"As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone--alone."
--Shelley.
Meantime, Molly, having listened vaguely and without interest, yet with
a curious intentness, to his parting footfalls, as the last one dies
away draws herself up and, with a sigh or two, moves instinctively
toward the door she had pointed out to Luttrell.
No one has told her, no hint has reached her ears. It is not his usual
bedroom, yet she knows that within that door lies all that remains to
her of the brother so fondly loved.
With slow and lagging steps, with bent head and averted eyes, she
creeps tardily near, resting with her hand upon the lock to summon
courage to meet what must be before her. She feels faint,--sick with a
bodily sickness,--for never yet has she come face to face with Death.
At last, bringing her teeth firmly together, and closing her eyes, by
an immense effort she compels herself to turn the handle of the door,
and enters.
Letitia is seated upon the floor beside the bed, her head lowered, her
hands folded tightly in her lap. There is no appearance of mourning so
far as garments are concerned. Of course, considering the shortness of
the time, it would be impossible: yet it seems odd, out of keeping,
that she should still be wearing that soft blue serge, which is
associated with so many happy hours.
She is not weeping: there are no traces, however faint, of tears. Her
cheeks look a little thinner, more haggard, and she has lost the
delicate girlish color that was her chief charm; but her eyes, though
black circles surround them,--so black as to suggest the appliance of
art,--have an unnatural brilliancy that utterly precludes the
possibility of crying.
Some one has pulled a piece of the blind to one side, and a fitful
gleam of sunlight, that dances in a heartless manner, flickers in and
out of the room, nay, even strays in its ghastly mirth across the bed
where the poor body lies.
As Molly walks, or rather drags her limbs after her, into the chamber
(so deadly is the terror that has seized upon her), Letitia slowly
raises her eyes.
She evinces no surprise at her sister's home-coming.
"There is all that is left you," she says, in a hard, slow voice, that
makes Molly shiver, turning her head in the direction of the bed, and
opening and shutting her hands with a peculiarly expressive, empty
gesture. Afterward she goes back to her original position, her face
bent downward, her body swaying gently to and fro.
Reluctantly, with trembling steps and hidden eyes, Molly forces herself
to approach the dreaded spot. For the first time she is about to look
on our undying foe,--to make acquaintance with the last great change of
all.
A cold hand has closed upon her heart; she is consumed by an awesome,
unconquerable shrinking. She feels a difficulty in breathing; almost
she thinks her senses are about to desert her.
As she reaches the side of the bed opposite to where Letitia crouches,
she compels herself to look, and for the moment sustains a passionate
feeling of relief, as the white sheet that covers all alone meets her
gaze.
And yet not all. A second later, and a dread more awful than the first
overpowers her, for there, beneath the fair, pure linen shroud, the
features are clearly marked, the form can be traced; she can assure
herself of the shape of the head,--the nose,--the hands folded so
quietly, so obediently, in their last eternal sleep upon the cold
breast. But no faintest breathing stirs them. He is dead!
Her eyes grow to this fearful thing. To steady herself she lays her
hand upon the back of a chair. Not for all the world contains would she
lean upon that bed, lest by any chance she should disturb the quiet
sleeper. The other hand she puts out in trembling silence to raise a
corner of the sheet.
"I _cannot_," she groans aloud, withdrawing her fingers
shudderingly. But no one heeds. Three times she essays to throw back
the covering, to gaze upon her dead, and fails; and then at last the
deed is accomplished, and Death in all its silent majesty lies smiling
before her.
Is it John? Yes, it is, of course. And yet--_is it_? Oh, the
changeless sweetness of the smile,--the terrible shading,--the moveless
serenity!
Spell-bound, heart-broken, she gazes at him for a minute, and then
hastily, though with the tenderest reverence, she hides away his face.
A heavy, bursting sigh escapes her; she raises her head, and becomes
conscious that Letitia is upon her knees and is staring at her fixedly
across the bed.
There is about her an expression that is almost wild in its surprise
and horror.
"_You_ do not cry either," says she, in a clear, intense whisper.
"I thought I was the only thing on earth so unnatural. I have not wept.
I have not lost my senses. I can still think. I have lost my all,--my
husband,--John!--and yet I have not shed one single tear. And you,
Molly,--he loved you so dearly, and I fancied you loved him too,--and
still you are as cold, as poor a creature as myself."
There is no reply. Molly is regarding her speechlessly. In truth, she
is dumb from sheer misery and the remembrance of what she has just
seen. Are Letitia's words true? _Is_ she heartless?
