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CHAPTER XXVIII Reunion
Week after week glided away in the St. Clare mansion, and the waves of life
settled back to their usual flow, where that little bark had gone down.
For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one's feeling, does the
hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on!
Still must we eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again,--still bargain, buy, sell,
ask and answer questions,--pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, though all
interest in them be over; the cold
mechanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled.
All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had unconsciously wound themselves
around this child.
It was for Eva that he had managed his property; it was for Eva that he had
planned the disposal of his time; and, to do this and that for Eva,--to buy, improve,
alter, and arrange, or dispose something
for her,--had been so long his habit, that now she was gone, there seemed nothing to
be thought of, and nothing to be done.
True, there was another life,--a life which, once believed in, stands as a
solemn, significant figure before the otherwise unmeaning ciphers of time,
changing them to orders of mysterious, untold value.
St. Clare knew this well; and often, in many a weary hour, he heard that slender,
childish voice calling him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing to him
the way of life; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him,--he could not arise.
He had one of those natures which could better and more clearly conceive of
religious things from its own perceptions and instincts, than many a matter-of-fact
and practical Christian.
The gift to appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades and relations of
moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless
disregard of them.
Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often speak words more wisely descriptive of the true
religious sentiment, than another man, whose whole life is governed by it.
In such minds, disregard of religion is a more fearful treason,--a more deadly sin.
St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any religious obligation; and a
certain fineness of nature gave him such an instinctive view of the extent of the
requirements of Christianity, that he
shrank, by anticipation, from what he felt would be the exactions of his own
conscience, if he once did resolve to assume them.
For, so inconsistent is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not to
undertake a thing at all seems better than to undertake and come short.
Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man.
He read his little Eva's Bible seriously and honestly; he thought more soberly and
practically of his relations to his servants,--enough to make him extremely
dissatisfied with both his past and present
course; and one thing he did, soon after his return to New Orleans, and that was to
commence the legal steps necessary to Tom's emancipation, which was to be perfected as
soon as he could get through the necessary formalities.
Meantime, he attached himself to Tom more and more, every day.
In all the wide world, there was nothing that seemed to remind him so much of Eva;
and he would insist on keeping him constantly about him, and, fastidious and
unapproachable as he was with regard to his
deeper feelings, he almost thought aloud to Tom.
Nor would any one have wondered at it, who had seen the expression of affection and
devotion with which Tom continually followed his young master.
"Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced the legal formalities for
his enfranchisement, "I'm going to make a free man of you;--so have your trunk
packed, and get ready to set out for Kentuck."
The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raised his hands to heaven, his
emphatic "Bless the Lord!" rather discomposed St. Clare; he did not like it
that Tom should be so ready to leave him.
"You haven't had such very bad times here, that you need be in such a rapture, Tom,"
he said drily. "No, no, Mas'r!
'tan't that,--it's bein' a freeman! that's what I'm joyin' for."
"Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you've been better off than to be
free?"
"No, indeed, Mas'r St. Clare," said Tom, with a flash of energy.
"No, indeed!"
"Why, Tom, you couldn't possibly have earned, by your work, such clothes and such
living as I have given you."
"Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare; Mas'r's been too good; but, Mas'r, I'd rather have
poor clothes, poor house, poor everything, and have 'em mine, than have the best, and
have 'em any man's else,--I had so, Mas'r; I think it's natur, Mas'r."
"I suppose so, Tom, and you'll be going off and leaving me, in a month or so," he
added, rather discontentedly.
"Though why you shouldn't, no mortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone; and,
getting up, he began to walk the floor. "Not while Mas'r is in trouble," said Tom.
"I'll stay with Mas'r as long as he wants me,--so as I can be any use."
"Not while I'm in trouble, Tom?" said St. Clare, looking sadly out of the
window...."And when will my trouble be over?"
"When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom.
"And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?" said St. Clare, half smiling,
as he turned from the window, and laid his hand on Tom's shoulder.
"Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy!
I won't keep you till that day. Go home to your wife and children, and give
my love to all."
"I 's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom, earnestly, and with tears in his
eyes; "the Lord has a work for Mas'r."
"A work, hey?" said St. Clare, "well, now, Tom, give me your views on what sort of a
work it is;--let's hear."
"Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord; and Mas'r St. Clare, that
has larnin, and riches, and friends,--how much he might do for the Lord!"
"Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done for him," said St. Clare,
smiling. "We does for the Lord when we does for his
critturs," said Tom.
"Good theology, Tom; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare swear," said St. Clare.
The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of some visitors.
Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could feel anything; and, as
she was a woman that had a great faculty of making everybody unhappy when she was, her
immediate attendants had still stronger
reason to regret the loss of their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle
intercessions had so often been a shield to them from the tyrannical and selfish
exactions of her mother.
Poor old Mammy, in particular, whose heart, severed from all natural domestic ties, had
consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart-broken.
She cried day and night, and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful and alert in
her ministrations of her mistress than usual, which drew down a constant storm of
invectives on her defenceless head.
Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest heart, it bore fruit unto
everlasting life.
She was more softened, more gentle; and, though equally assiduous in every duty, it
was with a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed with her own heart not in
vain.
She was more diligent in teaching Topsy,-- taught her mainly from the Bible,--did not
any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed disgust, because
she felt none.
She viewed her now through the softened medium that Eva's hand had first held
before her eyes, and saw in her only an immortal creature, whom God had sent to be
led by her to glory and virtue.
Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the life and death of Eva did work a marked
change in her.
The callous indifference was gone; there was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the
striving for good,--a strife irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed
again.
One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she came, hastily thrusting
something into her ***. "What are you doing there, you limb?
You've been stealing something, I'll be bound," said the imperious little Rosa, who
had been sent to call her, seizing her, at the same time, roughly by the arm.
"You go 'long, Miss Rosa!" said Topsy, pulling from her; "'tan't none o' your
business!"
"None o' your sa'ce!" said Rosa, "I saw you hiding something,--I know yer tricks," and
Rosa seized her arm, and tried to force her hand into her ***, while Topsy, enraged,
kicked and fought valiantly for what she considered her rights.
The clamor and confusion of the battle drew Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the
spot.
"She's been stealing!" said Rosa. "I han't, neither!" vociferated Topsy,
sobbing with passion. "Give me that, whatever it is!" said Miss
Ophelia, firmly.
Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her *** a little parcel
done up in the foot of one of her own old stockings.
Miss Ophelia turned it out.
There was a small book, which had been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single
verse of Scripture, arranged for every day in the year, and in a paper the curl of
hair that she had given her on that
memorable day when she had taken her last farewell.
St. Clare was a good deal affected at the sight of it; the little book had been
rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from the funeral weeds.
"What did you wrap this round the book for?" said St. Clare, holding up the crape.
"Cause,--cause,--cause 't was Miss Eva.
O, don't take 'em away, please!" she said; and, sitting flat down on the floor, and
putting her apron over her head, she began to sob vehemently.
It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,--the little old
stockings,--black crape,--text-book,--fair, soft curl,--and Topsy's utter distress.
St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he said,
"Come, come,--don't cry; you shall have them!" and, putting them together, he threw
them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor.
"I really think you can make something of that concern," he said, pointing with his
thumb backward over his shoulder. "Any mind that is capable of a real sorrow
is capable of good.
You must try and do something with her." "The child has improved greatly," said Miss
Ophelia.
"I have great hopes of her; but, Augustine," she said, laying her hand on
his arm, "one thing I want to ask; whose is this child to be?--yours or mine?"
"Why, I gave her to you," said Augustine.
"But not legally;--I want her to be mine legally," said Miss Ophelia.
"Whew! cousin," said Augustine. "What will the Abolition Society think?
They'll have a day of fasting appointed for this backsliding, if you become a
slaveholder!" "O, nonsense!
I want her mine, that I may have a right to take her to the free States, and give her
her liberty, that all I am trying to do be not undone."
"O, cousin, what an awful 'doing evil that good may come'!
I can't encourage it." "I don't want you to joke, but to reason,"
said Miss Ophelia.
"There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian child, unless I save her
from all the chances and reverses of slavery; and, if you really are willing I
should have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or some legal paper."
"Well, well," said St. Clare, "I will;" and he sat down, and unfolded a newspaper to
read.
"But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia.
"What's your hurry?" "Because now is the only time there ever is
to do a thing in," said Miss Ophelia.
"Come, now, here's paper, pen, and ink; just write a paper."
St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated the present tense of
action, generally; and, therefore, he was considerably annoyed by Miss Ophelia's
downrightness.
"Why, what's the matter?" said he. "Can't you take my word?
One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming at a fellow so!"
"I want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia.
"You may die, or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of all I can
do."
"Really, you are quite provident.
Well, seeing I'm in the hands of a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;"
and St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed in the
forms of law, he could easily do, and
signed his name to it in sprawling capitals, concluding by a tremendous
flourish.
"There, isn't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont?" he said, as he handed it to
her. "Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiling.
"But must it not be witnessed?"
