Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

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by Harriet Beecher Stowe


  “Throned on a cloud our God shall come,

  Bright flames prepare his way;

  Thunder and darkness, fire and storm,

  Lead on the dreadful day!”

  Wearied with his night ride, his nervous system strained to the last point of tension by the fearful images which filled his mind, it is not surprising that these sounds should have thrilled through the hearer with even a superstitious power. And Clayton felt a singular excitement, as, under the dim arcade of the pine-trees, he saw a dark figure approaching. He seemed to be marching with a regular tread, keeping time to the mournful music which he sung.

  “Who are you?” called Clayton, making an effort to recall his manhood.

  “I?” replied the figure, “I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness! I am a sign unto this people of the judgment of the Lord!”

  Our readers must remember the strange dimness of the hour, the wildness of the place and circumstances, and the singular quality of the tone in which the figure spoke. Clayton hesitated a moment, and the speaker went on: “I saw the Lord coming with ten thousand of his saints! Before him went the pestilence, and burning coals went forth at his feet! Thy bow is made quite naked, O God, according to the oaths of the tribes! I saw the tents of Cushan in affliction, and the curtains of the land of Midian did tremble!”

  Pondering in his mind what this wild style of address might mean, Clayton rode slowly onward. And the man, for such he appeared to be, came out of the shadows of the wood and stood directly in his path, raising his hand with a commanding gesture.

  “I know whom you seek,” he said; “but it shall not be given you; for the star, which is called wormwood, hath fallen, and the time of the dead is come, that they shall be judged! Behold, there sitteth on the white cloud one like the Son of Man, having on his head a golden crown, and in his hand a sharp sickle!”

  Then waving his hand above his head, with a gesture of wild excitement, he shouted: “Thrust in thy sharp sickle, and gather the clusters of the vine of the earth, for her grapes are fully ripe! Behold, the winepress shall be trodden without the city, and there shall be blood even to the horses’ bridles! Woe, woe, woe to the inhabitants of the earth, because of the trumpets of the other angels, which are yet to sound!”

  The fearful words pealed through the dim aisles of the forest like the curse of some destroying angel. After a pause, the speaker resumed, in a lower and more plaintive tone: “Weep ye not for the dead! neither bewail her! Behold, the Lamb standeth on Mount Zion, and with him a hundred and forty and four thousand, having his Father’s name written on their foreheads. These are they which follow the Lamb whithersoever he goeth; and in their mouth is found no guile, for they are without fault before the throne of God. Behold the angel having the seal of God is gone forth, and she shall be sealed in her forehead unto the Lamb.”

  The figure turned away slowly, singing, as he made his way through the forest, in the same weird and funereal accents; but this time the song was a wild, plaintive sound, like the tolling of a heavy bell: —

  “Ding dong! dead and gone!

  Farewell, father!

  Bury me in Egypt’s land, By my dear mother!

  Ding, dong! ding, dong!

  Dead and gone!”

  Clayton, as he slowly wound his way along the unfrequented path, felt a dim, brooding sense of mystery and terror creeping over him. The tones of the voice, and the wild style of the speaker, recalled the strange incident of the camp-meeting; and though he endeavored strenuously to reason with himself that probably some wild and excited fanatic, made still more frantic by the presence of death and destruction all around, was the author of these fearful denunciations, still he could not help a certain weight of fearful foreboding.

  This life may be truly called a haunted house, built as it is on the very confines of the land of darkness and the shadow of death. A thousand living fibres connect us with the unknown and unseen state; and the strongest hearts, which never stand still for any mortal terror, have sometimes hushed their very beating at a breath of a whisper from within the veil. Perhaps the most resolute unbeliever in spiritual things has hours of which he would be ashamed to tell, when he, too, yields to the powers of those awful affinities which bind us to that unknown realm.

