University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.

HOW lovely! Oh! I did not think there was any
place half so beautiful, this side of heaven!”

With his head on his mother's bosom, Felix
lay near the window of an upper room, looking
out over the Gulf of Genoa.

The crescent curve of the olive-mantled Apennines girdled
the city in a rocky clasp, and mellowed by distance
and the magic enamelling of evening light, each particular
peak rose against the chrysoprase sky like a pyramid of
lapis lazuli, around whose mighty base rolled soft waves
of golden haze.

Over the glassy bosom of the Gulf, where glided boats
filled with gay, pleasure-seeking Italians, floated the merry
strains of a barcarole; with the silvery echo of “Fidulin”
keeping time with the silvery gleam of the dipping oars.

“Lift me up, mamma! higher, higher yet. I want to see
the sun. There! it has gone — gone down into the sea. I
can't bear to see it set to-day. It seemed to say good-by to
me, just then. O mamma, mamma! I don't want to die. The
world is so beautiful, and life is so sweet up here in the sunshine

and the starlight, and it is so cold and dark down
there in the grave. Oh! where is Edna? Tell her to come
quick and sing something to me.”

The cripple shuddered and shut his eyes. He had wasted
away, until he looked a mere shadow of humanity, and his
governess stooped and took him from his mother's arms as
if he were a baby.

“Edna, talk to me! Oh! don't let me get afraid to die!
I—”

She laid her lips on his, and the touch calmed their shivering;
and, after a moment, she began to repeat the apocalyptic
vision of heaven:

“And there shall be no night there; and they need no
candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth
them light; and they shall reign for ever and ever.”

“But, Edna, the light does not shine down there in
the grave. If you could go with me—”

“A better and kinder Friend will go with you, dear Felix.”

She sang with strange pathos “Motet,” that beautiful
arrangement of “The Lord is my Shepherd.”

As she reached that part where the words, “Yea though
I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” are repeated,
the weak quavering voice of the sick boy joined
hers; and, when she ceased, the emaciated face was placid,
the great dread had passed away for ever.

Anxious to divert his thoughts, she put into his hand a
bunch of orange-flowers and violets, which had been sent
to her that day by Mr. Manning; and taking a book from
the bed, she resumed the reading of “The Shepherd of Salisbury
Plain,” to which the invalid had never wearied of listening.

But she soon saw that for once he was indifferent; and,
understanding the expression of the eyes that gazed out on
the purple shadows shrouding the Apennines, she closed
the volume, and laid the sufferer back on his pillow.

While she was standing before a table, preparing some

nourishment to be given to him during the night, Mrs. Andrews
came close to her and whispered:

“Do you see much change? Is he really worse, or do
my fears magnify every bad symptom?”

“He is much exhausted, but I trust the stimulants will
revive him. You must go to bed early, and get a good
sound sleep, for you look worn out. I will wake you if I
see any decided change in him.”

Mrs. Andrews hung for some time over her child's pillow,
caressing him, saying tender, soothing, motherly things;
and, after a while, she and Hattie kissed him, and went into
the adjoining room, leaving him to the care of one whom
he loved better than all the world beside.

It was late at night before the sound of laughter, song,
and chatter died away in the streets of Genoa the magnificent.
While the human tide ebbed and flowed under the
windows, Felix was restless, and his companion tried to interest
him, by telling him the history of the Dorias, and of
the siege during which Massena won such glory. Her conversation
drifted away, even to Ancona, and that sad but
touching incident, which Sismondi records, of the noble
patriotic young mother, who gave to a starving soldier the
milk that her half-famished babe required, and sent him,
thus refreshed and strengthened, to defend the walls of her
beleaguered city.

The boy's fondness for history showed itself, even then,
and he listened attentively to her words.

At length silence reigned through the marble palaces
and Edna rose to place the small lamp in an alabaster vase.

As she did so, something flew into her face, and fluttered
to the edge of the vase, and as she attempted to brush it off,
she started back, smothering a cry of horror. It was the
Sphinx Atropos, the Death's Head Moth; and there, upon
its breast, appallingly distinct, grinned the ghastly gray human
skull. Twice it circled rapidly round the vase, uttering
strange stridulous sounds, then floated up to the canopy

overarching Felix's bed, and poised itself on the carved
frame, waiting and flapping its wings, vulture-like. Shuddering
from head to foot, notwithstanding the protest which
reason offered against superstition, the governess sat down
to watch the boy's slumber.

His eyes were closed, and she hoped that he slept; but
presently he feebly put out his skeleton hand and took
hers.

“Edna, mamma can not hear me, can she?”

“She is asleep, but I will wake her if you wish it.”

