CHAPTER XIII.
"Apart she lived, and still she rests alone: Yon earthly heap awaits no flattering stone."
As it was mentioned in Edith's letter, the old woman who lived at thecottage by the cliff had become very ill, and it was apparent that shewould never leave her bed again. Edith had been assiduous in herkindness. Dinah had been with her a part of every day, and had watchedwith her many nights. Edith insisted, at last, that her poor slaveshould sleep, and resolved herself to take her place by the bedside.
The old woman had made herself feared and hated by the scatteredinhabitants. She was called a witch, and they deserted her sick bed,--athing most rare among the kind-hearted dwellers in a thinly-peopledneighborhood.
It was a threatening evening when Edith took her station by the lowpallet of the sick woman. The solitary hut, as I have mentioned, stoodon the edge of the little bay; and, at high water, it was almost washedby the waves.
How different the whole scene from that brilliant morning when Edithvisited the tenant of the cottage! A leaden cloud seemed now to rest onthe water, shutting out the fair sky; and, as the sullen waves rolled onthe beach, a close and stifling air oppressed Edith's spirits.
The old woman was alone: her poor grandchild, wearied with the servicesof the day, had fallen asleep with her hand in her grandmother's, andher head falling over the pillow: her long hair rested on the oldwoman's face, which she seemed not to have strength to remove.
Edith's first care was to take the little girl from her grandmother'spillow; and, laying her gently on the foot of the bed, she took off herown shawl, and made a pillow for her head. The old woman looked at herwithout speaking, and a tear coursed slowly down her cheek.
Edith hoped the hardness was melting from her heart. She took her handtenderly in hers, and whispered, "Cannot you put your trust in God?"
"I cannot pray--to God; no, it is too late. But"--and her voice wasinterrupted with short, impeded breath. She pointed to the child, andlooked at Edith with an expression so imploring, so full of tendernessfor the child, of agony that she must leave her, of appeal to Edith'scompassion, that the tears started to her eyes, and she answered, "Fearnothing: I will take care of her; I will be a mother to her."
The old woman pressed her hand: the look of agony passed away from herfeatures, and she closed her eyes to sleep.
Edith sat silently by the bedside. The tempest that had been gatheringover the water now shook the little dwelling: torrents of rain fell, andfrequent flashes lighted the little room. At last, a gust of wind fromthe broken window extinguished the taper, and Edith was in totaldarkness. It was a warm night for the season, and no fire on the hearthto afford a spark by which she could relight it.
Edith trembled; but she tried to be calm. She only feared the old womanwould die while she held her hand, which she imagined was alreadygrowing cold in hers.
The storm gradually passed away into silence. There was no sound but theshort, interrupted breath of her patient, and the soft, healthful,regular breathing of infancy. Edith longed for the dawn, and lookedanxiously through the little casement for the first gray streak. As faras the eye could reach, the bay was white with foam; but no light yetdawned upon it from the morning.
The old woman awoke. "I cannot see you," she said; "a film is over myeyes."
Edith told her the lamp had been extinguished with the wind.
"Alas!" she said; "and I must die as I have lived,--in darkness."
Edith assured her she was not then dying, and begged her to try to pray,or to listen while she endeavored, as far as she was able, to offer aprayer to God.
"No," she said; "I have lived without prayer, and I will not mock God onmy death-bed; but, if there is mercy for me, God may listen to you, pureand good as you have ever been."
Edith knelt; and, with lips trembling with timidity and responsibility,she uttered a low, humble, and earnest prayer.
The old woman seemed at first to listen; but her mind soon wandered:broken and, as it afterwards would almost appear, prophetic sentencesescaped from her lips: "Judgments are coming on this unhappyland,--delusions and oppression. Men and devils shall oppress theinnocent. The good like you, the innocent and good, shall not escape!"Then she looked at the sleeping child: "Can the lamb dwell with thetiger, or the dove nestle with the hawk? But you have promised: you willkeep your word; and when God counts his jewels"--
Edith arose from her knees, and trembled like a leaf. With inexpressiblejoy, her eyes fell on her own Dinah, standing looking on, with thedeepest awe in her countenance. She had risen before the dawn, and cometo relieve her young mistress, and had entered while Edith was kneeling.She now insisted on taking her place. Edith committed to her care thesleeping child, and then sought the repose the agitation of the nighthad rendered so necessary.
