Week after week glided1 away in the St. Clare mansion2, and the waves of life settled back to their usual flow, where that little bark had gone down. For how imperiously, how coolly, in disregard of all one's feeling, does the hard, cold, uninteresting course of daily realities move on! Still must we eat, and drink, and sleep, and wake again,--still bargain, buy, sell, ask and answer questions,--pursue, in short, a thousand shadows, though all interest in them be over; the cold mechanical habit of living remaining, after all vital interest in it has fled.
All the interests and hopes of St. Clare's life had unconsciously wound themselves around this child. It was for Eva that he had managed his property; it was for Eva that he had planned the disposal of his time; and, to do this and that for Eva,--to buy, improve, alter, and arrange, or dispose something for her,--had been so long his habit, that now she was gone, there seemed nothing to be thought of, and nothing to be done.
True, there was another life,--a life which, once believed in, stands as a solemn, significant figure before the otherwise unmeaning ciphers3 of time, changing them to orders of mysterious, untold4 value. St. Clare knew this well; and often, in many a weary hour, he heard that slender, childish voice calling him to the skies, and saw that little hand pointing to him the way of life; but a heavy lethargy of sorrow lay on him,--he could not arise. He had one of those natures which could better and more clearly conceive of religious things from its own perceptions and instincts, than many a matter-of-fact and practical Christian5. The gift to appreciate and the sense to feel the finer shades and relations of moral things, often seems an attribute of those whose whole life shows a careless disregard of them. Hence Moore, Byron, Goethe, often speak words more wisely descriptive of the true religious sentiment, than another man, whose whole life is governed by it. In such minds, disregard of religion is a more fearful treason,--a more deadly sin.
St. Clare had never pretended to govern himself by any religious obligation; and a certain fineness of nature gave him such an instinctive6 view of the extent of the requirements of Christianity, that he shrank, by anticipation7, from what he felt would be the exactions of his own conscience, if he once did resolve to assume them. For, so inconsistent is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems better than to undertake and come short.
Still St. Clare was, in many respects, another man. He read his little Eva's Bible seriously and honestly; he thought more soberly and practically of his relations to his servants,--enough to make him extremely dissatisfied with both his past and present course; and one thing he did, soon after his return to New Orleans, and that was to commence the legal steps necessary to Tom's emancipation9, which was to be perfected as soon as he could get through the necessary formalities. Meantime, he attached himself to Tom more and more, every day. In all the wide world, there was nothing that seemed to remind him so much of Eva; and he would insist on keeping him constantly about him, and, fastidious and unapproachable as he was with regard to his deeper feelings, he almost thought aloud to Tom. Nor would any one have wondered at it, who had seen the expression of affection and devotion with which Tom continually followed his young master.
"Well, Tom," said St. Clare, the day after he had commenced the legal formalities for his enfranchisement10, "I'm going to make a free man of you;--so have your trunk packed, and get ready to set out for Kentuck."
The sudden light of joy that shone in Tom's face as he raised his hands to heaven, his emphatic11 "Bless the Lord!" rather discomposed St. Clare; he did not like it that Tom should be so ready to leave him.
"You haven't had such very bad times here, that you need be in such a rapture12, Tom," he said drily.
"No, no, Mas'r! 'tan't that,--it's bein' a _freeman!_ that's what I'm joyin' for."
"Why, Tom, don't you think, for your own part, you've been better off than to be free?"
"_No, indeed_, Mas'r St. Clare," said Tom, with a flash of energy. "No, indeed!"
"Why, Tom, you couldn't possibly have earned, by your work, such clothes and such living as I have given you."
"Knows all that, Mas'r St. Clare; Mas'r's been too good; but, Mas'r, I'd rather have poor clothes, poor house, poor everything, and have 'em _mine_, than have the best, and have 'em any man's else,--I had _so_, Mas'r; I think it's natur, Mas'r."
"I suppose so, Tom, and you'll be going off and leaving me, in a month or so," he added, rather discontentedly. "Though why you shouldn't, no mortal knows," he said, in a gayer tone; and, getting up, he began to walk the floor.
