The Reverend Chauncy Fairweather, hearing that his parishioner's
daughter, Elsie, was very ill, could do nothing less than come to the
mansion-house and tender such consolations as he was master of. It was
rather remarkable that the old Doctor did not exactly approve of his
visit. He thought that company of every sort might be injurious in
her weak state. He was of opinion that Mr. Fairweather, though greatly
interested in religious matters, was not the most sympathetic person
that could be found; in fact, the old Doctor thought he was too much
taken up with his own interests for eternity to give himself quite 'so
heartily to the need of other people as some persons got up on a rather
more generous scale (our good neighbor Dr. Honeywood, for instance)
could do. However, all these things had better be arranged to suit her
wants; if she would like to talk with a clergyman, she had a great
deal better see one as often as she liked, and run the risk of the
excitement, than have a hidden wish for such a visit and perhaps find
herself too weak to see him by-and-by.
The old Doctor knew by sad experience that dreadful mistake against
which all medical practitioners should be warned. His experience may
well be a guide for others. Do not overlook the desire for spiritual
advice and consolation which patients sometimes feel, and, with the
frightful mauvaise honte peculiar to Protestantism, alone among all
human beliefs, are ashamed to tell. As a part of medical treatment, it
is the physician's business to detect the hidden longing for the food of
the soul, as much as for any form of bodily nourishment. Especially
in the higher walks of society, where this unutterably miserable false
shame of Protestantism acts in proportion to the general acuteness of
the cultivated sensibilities, let no unwillingness to suggest the sick
person's real need suffer him to languish between his want and his
morbid sensitiveness. What an infinite advantage the Mussulmans and the
Catholics have over many of our more exclusively spiritual sects in the
way they keep their religion always by them and never blush for it! And
besides this spiritual longing, we should never forget that
“On some fond breast the parting soul relies,”
and the minister of religion, in addition to the sympathetic nature
which we have a right to demand in him, has trained himself to the art
of entering into the feelings of others.
The reader must pardon this digression, which introduces the visit of
the Reverend Chauncy Fairweather to Elsie Veneer. It was mentioned
to her that he would like to call and see how she was, and she
consented,--not with much apparent interest, for she had reasons of her
own for not feeling any very deep conviction of his sympathy for persons
in sorrow. But he came, and worked the conversation round to religion,
and confused her with his hybrid notions, half made up of what he had
been believing and teaching all his life, and half of the new doctrines
which he had veneered upon the surface of his old belief. He got so
far as to make a prayer with her,--a cool, well-guarded prayer, which
compromised his faith as little as possible, and which, if devotion were
a game played against Providence, might have been considered a cautious
and sagacious move.
When he had gone, Elsie called Old Sophy to her.
“Sophy,” she said, “don't let them send that cold hearted man to me any
more. If your old minister comes--to see you, I should like to hear him
talk. He looks as if he cared for everybody, and would care for me. And,
Sophy, if I should die one of these days, I should like to have that old
minister come and say whatever is to be said over me. It would comfort
Dudley more, I know, than to have that hard man here, when you're
in trouble, for some of you will be sorry when I'm gone,--won't you,
Sophy?”
The poor old black woman could not stand this question. The cold
minister had frozen Elsie until she felt as if nobody cared for her or
would regret her,--and her question had betrayed this momentary feeling.
“Don' talk so! don' talk so, darlin'!” she cried, passionately. “When
you go, Ol' Sophy'll go; 'n' where you go, Ol' Sophy'll go: 'n' we'll
both go t' th' place where th' Lord takes care of all his children,
whether their faces are white or black. Oh, darlin', darlin'! if th'
Lord should let me die firs', you shall fin' all ready for you when you
come after me. On'y don' go 'n' leave poor Ol' Sophy all 'lone in th'
world!”
Helen came in at this moment and quieted the old woman with a look. Such
scenes were just what were most dangerous, in the state in which Elsie
was lying: but that is one of the ways in which an affectionate friend
sometimes unconsciously wears out the life which a hired nurse, thinking
of nothing but her regular duties and her wages, would have spared from
all emotional fatigue.
The change which had come over Elsie's disposition was itself the cause
of new excitements. How was it possible that her father could keep away
from her, now that she was coming back to the nature and the very look
of her mother, the bride of his youth? How was it possible to refuse
her, when she said to Old Sophy, that she should like to have her
minister come in and sit by her, even though his presence might perhaps
prove a new source of excitement?