"O, bother!--yes. Here," he said, opening the door into
Marie's apartment, "Marie, Cousin wants your autograph; just put your name down
here."
"What's this?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper.
"Ridiculous!
I thought Cousin was too pious for such horrid things," she added, as she
carelessly wrote her name; "but, if she has a fancy for that article, I am sure she's
welcome."
"There, now, she's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare, handing the paper.
"No more mine now than she was before," Miss Ophelia.
"Nobody but God has a right to give her to me; but I can protect her now."
"Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare, as he turned back
into the parlor, and sat down to his paper.
Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company, followed him into the
parlor, having first carefully laid away the paper.
"Augustine," she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, "have you ever made any provision
for your servants, in case of your death?" "No," said St. Clare, as he read on.
"Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great cruelty, by and by."
St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he answered, negligently.
"Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by."
"When?" said Miss Ophelia. "O, one of these days."
"What if you should die first?"
"Cousin, what's the matter?" said St. Clare, laying down his paper and looking at
"Do you think I show symptoms of yellow fever or cholera, that you are making post
mortem arrangements with such zeal?" "'In the midst of life we are in death,'"
said Miss Ophelia.
St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly, walked to the door that
stood open on the verandah, to put an end to a conversation that was not agreeable to
him.
Mechanically, he repeated the last word again,--"Death!"--and, as he leaned against
the railings, and watched the sparkling water as it rose and fell in the fountain;
and, as in a dim and dizzy haze, saw
flowers and trees and vases of the courts, he repeated, again the mystic word so
common in every mouth, yet of such fearful power,--"DEATH!"
"Strange that there should be such a word," he said, "and such a thing, and we ever
forget it; that one should be living, warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires and
wants, one day, and the next be gone, utterly gone, and forever!"
It was a warm, golden evening; and, as he walked to the other end of the verandah, he
saw Tom busily intent on his Bible, pointing, as he did so, with his finger to
each successive word, and whispering them to himself with an earnest air.
"Want me to read to you, Tom?" said St. Clare, seating himself carelessly by him.
"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully, "Mas'r makes it so much plainer."
St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began reading one of the
passages which Tom had designated by the heavy marks around it.
It ran as follows:
"When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all his holy angels with him,
then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and before him shall be gathered all
nations; and he shall separate them one
from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats."
St. Clare read on in an animated voice, till he came to the last of the verses.
"Then shall the king say unto him on his left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into
everlasting fire: for I was an hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and
ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, an
ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: I was sick, and in prison, and ye
visited me not.
Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a
stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
Then shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these my
brethren, ye did it not to me."
St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it twice,--the second
time slowly, and as if he were revolving the words in his mind.
"Tom," he said, "these folks that get such hard measure seem to have been doing just
what I have,--living good, easy, respectable lives; and not troubling
themselves to inquire how many of their
brethren were hungry or athirst, or sick, or in prison."
Tom did not answer.
St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the verandah, seeming to forget
everything in his own thoughts; so absorbed was he, that Tom had to remind him twice
that the teabell had rung, before he could get his attention.
St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time.
After tea, he and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlor almost in
silence.
Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain, and was soon sound
asleep. Miss Ophelia silently busied herself with
her knitting.
St. Clare sat down to the piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy movement with
the AEolian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep reverie, and to be
soliloquizing to himself by music.
After a little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book whose
leaves were yellow with age, and began turning it over.
"There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my mother's books,--and here is her
handwriting,--come and look at it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart's
Requiem."
Miss Ophelia came accordingly. "It was something she used to sing often,"
said St. Clare. "I think I can hear her now."
He struck a few majestic chords, and began singing that grand old Latin piece, the
"Dies Irae."
Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn by the sound to the
very door, where he stood earnestly.
He did not understand the words, of course; but the music and manner of singing
appeared to affect him strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic
parts.
Tom would have sympathized more heartily, if he had known the meaning of the
beautiful words:
Recordare Jesu pie Quod sum causa tuar viae
Ne me perdas, illa die
Querens me sedisti lassus Redemisti crucem passus
Tantus laor non sit cassus. These lines have been thus rather
inadequately translated:
Think, O Jesus, for what reason Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason,
Nor me lose, in that dread season;
Seeking me, thy worn feet hasted, On the cross thy soul death tasted,
Let not all these toils be wasted. [Mrs. Stowe's note.]
St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the words; for the shadowy
veil of years seemed drawn away, and he seemed to hear his mother's voice leading
his.
Voice and instrument seemed both living, and threw out with vivid sympathy those
strains which the ethereal Mozart first conceived as his own dying requiem.