"Not while Mas'r is in trouble," said Tom. "I'll stay with Mas'r as long as he wants me,--so as I can be any use."
"Not while I'm in trouble, Tom?" said St. Clare, looking sadly out of the window. . . . "And when will _my_ trouble be over?"
"When Mas'r St. Clare's a Christian," said Tom.
"And you really mean to stay by till that day comes?" said St. Clare, half smiling, as he turned from the window, and laid his hand on Tom's shoulder. "Ah, Tom, you soft, silly boy! I won't keep you till that day. Go home to your wife and children, and give my love to all."
"I 's faith to believe that day will come," said Tom, earnestly, and with tears in his eyes; "the Lord has a work for Mas'r."
"A work, hey?" said St. Clare, "well, now, Tom, give me your views on what sort of a work it is;--let's hear."
"Why, even a poor fellow like me has a work from the Lord; and Mas'r St. Clare, that has larnin, and riches, and friends,--how much he might do for the Lord!"
"Tom, you seem to think the Lord needs a great deal done for him," said St. Clare, smiling.
"We does for the Lord when we does for his critturs," said Tom.
"Good theology, Tom; better than Dr. B. preaches, I dare swear," said St. Clare.
The conversation was here interrupted by the announcement of some visitors.
Marie St. Clare felt the loss of Eva as deeply as she could feel anything; and, as she was a woman that had a great faculty13 of making everybody unhappy when she was, her immediate14 attendants had still stronger reason to regret the loss of their young mistress, whose winning ways and gentle intercessions had so often been a shield to them from the tyrannical and selfish exactions of her mother. Poor old Mammy, in particular, whose heart, severed15 from all natural domestic ties, had consoled itself with this one beautiful being, was almost heart-broken. She cried day and night, and was, from excess of sorrow, less skilful16 and alert in her ministrations of her mistress than usual, which drew down a constant storm of invectives on her defenceless head.
Miss Ophelia felt the loss; but, in her good and honest heart, it bore fruit unto everlasting17 life. She was more softened18, more gentle; and, though equally assiduous in every duty, it was with a chastened and quiet air, as one who communed with her own heart not in vain. She was more diligent19 in teaching Topsy,--taught her mainly from the Bible,--did not any longer shrink from her touch, or manifest an ill-repressed disgust, because she felt none. She viewed her now through the softened medium that Eva's hand had first held before her eyes, and saw in her only an immortal20 creature, whom God had sent to be led by her to glory and virtue21. Topsy did not become at once a saint; but the life and death of Eva did work a marked change in her. The callous22 indifference23 was gone; there was now sensibility, hope, desire, and the striving for good,--a strife24 irregular, interrupted, suspended oft, but yet renewed again.
One day, when Topsy had been sent for by Miss Ophelia, she came, hastily thrusting something into her bosom25.
"What are you doing there, you limb? You've been stealing something, I'll be bound," said the imperious little Rosa, who had been sent to call her, seizing her, at the same time, roughly by the arm.
"You go 'long, Miss Rosa!" said Topsy, pulling from her; "'tan't none o' your business!"
"None o' your sa'ce!" said Rosa, "I saw you hiding something,--I know yer tricks," and Rosa seized her arm, and tried to force her hand into her bosom, while Topsy, enraged26, kicked and fought valiantly27 for what she considered her rights. The clamor and confusion of the battle drew Miss Ophelia and St. Clare both to the spot.
"She's been stealing!" said Rosa.
"I han't, neither!" vociferated Topsy, sobbing28 with passion.
"Give me that, whatever it is!" said Miss Ophelia, firmly.
Topsy hesitated; but, on a second order, pulled out of her bosom a little parcel done up in the foot of one of her own old stockings.
Miss Ophelia turned it out. There was a small book, which had been given to Topsy by Eva, containing a single verse of Scripture29, arranged for every day in the year, and in a paper the curl of hair that she had given her on that memorable30 day when she had taken her last farewell.
St. Clare was a good deal affected31 at the sight of it; the little book had been rolled in a long strip of black crape, torn from the funeral weeds.
"What did you wrap _this_ round the book for?" said St. Clare, holding up the crape.