But the Reverend Doctor did come and sit by her, and spoke such soothing
words to her, words of such peace and consolation, that from that hour
she was tranquil as never before. All true hearts are alike in the
hour of need; the Catholic has a reserved fund of faith for his
fellow-creature's trying moment, and the Calvinist reveals those springs
of human brotherhood and charity in his soul which are only covered over
by the iron tables inscribed with the harder dogmas of his creed. It was
enough that the Reverend Doctor knew all Elsie's history. He could not
judge her by any formula, like those which have been moulded by past
ages out of their ignorance. He did not talk with her as if she were an
outside sinner worse than himself. He found a bruised and languishing
soul, and bound up its wounds. A blessed office,--one which is confined
to no sect or creed, but which good men in all times, under various
names and with varying ministries, to suit the need of each age, of each
race, of each individual soul, have come forward to discharge for their
suffering fellow-creatures.
After this there was little change in Elsie, except that her heart beat
more feebly every day,--so that the old Doctor himself, with all his
experience, could see nothing to account for the gradual failing of the
powers of life, and yet could find no remedy which seemed to arrest its
progress in the smallest degree.
“Be very careful,” he said, “that she is not allowed to make any
muscular exertion. Any such effort, when a person is so enfeebled, may
stop the heart in a moment; and if it stops, it will never move again.”
Helen enforced this rule with the greatest care. Elsie was hardly
allowed to move her hand or to speak above a whisper. It seemed to be
mainly the question now, whether this trembling flame of life would be
blown out by some light breath of air, or whether it could be so nursed
and sheltered by the hollow of these watchful hands that it would have a
chance to kindle to its natural brightness.
--Her father came in to sit with her in the evening. He had never talked
so freely with her as during the hour he had passed at her bedside,
telling her little circumstances of her mother's life, living over with
her all that was pleasant in the past, and trying to encourage her with
some cheerful gleams of hope for the future. A faint smile played over
her face, but she did not answer his encouraging suggestions. The hour
came for him to leave her with those who watched by her.
“Good-night, my dear child,” he said, and stooping down, kissed her
cheek.
Elsie rose by a sudden effort, threw her arms round his neck, kissed
him, and said, “Good-night, my dear father!”
The suddenness of her movement had taken him by surprise, or he would
have checked so dangerous an effort. It was too late now. Her arms
slid away from him like lifeless weights,--her head fell back upon her
pillow,--along sigh breathed through her lips.
“She is faint,” said Helen, doubtfully; “bring me the hartshorn, Sophy.”
The old woman had started from her place, and was now leaning over her,
looking in her face, and listening for the sound of her breathing.
“She 's dead! Elsie 's dead! My darlin 's dead!” she cried aloud,
filling the room with her utterance of anguish.
Dudley Venner drew her away and silenced her with a voice of authority,
while Helen and an assistant plied their restoratives. It was all in
vain.
The solemn tidings passed from the chamber of death through the family.
The daughter, the hope of that old and honored house, was dead in the
freshness of her youth, and the home of its solitary representative was
hereafter doubly desolate.
A messenger rode hastily out of the avenue. A little after this the
people of the village and the outlying farm-houses were startled by the
sound of a bell.
One,--two,--three,--four,
They stopped in every house, as far as the wavering vibrations reached,
and listened--
five,--six,--seven,--
It was not the little child which had been lying so long at the point of
death; that could not be more than three or four years old--
eight,--nine,--ten,--and so on to fifteen, sixteen,--seventeen,
--eighteen--
The pulsations seemed to keep on,--but it was the brain, and not the
bell, that was throbbing now.
“Elsie 's dead!” was the exclamation at a hundred firesides.
“Eighteen year old,” said old Widow Peake, rising from her chair.
“Eighteen year ago I laid two gold eagles on her mother's eyes,--he
wouldn't have anything but gold touch her eyelids,--and now Elsie's to
be straightened,--the Lord have mercy on her poor sinful soul!”
Dudley Venner prayed that night that he might be forgiven, if he had
failed in any act of duty or kindness to this unfortunate child of his,
now freed from all the woes born with her and so long poisoning her
soul. He thanked God for the brief interval of peace which had been
granted her, for the sweet communion they had enjoyed in these last
days, and for the hope of meeting her with that other lost friend in a
better world.
