“Life’s a short summer,—man a flower—
He dies—alas! how soon he dies!”
For the next few weeks Meg and Robert were almost daily visitors at the
Walker home. They could see that Charlie was failing very rapidly, but
it was plain that his wife did not realize it, and that he did not wish
her to.
One day Robert drove up to Mrs. Weston’s in his uncle’s phaeton, and
Meg knew instinctively why he had come. Throwing on her hat, she ran
out and asked breathlessly, “Oh, is it about Charlie?”
His face was grave as he answered, “The doctor has just told me that he
cannot live through the day.”
“And Ada?”
“She knows,—now,” was the low reply.
“Poor, poor girl!” Meg said in quivering accents.
Robert looked at her with an expression he was himself unconscious of,
but she did not meet his eyes.
Nothing more was said by either till they reached the home. Tossing a
coin to a boy who was loafing in the yard, Robert asked him to take the
horse back to the stable.
They went upstairs, and Ada came from the room with eyes swollen and
red, and said, “You may go in,—he will want to see you.”
As they entered, and Charlie recognized them, he called out in his old
cheery tones, much weakened by suffering, “My two young friends, I’m so
glad to see you! Gertie, honey, get another chair so they can both sit
down. How’s my little cousin?” he continued, looking at Meg. “What’s
that, what’s that? No crying, little girl. We want to be cheerful and
happy here.”
Meg dried her tears and tried to smile at him. “That’s it,” he said.
“That’s one reason I’ve always loved this little cousin so much,” he
explained, turning his eyes toward Robert. “She’s always
cheerful,—never makes a fellow feel badly.”
“Perhaps we—or at least I—would better not stay in here,” said Robert,
noticing how exhausted he was.
Charlie put out his hand feebly and laid it on Robert’s—“Don’t go. I
might get blue. _She_—” nodding toward the other room,—“has gone all to
pieces, and you know I can’t bear to see her unhappy.”
He seemed at times, from then on, to lapse into unconsciousness, but
whenever one of them would rise to call Ada he would rouse himself and
ask them not to. “The poor girl loses control of herself when she sees
me. I’ll tell you when to call her. I don’t want to make it any worse
for her than is necessary.”
After a little while he said: “Robert, I don’t belong to any church,
but I’m not an infidel. I’ve tried to live right. Won’t you say a
little prayer for me? Not any set form, my boy, but just a prayer from
your heart.”
Kneeling by the bed, Robert made a simple, touching, earnest prayer in
a few sentences, a prayer which brought the quick tears again to Meg’s
eyes. At its conclusion Charlie said, “Thank you,” very softly, and
turned his head away for a few minutes.
When he spoke again it was lightly, to cover his emotion. “Meg, I’ve
played a great joke on Ada. She thinks we are poor. We _have_ had to
economize a good deal, but there will be fifty thousand dollars life
insurance for her after—well, after a while. That ought to keep her and
the young one from starving, don’t you think?”
The room grew very silent, for neither Meg nor Robert had any heart for
conversation. Gertie sat in her usual place at the foot of the bed,
dry-eyed and sad, watching her father’s white face.
Outside, in the hall, could be heard the murmur of voices. It seemed to
disturb the sick man at last, for, opening his eyes, he asked, “Is it
the neighbor-women waiting to see me die? Just tell them that I’m not
at home to callers, will you?”
He tried to laugh at his pitiful little joke, but the laugh was so
hollow that it startled even himself. He nodded as Robert and Meg
arose, and said, “Yes, send her in, I want her. Good-bye, dear
friends,—God bless you!”
They started for the door, when he called feebly, “Meg!”
“Yes,” she cried, running back to him.
“Don’t let the doctor or any one disturb us. I just want _her_,—and
little Gertie.” As she started again he caught her hand and said
entreatingly, “Be good to _her_, little cousin!”
When she found Ada and sent her in to him, she whispered, “If you need
me, call me, dear.”
From the room came the sound of Ada’s sobs, above which, with
remarkable strength, arose Charlie’s voice, encouraging and cheering.
Then weaker and weaker it grew,—and ceased altogether.
A moment later a wild shriek rang through the house, and Meg, running
in, found Ada in a swoon on the floor, while Gertie, the child, with an
expression of heart-breaking despair, was striving to lift her mother’s
head, though she never took her eyes from the still, white face on the
bed.
Meg and Robert left the house an hour later. There was nothing more
they could do, for the Masons, to which lodge Charlie belonged, were in
charge of the body, and the neighbor-women had taken possession of Ada
and Gertie.
It had grown almost dark, and the lights were beginning to shine in the
houses along the way. There was little said between them, for both were
too deeply stirred by the sad events of the day to talk much.
Finally Meg broke the silence. With a little catch in her voice, she
said: “I am so wicked! When poor Charlie told me that Ada would have
fifty thousand dollars, my first thought was that there were many men
whom that amount of money would tempt.”
As there was no reply, she said, with attempted lightness, “Will you
absolve me?”
Meeting her mood, though both their hearts were heavy, he answered,
“There is no need of absolution where there is no sin.”
Nothing more was said until her gate was reached, and she cried: “It
doesn’t pay! It doesn’t pay to love, and marry, and be separated by
death!”