IMMORTALITY.
“Slowly she faded—day by day
Her step grew feebler in our hall,
And fainter at each even fall
Her low voice died away;
Yet on her sweet, pale lips the while
Sat resignation’s holy smile.
Calm as a child to slumber soothed,
As if an angel’s hand had smoothed
The still, white features into rest—
Silent and cold, without a breath
To stir the drapery on her breast,
She slept, at last, in death.”—_Whittier._
In the political world, the next year, the spirit of party ran very
high. A great moral as well as national problem agitated and divided the
whole country. Mark Sutherland had been nominated by the Human Rights as
their candidate for the United States Senate; he had accepted the
nomination, and his friends laboured perseveringly and anxiously for his
election. Rosalie, as usual, entered heart and soul into all his toils
and anxieties. “And not for ourselves, dearest Mark,” she said; “not for
our own profit or vainglory—for that were a poor, mean, narrow motive,
and a low, selfish aim!—nor for your own personal honour, Mark—though to
him who is worthy of it, to him who appreciates and accepts its duties
and responsibilities in the right religious spirit, a seat in the
American Senate is a great honour—nor even for your future fame,
Mark—not from any or all these motives do I wish and pray and toil for
your success—but for the sake of the place and power it will confer upon
you of doing good; of speaking appropriate truths before the proper
audience; of succouring the oppressed; of defending the right! For this
I hope, and trust, and labour, and would, if need were, die!”
And upon another occasion, when he was vexed and harassed, wearied and
despondent, and inclined to give up the object as little worthy the
labour or the pains, she said to him, sweetly—for her very tone and
manner had a soothing, encouraging spell—
“Remember what Mountford says: ‘Fame is a great thing for a man; it is
silence for him when he wants to speak; it is a platform to preach from,
more authoritative than a monarch’s throne; it is an affectionate
attention from a multitude of hearers.’ Win fame, Mark—win the silence
that will wait for your voice; the platform more authoritative than the
monarch’s throne; the reverential attention of multitudes! Only let
sounds of words of truth and justice fall upon the silence; principles
of righteousness speak from the platform; and the confiding attention of
the crowd be riveted to the glorious right!”
High, inspiring words of holiness like these fell daily from her lips.
But Rosalie was dying—dying all the faster because her failing oil of
life was consumed so ungrudgingly—her lamp of life shone so brightly,
giving light where it was needed. Yes, Rosalie was dying, and her
husband did not dream of it. Soothed into rest by her own sweet
patience, and by the slowness and beauty of her failure, he did not
dream of it! He left her with an increased burden of duties. At the
urgent entreaties of his political friends, he went to show himself
among the voters of the western counties. He was absent about a month,
during which she toiled for “the good cause” faithfully—saying, when her
strength was failing, “There will be time enough for rest hereafter; I
must ‘work while it is yet day, for the night cometh wherein no man can
work.’” And so, at the close of her daily school duties, she only left
her school desk to seat herself in the editor’s vacant chair; and the
hours that should have been spent in recreation and rest, and the hours
that belonged to sleep, were devoted to the interests of “the paper,”
and the cause it supported—to writing editorials, to reading and
answering letters, examining exchanges, and propitiating or putting down
opposition.
Mark Sutherland returned at the end of the month, with the flush of hope
upon his cheek, the light of anticipated triumph in his eyes; but both
light and colour faded from his face at the sudden sight of Rosalie’s
brilliant eyes and burning cheeks. Was it strange that he never was
struck by her illness, except upon meeting her after an absence? On the
contrary, I think it was natural, for a few days accustomed him to her
appearance; and her sweet patience, her cheerfulness and hope,
mesmerised him into peace and joy. But this time, as he drew her into
the house, he said—
“Indeed, Rosalie, you must, you _shall_ give up your school. You are not
strong enough to continue it! Besides, it is not needful. My election is
nearly certain, and then another sphere and other more graceful,
agreeable, and lady-like amusements will await you, dearest.”
Rosalie smiled.
“Dear Mark, whenever you make a circuit among our hardy country people,
you come back thinking me more fragile than ever, from the contrast.”
And so she reassured him—and oh! he was very willing to be reassured—and
she continued the charge of her school—anxious for every good principle
she could instil into the minds of her young pupils—saying to herself,
“These little ones will hereafter be the wives and mothers of
law-makers, as all our people are law-makers; they will live in an era
when American women will have more influence upon the destinies of the
nation than they dream of now. That influence must be for the right; I
must sow the good seed, and cultivate it while I live, that, after I
die, the germ may grow and flourish, and bring forth much fruit in other
lives!”
