THE ANGEL OF THE PINES.
The unexpected arrival of their master's sister and her cortége at
"The Pines," as Mr. Delafield's plantation was called, produced quite
a sensation among the blacks, who hastened to receive their guests
with many demonstrations of joy, rather more affected than real, for
Mrs. Lansing was not very popular with them. Halbert and Jessie, on
the contrary, were general favorites among the servants, who thought
them little less than angels, particularly Jessie, who, with her
sweet young face, laughing eyes, and wavy hair, flitted like a
sunbeam from cabin to cabin, asking after this old Aunty, or that old
Uncle, and screaming with delight when in one hut she found _three
babies_, all of an age, and belonging to the same mother, who boasted
of having given to her master "fifteen as likely girls and boys as
there were in Georgy."
As yet the triplets had no names, but the arrival of the families
suggested a new idea to Hannah, who, seating herself by Jessie,
proposed that they be called, "Richard Delafield, Ada Montrose, and
Jessie Lansing."
With the first and last the little girl was well pleased, but she
objected to the middle name, and taking one of the infants upon her
lap, she told the story of her beloved teacher, who was dying at
Cedar Grove, and asked that the child she held might be called for
her. So, baptized by Jessie's tears, which fell like rain upon its
dark and wrinkled face, the babe was christened "Rosa _Lee_."
The house which Mrs. Lansing termed her country residence (for she
always spoke of her brother's possessions as her own), was a large,
double log building, containing nothing very elegant in the way of
furniture, but still presenting an air of neatness and comfort; for
_Aunt Dinah_, who had charge of it, prided herself upon keeping it
neat and clean, as her master was likely to come upon her at any time
without warning, and she liked to impress him with her rare
qualifications as housekeeper. With Mrs. Lansing, however, she was
less pleased, but still as the sister of "Mars'r Richard," she was
entitled to consideration, and now in high turban, and all the
dignity of her position, the old lady bustled about from room to
room, jingling her keys, kicking the dogs, cuffing the woolly pate of
any luckless wight who chanced to be in her way, and occasionally
stooping down to kiss little Jessie, who, being of rather a domestic
turn, followed her from place to place, herself assisting in
spreading the supper-table, which, with its snowy cloth, corn cake,
iced milk, hot coffee, and smoking steaks, soon presented a most
inviting aspect.
Relieved of their fears and thinking themselves beyond the reach of
danger, Mrs. Lansing and Ada gave themselves up to the enjoyment of
the hour, talking and laughing gaily, without a thought of the sick
girl they had left behindhand who that night was to have been a
bride. Once, indeed, when after sunset they were assembled upon the
rude piazza, Ada spoke of her, wondering if she were _dead_, and how
long it would be ere Dr. Clayton would marry another! Such is the
world, to which Ada formed no exception, for how often do we hear the
future companion of a broken-hearted man selected, even before the
wife of his bosom is removed forever from his sight!
For a long time Mrs. Lansing sat there with Ada and her children,
talking on indifferent subjects and occasionally congratulating
herself that they were beyond reach of the fever, unless, indeed,
Jessie had contracted it by her foolish carelessness! On her lap
rested the little golden head of the child, who was humming snatches
of "The Happy Land," a favorite song which her uncle had taught her,
and which she had often sung with her teacher, asking numerous
questions concerning the better world, where
"Saints in glory stand,
Bright, bright as day,"
and wondering if, when she died, Jesus would take her there to sing,
"Worthy is our Saviour King."
Very naturally, now, her thoughts reverted to her governess, and as
she listened to the whispering wind sighing through the trees, she
fancied it was the voice of Rose bidding her, "come to the Happy
Land." Sweet little Jessie, it was the voices of angel children,
which you heard thus calling through the pines; for from their
shining ranks one beauteous form was missing, and they would fain
allure it back to its native sky.
