The Passing of Edward
I found Dorothy sitting sedately on the beach, with a mass of blackseaweed twined in her hands and her bare feet sparkling white in thesun. Even in the first glow of recognition I realised that she waspaler than she had been the summer before, and yet I cannot blamemyself for the tactlessness of my question.
"Where's Edward?" I said; and I looked about the sands for a sailorsuit and a little pair of prancing legs.
While I looked Dorothy's eyes watched mine inquiringly, as if shewondered what I might see.
"Edward's dead," she said simply. "He died last year, after youleft."
For a moment I could only gaze at the child in silence, and askmyself what reason there was in the thing that had hurt her so. Nowthat I knew that Edward played with her no more, I could see thatthere was a shadow upon her face too dark for her years, and that shehad lost, to some extent, that exquisite carelessness of poise whichmakes children so young. Her voice was so calm that I might havethought her forgetful had I not seen an instant of patent pain in herwide eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said at length "very, very, sorry indeed. I hadbrought down my car to take you for a drive, as I promised."
"Oh! Edward _would_ have liked that," she answered thoughtfully; "hewas so fond of motors." She swung round suddenly and looked at thesands behind her with staring eyes.
"I thought I heard--" she broke off in confusion.
I, too, had believed for an instant that I had heard somethingthat was not the wind or the distant children or the smooth seahissing along the beach. During that golden summer which linkedme with the dead, Edward had been wont, in moments of elation,to puff up and down the sands, in artistic representation of anobby, noisy motor-car. But the dead may play no more, and therewas nothing there but the sands and the hot sky and Dorothy.
"You had better let me take you for a run, Dorothy," I said. "The manwill drive, and we can talk as we go along."
She nodded gravely, and began pulling on her sandy stockings.
"It did not hurt him," she said inconsequently.
The restraint in her voice pained me like a blow.
"Oh, don't, dear, don't!" I cried, "There is nothing to do butforget."
"I have forgotten, quite," she answered, pulling at her shoe-laceswith calm fingers. "It was ten months ago."
We walked up to the front, where the car was waiting, and Dorothysettled herself among the cushions with a little sigh of contentment,the human quality of which brought me a certain relief. If only shewould laugh or cry! I sat down by her side, but the man waited by theopen door.
"What is it?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, sir," he answered, looking about him in confusion, "Ithought I saw a young gentleman with you."
He shut the door with a bang, and in a minute we were running throughthe town. I knew that Dorothy was watching my face with her woundedeyes; but I did not look at her until the green fields leapt up oneither side of the white road.
"It is only for a little while that we may not see him," I said; "allthis is nothing."
"I have forgotten," she repeated. "I think this is a very nicemotor."
I had not previously complained of the motor, but I was wishing thenthat it would cease its poignant imitation of a little dead boy, aboy who would play no more. By the touch of Dorothy's sleeve againstmine I knew that she could hear it too. And the miles flew by, greenand brown and golden, while I wondered what use I might be in theworld, who could not help a child to forget, Possibly there wasanother way, I thought.
"Tell me how it happened," I said.
Dorothy looked at me with inscrutable eyes, and spoke in a voicewithout emotion.
"He caught a cold, and was very ill in bed. I went in to see him,and he was all white and faded. I said to him, `How are you Edward?'and he said, `I shall get up early in the morning to catch beetles.'I didn't see him any more."
"Poor little chap!" I murmured.
"I went to the funeral," she continued monotonously, "It was veryrainy, and I threw a little bunch of flowers down into the hole.There was a whole lot of flowers there; but I think Edward likedapples better than flowers."
"Did you cry?" I said cruelly.
She paused. "I don't know. I suppose so. It was a long time ago; Ithink I have forgotten."
Even while she spoke I heard Edward puffing along the sands: Edwardwho had been so fond of apples.
"I cannot stand this any longer," I said aloud. "Let's get out andwalk in the woods for a change."
She agreed, with a depth of comprehension that terrified me; and themotor pulled up with a jerk at a spot where hardly a post served tomark where the woods commenced and the wayside grass stopped. We tookone of the dim paths which the rabbits had made and forced our waythrough the undergrowth into the peaceful twilight of the trees.
"You haven't got very sunburnt this year," I said as we walked.
"I don't know why. I've been out on the beach all the days.Sometimes I've played, too."
I did not ask her what games she had played, or who had been herplay-friend. Yet even there in the quiet woods I knew that Edward washolding her back from me. It is true that, in his boy's way, he hadbeen fond of me; but I should not have dared to take her out withouthim in the days when his live lips had filled the beach with song,and his small brown body had danced among the surf. Now it seemedthat I had been disloyal to him.
And presently we came to a clearing where the leaves of forgottenyears lay brown and rotten beneath our feet, and the air was full ofthe dryness of death.
"Let's be going back. What do you think, Dorothy?" I said.
"I think," she said slowly,--"I think that this would be a very goodplace to catch beetles."
A wood is full of secret noises, and that is why, I suppose, weheard a pair of small quick feet come with a dance of triumphthrough the rustling bracken. For a minute we listened deeply, andthen Dorothy broke from my side with a piercing call on her lips.
"Oh, Edward, Edward!" she cried; "Edward!"
But the dead may play no more, and presently she came back to me withthe tears that are the riches of childhood streaming down her face.
"I can hear him, I can hear him," she sobbed; "but I cannot see him.Never, never again."
And so I led her back to the motor. But in her tears I seemed tofind a promise of peace that she had not known before.
Now Edward was no very wonderful little boy; it may be that he wasjealous and vain and greedy; yet now, it seemed as he lay in hissmall grave with the memory of Dorothy's flowers about him, he hadwrought this kindness for his sister. Yes, even though we heard nomore than the birds in the branches and the wind swaying the scentedbracken; even though he had passed with another summer, and the deadand the love of the dead may rise no more from the grave.