Free Miss Grief and Other Stories by Constance Fenimore Woolson Page B

of the wife.
    â€œIt’s you, Dorcas,” he murmured; “that’s how you looked to me, but I never could get it right before.” She bent over him, and silently we watched the coming of the shadow of death; he spoke only once, “My rose of Sharon—” And then in a moment he was gone, the poor artist was dead.
    Wild, wild was the grief of the ungoverned heart left behind; she was like a mad-woman, and our united strength was needed to keep her from injuring herself in her frenzy. I was frightened, but Ermine’s strong little hands and lithe arms kept her down until, exhausted, she lay motionless near her dead husband. Then we carried her down stairs and I watched by the bedside, while my cousin went back to the studio. She was absent some time, and then she came back to keep the vigil with me through the long, still night. At dawn the woman woke, and her face looked aged in the gray light. She was quiet, and took without a word the food we had prepared, awkwardly enough, in the keeping-room.
    â€œI must go to him, I must go to him,” she murmured, as we led her back.
    â€œYes,” said Ermine, “but first let me make you tidy. Heloved to see you neat.” And with deft, gentle touch she dressed the poor creature, arranging the heavy hair so artistically that, for the first time, I saw what she might have been, and understood the husband’s dream.
    â€œWhat is that?” I said, as a peculiar sound startled us.
    â€œIt’s Roarer. He was tied up last night, but I suppose he’s gnawed the rope,” said the woman. I opened the hall door, and in stalked the great dog, smelling his way directly up the stairs.
    â€œO, he must not go!” I exclaimed.
    â€œYes, let him go, he loved his master,” said Ermine; “we will go too.” So silently we all went up into the chamber of death.
    The pictures had been taken down from the walls, but the wonderful sketch remained on the easel, which had been moved to the head of the couch where Solomon lay. His long, light hair was smooth, his face peacefully quiet, and on his breast lay the beautiful bunch of autumn leaves which he had arranged in our honor. It was a striking picture,—the noble face of the sketch above, and the dead face of the artist below. It brought to my mind a design I had once seen, where Fame with her laurels came at last to the door of the poor artist and gently knocked; but he had died the night before!
    The dog lay at his master’s feet, nor stirred until Solomon was carried out to his grave.
    The Community buried the miner in one corner of the lonely little meadow. No service had they and no mound was raised to mark the spot, for such was their custom; but in the early spring we went down again into the valley, and placed a block of granite over the grave. It bore the inscription:—
    S OLOMON .
    He will finish his work in Heaven.
    Strange as it may seem, the wife pined for her artist husband. We found her in the Community trying to work, but so aged and bent that we hardly knew her. Her large eyes had lost their peevish discontent, and a great sadness had taken the place.
    â€œSeems like I couldn’t get on without Sol,” she said, sitting with us in the hotel parlor after work-hours. “I kinder miss his voice, and all them names he used to call me; he got ’em out of the Bible, so they must have been good, you know. He always thought everything I did was right, and he thought no end of my good looks, too; I suppose I’ve lost ’em all now. He was mighty fond of me; nobody in all the world cares a straw for me now. Even Roarer wouldn’t stay with me, for all I petted him; he kep’ a going out to that meader and a lying by Sol, until, one day, we found him there dead. He just died of sheer loneliness, I reckon. I sha’n’t have to stop long I know, because I keep a dreaming of Sol, and he always looks at me like he did when I