University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE ALABASTER BOX BROKEN.

NOT until Dr. Morgan came in at noon did any
one venture to open the door of Kike's room.
He found the patient much better. But the improvement
could not be permanent, the sedative of mental
rest and the tonic of joy had come too late.

“Morton,” said Kike, “I want Dolly to do me one
more service. Nettie will explain to you what it is.”

After a talk with Nettie, Morton rode Dolly away,
leading Kike's horse with him. The doctor thought
he could guess what Morton went for, but, even in
melancholy circumstances, lovers, like children, are fond
of having secrets, and he did not try to penetrate that
which it gave Kike and Nettie pleasure to keep to
themselves. At ten o'clock that night Morton came
back without Kike's horse.

“Did you get it?” whispered Kike, who had grown
visibly weaker.

Morton nodded.

“And you sent the message?”

“Yes.”

Kike gave Nettie a look of pleasure, and then sank
into a satisfied sleep, while Morton proceeded to relate
to Doctor Morgan and Patty that he had seen in the

moonlight a notorious highwayman. “His nickname is
Pinkey; nobody knows who he is or where he comes
from or goes to. He got a hard blow in a fight with
the police force of the camp meeting. It's a wonder
it did n't break his head. I searched for him everywhere,
but he had effectually disappeared. If I had
been armed to-night I should have tried to arrest him,
for he was alone.”

Patty and the doctor exchanged looks.

“Our patient, Patty.”

But Patty did not say a word.

“You must have got that information through him!”
said Morton, with surprise.

But Patty only kept still.

“I won't ask you any questions, but what if I had
killed my deliverer! Strange that he should be the
bearer of a message to me, though. I should rather
expect him to kill me than to save me.”

Patty wondered that Pinkey had ventured away
while yet so weak, and found in herself the flutterings
of a hope for which she knew there was no satisfactory
ground.

When Saturday morning came, Kike was sinking.
“Doctor Morgan,” he said, “do not leave me long.
Nettie and I want to be married before I die.”

“But the license?” said the doctor, affecting not to
suspect Kike's secret.

“Morton got it the other day. And I am looking
for my mother to-day. I don't want to be married
till she comes. Morton took my horse and sent for
her.”

Saturday passed and Kike's mother had not arrived.
On Sunday morning he was almost past speaking.
Nettie had gone out of the room, and Kike was
apparently asleep.

“Splendid life wasted,” said the doctor, sadly, to
Morton, pointing to the dying man.

“Yes, indeed. What a pity he had no care for
himself,” answered Morton.

“Patty,” said Kike, opening his eyes, “the Bible.”

Patty got the Bible.

“Read in the twenty-sixth of Matthew, from the
seventh verse to the thirteenth, inclusive,” Kike spoke
as if he were announcing a text.

Then, when Patty was about to read, he said:
“Stop. Call Nettie.”

When Nettie came he nodded to Patty, and she
read all about the alabaster box of ointment, very
precious, that was broken over the head of Jesus,
and the complaint that it was wasted, with the Lord's
reply.

“You are right, my dear boy,” said Doctor Morgan,
with effusion, “what is spent for love is never wasted.
It is a very precious box of ointment that you have
broken upon Christ's head, my son. The Lord will
not forget it.”

When Kike's mother and Brady rode up to the
door on Sunday morning, the people had already
begun to gather in crowds, drawn by the expectation
that Morton would preach in the Hickory Ridge
church. Hearing that Kike, whose piety was famous
all the country over, was dying, they filled Doctor

Morgan's house and yard, sitting in sad, silent groups
on the fences and door-steps, and standing in the
shade of the yard trees. As the dying preacher's
mother passed through, the crowd of country people
fell back and looked reverently at her.

Kike was already far gone. He was barely able to
greet his mother and the good-hearted Brady, whose
demonstrative Irish grief knew no bounds. Then Kike
and Nettie were married, amidst the tears of all. This
sort of a wedding is more hopelessly melancholy than
a funeral. After the marriage Nettie knelt by Kike's
side, and he rallied for a moment and solemnly pronounced
a benediction on her. Then he lifted up
his hands, crying faintly, “O Lord! I have kept back
nothing. Amen.”

His hands dropped upon the head of Nettie. The
people had crowded into the hall and stood at the
windows. For awhile all thought him dead.

A white pigeon flew in at one of the windows and
lighted upon the bed of the dying man. The early
Western people believed in marvels, and Kike was to
them a saint. At sight of the snow-white dove pluming
itself upon his breast they all started back. Was it
a heavenly visitant? Kike opened his eyes and gazed
upon the dove a moment. Then he looked significantly
at Nettie, then at the people. The dove plumed itself
a moment longer, looked round on the people out of
its mute and gentle eyes, then flitted out of the window
again and disappeared in the sunlight. A smile
overspread the dying man's face, he clasped his hands
upon his bosom, and it was a full minute before anybody

discovered that the pure, heroic spirit of Hezekiah
Lumsden had gone to its rest.

He had requested that no name should be placed
over his grave. “Let God have any glory that may
come from my labors, and let everybody but Nettie
forget me,” he said. But Doctor Morgan had a slab
of the common blue limestone of the hills—marble was
not to be had—cut out for a headstone. The device
upon it was a dove, the only inscription: “An alabaster
box of very precious ointment.”

Death is not always matter for grief. If you have
ever beheld a rich sunset from the summit of a
lofty mountain, you will remember how the world was
transfigured before you in the glory of resplendent
light, and how, long after the light had faded from
the cloud-drapery, and long after the hills had begun
to lose themselves in the abyss of darkness, there
lingered a glory in the western horizon — a joyous
memory of the splendid pomp of the evening. Even
so the glory of Kike's dying made all who saw it feel
like those who have witnessed a sublime spectacle,
which they may never see again. The memory of
it lingered with them like the long-lingering glow
behind the western mountains. Sorry that the suffering
life had ended in peace, one could not be; and
never did stormy day find more placid sunset than
his. Even Nettie had never felt that he belonged to
her. When he was gone she was as one whom an
angel of God had embraced. She regretted his absence,
but rejoiced in the memory of his love; and she had
not entertained any hopes that could be disappointed.

The only commemoration his name received was in
the conference minutes, where, like other such heroes,
he was curtly embalmed in the usual four lines:

“Hezekiah Lumsden was a man of God, who freely
gave up his life for his work. He was tireless in
labor, patient in suffering, bold in rebuking sin, holy
in life and conversation, and triumphant in death.”

The early Methodists had no time for eulogies.
A handful of earth, a few hurried words of tribute,
and the bugle called to the battle. The man who
died was at rest, the men who staid had the more
work to do.

Note. In the striking incident of the dove lighting upon Kike's
bed, I have followed strictly the statement of eye-witnesses.—E.E.