Life passes, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed with our friend Tom, till two years were gone. Though parted from all his soul held dear, and though often yearning2 for what lay beyond, still was he never positively3 and consciously miserable4; for, so well is the harp5 of human feeling strung, that nothing but a crash that breaks every string can wholly mar6 its harmony; and, on looking back to seasons which in review appear to us as those of deprivation7 and trial, we can remember that each hour, as it glided8, brought its diversions and alleviations, so that, though not happy wholly, we were not, either, wholly miserable.
Tom read, in his only literary cabinet, of one who had "learned in whatsoever9 state he was, therewith to be content." It seemed to him good and reasonable doctrine10, and accorded well with the settled and thoughtful habit which he had acquired from the reading of that same book.
His letter homeward, as we related in the last chapter, was in due time answered by Master George, in a good, round, school-boy hand, that Tom said might be read "most acrost the room." It contained various refreshing11 items of home intelligence, with which our reader is fully12 acquainted: stated how Aunt Chloe had been hired out to a confectioner in Louisville, where her skill in the pastry13 line was gaining wonderful sums of money, all of which, Tom was informed, was to be laid up to go to make up the sum of his redemption money; Mose and Pete were thriving, and the baby was trotting14 all about the house, under the care of Sally and the family generally.
Tom's cabin was shut up for the present; but George expatiated15 brilliantly on ornaments16 and additions to be made to it when Tom came back.
The rest of this letter gave a list of George's school studies, each one headed by a flourishing capital; and also told the names of four new colts that appeared on the premises17 since Tom left; and stated, in the same connection, that father and mother were well. The style of the letter was decidedly concise18 and terse19; but Tom thought it the most wonderful specimen20 of composition that had appeared in modern times. He was never tired of looking at it, and even held a council with Eva on the expediency21 of getting it framed, to hang up in his room. Nothing but the difficulty of arranging it so that both sides of the page would show at once stood in the way of this undertaking22.
The friendship between Tom and Eva had grown with the child's growth. It would be hard to say what place she held in the soft, impressible heart of her faithful attendant. He loved her as something frail23 and earthly, yet almost worshipped her as something heavenly and divine. He gazed on her as the Italian sailor gazes on his image of the child Jesus,--with a mixture of reverence24 and tenderness; and to humor her graceful25 fancies, and meet those thousand simple wants which invest childhood like a many-colored rainbow, was Tom's chief delight. In the market, at morning, his eyes were always on the flower-stalls for rare bouquets26 for her, and the choicest peach or orange was slipped into his pocket to give to her when he came back; and the sight that pleased him most was her sunny head looking out the gate for his distant approach, and her childish questions,--"Well, Uncle Tom, what have you got for me today?"
Nor was Eva less zealous27 in kind offices, in return. Though a child, she was a beautiful reader;--a fine musical ear, a quick poetic28 fancy, and an instinctive29 sympathy with what's grand and noble, made her such a reader of the Bible as Tom had never before heard. At first, she read to please her humble30 friend; but soon her own earnest nature threw out its tendrils, and wound itself around the majestic31 book; and Eva loved it, because it woke in her strange yearnings, and strong, dim emotions, such as impassioned, imaginative children love to feel.
The parts that pleased her most were the Revelations and the Prophecies,--parts whose dim and wondrous32 imagery, and fervent33 language, impressed her the more, that she questioned vainly of their meaning;--and she and her simple friend, the old child and the young one, felt just alike about it. All that they knew was, that they spoke34 of a glory to be revealed,--a wondrous something yet to come, wherein their soul rejoiced, yet knew not why; and though it be not so in the physical, yet in moral science that which cannot be understood is not always profitless. For the soul awakes, a trembling stranger, between two dim eternities,--the eternal past, the eternal future. The light shines only on a small qpace around her; therefore, she needs must yearn1 towards the unknown; and the voices and shadowy movings which come to her from out the cloudy pillar of inspiration have each one echoes and answers in her own expecting nature. Its mystic imagery are so many talismans35 and gems36 inscribed37 with unknown hieroglyphics38; she folds them in her bosom39, and expects to read them when she passes beyond the veil.
At this time in our story, the whole St. Clare establishment is, for the time being, removed to their villa40 on Lake Pontchartrain. The heats of summer had driven all who were able to leave the sultry and unhealthy city, to seek the shores of the lake, and its cool sea-breezes.
St. Clare's villa was an East Indian cottage, surrounded by light verandahs of bamboo-work, and opening on all sides into gardens and pleasure-grounds. The common sitting-room41 opened on to a large garden, fragrant42 with every picturesque43 plant and flower of the tropics, where winding44 paths ran down to the very shores of the lake, whose silvery sheet of water lay there, rising and falling in the sunbeams,--a picture never for an hour the same, yet every hour more beautiful.
