The invalid turned upon me her fine dark eyes, in which the light of
fever painfully burned, and motioned me to come near her. I sat down
by her, and took her burning hand in mine.
"I am dying, Mrs. Moodie, but they won't believe me. I wish you
would talk to mother to send for the doctor."
"I will. Is there anything I can do for you? - anything I can make
for you, that you would like to take?"
She shook her head. "I can't eat. But I want to ask you one thing,
which I wish very much to know." She grasped my hand tightly between
her own. Her eyes looked darker, and her feverish cheek paled. "What
becomes of people when they die?"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily; "can you be ignorant of a
future state?"
"What is a future state?"
I endeavoured, as well as I was able, to explain to her the nature
of the soul, its endless duration, and responsibility to God for
the actions done in the flesh; its natural depravity and need of
a Saviour; urging her, in the gentlest manner, to lose no time in
obtaining forgiveness of her sins, through the atoning blood of
Christ.
The poor girl looked at me with surprise and horror. These things
were all new to her. She sat like one in a dream; yet the truth
seemed to flash upon her at once.
"How can I speak to God, who never knew Him? How can I ask Him to
forgive me?"
"You must pray to him."
"Pray! I don't know how to pray. I never said a prayer in my life.
Mother; can you teach me how to pray?"
"Nonsense!" said Mrs. Joe, hurrying forward. "Why should you trouble
yourself about such things? Mrs. Moodie, I desire you not to put
such thoughts into my daughter's head. We don't want to know
anything about Jesus Christ here."
"Oh, mother, don't speak so to the lady! Do Mrs. Moodie, tell me
more about God and my soul. I never knew until now that I had a
soul."
Deeply compassionating the ignorance of the poor girl, in spite of
the menaces of the heathen mother - for she was no better, but rather
worse, seeing that the heathen worships in ignorance a false God,
while this woman lived without acknowledging a God at all, and
therefore considered herself free from all moral restraint - I bid
Phoebe good-bye, and promised to bring my bible, and read to her the
next day.
The gratitude manifested by this sick girl was such a contrast to
the rudeness and brutality of the rest of the family, that I soon
felt a powerful interest in her fate.
The mother did not actually forbid me the house, because she saw
that my visits raised the drooping spirits of her child, whom she
fiercely loved, and, to save her life, would cheerfully have
sacrificed her own. But she never failed to make all the noise she
could to disturb my reading and conversation with Phoebe. She could
not be persuaded that her daughter was really in any danger, until
the doctor told her that her case was hopeless; then the grief of
the mother burst forth, and she gave way to the most frantic and
impious complainings.
The rigour of the winter began to abate. The beams of the sun during
the day were warm and penetrating, and a soft wind blew from the
south. I watched, from day to day, the snow disappearing from the
earth, with indescribable pleasure, and at length it wholly
vanished; not even a solitary patch lingered under the shade of the
forest trees; but Uncle Joe gave no sign of removing his family.
"Does he mean to stay all the summer?" thought I. "Perhaps he never
intends going at all. I will ask him, the next time he comes to
borrow whiskey."
In the afternoon he walked in to light his pipe, and, with some
anxiety, I made the inquiry.
"Well, I guess we can't be moving afore the end of May. My missus
expects to be confined the fore part of the month, and I shan't move
till she be quite smart agin."
"You are not using us well, in keeping us out of the house so long."
"Oh, I don't care a curse about any of you. It is my house as long
as I choose to remain in it, and you may put up with it the best way
you can," and, humming a Yankee tune, he departed.
I had borne patiently the odious, cribbed-up place during the
winter, but now the hot weather was coming, it seemed almost
insupportable, as we were obliged to have a fire in the close room,
in order to cook our provisions. I consoled myself as well as I
could by roaming about the fields and woods, and making acquaintance
with every wild flower as it blossomed, and in writing long letters
to home friends, in which I abused one of the finest countries in
the world as the worst that God ever called out of chaos. I can
recall to memory, at this moment, the few lines of a poem which
commenced in this strain; nor am I sorry that the rest of it has
passed into oblivion: -
Oh! land of waters, how my spirit tires,
In the dark prison of thy boundless woods;
No rural charm poetic thought inspires,
No music murmurs in thy mighty floods;
Though vast the features that compose thy frame,
Turn where we will, the landscape's still the same.
