 | XLV.
CLOSING SCENES. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
45. XLV.
CLOSING SCENES.
Strange is this boon of existence! How sacred! how fatal!
how sweet! O, sorrow! O, love! O, despair! why have ye conspired?
Beautiful is this dear, warm flesh! The miracle of the heartbeat,
of the rushing blood, how wonderful! Sensation, how
delicious! Thought, affection, aspiration, the delirium of joy, —
thank God for all. Yet beware, O, man! O, woman! penalty
and peril hem us in; and we know not how terrible a thing it is
to profane the sanctity of the soul.
Sin, tumult, endless toil, a little laughter, many tears, agony,
longing, and the baffling search: such is man's history. O, Father!
pity thy children!
Life is a fiery furnace, and none see God save those who have
passed through the burning. Purification is born of the fire; the
faithful shall not perish; brightness, triumph, heaven, await us;
and to some there comes great peace. If there is anything for
which one should thank God, it is peace. In that still lake sleep
all life's turbulent streams. Its bosom is the mirror of God; lo,
heaven lies deep within! all around, a light, ineffably soft and
glorious, radiates and swims; and a hush, as of Sabbath stillness,
of joy, of thanks, and of worship, fills all the summer air.
Such a hush pervaded Mr. Jackwood's house. There were
words — but how gently spoken! there was laughter — but how subdued
and mellow! there were tears — but how bright and happy!
“This 'ere 's a day wuth livin' to see!” observed the farmer.
He sat upon a keg in the corner, whittling an ox-bow; but, somehow,
he could not work; his eyes now and then grew misty, and
beaming with the light of a deep, earnest joy. “Don't seem to
me it 's right to work; it 's kind o' like Sunday.”
“Don't le's!” said Bim, who had been set to scour the table-knives,
but who took a great deal more interest in his mother's
baking. “I got two on 'em bright, — this one 's for Charlotte,
any how! Let the rest go, — I would!”
“Come, come!” his mother spoke up, cheeringly, “work away,
or you won't have enough to set the table with. The pies 'll take
care o' themselves.”
“Make 'em good, any way!” exclaimed Bim. “Charlotte likes
lots o' sugar in 'em.”
“Bim speaks two words for himself,” chimed Phœbe's musical
voice. “Here 's a little crust left, — what shall I do with it?”
“Bake Rove a turnover,” cried Bim, “and I 'll eat it for
him!”
“Shall I, mother?”
“Law, yes; do gratify the boy! But you must do them
knives!”
“An't I?” said Bim. He was holding the dog's lips apart
with his fingers, for the purpose of inserting brick-dust, from the
scouring-board. “Rove's teeth are gittin' rusty, and I want 'em
to look white for comp'ny.”
The baking progressed finely. The big oven had been heated
for the occasion. Extraordinary cakes, extravagant pies, emulous,
puffy biscuits, — not to speak of Rover's aristocratic turnover, —
rested snugly in the corners, and bubbled, smoked, and swelled,
in the genial heat. They seemed to know, as well as anybody,
that they were no common cooking; and to feel a pride in coming
out with plump, handsome, brown faces, with dimples, where
Phœbe's fork had pricked, fit to appear before the choice company
in which they were to have the honor of being eaten.
“O, dear!” exclaimed Phœbe, “I don't know what to do! I
want to laugh and cry! I wish it was dinner-time; then I could
have an excuse to go to their room, and call them.”
“An't there somebody to the front door?” said Mr. Jackwood.
“Go and see, Bim'lech.”
Bim went skipping along the floor, followed by Rover, barking.
Mr. Rukely entered. There were warm greetings between him
and the farmer, — questions, and earnest congratulations.
“Why, father!” said Mrs. Jackwood, with the kindliest of
smiles, and with mist in her eyes the while, “you hardly know
what you 're about, I do declare!”
In his excitement, he had offered Mr. Rukely the keg to sit
down upon. Mr. Rukely remained standing.
“Set the big chair, Phœbe!” said the farmer.
Mr. Rukely could not stop. He had called to see Hector.
“I do'no' nobody they 'll be gladder to see!” cried Mr. Jackwood.
“The way they spoke o' you 'n' your wife, — what you 'd
done for 'em, — wal, 't an't of'n anything comes over me as that
did! Go to the spare room, Phœbe, — don't be noisy, but step
light, an' jest rap kind o' gentle on the door.”
Phœbe could have asked no happier commission. To be near
Camille, to hear the tones of Hector's voice, to look upon their
faces for a moment, was delight enough for her.
