University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
“THIS IS THE LAST OF EARTH.”— John Q. Adams.

The statuettes and pictures in Eva's room were shrouded
in white napkins, and only hushed breathings and muffled
foot-falls were heard there, and the light stole in solemnly
through windows partially darkened by closed blinds.

The bed was draped in white; and there, beneath the
drooping angel-figure, lay a little sleeping form, — sleeping
never to waken!

There she lay, robed in one of the simple white dresses she
had been wont to wear when living; the rose-colored light
through the curtains cast over the icy coldness of death a
warm glow. The heavy eyelashes drooped softly on the pure
cheek; the head was turned a little to one side, as if in
natural sleep, but there was diffused over every lineament of
the face that high celestial expression, that mingling of rapture
and repose, which showed it was no earthly or temporary
sleep, but the long, sacred rest which “He giveth to his
beloved.”

There is no death to such as thou, dear Eva! neither darkness
nor shadow of death; only such a bright fading as when
the morning star fades in the golden dawn. Thine is the
victory without the battle, — the crown without the conflict.

So did St. Clare think, as, with folded arms, he stood there
gazing. Ah! who shall say what he did think? for, from
the hour that voices had said, in the dying chamber, “she is

gone,” it had been all a dreary mist, a heavy “dimness of
anguish.” He had heard voices around him; he had had
questions asked, and answered them; they had asked him
when he would have the funeral, and where they should lay
her; and he had answered, impatiently, that he cared not.

Adolph and Rosa had arranged the chamber; volatile,
fickle and childish, as they generally were, they were softhearted
and full of feeling; and, while Miss Ophelia presided
over the general details of order and neatness, it was their
hands that added those soft, poetic touches to the arrangements,
that took from the death-room the grim and ghastly
air which too often marks a New England funeral.

There were still flowers on the shelves, — all white, delicate
and fragrant, with graceful, drooping leaves. Eva's
little table, covered with white, bore on it her favorite vase,
with a single white moss rose-bud in it. The folds of the
drapery, the fall of the curtains, had been arranged and
reärranged, by Adolph and Rosa, with that nicety of eye
which characterizes their race. Even now, while St. Clare
stood there thinking, little Rosa tripped softly into the chamber
with a basket of white flowers. She stepped back when
she saw St. Clare, and stopped respectfully; but, seeing that
he did not observe her, she came forward to place them
around the dead. St. Clare saw her as in a dream, while she
placed in the small hands a fair cape jessamine, and, with
admirable taste, disposed other flowers around the couch.

The door opened again, and Topsy, her eyes swelled with
crying, appeared, holding something under her apron. Rosa
made a quick, forbidding gesture; but she took a step into the
room.

“You must go out,” said Rosa, in a sharp, positive
whisper; “you have n't any business here!”

“O, do let me! I brought a flower, — such a pretty one!”
said Topsy, holding up a half-blown tea rose-bud. “Do let
me put just one there.”

“Get along!” said Rosa, more decidedly.

“Let her stay!” said St. Clare, suddenly stamping his
foot. “She shall come.”

Rosa suddenly retreated, and Topsy came forward and laid
her offering at the feet of the corpse; then suddenly, with a
wild and bitter cry, she threw herself on the floor alongside
the bed, and wept, and moaned aloud.

Miss Ophelia hastened into the room, and tried to raise and
silence her; but in vain.

“O, Miss Eva! oh, Miss Eva! I wish I 's dead, too, — I
do!”

There was a piercing wildness in the cry; the blood
flushed into St. Clare's white, marble-like face, and the first
tears he had shed since Eva died stood in his eyes.

“Get up, child,” said Miss Ophelia, in a softened voice;
“don't cry so. Miss Eva is gone to heaven; she is an
angel.”

“But I can't see her!” said Topsy. “I never shall see
her!” and she sobbed again.

They all stood a moment in silence.

“She said she loved me,” said Topsy, — “she did! O,
dear! oh, dear! there an't nobody left now, — there an't!”

“That 's true enough,” said St. Clare; “but do,” he
said to Miss Ophelia, “see if you can't comfort the poor
creature.”

“I jist wish I had n't never been born,” said Topsy. “I
did n't want to be born, no ways; and I don't see no use
on't.”

Miss Ophelia raised her gently, but firmly, and took her

from the room; but, as she did so, some tears fell from her
eyes.

“Topsy, you poor child,” she said, as she led her into her
room, “don't give up! I can love you, though I am not like
that dear little child. I hope I 've learnt something of the
love of Christ from her. I can love you; I do, and I 'll try
to help you to grow up a good Christian girl.”

Miss Ophelia's voice was more than her words, and more
than that were the honest tears that fell down her face.
From that hour, she acquired an influence over the mind of
the destitute child that she never lost.

“O, my Eva, whose little hour on earth did so much of
good,” thought St. Clare, “what account have I to give for
my long years?”

