Far Edgerley was deprived of its rector. Mr. Owen had gone to the coast
to attend the Diocesan Convention. But as he had started more than a
week before the time of its opening, and had remained a week after its
sessions were ended, Mrs. General Hibbard was of the opinion that he was
attending to other things as well. She had, indeed, heard a rumor before
he came that there was _some one_ (some one in whom he felt an interest)
elsewhere. Now it is well known that there is nothing more depressing
for a parish than a rector with an interest, large or small,
"elsewhere." St. John in the Wilderness was therefore much relieved when
its rector returned, with no signs of having left any portion of himself
or his interest behind him. And Mrs. General Hibbard lost ground.
Mr. Owen had started eastward on the day after his interview with the
two ladies of Carroll Farms; he had started westward on the day after
the arrival of a letter from his junior warden. This letter, written in
a clear, old-fashioned hand, decorated with much underscoring, was a
mixture of the formal phraseology of the warden's youth and that
too-modern lightness which he had learned in his later years, and of
which Miss Honoria so justly disapproved. He was supposed to be writing
about church business. Having finished that (in six lines), he added an
epitome of the news of the whole village, from the slippers which Miss
Sophy Greer, at the north end of Edgerley Street, was working for him
(the rector)--ecclesiastical borders, with the motto "Vestigia nulla
retrorsum"--down to the last new duck in the duck-pond at Chapultepec,
the south end of it. Among the items was this: "That amusing fellow
Dupont is, I am sorry to say, ill, and I suspect seriously. It is a
return of the fever he had in New York, I am told. He is at the Cove,
and the Walleys are taking care of him. It has leaked out" ("leaked
out"--oh, poor Miss Honoria!) "that he has no money, not even enough to
pay for his medicines--those musicians are always an improvident lot,
you know. But our lovely Madam Carroll, ministering angel that she is,
pitying lady of the manor, has supplied everything that has been
necessary. I have just heard, as I write these lines, that the poor
fellow is no better."
The rector, upon his return, busied himself in attending to the many
duties which had accumulated during his absence. He did not go to the
Farms immediately; but as he was making no calls for the present--owing
to the accumulation--the omission was not noticed. The musician was very
ill, and every one was sorry. His poverty was now generally known; but
Madam Carroll was doing all that was needful, and the poor wanderer
lacked nothing. That was what they called him now--the "poor wanderer;"
it was a delicate way of phrasing the fact that he was without means.
Far Edgerley people were as far as possible from being mercenary; they
had no intention of turning their backs upon Dupont because he was poor.
They were poor themselves, and, besides, that had never been the
Southern way. They would gladly have helped him now, had there been
opportunity, and they looked forward to helping him as far as they were
able so soon as he should have recovered his health. But at present
Madam Carroll was doing the whole, and the whole was only--could be
only--a doctor and medicines.
In all this there was nothing of Sara; that secret, the rector
perceived, had been carefully kept. There was nothing, too, of the
recent evil story concerning the musician, which he had related to Madam
Carroll. But he had been aware that if he himself should be silent, it
was probable that nothing of it would reach Far Edgerley, at least for
some time. For the mission station was remote, and the mountain people
were very proud in their way, proud and reticent. They had, too, an
opinion of Far Edgerley which was not unlike the opinion Far Edgerley
had of the lower town. Pride in these mountains seemed a matter of
altitudes. Owen knew that he was glad that these two hidden things had
remained undiscovered; that, at least, was clear in the conflicting
feelings that haunted his troubled heart.
He had returned on Monday evening; the week passed and Sunday dawned
without his having seen any of the Carrolls. They came to church as
usual; that is, the Major came, with his wife and little Scar; Miss
Carroll was absent. After service the Major waited. The Major always
waited. He waited to speak to his rector; it was a little attention he
always paid. Owen knew that he was waiting, knew that he was standing
there at the head of the aisle in his military attitude, with his
prayer-book under his arm; yet, although he knew it, it was some minutes
before he came forth. When at length he did appear, the Major advanced,
shook hands with him, and asked how he was. The rector replied that he
was quite well.
"Mr. Owen is probably the better for his journey," said Madam Carroll,
joining her husband in the open space at the foot of the chancel steps,
where the two men were standing. "A journey is always so pleasant, and
especially a journey to the coast."
"Ah, yes," said the Major; "your journey. I hope you enjoyed it?"
"The coast is considered so beneficial," continued Madam Carroll. "For
my own part, however, I prefer our mountain air; it seems to me more
bracing. And the Major thinks so too."
