Chapter XXXIII: Immortality

“Slowly she faded—day by day
Her step grew feebler in our hall,
And fainter at each even fall
Her low voice died away;
Yet on her sweet, pale lips the while
Sat resignation’s holy smile.

Calm as a child to slumber soothed,
As if an angel’s hand had smoothed
The still, white features into rest—
Silent and cold, without a breath
To stir the drapery on her breast,
She slept, at last, in death.”—_Whittier._

In the political world, the next year, the spirit of party ran very high. A great moral as well as national problem agitated and divided the whole country. Mark Sutherland had been nominated by the Human Rights as their candidate for the United States Senate; he had accepted the nomination, and his friends laboured perseveringly and anxiously for his election. Rosalie, as usual, entered heart and soul into all his toils and anxieties. “And not for ourselves, dearest Mark,” she said; “not for our own profit or vainglory—for that were a poor, mean, narrow motive, and a low, selfish aim!—nor for your own personal honour, Mark—though to him who is worthy of it, to him who appreciates and accepts its duties and responsibilities in the right religious spirit, a seat in the American Senate is a great honour—nor even for your future fame, Mark—not from any or all these motives do I wish and pray and toil for your success—but for the sake of the place and power it will confer upon you of doing good; of speaking appropriate truths before the proper audience; of succouring the oppressed; of defending the right! For this I hope, and trust, and labour, and would, if need were, die!”

And upon another occasion, when he was vexed and harassed, wearied and despondent, and inclined to give up the object as little worthy the labour or the pains, she said to him, sweetly—for her very tone and manner had a soothing, encouraging spell—

“Remember what Mountford says: ‘Fame is a great thing for a man; it is silence for him when he wants to speak; it is a platform to preach from, more authoritative than a monarch’s throne; it is an affectionate attention from a multitude of hearers.’ Win fame, Mark—win the silence that will wait for your voice; the platform more authoritative than the monarch’s throne; the reverential attention of multitudes! Only let sounds of words of truth and justice fall upon the silence; principles of righteousness speak from the platform; and the confiding attention of the crowd be riveted to the glorious right!”

High, inspiring words of holiness like these fell daily from her lips. But Rosalie was dying—dying all the faster because her failing oil of life was consumed so ungrudgingly—her lamp of life shone so brightly, giving light where it was needed. Yes, Rosalie was dying, and her husband did not dream of it. Soothed into rest by her own sweet patience, and by the slowness and beauty of her failure, he did not dream of it! He left her with an increased burden of duties. At the urgent entreaties of his political friends, he went to show himself among the voters of the western counties. He was absent about a month, during which she toiled for “the good cause” faithfully—saying, when her strength was failing, “There will be time enough for rest hereafter; I must ‘work while it is yet day, for the night cometh wherein no man can work.’” And so, at the close of her daily school duties, she only left her school desk to seat herself in the editor’s vacant chair; and the hours that should have been spent in recreation and rest, and the hours that belonged to sleep, were devoted to the interests of “the paper,” and the cause it supported—to writing editorials, to reading and answering letters, examining exchanges, and propitiating or putting down opposition.

Mark Sutherland returned at the end of the month, with the flush of hope upon his cheek, the light of anticipated triumph in his eyes; but both light and colour faded from his face at the sudden sight of Rosalie’s brilliant eyes and burning cheeks. Was it strange that he never was struck by her illness, except upon meeting her after an absence? On the contrary, I think it was natural, for a few days accustomed him to her appearance; and her sweet patience, her cheerfulness and hope, mesmerised him into peace and joy. But this time, as he drew her into the house, he said—

“Indeed, Rosalie, you must, you _shall_ give up your school. You are not strong enough to continue it! Besides, it is not needful. My election is nearly certain, and then another sphere and other more graceful, agreeable, and lady-like amusements will await you, dearest.”

Rosalie smiled.

“Dear Mark, whenever you make a circuit among our hardy country people, you come back thinking me more fragile than ever, from the contrast.”

And so she reassured him—and oh! he was very willing to be reassured—and she continued the charge of her school—anxious for every good principle she could instil into the minds of her young pupils—saying to herself, “These little ones will hereafter be the wives and mothers of law-makers, as all our people are law-makers; they will live in an era when American women will have more influence upon the destinies of the nation than they dream of now. That influence must be for the right; I must sow the good seed, and cultivate it while I live, that, after I die, the germ may grow and flourish, and bring forth much fruit in other lives!”

