“To-morrow. That ain't no place for 'em down thar in all that whiz, hustle, an' chatter, with a nigger fetchin' in a card or a bunch o' flowers every minute. The fellers that run the flower-stores certainly are in clover.”
Mrs. Mayfield and Ethel came in on the nighttrain which reached Grayson at ten o'clock, and, having retired, Paul saw neither of them till the next day. He had risen for his early morning walk, and gone down to the front lawn, where he was surprised to see Mrs. Mayfield nervously walking back and forth, her troubled glance on the ground. He had never seen her look so grave, so despondent. Her hair was drawn more tightly across her brow, and there was no trace of color in her pinched and troubled face. Seeing him, she bowed and made a pathetic little gesture of welcome. He hesitated for a moment as to whether he might intrude upon her, but some appealing quality of friendliness in her sad glance reassured him, and, hat in hand, he crossed the grass to her.
“I was very sorry to hear your bad news,” he said. “I was sorry, too, that there seemed nothing I could do to help.”
“Thank you; you are very kind,” the lady said, her thin lips quivering sensitively. “I have thought of you, Paul, several times since the blow came. After our recent talks I am sure you could have given us more consolation than almost any one else. At a time like this there is absolutely nothing to lean on except the goodness and wisdom of God.”
“Yes, of course,” he responded, simply.
“I am not worrying about Jennie now,” Mrs. Mayfield went on, gravely, sweeping his face with almost yearning eyes. “At my age one becomes accustomed to face death calmly, but, Paul, I am actually alarmed about the effect on Ethel.”
“I know, and I am sorry,” Paul said; “very, very sorry.”
“She has hardly touched any sort of food since Jennie died,” Mrs. Mayfield asserted, in a tremulous tone. “She is wasting away. She can't sleep even under opiates. She cries constantly, and declares she can't get her mind from it for a moment. We ought not to have allowed her to see the end, but we could not avoid it. Jennie was conscious almost to the last minute, though she did not realize she was dying. They thought it best not to tell her, and she begged Ethel and her parents and me and the young man she was to marry—begged us not to leave her. She seemed quite afraid. Then suddenly she had a terrible convulsion. She was clinging to my daughter's hand when she died. Ethel fainted, and had to be taken home in a carriage. She—she—Paul, she has lost all faith in the goodness of God, in an after-life, in everything. She is simply desperate and defiant. She can't be made to see any sort of justice in it. She is bitter, very bitter, and hard and resentful. Two kind-hearted ministers down there tried to talk to her, but she almost laughed in their faces. Some sweet old ladies—intimate friends of ours—tried to pacify her, too, but could do nothing. I wish you had been there. You have comforted me more than any one else ever did. Your faith seems such a living, active thing, and even while down there under all that sadness I found myself somehow feeling that your thoughts—your prayers were with us.”
“Yes, yes,” he nodded, his blood mounting to his face, “that was all I could do. Prayer is a wonderful force, but unfortunately it seems without great or immediate effect unless it arises out of faith itself, and perfect faith is very rare.”
“I understand,” the lady sighed. “I hear Ethel coming down. I wish you would talk to her. I am sure you can do her good, and something must be done. No medicine can help her; her trouble is of the mind. It is natural for persons to lose faith under a shock like this, and in time get over it; but—but, Paul, I've known people to die of grief, and that is really what I am afraid of.”