For the Major Part 10

A little before midnight, Dupont, who had been for six hours in a lethargic sleep, stirred and woke. Madam Carroll bent over him. He knew her; he turned his head towards her and lay looking at her, his large eyes strangely solemn in their unmoving gaze. Sara came and stood on the other side of the bed, fanning him with the fan which her mother had relinquished. Thus he remained, looking at Madam Carroll, with his slow, partially comprehending stare. Then gradually the stare grew conscious and intelligent. And then it grew full of expression. It was wonderful to see the mind come back and look once more from the windows of its deserted house of clay--the last look on earth. Madam Carroll, bending towards him, returned his gaze; she had laid one hand on his forehead, the other on his breast; her fair hair touched his shoulder. She said nothing; she did not move; but all her being was concentrated in her eyes. The dying man also was silent: probably he had pa.s.sed beyond the power of speech. Thus, motionless, they continued to look at each other for a number of minutes. Then consciousness faded, the light left the windows; a few seconds more and the soul was gone. Madam Carroll, still in silence, laid her hand upon the heart and temples; all was still.

Then she gently closed the eyes.

Sara, weeping, came to her side. "Do not, Sara; some one might come in,"

said her mother. Her hands rested on the closed lids. Then, her task done, she stood for a moment beside the couch, silently, looking at the still face on the pillow. "You must go down and tell them," she said, in a composed tone. "Farmer Walley must go immediately for Sabrina Barnes and her sister. You can say that the funeral will be from this house, and that they had better ask their own minister--the one who was here this afternoon--to officiate."

"Oh, mamma, do not try to think of everything; it is not necessary now,"

said Sara, beseechingly.

"Do as I tell you, Sara," answered Madam Carroll. And Sara obeyed her.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "THE LAST LOOK ON EARTH."]

When she returned, Madam Carroll was arranging the pillows and straightening the coa.r.s.e sheet. She had folded the musician's thin hands over his breast and smoothed his disordered hair.

"The child has been in pain all this time," said the daughter, "and they are frightened; Farmer Walley will go for Sabrina Barnes and for the doctor at the same time. I told Mrs. Walley that she need not come up, that we would stay. In any case she could hardly leave her baby now. But oh, mamma, do not try to do that; do not try to do anything more."

"Yes, we will stay," said Madam Carroll. She took a chair, placed it beside the bed, so that it faced the figure lying there, and sat down; she put her feet on a footstool and folded her hands.

"Dear mamma, do not sit there looking like that; do not try to be so quiet. No one will be here for half an hour: cry, mamma; let yourself cry. You have this little time, and--and it will be your last."

"I will not cry," answered Madam Carroll; "I have not cried at all; tears I can keep back. But I should like to kiss him, Sara, if you will keep watch. He would like to have his mother kiss him once before he goes away." And bending forward as she sat, she kissed tenderly the forehead and the closed eyes. The touch overcame her; she did not weep, but, putting her arms round him, she sat looking at him piteously. "He was such a dear little baby!" she murmured. "I was so proud of him! He was always so handsome and so brave--such a st.u.r.dy little fellow! When he was only six years old he said, 'I want to grow up quick and be big, so that I can take care of you, mamma.'" She stroked back his dark hair.

"You meant no harm; none of it was your fault, Julian. Do not think your mother has any blame for you, my darling boy. But _now_ you know that I have not." She pa.s.sed her hands softly over his wasted cheeks. "May I put him in our--in your--lot in the church-yard, Sara? It will only take a little s.p.a.ce, and the lot is so large; there isn't any other place where I should like to have him lying. People would think it was our kindness; in that way it could be done. And do not put me too far from him, when my time comes; not _too_ far. For you know he was, Sara, my dear boy, my darling first-born son." She murmured this over and over, her arms round him. Then, "He is not lying quite straight," she said.

And she tried to move his head a little. But already it had the strange heaviness of death, it was like a weight of stone in her small hands. As she realized this, her face became convulsed for the first time; her whole frame was shaken by her grief.

