In the early morning when the white couch had been placed to receive her for the grave he returned to the room with Dolly and they stood beside Alice together.
"This is my wedding day, Dolly. Did you remember it?"
"Robert!"
"I tried for once to do better; to treat Alice as a woman should be treated. This is my reward--my wedding day."
He lifted her in his arms like a child and as he laid her in her coffin looked at her stonily. "My bride! My Alice!"
Dolly burst into tears. The harshness of his despair gave way as he bent over her for the last time and when he spoke again the tenderness of his voice came back. "My darling! With you I bury every earthly hope; for I take G.o.d to witness, in you I have had all my earthly joy!"
He walked away and never saw her face again.
The unintelligible service in the church did not rouse him from his torpor and he was only after a long time aware of a strange presence on the altar. Just at the last he looked up into the sanctuary. Little clouds of incense rising from a swinging thurible framed for an instant the face of a priest and Kimberly saw it was the archbishop.
The prelate stood before the tabernacle facing the little church filled with people. But his eyes were fixed on the catafalque and his lips were moving in prayer. Kimberly watched with a strange interest the slender, white hand rise in a benediction over the dead. He knew it was the last blessing of her whom he had loved.
Dolly had dreaded the scene at the grave but there was no scene. Nor could Kimberly ever recollect more than the mournful trees, the green turf, and the slow sinking of a flowered pall into the earth. And at the end he heard only the words of the archbishop, begging that they who remained might, with her, be one day received from the emptiness of this life into one that is both better and lasting.
CHAPTER XLIII
In the evening of the day on which they had buried Alice, and the family were all at The Towers, Dolly, after dinner, asked Doctor Hamilton to walk with her. Robert Kimberly had dined upstairs and Hamilton upon leaving Dolly went up to Kimberly"s rooms.
The library door was closed. Hamilton, picking up a book in an adjoining room, made a place under the lamp and sat down to read. It was late when Kimberly opened the closed door. "Do you want to see me, doctor?" he asked abruptly.
"Not particularly. I am not sleepy."
Kimberly sat down in the corner of a davenport. "Nor am I, doctor. Nor am I talkative--you understand, I know."
"I have been reading this pretty little French story." Hamilton had the book in his hand. "Mrs. MacBirney gave it to you. I have been thinking how like her it seems--the story itself--elevated, delicate, refined----"
"It happens to be the only book she ever gave me."
Hamilton looked again at the inscription on the fly-leaf, and read in Alice"s rapid, nervous hand:
"From Alice, To Robert."
"What slight chances," the doctor went on, "contribute sometimes to our treasures. You will always prize this. And to have known and loved such a woman--to have been loved by her--so much does not come into every man"s life."
Kimberly was silent. But Hamilton had come to talk, and disregarding the steady eyes bent suspectingly upon him he pursued his thought. "To my mind, to have known the love of one woman is the highest possible privilege that can come to a man. And this is the thought I find in this book. It is that which pleases me. What surprises me in it is the light, cynical view that the man takes of the responsibility of life itself."
"All sensualists are cynical."
"But how can a man that has loved, or treasures, as this man professes to treasure, the memory of a gifted woman remain a sensualist?"
Kimberly shrugged his shoulders. "Men are born sensualists. No one need apologize for being a sensualist; a man should apologize for being anything else."
"But no matter what you and I are born, we die something other."
"You mean, we progress. Perhaps so. But that we progress to any more of respect for man or for life, I have yet to learn. We progress from a moment of innocence to an hour of vanity, and from an hour of vanity to an eternity of ashes."
"You are quoting from the book."
"It is true."
"She did not believe it true. She died clinging to a crucifix."
Kimberly shrank under the surgeon"s blade.
"A memory is not vanity," persisted Hamilton. "And the day some time comes when it embodies all the claim that life has upon us; but it is none the less a valid claim. In this case," the surgeon held up the book, "Italy and work proved such a claim."
"My work would be merely more money-getting. I am sickened of all money-getting. And my Italy lies to-night--up there." His eyes rolled toward the distant hill. "I wish I were there with her."
"But between the wishing and the reality, Robert--you surely would not hasten the moment yourself."
Kimberly made no answer.
"You must think of Alice--what would she wish you to do? Promise me,"
Hamilton, rising, laid his hand on Kimberly"s shoulder, "that to-night you will not think of yourself alone. Suicide is the supreme selfishness--remember your own words. There was nothing of selfishness in her. Tell me, that for to-night, you will think of her."
"That will not be hard to do. You are very kind. Good-night."
In the morning Kimberly sent for Nelson and later for Charles. It was to discuss details concerning their business, which Robert, conferring with his brother, told him frankly he must now prepare to take up more actively. Charles, uneasy, waited until they had conferred some time and then bluntly asked the reason for it.
Kimberly gave no explanation beyond what he had already given to Nelson, that he meant to take a little rest. The two worked until Charles, though Robert was quite fresh, was used up. He rose and going to an open window looked out on the lake, saying that he did not want to work any longer.
The brothers were so nearly of an age that there seemed no difference in years between them. Robert had always done the work; he liked to do it and always had done it. To feel that he was now putting it off, appalled Charles, and he hid his own depression only because he saw the mental strain reflected in Robert"s drawn features.
Charles, although resolutely leaving the table and every paper on it, looked loyally back after a moment to his brother. "It"s mighty good of you, Bob," he said slowly, "to explain these things all over again to me. I ought to know them--I"m ashamed that I don"t. But, somehow, you always took the load and I like a brute always let you take it. Then you are a lot brainier than I am."
Robert cut him off. "That simply is not true, Charlie. In matter of fact, that man has the most brains who achieves happiness. And you have been supremely happy."
"While you have done the work!"
"Why not? What else have I been good for? If I could let you live--if even one of us could live--why shouldn"t I?"
The elder brother turned impulsively. "Why? Because you have the right to live, too. Because sunshine and bright skies are as much for you as they are for me."
They were standing at the window together. Robert heard the feeling in the words.
"Yes," he answered, "I know the world is full of sunshine, and flowers are always fresh and life is always young and new hands are always caressing. This I well know, and I do not complain. The bride and the future are always new. But Charlie," he laid his hand on his brother"s shoulder, "we can"t all play the game of life with the same counters; some play white but some must play black. It"s the white for you, the black for me. The sun for you, the shadow for me. Don"t speak; I know, I have chosen it; I know it is my fault. I know the opportunities wasted. I might have had success, I asked for failure. But it all comes back to the same thing--some play the white, some the black."