CHAPTER III.

DEATH.

“Why should death be linked with fear? A single breath—a low drawn sigh, Can break the ties that bind us here, And waft the spirit to the sky.” MRS. WELBY.

The pastor’s home was a pretty little white cottage, with green blinds, nestled among the trees from which it took its name. A piazza ran all around it. In summer, vines were trained to run above the window of the cottage and around the post of the piazza—and whole parterres of white lilies (Emily’s favorite flower) filled the air with fragrance. Just at this season the scene was rather bleak. The surrounding trees and overhanging vines but added by the nakedness of their branches to the dreariness of the aspect. The cottage was of one story—consisting of a middle building with two wings. In the middle part, first was an entry parallel with the front of the house. At each end of this entry was a door leading into the little wings, each of which contained a bed-chamber. These chambers had each a large bow window fronting on the piazza. The left hand room was occupied by the pastor and his wife, and the right hand one was fitted up for the reception of Sophie Churchill and her little charge. Behind each of these chambers was a little closet—that communicating with Emily’s room was occupied by her son; that opening from the room prepared for Sophie, was assigned to the use of their only domestic, a mulatto girl. The centre building contained, first in front a parlor, back of that a dining-room, then a kitchen. Behind the house was a vegetable garden, and a poultry yard—and still further behind an orchard of various fruits. In front of the cottage was a flower yard, and a grape walk extended from the front of the piazza quite down to the gate. Bee-hives were standing under the locust trees that were scattered over the lawn.

Emily was a great housekeeper—and her parlor was a model of comfort. There were no framed pictures. The walls were covered with a landscape paper (_engraved_, not colored) representing the neighborhood of Jerusalem and scenes in the life of the Saviour. On the wall, on one side of the fire-place, was Christ blessing little children—on the other Christ at the marriage at Cana—the figures were nearly as large as life. Emily loved them like familiar friends—and this paper was a favorite with the old man because its grave hue, assisted by the slate-colored moreen curtains at the windows, and the slate-colored coverings of the lounges and easy chairs, shed a sober clerical sort of air over the room. The mantel-piece was of dark grey marble, and the very andirons, fender, &c., had no glaring brass about them, but were made of polished steel. A large and well filled book-case stood at the end of the room opposite the fire-place—a bronze bust of John Huss stood upon the top of it. _That_ was the old man’s hero. On Friday morning succeeding their visit to Heath Hall—this parlor was in its highest state of perfection—everything glittered with a sober polished steel sort of brilliancy—like a “friend’s” wit and humor. They were ready for Miss Churchill. Sophie at the Hall was preparing for her removal—all her small effects and Hagar’s slender stock of clothing were put in order and packed. On Friday morning they were quite ready. On Friday morning Mrs. May’s maid rode over on a side-saddle and carried a note to Sophie Churchill. The note was from Emily, of course, and ran thus—

“Come, my little partridge, are you ready to fly?—your nest in the grove is quite ready—the sweetest little nest you ever saw. I have put up white muslin curtains to your bed and windows, laid down a new home-made carpet on your floor, whitened your hearth, and hung your favorite picture of the Madonna and child over the chimney-piece. Kitty and I have made some seed cakes to-day—and Mr. May has just received from Baltimore Scott’s new novel of ‘Ivanhoe.’ I await your arrival to cut the leaves—shall we not be happy to-morrow? I have borrowed Mrs. Gardiner Green’s carryall and shall be at your door by seven in the morning. I design that you shall breakfast with us, so be ready for migration, my bird.

“EMILY.”

That night Emily retired to rest so full of thoughts of the morrow that she could not sleep. For one thing she feared that she should not wake early enough—her very bonnet and cloak were laid out ready to be put on when she should first get up; and then she was afraid her buckwheat cakes might not rise well on account of the cold, and _terribly_ afraid lest the cloud that obscured the moon should bring rain the next morning. At last she fell asleep, and it seemed to her that she had but just lost herself when she was aroused by a soft hand laid on her face. She threw up her own hand, half unconsciously, to remove it, when she heard her husband say, in feeble tones, “Emily, I am dying; get up, child.” She started up in vague alarm, for she was yet but half awake, struck a light, and passing around to the other side of the bed, let it shine in his face. His features were frightfully drawn and haggard, as though by a recent fit of agonizing pain—his voice was quiet, as he said,—

“Blow out the candle, child, and open the window-shutters to let the moonbeams in, and come and sit by me, Emily.” She was wide enough awake now, and trembling in every limb, while she gazed upon that contorted countenance, and marked while he spoke the frightful ruin an hour had made of it.