Before evening, the old woman died; and the next day she was to becommitted to the earth. Little preparation was necessary for herfuneral. No mourners were to be summoned from afar: there was no mockeryof grief. She had lived disliked by her neighbors. A few old women camefrom curiosity to see old Nanny, who had never been very courteous ininviting her neighbors to visit her; and they came now to see how shehad contrived to live upon nothing.
The poor child, since the death of her only friend, had refused to leavethe body, but sat subdued and tearless, like a faithful dog, watching bythe side of her grandmother, apparently expecting her to return again tolife.
Towards evening, a few persons were assembled in the hut to pay the lastChristian services to the dead. The old woman had always said she wouldbe buried, not in the common grave-yard, but near a particular rockwhere her last son who was drowned had been washed on shore and buried.
The neighbors were whispering among themselves, as to what was to be thefate of the poor child; every one avoiding to look at her, lest itshould imply some design to take charge of her. The child looked on withwonder, as though she hardly knew why they were there. She had clung toDinah as the best known among them; but, when the prayer was finished,and they began to remove the coffin, she uttered a loud cry, flew fromDinah's arms, and clung to the bier with all her strength.
The men instinctively paused and laid down their burden. The voice ofnature in that little child was irresistible. They looked at Edith, whohad now made known her promise to the grandmother to take care of thechild, to ask what they should do. She took the child in her arms andquieted her till all was over, and then, consigning her to the care ofDinah, she was taken to their own home.
Edith felt deeply the responsibility she had assumed in the care andinstruction of this child. She knew the tenderness of her own heart, heryielding nature, and feared she should err on the side of too muchindulgence. She said to herself, "She shall never need a mother's care.I know the heart of the orphan, and no unkindness shall ever make herfeel that she is motherless."
The poor little Phoebe had cried herself to sleep in Dinah's arms, andhad been put to bed in her soiled and dirty state. The next morning aclean new dress banished the memory of her grandmother, and her childishtears were dried, and grief forgotten.
Dinah had brought to aid her the power of soap and water, and haddisentangled her really soft and beautiful hair; and when Edith camedown, she would scarcely have known her again. The soil of many weekshad been taken from the child's skin, and, under it, her complexion wasdelicately fair: her cheeks were like pale blush roses, and her lipswere two crimson rosebuds. But with this youthful freshness, which wasindeed only the brilliancy of color, there was an expression in her facethat marred its beauty. It was coarse and earthly, and the absence ofthat confiding openness we love to see in children. It reminded one ofher old grandmother; although the one was fair, and smooth, andblooming, the other dark and wrinkled, a stranger would have said theywere related.
Edith called the child to her, and kissed her fair cheek; but when sheobserved the likeness to the old woman, she turned away with a slightshudder, and something like a sigh.
Dinah, an interest
ed observer of every passing emotion, said, softly,"The cloud is not gone over yet; a few more tears, and it will pass awayfrom her young brow, and then it will be fair as your own."
"It is too fair already," answered Edith; "so much beauty will be hardto guide; and then look at that dark, wayward expression."
"Say not so, my dear mistress;" and Dinah drew back the hair from herfair forehead. "Look at her beautiful face: in a few days your heartwill yearn to her as mine does to you."
"God grant I may be as faithful to my duty," said Edith; but this is notthe way to begin it; and she drew the child to her knee, and a fewmoments of playful caressing brought smiles to the young countenancethat nearly chased away the dark expression.
Edith, although superior to the age in which she lived, could not but beinfluenced by its peculiarities. The belief that an all-pervading andever-present Providence directed the most minute, as well as the moreimportant events of life, was common to the Puritans. She could not freeherself from a superstitious feeling that this child was to have, insome way or other, she knew not how, an unfavorable influence upon herhappiness. She was free, indeed, from that puerile superstition
"That God's fixed will from nature's wanderings learns."
But the tempest that shook the little building, the incoherent ravingsof the old woman's mind, and the solemn darkness of the hour when shepromised to take charge of the child, had made a deep impression on hermind.
It is true "that coming events cast their shadows before." Who has notfelt presentiments that certain persons and certain places are, in somemysterious way, we know not how, connected by invisible links with ourown destiny? The ancients gave to this hidden and mysterious power thename of Fate. The tragedy of life arises from the powerless efforts ofmortals to contend with its decrees. All that the ancient tragedy taughtwas, to bear evils with fortitude, because they were inevitable; but the"hope that is full of immortality" has taught us that they are thediscipline appointed by Heaven to perfect and prepare our souls fortheir immortal destiny.
Delusion; or, The Witch of New England Page 13
