if
listening, she paused, then, with a smile of rapture, cried out, "Love
Jesus! love Mary! Oh, Jesus! oh, Mary! my soul is filled with Jesus
and Mary!" Then her eyes closed, her hands sunk down, and she seemed
to sleep again.
"Was it a vision? Was it a dream?" thought May; "or had she been in
the presence of MARY and the angels of heaven? Had they surrounded
her, as she watched and prayed by the side of the dying woman? She
could not tell, but she _felt_ that the air had been stirred by
heavenly visitants. Ere long old Mabel awoke, and looked wildly and
eagerly around her; then her eyes settled on May's countenance.
"How do you feel, Aunt Mabel, now?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Honey, I've had a dream! Such a glorious dream! I thought the door
opened, and the Blessed Virgin, surrounded by bright spirits, came in,
and stood around me; and it seemed to me that I was so full of joy,
that I lifted up my old shrivelled arm to welcome her. Oh, my dear
missis! I never see so much brightness and beauty together before, and
never heard such joyful sounds. It seemed like music talking. And,
honey, what is stranger than all, I saw you there, and I thought the
Blessed Virgin took a white lily out of her bosom, and laid it on your
head, and smiled. Oh, missy, wasn't it comforting to have such a
dream?"
"It was a glorious dream, Aunt Mabel!" said May, while the blood, with
rapturous motion, bounded through her veins, and filled her face with a
glowing hue. "You seemed to _see_ it all. Your eyes were open, and
your lame arm was really stretched out towards the door, as if to
welcome some bright company. Oh may that white flower, which you saw
laid on my head, go down, and take deep root in my heart."
"It will, honey. Let me kiss your hand, and lay mine on your head,
little missy. You've been my earthly helper, and your Heavenly Father
will be yours. My blessing aint of no account, but I give it to you
with all my feeble powers. May you be blessed in every thing in this
world and the next. It's growing mighty dark now, honey; hold my hand,
till it grows light again." With a last effort, she lifted May's hand
to her lips, and kissed it; then a deep lethargy stole over her. May
said the prayers for the departing soul, and recommended the dying one
to the tender care of the Immaculate Mother of Jesus. A ray from the
setting sun, stealing through the trees without, flowed into the shaded
room, and rested on her pillow in flickering radiance; and ere it
passed away, her spirit had sped from its tenement of clay to undergo
the judgment which, after death, every soul must stand. It was a sweet
falling asleep with her, so gently had death released her from the
bonds of flesh. An hour passed by, and still May knelt, absorbed in
prayer, and earnest intercession for the departed. It was growing
dark, and rising up, she straightened and composed old Mabel's limbs;
and covering her face, went out and called the child, and bid her go
for one of the neighboring women to come in, and prepare the body for
interment. She looked in the chest for the grave-clothes which the old
woman had kept and guarded as her only treasure for years and years;
and finding every thing needful in the parcel, gave it to the woman,
with strict injunctions to arrange every thing with the greatest
decency, and watch by her through the night. Promising to be there
early in the morning to pay and relieve her, she hurried to Father
Fabian to leave word with him, and request him to make the necessary
arrangements for the interment--the expenses of which she wished to
defray herself. It was quite dark when she got home, and feeling
wearied and overcome, she retired early, filled with gratitude for the
privilege she had enjoyed, of seeing one so good and humble as old
Mabel die. Death had assumed to her a benign and holy aspect; she
almost felt,
"_There is no Death. What seems so is Transition._
This life of mortal breath
Is but the suburbs of that Life Elysian,
_Whose portals we call Death._" [2]
The next day Father Fabian, in the presence of a few poor neighbors,
performed the last touching rites of the Church over the inanimate body
of old Mabel--the body which, "sown in dishonor, would be raised in
honor" to eternal life. May walked beside the coffin as it was borne
to the grave, nor left the spot until the last clod of earth was thrown
on it; then, when it was deserted by all else, as constant in death as
she had been in life, she kneeled down beside it, and offered up
fervent prayers for her eternal repose.
[1] Herbert.
[2] Longfellow.