Come I now to the saddest part of my story. Beneath the evergreens
of the sunny South is a little mound, over which the shining stars
keep watch, and the cypress spreads its long green boughs, while the
children of the plantation, dark-browed though they are, tread softly
near that grave, which they daily strew with flowers, speaking in low
tones of "the Angel of the Pines," as they term the fair young girl,
who passed so suddenly from their midst. It was now nearly five
weeks since Mrs. Lansing had fled from the pestilence which walked at
noonday, and though it had in a measure abated in the village, there
were still frequent cases, and she would not have deemed it safe to
return, even if typhoid fever, which she feared nearly as much, had
not been in her own house. So there was no alternative but to stay,
uncomfortable though she was, for the weather was intensely hot, and
she missed many of the luxuries of her home. Still it was healthy
there, and this in a measure reconciled her to remain. Occasionally,
it is true, she heard rumors of the cholera, on some distant
plantation, but it seldom visited the pine regions--it would not come
there; she was sure of that; and secure in this belief, she rested in
comparative quiet, while each day the heat became more and more
intense. The sun came up red, fiery, and heated like a furnace; the
clouds gave forth no rain; the brooks were dried up; the leaves
withered upon the trees, while the air was full of humming insects,
which, at night fed upon their helpless, sleeping victims.
At the close of one of these scorching, sultry days, Mrs. Lansing and
Ada sat upon the piazza, panting for a breath of pure, cool air. At
the side of each stood a negro girl, industriously fanning their
mistresses, who scolded them as if they were to blame, because the
air thus set in motion was hot and burning as the winds which blow
over the great desert of Sahara. As they sat there thus, an old man
came up from the negro quarters, saying "his woman done got sick wid
the cramps," and he wished "his mistis jest come down see her."
But Mrs. Lansing felt herself too languid for exertion of any kind,
and telling Uncle Abel that she herself was fully as sick as his
wife, who was undoubtedly feigning, she sent him back with a sinking
heart to the rude cabin, where his old wife lay, groaning aloud
whenever the cramps, as she termed them, seized her. Scarcely,
however, had he entered the low doorway, when a fairy form came
flitting down the narrow pathway, her white dress gleaming through
the dusky twilight, and her golden hair streaming out behind. It was
little Jessie, who, from her crib, had heard her mother's refusal to
accompany Uncle Abel, and, stealing away unobserved, she had come
herself to see Aunt Chloe, with whom she was quite a favorite.
Unaccustomed as Jessie was to sickness, she saw at a glance that this
was no ordinary case, and kneeling down beside the negress, who lay
upon the floor, she took her head upon her lap, and gently pushing
back, beneath the gay turban, the matted, grizzly hair, she asked
where the pain was.
"Bress de sweet chile," answered Chloe, "you can't tache me with the
pint of a cambric needle whar 'tain't, and seems ef ebery jint in me
was onsoderin' when de cramp is on."
As if to verify the truth of this remark, she suddenly bent up nearly
double, and rolling upon her face, groaned aloud. At this moment a
negro, who had gained some notoriety among his companions as a
physician, came in, and after looking a moment at the prostrate form
of Chloe, who was now vomiting freely, he whispered a word which
cleared the cabin in a moment, for the mention of _cholera_ had a
power to curdle the blood of the terrified blacks, who fled to their
own dwellings, where they cried aloud, and praying, some of them,
"that de Lord would have mercy on 'em, and take somebody else to
kingdom come, ef He must have a nigger anyway."
Utterly fearless, Jessie stayed by, and when John, or as he was more
familiarly known, "Doctor," proposed going for her mother, she
answered, "No, no; Uncle Abel has been for her once, but she won't
come; and if she knows it is cholera, she'll take me away."
This convinced the "Doctor," who proceeded to put in practise the
medical skill which he had picked up at intervals, and which was
considerable for one of his capacity. By this time, a few of the
women, more daring than the rest and curious to know the fate of
their companion, ventured near the door, where they stood gazing
wonderingly upon the poor old creature, who was fast floating out
upon the broad river of death. It was a most violent attack, and its
malignity was increased by a quantity of unripe fruit which she had
eaten that morning.
"Will somebody make a pra'r?" she said, feebly, as she felt her life
fast ebbing away. "Abel, you pray for poor Chloe," and her glassy
eyes turned beseechingly towards her husband, who was noted at
camp-meetings for praying the loudest and longest of any one.