It is now one of those intensely golden sunsets which kindles45 the whole horizon into one blaze of glory, and makes the water another sky. The lake lay in rosy46 or golden streaks47, save where white-winged vessels48 glided hither and thither49, like so many spirits, and little golden stars twinkled through the glow, and looked down at themselves as they trembled in the water.
Tom and Eva were seated on a little mossy seat, in an arbor50, at the foot of the garden. It was Sunday evening, and Eva's Bible lay open on her knee. She read,--"And I saw a sea of glass, mingled51 with fire."
"Tom," said Eva, suddenly stopping, and pointing to the lake, "there 't is."
"What, Miss Eva?"
"Don't you see,--there?" said the child, pointing to the glassy water, which, as it rose and fell, reflected the golden glow of the sky. "There's a `sea of glass, mingled with fire.'"
"True enough, Miss Eva," said Tom; and Tom sang-
"O, had I the wings of the morning, I'd fly away to Canaan's shore; Bright angels should convey me home, To the new Jerusalem."
"Where do you suppose new Jerusalem is, Uncle Tom?" said Eva.
"O, up in the clouds, Miss Eva."
"Then I think I see it," said Eva. "Look in those clouds!--they look like great gates of pearl; and you can see beyond them--far, far off--it's all gold. Tom, sing about `spirits bright.'"
Tom sung the words of a well-known Methodist hymn52,
"I see a band of spirits bright, That taste the glories there; They all are robed in spotless white, And conquering palms they bear."
"Uncle Tom, I've seen _them_," said Eva.
Tom had no doubt of it at all; it did not surprise him in the least. If Eva had told him she had been to heaven, he would have thought it entirely53 probable.
"They come to me sometimes in my sleep, those spirits;" and Eva's eyes grew dreamy, and she hummed, in a low voice,
"They are all robed in spotless white, And conquering palms they bear."
"Uncle Tom," said Eva, "I'm going there."
"Where, Miss Eva?"
The child rose, and pointed54 her little hand to the sky; the glow of evening lit her golden hair and flushed cheek with a kind of unearthly radiance, and her eyes were bent55 earnestly on the skies.
"I'm going _there_," she said, "to the spirits bright, Tom; _I'm going, before long_."
The faithful old heart felt a sudden thrust; and Tom thought how often he had noticed, within six months, that Eva's little hands had grown thinner, and her skin more transparent56, and her breath shorter; and how, when she ran or played in the garden, as she once could for hours, she became soon so tired and languid. He had heard Miss Ophelia speak often of a cough, that all her medicaments could not cure; and even now that fervent cheek and little hand were burning with hectic57 fever; and yet the thought that Eva's words suggested had never come to him till now.
Has there ever been a child like Eva? Yes, there have been; but their names are always on grave-stones, and their sweet smiles, their heavenly eyes, their singular words and ways, are among the buried treasures of yearning hearts. In how many families do you hear the legend that all the goodness and graces of the living are nothing to the peculiar58 charms of one who _is not_. It is as if heaven had an especial band of angels, whose office it was to sojourn59 for a season here, and endear to them the wayward human heart, that they might bear it upward with them in their homeward flight. When you see that deep, spiritual light in the eye,--when the little soul reveals itself in words sweeter and wiser than the ordinary words of children,--hope not to retain that child; for the seal of heaven is on it, and the light of immortality60 looks out from its eyes.
Even so, beloved Eva! fair star of thy dwelling61! Thou are passing away; but they that love thee dearest know it not.
The colloquy62 between Tom and Eva was interrupted by a hasty call from Miss Ophelia.
"Eva--Eva!--why, child, the dew is falling; you mustn't be out there!"
Eva and Tom hastened in.
Miss Ophelia was old, and skilled in the tactics of nursing. She was from New England, and knew well the first guileful63 footsteps of that soft, insidious64 disease, which sweeps away so many of the fairest and loveliest, and, before one fibre of life seems broken, seals them irrevocably for death.
She had noted65 the slight, dry cough, the daily brightening cheek; nor could the lustre66 of the eye, and the airy buoyancy born of fever, deceive her.
She tried to communicate her fears to St. Clare; but he threw back her suggestions with a restless petulance67, unlike his usual careless good-humor.
"Don't be croaking68, Cousin,--I hate it!" he would say; "don't you see that the child is only growing. Children always lose strength when they grow fast."
"But she has that cough!"