But the day came at last when her school had to be closed, and the
labourer was obliged to rest from her labour. It was during the
afternoon session of a certain Friday—a day never to be forgotten by the
young girls, who loved their gentle teacher with enthusiastic
devotion—in the midst of one of the class-exercises—a little _extempore_
lecture on their history lesson—that a sudden failure of strength drew
all colour from her face, her head dropped forward on her desk, and she
swooned. And after this she did not teach. Her school was opened but
once more, and for the last time. It was the day that she received her
pupils for the purpose of bidding them farewell. It was quite a cheerful
parting on her part, saddened by no vain repining; on theirs, darkened
by no vision of the shadow of death. She made it the occasion of a
little festival, that her children’s last reminiscences of her might be
associated with pleasant thoughts; and yet it was an earnest parting,
too, that she sought to sanctify to their good. In taking leave of each
dear girl, she laid upon the heart of each a text of Scripture, suited
to the individual need, to be remembered for her sake, and acted upon
until they should meet again. For instance, Regina’s besetting sin was
ambition, and with her she left, “What shall it profit a man, if he gain
the _whole world_ and lose his own _soul_?” and to Augusta, who had a
haughty mind, she said, “_Pride_ goeth before a fall, and a haughty
spirit before destruction;” to Maud, who had a high temper, she
whispered, “A _soft answer_ turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir
up anger;” to little Alice, who was poor and neglected, and
inclined—child as she was—to despondency, she said, “Blessed are the
_meek_, for they shall inherit the earth;” to Fanny, who was an
impetuous, impassioned child of impulse, she said, “He that _ruleth his
own spirit_ is greater than he who taketh a city.” All these the
affectionate girls promised to lay to heart, and act upon until they
should meet their teacher again. Only Fanny said she hoped their dear
teacher would not treat them as Lycurgus did the Spartans, and leave
them laws to be obeyed during her absence, and then go away, never to
return. A cloud passed over the sunshine of Rosalie’s countenance; but
after a little hesitation she said, “If I live, dear girls, I will
return in the spring.” And soon after saying this, she dismissed all the
bright-eyed, light-hearted children to their homes.
Rosalie had been directed by her physician to spend the fall and winter
in the South. She had an old, standing engagement to spend a few months
in Louisiana, at the house of the Lauderdales, with whom she had kept up
a regular correspondence. But, previous to embracing this opportunity of
benefitting her health by accepting the invitation, Rosalie wrote to her
step-mother, telling her frankly of the feeble state of her health and
the precarious tenure of her life, and of the order of her physician
relative to her removal South; but expressing, at the same time, her
dread of the inconvenience and trouble to which her illness and death at
their house might possibly subject her host and hostess. There could but
one possible answer to such a letter suggest itself to the mind of
Rosalie’s affectionate step-mother—it was an answer in her own person.
Accordingly, in about two weeks from the day that Rosalie mailed her
letter to Mrs. Lauderdale, that lady arrived at Shelton, stopping only
long enough at the hotel to write a note to Mark Sutherland, requesting
him to break the news of her presence to Rosalie, and then come and take
her to his wife.
The meeting between Rosalie and her step-mother was most affectionate
and tender; but the patience of Rose and the self-possession of Mrs.
Lauderdale restrained their mutual agitation. Mrs. Lauderdale had come,
in person, to take her step-daughter to Louisiana, that she might nurse
and watch over her during the journey. And as soon as she found herself
alone with Mark Sutherland, she said—
“And you must let her go at once, dear Mark. She is iller than you
think, and the mornings and the evenings are already chill in this bleak
clime. Yes, dear Mark, you must let her go at once; and if you cannot
possibly leave your political interests here, you may confidently trust
her to me on the journey, for I love her as my own child, and will not
leave her, night or day; and you can join us as soon as you get through
this bustling and bothersome election.”
“No, I will never suffer her to go without me. I will accompany
her—attend upon her. I will never leave her again. Let the election go.
What is success to me, if I lose her? You do not know all that she has
been to me—all that she is to me—Mrs. Lauderdale! I tell you, if she
should sink into the grave, earth could not offer me a boon so welcome
as the half of that grave!”
A few days after this, the whole party set out for the South, and in a
little more than a week arrived at the beautiful home of the
Lauderdales.
Lincoln Lauderdale met and received them with hearty cordiality. Upon
the very day that Mrs. Lauderdale had left home to go up the river and
visit her step-daughter, she had written to Mrs. Wells, and invited her
to come to Louisiana to meet her daughter-in-law, and perhaps her son.
This was done by the kind-hearted little lady with the purpose of
effecting a reconciliation between the long-estranged members of the
family. And now, on reaching home again, among the letters upon her
boudoir table she found one from Mrs. Wells, saying that the Doctor had
gone for an indefinitely long absence to California, and that she should
be pleased to accept the invitation of Mrs. Lauderdale, who might expect
her about the middle of the month.
“And the day after to-morrow is the sixteenth, so, Mark, you may daily
expect the arrival of your mother,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, looking up
from the epistle. And then she told them of her invitation.
Upon that very afternoon Mrs. Wells arrived. The meeting between herself
and her son took place alone, by her request. It was not known what
happened at that interview, except that she sobbed a long time on his
shoulder, and that a full reconciliation ensued. To Rosalie her manner
was very affectionate.
But Rosalie, from the time of her reaching Fairplains, failed very fast.
