Death was in the house; in the room; in the small pallet where, side by
side, lay the mother and her newly born child.
Poverty was there, too, hard-featured and repulsive always, but now
hanging her head and hiding her face before the stern reality of the
dark angel. What mattered it how the soul took its departure? whether in
state, with many mourning eyes gazing, and white stoled priest with
lifted hands at the bedside; or desolate and wholly forsaken of man as
was Clara Neville’s on her straw-bed in her lonely hovel? It mattered
not—and yet may our last moments be cheered by the silent and tearful
love of friends—as we start on our dark voyage, may we hear the
cheering tones and be buoyed up by the affectionate throbs of the
beloved hearts around us!
Pestilence had come among the inmates of the hamlet. They were not
barbarians, else, to leave the couch of death untended. But bereavement
and selfishness and mortal fear had done its work. The few who remained
were dying alone, and of this number was Clara Neville and her young
daughter. Her husband in a distant land, her kindred estranged or dead,
she met her fast coming fate alone, but with one all-absorbing anxiety.
With that anxious will, she had kept herself, as it were, alive—that
she might not leave her little one in the world behind her. While the
death-damps hung on her own brow, her straining gaze yet rested on the
form and face of the pale infant, whose fluttering breath grew shorter
and shorter every instant. Still she clasped her baby close to her poor
heart, with the energy that death itself could not subdue, and when at
length the limbs straightened in what the mother knew was the last
convulsion, Clara cast her eyes to heaven, and closing her speechless
lips, in a glad smile passed away.
So it seemed at least. But help was nighest when it seemed farthest
away. The door of the hovel was flung open—the serene air poured in;
gentle hands ministered at the couch, and restoratives and cordials on
lip and brow brought back the life that seemed to have left its
dwelling. The disease had reached its crisis, and the eyes of both
mother and child once more opened on the world.
Clara, weak and half insensible still from the deadly illness she had
suffered, scarcely looked at the pure, white linen of her bed, the
little comforts and luxuries about her, or the gentle and watchful
Sister of Charity who bent over her, with the cool draught or the
nourishing mixture. She looked only at the sleeping cherub at her bosom,
without power to smooth, as she longed to, the brown curls on the
forehead, or to kiss the gentle eyes in their pleasant sleep. Then she,
too, sunk into such a sleep, long and refreshing, and hour after hour
the Sister sat by the bed, till the night passed and the morning, and
the sun came against the white curtain at the head of the silent bed.
Nature was kindly dealing with Clara and her young baby; they slept and
gathered strength to live. Stronger and deeper came the breath of
both—more rapidly ran the rosy current over the calm faces of both,
till Nature, drawing from her deep wells of love, moistened the thirsty
lip of one, at the moment the glad throb of the other’s heart woke them
both to happy existence. Clara nursed her child and had no words to
express her joy. The watchful Sister saw the emotion that pervaded her
frame, and placing her finger on her lip, prepared a composing draught
for the young mother.
Many days passed of the kindest care and the most rapid recovery. Both
mother and child were so well as no longer to need the constant aid of
the Sister. But she sat with Clara the evening before her departure, her
kind face lighted up with benevolence and interest in those she had
saved from death.
“Holy Mary grant it may be best for both of you!” ejaculated she, as her
fingers mechanically sought her rosary and moved rapidly over it.
“Amen!” said Clara, piously.
“You have tasted the bitterness of death once. You can never dread it so
much again. I have attended many death-beds, I never saw any thing so
nearly like it as yours was; but for a little warmth about the heart, I
should have been quite discouraged; and then when I tore open your vest
the crucifix lay there, and I was almost sure you were living. Our
Blessed Mother would be loth that the pillow on which Jesus rested
should be hard and cold; and sure enough it was not half an hour before
your eyes opened.”
“Dear Sister Martha,” said Clara; “I had dreams in that half hour which
I shall never forget to the last day of my life.”
“Tell me them if you may. The dreams of those who have passed from death
back to life, must be foreshadowings and pictures of the life beyond.
Holy St. Ignatius had many such, when exhausted with excessive fasts he
lay in death-like swoons on the floor of his cell. Tell me, then, I pray
you, in what form death came to you.”
