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 didn’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.