“Yes, sir!” cried Mr. Jackwood, “'t was great! You should
ben there to see! You never 'd git over it, the longest day o'
your life, Mr. Rukely! I hope I an't proud; but I can't help
thinkin' 't was my sleigh 't they got right into, an' 't I drove 'em
away! I hope I an't revengeful, nuther; but I did feel a grudge
agin them kidnabbers, an' I — Wal, 't was good enough for
'em! I can't help sayin' so much, any way.”
“They was goin' to have our farm!” observed Bim, disdainfully.
“I guess they 'll let us alone,” said his father, genially. “They
sneaked out o' town las' night, like a couple o' sheep-stealers. It
'pears they tallygrafted that Cha'lotte was drownded; an' that 's
what made her owner — as he called himself — so ready to sell
out. A smart young lawyer done the business for Hector, an' got
the man to sign off for little or nothin', I guess; though I could n't
find out jest how much. That 's a terrible hard story they tell
'bout Enos Crumlett.”
“I 'm afraid it 's true,” replied the minister. “Matilda is quite
wild about it.”
“He 'd better go to Californy, fust thing!” exclaimed Mr.
Jackwood. “He never 'll be nothin' 'round here; everybody 'll
despise him. As for that Robert Greenwich —”
“You have not heard —” said Mr. Rukely, a shadow passing
over his face.
“I heerd he was took up for counterfeitin', — an' I wan't much
surprised, nuther.”
Mr. Rukely reported, in addition, a startling piece of intelligence
that had spread through the town that morning. Astonishment
and solemnity fell upon the listeners.
“His poor father 'n' mother!” uttered Mrs. Jackwood. “Don't
mention it to Phœbe, — she 's too happy to-day.”
“What is suicide?” cried Bim.
“Hush! — 't an't nothin' you need to know 'bout!” said his
father
Phœbe reäppeared, radiant. “He 's coming right out, — and
I 'm going back to stay with Charlotte!”
A minute later, the door again opened. A thrill ran through
Mr. Rukely's ordinarily sluggish veins. The countenance that
shone upon him was in itself a life-history, a revelation. How
changed since he last saw it! Older, yet younger, and brighter;
sadder, yet immeasurably more happy; serene, majestic, yet never
so soft and tender; deeply thoughtful, deeply humble, yet smiling
with the sweet, subdued effulgence of love and peace. Such was
Hector on that memorable morning. He grasped Mr. Rukely's
hand, and they conversed a few moments in presence of the family;
then Hector led the way to Camille's chamber.
The young wife was reclining by a cheerful wood fire, on the
pillows of an easy-chair. With eyes swimming in blissful light,
she looked up; a smile of wondrous beauty and sweetness welcomed
her friend, and the hand she gave him seemed all alive with
the tremulous emotions of her heart.
Was Mr. Rukely surprised to see her blooming with promise
of fair health? Ah, then, he did not know what magic lies in
the sunshine of Love's face, — what subtle streams of life pour
down into the very springs of our being from the sympathy and
magnetic touch of those we hold most dear.
Mr. Rukely had been sent for, that morning, by Mrs. Dunbury.
He had found her greatly changed. The excitement that had
sustained her through a long and terrible trial, subsiding, had left
her extremely low. Charlotte was saved, Hector was happy; she
felt that she had nothing more to live for, and peaceful, not
reluctant, she calmly awaited the end. After what had passed,
knowing Hector's spirit, knowing Charlotte's wrongs and sufferings,
she could not hope that they would return to the house from which
a father's wrath had exiled them. But she had sent Mr. Rukely
to them, with her love and blessing.
Also, before setting out, the young minister had conversed with
Mr. Dunbury. He spoke of that interview; but, at mention of
his father, Hector shook his head, with a look of infinite sadness.
“I know no father!” he said.
“I have obtained his consent,” Mr. Rukely went on, “for you
to return home.”
“Home?” came the low echo from Hector's heart, and a heaving
emotion struggled in his face, as he looked upon Camille; —
“where the spirit is at rest, is home; hearts' love is home; I am
at home!”
“What reply shall I make to Mr. Dunbury?”
“Take to him these words!”
“And your mother?”
“O, my mother! Tell her my soul loves her; and souls that
love, though divided on earth, reünite in heaven!”
Camille wept. She joined in Hector's message to the invalid;
and, shortly after, Mr. Rukely took his leave.
It had been a comfort to learn that Mrs. Longman — Camille's
dear Canadian friend, who had come to Edward's funeral — would
remain with her relatives. No kinder hand, no warmer heart, than
hers, could have been sent to administer to the failing invalid.
Still Hector felt it as a deep wrong, Camille as a sad privation,
that they, who owed her so much love and gratitude, they, who
were dearer to her than all the world, should be so near, and yet
attend not at the pillow of the dying woman.