"Cause,--cause,--cause 't was Miss Eva. O, don't take 'em away, please!" she said; and, sitting flat down on the floor, and putting her apron32 over her head, she began to sob8 vehemently33.
It was a curious mixture of the pathetic and the ludicrous,--the little old stockings,--black crape,--text-book,--fair, soft curl,--and Topsy's utter distress34.
St. Clare smiled; but there were tears in his eyes, as he said,
"Come, come,--don't cry; you shall have them!" and, putting them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor35.
"I really think you can make something of that concern," he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder. "Any mind that is capable of a _real sorrow_ is capable of good. You must try and do something with her."
"The child has improved greatly," said Miss Ophelia. "I have great hopes of her; but, Augustine," she said, laying her hand on his arm, "one thing I want to ask; whose is this child to be?--yours or mine?"
"Why, I gave her to you, " said Augustine.
"But not legally;--I want her to be mine legally," said Miss Ophelia.
"Whew! cousin," said Augustine. "What will the Abolition36 Society think? They'll have a day of fasting appointed for this backsliding, if you become a slaveholder!"
"O, nonsense! I want her mine, that I may have a right to take her to the free States, and give her her liberty, that all I am trying to do be not undone37."
"O, cousin, what an awful `doing evil that good may come'! I can't encourage it."
"I don't want you to joke, but to reason," said Miss Ophelia. "There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian child, unless I save her from all the chances and reverses of slavery; and, if you really are willing I should have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or some legal paper."
"Well, well," said St. Clare, "I will;" and he sat down, and unfolded a newspaper to read.
"But I want it done now," said Miss Ophelia.
"What's your hurry?"
"Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in," said Miss Ophelia. "Come, now, here's paper, pen, and ink; just write a paper."
St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated the present tense of action, generally; and, therefore, he was considerably39 annoyed by Miss Ophelia's downrightness.
"Why, what's the matter?" said he. "Can't you take my word? One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming at a fellow so!"
"I want to make sure of it," said Miss Ophelia. "You may die, or fail, and then Topsy be hustled40 off to auction41, spite of all I can do."
"Really, you are quite provident42. Well, seeing I'm in the hands of a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;" and St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed43 in the forms of law, he could easily do, and signed his name to it in sprawling44 capitals, concluding by a tremendous flourish.
"There, isn't that black and white, now, Miss Vermont?" he said, as he handed it to her.
"Good boy," said Miss Ophelia, smiling. "But must it not be witnessed?"
"O, bother!--yes. Here," he said, opening the door into Marie's apartment, "Marie, Cousin wants your autograph; just put your name down here."
"What's this?" said Marie, as she ran over the paper. "Ridiculous! I thought Cousin was too pious45 for such horrid46 things," she added, as she carelessly wrote her name; "but, if she has a fancy for that article, I am sure she's welcome."
"Dhere, now, she's yours, body and soul," said St. Clare, handing the paper.
"No more mine now than she was before," Miss Ophelia. "Nobody but God has a right to give her to me; but I can protect her now."
"Well, she's yours by a fiction of law, then," said St. Clare, as he turned back into the parlor, and sat down to his paper.
Miss Ophelia, who seldom sat much in Marie's company, followed him into the parlor, having first carefully laid away the paper.
"Augustine," she said, suddenly, as she sat knitting, "have you ever made any provision for your servants, in case of your death?"
"No," said St. Clare, as he read on.
"Then all your indulgence to them may prove a great cruelty, by and by."
St. Clare had often thought the same thing himself; but he answered, negligently47.
"Well, I mean to make a provision, by and by."
"When?" said Miss Ophelia.
"O, one of these days."
"What if you should die first?"
"Cousin, what's the matter?" said St. Clare, laying down his paper and looking at her. "Do you think I show symptoms of yellow fever or cholera48, that you are making post mortem arrangements with such zeal49?"
"`In the midst of life we are in death,'" said Miss Ophelia.