Helen mingled a few broken thanks and petitions with her tears: thanks
that she had been permitted to share the last days and hours of this
poor sister in sorrow; petitions that the grief of bereavement might be
lightened to the lonely parent and the faithful old servant.
Old Sophy said almost nothing, but sat day and night by her dead
darling. But sometimes her anguish would find an outlet in strange
sounds, something between a cry and a musical note,--such as noise had
ever heard her utter before. These were old remembrances surging up from
her childish days, coming through her mother from the cannibal chief,
her grandfather,--death-wails, such as they sing in the mountains of
Western Africa, when they see the fires on distant hill-sides and know
that their own wives and children are undergoing the fate of captives.
The time came when Elsie was to be laid by her mother in the small
square marked by the white stone.
It was not unwillingly that the Reverend Chauncy Fairweather had
relinquished the duty of conducting the service to the Reverend Doctor
Honeywood, in accordance with Elsie's request. He could not, by any
reasoning, reconcile his present way of thinking with a hope for the
future of his unfortunate parishioner. Any good old Roman Catholic
priest, born and bred to his faith and his business, would have found a
loophole into some kind of heaven for her, by virtue of his doctrine of
“invincible ignorance,” or other special proviso; but a recent convert
cannot enter into the working conditions of his new creed. Beliefs must
be lived in for a good while, before they accommodate themselves to the
soul's wants, and wear loose enough to be comfortable.
The Reverend Doctor had no such scruples. Like thousands of those who
are classed nominally with the despairing believers, he had never prayed
over a departed brother or sister without feeling and expressing a
guarded hope that there was mercy in store for the poor sinner, whom
parents, wives, children, brothers and sisters could not bear to give up
to utter ruin without a word,--and would not, as he knew full well,
in virtue of that human love and sympathy which nothing can ever
extinguish. And in this poor Elsie's history he could read nothing
which the tears of the recording angel might not wash away. As the good
physician of the place knew the diseases that assailed the bodies of men
and women, so he had learned the mysteries of the sickness of the soul.
So many wished to look upon Elsie's face once more, that her father
would not deny them; nay, he was pleased that those who remembered her
living should see her in the still beauty of death. Helen and those with
her arrayed her for this farewell-view. All was ready for the sad or
curious eyes which were to look upon her. There 'was no painful change
to be concealed by any artifice. Even her round neck was left uncovered,
that she might be more like one who slept. Only the golden cord was left
in its place: some searching eye might detect a trace of that birthmark
which it was whispered she had always worn a necklace to conceal.
At the last moment, when all the preparations were completed, Old Sophy
stooped over her, and, with trembling hand, loosed the golden cord. She
looked intently; for some little space: there was no shade nor blemish
where the ring of gold had encircled her throat. She took it gently away
and laid it in the casket which held her ornaments.
“The Lord be praised!” the old woman cried, aloud. “He has taken away
the mark that was on her; she's fit to meet his holy angels now!”
So Elsie lay for hours in the great room, in a kind of state, with
flowers all about her,--her black hair braided as in life,--her brows
smooth, as if they had never known the scowl of passion,--and on her
lips the faint smile with which she had uttered her last “Good--night.”
The young girls from the school looked at her, one after another, and
passed on, sobbing, carrying in their hearts the picture that would be
with them all their days. The great people of the place were all there
with their silent sympathy. The lesser kind of gentry, and many of the
plainer folk of the village, half-pleased to find themselves passing
beneath the stately portico of the ancient mansion-house, crowded
in, until the ample rooms were overflowing. All the friends whose
acquaintance we have made were there, and many from remoter villages and
towns.
