The Second Voice

I

SHE was the ‘Dearest, Woman in the world.’ This was the universal verdict. One of the doctors who had been in attendance spoke of her as a ‘star.’

Her summer had been planned according to the pleasantest conceivable fashion. But it happened, just as she was making arrangements for a children’s party, that a mortal illness overtook her and all plans ended. She was a woman whose eighty-odd years had not brought even the remotest idea of withdrawal from a life of far-reaching activity. Consequently there were circles upon circles of intimate friends and pleasant acquaintances, and there were always her especial comrades the children, to whom death meant nothing but a departure to a beautiful country.

George, aged thirteen, said something of the kind to Stephen Gray who had come to take charge.

‘She is going to be better off,’ said George convincingly.

‘She was very well off before,’ returned Stephen. ‘She has always been well off.’

‘But this will be better,’ said George; ‘she told me so herself.’

George came every morning with a cup-custard nicely done up in a napkin. The custard was duly eaten by some one else, but that did not discourage the boy from bringing another. She had always particularly enjoyed his mother’s custards. It would be better to have one at hand. She might rouse and feel hungry.

There is a theory that the way to keep young is to associate with children. If this be true, it must be true also that one of the ways to lose childhood would be for the young to associate with the aged. In the case of the children and the ‘Dearest Woman’ however, it was not a question of growing old or of keeping young, but simply of friendship.

A piano stood in the neighboring room. Mary, also aged thirteen, used to go in and play little old songs and hymns which the ‘Dearest Woman loved. She always seemed soothed and quieted when Mary played. Sometimes George took the place of the nurse and sat by the bedside, gravely stirring the air with a palm-leaf fan. A grown-up person, seeing George thus occupied and Mary playing softly, observed, ‘This is no place for children.’

The nurse (she was the kind spoken of as a ‘trained nurse ’) thought otherwise.

When one dies there are many little things which demand attention; matters perhaps of no especial significance considering the greater ones of time and eternity, but seeming at the moment of much importance. As for instance, what shall be worn on the occasion of one’s last appearance on earth, what gown, what article of personal adornment, what telegrams shall be sent, what letters written, how many carriages shall be ordered, who shall go in them, what words shall be read, what hymn sung.

Perfectly reliable persons bore witness that she who had died desired to be dressed in a certain satin gown which had never been worn, owing to some delay in its completion. Other persons, equally reliable, mentioned a gown of quite another color and fa bric. Some one spoke of a ring, saying she had intended it should be given to the one she loved best. Others testified to the number of times they had heard her express a wish that the ring should never be removed from her hand.

Fortunately she had left a written paper of directions. Fortunately also, it was presently discovered. Not that it had been at all difficult to discover, every precaution having been taken to keep it in a place as open to the public eye as the town records. Perhaps for this very reason it had at first escaped attention. In this paper t he satin gown and many of the personal ornaments, including the ring, were distinctly specified as to their final disposition, thereby ending all uncertainty in the matter. It was such a document as every human being should thoughtfully compose and put in a place of easy discovery, —clear, concise, and of a nature to prevent all discussion.

II

Stephen Gray went to call on the pastor.

‘We thought Sunday afternoon would be the best day,’ he said. ‘Sunday afternoon at three. There are people who might not be able to come on a week-day, and then again Sunday is more convenient for the organizations. You see she was n’t like a private person. She had so many public interests.’

The pastor acquiesced. Yes, certainly, Sunday would be the best day.

‘The representatives of various organ izations came to see me last evening’ Stephen Gray went on. ‘They spoke of wishing to take some part in the service. I promised to consult with you. One of them, he was a man with a fine Scotch accent, told me she had been a member of his part icular society for more than sixty years and that he desired to show her especial honor because of the wonderful work she had done and because they loved her so.’

‘Because they loved her so,’ the pastor repeated, as he opened a note-book and wrote in it.

‘Then there was a woman,’ said Stephen, ‘who told me the children would send flowers and that I was to see they were placed as near as possible, otherwise the children’s hearts would be broken, because they loved her so.’