“Like two vast dark wings, which grew darker and darker, and folded
closer and closer over me, till at last they seemed to brood over me, as
I have seen birds over their young. There was nothing strange or gloomy
about them—nothing frightful. They seemed to have a right there, and I
knew what it was; only I could not look at or attend to its approaches,
because I waited and watched first for the soul of my darling to pass. I
said it with my thought to the dark wings, and it replied—‘You shall
pass away together.’ Then it came closer to me, like a watching mother
to the bed, and I felt it come down on my eyes like a shadow, and then I
seemed to sleep a long, long while. Such a sleep as one is half
conscious of, and the refreshment of which he fully enjoys.
“When I awoke, I found or felt myself in the folds, as it were, of a
cloud. It was rose-colored, and seemed made of music—but the music was
not set harmony either, and seemed composed of all natural soothing
sounds. The whisper and rush of the wave on the sea shore, the murmur of
the brooklet, or the sighing of the wind among the trees or over the
long grass; all sounds that are associated with peace and loveliness
filled and seemed to compose this cloud, for there was a mingling of
senses, so to speak, or rather all that was most lovely in sound and
color and odor embathed and permeated my being without my perceiving,
far less analyzing, the source of my pleasure. At length, as if the
natural body were changed for a spiritual one, I began to ascend and
descend on the pillowy clouds above and about me, I moved voluntarily,
and was conscious of an independent existence. Slowly came back the
memory of life and of its relations. But though I remembered my baby
entirely, I was without that agonizing anxiety for her with which I had
died. There were many soft female faces about me as I lay there, and
presently I felt that the Blessed Mother herself was among them, for she
leaned over me and smiled; and then, I knew without her telling me, that
my own baby was the one she held in her arms and gave to me. I cannot
express to you the home-feeling that this gave me. All about me grew
more soft and lovely, the forms and features of all more and more
distinct, as if they were careful not to oppress the new-born soul with
excess of beauty.
“But when the rose-cloud floated away and the clear blue beyond of the
very heavens, sprinkled with starry light, of which our firmament in a
clear wintry night gives you but a feeble idea, I felt then the activity
of a spirit. With the celerity of thought we traversed, in bands or
alone, the infinite space, where we learned God in its beauty and
vastness, and learning Him, adored Him. It was but a beginning, a moment
of eternity that I had begun to taste, yet what years I seemed to myself
to live! Once only I saw the Holy Jesus, and then He spoke so gently the
words, ‘A little while, and where I am, you shall be also. Suffer your
little one, also, to come unto me, and forbid her not; she will remember
her first moments in heaven.’
“And then the next thing I remember was a dull, sluggish feeling, of
almost pain, and a choking sensation; and then, your face, full of
compassion, my kind Sister, beamed on me and consoled me. It had been a
grievous change from heaven’s angels, but that I found one of mercy on
earth.”
“Very little like an angel,” said Sister Martha, with a smile; “but tell
me now, how the angels look.”
“That is just what I cannot do,” said Clara, “no more than I can tell
how the soul looks that beams in your eye, but is not your eye,—how the
tears well up from your tender heart, and soften but do not suffuse. Ah!
with what body do they come? Something that without seeing, we love, and
before which, body, and feature, and form, even in this life melt away.
Even here we love what we never saw or can see, how much more in a
world, where thought meets thought with purest eloquence, unimpeded by
words or tones, where the glance of an eye speaks a clear reply to every
question you ask, and gentle affections lapse your soul in perpetual
joy. You love them, these angels, without knowing why, and without the
need of sight to feed the feeling.”
“You have seen very much, Clara,” said the pious sister, “I would I
might die, to learn thus, how to live.”
“Yes, life can never seem to me as it has done. I would that so it might
have looked to my darling child. I would that she might have the memory
of that fond embrace, and those touching words of the Divine Saviour.”
Sister Martha never forgot this incident in her monotonous and yet ever
varied existence. In the varieties of pain and suffering which she
witnessed and relieved, she constantly remembered the young Clara and
her eventful entrance into a life which promised so little to innocence
and poverty. From time to time she traced her path, and administered
such consolations and assistance as were consistent with her own duties,
and when ten years after, Mrs. Neville sunk into a sleep of death,
Sister Martha closed the eyes of the parent, and bore the weeping child
to the convent of Chaillot, where she would have at least a shelter, and
the kind care she needed.
