A PEACEFUL HOUR.
In the old porch at Bellville, of which you have read so much, sat
Charles Taylor. An invalid-chair had been placed there, and he lay
back on its pillows in the beams of the afternoon sun of the late
autumn; a warm sunny day it had been. He was feeling wonderously well;
almost, but for his ever present weakness, quite well; his fatigue
of the previous day, that of Martha’s wedding, had left no permanent
effects upon him, and had he not known thoroughly his own hopeless
state he might have fancied this afternoon that he was approaching
convalescence. Not in his looks, pale, wan, ghastly were they, the
shadow of the grim implacable visitor, that was so soon to come, was
already on them; but the face in its calm, stillness told of ineffable
peace. The brunt of the storm had passed. The white walls of the Taylor
mansion glittered brightly in the distance, the dark blue sky was seen
through the branches of the trees, growing bare and more bare against
the coming winter. The warm rays of the sun fell on Charles Taylor. In
his hand he held a book from which others than Charles Taylor have
derived consolation and courage. “God is love.” He was reading at that
moment of the great love of God towards those who strive as he had done
to live for him. He looked up, repeating the sentence, “He loves them
in death and will love them through the never ending ages to come.”
Just then his eyes fell on the figure of George, their old servant man,
who was advancing towards the mansion. Charles closed his book and held
out his hand. “You are not going to leave us yet, Mr. Taylor.” “I know
not how soon it may be George, very long it cannot be; sit down.” He
stood yet, however, looking at him, disregarding the bench to which
he had pointed, stood with a saddened expression and compressed lips.
George’s eye was an experienced one, and it may be that he saw the
picture which had taken up its abode in his face.
“You be going to see my old master and mistress sir,” he said dashing
some rebellious moisture from his eyes. “Mr. Charles do you remember
it, my poor mistress sat here in this porch the very day she died.” “I
remember it well, George. I am dying quietly, thank God, as my mother
died.” “And what a blessing it is when folks can die quietly with their
conscience, and all about ’em at peace,” ejaculated George. “I am on
the threshold of a better world, George,” was his quiet answer, “one
where sorrow cannot enter.” George sat for some little time on the
bench talking to him, they had gone back in thought to old times, to
the illness and death of his mother, to the long gone scenes of the
past, whether of pleasure or pain--a past which for us all seems to
bear a charm when recalled to the memory which it had never borne; at
length George arose to depart, declining to remain longer; Charles was
in his armchair seated by the fire as Mary entered the room, his face
would have been utterly colorless save for the bluish tinge which had
settled there a tinge distinguishable even in the red blaze. “Have you
come back alone,” asked Charles, turning towards her. “George Taylor
accompanied me as far as the head of the street. Have you had your
medicine, Charles?” “Yes.” Mary drew a chair near to him, and sat down,
glancing almost stealthily at him; when this ominous look appears on
the human face we do not like to look into it too boldly lest its
owner, so soon to be called away, may read the fiat in our own dread
countenance, she need not have feared its effects, had he done so,
on Charles Taylor. “How are you feeling to night?” somewhat abruptly
asked Mary. “Never better of late days; it seems as if ease both of
mind and body has come to me.” Mary turned her eyes from the fire that
the tears rising in them might not be seen to glisten, and exclaimed:
“What a misfortune.” “A misfortune to be taken to my rest, to the good
God who has so loved and kept me here. A few minutes before you came
in I fell into a doze and I dreamt I saw Jesus Christ standing by the
window waiting for me, he had his hand stretched out to me with a
smile, so vivid had been the impression that when I awoke, I thought
it was a reality. Death a misfortune! no, Mary, not for me.” Mary rang
the bell for lights to be brought in, Charles, his elbow resting on the
arm of his chair, bent his head upon his hand and became lost in the
imagination of glories that might so soon open to him, bright forms
were flitting around a throne of wondrous beauty, golden harps in their
hands, and in one of them, her harp idle, her radiant face turned as if
watching for one who might be coming, he seemed to recognize Janey. A
misfortune for the good to die! No.
George Taylor, a cousin to this family, was seated at his desk in the
office when his attention was called by a rap at the door. George
opened the door, and the old servant came in. “It is all over, sir,” he
said; his manner strangely still, his voice unnaturally calm and low,
as is sometimes the case where emotion is striven to be suppressed.
Miss Mary bade me come to you with the tidings. George’s bearing was
suspiciously quiet, too. “It is very sudden,” he presently rejoined.
“Very sudden, sir, and yet my mistress did not seem unprepared for it,
he took his tea with her, and was so cheerful over it that I began
to hope he had taken a fresh turn, my mistress called me in to give
directions about a little matter she wanted done to-morrow, and while
she was speaking to me, Miss Matilda cried out. We turned round and
saw her leaning over my master, he had slipped back in his chair
powerless, and I hastened to raise and support him. Death was in his
face, there was no mistaking it, but he was quite conscious, quite
sensible and smiled at us. ‘I must say farewell to you,’ he said, and
Miss Matilda burst into a fit of sobs, but my mistress kneeled down
quietly before him and took his hands in hers and said, ‘Charles, is
the moment come?’ ‘Yes, it is come;’ he answered, and tried to look
round at Miss Matilda, who stood a little behind his chair. ‘Don’t
grieve,’ he said, ‘I am going on first,’ but she only sobbed the more.