"Certainly," said the Major; "I have often made the observation." He
said a few words more, shook hands with the rector a second time, bowed,
and then offered his arm to his wife. She took it, with a farewell smile
to the rector, and they went down the aisle together through the empty
church towards the open door. And Owen, who had been looking forward
with eagerness, yet at the same time with dread, to his first meeting
with Miss Carroll or her mother, found himself almost able to smile over
the contrast between his own inward trouble and pain and the smiling
self-possession of the little lady of the Farms. There rose before him
her strange manner during the beginning of that last morning interview
in her drawing-room; and then her frightened face turned towards her
daughter; and then her effort to excuse to him that daughter's avowal.
But in thinking of all this, he soon lost himself in thoughts of the
daughter alone. This was not a new experience; he forced his mind to
turn from the haunting subject, in active preparations for the duties of
the afternoon.
In the meantime the Major and his wife had reached the porch. Scar was
waiting for them outside, sitting on a little tombstone in the sunshine,
and a number of Far Edgerley people were standing about the gate. The
Major bowed to these with much courtesy, and Madam Carroll with much
grace; they entered their carriage, Inches folded up the steps, climbed
to his perch, the mules started, and "the equipage" rolled away.
They reached home; but, in getting out, the bearing of the Major was not
quite so military as it had been at the church door. Inches came to his
assistance, and he took his wife's arm, and kept it until he was in his
own easy-chair again in the library. There he sat all the afternoon. His
wife--for she did not leave him--read aloud to Scar, and heard him
recite his little Sunday lessons. Then she took him on her lap and told
him Bible stories, speaking in a low tone, as the Major was now asleep.
They were close beside him, mother and little son. The child's face was
a curious mixture of her delicate rose-tinted prettiness and the bold
outlines of his father.
The sun, which had been journeying down the western sky, now touched the
top of Lonely Mountain, and immediately all its side was robed in purple
velvet, and its long summit tipped with gold. Still farther sank the
monarch; and now he was out of sight. Then rose such a splendor of color
in the west that it flooded even this quiet room across the valley,
turning the old paper on the walls into cloth of gold, and Scar's flaxen
hair into a little halo. The Major was now awake; he moved his
easy-chair to the open window in order to see the sunset. Scar got
another chair, climbed up, and sat down beside him. "I think, papa," he
said, after some moments of silence, during which he had meditatively
watched the glow--"I think it very probable that the little children who
have to die young live over in that particular part of heaven. For those
beautiful colors would amuse them, you know; and they must be very
lonely up in the sky, without their fathers and mothers."
"Fathers and mothers die too, sometimes, my boy," answered the Major,
his eyes turning misty. He took Scar's little hand, and held it in his
own.
His wife came up behind him and laid her hand on his shoulder. The old
Major looked up at her as she stood by his chair, with a great trust
and affection in his dim glance. For of late the Major had been growing
older rapidly; his eyes were losing their clearness of vision; there
were now many sounds he could not hear. But he always heard every
intonation of her voice; always saw the hue of her dress, and any little
change in its arrangement. Where she was concerned, his dulled senses
were young again.
"My sister Sara is coming," announced Scar. "I can see her. I can see
the top of her bonnet above the hedge, because she is so tall." And soon
the girl's figure appeared in sight. She opened the gate, and came up
the path towards the front door. Scar leaned forward and waved his hand.
She returned his greeting, looking at the group of three in the
window--father, mother, and child.
The Major could not see his daughter, but he turned his face in the
direction of the path and gave a little bow and smile. "She has been
gone a long time," he said to his wife; "almost all day."
His wife did not reply; she had left the room. She met Sara in the hall.
"I have come back for you, mamma," whispered the girl. "I think the time
has come."
"I will go immediately," said Madam Carroll, walking quickly towards the
stairs. Then she stopped. "But how can I? You would have to go with me.
And at this hour the Major would notice it. He would notice it if we
should both leave him. It would trouble him." She looked at Sara as she
stood uttering these sentences. Though her voice was quiet, the
suffering in her eyes was pitiable to see.
"Go, mamma. For this one time do not mind that. Judith will be here."
"No," answered Madam Carroll, with the same measured utterance; "the
Major must not be troubled, his comfort must always be first. But as he
is generally tired on Sunday evenings, perhaps he will go to bed early.
I must wait, in any case, until he is asleep."
"Mamma, you cannot bear it," urged Sara, following her.
"Instead of saying that, you should tell me if there is hope--hope that
I may not be too late," said Madam Carroll almost sternly, putting aside
the girl's outstretched hands.
"I think he may not--they said he would not--Mrs. Walley said, 'He will
pass at dawn,'" answered Sara, using the mountain phrase.
"I may then be in time," said Madam Carroll, in the same calm voice. She
turned the handle of the door. "You had better join us soon. Your father
has been asking for you." She went in, closing the door behind her.
