University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE GOLDEN CORD IS LOOSED.

The Reverend Chauncy Fairweather, hearing
that his parishioner's daughter, Elsie, was very
ill, could do nothing less than come to the
mansion-house and tender such consolations as
he was master of. It was rather remarkable
that the old Doctor did not exactly approve of
his visit. He thought that company of every sort
might be injurious in her weak state. He was
of opinion that Mr. Fairweather, though greatly
interested in religious matters, was not the most
sympathetic person that could be found; in fact,
the old Doctor thought he was too much taken
up with his own interests for eternity to give
himself quite so heartily to the need of other
people as some persons got up on a rather
more generous scale (our good neighbor Dr.
Honeywood, for instance) could do. However,
all these things had better be arranged to suit
her wants; if she would like to talk with a clergyman,
she had a great deal better see one as
often as she liked, and run the risk of the excitement,
than have a hidden wish for such a

visit and perhaps find herself too weak to see
him by-and-by.

The old Doctor knew by sad experience that
dreadful mistake against which all medical practitioners
should be warned. His experience may
well be a guide for others. Do not overlook the
desire for spiritual advice and consolation which
patients sometimes feel, and, with the frightful
mauvaise honte peculiar to Protestantism, alone
among all human beliefs, are ashamed to tell.
As a part of medical treatment, it is the physician's
business to detect the hidden longing
for the food of the soul, as much as for any
form of bodily nourishment. Especially in the
higher walks of society, where this unutterably
miserable false shame of Protestantism acts in
proportion to the general acuteness of the cultivated
sensibilities, let no unwillingness to suggest
the sick person's real need suffer him to
languish between his want and his morbid sensitiveness.
What an infinite advantage the Mussulmans
and the Catholics have over many of
our more exclusively spiritual sects in the way
they keep their religion always by them and
never blush for it! And besides this spiritual
longing, we should never forget that

and the minister of religion, in addition to the
sympathetic nature which we have a right to
demand in him, has trained himself to the art
of entering into the feelings of others.

The reader must pardon this digression, which
introduces the visit of the Reverend Chauncy
Fairweather to Elsie Venner. It was mentioned
to her that he would like to call and see how she
was, and she consented, — not with much apparent
interest, for she had reasons of her own for
not feeling any very deep conviction of his sympathy
for persons in sorrow. But he came, and
worked the conversation round to religion, and
confused her with his hybrid notions, half made
up of what he had been believing and teaching
all his life, and half of the new doctrines which
he had veneered upon the surface of his old belief.
He got so far as to make a prayer with
her, — a cool well-guarded prayer, which compromised
his faith as little as possible, and which,
if devotion were a game played against Providence,
might have been considered a cautious
and sagacious move.

When he had gone, Elsie called Old Sophy
to her.

“Sophy,” she said, “don't let them send that
cold-hearted man to me any more. If your old
minister comes to see you, I should like to hear
him talk. He looks as if he cared for everybody,
and would care for me. And, Sophy, if
I should die one of these days, I should like
to have that old minister come and say whatever
is to be said over me. It would comfort

Dudley more, I know, than to have that hard
man here, when you're in trouble, — for some
of you will be sorry when I'm gone, — won't
you, Sophy?”

The poor old black woman could not stand
this question. The cold minister had frozen
Elsie until she felt as if nobody cared for her
or would regret her, — and her question had
betrayed this momentary feeling.

“Don' talk so! don' talk so, darlin'!” she
cried, passionately. “When you go, Ol' Sophy'll
go; 'n' where you go, Ol' Sophy'll go:
'n' we'll both go t' th' place where th' Lord takes
care of all his children, whether their faces are
white or black. Oh, darlin', darlin'! if th' Lord
should let me die fus', you shall fin' all ready
for you when you come after me. On'y don'
go 'n' leave poor Ol' Sophy all 'lone in th'
world!”

Helen came in at this moment and quieted
the old woman with a look. Such scenes were
just what were most dangerous, in the state in
which Elsie was lying: but that is one of the
ways in which an affectionate friend sometimes
unconsciously wears out the life which a hired
nurse, thinking of nothing but her regular duties
and her wages, would have spared from all
emotional fatigue.

The change which had come over Elsie's disposition
was itself the cause of new excitements.
How was it possible that her father could keep

away from her, now that she was coming back
to the nature and the very look of her mother,
the bride of his youth? How was it possible
to refuse her, when she said to Old Sophy, that
she should like to have her minister come in
and sit by her, even though his presence might
perhaps prove a new source of excitement?