“You are ill—very ill!—let me call up Kitty and send for a physician,” said she, setting down the candle, and running to the door. He recalled her.

“My Emily, come here—let Kitty sleep—do not disturb the household—send for no one, I insist—a college of doctors could not save me. My Emily, blow out the candle—it hurts me; there—now open the shutters so that I can see out into the free sky. Thank you, child. Now, Emily, wrap yourself in your cloak, and come and take this seat by my side.”

Trembling with grief and terror, she did all that he requested, and finally, as she took the chair at the head of the bed, said,—

“Oh, do give me leave to send for a physician—you have been in a fit or in agonizing pain, and may be so again; _do_ let me send for a physician.”

“My child, whom would you send? Dr. Howe lives fourteen miles off; can you send Kitty at night so far?”

“Oh! I could send her over to the village to knock up Mr. Green or some of the men, who will saddle a horse and go—do let me!”

“Emily, before a messenger could _go_, much less _return_ with the doctor, it would be too late. Stay—do not leave me! I charge you do not leave me!”

He grasped her hand convulsively, as a spasm beginning in his left shoulder and arm shook fearfully his whole person. Emily gazed, pale and cold as lead, and twice started up to call assistance, when both times the hand of the convulsed man tightened upon her wrist, and retained her in her seat. The fit at last was over, and he was looking into Emily’s face.

“Oh! _what_ can I do for you?” she cried, “_do—do—do_ let me try something.” She was too much shocked for tears.

“Do _only_ what I ask of you, dear child—stay by me. I am dying, Emily.”

“No, no! _not_ dying, but _ill_—very ill. Oh, _what_ is the matter with you?”

Now her tears gushed forth.

“Control yourself, Emily—you can do it. _This_ is my disease, _angina pectoris_. I have been threatened with it long—it will do its office to-night. One or two more such convulsions as that and my soul will be released—released! Only think of that! Free to traverse the boundless realms of air! Stupendous it seems to me—I cannot fully realize it. One hour convulsed and agonizing here, the next beyond the most distant star we see. One moment your pale face fades from my eyes, the next the divine glory of the Saviour’s countenance bursts upon my vision!”

A terrible convulsion now seized and shook his frame; he held Emily’s hand as before—the fit passed.

“You will weep for the old man a few days, Emily, and only a few days. At first you will feel very desolate and helpless, but you will soon recover from that, and find an absorbing object in your son for a time—_that_ may also pass, for you are young.”

“Shall I not awake Augustus?” asked Emily, through her streaming tears.

“No, child. Do not let him look, young as he is, upon the terrors of a death like this—a death of physical anguish. I looked over him as he lay in his cot to-night and blessed him in his sleep. That is sufficient.”

The muscles of his face and hands began to twitch—he struggled and writhed in another strong spasm. When that was over, and he had grown quite calm, he raised his feeble hands, and parting the soft dark hair from her white forehead, he said,—

“I bless you, Emily—I bless you and you shall be blessed—blessed in your son, blessed in your friends, blessed in yourself, and blessed in your God.”

A convulsion stronger and longer in continuance than any that had preceded it threatened his immediate dissolution. When, at last, it slowly and interruptedly subsided, his features settled into the fixity of death. He did not speak again, his respiration was labored and painful, and only when Emily attempted to move would he give any sign of consciousness by feebly trying to tighten his hold upon her hand; at last that hold relaxed, the respiration ceased, and the freed soul “migrated to the Great Secret.” Emily was calm and quiet now. She laid the venerable hands together over his bosom, composed the limbs, closed the eyes, and straightened the white coverlet of the bed. Then she resumed her seat and her watch until the morning dawned, then dressing herself, she went into the sleeping closet of Kitty, aroused her, told her what had happened, and sent her to the village to procure assistance. By sunrise the cottage was half-full of sympathizing neighbors. The pastor’s funeral took place on the fourth day after his death. The successor of the pastor had arrived in time to perform the funeral ceremonies, and after that was over remained as a temporary guest at the Grove. All plans of removing thither were for the present abandoned by Sophie Churchill.