Part 16 (2/2)
Roger threw himself on the gra.s.s, and hid his face on his arms. He moaned and rocked himself about, so that, even in the first moments of their grief, the brother and sister looked at each other with awe.
”Come away with me, dear,” whispered Oliver to his sister. ”Ailwin, give George to me. Let me have him in my arms.”
”Bless you, my dears; it is not George any longer. It is a poor little dead body. You must not call it George.”
”Give him to me,” said Oliver. He took the body from Ailwin's arms, carrying it as gently as if anything could have hurt it now; and he and Mildred walked away towards the spot where the bee-shed had stood.
Ailwin gazed after them, das.h.i.+ng away the tears with the back of her hand, when they gathered so that she could not see.
Oliver and Mildred walked on till they could descend the bank a little, and sit, just above the waters, where they knew they were out of sight of everybody. This bank presented a strange appearance, such as the children had been wondering at for some days, till Ailwin remembered that she had often heard say that there was once a thick forest growing where the Levels were now spread, and that the old trees were, every one, somehow underground. It now appeared that this was true. As the earth was washed away in the channel, and cut down along the bank, large trunks of trees were seen lying along, black as coal. Some others started out of the bank; and the roots of a few spread like network, holding the soil together, and keeping the bank firm in that part. Upon one of the trunks, that jutted out, Oliver took his seat; and Mildred placed herself beside him.
”Let him lie on my knee now,” said she.
”Presently,” said Oliver. ”How easy and quiet he looks!”
”And how quietly he died!” observed Mildred. ”I did not think it had been such an easy thing to die,--or half so easy for us to bear to see.”
”The hard part is to come, dear. We are glad now to see him out of his pain--so comfortable as he looks at this moment. The hard part will be not to hear his little voice any more--never ... But we must not think of that now. I hope, Mildred, that you are not sorry that George is dead. I am not, when I think that he may be with father and mother already.”
”Already?”
”Yes--if they are dead. Perhaps they have been pitying poor baby all the time he has been ill, crying and moaning so sadly; and now he may be with them, quite happy, and full of joy to meet them again.”
”Then they may be seeing us now.”
”Yes; they will not forget us, even the first moment that George's little spirit is with them. Do not let them see us sad, Mildred. Let them see that we are glad that they should have George, when we could do nothing for him.”
”But we shall miss him so when ... Oliver! He must be buried!”
”Yes. When that is done, we shall miss him sadly. We must expect that.
But we must bear it.”
”If we die here,” said Mildred, ”it will be easy to do without, him for such a little while. But if we ever get away, if we grow up to be as old as father and mother, what shall we do, all those years, without once hearing Geordie laugh, or having him to wake us in the morning?
What long things people's lives are! It will seem as if ours would never be done, if we have to wait all that time to see Geordie again.”
”I wish we were dead!” sighed Oliver. ”I am sure, so do I. And dying is so very easy!”
”The pastor always said there was nothing to be afraid of,” said Oliver--”I mean, for innocent people. And Geordie was so innocent, he was fit to go directly to G.o.d.”
”If we die here,” said Mildred, ”Roger must too. What was the matter with him just now, do you think? Was he thinking about that?”
”He was very miserable about something. Oh, Mildred, do look! Did you ever see Geordie look sweeter? Yes, you may have him now.”
And Oliver quietly laid the child in Mildred's arms. ”Yet,” said he, sighing, ”we must bury him.”
”Oh, when?” asked Mildred.
”Better do it while his face looks as it does now. To-morrow is Sunday.
We will do no work to-morrow, and bury Geordie.”
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