LIFE AND DEATH
Rousing ourselves as we left the shadows of the Mauvaise Terre, we put spurs to our horses, and ere the sun was half-way up the sky, rode into the town of Little Sandy. This on a day like that upon which I left it years before, but now how changed! The Dragon, once the center of so much stir, stood forlorn and empty, its sign hanging half obliterated in the morning air, as if in shame of its abandonment. About the town, the houses once so full of life and sprightly gayety were now for the most part empty and fast falling to pieces for lack of care. The busy streets, too, were overgrown with grasses and sprouting trees, so that the footfall of our horses could scarce be heard as we rode slowly forward. No need to tell the reason of this decay, and that some new place was luring the people to other homes.
Sorrowing over what I saw, we rode at a walk through the dying town into the country beyond. Here, nearing my aunt's house, we turned into a quiet path, and doing so, came full upon the lawyer Moth. He, keeping his horse at a gallop, raised his hat and saluted us with every show of kindness and good will as he passed, but without stopping or speech of any kind. Returning his salutation, we went on, and now more soberly, until presently our path brought us to the little churchyard where my father and mother lay buried. Here, giving my horse to Fox, I went forward alone, gathering as I crossed the intervening space the grasses and wild flowers my mother had loved when she was yet alive. Coming presently to the graves with throbbing heart, I found them not as I had thought, but covered with sweet verdure and such profusion of flowers that I could scarce believe my eyes. Seeing this, and being overwrought, I burst into a flood of tears, and throwing myself down upon the ground, rested my face upon my mother's grave. Calling to her aloud in agony of grief, as a child might have done, I repeated again her prayers and those that she had taught me kneeling at her side. At last, quieted in some measure, I yet lay still, and doing so, lived over my childhood days, tasted its sweet cares and blissful sorrows, heard again the voices of those I loved, called up anew their forms and smiling faces. Thus dreaming and mourning, I lingered, loath to leave, until the sun was high in the heavens. Nor would I yet have gone had not Fox come to draw me away. Then kneeling and kissing the mounds that covered the dear forms, I arose and followed him. Passing Wild Plum, I did not stay, except to note with throbbing heart that in everything it was as we had left it. Here again I saw Aunt Jane's loving hand, as in the flower-strewn graves, and seeing it, blessed her for her love and tender care.
With my heart thus stirred with grateful thoughts, we spurred on to her home, and coming to the gate, there was no sign of bustle or life of any kind, but such quietness as no one had ever known in the olden time. For in those days the very trees and plants, so it was thought, meditated on the crops and the prospect of gain; but now how changed! Standing upright and staring, they seemed without life and as if awaiting some sad event which they had long foreknown. Thinking my aunt was dead, and yet believing Moth would have told me had this been so, I gave my horse to Fox, and going forward, knocked at the door. Scarce had I done this, when it opened, and the servant, knowing me before I spoke, took my hand, and kissing it, led me through the hall and up the winding stairs to my aunt's room. Here, opening the door, she motioned me to enter, and when I had done so closed it again and went away without having vouchsafed me a word. Gazing about in the dimly lighted room, I presently made out my aunt propped up in her bed, and intent, as if breathing a prayer. Surprised at her worn and altered look, I neither moved nor spoke. For of the robust form and commanding face of other days there lay before me only a shrunken body, with features worn and wasted so as to be scarce recognized as hers. Only the eyes retained something of the old look, but now lighted as if by some hidden and destructive fire. While I stood thus gazing upon her, my mind filled with sad thoughts, she turned toward the door, and catching sight of my form, gave a start, and stretching out her arms, cried, in a frenzy of fear and haste:
"Gilbert! Gilbert! is it you? Come, come to me, quick! quick!"
At this I ran to her, and she, clasping my neck, trembling and sobbing, drew me down upon her bosom. Thus we lay in each other's arms, my heart too full for speech and hers beating against my breast as if it would burst with the strain put upon it. When she had somewhat recovered herself, she did not speak, but murmuring half-articulate words of endearment, fell to stroking my hair and face as if I were a babe nursing at her breast. Having in this way in some measure satisfied her heart's longing, she took hold of my shoulders, and holding me off, fell to studying my face, as if she would read there all that it had to tell and more. Then softly, and oh, so differently from other days, she spoke:
"Oh, my child, my sweet one, how it gladdens my tired heart to see you, and so soon, for I scarce expected you yet, if indeed you came at all."
"I hope you did not think so badly of me as that, dear aunt, for I lost not a moment after getting your letter."
"Yes, child, I thought you would come; and it was like your father to act quickly. In looks, though, how like you are to your sweet mother! Her color and face and eyes and hair! It is as if she stood beside me in life, so much do you resemble her."
"I am glad to hear you say that," I answered, kissing her, pleased beyond everything at the gentle way in which she spoke of my dear mother.