Footsteps were now audible coming up the mountain path outside. "Mamma, they are here," said Sara, from her post at the window.

But Madam Carroll had already controlled herself. She rose, pressed one long, last kiss on the still face; then she went to the door and opened it. When Sabrina Barnes and her sister, the two old women who in that rural neighborhood filled the office of watching by the dead, came up the stairs, she was waiting for them. In a clear, low voice she gave them her directions: the expenses of the funeral she should herself a.s.sume. Then she pa.s.sed down the stairs with Sara on her way home, stopping to speak to the mother of the sick child in the lower room, and suggest some new remedy.

Mrs. Walley was distressed at the idea of their going home alone; but her husband had not yet returned, and the ladies did not wish to wait.

The path was safe enough; it was only the loneliness of it. But the ladies said that they did not mind the loneliness. They went down the mountain by the light of the stars, reaching the Farms a little after two o'clock. Dupont had died at midnight.

The funeral took place on Tuesday afternoon. The Baptist minister officiated, but all the congregation of St. John's were also present.

The farm-house was full, and people stood in the garden outside bare-headed and reverent. Then the little procession was formed, and went down the mountain towards St. John's, where the Carrolls, with their usual goodness, as everybody said, had given a place for the poor stranger in their own lot. The coffin was borne on men's shoulders in the old-fashioned way. It was covered with flowers. Every one had sent some, for they all remembered how fond he had been of their flower-gardens. They recalled his sweet voice and his songs, his merry ways with children. There was a pathos, too, in his poverty, because they had not suspected it. And so they all thought of him kindly as he was borne by on his way to his last rest.

Madam Carroll and Sara had not been at the farm-house. But they were at the grave. They were in waiting there when the procession entered the church-yard gate. They stood at the head of the coffin as it rested on the bier during the prayer. They stood there while it was lowered, and while the grave was being filled. This was the custom in Far Edgerley: everybody stayed. But when this task was completed the people dispersed; the services were considered at an end.

Flower had begun to shape the mound, and Madam Carroll still waited.

Seeing this, several persons came back, and a little group gathered.

"Ah, well, poor friendless young man, his life here is over," said Mrs.

Greer. "It is not quite straight, Flower; if you come here and look, you can see for yourself."

"I suppose he was a foreigner," said Miss Sophy; "he looked like one.

Didn't you say that you thought he was a foreigner, Madam Carroll?"

"He came from Martinique," answered the Major's wife; "he had lived there, I believe, or on one of the neighboring islands, almost all his life."

"Well, I call that foreign; I call all the West India Islands very foreign," said Miss Sophy. "They don't seem to me civilized. They are princ.i.p.ally inhabited by blacks."

"It was so sad that he had no money," remarked Mrs. Rendlesham. "We never dreamed of that, you know. Though I remember now that his clothes, when you came to really look at them, were a little--a little worn, perhaps."

"They were shabby," said Miss Corinna, not with unkindness, but simply as historian.

"Is it true, Madam Carroll, that he was a Baptist?" asked Miss Bolt, thoughtfully looking at the mound.

"The Walleys are Baptists, you know," answered the lady of the Farms.

"They had their pastor there several times, and on the last day Mrs.

Walley was sure that Mr.--Mr. Dupont was conscious, and that he joined in their prayers, and a.s.sented to what was said."

"I don't believe he was _anything_--I mean, anything in particular,"

said Mrs. General Hibbard, decisively. "He hadn't that air."

"Oh, dear Mrs. Hibbard, surely we should be charitable," said little Miss Tappen, who was waiting with a wreath of her best chrysanthemums to place upon the completed mound.

"Well, Amelia, can you say he _had_?" said the General's widow, in an argumentative tone, with her forefinger extended.

