THE DEATH CHAMBER.
“Death is the crown of life:
Were death denied, poor man would live in vain.
Death wounds to cure; we fall: we rise; we reign;
Spring from our fetters; fasten to the skies;
When blooming Eden freshens on our sight
This king of terrors is the prince of peace.”
YOUNG.
Autumn had deadened into winter. The brilliant foliage of the autumn
woods had been hurtled off and whirled away in the winter wind. The
trees were bare, their branches like black ink tracings against a
background of white. The river was frozen over, the creek was frozen
over, the bay near the shore was crusted with ice. The ground was
covered with snow—the sky was misty-white with clouds. In very pale
colors was the winter landscape drawn—in very pale colors, like the
white, wan face, and the blue-grey hair of a very old man. The pale
cloud-mottled grey sky above; the pale green frozen bay and river, and
the snowy ground with its black ink tracery of bare trees and forests,
and its dark red square old Hall on the promontory. The white
snow-clouds thickened in the air as the night fell on the 18th of
December. The wind arose, and a driving snow-storm came on. And through
the gathering darkness on the heath shone one beacon—a light in an upper
chamber window of the hall. And towards it, through the driving storm,
toiled one traveller,—a fat old gentleman on a fat old horse. It was Dr.
Otterback on his way to the sick bed of Mr. Withers. The bishop had been
on a tour of confirmation through his diocese, and was at that time
sojourning over a Sabbath at Churchill’s Point. In a quarter of an hour
more he was at the Hall, he was in the sick room. This was the scene. It
was a large room, carpeted with a thick carpet that gave no sound to the
footfall. The windows were curtained with dark heavy curtains, lined,
that let no noise through them from without. A dim lamp sat on the
hearth, and cast up high monstrous shadows to the ceiling, that loomed
black through the dimmer darkness like shadows through the night, and
swayed to and fro, and up and down, in the flare of the lamp. Without
was softly heard the smothered sough of the wind and snow, like the sob
of lost spirits wailing to enter. At the furthest end of the room from
the windows, stood a tall, square, canopied bedstead, with the heavy
curtains looped back to the head-posts. Upon it lies a dying man, and
around him are gathered his family. Draw near, though it is a sight of
anguish to see the death of a life that has been much error, and _all_
bitterness. Draw near. His sallow face in its wreath of uncut black hair
and whiskers, is drawn in strong relief against the pile of snow-white
pillows that support his head. His sallow hands are laid out at length
upon the dark coverlid. His eyes, small and black in the death
intensity, now burn in the countenance of the bishop, who stands at the
foot of the bed, repeating at intervals, in answer to that anguished
gaze, such texts of Scripture as promise redemption by faith. On his
right hand, within the shadow of the curtain, sits Sophie, very pale and
still, her hands clasped with awe. On his left hand stands Raymond,
leaning his elbow on the head-board and bowing his face upon his open
hand, while the heave and fall of his chest silently betray the son’s
sorrow for the father. By the side of Raymond, and with her fingers
clasped in his hand, which he presses from time to time as a surge of
emotion agitates him, stands Hagar; but her crimson cheek and glittering
eye display more excitement than awe, in the death scene she witnesses.
“You love him, Hagar!” at last very low whispered the dying man. Hagar’s
cheek paled, while her fingers quivered slightly in the hand of Raymond.
“Love him—_gently_, Hagar,” then he said, and turned his eyes on Sophie,
while his sallow hand crept by the fingers towards her. She saw and
raised the hand, rubbed it, pressed it between her own, but it grew
colder in her clasp.
“Good-bye, my guardian angel,” he said very softly, and turned his
troubled eye again upon the bishop. Sophie saw that troubled glance, and
silently prayed that the perturbed spirit might pass in peace. At last
at a motion from the bishop all sank upon their knees. But Sophie, while
she knelt, could not withdraw her gaze from the eyes that still hopeless
sought comfort in _her_ eyes. The prayers for the dying were commenced,
and as they progressed Sophie loved to see the anguish of expression
soften away from his face—his brow grew calm, his eye steady, and she
felt that at last his soul had found peace in believing. It was in a
smile his eyes faded away from hers—in a smile that his spirit passed
away, as sometimes after a stormy day the sun glances out beneath a bank
of clouds, and smiling a good night, sinks. When they arose from their
knees, the clay was vacant. The bishop closed the empty eyes, and then
by a motion marshalled the family all from the room. Raymond at once
sought his own chamber. The bishop followed Sophie into the parlor.
Hagar went out into the dining-room to assist Mrs. Buncombe, who was now
at the Hall, taking charge of its housekeeping just at this crisis. The
tea-table was being set in great style under her direction—this was in
honor of the bishop’s presence in the house. Hagar at once lent her a
cheerful assistance. She began powdering some delicate tarts with loaf
sugar. Thus life and death, luxury and decay, the table and the coffin,
the most awful event of a lifetime, the most trivial occurrences of the
moment, jostle each other, nor may either be entirely crowded off the
stage of existence. Mrs. Buncombe looked very grave, and at last she
said half reprovingly to Hagar,
“You seem very cheerful, Hagar, while your uncle lies in the agonies of
death!”