Since her birth, Clara, or as the Sisters of the French Convent called
her, Claire Neville, had neither seen nor heard from her father, but her
mother, who had received no intelligence of his death, had constantly
looked forward, even to the day of her death, to a re-union with him
upon earth, and not an hour before she died, she had told the beloved
being, for whom alone she wished to live, that she was convinced that
she should not depart, without once more being consoled by his presence.
A few moments before her final departure, her vivid fancy, acting on the
hope that had so long filled her whole being, produced the resemblance
for which she sighed. She raised her eyes to the door, and a glad
expression of recognition, illumined them with more than mortal light;
and while those about her in vain sought for the object of her mental
sight, she was evidently in a state of happy conviction that the so
long-lost was found, and that her child had, when most she needed it,
found a friend and a father. Her lips moved, but uttered no sound—she
gazed at her child, and smiled,—and, in that smile, passed into a
world, where is no more death.
Claire remained at the convent, which was within a mile of the small
town of Chaillot, on the French coast; and, by rendering such services
as her tender age would permit—and by her unvarying sweetness and
gentleness, endeared herself to the sisters, and as they said, amply
repaid them for the slight expenses she incurred.
But, deprived of the society of children, and having no person about
her, with whom she could precisely sympathize, the young girl grew up
with an isolation of spirit, easy to foresee, and a prematurity of
character, consequent on her position, which strangely contrasted with
her childish face. Her eyes, which were of a clear blue, had a sweet
seriousness in their depths, so far removed from the glad _insouciance_
of childhood, as to startle you as you gazed, and for the moment to fill
you with awe, as if in the presence of a spirit—at least such was my
own feeling the first time I saw her.
I had been ordered to the south of France for my health, and had been
stopping for a week in the town, near which the convent of Chaillot was
situated. Its white walls could be easily seen through the trees around
it, and from its windows the far-reaching sea suggested images of lonely
and solemn grandeur, in unison with the secluded character of the pious
inmates. From this institution, of all the passive virtues, came forth
alternately bands of those heroic spirits, the Sisters of Mercy, who
relinquishing the life of quiet inaction, which the convent induced,
went with their hearty sympathy, their cheerful aid, and their
unshrinking labor, into every abode where poverty, sickness, or even
pestilence cried out for a helping hand.
Often a victim to this open-handed charity, this sublime self-sacrifice
would be brought home to the convent, to breathe her last. But never was
there a gap in these heroic ranks. As fast as one brave spirit fell, the
place was filled by another, animated by her example, and eager to take
up her cross. It was to this place, that the little Claire, taught by
the example of Sister Martha, looked forward as to the fulfillment of
her destiny. For this purpose, her education had, at the early age of
fourteen, fitted her for a nurse; and in the convent she was called on,
in all the little cases of illness which needed a soother. Nobody could
spread a plaster so smoothly as Claire—nobody could place a pillow so
nicely under the head as Claire—no one stepped so softly, spoke so
gently, bathed so coolly, as Claire—none murmured so monotonously the
rosary, or sung in a low tone the Ave Maria, so as to bring sleep on the
strained eyelids, as Claire—and her gentleness and assiduity had
entirely won the hearts of the good Sisters.
One day, it was late in the afternoon, I had gone down on the beach to
walk, as my habit was, for some hours. The character of the shore for
miles, which was exceedingly bold and rocky contrasted with the smooth
expanse and soothing murmurs of the sea; and debarred by my want of
strength, from scaling the rocks, as I longed to do, I used to wander on
the white, hard sand, with a free feeling of delight, and an animating
glow, that was second only to the sense of power with which the strong,
firm step of the mountaineer springs from one cliff to another.
On the afternoon I mention, this effervescence of the blood, which
induced a corresponding elevation and sensitiveness to the spirit, kept
me in a perpetual state of enjoyment, which I did not attempt to
analyze, but was content to feel. The sun had set, and the brilliant
hues over the water continually broke in little rainbows on the crested
waves. The air, balmy and fresh, was full of life. The birds wheeled and
circled in graceful joyousness over the lapsing, and seemingly conscious
ocean, which swelled and whispered its mysterious replies. For the first
time I felt my own spirit in harmony with nature in this aspect.