But the day came at last when her school had to be closed, and the labourer was obliged to rest from her labour. It was during the afternoon session of a certain Friday—a day never to be forgotten by the young girls, who loved their gentle teacher with enthusiastic devotion—in the midst of one of the class-exercises—a little _extempore_ lecture on their history lesson—that a sudden failure of strength drew all colour from her face, her head dropped forward on her desk, and she swooned. And after this she did not teach. Her school was opened but once more, and for the last time. It was the day that she received her pupils for the purpose of bidding them farewell. It was quite a cheerful parting on her part, saddened by no vain repining; on theirs, darkened by no vision of the shadow of death. She made it the occasion of a little festival, that her children’s last reminiscences of her might be associated with pleasant thoughts; and yet it was an earnest parting, too, that she sought to sanctify to their good. In taking leave of each dear girl, she laid upon the heart of each a text of Scripture, suited to the individual need, to be remembered for her sake, and acted upon until they should meet again. For instance, Regina’s besetting sin was ambition, and with her she left, “What shall it profit a man, if he gain the _whole world_ and lose his own _soul_?” and to Augusta, who had a haughty mind, she said, “_Pride_ goeth before a fall, and a haughty spirit before destruction;” to Maud, who had a high temper, she whispered, “A _soft answer_ turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger;” to little Alice, who was poor and neglected, and inclined—child as she was—to despondency, she said, “Blessed are the _meek_, for they shall inherit the earth;” to Fanny, who was an impetuous, impassioned child of impulse, she said, “He that _ruleth his own spirit_ is greater than he who taketh a city.” All these the affectionate girls promised to lay to heart, and act upon until they should meet their teacher again. Only Fanny said she hoped their dear teacher would not treat them as Lycurgus did the Spartans, and leave them laws to be obeyed during her absence, and then go away, never to return. A cloud passed over the sunshine of Rosalie’s countenance; but after a little hesitation she said, “If I live, dear girls, I will return in the spring.” And soon after saying this, she dismissed all the bright-eyed, light-hearted children to their homes.

Rosalie had been directed by her physician to spend the fall and winter in the South. She had an old, standing engagement to spend a few months in Louisiana, at the house of the Lauderdales, with whom she had kept up a regular correspondence. But, previous to embracing this opportunity of benefitting her health by accepting the invitation, Rosalie wrote to her step-mother, telling her frankly of the feeble state of her health and the precarious tenure of her life, and of the order of her physician relative to her removal South; but expressing, at the same time, her dread of the inconvenience and trouble to which her illness and death at their house might possibly subject her host and hostess. There could but one possible answer to such a letter suggest itself to the mind of Rosalie’s affectionate step-mother—it was an answer in her own person. Accordingly, in about two weeks from the day that Rosalie mailed her letter to Mrs. Lauderdale, that lady arrived at Shelton, stopping only long enough at the hotel to write a note to Mark Sutherland, requesting him to break the news of her presence to Rosalie, and then come and take her to his wife.

The meeting between Rosalie and her step-mother was most affectionate and tender; but the patience of Rose and the self-possession of Mrs. Lauderdale restrained their mutual agitation. Mrs. Lauderdale had come, in person, to take her step-daughter to Louisiana, that she might nurse and watch over her during the journey. And as soon as she found herself alone with Mark Sutherland, she said—

“And you must let her go at once, dear Mark. She is iller than you think, and the mornings and the evenings are already chill in this bleak clime. Yes, dear Mark, you must let her go at once; and if you cannot possibly leave your political interests here, you may confidently trust her to me on the journey, for I love her as my own child, and will not leave her, night or day; and you can join us as soon as you get through this bustling and bothersome election.”

“No, I will never suffer her to go without me. I will accompany her—attend upon her. I will never leave her again. Let the election go. What is success to me, if I lose her? You do not know all that she has been to me—all that she is to me—Mrs. Lauderdale! I tell you, if she should sink into the grave, earth could not offer me a boon so welcome as the half of that grave!”

A few days after this, the whole party set out for the South, and in a little more than a week arrived at the beautiful home of the Lauderdales.

Lincoln Lauderdale met and received them with hearty cordiality. Upon the very day that Mrs. Lauderdale had left home to go up the river and visit her step-daughter, she had written to Mrs. Wells, and invited her to come to Louisiana to meet her daughter-in-law, and perhaps her son. This was done by the kind-hearted little lady with the purpose of effecting a reconciliation between the long-estranged members of the family. And now, on reaching home again, among the letters upon her boudoir table she found one from Mrs. Wells, saying that the Doctor had gone for an indefinitely long absence to California, and that she should be pleased to accept the invitation of Mrs. Lauderdale, who might expect her about the middle of the month.

“And the day after to-morrow is the sixteenth, so, Mark, you may daily expect the arrival of your mother,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, looking up from the epistle. And then she told them of her invitation.

Upon that very afternoon Mrs. Wells arrived. The meeting between herself and her son took place alone, by her request. It was not known what happened at that interview, except that she sobbed a long time on his shoulder, and that a full reconciliation ensued. To Rosalie her manner was very affectionate.