“No, she would only begin to cry, and that would worry
me. Edna, I want you to promise me one thing—” He
paused a few seconds and sighed wearily.

“When you all go back home, don't leave me here; take
me with you, and lay my poor little deformed body in the
ground, at `The Willows,' where the sea will sing over me.
We were so happy there! I always thought I should like
my grave to be under the tallest willow, where our canary's
cage used to hang. Edna, I don't think you will live long—
I almost hope you won't—and I want you to promise me,
too, that you will tell them to bury us close together; so
that the very moment I rise out of my grave, on the day of
judgment, I will see your face! Sometimes, when I think
of the millions and millions that will be pressing up for
their trial before God's throne, on that great awful day, I
am afraid I might lose or miss you in the crowd, and never
find you again; but you know, if our coffins touch, you can
stretch out your hand to me as you rise, and we can go together.
Oh! I want your face to be the last I see here,
and the first—yonder.”

He raised his fingers slowly, and they fell back wearily
on the coverlet.

“Don't talk so, Felix. O my darling! God will not
take you away from me. Try to sleep, shut your eyes;
you need rest to compose you.”

She knelt down, kissed him repeatedly, and laid her face

close to his on the pillow; and he tried to turn and put his
emaciated arm around her neck.

“Edna, I have been a trouble to you for a long time; but
you will miss me when I am gone, and you will have nothing
to love. If you live long, marry Mr. Manning, and let him
take care of you. Don't work so hard, dear Edna; only
rest, and let him make you happy. Before I knew you I
was always wishing to die; but now I hate to leave you all
alone, my own dear, pale Edna.”

“O Felix, darling! hush! Go to sleep. You wring
my heart!”

Her sobs distressed him, and, feebly patting her cheek,
he said:

“Perhaps if you will sing me something low, I may go to
sleep, and I want to hear your voice once more. Sing me
that song about the child and the rose-bush, that Hattie
likes so much.”

“Not that! any thing but that! It is too sad, my precious
little darling.”

“But I want to hear it; please, Edna.”

It was an exquisitely painful task that he imposed, but
his wishes ruled her; and she tried to steady her voice as
she sang, in a very low, faltering tone, the beautiful but
melancholy ballad. Tears rolled over her face as she
chanted the verses; and, when she concluded, he repeated
very faintly:

He nestled his lips to hers, and, after a little while, murmured:

“Good-night, Edna!”

“Good-night, my darling!”

She gave him a stimulating potion, and arranged his head
comfortably. Ere long his heavy breathing told her that

he slept, and, stealing from his side, she sat down in a large
chair near the head of his bed, and watched him.

For many months he had been failing, and they had travelled
from place to place, hoping against hope that each
change would certainly be beneficial.

Day and night Edna had nursed him, had devoted every
thought, almost every prayer to him; and now her heart
seemed centred in him. Scenery, music, painting, rare
MSS., all were ignored; she lived only for that poor dependent
boy, and knew not a moment of peace when separated
from him. She had ceased to study aught but his comfort
and happiness, had written nothing save letters to friends;
and notwithstanding her anxiety concerning the cripple,
the frequent change of air had surprisingly improved her
own health. For six months she had escaped the attacks
so much dreaded, and began to believe her restoration complete,
though the long-banished color obstinately refused to
return to her face, which seemed unable to recover its
rounded outline. Still she was very grateful for the immunity
from suffering, especially as it permitted more unremitting
attendance upon Felix.

She knew that his life was flickering out gently but surely;
and now, as she watched the pale, pinched features, her
own writhed, and she clasped her hands and wept, and
stifled a groan.

She had prayed so passionately and continually that he
might be spared to her; but it seemed that whenever her
heart-strings wrapped themselves around an idol, a jealous
God tore them loose, and snatched away the dear object,
and left the heart to bleed. If that boy died, how utterly
desolate and lonely she would be; nothing left to care for
and to cling to, nothing to claim as her own, and anoint
with the tender love of her warm heart.

She had been so intensely interested in the expansion of
his mind, had striven so tirelessly to stimulate his brain,
and soften and purify his heart; she had been so proud of

his rapid progress, and so ambitious for his future, and now
the mildew of death was falling on her fond hopes. Ah!
she had borne patiently many trials, but this appeared unendurable.
She had set all her earthly happiness on a
little thing—the life of a helpless cripple; and as she gazed
through her tears at that shrunken, sallow face, so dear to
her, it seemed hard! hard! that God denied her this one
blessing. What was the praise and admiration of all the
world in comparison with the loving light in that child's
eyes, and the tender pressure of his lips?