St. Clare rose up, and laying the paper down, carelessly, walked to the door that stood open on the verandah, to put an end to a conversation that was not agreeable to him. Mechanically, he repeated the last word again,--_"Death!"_--and, as he leaned against the railings, and watched the sparkling water as it rose and fell in the fountain; and, as in a dim and dizzy haze50, saw flowers and trees and vases of the courts, he repeated, again the mystic word so common in every mouth, yet of such fearful power,--"DEATH!" "Strange that there should be such a word," he said, "and such a thing, and we ever forget it; that one should be living, warm and beautiful, full of hopes, desires and wants, one day, and the next be gone, utterly51 gone, and forever!"
It was a warm, golden evening; and, as he walked to the other end of the verandah, he saw Tom busily intent on his Bible, pointing, as he did so, with his finger to each successive word, and whispering them to himself with an earnest air.
"Want me to read to you, Tom?" said St. Clare, seating himself carelessly by him.
"If Mas'r pleases," said Tom, gratefully, "Mas'r makes it so much plainer."
St. Clare took the book and glanced at the place, and began reading one of the passages which Tom had designated by the heavy marks around it. It ran as follows:
"When the Son of man shall come in his glory, and all his holy angels with him, then shall he sit upon the throne of his glory: and before him shall be gathered all nations; and he shall separate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats." St. Clare read on in an animated52 voice, till he came to the last of the verses.
"Then shall the king say unto him on his left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire: for I was an hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, an ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: I was sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not. Then shall they answer unto Him, Lord when saw we thee an hungered, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee? Then shall he say unto them, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me."
St. Clare seemed struck with this last passage, for he read it twice,--the second time slowly, and as if he were revolving53 the words in his mind.
"Tom," he said, "these folks that get such hard measure seem to have been doing just what I have,--living good, easy, respectable lives; and not troubling themselves to inquire how many of their brethren were hungry or athirst, or sick, or in prison."
Tom did not answer.
St. Clare rose up and walked thoughtfully up and down the verandah, seeming to forget everything in his own thoughts; so absorbed was he, that Tom had to remind him twice that the teabell had rung, before he could get his attention.
St. Clare was absent and thoughtful, all tea-time. After tea, he and Marie and Miss Ophelia took possession of the parlor almost in silence.
Marie disposed herself on a lounge, under a silken mosquito curtain, and was soon sound asleep. Miss Ophelia silently busied herself with her knitting. St. Clare sat down to the piano, and began playing a soft and melancholy54 movement with the AEolian accompaniment. He seemed in a deep reverie, and to be soliloquizing to himself by music. After a little, he opened one of the drawers, took out an old music-book whose leaves were yellow with age, and began turning it over.
"There," he said to Miss Ophelia, "this was one of my mother's books,--and here is her handwriting,--come and look at it. She copied and arranged this from Mozart's Requiem55." Miss Ophelia came accordingly.
"It was something she used to sing often," said St. Clare. "I think I can hear her now."
He struck a few majestic56 chords, and began singing that grand old Latin piece, the "Dies Irae."
Tom, who was listening in the outer verandah, was drawn57 by the sound to the very door, where he stood earnestly. He did not understand the words, of course; but the music and manner of singing appeared to affect him strongly, especially when St. Clare sang the more pathetic parts. Tom would have sympathized more heartily58, if he had known the meaning of the beautiful words:
Recordare Jesu pie Quod sum causa tuar viae Ne me perdas, illa die Querens me sedisti lassus Redemisti crucem passus Tantus laor non sit cassus.[1]
[1] These lines have been thus rather inadequately59 translated:
Think, O Jesus, for what reason Thou endured'st earth's spite and treason, Nor me lose, in that dread60 season; Seeking me, thy wom feet hasted, On the cross thy soul death tasted, Let not all these toils61 be wasted. [Mrs. Stowe's note.]
St. Clare threw a deep and pathetic expression into the words; for the shadowy veil of years seemed drawn away, and he seemed to hear his mother's voice leading his. Voice and instrument seemed both living, and threw out with vivid sympathy those strains which the ethereal Mozart first conceived as his own dying requiem.
When St. Clare had done singing, he sat leaning his head upon his hand a few moments, and then began walking up and down the floor.