Three days passed, — days of hitherto inconceivable happiness,
marred by but one shade of sorrow. They still remained the
As Camille's strength increased, Hector was beginning to think
of some quiet little home in the village, — but something said,
— “Wait!” On the afternoon of the fourth day, Corny was
announced.
“I got a letter for ye, somewheres,” said that young gentleman,
making thorough investigations in his pockets. “Hello! —
what 's this? I 'd like to know!” A worn and soiled envelope
was brought to light. “I did n't know I had that! O, I remember!
— it 's what they gi' me in the village, one day, for Mis'
Dun'b'ry, — an' I don't b'leve I ever thought on 't till this
minute!”
Hector tore the envelope, took out a slip of paper, and unfolded
it, — 't was his own telegraphic despatch from Mobile! He bit
his lips, but, without a word, passed it to Camille. Meanwhile,
Corny had produced another letter.
“That looks more like! The ol' man tol' me to bring it over.
He 's ben ra'al dumpy, lately; an' it 's about the fust time he 's
spoke for five or six days. He don't growl to me no more, as he
used to; I guess it 's 'cause he 's had some talks with Mis' Dunb'ry;
for when he comes out o' her room, his eyes look kinder
red an' watery, 's if he 'd like to cry, if he wan't a man. They
don't spec' she 'll live.”
“Camille!” said Hector, with solemn and anxious looks, “the
hour has come! We must go to our mother!”
No time was to be lost. A few minutes sufficed for all preparation.
Corny had come for them in the cutter; it was waiting
at the door. The family made haste to warm blankets, and a
foot-stove was filled, to place at Camille's feet. Their thoughtful
kindness was too much for the young wife. She pressed Mr.
Jackwood's hand to her lips, blessing him and his, from the bursting
fulness of her heart.
“If anybody should be thankful, it 's me!” declared the farmer,
brushing the tears from his honest cheeks. “Your comin' into
my house, fust and last, has ben a blessin' to me an' to all; I
can't be thankful enough for 't!”
Hector wrung the farmer's hand. Words seemed too feeble to
express what swelled and burned within his breast.
“Could you know how great my happiness in my wife, then you
might know something of my gratitude to you, her preserver!”
He placed Camille in the sleigh. Mrs. Jackwood wrapped the
blankets around her, the farmer adjusted the foot-stove to her feet
Phœbe arranged her veil, Bim stood holding the horse. A moment
after, they were gone; and loving faces, tearful eyes, watched
them as they rode out of sight.
It was the close of a very fair, calm winter's day. The forests
on the mountain tops burned faintly in the sunset glow; and the
sky all above was arched with ribs and bars of fire. But the last
tinge was fading from the clouds, and the forests grew drear and
dark, as Hector and Camille approached Mr. Dunbury's house.
Mrs. Longman received them at the porch. As she held Camille
in her arms, Hector, advancing into the hall, saw the kitchen door
open beyond, and his father pacing to and fro, with trouble written
in deep lines upon his face. The young man turned aside, pausing
a moment at the door of his mother's room, then gently lifted the
latch.
The subdued light of departing day stole into the chamber. A
calm and holy atmosphere breathed around. He entered softly,
and moved with silent steps to the bedside; then, stooping tenderly
and reverently, imprinted a kiss upon his mother's brow.
She looked up. “My dear boy!” Tears rained from Hector's
eyes. He could not speak. “And Charlotte —” murmured the
invalid.
“She is here!” He reached forth his hand. Camille advanced.
He led her to the bedside; she bent down amid the hush; her
kisses and tears fell warm upon the dying woman's hand.
“My child!” — and feebly the invalid raised both her arms to
place about her form, — “are you happy?”
“O, blest!” sobbed Charlotte, upon her bosom.
Another pause; the love and peace of the invalid's countenance
brightening and deepening. “And Hector?”
“Twice blest!” breathed Hector. “But, to see my mother
Camille rose up gently; they bowed together by the bed.
“My children,” said the invalid, as she looked upon them,
“this is all I have asked! I do not suffer now. My soul is
full of peace. I waited but for this hour, to fall sweetly into
the arms of Heaven, and be forever at rest. Raise my head a
little.”
With a tender touch, Hector lifted her to an easier position,
adjusting the pillows beneath her head. “Always so kind, my
boy! Give me a little water.” Camille held the glass to her
lips, while she drank. “The same gentleness and love, dear one!
Yes, Hector, I have waited but for this. Your father knows I
have not long to stay. And, as he has seen me, for these few
days past, sinking so rapidly, I have felt all the young love of his
early years come back again, and his heart has been strangely
softened! He loves you, Hector! He feels that he has been
unjust to you, — more than unjust to this dear one!” A choking
sensation broke her utterance; but she added, presently, “Will
you not forgive him?”
