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Data structure and algorithm analysis C language English
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Author(s): Mark Allen Weiss
ISBN(s): 9787115139849, 7115139849
Edition: 2
File Details: PDF, 20.07 MB
Year: 2005
Language: english
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 Adapter’s Foreword

Purpose
The original of this book is an excellent work of Mark Allen Weiss. All the
fundamental topics are covered. The ADT concepts and the analysis of the
algorithms (especially the average analysis)
case emphasized. The extensive
are

are also quite helpful to the students.

examples
Till now the original book has been introduced to Chinese students for two

years and has received positive

feedbacks from many instructors and students. This

re-composition is made to trim the contents of the book so that it better fits a

second-year undergraduate course in data structures and algoritlun analysis for the
Chinese students.

What’sNew
The recomposition includes two major changes. First, the review section
structure

of mathematics has been canceled since sophomore students in China have taken
sufficient courses in mathematics in their first-year study, including calculus, linear
algebra, and discrete mathematics. Secondly, the original Chapter 5 is moved to
follow Chapter 7, in order to show hashing as a method to break the lower bound
of searching by comparisons only.
Other minor changes include adding some interesting data structures and
methods, and rearranging part of the contents. Introduction of the sparse matrix
representation is added as an example of application of mu.ltilists in Section 3.2.
At the mean time, bucket sort and radix sort are discussed in more details in

Chapter 6 (which Chapter 7 in the original book) instead of being given as an

was

example in Section 3.2. In Chapter 4, the two sections about tree traversals, namely
Sections 4.1.2 and 4.6, are merged into one and are inserted into Section 4.2.3.
Threaded binary tree is then formally introduced instead of being mentioned in
exercises only. At the beginning of Chapter 7 (which was Chapter 5 in the original

book), Hashing, a method called interpolation search is briefly discussed to make

the point that it is possible to break the lower bound if we search by methods other
than comparisons. Finally in Section 6.8, Sorting Large Structures, we introduce
table sort as a method to handle the case in which physically sorting large structures
is required.
Adapter’s Foreword

Acknowledgments
We feel grateful to Mark Allen Weiss, the author of the original book, and Pearson
Education, the original publisher, for their great support on this recomposition. It is
their understanding and generosity that make it possible for more Chinese students to

enjoy thisdistinguished book.

Thanks to all the
colleagues and students who have communicated with me regarding
to their impressions of the original book. Special thanks go to Professor Qinming He,

for his helpful feedbacks and suggestions.

Finally I would like to thank everyone at Turing Book Company, the publisher of
this adapted edition, who have put in great effort to make this kind of cooperation
possible.
It is my very first attempt on making a recomposition of a textbook. If you have

any suggestions for improvements, I would very much appreciate your comments.

Yue Chen
chenyuecs.zju.edu.cn
Zhejiang University
 PREFACE

Purpose/Goals
This book describes data structures, methods of organizing large amounts of data,
and algorithm analysis, the estimation of the running time of algorithms. As computers

become faster and faster, the need for programs that canhandle large amounts
of input becomes more acute. Paradoxically, this requires more careful attention to

efficiency, since inefficiencies in programs become most obvious when input sizes are
large. By analyzing an algorithm before it is actually coded, students can decide if a
particular solution will be feasible. For example, in this text students look at specific
problems and see how careful implementations can reduce the time constraint for
large amounts of data from 16 years to less than a second. Therefore, no algorithm
or data structure is presented without an explanation of its running time. In some

cases, minute details that affect the running time of the implementation are explored.

Once a solution method is determined, a program must still be written. As

computers have become more powerful, the problems they must solve have become
larger and more complex, requiring development of more intricate programs. The
goal of this text is to teach students good programming and algorithm analysis skills
simultaneously so that they can develop such programs with the maximum amount
of efficiency.
This book is suitable for either an advanced data structures (CS7) course or
a first-year graduate course in algorithm analysis. Students should have some knowledge

of intermediate programming, including such topics as pointers and recursion,

and some background in discrete math.