She now seldom left her easy chair by the western window. It was the
pleasantest and most beautiful room in the house that had been assigned
the invalid—a room occupying the first floor of a whole wing of the
house, and with its east windows looking far out upon the green alluvion
that stretched to the sandy beach of the distant gulf, and with its west
windows opened upon a beautiful garden, beyond which spread fields
reaching out to the dark pine forest that stood stately against the
sunset sky. At this sunset window was her favourite afternoon seat; and
here, with her friends grouped around her, she smiled and conversed as
sweetly, as cheerfully, if more faintly, than ever; or here, with only
her husband seated by her side, she would sit with her thin hand in his,
looking into his eyes with such infinite, unutterable love and devotion,
as though she would transfuse all her mind, and soul, and spirit into
his being, to strengthen him for his life’s trial and work.
Every mail brought him piles of letters from his political friends and
correspondents: but they lay unanswered, unopened, upon his secretary.
Sometimes she would inquire about the prospects of the party; he could
tell her little, he thought little, he cared little about it; and she
would fix her mild eyes in mournful wonder upon him.
Soon the pleasant seat by the sunset window was given up for the couch,
and too soon the couch was left for the bed, from which she was never to
rise again. Then it was, after her confinement to her bed, that they
approached a subject that both had hitherto avoided discussing
together—her dissolution. She still spoke to him of the good cause—the
cause of justice, truth, and freedom. She implored him to let no
individual sorrow draw him away from his labours of love to the whole
race of man; rather to consecrate that sorrow to their service. And
still she inquired about the prospects of his election to the Senate.
She so much wished to see him in the possession of place and power
before her death.
“Not alone for your sake, dearest Mark,” she still repeated; “not alone
for your sake, but for the sake of humanity.”
“Oh, dearest Rosalie, why should I wish for success? When you have left
me, what motive of action have I on earth?”
“A motive higher than any my life could supply you with—the service of
God, the good of man.”
And all this time piles of accumulated and accumulating letters from
political partisans lay unopened and unanswered, on his forsaken
secretary.
At last the day of death came—a clear, beautiful day, that, after the
noontide glory, waned without a cloud.
Rosalie lay sleeping on her bed; her pale gold hair, unconfined by a
cap, lay floating on the pillow; her wan face was as white as the linen
pillow-case against which it rested; her thin, blue-veined arm,
uncovered from the loose muslin sleeve, was white as the counterpane
upon which it lay. She slept calmly for a while, and then her bosom was
agitated by a slight flutter; it came a second and a third time; and
then, with a start and a gasp, she awoke, opened her eyes, and gazed
wildly about for an instant; then her glance fell on Mrs. Wells, sitting
watching by her bed-side. That lady arose, and, bending affectionately
over the invalid, inquired—
“What do you want, dearest? Will you take your composing draught now?”
The eyes of the death-stricken Rosalie softened into self-possession and
quietness, and she answered faintly, “No, mother, not now. Where is
Mark?”
“On the piazza, dear.”
“Sleeping?”
“No; waiting for his darling to awake.”
“Send him to me, mother. I wish to see him alone.” The lady stooped, and
pressed a kiss upon the chill brow of the dying girl, and without
suspicion went out; and in half a minute Mark stood over Rosalie.
She raised her eyes, a little wild with the life-struggle, to his pale
face.
“My hour is come; I am going, dear Mark; I am going! Turn me over on my
right side, facing you. Sit down by me, so that I can see you to the
last! Hold my hand!”
Agonised with grief, yet by a powerful will controlling his feelings, he
raised her light form, and turned her as she desired. And then he wished
to call assistance; but with an imploring look and gesture she arrested
his purpose, and said,
“Useless, dear Mark! useless all. Oh! sit near me, where I can see you
till the last, and so—part in peace sweetly.”
She lay upon her right side, with her face towards him, with her fair
hair floating back upon the pillow, with her blue eyes raised with
unspeakable love to his countenance, with her left hand lying helplessly
over the white counterpane.
He sunk down into the chair by her side; he took her chill hand in his
own warm one; he gazed upon her dying face. And, as he gazed, a slight
spasm agitated her fair throat, quivered over the sweet lips, and gave
place to a heavenly smile. She sought to speak, but her words sank in
quivering music—her eyes fixed upon his eyes—pouring their last light in
streams of unutterable love into his soul—and so they remained, until
the heavenly spirit left them dim in death.
And still he sat gazing upon the dead face, holding the cold hand, until
a noise in the piazza disturbed him, and words and tones of joy and
triumph fell upon his ear—and a familiar voice, asking—“Where is Mark?
Where is he? I swore to be the first to congratulate him, and I’ll do
it! I will not be hindered, I tell you!” and in another instant Uncle
Billy burst into the room, and, overjoyed, bewildered, _blinded_, rushed
upon Mark, who had risen to prevent him, seized both his hands,
exclaiming exultingly—
“Judge Sutherland, you are elected, sir! Sir, by an unprecedented vote!
Allow me the honour of being the first to pay my respects to our
Senator!”
Mark Sutherland grasped his visitor’s hand with overmastering force, and
silently pointed to the still, pale form upon the bed.
Mr. Bolling drew nigh, in sudden awe and grief; and his heart almost
stood still, as he inquired, with hushed tones—
“_Dead?_”
“No!” replied Mark Sutherland, reverently,—“IMMORTAL!”