"What a sublime62 conception is that of a last judgment63!" said he,--"a righting of all the wrongs of ages!--a solving of all moral problems, by an unanswerable wisdom! It is, indeed, a wonderful image."
"It is a fearful one to us," said Miss Ophelia.
"It ought to be to me, I suppose," said St. Clare stopping, thoughtfully. "I was reading to Tom, this afternoon, that chapter in Matthew that gives an account of it, and I have been quite struck with it. One should have expected some terrible enormities charged to those who are excluded from Heaven, as the reason; but no,--they are condemned64 for _not_ doing positive good, as if that included every possible harm."
"Perhaps," said Miss Ophelia, "it is impossible for a person who does no good not to do harm."
"And what," said St. Clare, speaking abstractedly, but with deep feeling, "what shall be said of one whose own heart, whose education, and the wants of society, have called in vain to some noble purpose; who has floated on, a dreamy, neutral spectator of the struggles, agonies, and wrongs of man, when he should have been a worker?"
"I should say," said Miss Ophelia, "that he ought to repent65, and begin now."
"Always practical and to the point!" said St. Clare, his face breaking out into a smile. "You never leave me any time for general reflections, Cousin; you always bring me short up against the actual present; you have a kind of eternal _now_, always in your mind."
"_Now_ is all the time I have anything to do with," said Miss Ophelia.
"Dear little Eva,--poor child!" said St. Clare, "she had set her little simple soul on a good work for me."
It was the first time since Eva's death that he had ever said as many words as these to her, and he spoke66 now evidently repressing very strong feeling.
"My view of Christianity is such," he added, "that I think no man can consistently profess67 it without throwing the whole weight of his being against this monstrous68 system of injustice69 that lies at the foundation of all our society; and, if need be, sacrificing himself in the battle. That is, I mean that _I_ could not be a Christian otherwise, though I have certainly had intercourse70 with a great many enlightened and Christian people who did no such thing; and I confess that the apathy71 of religious people on this subject, their want of perception of wrongs that filled me with horror, have engendered72 in me more scepticism than any other thing."
"If you knew all this," said Miss Ophelia, "why didn't you do it?"
"O, because I have had only that kind of benevolence73 which consists in lying on a sofa, and cursing the church and clergy74 for not being martyrs75 and confessors. One can see, you know, very easily, how others ought to be martyrs."
"Well, are you going to do differently now?" said Miss Ophelia.
"God only knows the future," said St. Clare. "I am braver than I was, "ecause I have lost all; and he who has nothing to lose can afford all risks."
"And what are you going to do?"
"My duty, I hope, to the poor and lowly, as fast as I find it out," said St. Clare, "beginning with my own servants, for whom I have yet done nothing; and, perhaps, at some future day, it may appear that I can do something for a whole class; something to save my country from the disgrace of that false position in which she now stands before all civilized76 nations."
"Do you suppose it possible that a nation ever will voluntarily emancipate77?" said Miss Ophelia.
"I don't know," said St. Clare. "This is a day of great deeds. Heroism78 and disinterestedness79 are rising up, here and there, in the earth. The Hungarian nobles set free millions of serfs, at an immense pecuniary80 loss; and, perhaps, among us may be found generous spirits, who do not estimate honor and justice by dollars and cents."
"I hardly think so," said Miss Ophelia.
"But, suppose we should rise up tomorrow and emancipate, who would educate these millions, and teach them how to use their freedom? They never would rise to do much among us. The fact is, we are too lazy and unpractical, ourselves, ever to give them much of an idea of that industry and energy which is necessary to form them into men. They will have to go north, where labor81 is the fashion,--the universal custom; and tell me, now, is there enough Christian philanthropy, among your northern states, to bear with the process of their education and elevation82? You send thousands of dollars to foreign missions; but could you endure to have the heathen sent into your towns and villages, and give your time, and thoughts, and money, to raise them to the Christian standard? That's what I want to know. If we emancipate, are you willing to educate? How many families, in your town, would take a negro man and woman, teach them, bear with them, and seek to make them Christians83? How many merchants would take Adolph, if I wanted to make him a clerk; or mechanics, if I wanted him taught a trade? If I wanted to put Jane and Rosa to a school, how many schools are there in the northern states that would take them in? how many families that would board them? and yet they are as white as many a woman, north or south. You see, Cousin, I want justice done us. We are in a bad position. We are the more _obvious_ oppressors of the negro; but the unchristian prejudice of the north is an oppressor almost equally severe."