But his strength had left him now, and kissing the shriveled face of
his dying wife, he said, "'Scuse me, Chloe; de sperrit is willin',
but de flesh part is mighty weak and shaky like. Miss Jessie, you
pray!" he continued, as the child came to his side.
"Yes, honey, pray," gasped Chloe; and kneeling down, the little girl
began the Lord's Prayer, occasionally interspersing it with a
petition that "God would take the departing soul to heaven."
"Yes, dat's it," whispered Chloe; "dat's better dan all dem fine
words 'bout kingdom come and daily bread; dey'll do for white folks,
but God bress old Chloe, de thing for niggers to die on."
"Sing, honey, sing," she said, at last; and, mingled with the
lamentations of the blacks, there arose on the evening air the soft
notes of the _Happy Land_, which Jessie sang, bending low towards
Chloe, who, when the song was ended, clasped her in her arms, and
calling her a "shining angel," went, we trust, to the better land,
where bondage is unknown, and the slave is equal to his master.
Loud and shrill rose the wail of the negroes, increasing in violence
when it was known that into another cabin the pestilence had entered,
prostrating a boy, who, in his agony, called for Jessie and Mas'r
Richard, thinking they could save him. Late as it was, Mrs. Lansing,
Ada, and Lina, were still upon the piazza, which was far more
comfortable than their sleeping-room, where they supposed both
Halbert and Jessie were safely in bed. They were just thinking of
retiring, when suddenly the midnight stillness was broken by a cry so
shrill that Mrs. Lansing started to her feet, asking what it was.
From her couch by the open door, Aunt Dinah arose, and going out a
few rods, listened to the sound, which seemed to come from the negro
quarters, whither, at her mistress's command, she bent her steps.
But a short time elapsed ere she returned with the startling news
that, "the cholera was thar--that Chloe was dead, and another one had
got it and was _vomucking_ all over the night-dress of _Miss Jessie_,
who was holdin' his head."
Wholly overcome with fright, Mrs. Lansing fainted, and was borne to
her room, where, for a time, she remained unconscious, forgetful of
Jessie, who stayed at the quarters long after midnight, ministering
to the wants of the sick, of which, before morning, there were five,
while others showed symptoms of the rapidly spreading disease. As
soon as Mrs. Lansing returned to consciousness, she sent for Jessie,
who came reluctantly, receiving her mother's reproof in silence, and
falling away to sleep as calmly as if she had not just been looking
upon death, whose shadow was over and around her.
Early the next morning, a man was sent in haste to Cedar Grove, which
he never reached, for the destroyer met him on the road, and in one
of the cabins of a neighboring plantation, he died, forgetting, in
the intensity of his sufferings, the errand on which he had been
sent; and as those who attended him knew nothing of Mrs. Lansing's
being at the Pines, it was not until the second day after the
appearance of the cholera that she learned the fate of her servant.
In a state bordering almost upon distraction, she waited for her
brother, shuddering with fear whenever a new case was reported to
her, and refusing to visit the sufferers, although among them were
some who had played with her in childhood; and one, an old
gray-haired man, who had saved her from a watery grave, when on the
Savannah River she had fallen overboard. But there was no place for
gratitude in her selfish heart, and the miserable creatures were left
to die alone, uncheered by the presence of a pale face, save little
Jessie, who won her mother's reluctant consent to be with them, and
who, all the day long, went from cabin to cabin, soothing the sick
and dying by her presence, and emboldening others by her own
intrepidity.
Towards sunset, Mrs. Lansing herself was seized with the malady, and
with a wild shriek, she called on Ada to help her; but that young
lady was herself too much intimidated to heed the call, and in an
adjoining room she sat with camphor at her nose and brandy at her
side, until a fierce, darting pain warned her that she, too, was a
victim. No longer afraid of Mrs. Lansing, she made no resistance
when borne to the same apartment, where for hours they lay, bemoaning
the fate which had brought them there, and trembling as they thought
of the probable result.