When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon his hand a few
moments, and then began walking up and down the floor.
"What a sublime conception is that of a last judgment!" said he,--"a righting of
all the wrongs of ages!--a solving of all moral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom!
It is, indeed, a wonderful image."
"It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia.
"It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare stopping, thoughtfully.
"I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that chapter in Matthew that gives an account of
it, and I have been quite struck with it.
One should have expected some terrible enormities charged to those who are
excluded from Heaven, as the reason; but no,--they are condemned for not doing
positive good, as if that included every possible harm."
"Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a person who does no good
not to do harm."
"And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with deep feeling, "what
shall be said of one whose own heart, whose education, and the wants of society, have
called in vain to some noble purpose; who
has floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectator of the struggles, agonies, and wrongs of
man, when he should have been a worker?" "I should say," said Miss Ophelia, "that he
ought to repent, and begin now."
"Always practical and to the point!" said St. Clare, his face breaking out into a
smile.
"You never leave me any time for general reflections, Cousin; you always bring me
short up against the actual present; you have a kind of eternal now, always in your
mind."
"Now is all the time I have anything to do with," said Miss Ophelia.
"Dear little Eva,--poor child!" said St. Clare, "she had set her little simple soul
on a good work for me."
It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever said as many words as
these to her, and he spoke now evidently repressing very strong feeling.
"My view of Christianity is such," he added, "that I think no man can
consistently profess it without throwing the whole weight of his being against this
monstrous system of injustice that lies at
the foundation of all our society; and, if need be, sacrificing himself in the battle.
That is, I mean that I could not be a Christian otherwise, though I have
certainly had intercourse with a great many enlightened and Christian people who did no
such thing; and I confess that the apathy
of religious people on this subject, their want of perception of wrongs that filled me
with horror, have engendered in me more scepticism than any other thing."
"If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, "why didn't you do it?"
"O, because I have had only that kind of benevolence which consists in lying on a
sofa, and cursing the church and clergy for not being martyrs and confessors.
One can see, you know, very easily, how others ought to be martyrs."
"Well, are you going to do differently now?" said Miss Ophelia.
"God only knows the future," said St. Clare.
"I am braver than I was, because I have lost all; and he who has nothing to lose
can afford all risks."
"And what are you going to do?"
"My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it out," said St. Clare,
"beginning with my own servants, for whom I have yet done nothing; and, perhaps, at
some future day, it may appear that I can
do something for a whole class; something to save my country from the disgrace of
that false position in which she now stands before all civilized nations."
"Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarily emancipate?" said
Miss Ophelia. "I don't know," said St. Clare.
"This is a day of great deeds.
Heroism and disinterestedness are rising up, here and there, in the earth.
The Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniary loss; and,
perhaps, among us may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate honor and
justice by dollars and cents."
"I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia. "But, suppose we should rise up tomorrow
and emancipate, who would educate these millions, and teach them how to use their
freedom?
They never would rise to do much among us. The fact is, we are too lazy and
unpractical, ourselves, ever to give them much of an idea of that industry and energy
which is necessary to form them into men.
They will have to go north, where labor is the fashion,--the universal custom; and
tell me, now, is there enough Christian philanthropy, among your northern states,
to bear with the process of their education and elevation?
You send thousands of dollars to foreign missions; but could you endure to have the
heathen sent into your towns and villages, and give your time, and thoughts, and
money, to raise them to the Christian standard?
That's what I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willing to
educate?
How many families, in your town, would take a *** man and woman, teach them, bear
with them, and seek to make them Christians?
How many merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to make him a clerk; or mechanics,
if I wanted him taught a trade?
If I wanted to put Jane and Rosa to a school, how many schools are there in the
northern states that would take them in? how many families that would board them?
and yet they are as white as many a woman, north or south.
You see, Cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad position.
We are the more obvious oppressors of the ***; but the unchristian prejudice of the
north is an oppressor almost equally severe."
"Well, Cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia,--"I know it was so with me, till I
saw that it was my duty to overcome it; but, I trust I have overcome it; and I know
there are many good people at the north,
who in this matter need only to be taught what their duty is, to do it.
It would certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen among us, than to send
missionaries to them; but I think we would do it."
"You would, I know," said St. Clare.
"I'd like to see anything you wouldn't do, if you thought it your duty!"
"Well, I'm not uncommonly good," said Miss Ophelia.
"Others would, if they saw things as I do.
I intend to take Topsy home, when I go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at first;
but I think they will be brought to see as I do.
Besides, I know there are many people at the north who do exactly what you said."