"Well, Cousin, I know it is so," said Miss Ophelia,--"I know it was so with me, till I saw that it was my duty to overcome it; but, I trust I have overcome it; and I know there are many good people at the north, who in this matter need only to be _taught_ what their duty is, to do it. It would certainly be a greater self-denial to receive heathen among us, than to send missionaries84 to them; but I think we would do it."
"_You_ would I know," said St. Clare. "I'd like to see anything you wouldn't do, if you thought it your duty!"
"Well, I'm not uncommonly85 good," said Miss Ophelia. "Others would, if they saw things as I do. I intend to take Topsy home, when I go. I suppose our folks will wonder, at first; but I think they will be brought to see as I do. Besides, I know there are many people at the north who do exactly what you said."
"Yes, but they are a minority; and, if we should begin to emancipate to any extent, we should soon hear from you."
Miss Ophelia did not reply. There was a pause of some moments; and St. Clare's countenance86 was overcast87 by a sad, dreamy expression.
"I don't know what makes me think of my mother so much, tonight," he said." I have a strange kind of feeling, as if she were near me. I keep thinking of things she used to say. Strange, what brings these past things so vividly88 back to us, sometimes!"
St. Clare walked up and down the room for some minutes more, and then said,
"I believe I'll go down street, a few moments, and hear the news, tonight."
He took his hat, and passed out.
Tom followed him to the passage, out of the court, and asked if he should attend him.
"No, my boy," said St. Clare. "I shall be back in an hour."
Tom sat down in the verandah. It was a beautiful moonlight evening, and he sat watching the rising and falling spray of the fountain, and listening to its murmur89. Tom thought of his home, and that he should soon be a free man, and able to return to it at will. He thought how he should work to buy his wife and boys. He felt the muscles of his brawny90 arms with a sort of joy, as he thought they would soon belong to himself, and how much they could do to work out the freedom of his family. Then he thought of his noble young master, and, ever second to that, came the habitual91 prayer that he had always offered for him; and then his thoughts passed on to the beautiful Eva, whom he now thought of among the angels; and he thought till he almost fancied that that bright face and golden hair were looking upon him, out of the spray of the fountain. And, so musing92, he fell asleep, and dreamed he saw her coming bounding towards him, just as she used to come, with a wreath of jessamine in her hair, her cheeks bright, and her eyes radiant with delight; but, as he looked, she seemed to rise from the ground; her cheeks wore a paler hue,--her eyes had a deep, divine radiance, a golden halo seemed around her head,--and she vanished from his sight; and Tom was awakened93 by a loud knocking, and a sound of many voices at the gate.
He hastened to undo38 it; and, with smothered94 voices and heavy tread, came several men, bringing a body, wrapped in a cloak, and lying on a shutter95. The light of the lamp fell full on the face; and Tom gave a wild cry of amazement96 and despair, that rung through all the galleries, as the men advanced, with their burden, to the open parlor door, where Miss Ophelia still sat knitting.
St. Clare had turned into a cafe, to look over an evening paper. As he was reading, an affray arose between two gentlemen in the room, who were both partially97 intoxicated98. St. Clare and one or two others made an effort to separate them, and St. Clare received a fatal stab in the side with a bowie-knife, which he was attempting to wrest99 from one of them.
The house was full of cries and lamentations, shrieks100 and screams, servants frantically101 tearing their hair, throwing themselves on the ground, or running distractedly about, lamenting102. Tom and Miss Ophelia alone seemed to have any presence of mind; for Marie was in strong hysteric convulsions. At Miss Ophelia's direction, one of the lounges in the parlor was hastily prepared, and the bleeding form laid upon it. St. Clare had fainted, through pain and loss of blood; but, as Miss Ophelia applied103 restoratives, he revived, opened his eyes, looked fixedly104 on them, looked earnestly around the room, his eyes travelling wistfully over every object, and finally they rested on his mother's picture.