But Rosalie, from the time of her reaching Fairplains, failed very fast. She now seldom left her easy chair by the western window. It was the pleasantest and most beautiful room in the house that had been assigned the invalid—a room occupying the first floor of a whole wing of the house, and with its east windows looking far out upon the green alluvion that stretched to the sandy beach of the distant gulf, and with its west windows opened upon a beautiful garden, beyond which spread fields reaching out to the dark pine forest that stood stately against the sunset sky. At this sunset window was her favourite afternoon seat; and here, with her friends grouped around her, she smiled and conversed as sweetly, as cheerfully, if more faintly, than ever; or here, with only her husband seated by her side, she would sit with her thin hand in his, looking into his eyes with such infinite, unutterable love and devotion, as though she would transfuse all her mind, and soul, and spirit into his being, to strengthen him for his life’s trial and work.

Every mail brought him piles of letters from his political friends and correspondents: but they lay unanswered, unopened, upon his secretary. Sometimes she would inquire about the prospects of the party; he could tell her little, he thought little, he cared little about it; and she would fix her mild eyes in mournful wonder upon him.

Soon the pleasant seat by the sunset window was given up for the couch, and too soon the couch was left for the bed, from which she was never to rise again. Then it was, after her confinement to her bed, that they approached a subject that both had hitherto avoided discussing together—her dissolution. She still spoke to him of the good cause—the cause of justice, truth, and freedom. She implored him to let no individual sorrow draw him away from his labours of love to the whole race of man; rather to consecrate that sorrow to their service. And still she inquired about the prospects of his election to the Senate. She so much wished to see him in the possession of place and power before her death.

“Not alone for your sake, dearest Mark,” she still repeated; “not alone for your sake, but for the sake of humanity.”

“Oh, dearest Rosalie, why should I wish for success? When you have left me, what motive of action have I on earth?”

“A motive higher than any my life could supply you with—the service of God, the good of man.”

And all this time piles of accumulated and accumulating letters from political partisans lay unopened and unanswered, on his forsaken secretary.

At last the day of death came—a clear, beautiful day, that, after the noontide glory, waned without a cloud.

Rosalie lay sleeping on her bed; her pale gold hair, unconfined by a cap, lay floating on the pillow; her wan face was as white as the linen pillow-case against which it rested; her thin, blue-veined arm, uncovered from the loose muslin sleeve, was white as the counterpane upon which it lay. She slept calmly for a while, and then her bosom was agitated by a slight flutter; it came a second and a third time; and then, with a start and a gasp, she awoke, opened her eyes, and gazed wildly about for an instant; then her glance fell on Mrs. Wells, sitting watching by her bed-side. That lady arose, and, bending affectionately over the invalid, inquired—

“What do you want, dearest? Will you take your composing draught now?”

The eyes of the death-stricken Rosalie softened into self-possession and quietness, and she answered faintly, “No, mother, not now. Where is Mark?”

“On the piazza, dear.”

“Sleeping?”

“No; waiting for his darling to awake.”

“Send him to me, mother. I wish to see him alone.” The lady stooped, and pressed a kiss upon the chill brow of the dying girl, and without suspicion went out; and in half a minute Mark stood over Rosalie.

She raised her eyes, a little wild with the life-struggle, to his pale face.

“My hour is come; I am going, dear Mark; I am going! Turn me over on my right side, facing you. Sit down by me, so that I can see you to the last! Hold my hand!”

Agonised with grief, yet by a powerful will controlling his feelings, he raised her light form, and turned her as she desired. And then he wished to call assistance; but with an imploring look and gesture she arrested his purpose, and said,

“Useless, dear Mark! useless all. Oh! sit near me, where I can see you till the last, and so—part in peace sweetly.”

She lay upon her right side, with her face towards him, with her fair hair floating back upon the pillow, with her blue eyes raised with unspeakable love to his countenance, with her left hand lying helplessly over the white counterpane.

He sunk down into the chair by her side; he took her chill hand in his own warm one; he gazed upon her dying face. And, as he gazed, a slight spasm agitated her fair throat, quivered over the sweet lips, and gave place to a heavenly smile. She sought to speak, but her words sank in quivering music—her eyes fixed upon his eyes—pouring their last light in streams of unutterable love into his soul—and so they remained, until the heavenly spirit left them dim in death.

And still he sat gazing upon the dead face, holding the cold hand, until a noise in the piazza disturbed him, and words and tones of joy and triumph fell upon his ear—and a familiar voice, asking—“Where is Mark? Where is he? I swore to be the first to congratulate him, and I’ll do it! I will not be hindered, I tell you!” and in another instant Uncle Billy burst into the room, and, overjoyed, bewildered, _blinded_, rushed upon Mark, who had risen to prevent him, seized both his hands, exclaiming exultingly—

“Judge Sutherland, you are elected, sir! Sir, by an unprecedented vote! Allow me the honour of being the first to pay my respects to our Senator!”

Mark Sutherland grasped his visitor’s hand with overmastering force, and silently pointed to the still, pale form upon the bed.

Mr. Bolling drew nigh, in sudden awe and grief; and his heart almost stood still, as he inquired, with hushed tones—

“_Dead?_”

“No!” replied Mark Sutherland, reverently,—“IMMORTAL!”