Approach
I believe it is important for students to learn how to program for themselves, not

how to copy programs frombook. On the other hand, it is virtually impossible to

a

discuss realistic programming issues without including sample code. For this reason,
the book usually provides about one-half to three-quarters of an implementation,
and the student is encouraged to supply the rest. Chapter 12, which is new to this
edition, discusses additional data structures with an emphasis on implementation
details.
PREFACE

The algorithms in this book arepresented in ANSI C, which, despite some

flaws, is arguably the most popular systems programming language. The use of C
instead of Pascal allows the use of dynamically allocated arrays (see, for instance,
rehashing in Chapter 7). It also produces simplified code in several places, usually
because the and (&&) operation is short-circuited.
Most criticisms of C center on the fact that it is easy to write code that is barely
readable. Some of the more standard tricks, such as the simultaneous assignment
and testing against 0 via

if (x=y)

are generally used in the text, since the loss of clarity is compensated by only a
not

few keystrokes and no increased speed. I believe that this book demonstrates that
unreadable code can be ivoided by exercising reasonable care.

Overview

Chapter 1 contains review material on recursion. I believe the only way to be

comfortable with recursion is to see good uses over and over. Therefore, recursion
is prevalent in this text, with examples in every chapter except Chapter 7.
Chapter 2 deals with algorithm analysis. This chapter explains asymptotic analysis
and its major weaknesses. Many examples are provided, including an in-depth
explanation of logarithmic running time. Simple recursive programs are analyzed
by intuitively converting them into iterative programs. More complicated divide-
and-conquer programs are introduced, but some of the analysis (solving recurrence
relations) is implicitly delayed until Chapter 6, where it is performed in detail.
Chapter 3 covers lists, stacks, and queues. The emphasis here is on coding
these data structures using ADT5, fast implementation of these data structures, and
an
exposition of some of their uses. There are almost no programs (just routines),
but the exercises contain plenty of ideas for programming assignments.
Chapter 4 covers trees, with an emphasis on search trees, including external
search trees (B-trees). The uix file system and expression trees are used as examples.
AVE treesand splay trees are introduced but not analyzed. Seventy-five percent of the
code is written, leaving similar cases to be completed by the student. More careful
treatment of search tree implementation details is found in Chapter 12. Additional
coverage of trees, such as file compression and game trees, is deferred until Chapter
10. Data structures for an external medium are considered as the final topic in
several chapters.

Chapter 5 is about priority queues. Binary heaps are covered, and there is
additional material on of the theoretically interesting implementations of
some

priority queues. The Fibonacci heap is discussed in Chapter 11, and the pairing heap
is discussed in Chapter 12.
 PREFACE lx

Chapter 6 covers sorting. It is very specific with respect to coding details and
and
analysis. All the important general-purpose sorting algorithms are covered
are analyzed in detail: insertion sort, Shellsort, heapsort,
compared. Four algorithms
and quicksort. The analysis of the average-case running time of heapsort is new to
this edition. External sorting is covered at the end of the chapter.
hash tables. Some analysis is
Chapter 7 is a relatively short chapter concerning
at the end of the chapter.
performed, and extendible hashing is covered
Chapter 8 discusses the disjoint set algorithm with proof of the running time.
This is a short and specific chapter that can be skipped if Kruskal’s algorithm is not
discussed.
Chapter 9 covers graph algorithms. Algorithms on graphs are interesting, not
only because they frequently occur in practice but also because their running time is
so heavily dependent on the proper use of data structures. Virtually all of the standard

algorithms are presented along with appropriate data structures, pseudocode, and
analysis of running time. To place these problems in a proper context, a short
discussion on complexity theory (including NP-completeness and undecidability) is
provided.
Chapter 10 covers algorithm design by examining common problem-solving
techniques. This chapter is heavily fortified with examples. Pseudocode is used in
these later chapters so that the student’s appreciation of an example algorithm is not
obscured by implementation details.
Chapter 11 deals with amortized analysis. Three data from Chapters
structures

4 and 5 and the Fibonacci heap, introduced in this analyzed.

chapter, are

Chapter 12 is new to this edition. It covers search tree algorithms, the k-d tree,
and the pairing heap. This chapter departs from the rest of the text by providing
complete and careful implementations for the search trees and pairing heap. The
material is structured so that the instructor can integrate sections into discussions
from other chapters. For example, the top-down red black tree in Chapter 12 can
be discussed under AVL trees (in Chapter 4).