The physician now arrived, and made his examination. It was evident, from the expression of his face, that there was no hope; but he applied himself to dressing105 the wound, and he and Miss Ophelia and Tom proceeded composedly with this work, amid the lamentations and sobs106 and cries of the affrighted servants, who had clustered about the doors and windows of the verandah.
"Now," said the physician, "we must turn all these creatures out; all depends on his being kept quiet."
St. Clare opened his eyes, and looked fixedly on the distressed107 beings, whom Miss Ophelia and the doctor were trying to urge from the apartment. "Poor creatures!" he said, and an expression of bitter self-reproach passed over his face. Adolph absolutely refused to go. Terror had deprived him of all presence of mind; he threw himself along the floor, and nothing could persuade him to rise. The rest yielded to Miss Ophelia's urgent representations, that their master's safety depended on their stillness and obedience108.
St. Clare could say but little; he lay with his eyes shut, but it was evident that he wrestled109 with bitter thoughts. After a while, he laid his hand on Tom's, who was kneeling beside him, and said, "Tom! poor fellow!"
"What, Mas'r?" said Tom, earnestly.
"I am dying!" said St. Clare, pressing his hand; "pray!"
"If you would like a clergyman--" said the physician.
St. Clare hastily shook his head, and said again to Tom, more earnestly, "Pray!"
And Tom did pray, with all his mind and strength, for the soul that was passing,--the soul that seemed looking so steadily110 and mournfully from those large, melancholy blue eyes. It was literally111 prayer offered with strong crying and tears.
When Tom ceased to speak, St. Clare reached out and took his hand, looking earnestly at him, but saying nothing. He closed his eyes, but still retained his hold; for, in the gates of eternity112, the black hand and the white hold each other with an equal clasp. He murmured softly to himself, at broken intervals113,
"Recordare Jesu pie-' ' ' ' Ne me perdas--illa die Querens me--sedisti lassus."
It was evident that the words he had been singing that evening were passing through his mind,--words of entreaty114 addressed to Infinite Pity. His lips moved at intervals, as parts of the hymn115 fell brokenly from them.
"His mind is wandering," said the doctor.
"No! it is coming HOME, at last!" said St. Clare, energetically; "at last! at last!"
The effort of speaking exhausted116 him. The sinking paleness of death fell on him; but with it there fell, as if shed from the wings of some pitying spirit, a beautiful expression of peace, like that of a wearied child who sleeps.
So he lay for a few moments. They saw that the mighty117 hand was on him. Just before the spirit parted, he opened his eyes, with a sudden light, as of joy and recognition, and said _"Mother!"_ and then he was gone!
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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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2
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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3
ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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4
untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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5
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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6
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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7
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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8
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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9
emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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10
enfranchisement
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| 选举权 | |
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11
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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12
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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13
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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14
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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15
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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17
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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18
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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19
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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20
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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21
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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22
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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23
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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24
strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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25
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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28
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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29
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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30
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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32
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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33
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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34
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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35
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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36
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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37
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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38
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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39
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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40
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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41
auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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42
provident
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| adj.为将来做准备的，有先见之明的 | |
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43
versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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44
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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45
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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46
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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47
negligently
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48
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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49
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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50
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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51
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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52
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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53
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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54
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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55
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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56
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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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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58
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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59
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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60
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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61
toils
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| 网 | |
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62
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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63
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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64
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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65
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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66
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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67
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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68
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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69
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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70
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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71
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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72
engendered
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| v.产生（某形势或状况），造成，引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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73
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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74
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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75
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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76
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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77
emancipate
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| v.解放，解除 | |
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78
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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79
disinterestedness
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80
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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81
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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82
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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83
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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84
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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85
uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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86
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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87
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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88
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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89
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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90
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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91
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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92
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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93
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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94
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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95
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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96
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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97
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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98
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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99
wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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100
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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102
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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103
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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104
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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105
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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106
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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107
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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108
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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109
wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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110
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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111
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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112
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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113
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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114
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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115
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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116
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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117
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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