الفصل الفصل 72 · 第72章

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 face--such, they said, as they had never seen,

and never could forget--and 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 unaltered--save that she every day became more

earnest and more grateful to them--faded 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 once--except to her--or

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

Sunday--a bright, clear, wintry afternoon--and 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 yourself--you 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 left--was 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 you--do 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, come--’ and

so submitted to be led away.

And now the bell--the bell she had so often heard, by night and day,

and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice--rung

its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful, so good.

Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless

infancy, poured forth--on crutches, in the pride of strength and

health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life--to

gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and

senses failing--grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and

still been old--the 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 window--a 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. Some--and

they were not a few--knelt 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 place--when 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 grave--in 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 them--then, 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 death--the

weary void--the sense of desolation that will come upon the strongest

minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at every turn--the

connection between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of

recollection, when every household god becomes a monument and every

room a grave--if 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 theme--save one--he 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 again--some faint and

shadowy hope, deferred from day to day, and making him from day to day

more sick and sore at heart--was 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 him--not unkindly--to 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 same--with no love or care for anything in life--a

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

church--upon 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 trodden--how 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 wind--how many visions of

what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be--rose 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.