The woman's ambition had long been fully satisfied, and
even exacting conscience, jealously guarding its shrine, saw
daily sacrifices laid thereon, and smiled approvingly upon
her; but the woman's hungry heart cried out, and fought
fiercely, famine-goaded, for its last vanishing morsel of
human love and sympathy. Verily, these bread-riots of
the heart are fearful things, and crucified consciences too
often mark their track.

The little figure on the bed was so motionless, that Edna
crept nearer and leaned down to listen to the breathing;
and her tears fell on his thick, curling hair, and upon the
orange-blossoms and violets.

Standing there, she threw up her clenched hands and
prayed sobbingly:

“My Father! spare the boy to me! I will dedicate anew
my life and his to thy work! I will make him a minister
of thy word, and he shall save precious souls. Oh! do not
take him away! If not for a lifetime, at least spare him a
few years! Even one more year, O my God!”

She walked to the window, rested her forehead against
the stone facing, and looked out; and the wonderful witchery
of the solemn night wove its spell around her. Great,
golden stars clustered in the clear heavens, and were reflected
in the calm, blue pavement of the Mediterranean,
where not a ripple shivered their shining images. A waning
crescent moon swung high over the eastern crest of

the Apennines, and threw a weird light along the Doria's
marble palace, and down on the silver gray olives on the
glistening orange-groves, snow-powdered with fragrant
bloom; and in that wan, mysterious, and most melancholy
light—

From some lofty campanile, in a distant section of the
silent city, sounded the angelus bell; and from the deep
shadow of olive, vine, and myrtle that clothed the amphitheatre
of hills, the convent-bells caught and reëchoed it.

and the splendor of the Italian night spoke to Edna's soul,
as the glory of the sunset had done some years before, when
she sat in the dust in the pine glades at Le Bocage; and
she grew calm once more, while out of the blue depths of
the starlit sea came a sacred voice, that said to her aching
heart:

“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not
as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart
be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”

The cup was not passing away; but courage to drain it
was given by Him, who never calls his faithful children
into the gloom of Gethsemane, without having first stationed
close at hand some strengthening angel. The governess
went back to the bed, and there, on the pillow,
rested the moth, which at her approach flew away with a
humming sound, and disappeared.

After another hour she saw that a change was stealing
over the boy's countenance, and his pulse fluttered more
feebly against her cold fingers. She sprang into the next

room, shook his mother, and hastened back, trying to rouse
the dying child, and give him some stimulants. But though
the large, black eyes opened when she raised his head, there
was no recognition in their fixed gaze; for the soul was preparing
for its final flight, and was too busy to look out of
its windows.

In vain they resorted to the most powerful restoratives;
he remained in the heavy stupor, with no sign of animation,
save the low, irregular, breath, and the weak flutter of the
thread-like pulse.

Mrs. Andrews wept aloud and wrung her hands, and Hattie
cried passionately, as she stood in her long white nightgown
at the side of her brother's bed; but there were no
tears on Edna's cold gray face. She had spent them all at
the foot of God's throne; and now that He had seen fit to
deny her petition, she silently looked with dry eyes at the
heavy rod that smote her.

The night waned, the life with it; now and then the
breathing seemed to cease, but after a few seconds a faint
gasp told that the clay would not yet forego its hold on
the soul that struggled to be free.

The poor mother seemed almost beside herself, as she
called on her child to speak to her once more.

“Sing something, Edna; oh! perhaps he will hear! It
might rouse him!”

The orphan shook her head, and dropped her face on his.

“He would not hear me; no, no! He is listening to the
song of those, whose golden harps ring in the New Jerusalem.”

Out of the whitening east rose the new day, radiant in
bridal garments, wearing a star on its pearly brow; and the
sky flushed, and the sea glowed, while silvery mists rolled
up from the purple mountain gorges, and rested awhile on
the summits of the Apennines, and sunshine streamed over
the world once more.

The first rays flashed into the room, kissing the withered

flowers on the bosom of the cripple, and falling warm
and bright on the cold eyelids and the pulseless temples.
Edna's hand was pressed to his heart, and she knew that it had
given its last weary throb; knew that Felix Andrews had
crossed the sea of glass, and in the dawn of the Eternal day
wore the promised morning-star, and stood in peace before
the Sun of Righteousness.

During the two days that succeeded the death of Felix,
Edna did not leave her room; and without her knowledge
Mrs. Andrews administered opiates that stupefied her.
Late on the morning of the third she awoke, and lay for
some time trying to collect her thoughts.

Her mind was clouded, but gradually it cleared, and she
strained her ears to distinguish the low words spoken in the
apartment next to her own. She remembered, as in a feverish
dream, all that passed on the night that Felix died; and
pressing her hand over her aching forehead, she rose and
sat on the edge of her bed.

