“This way of burying is an accident, such as no one would think of guessing,” said Oliver, sighing. “And this dried body may be here, to be sure, by some other accident that we know nothing about. I really wish, Roger, you would cover up the corpse again; at least, till we know whether we shall all die together here.”
This was what Roger could never bear to hear of. He always ran away from it: and so he did now. Dark as it was growing, he passed over to the house, and mounted the staircase (which stood as firm as ever, and looked something like a self-supported ladder). While he was vainly looking abroad for boats, which the shadows of the evening would have prevented his seeing if they had been there by hundreds, the brother and sister speculated on one thing more, in connection with the spectacle which had powerfully excited their imaginations. Mildred whispered to Oliver—
“If this old man and George lie together here, I wonder whether their spirits will know it, and come together in heaven.”
They talked for some time about the difference there must be between the thoughts of an ancient Briton, skin-clothed, a hunter of the wolf, and living on the acorns and wild animals of the forest, and the mind of a little child, reared in the Levels, and nourished and amused between the farm-yard and the garden. Yet they agreed that there must have been some things in which two so different thought and felt alike. The sky was over the heads of both, and the air around them, and the grass spread under their feet:—both, too, had, no doubt, had relations, by whom they had been beloved: and there is no saying how many things may become known alike to all, on entering upon the life after death. Oliver and Mildred resolved that if ever they should see Pastor Dendel again, they would ask him what he thought of all this. They agreed that they would offer to help Roger to seek for other curiosities, to make a show of; and would give him, for his own, all they could find, if he would but consent to bury this body again, decently, and beside little George.
The supper was eatable to-night; and so was the breakfast on the Sunday morning; and yet Roger scarcely touched anything. Oliver heard him tossing and muttering during the night, and was sure that he was ill. He was ill. He would not allow that he was so, however; and dressed himself again in the fine clothes he had taken from the chest. It was plain, from his shaking hand and his heavy eye, that he was too weak, and his head aching too much for him to be able to do any work; therefore Ailwin helped Oliver to finish the grave.
Roger inquired how the work proceeded: and it appeared that he meant to attend the funeral, when he found that it was to be in the afternoon. His companions did not believe him able: and he himself doubted it in his heart, resolved as he was to refuse to believe himself very ill, as long as he could keep off the thought. He found an excuse, however, for lying on the grass while the others were engaged at the grave. Oliver hinted to him, very gently, that Mildred and he had rather see him dressed in the shabbiest clothes of his own, than following their little brother to his grave in fine things which they could not but consider stolen. Roger was, in reality, only ashamed; but he pretended to be angry; and made use of the pretence to stay behind. While he lay, ill and miserable, remembering that little George alone had seemed to love him, and that George was dead, he believed it impossible that any one should mourn the child as he did in his heart.
Oliver himself took something from the chest—carefully and reverently; and carefully and reverently he put it back before night. There was a Bible, in Dutch; and with it a Prayer-book. He carried these, while Ailwin carried the body, wrapped in cloth, with another piece hanging over it, like a pall. As Oliver took Mildred’s hand, and saw how pale and sorrowful she looked (though quite patient), he felt how much need they all had of the consolations and hopes which speak to mourners from the book he held.
Ailwin did not understand Dutch; so Oliver thought it kindest and best to say in English what he read, both from the Bible and Prayer-book. He read a short portion of what Saint Paul says about the dead and their rising again. Then all three assisted in closing the tomb, firmly and completely; and then they kneeled down, and Oliver read a prayer for mourners from his book. They did not sing; for he was not sure that Mildred could go through a hymn. He made a sign to her to stay when Ailwin went home; and they two sat down on the grass above the bank, and read together that part of the Scripture in which Jesus desires his followers not to let their hearts be troubled, but to believe in God and in him.
Mildred was soon quite happy; and Oliver was cheered to see her so. He even began, after a time, to talk of the future. He pointed out how the waters had sunk, leaving now, he supposed, only about three feet of depth, besides mud and slime. This mud would make the soil more fertile than it had ever been, if the remainder of the flood could by any means be drawn off. He thought his father might return, and drain his ground, and rebuild the house. Then the bank they sat on would overlook a more beautiful garden than they had ever yet possessed. The whole land had been so well warped (that is, flooded with fertilising mud) that everything that was planted would flourish. They might get the finest tulip-roots from Holland, and have a bed of them; and another of choice auriculas, just below George’s tomb; and honeysuckles might be trained round it, to attract the bees.
Mildred liked to hear all this; and she said so; but she added that she should like it better still to-morrow, perhaps. She felt so strangely tired now, that she could not listen any more, even to what she liked to hear.