“I should not be cheerful if he were in the agonies of death—he is
released, and there was no agony. I could not have believed that a
spirit could have been withdrawn from the body with so little pain to
either!”
“And so he is gone!” said Emily, in a tone of pity. “So he is gone.
Well, ‘after life’s fitful fever he sleeps well!’ peace be with him!”
“Yes, peace be with him. May his cradle be soft—may his nurses be
tender—may his parents be gentle and wise, and may his present life—the
life just commenced—be happier than his past pilgrimage, the life just
closed!”
She had spoken earnestly.
“Why, what in the name of heaven are you talking of, Hagar?” asked
Emily, in astonishment.
“Of the man just dead, and the babe just born!”
“I believe you are crazy, Hagar!—at least any one who did not know you
as well as I know you, would believe so. What do you mean by such
language?”
She had finished setting the table, and had now sat down by the fire.
Hagar was standing by her, leaning with her back against the side of the
mantel-piece.
“This is what I mean: there is no death, but only change. I do not see
death. I cannot find death anywhere in the world. I see change, but no
destruction—no, not even loss of identity. See how one principle—any
principle in chemistry, for instance, will pass through a thousand
media, assuming a thousand forms, but not losing itself, not changing
its own individuality. Yes, one principle will pass through the mineral,
vegetable, and animal kingdoms, and pass again circulating for ever
without losing itself. And so with our spirit, as it struggles up
through hardest, seemingly deadest forms of existence, to its human
form; and from the lowest human nature up to the highest; from the
savage to the civilized man; and from a common-place civilized man, up
to a Howard or a Fenelon; and from a Howard, perhaps, to an angel, but
always with more or less speed—_up! up!_—never falling, never losing,
never retrograding, relapsing. Thus, a soul that has passed through the
schooling of civilization, never, never in its transmigrations, relapses
into the body of a savage. I stood by and watched the passing away of
uncle’s spirit, and wondered to see Christians looking so sad, as though
it were annihilation and not a journey; as though they did not see that
God was wise enough, and good enough, and potent enough to take care of
the soul He had brought thus far in its course. I stood by, thinking
that around some other bed some other people were gathered, awaiting the
arrival of a newborn infant, and that when the wail of sorrow arose in
this room for the dead, the voice of rejoicing would be heard in that
room for the newborn! And I watched in eagerness, in excitement, but not
in sorrow, not in regret. Could _I_ regret that his spirit was withdrawn
from its present racked and ruined home? No, I am glad!” she said, with
dancing eyes.
“And you really believe that, Hagar? I mean your theory of
transmigration?”
“Believe—believe,” said she, musing; “no, it does not amount to belief,
and yet it is _more_. It is not a belief, a creed; it is a feeling, an
impression, and a very strong conviction. To me, spiritual intuitions
are more convincing than rational deductions. Heart convictions stronger
than brain convictions.”
“Alas! Hagar, the neglect of your infancy will never, _never_ be made up
to you. Poor girl, your mind strays off into the wildest vagaries.
Hagar, you should read your Bible more.”
“I do read my Bible,” said Hagar, “but no _commentaries_ on it; the
Bible itself is my commentary on nature; it interprets myself and the
universe to me.”
“You find nothing like what you fancy in the Bible.”
“I find nothing that contradicts it there.”
“I must get Mr. Buncombe to talk to you, Hagar.”
Hagar smiled derisively.
“Yes, I _will_, and I can talk to you myself; ‘There is an appointed
time for man to die, and _after death the judgment_;’ mind, it does not
say, after death a transmigration.”
“No,” said Hagar, “it says, ‘after death—_the judgment_’—that very
judgment may remand the soul back to earth for another probation!”
“You horrify me, you positively do horrify me, Hagar!”
“You horrify _me_, when you tell me that for the sins, or errors, or
_mistakes_ even, of some sixteen or sixty years, my soul must wail in
perdition, through the countless ages of eternity—no, no!—no, no! My
Father!” said the wild girl, kindling into enthusiasm, “Thou never
did’st create a soul to let it drop into the abyss—_lost_! It may take a
long time to teach—a long time to redeem that soul—to perfect that
soul—many times may it be remanded back to the clay—many weary
pilgrimages may it make on earth, but the work will never be abandoned;
the work will be accomplished. Christ did not live, and teach, and
suffer, and die in vain—His lesson will be learned at last.”
“My poor Hagar,” said Emily, fervently, “may you yet learn _His_ lesson!