  It is not surprising that Clayton, in spite of himself, should have felt like one mysteriously warned. It was a relief to him when the dusky dimness of the solemn dawn was pierced by long shafts of light from the rising sun, and the day broke gladsome and jubilant, as if sorrow, sighing, and death were a dream of the night. During the whole prevalence of this fearful curse, it was strange to witness the unaltered regularity, splendor, and beauty with which the movements of the natural world went on. Amid fears, and dying groans, and wailings, and sobs, and broken hearts, the sun rose and set in splendor, the dews twinkled, and twilight folded her purple veil heavy with stars; birds sang, waters danced and warbled, flowers bloomed, and everything in nature was abundant, and festive, and joyous.

  When Clayton entered the boundaries of the plantation, he inquired eagerly of the first person he met for the health of its mistress. “Thank God, she is yet alive!” said he. “It was but a dream, after all!”

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  THE EVENING STAR

  THE mails in the State of North Carolina, like the prudential arrangements of the slave states generally, were very little to be depended upon; and therefore a week had elapsed after the mailing of Nina’s first letter, describing the danger of her condition, before it was received by Clayton. During that time the fury of the shock which had struck the plantation appeared to have abated; and while on some estates in the vicinity it was yet on the increase, the inhabitants of Canema began to hope that the awful cloud was departing from them. It was true that many were still ailing; but there were no new cases, and the disease in the case of those who were ill appeared to be yielding to nursing and remedies.

  Nina had risen in the morning early, as her custom had been since the sickness, and gone the rounds, to inquire for the health of her people. Returned, a little fatigued, she was sitting in the veranda, under the shadow of one of the pillar-roses, enjoying the cool freshness of the morning. Suddenly the tramp of horse’s feet was heard, and looking, she saw Clayton coming up the avenue. There seemed but a dizzy, confused moment before his horse’s bridle was thrown to the winds, and he was up the steps, holding her in his arms.

  “Oh, you are here yet, my rose, my bride, my lamb! God is merciful! This is too much! Oh, I thought you were gone!”

  “No, dear, not yet,” said Nina. “God has been with us. We have lost a great many; but God has spared me to you.”

  “Are you really well?” said Clayton, holding her off, and looking at her. “You look pale, my little rose!”

  “That’s not wonderful,” said Nina; “I’ve had a great deal to make me look pale; but I am very well. I have been well through it all — never in better health — and it seems strange to say it, but never happier. I have felt so peaceful, so sure of God’s love!”

  “Do you know,” said Clayton, “that that peace alarms me — that strange, unearthly happiness? It seems so like what is given to dying people.”

  “No,” said Nina, “I think that when we have no one but our Father to lean on, he comes nearer than he does any other time; and that is the secret of this happiness. But come, — you look woefully tired; have you been riding all night?”

  “Yes, ever since yesterday morning at nine o’clock. I have ridden down four horses to get to you. Only think, I didn’t get your letter till a week after it was dated!”

  “Well, perhaps that was the best,” said Nina; “because I have heard them say that anybody coming suddenly and unprepared in the epidemic, when it is in full force, is almost sure to be taken by it immediately. But you must let me take care of you. Don’t you know that I’m mistress of the fortress here — commander-in-chief and head physician? I shall order you to your room immediately, and Milly shall bring you u
p some coffee, and then you must have some sleep. You can see with your eyes, now, that we are all safe, and there’s nothing to hinder your resting. Come, let me lead you off, like a captive.”

  Released from the pressure of overwhelming fear, Clayton began now to feel the reaction of the bodily and mental straining which he had been enduring for the last twenty-four hours, and therefore he willingly yielded himself to the directions of his little sovereign. Retired to his room, after taking his coffee, which was served by Milly, he fell into a deep and tranquil sleep, which lasted till some time in the afternoon. At first, overcome by fatigue, he slept without dreaming; but when the first weariness was past, the excitement of the nervous system, under which he had been laboring, began to color his dreams with vague and tumultuous images. He thought that he was again with Nina at Magnolia Grove, and that the servants were passing around in procession, throwing flowers at their feet; but the wreath of orange-blossoms which fell in Nina’s lap was tied with black crape. But she took it up, laughing, threw the crape away, and put the wreath on her head, and he heard the chorus singing: —

  “Oh, de North Carolina rose!