Formerly, an undefinable terror took possession of me at being left
alone with the ocean. It was the same with the sky. Many a time I have
glanced timidly at the depths of the sky, and shrunk from it, as if it
were from the presence of the Creative Power; and always when the whole
breadth of the sea stretched out his leviathan length before me, it awed
and oppressed me to such a degree that I did not like to walk alone on
the beach. Every wave, as it dashed up the smooth “untrampled floor,”
had come laden with sounds of lamentation. I had continually thought, as
I looked at it, how deceitful it was, in its beauty, and how its
magnificence and pomp covered sorrowing, and wrecks, and heart
breakings. But now, for no reason, all was different. The ocean seemed
like a great angel of God’s mercy, beautiful, vast, and conscious. It
married with the sky, and reflected all hues of beauty and glory, and
sang out songs of praise to the Power that made them both. My spirit
rose and mingled with the simple majesty of the scenery. I too felt
myself a child of God, and could understand and worship him. In my heart
were echoed the dim soundings of the sea; in my thoughts sparkled the
watching stars, and the still lingering sun-beams. The transcendant
beauty, above all form, yet which reveled in creative forms; the
vastness and vague splendor of nature, in this view, all spoke of the
Infinite in my soul. Deep called unto deep to praise Him, and I paced
hurriedly to and fro, with an excitement and elevation of soul that
rendered me insensible to the passage of time.
The water was already dark with the reflection of night, when a light
touch startled me, as if I had received an electric shock. I looked up
and saw a sweet, serious figure at my side.
“Madame is not aware that the evening is chill,” said she, gently.
“Chilly is it?” I answered. “It seems very warm.”
“You have been walking a long time—hours. Will Madame permit me to go
home with her?”
She mingled the formal politeness of a stranger with the familiar _tu_
that seemed induced by kindness and anxiety. I felt the feverish glow on
my cheek, and replied, “that I had probably walked beyond my strength.”
Already the re-action of lassitude and weakness crept over me, and I
could hardly walk, as we turned toward the village.
“It is half a mile to the village. You are very weak. Permit me to
attend you to the convent near. It wilt be no inconvenience. Lean on me,
dear Madame.”
She spoke these words calmly and slowly, but, as if she were to be
obeyed. I followed her mechanically, or rather tottered along by her
side without question. I felt too much exhausted to talk, and also the
need of immediate repose and care in my wearied condition.
A few minutes walk brought us to the convent gate. An old man, who was
also the gardener, opened it, and two of the sisters hurried to the door
to receive us. A slight gesture from my guide, produced profound
silence, and I was at once taken to a room and a bed.
I awoke from an unconscious state, produced I supposed by the sedative I
had drank immediately on my arrival, and looked languidly around me. I
remember my first feeling was one of surprise at the comfortable
appearance of every thing near and about me. I had never been in a
convent before, and had supposed, with the vague notions of
Protestantism about convents, that I should be put in a cell at least,
with probably a death’s head and cross-bones for furniture, and a
hair-cloth and thongs for entertainment. On the contrary, I felt myself
lying on a down-bed—muslin curtains gathered in delicate folds above
it—the windows shaded with the same material—waving lightly to and fro
in the summer night air. The oaken floor so highly polished, and the
neat table holding a nurse-lamp and some phials. Besides that, there was
no look of a sick-room. The lamp shone on the mild face of the Madonna
of Sassoferato, whose clasped hands and conventual garb seemed to make
her the tutelar genius of such a scene; and below, was the never-failing
crucifix of ivory on a bronze stand.
Not a sound, but the sighing of the leaves against the window,
interrupted the midnight quiet of the scene. Refreshed and composed by
the judicious treatment I had received, I lay calmly recalling the
preceding evening, and wondering what my landlady at the village would
think of my being out all night. I might have spared any anxiety on that
account, as I afterward learned, as the good Sisters had at once
dispatched a messenger to assure her of my safety. In that small place
the arrival of a stranger is an event. The seclusion of a convent is
favorable to curiosity, and my name, situation, health, and person, were
perfectly well-known to all the good Sisters, though I had not chanced
to meet one of them.
A distant strain of music broke the silence around me. I started, and
raising myself in bed undrew the curtains. A figure clothed in white
approached the bed, and I recognized at once the face of my yesterday’s
companion.
“Do not be startled. It is only the Sisters.”
She bent her sweet face over me, like an angel watcher.