There were, for a while, soft whisperings and foot-falls in
the chamber, as one after another stole in, to look at the
dead; and then came the little coffin; and then there was a
funeral, and carriages drove to the door, and strangers came
and were seated; and there were white scarfs and ribbons,
and crape bands, and mourners dressed in black crape; and
there were words read from the Bible, and prayers offered;
and St. Clare lived, and walked, and moved, as one who has
shed every tear; — to the last he saw only one thing, that
golden head in the coffin; but then he saw the cloth spread
over it, the lid of the coffin closed; and he walked, when he
was put beside the others, down to a little place at the bottom
of the garden, and there, by the mossy seat where she and
Tom had talked, and sung, and read so often, was the little
grave. St. Clare stood beside it, — looked vacantly down;
he saw them lower the little coffin; he heard, dimly, the
solemn words, “I am the resurrection and the Life; he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live;”

and, as the earth was cast in and filled up the little grave, he
could not realize that it was his Eva that they were hiding
from his sight.

Nor was it! — not Eva, but only the frail seed of that
bright, immortal form with which she shall yet come forth, in
the day of the Lord Jesus!

And then all were gone, and the mourners went back to
the place which should know her no more; and Marie's room
was darkened, and she lay on the bed, sobbing and moaning
in uncontrollable grief, and calling every moment for the
attentions of all her servants. Of course, they had no time
to cry, — why should they? the grief was her grief, and she
was fully convinced that nobody on earth did, could, or would
feel it as she did.

“St. Clare did not shed a tear,” she said; “he did n't
sympathize with her; it was perfectly wonderful to think how
hard-hearted and unfeeling he was, when he must know how
she suffered.”

So much are people the slave of their eye and ear, that many
of the servants really thought that Missis was the principal
sufferer in the case, especially as Marie began to have hysterical
spasms, and sent for the doctor, and at last declared herself
dying; and, in the running and scampering, and bringing
up hot bottles, and heating of flannels, and chafing, and fussing,
that ensued, there was quite a diversion.

Tom, however, had a feeling at his own heart, that drew
him to his master. He followed him wherever he walked,
wistfully and sadly; and when he saw him sitting, so pale and
quiet, in Eva's room, holding before his eyes her little open
Bible, though seeing no letter or word of what was in it, there
was more sorrow to Tom in that still, fixed, tearless eye, than
in all Marie's moans and lamentations.

In a few days the St. Clare family were back again in the
city; Augustine, with the restlessness of grief, longing for
another scene, to change the current of his thoughts. So
they left the house and garden, with its little grave, and
came back to New Orleans; and St. Clare walked the streets
busily, and strove to fill up the chasm in his heart with
hurry and bustle, and change of place; and people who saw
him in the street, or met him at the café, knew of his loss
only by the weed on his hat; for there he was, smiling and
talking, and reading the newspaper, and speculating on
politics, and attending to business matters; and who could
see that all this smiling outside was but a hollowed shell over
a heart that was a dark and silent sepulchre?

“Mr. St. Clare is a singular man,” said Marie to Miss
Ophelia, in a complaining tone. “I used to think, if there
was anything in the world he did love, it was our dear little
Eva; but he seems to be forgetting her very easily. I cannot
ever get him to talk about her. I really did think he
would show more feeling!”

“Still waters run deepest, they used to tell me,” said Miss
Ophelia, oracularly.

“O, I don't believe in such things; it 's all talk. If people
have feeling, they will show it, — they can't help it; but,
then, it 's a great misfortune to have feeling. I 'd rather
have been made like St. Clare. My feelings prey upon me
so!”

“Sure, Missis, Mas'r St. Clare is gettin' thin as a shader.
They say, he don't never eat nothin',” said Mammy. “I
know he don't forget Miss Eva; I know there could n't
nobody, — dear, little, blessed cretur!” she added, wiping her
eyes.

“Well, at all events, he has no consideration for me,” said

Marie; “he has n't spoken one word of sympathy, and he
must know how much more a mother feels than any man
can.”

“The heart knoweth its own bitterness,” said Miss Ophelia,
gravely.

“That 's just what I think. I know just what I feel, —
nobody else seems to. Eva used to, but she is gone!” and
Marie lay back on her lounge, and began to sob disconsolately.

Marie was one of those unfortunately constituted mortals,
in whose eyes whatever is lost and gone assumes a value
which it never had in possession. Whatever she had, she
seemed to survey only to pick flaws in it; but, once fairly
away, there was no end to her valuation of it.

While this conversation was taking place in the parlor,
another was going on in St. Clare's library.

Tom, who was always uneasily following his master about,
had seen him go to his library, some hours before; and, after
vainly waiting for him to come out, determined, at last, to
make an errand in. He entered softly. St. Clare lay on
his lounge, at the further end of the room. He was lying on
his face, with Eva's Bible open before him, at a little distance.
Tom walked up, and stood by the sofa. He hesitated; and,
while he was hesitating, St. Clare suddenly raised himself up.
The honest face, so full of grief, and with such an imploring
expression of affection and sympathy, struck his master.
He laid his hand on Tom's, and bowed down his forehead
on it.

“O, Tom, my boy, the whole world is as empty as an eggshell.”