‘Good by, my dear ones,’ he continued, ‘I shall wait for you all as
I know I am being waited for.’ ‘Fear?’ he went on, for Miss Matilda
sobbed out something that sounded like the word. ‘Fear, when I am going
to God, when I saw Jesus--Jesus--’” George fairly broke down with a
great burst of grief, and the tears were silently rolling over the
old man’s cheeks. “It was the last word he spoke, ‘Jesus,’ his voice
ceased, his hands fell, and the eyelids dropped, there was no struggle,
nothing but a long gentle breath, and he died with the smile upon his
lips.” Cousin George leaned his head on the side of the window to
subdue his emotion, to gather the outward calmness that man likes not
to have ruffled before the world; he listened to the strokes of the
passing bell ringing out so sharply in the still night air, and every
separate stroke was laden with its weight of pain.
You might have taken it for Sunday in Bellville, except that Sundays in
ordinary do not look so gloomy; the stores were closed, a drizzling
rain came down, and the heavy bell was booming out at solemn intervals;
it was tolling for the funeral of Charles Taylor. Morning and night
from eight to nine had it so tolled since his death, he had gone to his
long home, to his last resting-place, and Bellville mourned for him
as for a brother. Life wears different aspects for us and its cares
and its joys are unequally allotted, at least they appear so to be.
One glances up heavily from careworn burdens, and sees others without
care basking in the sunshine, but I often wonder whether those who
seem so gay whose path seems to be cast on the broad sunshiny road of
pleasure whether they have not a skeleton in their closet; nothing
but gayety, nothing but lightness, nothing to all appearances, but
freedom from care. Is it really so, perhaps with some, a very few.
Is it well for those few? Oh, if we could but see the truth when the
burden upon us is heavy and pressing. Fellow sufferers, if we could
but read that burden aright, we should see how good it is, and bless
the hand that sends it. But we never can; we are but mortal; born with
a mortal’s keen susceptibility to care and pain, we preach to others
that these things are sent for their good, we say so to ourselves when
not actually suffering, but when the fiery trial is upon us then we
groan out in our sore anguish that it is greater than we can bear. The
village clock struck eleven and the old sexton opened the doors of the
church, and the inhabitants of this beautiful village assembled to see
the funeral as it came slowly winding along the street to the sound of
the solemn bell; they might have attended him to the grave following
unobtrusively, but that was known to be the wish of the family that
such demonstration should not be made. “Bury me in the plainest manner
possible” had been his directions when the end was drawing near. The
hearse and carriages are standing at the mansion; fine horses, with
splendid trappings, in modern carriages, have come from the various
parts of the country near and distant to show their owners’ homage to
that good man who had earned their deepest respect through life; slowly
the procession reached the church, and the hearse and carriages stopped
at it; some of the carriages filed off, and the drivers turned their
horses’ heads to face the church, and waited still and quiet while the
hearse was emptied. The Reverend Mr. Davis stood at the altar, book in
hand, reciting the commencement of the service for the burial of the
dead, “I am the resurrection and the life,” with measured steps slowly
following went those who bore the coffin; their heads covered with a
black pall, the sisters and their cousin George came next, with their
old servants following, thus they entered the church, he remained at
the altar, but not reading from it, the church was nearly filled by
ones and twos; they had come in, and when all was quiet, he read the
history of the life of the deceased in a solemn manner, there was
not a dry eye in the audience; the sermon having been finished, they
repaired to the grave, the pastor taking his place at the head, and
read the service as the coffin was lowered, the mourners stood next to
him, and the other friends were clustered around, their heads bent,
the drizzling rain beat down upon their bare heads, the doctor came
up, unable to attend earlier, he came now at the last moment, just as
George Taylor had come years ago to the funeral of Janey Brewster.
Did the pastor of Bellville, standing there with his pale face, his
sonorous voice echoing over the graves, recall those back funerals,
when he over whom the service was now being read had stood as chief
mourner? No doubt he did. Did George recall it? The pastor glanced at
him once, and saw that he had a difficulty in suppressing his emotion.
“I heard a voice from Heaven saying unto me, write from henceforth
blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, even so saith the Spirit,
for they rest from their labors.” So profound was the silence, that
every word as it fell solemnly from the lips of the minister might be
heard in all parts of the churchyard; if ever that verse could apply
to frail humanity, with its unceasing struggle after holiness, and its
unceasing failure here, it most surely apply to him over whom it was
being spoken. Bend forward, as so many of those spectators are doing,
and read the inscription on the plate, Charles Taylor, aged 40 years.
Only forty years, a period at which some men think they are beginning
life, it seemed to be an untimely death, and it would have been, after
all his pain and sorrow, but that he had entered upon a better life.
They left him in the vaulted grave, his coffin near his mother’s, who
lay beside his father; the spectators began to draw unobtrusively away,
silently and solemnly. In the general crowd and bustle, for everybody
was on the move, George turned to the pastor and shook hands with him.
“It was a peaceful ending.” George was gazing down dreamily as he spoke
the last words; the pastor looked at him. “A peaceful ending! yes;
it could not be otherwise with him.” “No, no,” murmured George; “Not
otherwise with him.” “May God in his mercy send us all as happy a one
when our time shall come.” As the words left the pastor’s lips the loud
and heavy bell boomed out again, giving notice to the town that the
last rites were over, that life had closed forever on Charles Taylor.
[Illustration]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.