  Oh, de North Carolina rose!”

  And then the sound seemed to change to one of lamentation, and the floral procession seemed to be a funeral, and a deep, melancholy voice, like the one he had heard in the woods in the morning, sang: —

  “Weep, for the rose is withered!

  The North Carolina rose!”

  He struggled heavily in his sleep, and at last waking, sat up and looked about him. The rays of the evening sun were shining on the treetops of the distant avenue, and Nina was singing on the veranda below. He listened, and the sound floated up like a rose leaf carried on a breeze: —

  “The summer hath its heavy cloud,

  The rose leaf must fall;

  But in our land joy wears no shroud,

  Never doth it pall!

  Each new morning ray Leaves no sigh for yesterday —

  No smile passed away

  Would we recall!”

  The tune was a favorite melody, which has found much favor with the popular ear, and bore the title of “The Hindoo Dancing-Girl’s Song;” and is, perhaps, a fragment of one of those mystical songs in which Oriental literature abounds, in which the joy and reunion of earthly love are told in shadowy, symbolic resemblance to the everlasting union of the blessed above. It had a wild, dreamy, soothing power, as verse after verse came floating in, like white doves from paradise, as if they had borne healing on their wings: —

  “Then haste to the happy land,

  Where sorrow is unknown;

  But first in a joyous band,

  I’ll make thee my own.

  Haste, haste, fly with me

  Where love’s banquet waits for thee;

  Thine all its sweets shall be, —

  Thine, thine, alone!”

  A low tap at his door at last aroused him. The door was partly opened, and a little hand threw in a half-opened spray of monthly rosebuds.

  “There’s something to remind you that you are yet in the body!” said a voice in the entry. “If you are rested, I’ll let you come down, now.” And Clayton heard the light footsteps tripping down the stairs. He roused himself, and after some little attention to his toilet, appeared on the veranda.

  “Tea has been waiting for some time,” said Nina. “I thought I’d give you a hint.”

  “I was lying very happy, hearing you sing,” said Clayton. “You may sing me that song again.”

  “Was I singing?” said Nina; “why I didn’t know it! I believe that’s my way of thinking, sometimes. I’ll sing to you again, after tea. I like to sing.”

  After tea they were sitting again in the veranda, and the whole heavens were one rosy flush of filmy clouds.

  “How beautiful!” said Nina. “It seems to me I’ve enjoyed these things, this summer, as I never have before. It seemed as if I felt an influence from them going through me, and filling me, as the light does those clouds.”

  And as she stood looking up into the sky, she began singing again the words that Clayton had heard before: —

  “I am come from the happy land,

  Where sorrow is unknown;

  I have parted a joyous band,

  To make thee mine own!

  Haste, haste, fly with me,

  Where love’s banquet waits for thee;

  Thine all its sweets shall be, —

  Thine, thine, alone!

  “The summer hath its heavy cloud,

  The rose leaf must fall” —

  She stopped her singing suddenly, left the veranda, and went into the house.

  “Do you want anything?” said Clayton.

  “Nothing,” said she hurriedly. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Clayton watched, and saw her go to a closet in which the medicines and cordials were kept, and take something from a glass. He gave a start of alarm.

  “You are not ill, are you?” he said fearfully, as she returned.

  “Oh no; only a little faint. We have become so prudent, you know, that if we feel the least beginning of any disagreeable sensation we take something at once. I have felt this faintness quite often. It isn’t much.”

  Clayton put his arm around her, and looked at her with a vague yearning of fear and admiration.

  “You look so like a spirit,” he said, “that I must hold you.”