The pastor wrote in his note-book, ‘The children loved her so.’

‘I regret to disappoint any of her friends,’ he said, ‘ but I feel it would please her best to keep everything simple. My preference would be that some one person who knew her well should speak, only not longer than five minutes.’ And he asked if there were any favorite hymns she might have liked sung.

It was then that Stephen Gray remembered the paper of directions, and he read from it aloud: ‘I wish the pastor of my church to conduct the service and to make it as simple as possible. I wish hymn No. 583 to be sung by John Wilson, and I wish him to get some one to sing it with him. I am sure he will be willing.’

‘That is precisely what he will not be willing to do,’ said the pastor. ‘He never sings with any one. It’s his peculiarity. He sings alone or not at all.’

‘Not if it were a written request?’

‘No, not if it were a written request. Of course I shall tell him, but it won’t make a particle of difference. He always sings alone.’

III

The church was filled with people. The light fell through the stained glass of the windows upon a wealth of flowers from field and wood and garden, for the season was midsummer. The little girls were in Sunday frocks and ribbons. The little boys sat with serious faces. The officers of the different organizations came in the regalia of their orders, and the rich hues of their dress gave an added touch to the coloring.

The words were repeated, ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life’ — ‘In My Father’s House are many Mansions.’ — The prayers were offered, the brief address given.

‘Whatever I may be able to say,’ so the pastor began, ‘can be of little import beside the one sublime thing that every one loved her, men, women, and little children ’ —

It had been decided that the allotted five minutes should be given to the Scotchman, he of the fine accent. He spoke out of a full heart and with a tender lingering on his concluding words, ‘Good-night and good-morrow !’ as if he might have been alone with her, his hand upon hers.

People brushed the tears from their eyes, and yet there was nothing sad about t he words, ‘ Good-night and goodmorrow.’ Quite the cont rary.

Stephen Gray listened with divided attention. He hoped everything had been done in the way she would have approved and that he had not forgotten any little detail which he ought to have kept in mind. Certainly all her wishes had been complied with; or at least, they had been until John Wilson began to sing.

It was a sweet old hymn, of sleep and peace and a happy wakening; but exactly as had been predicted, John Wilson sang it alone. Stephen Gray glanced at the faces in the pews nearest to him. Evidently no one had expected any deviation from John Wilson’s usual custom. It was probable that, with the exception of the pastor, no one had known of the request. That she should have made this request seemed rather curious. It might be that she had thought two voices would sound better. She must have really desired it or she would not have written it down.

There passed through his mind how one of her strong characteristics had been the power of always accomplishing her desires, doing it perhaps in some unexpected manner, which in the end surprised no one. George and Mary were sitting together across the aisle. Mary was trying to keep from crying, George, dry-eyed, sat straight and observant.

Why should one grieve? Had she not told him herself many and many a time that she was going to be better off’? Did not the hymn say so?

At the beginning of the hymn Stephen Gray noticed that the boy turned his head suddenly and looked searchingly about. Then he resumed his attentive attitude. In the pew just in front was a little figure in black with a strong trustworthy face, which was neither old nor young. She had been pointed out to Stephen as one of the ‘Dearest Woman’s most devoted friends.’ Later he remembered having noticed that she too had turned and looked around.

IV

‘I heard her voice singing all through the hymn.’

This was what George told Stephen Gray the next morning.

The boy made the statement as if he were only relating one of the many occurrences of the day before and as such to be received without comment.

Stephen Gray’s thoughts went back to the written directions and he asked the boy if he had read them.

No, only the page where his own name was put down as one of the ‘persons to be notified.’ She had shown him that.

In the evening Stephen had occasion to call upon the little woman who had sat in the pew in front . She was full of sweet sorrow and memories and they talked till late. When he rose to go, she said, almost as if it were an afterthought with nothing unusual about it,

‘ I heard her voice singing in the church yesterday. She sang with John Wilson all the way through the hymn. You remember her voice. It had such a beautiful quality. For a moment I forgot what had happened and looked round. It sounded close behind me.’