But the Reverend Doctor did come and sit
by her, and spoke such soothing words to her,
words of such peace and consolation, that from
that hour she was tranquil as never before. All
true hearts are alike in the hour of need; the
Catholic has a reserved fund of faith for his
fellow-creature's trying moment, and the Calvinist
reveals those springs of human brotherhood
and charity in his soul which are only
covered over by the iron tables inscribed with
the harder dogmas of his creed. It was enough
that the Reverend Doctor knew all Elsie's history.
He could not judge her by any formula,
like those which have been moulded by past ages
out of their ignorance. He did not talk with
her as if she were an outside sinner, worse than
himself. He found a bruised and languishing
soul, and bound up its wounds. A blessed office,
— one which is confined to no sect or creed,
but which good men in all times, under various
names and with varying ministries, to suit the
need of each age, of each race, of each individual
soul, have come forward to discharge for
their suffering fellow-creatures.

After this there was little change in Elsie, except
that her heart beat more feebly every day, —
so that the old Doctor himself, with all his experience,
could see nothing to account for the gradual
failing of the powers of life, and yet could find
no remedy which seemed to arrest its progress in
the smallest degree.

“Be very careful,” he said, “that she is not
allowed to make any muscular exertion. Any
such effort, when a person is so enfeebled, may
stop the heart in a moment; and if it stops, it
will never move again.”

Helen enforced this rule with the greatest care.
Elsie was hardly allowed to move her hand or to
speak above a whisper. It seemed to be mainly
the question now, whether this trembling flame of
life would be blown out by some light breath of
air, or whether it could be so nursed and sheltered
by the hollow of these watchful hands that it
would have a chance to kindle to its natural
brightness.

— Her father came in to sit with her in the
evening. He had never talked so freely with her
as during the hour he had passed at her bedside,
telling her little circumstances of her mother's
life, living over with her all that was pleasant in
the past, and trying to encourage her with some
cheerful gleams of hope for the future. A faint
smile played over her face, but she did not answer
his encouraging suggestions. The hour

came for him to leave her with those who
watched by her.

“Good-night, my dear child,” he said, and,
stooping down, kissed her cheek.

Elsie rose by a sudden effort, threw her arms
round his neck, kissed him, and said, “Good-night,
my dear father!”

The suddenness of her movement had taken
him by surprise, or he would have checked so
dangerous an effort. It was too late now. Her
arms slid away from him like lifeless weights,
— her head fell back upon her pillow, — a long
sigh breathed through her lips.

“She is faint,” said Helen, doubtfully; “bring
me the hartshorn, Sophy.”

The old woman had started from her place, and
was now leaning over her, looking in her face, and
listening for the sound of her breathing.

“She's dead! Elsie's dead! My darlin' 's
dead!” she cried aloud, filling the room with her
utterance of anguish.

Dudley Venner drew her away and silenced
her with a voice of authority, while Helen and
an assistant plied their restoratives. It was all
in vain.

The solemn tidings passed from the chamber
of death through the family. The daughter, the
hope of that old and honored house, was dead in
the freshness of her youth, and the home of its

solitary representative was hereafter doubly desolate.

A messenger rode hastily out of the avenue.
A little after this the people of the village and
the outlying farm-houses were startled by the
sound of a bell.

One, — two, — three, — four, —

They stopped in every house, as far as the
wavering vibrations reached, and listened —

— five, — six, — seven, —

It was not the little child which had been lying
so long at the point of death; that could not be
more than three or four years old —

— eight, — nine, — ten, — and so on to fifteen,
— sixteen, — seventeen, — eighteen —
— —

The pulsations seemed to keep on, — but it
was the brain, and not the bell, that was throbbing
now.

“Elsie's dead!” was the exclamation at a
hundred firesides.

“Eighteen year old,” said old Widow Peake,
rising from her chair. “Eighteen year ago I
laid two gold eagles on her mother's eyes, — he
wouldn't have anything but gold touch her eye-lids,
— and now Elsie's to be straightened, —
the Lord have mercy on her poor sinful soul!”

Dudley Venner prayed that night that he might
be forgiven, if he had failed in any act of duty or
kindness to this unfortunate child of his, now
freed from all the woes born with her and so long

poisoning her soul. He thanked God for the
brief interval of peace which had been granted
her, for the sweet communion they had enjoyed
in these last days, and for the hope of meeting
her with that other lost friend in a better
world.

