I am old and worn; I give my time, my skill, my sleep; I let my other
sufferers want that so she may have all. And yet I can laugh at her very
grave--laugh when the clay from the spade of the sexton drop upon her
coffin and say Thud! thud! to my heart, till it send back the blood
from my cheek. My heart bleed for that poor boy--that dear boy, so of
the age of mine own boy had I been so blessed that he live, and with his
hair and eyes the same. There, you know now why I love him so. And yet
when he say things that touch my husband-heart to the quick, and make my
father-heart yearn to him as to no other man--not even to you, friend
John, for we are more level in experiences than father and son--yet even
at such moment King Laugh he come to me and shout and bellow in my ear,
Here I am! here I am! till the blood come dance back and bring some of
the sunshine that he carry with him to my cheek. Oh, friend John, it is
a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and
troubles; and yet when King Laugh come he make them all dance to the
tune he play. Bleeding hearts, and dry bones of the churchyard, and
tears that burn as they fall--all dance together to the music that he
make with that smileless mouth of him. And believe me, friend John, that
he is good to come, and kind. Ah, we men and women are like ropes drawn
tight with strain that pull us different ways. Then tears come; and,
like the rain on the ropes, they brace us up, until perhaps the strain
become too great, and we break. But King Laugh he come like the
sunshine, and he ease off the strain again; and we bear to go on with
our labour, what it may be.
I did not like to wound him by pretending not to see his idea; but, as I
did not yet understand the cause of his laughter, I asked him. As he
answered me his face grew stern, and he said in quite a different
tone:--
Oh, it was the grim irony of it all--this so lovely lady garlanded with
flowers, that looked so fair as life, till one by one we wondered if she
were truly dead; she laid in that so fine marble house in that lonely
churchyard, where rest so many of her kin, laid there with the mother
who loved her, and whom she loved; and that sacred bell going Toll!
toll! toll! so sad and slow; and those holy men, with the white
garments of the angel, pretending to read books, and yet all the time
their eyes never on the page; and all of us with the bowed head. And all
for what? She is dead; so! Is it not?
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