"O! nonsense of that cough!--it is not anything. She has taken a little cold, perhaps."
"Well, that was just the way Eliza Jane was taken, and Ellen and Maria Sanders."
"O! stop these hobgoblin' nurse legends. You old hands got so wise, that a child cannot cough, or sneeze, but you see desperation and ruin at hand. Only take care of the child, keep her from the night air, and don't let her play too hard, and she'll do well enough."
So St. Clare said; but he grew nervous and restless. He watched Eva feverishly69 day by day, as might be told by the frequency with which he repeated over that "the child was quite well"--that there wasn't anything in that cough,--it was only some little stomach affection, such as children often had. But he kept by her more than before, took her oftener to ride with him, brought home every few days some receipt or strengthening mixture,--"not," he said, "that the child _needed_ it, but then it would not do her any harm."
If it must be told, the thing that struck a deeper pang70 to his heart than anything else was the daily increasing maturity71 of the child's mind and feelings. While still retaining all a child's fanciful graces, yet she often dropped, unconsciously, words of such a reach of thought, and strange unworldly wisdom, that they seemed to be an inspiration. At such times, St. Clare would feel a sudden thrill, and clasp her in his arms, as if that fond clasp could save her; and his heart rose up with wild determination to keep her, never to let her go.
The child's whole heart and soul seemed absorbed in works of love and kindness. Impulsively72 generous she had always been; but there was a touching73 and womanly thoughtfulness about her now, that every one noticed. She still loved to play with Topsy, and the various colored children; but she now seemed rather a spectator than an actor of their plays, and she would sit for half an hour at a time, laughing at the odd tricks of Topsy,--and then a shadow would seem to pass across her face, her eyes grew misty74, and her thoughts were afar.
"Mamma," she said, suddenly, to her mother, one day, "why don't we teach our servants to read?"
"What a question child! People never do."
"Why don't they?" said Eva.
"Because it is no use for them to read. It don't help them to work any better, and they are not made for anything else."
"But they ought to read the Bible, mamma, to learn God's will."
"O! they can get that read to them all _they_ need."
"It seems to me, mamma, the Bible is for every one to read themselves. They need it a great many times when there is nobody to read it."
"Eva, you are an odd child," said her mother.
"Miss Ophelia has taught Topsy to read," continued Eva.
"Yes, and you see how much good it does. Topsy is the worst creature I ever saw!"
"Here's poor Mammy!" said Eva. "She does love the Bible so much, and wishes so she could read! And what will she do when I can't read to her?"
Marie was busy, turning over the contents of a drawer, as she answered,
"Well, of course, by and by, Eva, you will have other things to think of besides reading the Bible round to servants. Not but that is very proper; I've done it myself, when I had health. But when you come to be dressing75 and going into company, you won't have time. See here!" she added, "these jewels I'm going to give you when you come out. I wore them to my first ball. I can tell you, Eva, I made a sensation."
Eva took the jewel-case, and lifted from it a diamond necklace. Her large, thoughtful eyes rested on them, but it was plain her thoughts were elsewhere.
"How sober you look child!" said Marie.
"Are these worth a great deal of money, mamma?"
"To be sure, they are. Father sent to France for them. They are worth a small fortune."
"I wish I had them," said Eva, "to do what I pleased with!"
"What would you do with them?"
"I'd sell them, and buy a place in the free states, and take all our people there, and hire teachers, to teach them to read and write."
Eva was cut short by her mother's laughing.
"Set up a boarding-school! Wouldn't you teach them to play on the piano, and paint on velvet76?"
"I'd teach them to read their own Bible, and write their own letters, and read letters that are written to them," said Eva, steadily77. "I know, mamma, it does come very hard on them that they can't do these things. Tom feels it--Mammy does,--a great many of them do. I think it's wrong."
"Come, come, Eva; you are only a child! You don't know anything about these things," said Marie; "besides, your talking makes my head ache."
Marie always had a headache on hand for any conversation that did not exactly suit her.
Eva stole away; but after that, she assiduously gave Mammy reading lessons.
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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deprivation
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| n.匮乏；丧失；夺去，贫困 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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pastry
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| n.油酥面团，酥皮糕点 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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expatiated
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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concise
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| adj.简洁的，简明的 | |
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terse
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| adj.(说话，文笔)精炼的，简明的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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talismans
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| n.护身符( talisman的名词复数 )；驱邪物；有不可思议的力量之物；法宝 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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kindles
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的第三人称单数 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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guileful
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| adj.狡诈的，诡计多端的 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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68
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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69
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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70
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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71
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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72
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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73
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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74
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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75
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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76
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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77
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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