Chapters 1—9
provide enough material for most one-semester data structures
courses. If time permits, then Chapter 10 be covered. A graduate course
can

on algorithm analysis could cover Chapters 6—11.

The advanced data structures
analyzed in Chapter 11 can easily be referred to in the earlier chapters. The
discussion of NP-completeness in Chapter 9 is far too brief to be used in such a
course. Garey and Johnson’s book on NP-completeness can be used to augment this

text.

Exercises

Exercises, provided at the end of each chapter, match the order in which material
is presented. The last exercises may address the chapter as a whole rather than a
specific section. Difficult exercises are marked with an asterisk, and more challenging
exercises have two asterisks.
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Martha was near the window, looking forth into the bright
moonlight. It must have been getting quite late, when she
discovered some one approaching their house. She thought at first
that it might be her cousin George, but, as the figure drew nearer,
her heart gave a great bound, and she saw that it was he upon
whom her thoughts had been fixed. Yes, it was Mark Blakely. When
he mentioned to Mrs. Hunt that he had a visit to pay to a sick friend,
he had reference to Charles Taylor. Mark Blakely, since his return,
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when the apology came for Mr. Taylor’s absence, Mark determined to
call upon him at once, though, in talking with Mrs. Hunt, he nearly
let the time for it slip by. Martha arose when he entered; in broad
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pulses quickened at the thought, for Martha was as dear to him as
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room this evening,” replied Martha. “My sister is sitting with him; I
do not think it is anything serious, but he has not appeared very well
of late.” “Indeed, I trust it is nothing serious,” warmly responded
Mark Blakely. Martha fell into silence; she supposed that the servant
had told Mary that he was there and that she would be in. Mark
went to the window. “The same charming scene,” he exclaimed; “I
think the moonlight view from this window is beautiful, the dark
trees around, and these white stone mansions, rising there, remain
on my memory like the scene of an old painting.” He folded his arms
and stood there gazing still. Martha stole a look up at him at his
pale, attractive face, with its expression of care. She had wondered
once why that look of care was conspicuous there; but not after she
became acquainted with his domestic history.
“Are you going away to remain Mr. Blakely,” the question awoke him
from his reverie, he turned to Martha and a sudden impulse
prompted him to address her on the subject nearest his heart. “I
would remain if I could induce one to share my name and home.
Forgive me, Martha, if I anger you by speaking so hastily; will you
forget the past and help me to forget it; will you let me make you
my dear wife?” In saying will you forget the past, Mark Blakely
alluded to his first marriage in his extreme sensitiveness on that
point, he doubted whether Martha would object to succeed the dead
Mrs. Blakely, he believed those hasty and ill-natured words reported
to him as having been spoken by her, bore on that point alone.
Martha on the contrary assumed that her forgetfulness was asked
for his own behavior to her in so far that he had gone away and left
her without a word of explanation. She grew quite pale with anger.
Mark Blakely resumed; his manner earnest, his voice low and tender,
“I have loved you Martha from the first day that I saw you at my
mother’s, I dragged myself away from the place because I loved
you, fearing that you might come to see my folly, it was worse than
folly then, for I was not a free man. I have continued loving you
more and more from that time to this. I went abroad this last time
hoping to forget you; but I cannot do it, and my love has only
become stronger. Forgive, I say, my urging it upon you in this
moment of impulse.” Poor Martha was greatly excited, went abroad
hoping to forget her, striving to forget her, it was worse and worse.
She pushed his hand away. “Oh! Martha, can you not love me?” he
exclaimed in agitation. “Will you not give me hopes that you will
some time be my wife.” “No, I cannot love you; I will not give you
hopes. I would rather marry any man in the world than you; you
ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Blakely!” Not a very dignified
rejoinder, and Martha first with anger and then with love, burst into
even less dignified tears, and left the room in a passion. Mark
Blakely bit his lips in disgust. Mary entered unsuspicious; he turned
from the window and smoothed his brow, gathering what equanimity
he could as he proceeded to inquire after Mr. Taylor. About a month
after this interview Martha Taylor walked out from the dining-room
to enjoy the beauty of the spring evening, or to indulge her own
thoughts as might be. She strayed to the edge of the grounds and
there sat down on the garden bench, not to remain alone long. She
was interrupted by the very man upon whom, if the disclosure must
be made, her evening thoughts had centered. He was coming up
with a quick step, seeing Martha he stopped to accost her, his heart
beating, beating from the quick steps or from the sight of Martha, he
best knew. Many a man’s heart has beaten at the sight of a less
lovely vision. She wore white, set off with blue ribbons, and her
golden hair glittered in the sunlight. She nearly screamed with
surprise; she had been thinking of him, it was true, but as one who
was miles away. In spite of his stormy and not long past rejection,
he went straight to her and held out his hand. Did he notice that her
blue eyes dropped beneath his as she rose to answer his greeting?
that the soft color on her cheeks changed to a hot damask. “I fear I
have surprised you,” said Mark. “A little,” acknowledged Martha. “I
did not know you were in Bellville. Charles will be glad to see you.”
She turned to walk with him to the house and as in courtesy bound,
Mark Blakely offered her his arm, and Martha condescended to
accept it; neither broke the silence, and they reached the large
porch at the Taylor mansion. Martha spoke then. “Are you going to
make a long stay in England?” “A very short one; a party of friends
are leaving for New York, and they wish me to accompany them, I
think I shall go.” “To New York that is a long distance.” Mark smiled,
“I am an old traveler, you know.” Martha opened the dining-room
door, Charles was alone, he had left the table and was seated in his
armchair by the window, a glad smile illumed his face when he saw
Mark, he was one of the very few of whom Charles had made a
close friend, these close friends, not more than one or two perhaps,
can we meet in a life-time; acquaintances many, but friends, those
to whom the heart can speak out its inmost thoughts who may be as
our own souls, how few. “Have you been to tea?” asked Charles. “I
have dined at the hotel,” replied Mark. “Have you come to make a
long stay?” inquired Charles. “I shall leave to-morrow, having
nothing to do I thought that I would come and see you, I am
pleased to see you looking better.” “The warm weather seems to be
doing me a little good,” was Charles Taylor’s reply; a consciousness
within him of how little better he really was, Charles proceeded with
Mark to the drawing-room where his sisters were, and a pleasant
hour or two they all spent together.
 Chapter VIII.
GEORGE TAYLOR GIVES A PARTY.