The monotonous sounds in the neighboring room swelled
louder for a few seconds, and now she heard very distinctly
the words:

“And I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me,
Write, Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord from
henceforth.”

She shivered, and wrapped around her shoulders a bright
blue shawl that had been thrown over the foot of the bed.

Walking across the floor, she opened the door, and
looked in.

The boy's body had been embalmed, and placed in a
coffin which rested in the centre of the room; and an English
clergyman, a friend of Mr. Manning's, stood at the head
of the corpse, and read the burial service.

Mrs. Andrews and Hattie were weeping in one corner,
and Mr. Manning leaned against the window, with his hand
on Lila's curls. As the door swung open and Edna entered,
he looked up.

Her dressing gown of gray merino trailed on the marble
floor, and her bare feet gleamed like ivory, as one hand
caught up the soft merino folds sufficiently to enable her
to walk. Over the blue shawl streamed her beautiful hair,
making the wan face look even more ghastly by contrast
with its glossy jet masses.

She stood irresolute, with her calm, mournful eyes riveted
on the coffin, and Mr. Manning saw her pale lips move as
she staggered toward it. He sprang to meet and intercept
her, and she stretched her hands in the direction of the
corpse, and smiled strangely, murmuring like one in a
troubled dream:

“You need not be afraid, little darling, `there is no night
there.'”

She reeled and put her hand to her heart, and would have
fallen, but Mr. Manning caught and carried her back to her
room.

For two weeks she hovered on the borders of eternity;
and often the anxious friends who watched her, felt that
they would rather see her die than endure the suffering,
through which she was called to pass.

She bore it silently, meekly, and when the danger seemed
over, and she was able to sleep without the aid of narcotics,
Mrs. Andrews could not bear to look at the patient white
face, so hopelessly calm.

No allusion was made to Felix, even after she was able to
sit up and ride; but once, when Mr. Manning brought her
some flowers, she looked sorrowfully at the snowy orange-blossoms,
whose strong perfume made her turn paler, and
said faintly:

“I shall never love them or violets again. Take them
away, Hattie, out of my sight; put them on your brother's
grave. They smell of death.”

From that day she made a vigorous effort to rouse herself,
and the boy's name never passed her lips; though she
spent many hours over a small manuscript which she found

among his books, directed to her for revision. “Tales for
Little Cripples,” was the title he had given it, and she was
surprised at the beauty and pathos of many of the sentences.
She carefully revised and rewrote it, adding a brief sketch
of the young writer, and gave it to his mother.

About a month after Felix's death the governess seemed
to have recovered her physical strength, and Mrs. Andrews
announced her intention of going to Germany. Mr. Manning
had engagements that called him to France, and, on
the last day of their stay at Genoa, he came as usual to
spend the evening with Edna.

A large budget of letters and papers had arrived from
America; and when he gave her the package containing her
share, she glanced over the directions, threw them unopened
into a heap on the table, and continued the conversation in
which she was engaged, concerning the architecture of the
churches in Genoa.

Mrs. Andrews had gone to the vault where the body of
her son had been temporarily placed, and Edna was alone
with the editor.

“You ought to look into your papers; they contain very
gratifying intelligence for you. Your last book has gone
through twenty editions, and your praises are chanted all
over your native land. Surely if ever a woman had adulation
enough to render her perfectly happy and pardonably
proud, you are the fortunate individual. Already your numerous
readers are inquiring when you will give them another
book.”

She leaned her head back against her chair, and the little
hands caressed each other as they rested on her knee, while
her countenance was eloquent with humble gratitude for
the success, that God had permitted to crown her efforts;
but she was silent.

“Do you intend to write a book of travels, embracing
the incidents that have marked your tour? I see the public
expect it.”

