The May Flower, and Miscellaneous Writings. Stowe Harriet Beecher
like all other excitement, it tends to exhaustion, and it was not long before he sensibly felt the decline of the powers of life. To the best regulated mind there is something bitter in the relinquishment of projects for which we have been long and laboriously preparing, and there is something far more bitter in crossing the long-cherished expectations of friends. All this George felt. He could not bear to look on his mother, hanging on his words and following his steps with eyes of almost childish delight – on his singular father, whose whole earthly ambition was bound up in his success, and think how soon the "candle of their old age" must be put out. When he returned from a successful effort, it was painful to see the old man, so evidently delighted, and so anxious to conceal his triumph, as he would seat himself in his chair, and begin with, "George, that 'are doctrine is rather of a puzzler; but you seem to think you've got the run on't. I should re'ly like to know what business you have to think you know better than other folks about it;" and, though he would cavil most courageously at all George's explanations, yet you might perceive, through all, that he was inly uplifted to hear how his boy could talk.
If George was engaged in argument with any one else, he would sit by, with his head bowed down, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows with a shamefaced satisfaction very unusual with him. Expressions of affection from the naturally gentle are not half so touching as those which are forced out from the hard-favored and severe; and George was affected, even to pain, by the evident pride and regard of his father.
"He never said so much to any body before," thought he, "and what will he do if I die?"
In such thoughts as these Grace found her brother engaged one still autumn morning, as he stood leaning against the garden fence.
"What are you solemnizing here for, this bright day, brother George?" said she, as she bounded down the alley.
The young man turned and looked on her happy face with a sort of twilight smile.
"How happy you are, Grace!" said he.
"To be sure I am; and you ought to be too, because you are better."
"I am happy, Grace – that is, I hope I shall be."
"You are sick, I know you are," said Grace; "you look worn out. O, I wish your heart could spring once, as mine does."
"I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never shall be," said he, turning away, and fixing his eyes on the fading trees opposite.
"O George! dear George, don't, don't say that; you'll break all our hearts," said Grace, with tears in her own eyes.
"Yes, but it is true, sister: I do not feel it on my own account so much as – However," he added, "it will all be the same in heaven."
It was but a week after this that a violent cold hastened the progress of debility into a confirmed malady. He sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with the self-deceit of a fond and cheerful heart, thought every day that "he would be better," and Uncle Lot resisted conviction with all the obstinate pertinacity of his character, while the sick man felt that he had not the heart to undeceive them.
James was now at the house every day, exhausting all his energy and invention in the case of his friend; and any one who had seen him in his hours of recklessness and glee, could scarcely recognize him as the being whose step was so careful, whose eye so watchful, whose voice and touch were so gentle, as he moved around the sick bed. But the same quickness which makes a mind buoyant in gladness, often makes it gentlest and most sympathetic in sorrow.
It was now nearly morning in the sick room. George had been restless and feverish all night; but towards day he fell into a slight slumber, and James sat by his side, almost holding his breath lest he should waken him. It was yet dusk, but the sky was brightening with a solemn glow, and the stars were beginning to disappear; all, save the bright and morning one, which, standing alone in the east, looked tenderly through the casement, like the eye of our heavenly Father, watching over us when all earthly friendships are fading.
George awoke with a placid expression of countenance, and fixing his eyes on the brightening sky, murmured faintly, —
"The sweet, immortal morning sheds
Its blushes round the spheres."
A moment after, a shade passed over his face; he pressed his fingers over his eyes, and the tears dropped silently on his pillow.
"George! dear George!" said James, bending over him.
"It's my friends – it's my father – my mother," said he, faintly.
"Jesus Christ will watch over them," said James, soothingly.
"O, yes, I know he will; for he loved his own which were in the world; he loved them unto the end. But I am dying – and before I have done any good."
"O, do not say so," said James; "think, think what you have done, if only for me. God bless you for it! God will bless you for it; it will follow you to heaven; it will bring me there. Yes, I will do as you have taught me. I will give my life, my soul, my whole strength to it; and then you will not have lived in vain."
George smiled, and looked upward; "his face was as that of an angel;" and James, in his warmth, continued, —
"It is not I alone who can say this; we all bless you; every one in this place blesses you; you will be had in everlasting remembrance by some hearts here, I know."
"Bless God!" said George.
"We do," said James. "I bless him that I ever knew you; we all bless him, and we love you, and shall forever."
The glow that had kindled over the pale face of the invalid again faded as he said, —
"But, James, I must, I ought to tell my father and mother; I ought to, and how can I?"
At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Lot made his appearance. He seemed struck with the paleness of George's face; and coming to the side of the bed, he felt his pulse, and laid his hand anxiously on his forehead, and clearing his voice several times, inquired "if he didn't feel a little better."
"No, father," said George; then taking his hand, he looked anxiously in his face, and seemed to hesitate a moment. "Father," he began, "you know that we ought to submit to God."
There was something in his expression at this moment which flashed the truth into the old man's mind. He dropped his son's hand with an exclamation of agony, and turning quickly, left the room.
"Father! father!" said Grace, trying to rouse him, as he stood with his arms folded by the kitchen window.
"Get away, child!" said he, roughly.
"Father, mother says breakfast is ready."
"I don't want any breakfast," said he, turning short about. "Sally, what are you fixing in that 'ere porringer?"
"O, it's only a little tea for George; 'twill comfort him up, and make him feel better, poor fellow."
"You won't make him feel better – he's gone," said Uncle Lot, hoarsely.
"O, dear heart, no!" said Aunt Sally.
"Be still a' contradicting me; I won't be contradicted all the time by nobody. The short of the case is, that George is goin' to die just as we've got him ready to be a minister and all; and I wish to pity I was in my grave myself, and so – " said Uncle Lot, as he plunged out of the door, and shut it after him.
It is well for man that there is one Being who sees the suffering heart as it is, and not as it manifests itself through the repellances of outward infirmity, and who, perhaps, feels more for the stern and wayward than for those whose gentler feelings win for them human sympathy. With all his singularities, there was in the heart of Uncle Lot a depth of religious sincerity; but there are few characters where religion does any thing more than struggle with natural defect, and modify what would else be far worse.
In this hour of trial, all the native obstinacy and pertinacity of the old man's character rose, and while he felt the necessity of submission, it seemed impossible to submit; and thus, reproaching himself, struggling in vain to repress the murmurs of nature, repulsing from him all external sympathy, his mind was "tempest-tossed, and not