CHAPTER X.“Life’s a short summer,—man a flower—He dies—alas! how soon he dies!”For the next few weeks Meg and Robert were almost daily visitors at the Walker home. They could see that Charlie was failing very rapidly, but it was plain that his wife did not realize it, and that he did not wish her to.One day Robert drove up to Mrs. Weston’s in his uncle’s phaeton, and Meg knew instinctively why he had come. Throwing on her hat, she ran out and asked breathlessly, “Oh, is it about Charlie?”His face was grave as he answered, “The doctor has just told me that he cannot live through the day.”“And Ada?”“She knows,—now,” was the low reply.“Poor, poor girl!” Meg said in quivering accents.Robert looked at her with an expression he was himself unconscious of, but she did not meet his eyes.Nothing more was said by either till they reached the home. Tossing a coin to a boy who was loafing in the yard, Robert asked him to take the horse back to the stable.They went upstairs, and Ada came from the room with eyes swollen and red, and said, “You may go in,—he will want to see you.”As they entered, and Charlie recognized them, he called out in his old cheery tones, much weakened by suffering, “My two young friends, I’m so glad to see you! Gertie, honey, get another chair so they can both sit down. How’s my little cousin?” he continued, looking at Meg. “What’s that, what’s that? No crying, little girl. We want to be cheerful and happy here.”Meg dried her tears and tried to smile at him. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s one reason I’ve always loved this little cousin so much,” he explained, turning his eyes toward Robert. “She’s always cheerful,—never makes a fellow feel badly.”“Perhaps we—or at least I—would better not stay in here,” said Robert, noticing how exhausted he was.Charlie put out his hand feebly and laid it on Robert’s—“Don’t go. I might get blue.She—” nodding toward the other room,—“has gone all to pieces, and you know I can’t bear to see her unhappy.”He seemed at times, from then on, to lapse into unconsciousness, but whenever one of them would rise to call Ada he would rouse himself and ask them not to. “The poor girl loses control of herself when she sees me. I’ll tell you when to call her. I don’t want to make it any worse for her than is necessary.”After a little while he said: “Robert, I don’t belong to any church, but I’m not an infidel. I’ve tried to live right. Won’t you say a little prayer for me? Not any set form, my boy, but just a prayer from your heart.”Kneeling by the bed, Robert made a simple, touching, earnest prayer in a few sentences, a prayer which brought the quick tears again to Meg’s eyes. At its conclusion Charlie said, “Thank you,” very softly, and turned his head away for a few minutes.When he spoke again it was lightly, to cover his emotion. “Meg, I’ve played a great joke on Ada. She thinks we are poor. Wehavehad to economize a good deal, but there will be fifty thousand dollars life insurance for her after—well, after a while. That ought to keep her and the young one from starving, don’t you think?”The room grew very silent, for neither Meg nor Robert had any heart for conversation. Gertie sat in her usual place at the foot of the bed, dry-eyed and sad, watching her father’s white face.Outside, in the hall, could be heard the murmur of voices. It seemed to disturb the sick man at last, for, opening his eyes, he asked, “Is it the neighbor-women waiting to see me die? Just tell them that I’m not at home to callers, will you?”He tried to laugh at his pitiful little joke, but the laugh was so hollow that it startled even himself. He nodded as Robert and Meg arose, and said, “Yes, send her in, I want her. Good-bye, dear friends,—God bless you!”They started for the door, when he called feebly, “Meg!”“Yes,” she cried, running back to him.“Don’t let the doctor or any one disturb us. I just wanther,—and little Gertie.” As she started again he caught her hand and said entreatingly, “Be good toher, little cousin!”When she found Ada and sent her in to him, she whispered, “If you need me, call me, dear.”From the room came the sound of Ada’s sobs, above which, with remarkable strength, arose Charlie’s voice, encouraging and cheering. Then weaker and weaker it grew,—and ceased altogether.A moment later a wild shriek rang through the house, and Meg, running in, found Ada in a swoon on the floor, while Gertie, the child, with an expression of heart-breaking despair, was striving to lift her mother’s head, though she never took her eyes from the still, white face on the bed.Meg and Robert left the house an hour later. There was nothing more they could do, for the Masons, to which lodge Charlie belonged, were in charge of the body, and the neighbor-women had taken possession of Ada and Gertie.It had grown almost dark, and the lights were beginning to shine in the houses along the way. There was little said between them, for both were too deeply stirred by the sad events of the day to talk much.Finally Meg broke the silence. With a little catch in her voice, she said: “I am so wicked! When poor Charlie told me that Ada would have fifty thousand dollars, my first thought was that there were many men whom that amount of money would tempt.”As there was no reply, she said, with attempted lightness, “Will you absolve me?”Meeting her mood, though both their hearts were heavy, he answered, “There is no need of absolution where there is no sin.”Nothing more was said until her gate was reached, and she cried: “It doesn’t pay! It doesn’t pay to love, and marry, and be separated by death!”
“Life’s a short summer,—man a flower—
He dies—alas! how soon he dies!”
For the next few weeks Meg and Robert were almost daily visitors at the Walker home. They could see that Charlie was failing very rapidly, but it was plain that his wife did not realize it, and that he did not wish her to.
One day Robert drove up to Mrs. Weston’s in his uncle’s phaeton, and Meg knew instinctively why he had come. Throwing on her hat, she ran out and asked breathlessly, “Oh, is it about Charlie?”
His face was grave as he answered, “The doctor has just told me that he cannot live through the day.”
“And Ada?”
“She knows,—now,” was the low reply.
“Poor, poor girl!” Meg said in quivering accents.
Robert looked at her with an expression he was himself unconscious of, but she did not meet his eyes.
Nothing more was said by either till they reached the home. Tossing a coin to a boy who was loafing in the yard, Robert asked him to take the horse back to the stable.
They went upstairs, and Ada came from the room with eyes swollen and red, and said, “You may go in,—he will want to see you.”
As they entered, and Charlie recognized them, he called out in his old cheery tones, much weakened by suffering, “My two young friends, I’m so glad to see you! Gertie, honey, get another chair so they can both sit down. How’s my little cousin?” he continued, looking at Meg. “What’s that, what’s that? No crying, little girl. We want to be cheerful and happy here.”
Meg dried her tears and tried to smile at him. “That’s it,” he said. “That’s one reason I’ve always loved this little cousin so much,” he explained, turning his eyes toward Robert. “She’s always cheerful,—never makes a fellow feel badly.”
“Perhaps we—or at least I—would better not stay in here,” said Robert, noticing how exhausted he was.
Charlie put out his hand feebly and laid it on Robert’s—“Don’t go. I might get blue.She—” nodding toward the other room,—“has gone all to pieces, and you know I can’t bear to see her unhappy.”
He seemed at times, from then on, to lapse into unconsciousness, but whenever one of them would rise to call Ada he would rouse himself and ask them not to. “The poor girl loses control of herself when she sees me. I’ll tell you when to call her. I don’t want to make it any worse for her than is necessary.”
After a little while he said: “Robert, I don’t belong to any church, but I’m not an infidel. I’ve tried to live right. Won’t you say a little prayer for me? Not any set form, my boy, but just a prayer from your heart.”
Kneeling by the bed, Robert made a simple, touching, earnest prayer in a few sentences, a prayer which brought the quick tears again to Meg’s eyes. At its conclusion Charlie said, “Thank you,” very softly, and turned his head away for a few minutes.
When he spoke again it was lightly, to cover his emotion. “Meg, I’ve played a great joke on Ada. She thinks we are poor. Wehavehad to economize a good deal, but there will be fifty thousand dollars life insurance for her after—well, after a while. That ought to keep her and the young one from starving, don’t you think?”
The room grew very silent, for neither Meg nor Robert had any heart for conversation. Gertie sat in her usual place at the foot of the bed, dry-eyed and sad, watching her father’s white face.
Outside, in the hall, could be heard the murmur of voices. It seemed to disturb the sick man at last, for, opening his eyes, he asked, “Is it the neighbor-women waiting to see me die? Just tell them that I’m not at home to callers, will you?”
He tried to laugh at his pitiful little joke, but the laugh was so hollow that it startled even himself. He nodded as Robert and Meg arose, and said, “Yes, send her in, I want her. Good-bye, dear friends,—God bless you!”
They started for the door, when he called feebly, “Meg!”
“Yes,” she cried, running back to him.
“Don’t let the doctor or any one disturb us. I just wanther,—and little Gertie.” As she started again he caught her hand and said entreatingly, “Be good toher, little cousin!”
When she found Ada and sent her in to him, she whispered, “If you need me, call me, dear.”
From the room came the sound of Ada’s sobs, above which, with remarkable strength, arose Charlie’s voice, encouraging and cheering. Then weaker and weaker it grew,—and ceased altogether.
A moment later a wild shriek rang through the house, and Meg, running in, found Ada in a swoon on the floor, while Gertie, the child, with an expression of heart-breaking despair, was striving to lift her mother’s head, though she never took her eyes from the still, white face on the bed.
Meg and Robert left the house an hour later. There was nothing more they could do, for the Masons, to which lodge Charlie belonged, were in charge of the body, and the neighbor-women had taken possession of Ada and Gertie.
It had grown almost dark, and the lights were beginning to shine in the houses along the way. There was little said between them, for both were too deeply stirred by the sad events of the day to talk much.
Finally Meg broke the silence. With a little catch in her voice, she said: “I am so wicked! When poor Charlie told me that Ada would have fifty thousand dollars, my first thought was that there were many men whom that amount of money would tempt.”
As there was no reply, she said, with attempted lightness, “Will you absolve me?”
Meeting her mood, though both their hearts were heavy, he answered, “There is no need of absolution where there is no sin.”
Nothing more was said until her gate was reached, and she cried: “It doesn’t pay! It doesn’t pay to love, and marry, and be separated by death!”