"Yes, but they are a minority; and, if we should begin to emancipate to any extent,
we should soon hear from you."
Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some moments; and St.
Clare's countenance was overcast by a sad, dreamy expression.
"I don't know what makes me think of my mother so much, tonight," he said.
"I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she were near me.
I keep thinking of things she used to say.
Strange, what brings these past things so vividly back to us, sometimes!"
St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes more, and then said,
"I believe I'll go down street, a few moments, and hear the news, tonight."
He took his hat, and passed out. Tom followed him to the passage, out of the
court, and asked if he should attend him.
"No, my boy," said St. Clare. "I shall be back in an hour."
Tom sat down in the verandah.
It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and he sat watching the rising and falling
spray of the fountain, and listening to its murmur.
Tom thought of his home, and that he should soon be a free man, and able to return to
it at will. He thought how he should work to buy his
wife and boys.
He felt the muscles of his brawny arms with a sort of joy, as he thought they would
soon belong to himself, and how much they could do to work out the freedom of his
family.
Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever second to that, came the habitual
prayer that he had always offered for him; and then his thoughts passed on to the
beautiful Eva, whom he now thought of among
the angels; and he thought till he almost fancied that that bright face and golden
hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of the fountain.
And, so musing, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding towards him,
just as she used to come, with a wreath of jessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright,
and her eyes radiant with delight; but, as
he looked, she seemed to rise from the ground; her cheeks wore a paler hue,--her
eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her head,--and she
vanished from his sight; and Tom was
awakened by a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices at the gate.
He hastened to undo it; and, with smothered voices and heavy tread, came several men,
bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak, and lying on a shutter.
The light of the lamp fell full on the face; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement
and despair, that rung through all the galleries, as the men advanced, with their
burden, to the open parlor door, where Miss Ophelia still sat knitting.
St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening paper.
As he was reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen in the room, who were both
partially intoxicated.
St. Clare and one or two others made an effort to separate them, and St. Clare
received a fatal stab in the side with a bowie-knife, which he was attempting to
wrest from one of them.
The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks and screams, servants
frantically tearing their hair, throwing themselves on the ground, or running
distractedly about, lamenting.
Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have any presence of mind; for Marie was in
strong hysteric convulsions.
At Miss Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges in the parlor was hastily prepared,
and the bleeding form laid upon it.
St. Clare had fainted, through pain and loss of blood; but, as Miss Ophelia applied
restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly on them, looked earnestly
around the room, his eyes travelling
wistfully over every object, and finally they rested on his mother's picture.
The physician now arrived, and made his examination.
It was evident, from the expression of his face, that there was no hope; but he
applied himself to dressing the wound, and he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceeded
composedly with this work, amid the
lamentations and sobs and cries of the affrighted servants, who had clustered
about the doors and windows of the verandah.
"Now," said the physician, "we must turn all these creatures out; all depends on his
being kept quiet."
St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressed beings, whom Miss
Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the apartment.
"Poor creatures!" he said, and an expression of bitter self-reproach passed
over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go.
Terror had deprived him of all presence of mind; he threw himself along the floor, and
nothing could persuade him to rise.
The rest yielded to Miss Ophelia's urgent representations, that their master's safety
depended on their stillness and obedience.
St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it was evident that he
wrestled with bitter thoughts.
After a while, he laid his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling beside him, and said,
"Tom! poor fellow!" "What, Mas'r?" said Tom, earnestly.
"I am dying!" said St. Clare, pressing his hand; "pray!"
"If you would like a clergyman--" said the physician.
St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, more earnestly, "Pray!"
And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soul that was passing,--
the soul that seemed looking so steadily and mournfully from those large, melancholy
blue eyes.
It was literally prayer offered with strong crying and tears.
When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand, looking earnestly at
him, but saying nothing.
He closed his eyes, but still retained his hold; for, in the gates of eternity, the
black hand and the white hold each other with an equal clasp.
He murmured softly to himself, at broken intervals,
"Recordare Jesu pie-- Ne me perdas--illa die Querens me--sedisti lassus."
It was evident that the words he had been singing that evening were passing through
his mind,--words of entreaty addressed to Infinite Pity.
His lips moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn fell brokenly from them.
"His mind is wandering," said the doctor. "No! it is coming HOME, at last!" said St.
Clare, energetically; "at last! at last!"
The effort of speaking exhausted him.
The sinking paleness of death fell on him; but with it there fell, as if shed from the
wings of some pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a wearied
child who sleeps.
So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty hand was on him.
Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eyes, with a sudden light, as of joy
and recognition, and said "Mother!" and then he was gone!