Chương Chương 22 · “The Grass Withereth—the Flower Fadeth”

. “The Grass Withereth—the Flower Fadeth”

Life passes, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed with our friend

Tom, till two years were gone. Though parted from all his soul held

dear, and though often yearning for what lay beyond, still was he never

positively and consciously miserable; for, so well is the harp of human

feeling strung, that nothing but a crash that breaks every string can

wholly mar its harmony; and, on looking back to seasons which in review

appear to us as those of deprivation and trial, we can remember that

each hour, as it glided, brought its diversions and alleviations, so

that, though not happy wholly, we were not, either, wholly miserable.

Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had “learned in

whatsoever state he was, therewith to be content.” It seemed to him

good and reasonable doctrine, and accorded well with the settled and

thoughtful habit which he had acquired from the reading of that same

book.

His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was in due time

answered by Master George, in a good, round, school-boy hand, that Tom

said might be read “most acrost the room.” It contained various

refreshing items of home intelligence, with which our reader is fully

acquainted: stated how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner

in Louisville, where her skill in the pastry line was gaining wonderful

sums of money, all of which, Tom was informed, was to be laid up to go

to make up the sum of his redemption money; Mose and Pete were

thriving, and the baby was trotting all about the house, under the care

of Sally and the family generally.

Tom’s cabin was shut up for the present; but George expatiated

brilliantly on ornaments and additions to be made to it when Tom came

back.

The rest of this letter gave a list of George’s school studies, each

one headed by a flourishing capital; and also told the names of four

new colts that appeared on the premises since Tom left; and stated, in

the same connection, that father and mother were well. The style of the

letter was decidedly concise and terse; but Tom thought it the most

wonderful specimen of composition that had appeared in modern times. He

was never tired of looking at it, and even held a council with Eva on

the expediency of getting it framed, to hang up in his room. Nothing

but the difficulty of arranging it so that both sides of the page would

show at once stood in the way of this undertaking.

The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child’s growth.

It would be hard to say what place she held in the soft, impressible

heart of her faithful attendant. He loved her as something frail and

earthly, yet almost worshipped her as something heavenly and divine. He

gazed on her as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the child

Jesus,—with a mixture of reverence and tenderness; and to humor her

graceful fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants which invest

childhood like a many-colored rainbow, was Tom’s chief delight. In the

market, at morning, his eyes were always on the flower-stalls for rare

bouquets for her, and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into his

pocket to give to her when he came back; and the sight that pleased him

most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his distant approach,

and her childish questions,—“Well, Uncle Tom, what have you got for me

today?”

Nor was Eva less zealous in kind offices, in return. Though a child,

she was a beautiful reader;—a fine musical ear, a quick poetic fancy,

and an instinctive sympathy with what’s grand and noble, made her such

a reader of the Bible as Tom had never before heard. At first, she read

to please her humble friend; but soon her own earnest nature threw out

its tendrils, and wound itself around the majestic book; and Eva loved

it, because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions,

such as impassioned, imaginative children love to feel.

The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and the

Prophecies,—parts whose dim and wondrous imagery, and fervent language,

impressed her the more, that she questioned vainly of their

meaning;—and she and her simple friend, the old child and the young

one, felt just alike about it. All that they knew was, that they spoke

of a glory to be revealed,—a wondrous something yet to come, wherein

their soul rejoiced, yet knew not why; and though it be not so in the

physical, yet in moral science that which cannot be understood is not

always profitless. For the soul awakes, a trembling stranger, between

two dim eternities,—the eternal past, the eternal future. The light

shines only on a small space around her; therefore, she needs must

yearn towards the unknown; and the voices and shadowy movings which

come to her from out the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one

echoes and answers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic imagery are

so many talismans and gems inscribed with unknown hieroglyphics; she

folds them in her bosom, and expects to read them when she passes

beyond the veil.

[Illustration: LITTLE EVA READING THE BIBLE TO UNCLE TOM IN THE ARBOR.]

At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is, for

the time being, removed to their villa on Lake Pontchartrain. The heats

of summer had driven all who were able to leave the sultry and

unhealthy city, to seek the shores of the lake, and its cool

sea-breezes.

St. Clare’s villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded by light

verandahs of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into gardens and

pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room opened on to a large garden,

fragrant with every picturesque plant and flower of the tropics, where

winding paths ran down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery

sheet of water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams,—a picture

never for an hour the same, yet every hour more beautiful.

It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which kindles the whole

horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes the water another sky. The

lake lay in rosy or golden streaks, save where white-winged vessels

glided hither and thither, like so many spirits, and little golden

stars twinkled through the glow, and looked down at themselves as they

trembled in the water.

Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an arbor, at the

foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and Eva’s Bible lay open on

her knee. She read,—“And I saw a sea of glass, mingled with fire.”

“Tom,” said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake, “there ’t

is.”

“What, Miss Eva?”

“Don’t you see,—there?” said the child, pointing to the glassy water,

which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden glow of the sky.

“There’s a ‘sea of glass, mingled with fire.’”

“True enough, Miss Eva,” said Tom; and Tom sang—

“O, had I the wings of the morning,

I’d fly away to Canaan’s shore;

Bright angels should convey me home,

To the new Jerusalem.”

“Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?” said Eva.

“O, up in the clouds, Miss Eva.”

“Then I think I see it,” said Eva. “Look in those clouds!—they look

like great gates of pearl; and you can see beyond them—far, far

off—it’s all gold. Tom, sing about ‘spirits bright.’”

Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn,

“I see a band of spirits bright,

That taste the glories there;

They all are robed in spotless white,

And conquering palms they bear.”

“Uncle Tom, I’ve seen _them_,” said Eva.

Tom had no doubt of it at all; it did not surprise him in the least. If

Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he would have thought it

entirely probable.

“They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;” and Eva’s eyes

grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice,

“They are all robed in spotless white,

And conquering palms they bear.”

“Uncle Tom,” said Eva, “I’m going there.”

“Where, Miss Eva?”

The child rose, and pointed her little hand to the sky; the glow of

evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a kind of unearthly

radiance, and her eyes were bent earnestly on the skies.

“I’m going _there_,” she said, “to the spirits bright, Tom; _I’m going,

before long_.”

The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom thought how often

he had noticed, within six months, that Eva’s little hands had grown

thinner, and her skin more transparent, and her breath shorter; and

how, when she ran or played in the garden, as she once could for hours,

she became soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak

often of a cough, that all her medicaments could not cure; and even now

that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with hectic fever; and

yet the thought that Eva’s words suggested had never come to him till

now.

Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there have been; but their

names are always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles, their

heavenly eyes, their singular words and ways, are among the buried

treasures of yearning hearts. In how many families do you hear the

legend that all the goodness and graces of the living are nothing to

the peculiar charms of one who _is not_. It is as if heaven had an

especial band of angels, whose office it was to sojourn for a season

here, and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might bear

it upward with them in their homeward flight. When you see that deep,

spiritual light in the eye,—when the little soul reveals itself in

words sweeter and wiser than the ordinary words of children,—hope not

to retain that child; for the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of

immortality looks out from its eyes.

Even so, beloved Eva! fair star of thy dwelling! Thou art passing away;

but they that love thee dearest know it not.

The colloquy between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call from

Miss Ophelia.

“Eva—Eva!—why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn’t be out there!”

Eva and Tom hastened in.

Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was

from New England, and knew well the first guileful footsteps of that

soft, insidious disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and

loveliest, and, before one fibre of life seems broken, seals them

irrevocably for death.

She had noted the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek; nor

could the lustre of the eye, and the airy buoyancy born of fever,

deceive her.

She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back her

suggestions with a restless petulance, unlike his usual careless

good-humor.

“Don’t be croaking, Cousin,—I hate it!” he would say; “don’t you see

that the child is only growing. Children always lose strength when they

grow fast.”

“But she has that cough!”

“O! nonsense of that cough!—it is not anything. She has taken a little

cold, perhaps.”

“Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and Ellen and Maria

Sanders.”

“O! stop these hobgoblin’ nurse legends. You old hands got so wise,

that a child cannot cough, or sneeze, but you see desperation and ruin

at hand. Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and

don’t let her play too hard, and she’ll do well enough.”

So St. Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless. He watched Eva

feverishly day by day, as might be told by the frequency with which he

repeated over that “the child was quite well”—that there wasn’t

anything in that cough,—it was only some little stomach affection, such

as children often had. But he kept by her more than before, took her

oftener to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt or

strengthening mixture,—“not,” he said, “that the child _needed_ it, but

then it would not do her any harm.”

If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang to his heart

than anything else was the daily increasing maturity of the child’s

mind and feelings. While still retaining all a child’s fanciful graces,

yet she often dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought,

and strange unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At

such times, St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his

arms, as if that fond clasp could save her; and his heart rose up with

wild determination to keep her, never to let her go.

The child’s whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love and

kindness. Impulsively generous she had always been; but there was a

touching and womanly thoughtfulness about her now, that every one

noticed. She still loved to play with Topsy, and the various colored

children; but she now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of their

plays, and she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the

odd tricks of Topsy,—and then a shadow would seem to pass across her

face, her eyes grew misty, and her thoughts were afar.

“Mamma,” she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, “why don’t we

teach our servants to read?”

“What a question child! People never do.”

“Why don’t they?” said Eva.

“Because it is no use for them to read. It don’t help them to work any

better, and they are not made for anything else.”

“But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God’s will.”

“O! they can get that read to them all _they_ need.”

“It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read themselves.

They need it a great many times when there is nobody to read it.”

“Eva, you are an odd child,” said her mother.

“Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read,” continued Eva.

“Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the worst creature I

ever saw!”

“Here’s poor Mammy!” said Eva. “She does love the Bible so much, and

wishes so she could read! And what will she do when I can’t read to

her?”

Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as she answered,

“Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other things to think

of besides reading the Bible round to servants. Not but that is very

proper; I’ve done it myself, when I had health. But when you come to be

dressing and going into company, you won’t have time. See here!” she

added, “these jewels I’m going to give you when you come out. I wore

them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensation.”

Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond necklace. Her

large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was plain her thoughts

were elsewhere.

“How sober you look child!” said Marie.

“Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma?”

“To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them. They are worth a

small fortune.”

“I wish I had them,” said Eva, “to do what I pleased with!”

“What would you do with them?”

“I’d sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take all our

people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read and write.”

Eva was cut short by her mother’s laughing.

“Set up a boarding-school! Wouldn’t you teach them to play on the

piano, and paint on velvet?”

“I’d teach them to read their own Bible, and write their own letters,

and read letters that are written to them,” said Eva, steadily. “I

know, mamma, it does come very hard on them that they can’t do these

things. Tom feels it—Mammy does,—a great many of them do. I think it’s

wrong.”

“Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You don’t know anything about

these things,” said Marie; “besides, your talking makes my head ache.”

Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation that did not

exactly suit her.

Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously gave Mammy reading

lessons.