Chapter the Last
All things must have an end.
Where there is true friendship, there needs no gloss to our deeds, no hollow welcome to real friends.
“By and by” is easy said; it means an uncertain time, but it comes at last. It came to Mrs. De Vrai, only a few hours after our last parting. Phebe came with the early morning to say, “She is gone, sir; gone to meet her poor child in the hope of the penitent. After you went away, she lay and talked and talked about you, all of you, and Mrs. Meltrand and Agnes, and how happy she should be if she was a going to die, to think that her child would have such a good mother and sister, and so many real friends; and how different it would be with herself now, here and hereafter, as well as her child, than it would have been if she had died in her former residence of wretchedness, sin, and woe. Then I asked her if she would take her medicine and go to sleep, and she said; ’by and by, not now; I feel so well, so happy, I can almost fancy that I see my poor little Katy in heaven among the angels. I often see her here in the room when I am laying with my eyes closed, but not asleep; and I often think I hear her dying words, “Will he Come!” and I say “yes, he has come; the Saviour has come, my child, to your mother.” Then she says, “then come, mother, come and live with us;” and I answer, “by and by.” By and by, Phebe I shall go, but not yet, I am going to get well now.’
“So I went and lay down in the back room, and I heard nothing of her, though I got up and looked at her a good many times, but she seemed to be sleeping so sweet, I thought I would not wake her to take her medicine—the doctor said I need not. In the morning I got up, and looked in the room, and there was Sissee sitting up in the bed, trying to open her mother’s eyes; then she would put her arms around her neck and kiss her, but there was no kiss in return. Then she sat back and looked at her a minute, and then called—‘Phebe, Phebe, mamma does not speak, oh Phebe, is mamma dead!”
Yes mamma was dead. She had died as calm and free from pain and full of joy as when she said “good night” to her friends. She had died full of anticipation that she was going to live to get well; that she would not join the spirit of Little Katy now, but by and by: by and by she would come.
Drop a tear, drop a tear, for she’s departed!
Wreath a smile, for she died not broken-hearted.
This was on Friday morning. On the Sunday following, the intended party met at Mrs. Morgan’s and partook of an early dinner. “For,” said Mr. Lovetree, “we have a good deal to do this afternoon. In the first place, some of our friends are disposed to be united in the holy, the blessed bonds, that bind the sexes together in a union that should be indissoluble, and productive of nothing but happiness. After that we have a duty to perform, which though it is generally termed melancholy, must not be made so on the present occasion. We shall go to deposit the body in Greenwood, that lovely place of rest for the dead, of one who we have every reason to believe died a true penitent, and is now with the spirit of Little Katy, where those who are murdered by the same cause that produced her death, will seldom ever be found. Our good missionary is with us, and we will have the wedding ceremony before the funeral one, because many go from that to the grave, none come from there to the marriage feast.”
Now all began to look around for the happy couple. Mrs. Morgan was dressed as though she might be a bride, but where was the groom? Mr. Lovetree whispered to Mrs. Meltrand, for she was there with Agnes and little Sis, and Mrs. Meltrand said that Frank would be there by the time.
“Now what Frank is that?” said Stella in a whisper to Mrs. May; “it must be Frank Barkley; and so it is Mrs. Morgan that is going to be married. Oh, dear, I am sorry, I was in hopes she would always live with her old uncle, as she does now.”
It was Frank Barkley who was expected. He was an old acquaintance of Mrs. Meltrand, a little wild in his youth, and came within an inch of the precipice over which so many young men tumble. Mr. Lovetree had said, “there is something good in the fellow,” and between him and Mrs. Meltrand, it was developed. He is a good fellow—a sober fellow now—and he is going to be married. Now the door bell rings.
“There that is him.”
Yes, it was him. He was told that all were waiting for him, and he said “he had come to the minute agreed upon.” Poor Stella shed tears. She cried to think her dear friend, Mrs. Morgan, was about to be married. She cried without a cause.
Mr. Lovetree said to Frank, “allow me to introduce you to my niece, Mrs. Morgan.”
He started back from her, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Stella rubbed hers. She was convinced now that they were not to be married. Poor Frank looked confused and in doubt. He approached near enough to Mrs. Morgan to whisper, “Lucy,” to which she replied, “Yes,” and he said, “God bless you then,” and turned away to meet his bride.
This was Agnes. And he took her by the hand, and led her up to the minister who was to pronounce them man and wife, and said—“Now, sir, we are ready.” Then a couple, who were to act as bridesmaid and bridegroom’s attendant, took their stations upon the floor. It was the opinion of all present that they would act as principals in a similar scene by and by.
