第 二十八 章 · Reunion

. 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 bosom.

“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 bosom, 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 bosom 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 her. “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, and 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 Æolian 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 Iræ.”

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 tuær viæ

Ne me perdas, illa die

Quærens me sedisti lassus

Redemisti crucem passus

Tantus labor non sit cassus.”[1]

[1] 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 negro 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 negro; 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

Quærens 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!