Helen mingled a few broken thanks and petitions
with her tears: thanks that she had been
permitted to share the last days and hours of this
poor sister in sorrow; petitions that the grief of
bereavement might be lightened to the lonely
parent and the faithful old servant.

Old Sophy said almost nothing, but sat day
and night by her dead darling. But sometimes
her anguish would find an outlet in strange
sounds, something between a cry and a musical
note, — such as none had ever heard her utter before.
These were old remembrances surging up
from her childish days, — coming through her
mother from the cannibal chief, her grandfather,
— death-wails, such as they sing in the mountains
of Western Africa, when they see the fires
on distant hill-sides and know that their own
wives and children are undergoing the fate of
captives.

The time came when Elsie was to be laid by
her mother in the small square marked by the
white stone.

It was not unwillingly that the Reverend
Chauncy Fairweather had relinquished the duty
of conducting the service to the Reverend Doctor

Honeywood, in accordance with Elsie's request.
He could not, by any reasoning, reconcile
his present way of thinking with a hope for the
future of his unfortunate parishioner. Any good
old Roman Catholic priest, born and bred to his
faith and his business, would have found a loophole
into some kind of heaven for her, by virtue
of his doctrine of “invincible ignorance,” or other
special proviso; but a recent convert cannot enter
into the working conditions of his new creed.
Beliefs must be lived in for a good while, before
they accommodate themselves to the soul's wants,
and wear loose enough to be comfortable.

The Reverend Doctor had no such scruples.
Like thousands of those who are classed nominally
with the despairing believers, he had never
prayed over a departed brother or sister without
feeling and expressing a guarded hope that there
was mercy in store for the poor sinner, whom
parents, wives, children, brothers and sisters could
not bear to give up to utter ruin without a word,
— and would not, as he knew full well, in virtue
of that human love and sympathy which nothing
can ever extinguish. And in this poor Elsie's
history he could read nothing which the tears of
the recording angel might not wash away. As
the good physician of the place knew the diseases
that assailed the bodies of men and women, so
he had learned the mysteries of the sickness of
the soul.

So many wished to look upon Elsie's face once

more, that her father would not deny them; nay,
he was pleased that those who remembered her
living should see her in the still beauty of death.
Helen and those with her arrayed her for this
farewell-view. All was ready for the sad or curious
eyes which were to look upon her. There
was no painful change to be concealed by any
artifice. Even her round neck was left uncovered,
that she might be more like one who slept.
Only the golden cord was left in its place: some
searching eye might detect a trace of that birth-mark
which it was whispered she had always
worn a necklace to conceal.

At the last moment, when all the preparations
were completed, Old Sophy stooped over her,
and, with trembling hand, loosed the golden cord.
She looked intently, for some little space: there
was no shade nor blemish where the ring of gold
had encircled her throat. She took it gently
away and laid it in the casket which held her
ornaments.

“The Lord be praised!” the old woman cried,
aloud. “He has taken away the mark that was
on her; she's fit to meet his holy angels now!”

So Elsie lay for hours in the great room, in
a kind of state, with flowers all about her, —
her black hair braided as in life, — her brows
smooth, as if they had never known the scowl
of passion, — and on her lips the faint smile
with which she had uttered her last “Good-night.”
The young girls from the school looked

at her, one after another, and passed on, sobbing,
carrying in their hearts the picture that
would be with them all their days. The great
people of the place were all there with their silent
sympathy. The lesser kind of gentry, and
many of the plainer folk of the village, half-pleased
to find themselves passing beneath the
stately portico of the ancient mansion-house,
crowded in, until the ample rooms were overflowing.
All the friends whose acquaintance
we have made were there, and many from remoter
villages and towns.

