Of the days which followed, Maddy had no distinct consciousness. She
only knew that other hands than hers cared for the dead, that in the
little parlor a stiff, white figure lay, that neighboring women stole
in, treading on tiptoe, and speaking in hushed voices as they
consulted, not her, but Mrs. Noah, who had come at once, and cared for
her and hers so kindly. That she lay all day in her own room, where
the summer breeze blew softly through the window, bringing the perfume
of summer flowers, the sound of a tolling bell, of grinding wheels,
the notes of a low, sad hymn, sung in faltering tones, and of many
feet moving from the door. Then friendly faces looked in upon her,
asking how she felt, and whispering ominously to each other as she
answered: "Very well; is grandpa getting better?"
Then Mrs. Noah sat with her for a time, fanning her with a palm-leaf
fan and brushing the flies away. Then Flora came up with a man whom
they called "Doctor," and who gave his sundry little pills and powders
dissolved in water, after which they all went out and left her there
with Jessie who had been crying, and whose soft little hands felt so
cool on her hot head, and whose kisses on her lips made the tears
start, and brought a thought of Guy, making her ask, "if he was at the
funeral." She did not know whose funeral, or why she used that word,
only it seemed to her that Jessie just came back from somebody's
grave, and she asked if Guy was there. "No," Jessie said; "mother
wanted to write and tell him, but we don't know where he is."
And this was all Maddy could recall of the days succeeding the night
of her last watch at her grandfather's side, until one balmy August
afternoon, when on the Honedale hills there lay that smoky haze so
like the autumn time hurrying on apace, and when through her open
window stole the fragrance of the later summer flowers. Then, as if
waking from an ordinary sleep, she woke suddenly to consciousness, and
staring about the room, wondered if it were as late as the western sun
would indicate, and how she came to sleep so long. For a while she lay
thinking, and as she thought, a sad scene came back to her, a night
when her hot hands had been enfolded in those of the dead, and that
dead her grandfather. Was it true, or was she laboring under some
hallucination of the brain? If true, was that white, placid face still
to be seen in the room below, or had they burial him from her sight?
She would know, and with a strange kind of nervous strength she arose,
and throwing on the wrapper and slippers which lay near, descended the
stairs, wondering to find herself so weak, and half shuddering at the
deep stillness of the house; stillness broken only by the ticking of
the clock and the purring of the house cat, which at sight of Maddy
arose from its position near the door and came forward, rubbing its
sides against her dress, and trying in various ways to evince its joy
at seeing one whose caresses it had missed so long. The little bedroom
off the kitchen where grandpa slept and died was vacant; the old
fashioned coat was put away, as was every vestige of the old man save
the broad-rimmed hat which hung upon the wall just where his hands had
hung it, and which looked so much like its owner that with a gush of
tears Maddy sank upon the bed, moaning to herself, "Yes, grandpa is
dead. I remember now. But Uncle Joseph, where is he? Can he too have
died without my knowledge? and she looked round in vain for the
lunatic, not a trace of whom was to be found. His room was in perfect
order, as was everything about the house, showing that Flora was still
the domestic goddess, while Maddy detected also various things which
she recognized as having come from Aikenside. Who sent them? Did Guy,
and had he been there too while she was sick? The thought brought a
throb of joy to Maddy's heart, but it soon passed away as she began
again to wonder if Uncle Joseph too had died, and where Flora was. It
was not far to the Honedale burying ground. Maddy could see the
headstones from where she sat gleaming through the August sunlight;
could discern her mother's, and knew that two fresh mounds at least
were made beside it. But were there three? Was Uncle Joseph there? By
stealing across the meadow in the rear of the house the distance to
the graveyard was shortened more than half, and could not be more than
the eighth part of a mile, She could walk so far, she knew. The fresh
air would do her good, and hunting up her long unused flat, the
impatient girl started, stopping once or twice to rest as a dizzy
faintness came over her, and then continuing on until the spot she
sought was reached, Three graves, one old and sunken, one made when
the last winter's snow was on the hills, the other fresh and new. That
was all, Uncle Joseph was not there, and vague terror entered Maddy's
heart lest he had been taken back to the asylum.