There is a long silence,--how long neither of them ever knows,--and
then something happens that achieves what all the despair and sorrow
have failed in doing. In the house, through it, awakening all the
silence, rings a peal of childish laughter. It echoes; it trembles
along the corridor outside; it seems to shake the very walls of the
death-chamber.
Both the women start violently. Molly, raising her hands to her head,
falls back against the wall nearest to her, unutterable horror in her
face. Letitia, with a quick, sharp cry, springs to her feet, and then,
running to Molly, flings her arms around her.
"Molly, Molly," she exclaims, wildly, "am I going mad? That cannot--it
cannot be _his_ child."
Then they cling to each other in silent agony, until at length some
cruel band around their hearts gives way, and the sorrowful, healing,
blessed tears spring forth.
* * * * *
The last sad scene is over; the curtain has fallen. The final separation
has taken place. Their dead has been buried out of their sight.
The room in which he lay has been thrown open, the blinds raised, the
windows lifted. Through them the sweet, fresh wind comes rushing in.
The heartless sun--now grown cold and wintry--has sent some of its rays
to peer curiously where so lately the body lay.
The children are growing more demonstrative. More frequently, and with
less fear of reproof, the sound of their mirth is heard throughout the
silent house. Only this very morning the boy Lovat--the eldest born,
his father's idol--went whistling through the hall. No doubt it was in
a moment of forgetfulness he did it; no doubt the poor lad checked
himself an instant later, with a bitter pang of self-reproach; but his
mother heard him, and the sound smote her to the heart.
Mr. Buscarlet (who is a kind little man, in spite of his "ways and his
manners" and a few eccentricities of speech), at a word from Molly
comes to Brooklyn, and, having carefully examined letters, papers, and
affairs generally, turns their fears into unhappy certainty. One
thousand pounds is all that remains to them on which to live or starve.
The announcement of their ruin is hardly news to Letitia. She has been
prepared for it. The letter found crushed in her dead husband's hand,
although suppressing half the truth, did not deceive her. Even at that
awful moment she quite realized her position. Not so Molly. With all
the unreasoning trust of youth she hoped against hope until it was no
longer possible to do so, trying to believe that something forgotten
would come to light, some unremembered sum, to relieve them from
absolute want. But Mr. Buscarlet's search has proved ineffective.
Now, however, when hope is actually at an end, all her natural
self-reliance and bravery return to her; and in the very mouth of
despair she makes a way for herself and for those whom she loves to
escape.
After two nights' wakeful hesitation, shrinking, doubt, and fear, she
forms a resolution, from which she never afterward turns aside until
compelled to do so by unrestrainable circumstances.
"It is a very distressing case," says Mr. Buscarlet, blowing his nose
oppressively,--the more so that he feels for her very sincerely;
"distressing, indeed. I don't know one half so afflicting. I really
do--not--see what is to be done."
"Do not think me presumptuous if I say I do," says Molly. "I have a
plan already formed, and, if it succeeds, I shall at least be able to
earn bread for us all."
"My dear young lady, how? You with--ahem!--you must excuse me if I
say--your youth and beauty, how do you propose to earn your bread?"
"It is my secret as yet,"--with a faint wan smile. "Let me keep it a
little longer. Not even Mrs. Massereene knows of it. Indeed, it is too
soon to proclaim my design. People might scoff it; though for all that
I shall work it out. And something tells me I shall succeed."
"Yes, yes, we all think we shall succeed when young," says the old
lawyer, sadly, moved to keenest compassion at sight of the beautiful,
earnest face before him. "It is later on, when we are faint and weary
with the buffetings of fortune, the sad awakening comes."
"I shall not be disheartened by rebuffs; I shall not fail," says Molly,
intently. "However cold and ungenerous the world may prove, I shall
conquer it at last. Victory shall stay with me."
"Well, well, I would not discourage any one. There are none so worthy
of praise as those who seek to work out their own independence, whether
they live or die in the struggle. But work--of the sort you mean--is
hard for one so young. You have a plan. Well, so have I. But have you
never thought of your grandfather? He is very kindly disposed toward
you; and if he----"
"I have no time for 'buts' and 'ifs,'" she interrupts him, gently. "My
grandfather may be kindly disposed toward _me_, but not toward
_mine_,--and that counts for much more. No, I must fall back upon
myself alone. I have quite made up my mind," says Molly, throwing up
her small proud head, with a brave smile, "and the knowledge makes me
more courageous. I feel so strong to do, so determined to vanquish all
obstacles, that I know I shall neither break down nor fail."
"I trust not, my dear; I trust not. You have my best wishes, at least."
"Thank you," says Molly, pressing his kind old hand.