What Dr. Marks Died Of [pp. 824-828]

What Doctor Marks died of.
date, stole up the cross at the top,
lingered an instant on its summit,
then melted into the air. Following
its flight with my glance, I saw that
the sky was of a pale, transparent
gray, with a few large stars in it.
Clearly out against this background
stood the roofs and spires of that
sleeping city that breathed while it
slept, and more clearly yet the monuments, and a fine tracery of the bare
trees, branch, stem, and twig showing delicate as lace-work, of that
nearer city which slept in awful,
breathless silence, never stirring for
sunrise nor sunset, never starting at
any alarm, nor opening its eyes, let
who would go by.
"The evening had been calm, but
as it grew toward midnight a faint
and fitful breeze came now and then,
like a sigh, setting that net-work of
branches in a shiver, and sweeping
the dry leaves about with a low and
mournful rustling. The place and
time, the silence that was only broken by that weird and spirit-like
wind, and yet more, the face of my
companion, affected me strongly.
John sat leaning slightly forward, his
hands clasped on his knees, his gaze
fixed on that grave he had come to
watch, and as motionless as any
stone about us. The frozen look of
his face chilled me. I could not see
nor hear that he breathed; and
there was no movement of an eyelid
even. I would have spoken to him if
I had dared. I longed for some sound
which would startle him out of that
trance; but there he sat motionless,
apparently lifeless.
"I took a swallow of brandy and
tried to occupy my thoughts other wise. I looked through the intersti ces of the trees near me and counted
grave-stones. Close by were two old
sunken graves with slate stones lean ing awry at their heads, where lay, or
had lain, grandfather and grandmoth
er Sawyer-a later John Anderson and
his wife, who had gone, hand in hand,
up and down the hill, and now slept
thegither at the foot. I say they had
lain there; for, in the fifty odd years
since their burial, it was most probable that their dust had left its place
beneath those tumble-down slate
stones and gone about other business, rising, may be, in grasses and
flowers. Not much of the old couple left in their coffins, be sure. Perhaps the children had carried the last
of them away in violets and mayweed,
that very summer. Possibly the birds
had pecked them up, in one shape or
another.
"Would John Sharon never move
"I turned and peered back to where
a small white cross stood, looking like
a child in its night-gown, with arms extended. I could fancy some dear little frightened thing coming to me in
that lonely place, silent from fear, or
only faintly whimpering, all of a tremor, poor babe! till I should reach
and clasp it safe. The rustling of
the leaves was its little bare feet in
them, the sigh of air was its sobbing
breath.
"I gave myself a shake. Well, to
be sure! a white marble cross to mark
where a child had been buried a year
or two before. I remembered having
seen, in June, a red-ripe strawberry on
that grave, looking as though the little
creature's mouth were put up through
the sod to be kissed.
"I turned to John Sharon again.
He had not stirred. I looked at the
grave he watched, and wondered if,
with that steadfast gaze, he could
pierce the sod, as clairvoyants tell,
and see Anne lying, cold and lovely,
far below, with one hand under her
cheek and the other on her breast,
and her hair flowing down unbound,
never again to float on any breeze,
to toss with any light motion of hers,
to be twisted about his fingers.
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