There was a deep silence at last. The hour
had come for the parting words to be spoken
over the dead. The good old minister's voice
rose out of the stillness, subdued and tremulous
at first, but growing firmer and clearer as he
went on, until it reached the ears of the visitors
who were in the far, desolate chambers, looking
at the pictured hangings and the old dusty portraits.
He did not tell her story in his prayer.
He only spoke of our dear departed sister as
one of many whom Providence in its wisdom
has seen fit to bring under bondage from their
cradles. It was not for us to judge them by
any standard of our own. He who made the
heart alone knew the infirmities it inherited or
acquired. For all that our dear sister had presented
that was interesting and attractive in her
character we were to be grateful; for whatever
was dark or inexplicable we must trust that the

deep shadow which rested on the twilight dawn
of her being might render a reason before the
bar of Omniscience; for the grace which had
lightened her last days we should pour out our
hearts in thankful acknowledgment. From the
life and the death of this our dear sister we
should learn a lesson of patience with our fellow-creatures
in their inborn peculiarities, of
charity in judging what seem to us wilful faults
of character, of hope and trust, that, by sickness
or affliction, or such inevitable discipline as life
must always bring with it, if by no gentler
means, the soul which had been left by Nature
to wander into the path of error and of suffering
might be reclaimed and restored to its true
aim, and so led on by divine grace to its eternal
welfare. He closed his prayer by commending
each member of the afflicted family to the divine
blessing.

Then all at once rose the clear sound of the
girls' voices, in the sweet, sad melody of a funeral
hymn, — one of those which Elsie had
marked, as if prophetically, among her own favorites.

And so they laid her in the earth, and showered
down flowers upon her, and filled her grave,
and covered it with green sods. By the side of
it was another oblong ridge, with a white stone
standing at its head. Mr. Bernard looked upon
it, as he came close to the place where Elsie
was laid, and read the inscription, —

CATALINA
WIFE TO DUDLEY VENNER
DIED
OCTOBER 13TH 1840
AGED XX YEARS.

A gentle rain fell on the turf after it was
laid. This was the beginning of a long and
dreary autumnal storm, a deferred “equinoctial,”
as many considered it. The mountain streams
were all swollen and turbulent, and the steep
declivities were furrowed in every direction by
new channels. It made the house seem doubly
desolate to hear the wind howling and the rain
beating upon the roofs. The poor relation who
was staying at the house would insist on Helen's
remaining a few days: Old Sophy was in
such a condition, that it kept her in continual
anxiety, and there were many cares which Helen
could take off from her.

The old black woman's life was buried in her
darling's grave. She did nothing but moan and
lament for her. At night she was restless, and
would get up and wander to Elsie's apartment
and look for her and call her by name. At
other times she would lie awake and listen to
the wind and the rain, — sometimes with such
a wild look upon her face, and with such sudden
starts and exclamations, that it seemed as
if she heard spirit-voices and were answering the

whispers of unseen visitants. With all this were
mingled hints of her old superstition, — forebodings
of something fearful about to happen, —
perhaps the great final catastrophe of all things,
according to the prediction current in the kitchens
of Rockland.

“Hark!” Old Sophy would say, — “don' you
hear th' crackin' 'n' th' snappin' up in Th' Mountain,
'n' th' rollin' o' th' big stones? The' 's
somethin' stirrin' among th' rocks; I hear th'
soun' of it in th' night, when th' wind has
stopped blowin'. Oh, stay by me a little
while, Miss Darlin'! stay by me! for it's th'
Las' Day, maybe, that's close on us, 'n' I feel
as if I couldn' meet th' Lord all alone!”

It was curious, — but Helen did certainly recognize
sounds, during the lull of the storm, which
were not of falling rain or running streams, —
short snapping sounds, as of tense cords breaking,
— long uneven sounds, as of masses rolling
down steep declivities. But the morning
came as usual; and as the others said nothing
of these singular noises, Helen did not think it
necessary to speak of them. All day long she
and the humble relative of Elsie's mother, who
had appeared as poor relations are wont to in
the great crises of life, were busy in arranging
the disordered house, and looking over the various
objects which Elsie's singular tastes had
brought together, to dispose of them as her
father might direct. They all met together at

the usual hour for tea. One of the servants
came in, looking very blank, and said to the
poor relation, —

“The well is gone dry; we have nothing but
rain-water.”

Dudley Venner's countenance changed; he
sprang to his feet and went to assure himself
of the fact, and, if he could, of the reason of
it. For a well to dry up during such a rain
storm was extraordinary, — it was ominous.

He came back, looking very anxious.

“Did any of you notice any remarkable sounds
last night,” he said, — “or this morning? Hark!
do you hear anything now?”

They listened in perfect silence for a few
moments. Then there came a short cracking
sound, and two or three snaps, as of parting
cords.

Dudley Venner called all his household together.