On Mrs. Lansing's mind there was a heavy load, and once when the cold
perspiration stood thickly upon her face, she ordered Jessie and
Dinah from the room, while she confessed to Ada the sin of which she
had been guilty in deceiving both her brother and Rose.
"It was a wicked falsehood," said she, "and if you survive me, you
must tell them so, will you?"
Ada nodded in token that she would, and then, thinking her own
conscience might be made easier by a similar confession, she told how
she had thought to injure Rose in Mr. Delafield's estimation, and
also of the blister, which had drawn on Hagar's back instead of her
own! This done, the two ladies felt greatly relieved, and as the
cholera in their case had been induced mostly by fear, it began ere
long to yield to the efficient treatment of Dinah, who to her
housekeeping qualities added that of being a skilful nurse. Towards
morning they were pronounced decidedly better, and as Jessie was
asleep and Dinah nodding in her chair, Mrs. Lansing lifted her head
from her pillow, saying to Ada, "If you please, you needn't tell what
I told you last night, when I thought I was going to die!"
Ada promised to be silent, and after winning a similar promise from
Mrs. Lansing, they both fell asleep, nor woke again until the sun was
high up in the heavens. So much for a sick-bed repentance!
That day was hotter and more sultry than any which had preceded it;
and about the middle of the afternoon little Jessie came to Dinah's
side and laying her head upon her lap complained of being both _cold_
and _tired_. Blankets were wrapped around her, but they brought to
her no warmth, for her blood was chilled by approaching death, and
when at dusk the negroes asked why she came not among them, they were
told that she was dying! With streaming eyes they fell upon their
knees, and from those humble cabins there went up many a fervent
prayer for God to spare the child. But it could not be; she was
wanted in heaven; and when old Uncle Abel, who had also been ill,
crept on his hands and knees to her bedside, calling upon her name,
she did not know him, for unconsciousness was upon her, and in
infinite mercy she was spared the pain usually attendant upon the
disease.
Almost bereft of reason and powerless to act, Mrs. Lansing sat by her
child, whose life was fast ebbing away. In a short time all the
negroes, who were able, had come to the house, their dark faces
stained with tears and expressive of the utmost concern, as they
looked upon the little girl who lay so white and still, with her fair
hair floating over the pillow and her waxen hands folded upon her
bosom.
"Sing to me, Uncle Dick," she said at last, "sing of the Happy Land
not far away;" but Uncle Dick was not there, and they who watched her
were too much overcome with grief to heed her request.
Slowly the hours wore on, and the spirit was almost home, when again
she murmured, "Sing of the Happy Land;" and as if in answer to her
prayer, the breeze, which all the day long had been hushed and still,
now sighed mournfully through the trees, while a mockingbird in the
distance struck up his evening lay; and amid the gushing melody of
that wondrous bird of song and the soft breathing notes of the
whispering pines, little Jessie passed to the "Happy Land," which to
those who watched the going out of her short life, seemed, indeed,
"not far away."
With a bitter cry the bereaved mother fell upon her face and wept
aloud, saying, in her heart, "My God, my God, why have I thus been
dealt with!"
In the distance was heard the sound of horses' feet, and ere long her
brother was with her, weeping as only strong men weep, over the
lifeless form which returned him no answering caress. She had been
his idol, and for a moment he, too, questioned the justice of God in
thus afflicting him.
"Jessie is gone, Rosa is going, and I shall be left alone," he
thought. "What have I done to deserve a chastisement like this?"
Soon, however, he grew calmer, and saying, "It is well;" he tenderly
kissed the lips and brow of the beautiful child, who seemed to smile
on him even in death; then going out among his people, he comforted
them as best he could, dropping more than one tear to the memory of
those who they told him were dead, and who numbered eight in all. At
a short distance from the house was a tall cypress where Jessie had
often sported, and where now was a play-house, built by her hands but
a few days before. There, by the light of the silvery moon, they
made her a grave, and when the sun was up, its rays fell upon the
pile of earth which hid from view the sunny face and soft blue eyes
of Jessie, "the Angel of the Pines."