47. CHAPTER XLVII.
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
[ILLUSTRATION]
"Dust To Dust."
[Description: 538EAF. Page 282. In-line Illustration. Image of a balding man in glasses standing in front of a small table with a book on it. There are three figures in the background who are hiding their faces.]
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.