“We are in danger here, as I think, to-night,”
he said, — “not very great danger, perhaps,
but it is a risk I do not wish you to
run. These heavy rains have loosed some of
the rocks above, and they may come down and
endanger the house. Harness the horses, Elbridge,
and take all the family away. Miss
Darley will go to the Institute; the others will
pass the night at the Mountain House. I shall
stay here, myself: it is not at all likely that
anything will come of these warnings; but if

there should, I choose to be here and take my
chance.”

It needs little, generally, to frighten servants,
and they were all ready enough to go. The
poor relation was one of the timid sort, and
was terribly uneasy to be got out of the house.
This left no alternative, of course, for Helen,
but to go also. They all urged upon Dudley
Venner to go with them: if there was danger,
why should he remain to risk it, when he sent
away the others?

Old Sophy said nothing until the time came
for her to go with the second of Elbridge's carriage-loads.

“Come, Sophy,” said Dudley Venner, “get
your things and go. They will take good care
of you at the Mountain House; and when we
have made sure that there is no real danger,
you shall come back at once.”

“No, Massa!” Sophy answered. “I've seen
Elsie into th' ground, 'n' I a'n't goin' away to
come back 'n' fin' Massa Venner buried under
th' rocks. My darlin' 's gone; 'n' now, if Massa
goes, 'n' th' ol' place goes, it's time for Ol' Sophy
to go, too. No, Massa Venner, we'll both stay
in th' ol' mansion 'n' wait for th' Lord!”

Nothing could change the old woman's determination;
and her master, who only feared, but
did not really expect the long-deferred catastrophe,
was obliged to consent to her staying. The
sudden drying of the well at such a time was the

most alarming sign; for he remembered that the
same thing had been observed just before great
mountain-slides. This long rain, too, was just
the kind of cause which was likely to loosen
the strata of rock piled up in the ledges; if the
dreaded event should ever come to pass, it would
be at such a time.

He paced his chamber uneasily until long past
midnight. If the morning came without accident,
he meant to have a careful examination made of
all the rents and fissures above, of their direction
and extent, and especially whether, in case of a
mountain-slide, the huge masses would be like to
reach so far to the east and so low down the
declivity as the mansion.

At two o'clock in the morning he was dozing
in his chair. Old Sophy had lain down on her
bed, and was muttering in troubled dreams.

All at once a loud crash seemed to rend the
very heavens above them: a crack as of the
thunder that follows close upon the bolt, — a
rending and crushing as of a forest snapped
through all its stems, torn, twisted, splintered,
dragged with all its ragged boughs into one
chaotic ruin. The ground trembled under them
as in an earthquake; the old mansion shuddered
so that all its windows chattered in their casements;
the great chimney shook off its heavy
cap-stones, which came down on the roof with
resounding concussions; and the echoes of The
Mountain roared and bellowed in long reduplication,

as if its whole foundations were rent, and
this were the terrible voice of its dissolution.

Dudley Venner rose from his chair, folded his
arms, and awaited his fate. There was no knowing
where to look for safety; and he remembered
too well the story of the family that was lost by
rushing out of the house, and so hurrying into
the very jaws of death.

He had stood thus but for a moment, when
he heard the voice of Old Sophy in a wild cry of
terror: —

“It's th' Las' Day! It's th' Las' Day! The
Lord is comin' to take us all!”

“Sophy!” he called; but she did not hear him
or heed him, and rushed out of the house.

The worst danger was over. If they were to
be destroyed, it would necessarily be in a few
seconds from the first thrill of the terrible convulsion.
He waited in awful suspense, but calm.
Not more than one or two minutes could have
passed before the frightful tumult and all its
sounding echoes had ceased. He called Old Sophy;
but she did not answer. He went to the
western window and looked forth into the darkness.
He could not distinguish the outlines of
the landscape, but the white stone was clearly
visible, and by its side the new-made mound.
Nay, what was that which obscured its outline,
in shape like a human figure? He flung open
the window and sprang through. It was all that
there was left of poor Old Sophy, stretched out,
lifeless, upon her darling's grave.

He had scarcely composed her limbs and drawn
the sheet over her, when the neighbors began to
arrive from all directions. Each was expecting
to hear of houses overwhelmed and families destroyed;
but each came with the story that his
own household was safe. It was not until the
morning dawned that the true nature and extent
of the sudden movement was ascertained. A
great seam had opened above the long cliff, and
the terrible Rattlesnake Ledge, with all its envenomed
reptiles, its dark fissures and black caverns,
was buried forever beneath a mighty incumbent
mass of ruin.