There was a deep silence at last. The hour had come for the parting
words to be spoken over the dead. The good old minister's voice rose out
of the stillness, subdued and tremulous at first, but growing firmer
and clearer as he went on, until it reached the ears of the visitors who
were in the far, desolate chambers, looking at the pictured hangings
and the old dusty portraits. He did not tell her story in his prayer. He
only spoke of our dear departed sister as one of many whom Providence
in its wisdom has seen fit to bring under bondage from their cradles. It
was not for us to judge them by any standard of our own. He who made the
heart alone knew the infirmities it inherited or acquired. For all that
our dear sister had presented that was interesting and attractive in her
character we were to be grateful; for whatever was dark or inexplicable
we must trust that the deep shadow which rested on the twilight dawn of
her being might render a reason before the bar of Omniscience; for the
grace which had lightened her last days we should pour out our hearts
in thankful acknowledgment. From the life and the death of this our dear
sister we should learn a lesson of patience with our fellow-creatures in
their inborn peculiarities, of charity in judging what seem to us wilful
faults of character, of hope and trust, that, by sickness or affliction,
or such inevitable discipline as life must always bring with it, if by
no gentler means, the soul which had been left by Nature to wander into
the path of error and of suffering might be reclaimed and restored to
its true aim, and so led on by divine grace to its eternal welfare. He
closed his prayer by commending each member of the afflicted family to
the divine blessing.
Then all at once rose the clear sound of the girls' voices, in the
sweet, sad melody of a funeral hymn,--one of those which Elsie had
marked, as if prophetically, among her own favorites.
And so they laid her in the earth, and showered down flowers upon her,
and filled her grave, and covered it with green sods. By the side of it
was another oblong ridge, with a white stone standing at its head. Mr.
Bernard looked upon it, as he came close to the place where Elsie was
laid, and read the inscription,
CATALINA
WIFE TO DUDLEY VENNER
DIED
OCTOBER 13TH 1840
AGED XX YEARS
A gentle rain fell on the turf after it was laid. This was the beginning
of a long and dreary autumnal storm, a deferred “equinoctial,” as many
considered it. The mountain streams were all swollen and turbulent, and
the steep declivities were furrowed in every direction by new channels.
It made the house seem doubly desolate to hear the wind howling and the
rain beating upon the roofs. The poor relation who was staying at the
house would insist on Helen's remaining a few days: Old Sophy was in
such a condition, that it kept her in continual anxiety, and there were
many cares which Helen could take off from her.
The old black woman's life was buried in her darling's grave. She did
nothing but moan and lament for her. At night she was restless, and
would get up and wander to Elsie's apartment and look for her and call
her by name. At other times she would lie awake and listen to the wind
and the rain,--sometimes with such a wild look upon her face, and with
such sudden starts and exclamations, that it seemed as if she heard
spirit-voices and were answering the whispers of unseen visitants. With
all this were mingled hints of her old superstition,--forebodings of
something fearful about to happen,--perhaps the great final catastrophe
of all things, according to the prediction current in the kitchens of
Rockland.
“Hark!” Old Sophy would say,--“don' you hear th' crackin' 'n' th'
snappin' up in Th' Mountain, 'n' th' rollin' o' th' big stones? The' 's
somethin' stirrin' among th' rocks; I hear th' soun' of it in th' night,
when th' wind has stopped blowin'. Oh, stay by me a little while, Miss
Darlin'! stay by me! for it's th' Las' Day, maybe, that's close on us,
'n' I feel as if I could n' meet th' Lord all alone!”
It was curious,--but Helen did certainly recognize sounds, during
the lull of the storm, which were not of falling rain or running
streams,--short snapping sounds, as of tense cords breaking,--long
uneven sounds, as of masses rolling down steep declivities. But the
morning came as usual; and as the others said nothing of these singular
noises, Helen did not think it necessary to speak of them. All day long
she and the humble relative of Elsie's mother, who had appeared as
poor relations are wont to in the great prises of life, were busy in
arranging the disordered house, and looking over the various objects
which Elsie's singular tastes had brought together, to dispose of them
as her father might direct. They all met together at the usual hour for
tea. One of the servants came in, looking very blank, and said to the
poor relation,
“The well is gone dry; we have nothing but rainwater.”
Dudley Venner's countenance changed; he sprang to, his feet and went
to--assure himself of the fact, and, if he could, of the reason of it.
For a well to dry up during such a rain-storm was extraordinary,--it was
ominous.
He came back, looking very anxious.
“Did any of you notice any remarkable sounds last night,” he said,--“or
this morning? Hark! do you hear anything now?”
They listened in perfect silence for a few moments. Then there came a
short cracking sound, and two or three snaps, as of parting cords.
Dudley Venner called all his household together.