“O, mother!”
There was a footfall upon the floor. One entered, walking
with careful steps; crushed in spirit, his form bowed as by a
burden, his chin sunken sorrowfully upon his breast. The little
group opened. He drew near the bedside, reaching out his trembling
hands. A painful silence, then a quivering voice —
“Hector!”
The deep contrition of the look and tone ran like melting fire
into Hector's soul.
“Father!” That one word expressed all. Their hands
clasped. Forgiveness flowed from heart to heart. Then the
father, taking courage, turned, with anguish in his looks, and
extended a shaking hand to Camille.
“My daughter!”
His long remorse, his crushed and penitent pride, and the newborn
love of his soul gushing up through all, found utterance in
those half-stifled words. Filled with a wild grief, and yet wilder
joy intermixed, Camille faltered, bowed her weeping face, and
Hector was kneeling by her side; one arm about her form, and
one hand clasped in hers. The father extended his quivering
palms above them, while heavy drops struggled down his unaccustomed
cheeks.
“God bless you, — God bless you — my — children!”
“Peace!” whispered the dying woman, a smile of heavenly
sweetness lighting all her face.
Peace! And with that sacred word, the writer's task should
end. Have we, then, gone through all these scenes of mirth, and
passion, and woe, to reach a tearful close? Blame not the writer.
It was scarce his choice. The characters whose fortunes he has
depicted have not been altogether fictitious; they have been real
existences to him, at least; he has laughed with them, wept with
them, and he would not part from them without tears. The narrative
has been like a stream, holding its own free course; and
who could have known, when first we embarked in its limpid ripples
and careless flow, how the waters were to accumulate, and darken,
and sweep us on? There have been bubbles plenty, eddies and
shallow falls, torrents and floods; and now let all sink to rest in
that still lake — described a little while ago — named Peace.
“But what became of Bim? Was everybody happy at last?
You have not told us! And did Phœbe get married?”
Be patient, reader, and your questions shall be answered.
Phœbe got married, of course. And she married a farmer, after
all. If ever you go to Huntersford, inquire for Mrs. Higgins, —
Phœbe married a Higgins, — and you shall find her as bright and
happy a young wife as you will see the next twelvemonth. Bim
often visits her, and brings Rover, — now a sedate and elderly
dog, — to amuse the baby. The baby's name is Camille. There
was a certain old lady who designed to have the child named
Betsy Rigglesty; and who, on paying a visit to the young
mother, and learning that her wishes had been disregarded, was
so much offended, that, after a brief stay of six weeks (during
which time she had a great deal to do with a dismal old cotton
handkerchief, on which could be faintly traced a washed-out print,
she cut short her visit, and went back to Sawney Hook,
resolved never again to quit that delightful region. Phœbe bears
her absence with cheerful resignation, and still persists in calling
the child Camille.
Bim is growing up tall and manly, and his parents are as
genial and happy an old couple as ever enjoyed the blessings
of an approving conscience, and the fruits of a life of industry,
in their latter days. Bim is beginning to go and see the girls;
and he wishes Etty Greenwich was n't quite so romantic in
her notions. Etty says she shall never be married. She devotes
herself to poetry, and to the care of her white-haired father, who
has grown quite infirm of late years. Bim does not call at the
house so often as he would like to; for the sight of the old man's
quivering lips and broken smiles of affection, when Etty smooths
his cravat or combs his hair, always makes the young gentleman
cry, and that he thinks is unmanly.
Of the Rukelys there is not much to be said. Their outward
life is very even, almost monotonous; but inward trial has left its
traces in Bertha's pale face. Matilda Fosdick lived in the family
a year; when, taking pity on poor Enos, whom she had dismissed
from the list of her suitors, on account of a certain transaction
which had earned him the name of Judas Crumlett, she finally
consented to fill the place his venerable parent was expected soon
to leave vacant, and removed with him to the West, after the remains
of that lamented lady had been consigned to the tomb.
In conclusion, shall we draw a picture of Hector and Camille
entering upon their new life of labor and love, with the world's
prejudice and frowns all unknown to their serene eyes? Of the
broken father, bowed by his burden of sadness, yet redeemed by
the memory of his sainted wife, and ripening into quiet and tender
old age in the light of their affection? Of their first-born, wondrous
boy, offspring of love and beauty, thrilling their fond hearts
with his sweet prattle and melodious laughter? O, wedlock! O,
holy love! let fall the veil, and hide the painful glory of thy face,
in mercy to the longing souls and moaning hearts that have sought
thy home and rest, and found it not!
| XLV.
CLOSING SCENES. Neighbor Jackwood | |