Part 2 (2/2)

”Nor do I wish you to do so,” said the doctor. ”I know you are a strong man--I believe you to be a brave one; in grief of this kind the first great thing is to regain self-control. Try to regain yours, and then you will see for yourself what had better be done.”

Lord Charlewood discerned the truth.

”Have patience with me,” he said, ”a little longer; the blow is so sudden, so terrible, I cannot yet realize what the world is without Madaline.”

A few hours pa.s.sed, and the self-control he had struggled for was his.

He sent for Dr. Letsom.

”I have been thinking over what is best,” he said, ”and have decided on all my plans. Have you leisure to discuss them with me?”

The question seemed almost ironical to the doctor, who had so much more time to spare than he cared to have. He sat down by Lord Charlewood's side, and they held together the conversation that led to such strange results.

”I should not like a cold, stone grave for my beautiful wife,” said Lord Charlewood. ”She was so fair, so _spirituelle_, she loved all nature so dearly; she loved the flowers, trees, and the free fresh air of heaven.

Let her be where she can have them all now.”

The doctor looked up with mild reproach in his eyes.

”She has something far better than the flowers of this world,” he said.

”If ever a dead face told of rest and peace, hers does; I have never seen such a smile on any other.”

”I should like to find her a grave where the sun s.h.i.+nes and the dew falls,” observed Lord Charlewood--”where gra.s.s and flowers grow and birds sing in the trees overhead. She would not seem so far away from me then.”

”You can find many such graves in the pretty church-yard here in Castledene,” said the doctor.

”In time to come,” continued Lord Charlewood, ”she shall have the grandest marble monument that can be raised, but now a plain white cross will be sufficient, with her name, Madaline Charlewood; and, doctor, while I am away you will have the grave attended to--kept bright with flowers--tended as for some one that you loved.”

Then they went out together to the green church-yard at the foot of the hill, so quiet, so peaceful, so calm, and serene, that death seemed robbed of half its terrors; white daisies and golden b.u.t.tercups studded it, the dense foliage of tall lime-trees rippled above it. The graves were covered with richly-hued autumn flowers; all was sweet, calm, restful. There was none of earth's fever here. The tall gray spire of the church rose toward, the clear blue sky.

Lord Charlewood stood looking around him in silence.

”I have seen such a scene in pictures,” he said. ”I have read of such in poems, but it is the first I have really beheld. If my darling could have chosen for herself, she would have preferred to rest here.”

On the western slope, where the warmest and brightest sun beams lay, under the shade of the rippling lime-trees, they laid Lady Charlewood to rest. For long years afterward the young husband was to carry with him the memory of that green gra.s.sy grave. A plain white cross bore for the present her name; it said simply:

In Loving Memory of MADALINE CHARLEWOOD, who died in her 20th year.

ERECTED BY HER SORROWING HUSBAND.

”When I give her the monument she deserves,” he said. ”I can add no more.”

They speak of that funeral to this day in Castledene--of the sad, tragic story, the fair young mother's death, the husband's wild despair. They tell how the beautiful stranger was buried when the sun shone and the birds sang--how solemnly the church-bell tolled, each knell seeming to cleave the clear sunlit air--how the sorrowing young husband, so suddenly and so terribly bereft, walked first, the chief mourner in the sad procession; they tell how white his face was, and how at each toll of the solemn bell he winced as though some one had struck him a terrible blow--how he tried hard to control himself, but how at the grave, when she was hidden forever from his sight, he stretched out his hands, crying, ”Madaline, Madaline!” and how for the remainder of that day he shut himself up alone, refusing to hear the sound of a voice, to look at a human face--refusing food, comfort, grieving like one who has no hope for the love he had lost. All Castledene grieved with him; it seemed as though death and sorrow had entered every house.

Then came the morrow, when he had to look his life in the face again--life that he found so bitter without Madaline. He began to remember his father, who, lying sick unto death, craved for his presence. He could do no more for Madaline; all his grief, his tears, his bitter sorrow, were useless; he could not bring her back; he was powerless where she was concerned. But with regard to his father matters were different--to him he could take comfort, healing, and consolation.

So it was decided that he should at once continue his broken journey.

What of little Madaline, the child who had her dead mother's large blue eyes and golden hair? Again Lord Charlewood and the doctor sat in solemn conclave; this time the fate of the little one hung in the balance.

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