DEATH.
The clover-blossom perfumed the summer air. The scythe and the sickle
still hung in the barn. Grass and grain swayed and whispered and sparkled
in the sun and wind. June loitered upon all the gentle hills, and
peaceful meadows, and winding brook sides. June breathed in the
sweet-brier that climbed the solid stone posts of the gate-way, and
clustered along the homely country stone wall. June blossomed in the
yellow barberry by the road-side, and in the bright rhodora and the pale
orchis in the dark woods. June sang in the whistle of the robin swinging
on the elm and the cherry, and the gushing warble of the bobolink
tumbling, and darting, and fluttering in the warm meadow. June twinkled
in the keen brightness of the fresh green of leaves, and swelled in the
fruit buds. June clucked and crowed in the cocks and hens that stepped
about the yard, followed by the multitudinous peep of little chickens.
June lowed in the cattle in the pasture. June sprang, and sprouted, and
sang, and grew in all the sprouting and blooming, in all the sunny new
life of the world.
White among the dark pine-trees stood the old house of Pinewood--a temple
of silence in the midst of the teeming, overpowering murmur of new life;
of silence and darkness in the midst of jubilant sunshine and universal
song, that seemed to press against the very windows over which the green
blinds were drawn.
But that long wave of rich life, as it glided across the lawn and in
among the solemn pine-trees, was a little hushed and subdued. The birds
sang in the trees beyond--the bobolinks gushed in the meadows below. But
there was a little space of silence about the house.
In the large drawing-room, draped in cool-colored chintz, where once
Gabriel Bennet and Abel Newt had seen Hope Wayne, on the table where
books had lain like porcelain ornaments, lay a strange piece of
furniture, long, and spreading at one end, smelling of new varnish,
studded with high silver-headed nails, and with a lid. It was lined
with satin. Yes, it was a casket.
The room was more formal, and chilly, and dim than ever. Puffs of air
crept through it as if frightened--frightened to death before they
got out again. The smell of the varnish was stronger than that of the
clover-blossoms, or the roses or honey-suckles outside in the fields and
gardens, and about the piazzas.
Upon the wall hung the portrait of Christopher Burt at the age of ten,
standing in clean clothes, holding a hoop in one hand and a book in the
other. It was sixty-four years before that the portrait was painted, and
if one had come searching for that boy he would have found him--by
lifting that lid he would have seen him; but in those sunken features,
that white hair, that startling stillness of repose, would he have
recognized the boy of the soft eyes and the tender heart, whose June
clover had not yet blossomed?
There was a creaking, crackling sound upon the gravel in the avenue, and
then a carriage emerged from behind the hedge, and another, and another.
They were family carriages, and stopped at the front door, which was
swung wide open. There was no sound but the letting down of steps and
slamming of doors, and the rolling away of wheels. People with grave
faces, which they seemed to have put on for the occasion as they put on
white gloves for weddings, stepped out and came up the steps. They were
mostly clad in sober colors, and said nothing, or conversed in a low,
murmuring tone, or in whispers. They entered the house and seated
themselves in the library, with the large, solemn Family Bible, and
the empty inkstand, and the clean pen-wiper, and the paper knife, and
the melancholy recluses of books locked into their cells.
Presently some one would come to the door and beckon with his finger to
some figure sitting in the silent library. The sitter arose and walked
out quietly, and went with the beckoner and looked in at the lid, and saw
what had once been a boy with soft eyes and tender heart. Coming back to
the library the smell of varnish was for a moment blown out of the wide
entry by the breath of the clover that wandered in, and reminded the
silent company of the song and the sunshine and bloom that were outside.
At length every thing was waiting. No more carriages came--no more
people. There was no more looking into the casket--no more whispering
and moving. The rooms were full of a silent company, and they were all
waiting. The clock ticked audibly. The wind rustled in the pine-trees.
What next? Would not the master of the house appear to welcome
his guests?
He did not come; but from the upper entry, at the head of the stairs,
near a room in which sat Hope Wayne, and Lawrence Newt, and Mrs. Simcoe,
and Fanny Dinks, and Alfred, and his parents, and a few others, was heard
the voice of Dr. Peewee, saying, "Let us pray!"
And he prayed a long prayer. He spoke of the good works of this life, and
the sweet promises of the next; of the Christian hero, who fights the
good fight encompassed by a crowd of witnesses; of those who do justice
and love mercy, and walk in the way of the Lord. He referred to our dear
departed brother, and eulogized Christian merchants, calling those
blessed who, being rich, are almoners of the Lord's bounty. He prayed for
those who remained, reminding them, that the Lord chastens whom he loves,
and that they who die, although full of years and honors, do yet go where
the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest, and at last
pass beyond to enter into the joy of their Lord.
His voice ceased, and silence fell again upon the house. Every body sat
quietly; the women fanned themselves, and the men looked about. Here was
again the sense of waiting--of vague expectation. What next?
Three or four workmen went into the parlor. One of them put down the lid
and screwed it tight. The casket was closed forever. They lifted it, and
carried it out carefully down the steps. They rolled it into a hearse
that stood upon the gravel, and the man who closed the lid buttoned a
black curtain over the casket.
The same man went to the front door and read several names from a paper
in a clear, dry voice. The people designated came down stairs, went out
of the door, and stepped into carriages. The company rose in the library
and drawing-room, and, moving toward the hall, looked at the mourners--at
Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe, at Mr. and Mrs. Budlong Dinks, Mr. and Mrs.
Alfred Dinks, and others, as they passed out.
Presently the procession began to move slowly along the avenue. Those who
remained stepped out upon the piazza and watched it; then began to bustle
about for their own carriages. One after another they drove away. Mr.
Kingo said to Mr. Sutler that he believed the will was in the hands of
Mr. Budlong Dinks, and would be opened in the morning. They looked around
the place, and remarked that Miss Wayne would probably become its
mistress.
"Mrs. Alfred Dinks seems to be a very--a very--" said Mr. Kingo, gravely,
pausing upon the last word.
"Very much so, indeed," replied Mr. Sutler, with equal gravity.
"And yet," said Mr. Grabeau, "if it had been so ordered that young Mr.
Dinks should marry his cousin, Miss Wayne, he would--that is, I suppose
he would--;" and he too hesitated.
"Undoubtedly," replied both the other gentlemen, seriously, "without
question it would have been a very good thing. Mr. Burt must have left a
very large property."
"He made every cent tell," said Mr. Sutler, taking the reins and stepping
into his carriage.
"Rather--rather--a screw, perhaps?" inquired Mr. Grabeau, gravely, as he
took out his whip.
"Awful!" replied Mr. Kingo, as he drove away.
The last carriage went, and the stately old mansion stood behind its
trees deserted. The casket and its contents had been borne away forever;
but somebody had opened all the windows of the house, and June, with its
song, and perfume, and sunshine, overflowed the silent chambers, and
banished the smell of the varnish and every thought of death.