“No, sir. It seems now a mere matter of course that
all scribblers who come to Europe,should afflict the reading
world with an account of what they saw or failed to see.
So many noble books have been already published, thoroughly
describing this continent, that I have not the temerity,
the presumption to attempt to retouch the grand
old word-pictures. At present, I expect to write nothing.
I want to study some subjects that greatly interest me, and
shall try to inform and improve myself, and keep silent until
I see some phase of truth neglected, or some new aspect of
error threatening mischief in society. Indeed, I have great
cause for gratitude in my literary career. At the beginning
I felt apprehensive that I was destined to sit always under
the left hand of fortune, whom Michael Angelo designed
as a lovely woman seated on a revolving wheel, throwing
crowns and laurel wreaths from her right hand, while only
thorns dropped in a sharp, stinging shower from the other;
but, after a time, the wheel turned, and now I feel only the
soft pattering of the laurel leaves. God knows I do most
earnestly appreciate his abundant blessing upon what I
have thus far striven to effect; but, until I see my way
clearly to some subject of importance which a woman's
hand may touch, I shall not take up my pen. Books seem
such holy things to me, destined to plead either for or against
their creators, in the final tribunal, that I dare not lightly
or hastily attempt to write them; and I can not help thinking
that the author who is less earnestly and solemnly impressed
with the gravity, and, I may almost say, the sanctity
of his or her work, is unworthy of it, and of public
confidence. I dare not, even if I could, dash off articles
and books as the rower shakes water-drops from his oar;
and I humbly acknowledge that what success I may have
achieved is owing to hard, faithful work. I have received
so many kind letters from children that some time, if I live
to be wise enough, I want to write a book especially for
them. I am afraid to attempt it just now; for it requires

more mature judgment and experience,and greater versatility
of talent to write successfully for children than for
grown persons. In the latter, one is privileged to assume
native intelligence and cultivation; but the tender, untutored
minds of the former permit no such margin; and this fact
necessitates clearness and simplicity of style, and power of
illustration that seem to me very rare. As yet I am conscious
of my incapacity for the mission of preparing juvenile
books; but perhaps, if I study closely the characteristics of
young people, I shall learn to understand them more thoroughly.
So much depends on the proper training of our
American youth, especially in view of the great political
questions that now agitate the country, that I confess I feel
some anxiety on the subject.”

“But, Edna, you will not adhere to your resolution of
keeping silent. The public is a merciless task-master;
your own ambition will scourge you on; and having once
put your hand to the literary plough, you will not be allowed
to look back. Rigorously the world exacts to the
last iota, the full quota of the author's arura.”

“Yes, sir; but `he that plougheth should plough in hope;'
and when I can see clearly across the wide field, and drive
the gleaming share of truth straight and steady to the end,
then, and not till then, shall I render my summer day's
arura. Meantime, I am resolved to plough no crooked, shallow
furrows on the hearts of our people.”

At length, when Mr. Manning rose to say good-night, he
looked gravely at the governess, and asked:

“Edna, can not Lila take the vacant place in your sad
heart?”

“It is not vacant, sir. Dear memories walk to and fro
therein, weaving garlands of immortelles — singing sweet
tunes of days and years — that can never die. Hereafter I
shall endeavor to entertain the precious guests I have already,
and admit no more. The past is the realm of my
heart; the present and future the kingdom where my mind
must dwell, and my hands labor.”

With a sigh he went away, and she took up the letters
and began to read them. Many were from strangers, and
they greatly cheered and encouraged her; but finally she
opened one, whose superscription had until this instant escaped
her cursory glance. It was from Mr. Hammond, and
contained an account of Mr. Murray's ordination. She
read and re-read it, with a half-bewildered expression in
her countenance, for the joy seemed far too great for credence.
She looked again at the date and signature, and
passing her hand over her brow, wondered if there could
be any mistake. The paper fell into her lap, and a cry of
delight rang through the room.

“Saved—purified—consecrated henceforth to God's holy
work? A minister of Christ? O most merciful God! I
thank thee! My prayers are answered with a blessing I
never dared to hope for, or even to dream of! Can I ever,
ever be grateful enough? A pastor, holding up pure
hands! Thank God! my sorrows are all ended now; there
is no more grief for me. Ah! what a glory breaks upon
the future! What though I never see his face in this
world? I can be patient indeed; for now I know, oh! I
know that I shall surely see it yonder!”

She sank on her knees at the open window, and wept for
the first time since Felix died. Happy, happy tears mingled
with broken words of rejoicing, that seemed a foretaste
of heaven.

Her heart was so full of gratitude and exultation, that
she could not sleep, and she sat down and looked over the
sea, while her face was radiant and tremulous. The transition
from patient hopelessness and silent struggling—this
most unexpected and glorious fruition of the prayers of
many years — was so sudden and intoxicating, that it completely
unnerved her.

She could not bear this great happiness as she had borne
her sorrows, and now and then she smiled to find the tears
gushing afresh from her beaming eyes.

Once, in an hour of sinful madness, Mr. Murray had taken
a human life, and ultimately caused the loss of another;
but the waves that were running high beyond the mole
told her in thunder-tones that he had saved, had snatched
two lives from their devouring rage. And the shining stars
overhead grouped themselves into characters that said to
her, “Judge not, that ye be not judged;” and the ancient
mountains whispered, “Stand still, and see the salvation of
God!” and the grateful soul of the lonely woman answered: