The Harvest of Years Part 38

We were losing hope of resuscitation, and I sank on the floor beside Louis, who still knelt at the head of the lounge, when a faint sound came from her lips. We held our breath and listened, and now in a low, weak voice she said:

"I'll go back, Louis Robert, to say good-bye; I can stay a little longer; oh! they feel so badly--yes, I must go back," and then long, deep sighing breaths were taken. A little longer and her eyes opened--"Louis, Emily, baby, friends, I am here."

"Oh! little mother," said Louis, "where is the trouble?"

She tried to smile, as if to cover all our fears, and said with effort:

"I am weak; I could not hold together; get some of Aunt Hildy's bitters," and when the gla.s.s containing it was held to her lips, she drank eagerly.

"Take both hands, Louis; let the baby touch me."

"Oh, Clara, don't go!" I said, as I held little Emily near her.

"No, no, not now, but I want help to stay; keep the baby close.

"Matthias, don't go home," she said, and then, closing her eyes, lay so still and motionless I feared she would never move again.

A half hour had pa.s.sed and she still looked so cold and white, when suddenly her eyes opened, and her voice was strong as she said:

"I am better now, I have come clear back,--help me to get up, dear boy,"

and Louis put his arms around her to raise her; as he did so I saw a strange look pa.s.s over her face, and her hands were laid on her limbs.

She turned her beautiful eyes upon me, as if to say "don't be frightened," and said, "Please move my limbs, there is no feeling there--they are paralyzed, and I am so glad it is not my hands." I moved them gently, and thought when she was really herself she would be able to use them. She seemed now bright and cheerful as before.

The evening wore on; Matthias went home, and at Clara's request Aunt Hildy occupied a room with her down stairs, Louis carrying her tenderly to her couch as if she were a child.

Sleep came toward us with laggard steps through the long night; Louis seemed to realize it all so plainly, and my heart was in my throat. I tried to hope, and when at last I fell asleep I wandered in dreams to a wondrous fountain, whose silvery spray fell before me as a gleaming promise, and I thought its murmuring music whispered, "she will live,"

and her Louis Robert, who stood near me, constantly sang the same sweet words. I believe my dream really comforted me, for when I woke it clung to me still, and "she will live" rang in my ears like a sweet bell chime.

We found her better and like herself, but the lower limbs were cold as marble, heavy also and without feeling, and we knew it was, as she had said, "paralysis."

"Now I am to be a burden, my Emily mother, and oh, if you had not called me back, I would have gone to the hills with Louis Robert! It was not fancy nor delirium, for I knew that my body was falling. I saw him when he came and whispered 'now, darling, now,' and when I lost your faces, he raised me in his arms, and I was going, oh! till somebody breathed upon me, and warm drops like rain touched my cheek, and I heard your hearts all say, 'we cannot have it.' This like a strong hand drew me back, and I thought I must come and say good-bye for a comfort to you all. So Louis Robert, with his great love waiting for me there, drew himself away and kindly said, 'I will wait,'--then a mist came between us, and I opened my eyes to see you all around me."

"Oh, Clara! how can we ever let you go?"

"Ah, my beloved ones! I only go a little before you, and if you knew how sweet it will be to be strong, you would say, because you love me, 'I may go.' I have many things to say--and I shall remain with you a time, and may, I fear, weary you. I am glad Louis is strong."

It was pitiful to see the patience with which she bore her suffering.

There was no pain, she said, but it was a strange feeling not to be alive--and she would look at her limbs and say, "Poor flesh, you are not warm any more." We had one of her crimson-cus.h.i.+oned easy chairs arranged to suit her needs, and in this she could be rolled about. She sat at the table with us and I kept constantly near her, and tried to s.h.i.+eld her from any extra excitement. When on the thirteenth day of April, news reached us of the blow which, the day before, had fallen on Sumter, we feared to let her know it. But her spirit quickened into the clearest perception possible, divined something, and obliged us to tell her.

She said: "I knew it would come, I have felt it for years, and when the cruel sacrifice is finished, liberty will arise, and over the ashes of the slain will say, 'Let the bond go free.'"

Ben's eyes looked as Hal's did, when he left us for Chicago, and he whispered to me:

"I must go. Hal must stay here; Louis cannot go. John will see to every thing for me, and I am going."

Six days later he had enlisted, and oh! how filled these days were! When Matthias heard of it, he came over, and happening to meet me where he could talk freely, he said:

"Dis is jes' what I knowed was a comin', an' I have tole Ben fur to kill dat Mas'r Sumner, de fus' ting, for he's the one dat ort fur to be killed."

"Why, Matthias, you are in a great hurry to kill him, and you really believe he is to drop right into that terrible fire; why, I could not hurry a dog out of existence if I thought everlasting torment awaited him."

"Look a yere, Miss Em'ly, ef dat dog wuz mad, you'd kill him mighty quick, wouldn't ye?"

I did not know what to say, and he answered the question himself:

"Yas, de Lord knows, dat man needs tendin' to, an I'se mighty anxious fur de good Lord to take him in han'. We'll live to see ebery black man free, Miss Em'ly,--we shall, shure,--an' dere'll be high times down in Charleston. Wonder what little Molly'll do?"

"I have been thinking about her," I said. "You know the last letter we received they were fearful of war, and thinking of coming to her husband's friends in Pennsylvania; but she feared her mother would die; she has been poorly for a long time."

"Reckin she'll die, then, fur de 'sitement'll kill her, ef nuffin else don't."

The days wore on and Clara still lingered with us. Ben was as yet unhurt, and first lieutenant of his company. He wrote us that battle was not what he had thought it; he was not shaky at all, and the smell of powder covered every fear; he had only one thought and that was to do his duty. A letter full of sorrow came from Mary. Her mother had pa.s.sed from earth, and her father was going on to a little farm they owned a few miles from the city, and she, with her husband and Althea Emily was, trying to get into Pennsylvania. "I am in momentary fear," she wrote, "for my husband is watched so closely, his principles are so well known, I think we shall have great trouble in getting through, but we cannot stay here."

The dewy breath of May was rising about us; violet angle was alive with its blossoms, and the birds sang sweetly as if there were no sorrowing hearts in the land.

Clara had failed of late, and the evening of the fifteenth we were gathered together at her request in her sitting-room.

"Do not feel troubled," she said, "for when I am out of sight, you will sorrow if you feel I have not told it all. Come, baby Emily, sweet bird sit close to mam Cla, while she tells the story."

Louis and I sat on either side, Aunt Hildy with mother and father very near, so that we formed a semi-circle.

"I am losing my strength, as you all know," said Clara "and the day is very near when I shall reach for the hand that will lead me to the hills. Now, Louis, my dear boy, here is the paper I have written, wherein I give to you all the things I believe you will prize. I believe I have remembered all who have been so kind and so dear to me, and I know you will comply with every wish, and I desire no form of the law to cover my words." Louis took the papers with a trembling hand, and she continued: "It is wise and right for me to tell you about the laying away of this frame of mine, for I know if I do not tell you about it many questions will arise, and we will have them all settled now before I go beyond your hearing. I shall hear you and see you all the time.

"First, buy for me a cedar coffin, since it will please you to remember that this wood lasts longer in the ground than any other. Do not have any unnecessary tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs for it, and I would like to wear in this last resting-place the blue dress I prize the most. You will find in my large trunk the little pillow I have made for my head; just let me lie there a little on one side, and put a few of Emily's sweet violets in my hand that I may be pleasant to look upon. Leave no rings upon my fingers; these I wear, my Louis Robert gave me, and you must keep them for his grandchild," and as she said this, she unfastened the s.h.i.+ning chain that she had worn hidden so many years, and putting it around our little Emily's neck, said: "Let her always wear the chain and the locket," and while the baby's eyes reflected the gleam of the gold that dazzled them, we were all weeping. "Do not feel so," said Clara; "it is beautiful to go; let me tell you the rest. All these people whom I have known will desire to look at my face, and for their sakes let me be carried into the old church which has become to me so dear. I have asked Mr. Davis to preach from the text, 'I am the resurrection and the life.'

"Be sure that the children from the Home all go, and I would like you with them to occupy the front pews. I have a fancy," and she smiled, "that if you sit there it will help me to come near to my deserted tenement. I know I shall be with you there, and I hope you will never call me dead. My house of clay is nearly dead now, and the more strength it loses the stronger my spirit feels. Mr. Minot said, long since, that I might own part of his lot in the churchyard, and I would like to be buried under the willow there. I like that corner best. Do not ever tell little Emily I am there; just say I'm gone away to rest and to be well and strong, and when she is older tell her the frame that held the picture is beneath the gra.s.ses, and that my freed soul loves her and watches her, for it will be true. If you feel, Louis, my dear boy, like bringing your father's remains to rest beside me, you can do so. It will not trouble either of us, for it matters little; we are to be together.

This is all, except that, if it be practicable, I should like the burial to take place at the hour of sunset; this seems the most fitting time.

While the grave is yet open, please let the children sing together, 'Sweet Rest;' I always like to hear them sing this. To-morrow evening I have something to say to the friends who really seem to belong to me,--Hal and Mary, Mr. Davis, Matthias, Aunt Peg and John, Jane and her husband. Please let them come at six o'clock."

She closed her eyes wearily, and looked so white and beautiful, her small hands folded, and the fleecy shawl about her falling from her shoulders, and it seemed as if the material of life, like this delicate garment, was also falling from her. Desolation spread its map before me.

I could think of nothing but an empty room and heart, and with Louis'

arms about me, I sobbed bitterly. Then I thought how selfish I was, and said: "Louis, take her in your arms; she is so tired, poor little mother." The blue eyes looked at me with such a tender light, and she said, "Yes, I am tired." Louis gathered her in his arms and seated himself in a rocker. Aunt Hildy went for some cordial. Mother and father sat quietly with bitter tears falling slowly, and with little Emily in my arms, I crossed the room to occupy a seat where my tears would not trouble her. It was sadly beautiful.

She drew strength from Louis, and was borne into her room feeling, she said, very comfortable. I wanted to stay with her through the night, but she said:

"No, the baby needs you; so does Louis; I know how he feels; my night will be peaceful and my rest sweet; Aunt Hildy will rest beside me."

"Yes, yes, I'll stay, and we shall both rest well," said Aunt Hildy.

In the morning she was weak, but we dressed her, and after eating a little she felt better, and in the afternoon seemed very comfortable and happy. We had our supper at a little after five o'clock, and at six o'clock, as she had wished, all were in her room.

"Louis, roll my chair into the centre of the room, and let me face the west, for I love to see day's glory die. Now come, good friends all, and sit near me, where I can see your faces. I want to tell you that I am going out of your sight, and I have left to each of you what seemed good and right to me. I hope, yes, I know you will remember that I love you all so much I would never be forgotten. You are grown so dear to me that I shall not forget to look upon you; and please remember that I am not dead, but shall be to you a living, active friend, who sees and knows your needs, and to whose heart may be entrusted some dear mission for your greatest good. Mr. and Mrs. Turner," and she held her hands to Jane and her husband, "be true and faithful to each other. Leave no work undone, love the children, and ask help from the hills, whence it shall ever come. You will, I am sure;" and her eyes turned inquiringly upon them.

"Oh, Mis' _De_-Mond," said Jane, "I will, oh, you blessed angel woman!"

"I will, so help me G.o.d!" said Mr. Turner, and they took their seats, while Clara, with a motion that said please come, called:

"Matthias and Aunt Peg, and you too, John, don't think I can ever forget you. You will come to me, and you will know me there, and, John, you have a wonderful work to do; your words will bear sweet tidings to your race, and your reward shall be that of the well-doer."