_
CHAPTER 72
When morning came, and they could speak more calmly on the subject
of their grief, they heard how her life had closed.
She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time,
knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak.
They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the
night, but as the hours crept on, she sunk to sleep. They could
tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of
her journeyings with the old man; they were of no painful scenes,
but of people who had helped and used them kindly, for she often
said 'God bless you!' with great fervour. Waking, she never
wandered in her mind but once, and that was of beautiful music
which she said was in the air. God knows. It may have been.
Opening her eyes at last, from a very quiet sleep, she begged that
they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old
man with a lovely smile upon her face--such, they said, as they
had never seen, and never could forget--and clung with both her
arms about his neck. They did not know that she was dead, at
first.
She had spoken very often of the two sisters, who, she said, were
like dear friends to her. She wished they could be told how much
she thought about them, and how she had watched them as they walked
together, by the river side at night. She would like to see poor
Kit, she had often said of late. She wished there was somebody to
take her love to Kit. And, even then, she never
thought or spoke about him, but with something of her old, clear,
merry laugh.
For the rest, she had never murmured or complained; but with a
quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered--save that she every day
became more earnest and more grateful to them--faded like the
light upon a summer's evening.
The child who had been her little friend came there, almost as soon
as it was day, with an offering of dried flowers which he begged
them to lay upon her breast. It was he who had come to the window
overnight and spoken to the sexton, and they saw in the snow traces
of small feet, where he had been lingering near the room in which
she lay, before he went to bed. He had a fancy, it seemed, that
they had left her there alone; and could not bear the thought.
He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being
restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see
her, saying that he would be very quiet, and that they need not
fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his young brother
all day long when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him.
They let him have his wish; and indeed he kept his word, and was,
in his childish way, a lesson to them all.
Up to that time, the old man had not spoken once--except to her--
or stirred from the bedside. But, when he saw her little
favourite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as
though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed,
he burst into tears for the first time, and they who stood by,
knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them
alone together.
Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him
to take some rest, to walk abroad, to do almost as he desired him.
And when the day came on, which must remove her in her earthly
shape from earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might
not know when she was taken from him.
They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed. It was
Sunday--a bright, clear, wintry afternoon--and as they traversed
the village street, those who were walking in their path drew back
to make way for them, and gave them a softened greeting. Some
shook the old man kindly by the hand, some stood uncovered while he
tottered by, and many cried 'God help him!' as he passed along.
'Neighbour!' said the old man, stopping at the cottage where
his young guide's mother dwelt, 'how is it that the folks are
nearly all in black to-day? I have seen a mourning ribbon or a
piece of crape on almost every one.'
She could not tell, the woman said. 'Why, you yourself--you wear
the colour too?' he said. 'Windows are closed that never used to
be by day. What does this mean?'
Again the woman said she could not tell.
'We must go back,' said the old man, hurriedly. 'We must see what
this is.'
'No, no,' cried the child, detaining him. 'Remember what you
promised. Our way is to the old green lane, where she and I so
often were, and where you found us, more than once, making those
garlands for her garden. Do not turn back!'
'Where is she now?' said the old man. 'Tell me that.'
'Do you not know?' returned the child. 'Did we not leave her, but
just now?'
'True. True. It was her we left--was it?'
He pressed his hand upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if
impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the
sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the
fire. Both rose up, on seeing who it was.
The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It was the
action of an instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite
enough.
'Do you--do you bury any one to-day)' he said, eagerly.
'No, no! Who should we bury, Sir?' returned the sexton.
'Aye, who indeed! I say with you, who indeed!'
'It is a holiday with us, good Sir,' returned the sexton mildly.
'We have no work to do to-day.'
'Why then, I'll go where you will,' said the old man, turning to
the child. 'You're sure of what you tell me? You would not
deceive me? I am changed, even in the little time since you last
saw me.'
'Go thy ways with him, Sir,' cried the sexton, 'and Heaven be with
ye both!'
'I am quite ready,' said the old man, meekly. 'Come, boy, come--'
and so submitted to be led away.
And now the bell--the bell she had so often heard, by night and
day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice--
rung its remorseless toll, for her, so young, so beautiful, so
good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and
helpless infancy, poured forth--on crutches, in the pride of
strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn
of life--to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes
were dim and senses failing--grandmothers, who might have died ten
years ago, and still been old--the deaf, the blind, the lame, the
palsied, the living dead in many shapes and forms, to see the
closing of that early grave. What was the death it would shut in,
to that which still could crawl and creep above it!
Along the crowded path they bore her now; pure as the newly-fallen
snow that covered it; whose day on earth had been as fleeting.
Under the porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought
her to that peaceful spot, she passed again; and the old church
received her in its quiet shade.
They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a
time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The
light streamed on it through the coloured window--a window, where
the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the
birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that
stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling,
changing light, would fall upon her grave.
Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Many a young hand
dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob was heard. Some--
and they were not a few--knelt down. All were sincere and
truthful in their sorrow.
