“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?” asked Vashti, as he came upon them at the church gate.
“I went for an hour’s quiet thought upon the hill,” he said. “I had need of it.”
“Wouldn’t you like to see the grave?” she asked.
The latest grave was always “the” grave in Dole.
“Yes,” he said, half dreamily. She led the way through the groups of men and women, who let the words die upon their lips as their glances followed the pair. There was little comment made, for Dole people were not prone to commit themselves, but they looked after Vashti and Sidney, and then into each other’s eyes, and resumed their interrupted conversations—feeling all had been said which required to be said, when a young man and woman deliberately singled themselves out from the others. Vashti Lansing was most contemptuous of the trivial usages of the people among whom she had been born and bred; but she estimated very correctly their weight in the social system in which she had a place. And in this respect she showed wisdom.
She threaded her way swiftly among the graves, but in her abrupt avoidance of the mounds there was more indication of impatience at the obstacles presented than of tenderness towards the sleepers, whose coverlets, though heaped so high, could not keep them warm.
And presently they reached the corner, where, like a wan finger pointing reproachfully at the sky, shone the white obelisk above Martha Didymus’ brown head.
The white shaft cast a slender shadow athwart a new-made grave at its side.