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CHAPTER 72
When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject of their grief, they
heard how her life had closed.
She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end
was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier
portion of the night, but as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could tell, by
what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her journeyings with the old
man; they were of no painful scenes, but of people who had helped and used them kindly,
for she often said 'God bless you!' with great fervour. Waking, she never wandered in her
mind but once, and that was of beautiful music which she said was in the air. God knows.
It may have been.
Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her
once again. That done, she turned to the old man with a lovely smile upon her faceósuch,
they said, as they had never seen, and never could forgetóand clung with both her arms
about his neck. They did not know that she was dead, at first.
She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were like dear friends to her.
She wished they could be told how much she thought about them, and how she had watched
them as they walked together, by the river side at night. She would like to see poor
Kit, she had often said of late. She wished there was somebody to take her love to Kit.
And, even then, she never thought or spoke about him, but with something of her old,
clear, merry laugh.
For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a quiet mind, and manner quite unalteredósave
that she every day became more earnest and more grateful to themófaded like the light
upon a summer's evening.
The child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon as it was day, with
an offering of dried flowers which he begged them to lay upon her breast. It was he who
had come to the window overnight and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces
of small feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which she lay, before he
went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, that they had left her there alone; and could not
bear the thought.
He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to them, just
as she used to be. He begged hard to see her, saying that he would be very quiet, and that
they need not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother all
day long when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish;
and indeed he kept his word, and was, in his childish way, a lesson to them all.
Up to that time, the old man had not spoken onceóexcept to heróor stirred from the bedside.
But, when he saw her little favourite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and
made as though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears
for the first time, and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done
him good, left them alone together.
Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take some rest,
to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him. And when the day came on, which must
remove her in her earthly shape from earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might
not know when she was taken from him.
They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was Sundayóa bright, clear,
wintry afternoonóand as they traversed the village street, those who were walking in
their path drew back to make way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some shook
the old man kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered while he tottered by, and many cried
'God help him!' as he passed along.
'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where his young guide's mother
dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are nearly all in black to-day? I have seen a mourning
ribbon or a piece of crape on almost every one.'
She could not tell, the woman said. 'Why, you yourselfóyou wear the colour too?' he
said. 'Windows are closed that never used to be by day. What does this mean?'
Again the woman said she could not tell.
'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what this is.'
'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him. 'Remember what you promised. Our way is to
the old green lane, where she and I so often were, and where you found us, more than once,
making those garlands for her garden. Do not turn back!'
'Where is she now?' said the old man. 'Tell me that.'
'Do you not know?' returned the child. 'Did we not leave her, but just now?'
'True. True. It was her we leftówas it?'
He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if impelled by a sudden
thought, crossed the road, and entered the sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant
were sitting before the fire. Both rose up, on seeing who it was.
The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the action of an instant, but
that, and the old man's look, were quite enough.
'Do youódo you bury any one to-day?' he said, eagerly.
'No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton.
'Aye, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed!'
'It is a holiday with us, good Sir,' returned the sexton mildly. 'We have no work to do
to-day.'
'Why then, I'll go where you will,' said the old man, turning to the child. 'You're sure
of what you tell me? You would not deceive me? I am changed, even in the little time
since you last saw me.'
'Go thy ways with him, Sir,' cried the sexton, 'and Heaven be with ye both!'
'I am quite ready,' said the old man, meekly. 'Come, boy, comeó' and so submitted to be
led away.
And now the bellóthe bell she had so often heard, by night and day, and listened to with
solemn pleasure almost as a living voiceórung its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so
beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy,
poured forthóon crutches, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of
promise, in the mere dawn of lifeóto gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose
eyes were dim and senses failingógrandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still
been oldóthe deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead in many shapes and
forms, to see the closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in, to that
which still could crawl and creep above it!
Along the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen snow that covered
it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under the porch, where she had sat when Heaven
in its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again; and the old church
received her in its quiet shade.
They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat musing, and laid
their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the coloured windowóa
window, where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds
sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in
the sunshine, some trembling, changing light, would fall upon her grave.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath,
many a stifled sob was heard. Someóand they were not a fewóknelt down. All were sincere
and truthful in their sorrow.
The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into
the grave before the pavement-stone should be replaced. One called to mind how he had
seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was
gazing with a pensive face upon the sky. Another told, how he had wondered much that one so
delicate as she, should be so bold; how she had never feared to enter the church alone
at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb the tower
stair, with no more light than that of the moon rays stealing through the loopholes in
the thick old wall. A whisper went about among the oldest, that she had seen and talked with
angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early death,
some thought it might be so, indeed. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing
down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four,
the church was cleared in time, of all but the sexton and the mourning friends.
They saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down. Then, when the dusk of evening
had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the placeówhen the bright
moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all
(it seemed to them) upon her quiet graveóin that calm time, when outward things and inward
thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in
the dust before themóthen, with tranquil and submissive hearts they turned away, and
left the child with God.
Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach, but let no man
reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty, universal Truth. When Death
strikes down the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting
spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world,
and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good
is born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations
that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven.
It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his own dwelling, under
some pretence, on their way back; and, rendered drowsy by his long ramble and late want of
rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep by the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and
they were careful not to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time, and when he at length
awoke the moon was shining.
The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching at the door for his
coming, when he appeared in the pathway with his little guide. He advanced to meet them,
and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow and
trembling steps towards the house.
He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding what he had left there, he returned
with distracted looks to the room in which they were assembled. From that, he rushed
into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling her name. They followed close upon him, and when
he had vainly searched it, brought him home.
With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, they prevailed upon him to
sit among them and hear what they should tell him. Then endeavouring by every little artifice
to prepare his mind for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words upon the
happy lot to which she had been removed, they told him, at last, the truth. The moment it
had passed their lips, he fell down among them like a murdered man.
For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving; but grief is strong, and he recovered.
If there be any who have never known the blank that follows deathóthe weary voidóthe sense
of desolation that will come upon the strongest minds, when something familiar and beloved
is missed at every turnóthe connection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object
of recollection, when every household god becomes a monument and every room a graveóif
there be any who have not known this, and proved it by their own experience, they can
never faintly guess how, for many days, the old man pined and moped away the time, and
wandered here and there as seeking something, and had no comfort.
Whatever power of thought or memory he retained, was all bound up in her. He never understood,
or seemed to care to understand, about his brother. To every endearment and attention
he continued listless. If they spoke to him on this, or any other themeósave oneóhe
would hear them patiently for awhile, then turn away, and go on seeking as before.
On that one theme, which was in his and all their minds, it was impossible to touch. Dead!
He could not hear or bear the word. The slightest hint of it would throw him into a paroxysm,
like that he had had when it was first spoken. In what hope he lived, no man could tell;
but that he had some hope of finding her againósome faint and shadowy hope, deferred from day
to day, and making him from day to day more sick and sore at heartówas plain to all.
They bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last sorrow; of trying whether
change of place would rouse or cheer him. His brother sought the advice of those who
were accounted skilful in such matters, and they came and saw him. Some of the number
staid upon the spot, conversed with him when he would converse, and watched him as he wandered
up and down, alone and silent. Move him where they might, they said, he would ever seek
to get back there. His mind would run upon that spot. If they confined him closely, and
kept a strict guard upon him, they might hold him prisoner, but if he could by any means
escape, he would surely wander back to that place, or die upon the road.
The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any influence with him. At times
he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or would even take such notice of his presence
as giving him his hand, or would stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other
times, he would entreat himónot unkindlyóto be gone, and would not brook him near. But,
whether alone, or with this pliant friend, or with those who would have given him, at
any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or some peace of mind, if happily the means could
have been devised; he was at all times the sameówith no love or care for anything in
lifeóa broken-hearted man.
At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his knapsack on his
back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little basket full of such things as she
had been used to carry, was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and wide,
a frightened schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the churchóupon
her grave, he said.
They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in the attitude of one who
waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, but kept a watch upon him all that day.
When it grew quite dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself,
'She will come to-morrow!'
Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and still at night he laid him
down to rest, and murmured, 'She will come to-morrow!'
And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave, for her. How many
pictures of new journeys over pleasant country, of resting-places under the free broad sky,
of rambles in the fields and woods, and paths not often troddenóhow many tones of that
one well-remembered voice, how many glimpses of the form, the fluttering dress, the hair
that waved so gaily in the windóhow many visions of what had been, and what he hoped
was yet to beórose up before him, in the old, dull, silent church! He never told them
what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering with a secret
satisfaction, they could see, upon the flight that he and she would take before night came
again; and still they would hear him whisper in his prayers, 'Lord! Let her come to-morrow!'
The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at the usual hour, and they
went to seek him. He was lying dead upon the stone.
They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in the church where they
had often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in hand, the child and the old man slept
together.