Perhaps the reader would like to know who this neatly-dressed, bright couple are, for he has seen them several times before. It is one of Mr. Lovetree’s oddities that you see them now. You have seen them when they would not be very fitting guests in a parlor, but they wear wedding-garments now. This is Tom, who held the cup of cold water to the lips of the dying Madalina, and this is his reward. The neat, lovely girl at his side is Wild Maggie—Miss Margaret Reagan. The fine-looking hearty man that is leading up a well-dressed woman to the altar—another couple to be married—is one of the former customers of Cale Jones’s grocery. It is Maggie’s father. His bride is Mrs. Eaton. We have seen her and her two children in some of the early scenes of this volume. We saw them in the street then—we see them in the parlor now. We see them much better, much happier this time, and we see them just as we might see all the laboring class, if we could abolish the traffic in rum from the world. There are two other couples here to bear testimony to that fact. It was the particular request of Reagan and Maggie that they should be present to witness and rejoice over the power of the pledge to save. We have seen both these couples stand up to be married before the same minister who is now saying the solemn words of the marriage ceremony to those before him. You may see them as they were when you first saw them, if you will turn back to the plate facing the “Two Penny Marriage.”
Julia Antrim and Willie Reagan act as attendants upon this last couple, and Sally Reagan and Stella May, dressed in pure white—dresses of their own make—with wreaths of flowers in their hair, made by their own hands—served the company with cakes and fruits and tea and coffee. Then the carriages came to the door, and all went—not to a tavern, or drinking saloon for a riot, to commemorate the most serious event of life, but in all soberness due to the occasion, to consign the remains of poor Madame De Vrai to her final resting-place on the earth.
It is a pleasant drive to Greenwood Cemetery, and it is a pleasant place for the tombs of our friends. It is a good place to go to meditate, among the new-made graves in the fresh-turned earth, and among the proud monuments of those who have lain long enough beneath their marble coverings to be forgotten. I did not forget to look, as I passed along, at the rose bush which I saw planted by a widow at the grave of her rum-murdered husband. It was growing fresh and vigorously.
Now we stand around the open grave that is soon to be filled by another victim of a trade that feeds scores and starves millions—that saves one life and causes a thousand deaths—that consigns youth, innocence and beauty, equally with old age, to a premature grave. Now we lower this last victim—still young, beautiful, intelligent, full of sweetness of disposition and kindness of heart—into her grave. Now we look at the little cherub, the darling, sweet, much loved Adaleta, her orphan child, and now at her sister’s grave, then at the weeping circle, who stand and sob as the falling clods bring forth that hollow sound, never heard in any other place. Now the voice of him who says: “’Tis the last of earth,” “Let us pray,” breaks the charmed circle of intense silence.
Why is every eye upturned at the close? Did each listening ear fancy it heard the sound of an angel’s voice in the air, breathing the words,—“Will he Come?” “Will he Come?”
And did they expect to see the face of Little Katy in the clouds, looking down upon those she loved, paying this tribute to her mother, now sleeping by her side in the grave; now with her child in the spirit land of the blest?
Now the tall corn is waving o’er the mountain and glen,
And the sickle is reaping both the corn and the men;
And the child that was sleeping where the lamps dimly shone,
Like the corn, now is with’ring, in the vale all alone.
“Hot corn!” she was crying, in the night, all alone,
“Hot corn! here’s your nice hot corn!” in the grave all alone.
Where the chill rain was falling, sat the poor child asleep;
Where the lights nightly burning, city vigils help keep—
Where the ague was creeping through the blood and the bone
Of the child that was sleeping on the curb-stone alone.
“Hot corn!” she was crying, in the night all alone,
“Hot corn! here’s your nice hot corn!” in the grave all alone.
In a dark room lonely, lay the child all awake,
With a voice wildly crying, “Will he come, for my sake?”
Then a good man was praying, while to her dimly shone,
Poor fading light—ceases burning—and with God she’s alone.
“Hot corn!” she was crying, in the night all alone,
“Hot corn! here’s your nice hot corn!” in the grave all alone.
In the dark grave sleeping, while poor Katy’s at rest,
While the wild storm raging, ever sweeps o’er her breast—
While the mourners are weeping for the dead passed away,
Let us pledge by the living that the cause we will stay.
“Hot corn!” she was crying, in the night all alone,
“Hot corn! here’s your nice hot corn,” in the grave all alone.