"I suppose he had neither father nor mother, nor any near relatives, poor fellow, as he never spoke of them," observed Miss Dalley; "that is, I never heard that he did. But perhaps he talked more freely to you, Madam Carroll. Did he ever mention his parents?"

"Mamma, I think we had better go now," interposed Sara Carroll. "You are very tired, I know."

"Oh, yes," said all the ladies, "do go, dear Madam Carroll." "You have had so much to do lately." "You are looking quite fatigued, really."

"Pray take care of yourself, for all our sakes."

Madam Carroll looked at the mound, which was now nearly completed. Then she made a little gesture of farewell to the group, and turned with her daughter towards the gate. All the ladies wore black dresses: it was the custom at Far Edgerley to wear black at funerals. Madam Carroll not only wore a black dress, but she had put a black ribbon on her little straw bonnet.

"Isn't it sweet of her to do that?" said Miss Dalley. "It makes it a sort of mourning, you know; and I like to think that the poor lonely fellow had at least one mourner to stand beside his grave."

The path took the two ladies past the study. Its door was open; the rector saw them, and came out. He offered his arm in silence to Madam Carroll. She took it. She was trembling a little. "I am excessively tired," she said, as if apologizing.

"Yes, I noticed it during the prayer."

"Then you were there?" She spoke mechanically, more as if she were filling the time that must pa.s.s before they could reach the gate than as though she cared for reply.

"I was both at the house and the grave," answered Owen. He did not look at Sara, who was on the other side of Madam Carroll. He could not.

During all these days and nights of Dupont's last illness, and since his death, he had been haunted by the thought of the grief she must be enduring. And yet to have seen the least trace of that grief in her face (and he should be sure to see it, though others might not), would have been intolerable to him. He did not, therefore, once look at her; he was a man of stern self-control as regarded his actions. But he could not help his feelings; and these gave him new suffering as he walked on, so near her, yet separated from her by the gulf of that bitter knowledge.

Their carriage was waiting at the gate; he a.s.sisted them in, bowed, and they drove away.

Scar and the Major were sitting at the open window of the library as the two ladies alighted at the door. "Mamma, it seems a _very_ long time since you and sister Sara went away," said the child, leaning out to speak to them. "Papa and I have taken a walk, and looked at all our pictures, and told all our stories; and now we are sitting here waiting for you."

"I will come in a few minutes, my pet," said Madam Carroll.

Sara went directly to the library, and sat down beside her father's chair. He wished to hear all about the funeral of "that poor young man,"

and she answered his questions at length, and told him everything she could think of in connection with it. The Major had known Dupont but vaguely; he had seen him at the reception, but the face had faded from his memory, and he should not have known him had they met again. He was a musical genius who had appeared among them. He was glad that he had appeared; it was a variety, and they had so little variety in Far Edgerley. Good music was always an addition, and Marion was very fond of music, very; he was glad she could have this little enjoyment. He had said this to Marion several times. But it was a sad end--very--to die alone among strangers, so far from home.

After some delay, Madam Carroll came in. She had taken off her black dress and put on a bright little gown of blue; her hair had been recurled, and there was a lovely color in her cheeks, and some sprays of cream-colored honeysuckle in her blue belt. As she came nearer, the Major's old eyes dwelt upon her with childlike pleasure and pride. "You are looking very charming this evening, Madam Carroll," he said, with his old-fashioned gallantry.

She sat down beside him. "Sara has been telling me about the funeral of that unfortunate young musician," he continued. "It was like you, Marion, to show so much kindness to the poor fellow, whoever he was, and I am glad you did it. Kindness to the unfortunate and the stranger has always been an especial characteristic of the Carroll family, and you have merely represented me in this matter, done what I, of course, should have done had I been well--had I quite recovered from my illness of last winter, you know. But I am much improved--much improved. This poor young man seems to have been utterly alone in the world, since even when he was dying, and knew that he was, he told no one, as I understand it, anything of his parentage, or life, or history, and left no letters or even a message for friends. It is really quite remarkable."