When Sara entered, fifteen minutes later, she found her singing the
evening hymn to the Major. The Major liked to have her sing that hymn on
Sunday evenings, and Scar liked it too, because he could join in with
his soft little alto.
"The day is past and gone,
The evening shades appear;
O may we all remember well
The night of death draws near,"
sang the wife, in her sweet voice, sitting close to her husband's chair,
so that he could hear the words.
Not long afterwards the Major said he was tired; it was not often that
he was tired so early in the evening, but to-night, for some reason, he
felt quite weary; he thought he would go to bed. It was half-past eight;
at nine he and Scar were both asleep, and the two women left the house
together. Walley's Cove was not far from the Farms, but it was farther
up the mountain, where there was no road, only paths; they could not,
therefore, go in the carriage; they could have taken Caleb Inches with
them, but in that peaceful neighborhood escort for mere safety's sake
was not necessary, and they preferred to be alone.
"Take my arm, mamma," said Sara, as they began to ascend.
But Madam Carroll would not. She walked on unaided. Her step was firm.
She did not once speak.
In the small room under the roof, which he had occupied since his
return, lay the young man who was now dying; for it needed but one
glance to show that the summons had come: he was passing away. The
farmer's wife, much affected, knelt beside him; the doctor had gone, she
said, but a short time before; there was nothing more that he could do,
and he was needed elsewhere. The farmer himself was fanning the
unconscious face. Madam Carroll took the fan.
"Let me do that," she said. "I know you feel as if your children were
needing you down-stairs."
For the three little children had been left alone in the room below,
and, disturbed by the absence of father and mother, were not asleep; one
of them had begun to cry a little at intervals. The farmer went down,
his clumsy boots making no sound on the uncarpeted stairway, so careful
was his tread. Madam Carroll sat down on the edge of the poor bed, and
fanned the sleeping face; the eyes were closed, the long, dark lashes
lay on the thin cheeks, the breath came slowly through the slightly
parted lips. The farmer's wife began to pray in a low voice; she was a
devout Baptist, and she had had her pastor there in the afternoon, and
had fancied that the dying man was conscious for a time, and that he had
listened and responded. She had grown fond of the poor musician in
taking care of him, and the tears rolled down her sunburned cheeks as
she prayed. Madam Carroll remained calm; she moved the fan with even
sweep to and fro. She had taken off her bonnet, as the night was warm,
and with her golden curls, her pink-tinted complexion, and the same
pretty dress she had worn to church in the morning, she was a contrast
to the rough, bare room, to the farmer's wife, in her coarse homespun
gown, and even to her own daughter, who, in her plain black dress, her
face pale and sad, was standing near.
An hour passed. The child's wail below had now in it the unmistakable
sound of suffering. "Pray go down," said Madam Carroll; "I am sure your
baby needs you."
"But I don't like to leave you, Madam Carroll; it doesn't seem right,"
the woman answered, yet listening, too, at the same time, to the baby's
wail below.
"You need have no hesitation. I have had experience of this kind before;
and besides, I do not easily lose my self-possession."
"Yes, you _hev_ got a strong hold on yersel," said the farmer's wife
admiringly. They spoke in low tones, though sounds of earth could no
longer penetrate to that gray, still border-land which the sleeper's
soul was crossing. "I know you keer for the poor young man; you keer
for him as much as I do. For yer see he ain't got no mother to be sorry
for him, poor fellow," she continued, laying her rough hand tenderly on
his head; "and you and me knows, Madam Carroll, how his mother'd feel.
There ain't nothing like the way a mother keers for her boy."
Sara came forward. "I am sure your child needs you, Mrs. Walley," she
said; "please go down at once. I promise to call you if anything should
be needed."
The child was crying again, and the mother went. Sara softly closed the
door. It had not been closed until then.
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 passed 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.
[Illustration: "THE LAST LOOK ON EARTH."]
When she returned, Madam Carroll was arranging the pillows and
straightening the coarse 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 sturdy 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 passed 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 space, 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
assume. Then she passed 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
principally 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 assented 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 pass 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 assisted 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."
"Papa," said Sara, "now that we are all here, wouldn't it be a good time
to look at the new photographs?" The photographs were views of English
scenery which she had sent for; the Major had been in England, and liked
to relate reminiscences of his visit. He was interested at once.
"Certainly," he answered, with alacrity, "an excellent idea. Scar, get
the boxes."
Scar brought the boxes, and gave one of them to his mother; as he did so
his hand touched hers. "Why, mamma, are you so cold?" he said, in
surprise. "It is still summer, mamma, and quite warm."
"It is nothing," answered Madam Carroll; "only a passing chill. It is
over now."