“You have been sitting by me all night, my dear,” said I.
“Oh! that is nothing,” she answered, cheerfully. “I like to keep awake
in the night.”
“But what can you have to occupy yourself with? Surely, you cannot be
satisfied with telling your beads over?”
“I have my netting by me, and then there are always one’s thoughts and
memories.”
“And your memories, my dear,” said I, “what are they? What can you
remember that is not so mingled with pain and deprivations, that the
contemplation of it must be sad rather than pleasant?”
In reply, she told me in her own simple and touching manner the story of
her mother’s death, and the almost revelation that preceded it.
“And how do you feel about it yourself?” said I.
“I fully believe, madam, that such an impression would not have been
vouchsafed by the good God to my mother, unless it had been true, and
important also that I should know it.”
“Then you still look for your father, my child?”
“As I look for the sunrise to-morrow,” she answered, raising her clear
eyes to heaven. “Some day he will certainly come.”
“And meanwhile!”
“Meanwhile, I think of him continually. I imagine always how he would
like to have me conduct myself, and in all my little troubles I look
forward to the time when I shall feel no more sorrow. You will not think
me superstitious, madam, when I tell you that my mother’s heart is very
near to mine, and often I am conscious of heavenly thoughts that I am
sure are of her whispering to my spirit.”
I would not for the world have disturbed fancies so sweet and holy as
filled the breast of this lovely child with any doubts of their reality,
even if I had not been more than half inclined to agree with her in the
belief of spiritual intercourse with the departed.
“But, Claire,” said I, after a long pause, “it is a strange and terrible
thought, one at which we instinctively revolt, that close to us, by
night or by day, is a haunting spirit, even if it were our mother’s. It
seems to me I should so dread the answer, that I could never gather
courage to speak to such a spirit, if I believed it could and would
answer me.”
“I suppose it would not answer. Ah! if it could do so, would it not long
since have responded to the agonized cry of the bereaved! But, though it
is not to sense that it speaks, the impression is not the less vivid or
credible. It is not what you see with your mortal eye, dear lady, that
you believe most fully and heartily. Even if we were to see the beloved
form or hear the beloved tones, a something would whisper to us of doubt
and incredulity. It would be ‘an optical illusion,’ or ‘a derangement of
the auricular organs,’ and we should very soon come to believe ourselves
entirely mistaken in the impressions we had received. It is only the
mind itself that can take distinct cognizance of its own objects.”
“You speak like a philosopher, dear Claire. Where have you learned to
consider the subject so deeply?”
“Of Father Angelo,” replied the young girl, simply.
“And he is your confessor, I suppose,” said I.
“Yes, madam; and my best friend. For dear Sister Martha, who has told me
of my early life, could not resolve my doubts and fears, and the
thousand anxieties that I should naturally feel, and I have been both
relieved and enlightened by free conversation with Father Angelo. He
must have suffered much himself, for his heart is so tender and his
manner so soothing, and yet he always strengthens one’s spirit so much,
with his calm views of another life, in this life of ours. Till he came
to us I never knew fully what sympathy was. The Sisters but half
understood me, and when I saw the excellence of their lives, when I
watched their hardy activity and their daily devotion to duty, I used to
feel sure that theirs must be the true thought that led directly to
right action, and that my world of fancies and mysteries must be a
morbid and unhealthy one. Still I felt constantly that ‘I heard a voice
they could not hear,’ and never till last summer, when Father Angelo
came to us, did I at all understand myself.”
“And now that you do understand yourself, you are happy, my child?” I
asked.
“As happy as one with unoccupied affections can be, madam. I feel that I
have much love that has never been called into action, and I fancy that
my father when he comes will fill my heart. Meantime, I see why it is
that there are depths in my soul that no plummet can sound, and where
the voice of God alone calls forth an answer. Sometime or other, either
in this world or a future one, these deep voices will find musical
utterance, and the harmony of the affections, which alone is wanting to
the harmony of nature, will make my being what God intended it to be.”
“You are happy, my dear child, to have such a confidence; it comes
sometimes after suffering and sorrowful experiences, but seldom in the
bloom of life.”
“And I should have wandered long and unhappily but for the guidance of
Father Angelo,” said Claire, her eyes radiant with grateful affection
whenever she spoke of this father of her best thoughts.