The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers
closed round to look into the grave before the pavement-stone
should be replaced. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting
on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she
was gazing with a pensive face upon the sky. Another told, how he
had wondered much that one so delicate as she, should be so bold;
how she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but
had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb the
tower stair, with no more light than that of the moon rays stealing
through the loopholes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about
among the oldest, that she had seen and talked with angels; and
when they called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her
early death, some thought it might be so, indeed. Thus, coming to
the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to
others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the
church was cleared in time, of all but the sexton and the mourning
friends.
They saw the vault covered, and the stone fixed down. Then, when
the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the
sacred stillness of the place--when the bright moon poured in her
light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of
all (it seemed to them) upon her quiet grave--in that calm time,
when outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of
immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust
before them--then, with tranquil and submissive hearts they turned
away, and left the child with God.
Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will
teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn,
and is a mighty, universal Truth. When Death strikes down the
innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the
panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in shapes of mercy,
charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear
that sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, some good is
born, some gentler nature comes. In the Destroyer's steps there
spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path
becomes a way of light to Heaven.
It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his
own dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back; and, rendered
drowsy by his long ramble and late want of rest, he had sunk into
a deep sleep by the fireside. He was perfectly exhausted, and they
were careful not to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time,
and when he at length awoke the moon was shining.
The younger brother, uneasy at his protracted absence, was watching
at the door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway with
his little guide. He advanced to meet them, and tenderly obliging
the old man to lean upon his arm, conducted him with slow and
trembling steps towards the house.
He repaired to her chamber, straight. Not finding what he had left
there, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they
were assembled. From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's
cottage, calling her name. They followed close upon him, and when
he had vainly searched it, brought him home.
With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest,
they prevailed upon him to sit among them and hear what they should
tell him. Then endeavouring by every little artifice to prepare
his mind for what must come, and dwelling with many fervent words
upon the happy lot to which she had been removed, they told him, at
last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, he fell down
among them like a murdered man.
For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving; but grief is
strong, and he recovered.
If there be any who have never known the blank that follows death--
the weary void--the sense of desolation that will come upon the
strongest minds, when something familiar and beloved is missed at
every turn--the connection between inanimate and senseless things,
and the object of recollection, when every household god becomes a
monument and every room a grave--if there be any who have not
known this, and proved it by their own experience, they can never
faintly guess how, for many days, the old man pined and moped away
the time, and wandered here and there as seeking something, and had
no comfort.
Whatever power of thought or memory he retained, was all bound up
in her. He never understood, or seemed to care to understand,
about his brother. To every endearment and attention he continued
listless. If they spoke to him on this, or any other theme--save
one--he would hear them patiently for awhile, then turn away, and
go on seeking as before.
On that one theme, which was in his and all their minds, it was
impossible to touch. Dead! He could not hear or bear the word.
The slightest hint of it would throw him into a paroxysm, like that
he had had when it was first spoken. In what hope he lived, no man
could tell; but that he had some hope of finding her again--some
faint and shadowy hope, deferred from day to day, and making him
from day to day more sick and sore at heart--was plain to all.
They bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last
sorrow; of trying whether change of place would rouse or cheer him.
His brother sought the advice of those who were accounted skilful
in such matters, and they came and saw him. Some of the number
staid upon the spot, conversed with him when he would converse, and
watched him as he wandered up and down, alone and silent. Move him
where they might, they said, he would ever seek to get back there.
His mind would run upon that spot. If they confined him closely,
and kept a strict guard upon him, they might hold him prisoner, but
if he could by any means escape, he would surely wander back to
that place, or die upon the road.
The boy, to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any
influence with him. At times he would suffer the child to walk by
his side, or would even take such notice of his presence as giving
him his hand, or would stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the
head. At other times, he would entreat him--not unkindly--to be
gone, and would not brook him near. But, whether alone, or with
this pliant friend, or with those who would have given him, at any
cost or sacrifice, some consolation or some peace of mind, if
happily the means could have been devised; he was at all times the
same--with no love or care for anything in life--a broken-hearted
man.
At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with
his knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and
little basket full of such things as she had been used to carry,
was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a
frightened schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before,
sitting in the church--upon her grave, he said.
They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied him in
the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him
then, but kept a watch upon him all that day. When it grew quite
dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to
himself, 'She will come to-morrow!'
Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until night; and
still at night he laid him down to rest, and murmured, 'She will
come to-morrow!'
And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her
grave, for her. How many pictures of new journeys over pleasant
country, of resting-places under the free broad sky, of rambles in
the fields and woods, and paths not often trodden--how many tones
of that one well-remembered voice, how many glimpses of the form,
the fluttering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind--
how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be--
rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent church! He never
told them what he thought, or where he went. He would sit with
them at night, pondering with a secret satisfaction, they could
see, upon the flight that he and she would take before night came
again; and still they would hear him whisper in his prayers, 'Lord!
Let her come to-morrow!'
The last time was on a genial day in spring. He did not return at
the usual hour, and they went to seek him. He was lying dead upon
the stone.
They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and, in
the church where they had often prayed, and mused, and lingered
hand in hand, the child and the old man slept together.
Content of CHAPTER 72 [Charles Dickens' novel: The Old Curiosity Shop]
_