The two women in Judge Henderson's office sat still in the sultry heat, looking out of the window over the sultry, sordid, solemn little town; how long they did not know; until now there came again across the heat-hazy spaces of the maples, over the hot tops of the two-storied brick buildings, the sound of the wailing music—the same music which may come from the noblest organs of the world, the same music which may have pealed on fields of battle after heroes have fallen, speaking, as music may, of a soul passed, of a life ended, so soon to be forgot. For a time let the wailing of the horns, the tapping even of these unskilled drums, record the duty of this man's fellows to give him at least a moment's full remembrance.
In this hot lifeless air of the somber Sabbath afternoon the burden of sorrow, the weight of solemnity, seemed yet heavier and more oppressive. If a soldier dies the music plays some lilting air which speaks forgetfulness on the march home; but now, for the second time came this reiterated mournful wailing for a passing soul. The band had learned its lesson by now. The dirge for the dead arose in a volume well regulated and sustained as the men marched from the hall at last for the final trial on the street.
To the tapping rhythm of the anthem of the dead, sometimes such a community as this does take thought—these uniforms are justified, these white plumes, these reversed swords are justified; for an humble man who has passed is dignified before his fellow men; and he has had his tribute. Sometimes at least men thus stand shoulder to shoulder, heads bared, and forget envy, backbiting, little jealousies, forget cynicism and ridicule. The diapason of the drums surely had its hearing. It sank deep to the soul of Aurora Lane, striking some chord long left unresponsive.
"Anne!" said she, her hand lying in that of the wet-eyed girl at her side, "it's over—for him."
The girl nodded. But after all, Anne was young. She raised her head in the arrogance of youth, even as there passed more and more remotely the mournful cadence of the drums.
"But he was old!" she said, defensively. All of youth and hope was in her protest.
Aurora turned upon her her own large eyes, dark-ringed today. Her mouth, long drawn down in resolution, was wondrous sweet now as it trembled a little in its once ripe red fulness. It became the mouth of a young woman—not made for sorrow. "You still can hope, then?" she smiled. And Anne nodded, bravely. So, seeing replica of her own soul, Aurora Lane could do no more nor less than to fold her in her own arms, the two understanding perfectly a thousand unsaid things.
"But come!" said Anne Oglesby at last. "We must make plans. There's a lot to be done yet, and we must start."
"I have no money," said Aurora Lane. "I don't know what to do."
"Money isn't everything," said Anne Oglesby, with the assurance of those who have all the money that they need. "I suppose I have plenty of money if my guardian will let me have it."