He who came to light up that darkness of the grave which the eye of man
could not penetrate—to substitute for the thousand wild fancies, such as
yours, of Heathenism, the holy Truth of God—He, whom you so rashly
invoke, has said—do you not remember it, Hagar?—
“‘And he shall set the sheep on His right hand, but the goats on the
left.
“‘Then shall the King say unto them on the right hand, Come, ye blessed
of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation
of the world.
“‘Then shall He also say unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye
cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.
“‘_And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the
righteous into life eternal!_’
“Ah, my poor, dear Hagar, how little these wild fancies of yours will
bestead you in the trials and temptations of life. Oh! what an untrimmed
vine you are, Hagar! May the pruning knife of God’s providence gently,
very gently, remove all this bad over-growth.”
Hagar’s fierce eyes flashed defiance at her monitress; but just then a
vision of Raymond, in his lonely grief—of Raymond, the only
heart-stricken mourner for the dead, passed before her mind’s eye; the
fierceness softened in her eyes, and she glided from the room. Just at
that moment tea was brought in, and Mr. Buncombe and Dr. Otterback
summoned to the table, and with Emily, gathered around it.
Hagar glided like a spirit up the long staircase. The storm had passed,
and the moon was shining through the windows. She passed into an upper
room. A dark figure intercepted at the window the rays of the moon. A
dark figure sitting alone, with head dropped upon the arms that, folded,
rested on the window-sill. Very softly she approached, and stood by him
in silence. He felt her approach, however, and turning around, passed
his arm around her waist, and, drawing her up to his side, murmured—
“My own dear Hagar, you have come to me at last; you are here at last;
why did you not come before?”
“Because _then_, Raymond, I was in no condition to give you comfort in
the mood _you_ then were; my mind was excited, enthusiastic. I could not
feel this passing away as anything but a relief—a glory—could not think
of it as anything to mourn for, but rather to rejoice at. Why, Raymond,
death has been called a ‘leap in the dark,’ but to me it seems a bound
in the light!”
“Ah, but Hagar,—the flesh—the flesh—I loved my father so much; I loved
him for all his sorrows, and because he found favor in no other heart. I
suffered so much at the banishment endured for his sake, and now I come
home only to light him down to the grave.”
“Raymond, when you left here, some years ago, you left your cast off
raiment in your chamber, and they packed it down in a trunk. When you
stepped aboard the boat that carried you to the packet, I, impatient
child! threw myself down, and screamed in anguish, at parting from my
brother, or stretching out my arms beseechingly, called you to come
back. Now, Raymond, according to your creed, I had better have gone and
cast myself across your trunk—the grave of your cast off dress, and
howled for Raymond, _coffined within_.”
Raymond again answered her, for his was not after all that deep, _deep_
grief which plunges its victim into silence.
“I loved that soul-raiment—I loved that thin and wrinkled hand, that
lately deprecated harsh judgment while it caressed me—I loved that
tortured face, traversed as it was by its thousand seams of thought or
suffering, and that slow pausing step. I loved it all—but _you_, Hagar,
a woman—a girl, a young girl, and yet you have so little
_tenderness_—the falcon, not the dove!”
Hagar, at once spirited and delicate, did not repel this charge, nor did
her mind fly back to the many nights of sleeplessness she had passed in
the sick chamber of his father while Raymond slumbered soundly in his
bed; nor did she know that though she had felt very _tenderly_ she had
acted _kindly_, while the son who really loved his father so tenderly
loved _himself_ as well, and took his rest.
“Have I hurt you, Hagar?” at last he said gently.
“No, I do not know that you have.”
“_Have_ I hurt you, Hagar?” he said, now sadly.
“No, no; I am not sensitive—not very tender of myself any more than of
others. No, you do not understand me—that I feel _life_ so much more
than death—so much _life_ everywhere. Why, Raymond, my feeling about _my
own death_ is that of escape, flight, revel in liberty and light. I
stand upon the banks of our river sometimes, and feel like gathering
myself up for a leap across the flood; yet there I stand, fast fettered
by flesh. I stand some mornings at early dawn at my chamber window, and,
gazing rapturously at the morning star, my spirit uneasily flaps its
wings for a flight! Yet there I stand fast tied to the body; so wild and
strong is the spirit, and so heavy and fast its chains.”
Yes, she spoke truly—so wild, and strong, and fierce was the spirit,
whose fire was to be quenched in tears of blood dropped slowly from the
heart.
Sophie now came in, and observing Hagar, said,
“Ah! it is right for you to be here, my love; we have a common sorrow,
and I feel that _I_ should not have gone apart;” and she sat down with
them.
The funeral of John Huss Withers took place on the fifth day from his
death. Dr. Otterbuck remained to officiate. Mr. Buncombe of course
succeeded him in the rectorship of the parish of the Crucifixion. It was
during this visit of the bishop that the Parish Church, enlarged and
repaired, was re-christened and dedicated under the name of the
Ascension. This was done through the suggestion of Mr. Buncombe and the
vestry. A year passed away.