“We are in danger here, as I think, to-night,” he said,--“not very great
danger, perhaps, but it is a risk I do not wish you to run. These heavy
rains have loosed some of the rocks above, and they may come down and
endanger the house. Harness the horses, Elbridge, and take all the
family away. Miss Darley will go to the Institute; the others will pass
the night at the Mountain House. I shall stay here, myself: it is not
at all likely that anything will come of these warnings; but if there
should, I choose to be there and take my chance.”
It needs little, generally, to frighten servants, and they were all
ready enough to go. The poor relation was one of the timid sort, and was
terribly uneasy to be got out of the house. This left no alternative, of
course, for Helen, but to go also. They all urged upon Dudley Veneer to
go with them: if there was danger, why should he remain to risk it, when
he sent away the others?
Old Sophy said nothing until the time came for her to go with the second
of Elbridge's carriage-loads.
“Come, Sophy,” said Dudley Veneer, “get your things and go. They will
take good care of you at the Mountain House; and when we have made sure
that there is no real danger, you shall come back at once.”
“No, Masse!” Sophy answered. “I've seen Elsie into th' ground, 'n' I
a'n't goin' away to come back 'n' fin' Masse Veneer buried under th'
rocks. My darlin' 's gone; 'n' now, if Masse goes, 'n' th' of place
goes, it's time for Ol' Sophy to go, too. No, Masse Veneer, we'll both
stay in th' of mansion 'n' wait for th' Lord!”
Nothing could change the old woman's determination; and her master, who
only feared, but did not really expect the long-deferred catastrophe,
was obliged to consent to her staying. The sudden drying of the well at
such a time was the most alarming sign; for he remembered that the same
thing had been observed just before great mountain-slides. This long
rain, too, was just the kind of cause which was likely to loosen the
strata of rock piled up in the ledges; if the dreaded event should ever
come to pass, it would be at such a time.
He paced his chamber uneasily until long past midnight. If the morning
came without accident, he meant to have a careful examination made of
all the rents and fissures above, of their direction and extent, and
especially whether, in case of a mountain-slide, the huge masses would
be like to reach so far to the east and so low down the declivity as the
mansion.
At two o'clock in the morning he was dozing in his chair. Old Sophy had
lain down on her bed, and was muttering in troubled dreams.
All at once a loud crash seemed to rend the very heavens above them: a
crack as of the thunder that follows close upon the bolt,--a rending and
crashing as of a forest snapped through all its stems, torn, twisted,
splintered, dragged with all its ragged boughs into one chaotic ruin.
The ground trembled under them as in an earthquake; the old mansion
shuddered so that all its windows chattered in their casements; the
great chimney shook off its heavy cap-stones, which came down on the
roof with resounding concussions; and the echoes of The Mountain roared
and bellowed in long reduplication, as if its whole foundations were
rent, and this were the terrible voice of its dissolution.
Dudley Venner rose from his chair, folded his arms, and awaited his
fate. There was no knowing where to look for safety; and he remembered
too well the story of the family that was lost by rushing out of the
house, and so hurrying into the very jaws of death.
He had stood thus but for a moment, when he heard the voice of Old Sophy
in a wild cry of terror:
“It's th' Las' Day! It's th' Las' Day! The Lord is comin' to take us
all!”
“Sophy!” he called; but she did not hear him or heed him, and rushed out
of the house.
The worst danger was over. If they were to be destroyed, it would
necessarily be in a few seconds from the first thrill of the terrible
convulsion. He waited in awful suspense, but calm. Not more than one or
two minutes could have passed before the frightful tumult and all its
sounding echoes had ceased. He called Old Sophy; but she did not answer.
He went to the western window and looked forth into the darkness. He
could not distinguish the outlines of the landscape, but the white stone
was clearly visible, and by its side the new-made mound. Nay, what was
that which obscured its outline, in shape like a human figure? He flung
open the window and sprang through. It was all that there was left of
poor Old Sophy, stretched out lifeless, upon her darling's grave.
He had scarcely composed her limbs and drawn the sheet over her, when
the neighbors began to arrive from all directions. Each was expecting
to hear of houses overwhelmed and families destroyed; but each came with
the story that his own household was safe. It was not until the morning
dawned that the true nature and extent of the sudden movement was
ascertained. A great seam had opened above the long cliff, and the
terrible Rattlesnake Ledge, with all its envenomed reptiles, its
dark fissures and black caverns, was buried forever beneath a mighty
incumbent mass of ruin.