  “Do you think I’ve got a pair of hidden wings?” she said, smiling, and looking gayly in his face.

  “I am afraid so!” he said. “Do you feel quite well, now?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Only, perhaps, we had better sit down. I think, perhaps, it is the reaction of so much excitement makes me feel rather tired.”

  Clayton seated her on the settee by the door, still keeping his arm anxiously around her. In a few moments she drooped her head wearily on his shoulder.

  “You are ill!” he said in tones of alarm.

  “No, no! I feel very well — only a little faint and tired. It seems to me it is getting a little “cold here, isn’t it?” she said, with a slight shiver.

  Clayton took her up in his arms, without speaking, carried her in and laid her on the sofa, then rang for Harry and Milly.

  “Get a horse, instantly,” he said to Harry, as soon as he appeared, “and go for a doctor!”

  “There’s no use in sending,” said Nina; “he is driven to death, and can’t come. Besides, there’s nothing the matter with me, only I am a little tired and cold. Shut the doors and windows, and cover me up. No, no, don’t take me upstairs! I like to lie here; just put a shawl over me, that’s all. I am thirsty, — give me some water!”

  The fearful and mysterious disease, which was then in the ascendant, has many forms of approach and development. One, and the most deadly, is that which takes place when a person has so long and gradually imbibed the fatal poison of an infected atmosphere that the resisting powers of nature have been insidiously and quietly subdued, so that the subject sinks under it, without any violent outward symptom, by a quiet and certain yielding of the vital powers, such as has been likened to the bleeding to death by an internal wound. In this case, before an hour had passed, though none of the violent and distressing symptoms of the disease appeared, it became evident that the seal of death was set on that fair young brow. A messenger had been dispatched, riding with the desperate speed which love and fear can give, but Harry remained in attendance.

  “Nothing is the matter with me — nothing is the matter,” she said, “except fatigue, and this change in the weather. If I only had more over me! and, perhaps, you had better give me a little brandy, or some such thing. This is water, isn’t it, that you have been giving me?”

  Alas! it was the strongest brandy; but there was no taste, and the hartshorn that they were holding had no smell. And there was no change in the weather; it was only the creeping deadness, affecting the whole outer and inner membrane of the system. Yet still her voice remained clear, thoug
h her mind occasionally wandered.

  There is a strange impulse, which sometimes comes in the restlessness and distress of dissolving nature, to sing; and as she lay with her eyes closed, apparently in a sort of trance, she would sing, over and over again, the verse of the song which she was singing when the blow of the unseen destroyer first struck her: —

  “The summer hath its heavy cloud,

  The rose leaf must fall;

  But in our land joy wears no shroud,

  Never doth it pall.”

  At last she opened her eyes, and seeing the agony of all around, the truth seemed to come to her. “I think I’m called!” she said. “Oh, I’m so sorry for you all! Don’t grieve so; my Father loves me so well, — he cannot spare me any longer. He wants me to come to him. That’s all — don’t grieve so. It’s home I’m going to — home. ‘Twill be only a little while, and you’ll come too, all of you. You are satisfied, are you not, Edward?”

  And again she relapsed into the dreamy trance, and sang, in that strange, sweet voice, so low, so weak: —

  “In our land joy wears no shroud, Never doth it pall.”

  Clayton, — what did he? What could he do? What have any of us done, who have sat holding in our arms a dear form, from which the soul was passing — the soul for which gladly we would have given our own in exchange! When we have felt it going with inconceivable rapidity from us; and we, ignorant and blind, vainly striving, with this and that, to arrest the inevitable doom, feeling every moment that some other thing might be done to save, which is not done, and that that which we are doing may be only hastening the course of the destroyer! Oh, those awful, agonized moments, when we watch the clock and no physician comes, and every stroke of the pendulum is like the approaching step of death! Oh, is there anything in heaven or earth for the despair of such hours?

 

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