“I know it, Mas'r, — I know it,” said Tom; “but, oh, if
Mas'r could only look up, — up where our dear Miss Eva is,
— up to the dear Lord Jesus!”

“Ah, Tom! I do look up; but the trouble is, I don't see
anything, when I do. I wish I could.”

Tom sighed heavily.

“It seems to be given to children, and poor, honest fellows,
like you, to see what we can't,” said St. Clare. “How
comes it?”

“Thou hast `hid from the wise and prudent, and revealed
unto babes,'” murmured Tom; “`even so, Father, for so
it seemed good in thy sight.'”

“Tom, I don't believe, — I can't believe, — I 've got the
habit of doubting,” said St. Clare. “I want to believe this
Bible, — and I can't.”

“Dear Mas'r, pray to the good Lord, — `Lord, I believe;
help thou my unbelief.'”

“Who knows anything about anything?” said St. Clare,
his eyes wandering dreamily, and speaking to himself. “Was
all that beautiful love and faith only one of the ever-shifting
phases of human feeling, having nothing real to rest on, passing
away with the little breath? And is there no more Eva,
— no heaven, — no Christ, — nothing?”

“O, dear Mas'r, there is! I know it; I 'm sure of it,”
said Tom, falling on his knees. “Do, do, dear Mas'r,
believe it!”

“How do you know there 's any Christ, Tom? You
never saw the Lord.”

“Felt Him in my soul, Mas'r, — feel Him now! O, Mas'r,
when I was sold away from my old woman and the children,
I was jest a'most broke up. I felt as if there warn't nothin'
left; and then the good Lord, he stood by me, and he says,
`Fear not, Tom;' and he brings light and joy into a poor
feller's soul, — makes all peace; and I 's so happy, and loves
everybody, and feels willin' jest to be the Lord's, and have

the Lord's will done, and be put jest where the Lord wants
to put me. I know it could n't come from me, cause I 's a
poor, complainin' cretur; it comes from the Lord; and I
know He 's willin' to do for Mas'r.”

Tom spoke with fast-running tears and choking voice. St.
Clare leaned his head on his shoulder, and wrung the hard,
faithful, black hand.

“Tom, you love me,” he said.

“I 's willin' to lay down my life, this blessed day, to see
Mas'r a Christian.”

“Poor, foolish boy!” said St. Clare, half-raising himself.
“I 'm not worth the love of one good, honest heart, like
yours.”

“O, Mas'r, dere 's more than me loves you, — the blessed
Lord Jesus loves you.”

“How do you know that, Tom?” said St. Clare.

“Feels it in my soul. O, Mas'r! `the love of Christ, that
passeth knowledge.'”

“Singular!” said St. Clare, turning away, “that the
story of a man that lived and died eighteen hundred years
ago can affect people so yet. But he was no man,” he
added, suddenly. “No man ever had such long and living
power! O, that I could believe what my mother taught me,
and pray as I did when I was a boy!”

“If Mas'r pleases,” said Tom, “Miss Eva used to read this
so beautifully. I wish Mas'r 'd be so good as read it. Don't
get no readin', hardly, now Miss Eva 's gone.”

The chapter was the eleventh of John, — the touching
account of the raising of Lazarus. St. Clare read it aloud,
often pausing to wrestle down feelings which were roused by
the pathos of the story. Tom knelt before him, with clasped

hands, and with an absorbed expression of love, trust, adoration,
on his quiet face.

“Tom,” said his Master, “this is all real to you!”

“I can jest fairly see it, Mas'r,” said Tom.

“I wish I had your eyes, Tom.”

“I wish, to the dear Lord, Mas'r had!”

“But, Tom, you know that I have a great deal more
knowledge than you; what if I should tell you that I don't
believe this Bible?”

“O, Mas'r!” said Tom, holding up his hands, with a
deprecating gesture.

“Would n't it shake your faith some, Tom?”

“Not a grain,” said Tom.

“Why, Tom, you must know I know the most.”

“O, Mas'r, have n't you jest read how he hides from the
wise and prudent, and reveals unto babes? But Mas'r
was n't in earnest, for sartin, now?” said Tom, anxiously.

“No, Tom, I was not. I don't disbelieve, and I think
there is reason to believe; and still I don't. It 's a troublesome
bad habit I 've got, Tom.”

“If Mas'r would only pray!”

“How do you know I don't, Tom?”

“Does Mas'r?”

“I would, Tom, if there was anybody there when I pray;
but it 's all speaking unto nothing, when I do. But come,
Tom, you pray, now, and show me how.”

Tom's heart was full; he poured it out in prayer, like
waters that have been long suppressed. One thing was plain
enough; Tom thought there was somebody to hear, whether
there were or not. In fact, St. Clare felt himself borne, on
the tide of his faith and feeling, almost to the gates of that

heaven he seemed so vividly to conceive. It seemed to bring
him nearer to Eva.

“Thank you, my boy,” said St. Clare, when Tom rose.
“I like to hear you, Tom; but go, now, and leave me alone;
some other time, I 'll talk more.”

Tom silently left the room.