Part 38 (2/2)
She stood among the others, very still, the old faded mantilla folded decently over her shoulders, the great dark eyes, _his_ eyes, s.h.i.+ning out even kindly from the worn face on those who came to speak to her.
G.o.dfrey Cradlebow stood at the outer door, and addressed the people as they entered. Some said, afterwards, that he had been drinking; others declared he had not touched a drop for days. In the room where I stood, I heard his musical, deep tones, now swelling with the fervor of his harangue, now broken and trembling with emotion.
”Enter, my friends!” said this strange man. ”Go in, and look on quietness. What do we seek for most, my friends? Look out on the world.
It's a whole world of seekers. How they jostle against one another! How they sweat! how they strive! how they toil! And why all this? What seek they for? For quietness, my friends, even so--the quietness of wealth to gain, may be, or competence; may be, the quietness of some renown. And some go seeking over land and sea for their lost health, and quietness from pain.
”My friends, within there was as restless a seeker as I ever knew. Pity the old, my friends, but pity more the young! Never such dreams of rest!
Never such restlessness! Hus.h.!.+ when he heard, he answered well. He put all by. Somehow, we think he has obtained--wealth, honor, perfect health.
My friends, pa.s.s in! behold this wonder!
”My friends, you look up at the sky. Ah, what a sky! purple and deep! Yet I see something in your eyes that is not quietness; for storms will come, too well you know, and the cold blasts of winter; but if you knew that never any sorrowful, hard wind could sweep across yon blue--then, my friends, you would look as he looks who lies within there. Pa.s.s in! pa.s.s in! behold this wonder.”
Within, Grandma Keeler stood with closed eyes and folded hands. Her cheeks were wet. She wore a heavenly, trustful expression of countenance.
Her lips moved as if in prayer.
Aunt Sibylla Cradlebow rose in her place--majestic and weird she looked, like some old Eastern prophetess, a grand forecasting in her shadowy eyes.
”Gether in the sheaves,” she began; ”the bright sheaves, early ripe and ready for the harvestin'; and begrudge not the Master of His harvestin'.
Why, O Lord, Lord, this sheaf, while there be them that stand, late harvest day, bowed and witherin' in the cornfield? Because He reckons not o' time. Glory, glory, to the Lord o' the harvestin'! But gether in for me, He says, my bright sheaves, early ripe! my sheaves o' the golden wine!
”It was the night but two before my grandson died, I seen a death-sign in a dream, and so I speaks to my son's wife, but 'Fear you not,' I says; 'it was the blessed sign o' blessed death;' and thought o' some one old and helpless, sick maybe, gettin' release thereby. Why this sheaf, O Lord?--Glory, glory, to the Lord o' the harvestin'! For I dreamt there was a bird ketched in my room, and flutterin' here and there, and beatin'
'ginst the window with its wings. And dreamin' I ris up, and there was such a light along the floor as never any moonlight that I see was half so solemn or so beautiful. But when I stretched my hand to free the poor, blind, flutterin' bird, it ris away from me, and spread its wings, snow-white, and out it flew, and sharp and clear along that s.h.i.+nin'
track. Then when I woke, I knew it was the sign o' blessed death, nor ever feared. And G.o.d will bear me true, it was the very night they brought my grandson home that, lyin' down to rest a while from watchin'
with the rest, nor ever wonderin' nor layin' it to mind what I had dreamed afore, but tired and heart-broke only, I seen the long, bright s.h.i.+nin' track ag'in, a pourin' through the window; and 'My son's son!' I cries, 'dear boy! dear boy!'--for it was like him playin' on his violin--'What tunes must be,' I cries, 'that you play so and scarce a day in heaven!' But when I ris up, callin', it grew dim along the track, and there was mornin' in the room, and then I heered them cryin' where they watched.
”Why this sheaf, O Lord?--gether in the sheaves, O Lord, the bright sheaves, early ripe and ready for the harvestin'. Glory, glory to the Lord o' the harvestin'!”
Then the Wallencampers sang tremblingly of the ”Harvest Home.” They were glad when they saw George Olver stand up in their midst--George Olver, least subject of them all to dreams or ecstasies, but with his slow, labored speech, and his sorrowful, bowed head. He took his place beside the coffin of his friend, looked gently at that face, and squared his shoulders for a moment then, and held his head with the old manly air:
”When Uncle 'Lihu died,” said he; ”my friend and me walked home together from the funeral, and Luther says to me: 'I want you to promise me, George, that if I shed die, you wouldn't have that man to preach over me,' meanin' the minister, though he was kindly to him; 'and he means well,' says he; 'but he don't understand us; he knows naught about us 'ceptin' that now we're dead, and not bein' used to them long texts o'
hisn, it frets our folks,' says he. 'They weary on't, so long a string they bar'ly understand; but I would rather,' Luther says, 'have some one amongst my folks that knowed me well, git up and speak, ef it was only: _This was my friend lies here; I loved him_. And promise me, George, ef I shed die, you'd hev no stranger preachin' over me, but speak some such easy words yourself for love o' me.' And I felt with him thar', and promised him, and he me; but I remember thinkin', as I looked at him, it's little likely I'll ever stand above your grave.
”Enough said. 'This was our friend lies here. We loved him.' We thank him for them words. Better nor more, they cl'ar it all up on this side twixt him and us. No need ter tell o' what he was, or what he done. 'Tain't likely we'll forgit. He didn't say ter praise him. He wanted none o'
that, but jest we knowed and loved him.
”And so it might 'a' been enough, but now, my G.o.d! my G.o.d! as I stand here aside o' him, he bids me, plain as day, to speak a word beyent; ef I could only name it, ef I could only name it, what looks so cl'ar and beautiful thar' on his face.
”'Hold strong;' he says, 'below thar'. Keep heart and make cl'ar reckonin', for it's losin' all may be, in this 'ere mystery, makes cl'arest gain o' all. There's fairer day to rest ye arter storm. All's well! all's well!' he says; 'all's well beyent. All's well along this sh.o.r.e!'”
Here George Olver's husky voice failed him; sobs rose in the room.
Then the ”farewell” was sung, and bravely; but at the last, I heard only Madeline's voice, it grew so surpa.s.singly clear and sweet; it seemed to float solitary in the room, and to play triumphantly about the sleeper's lips--the voice, indeed, of a free spirit in its bliss, thrilled only with some plaintive memory of human woe and loss.
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