ATILDA laughed at him a great deal about his proposed

expedition to New York, telling him she did not believe
that he was serious in saying he entertained it. It was a
beautiful night, soft, warm and lovely, the clock was
striking ten when Mark arose to depart. “If you will wait a few
minutes I will go a little way with you,” said Charles Taylor, he
withdrew to another room for his coat, then he rejoined him, passed
his arm in Mark Blakely’s and went out with him. “Is this New York
project a joke?” asked Charles. “Indeed, no, I have not quite made
up my mind to go, I think I shall; if so, I shall go in a week from
this, why should I not go, I have no settled home, no ties?” “Should
you not, Mark, be the happier if you had a settled home; you might
form ties, I think a roving life must be a very undesirable one.” “It is
one I was never fitted for, my inclination would lead me to love
home and domestic happiness, but as you know, I put that out of
my power.” “For a time, but that is over, you might marry again.” “I
do not think I ever shall,” returned Mark Blakely, feeling half
prompted to tell his unsuspicious friend that his own sister was the
barrier.
“You have never married,” he resumed, allowing the impulse to die
away. Charles Taylor shook his head; “the cases are different,” he
said: “In your wife you lost one whom you could not regret.” “Don’t
call her by that name Charles;” burst forth Mark Blakely. “And in
Janey I lost one who was all the world to me who could never be
replaced,” Charles resumed, after a pause; “the cases were widely
different.” “Yes, widely different,” assented Mark Blakely, they walked
on in silence, each buried in his own thoughts, at the
commencement of the road, Mark Blakely stopped, and took Charles
Taylor’s hand in his, “you shall not come any farther with me.”
Charles stopped also, he had not intended to go farther. “You shall
really go to New York then.” “I believe I shall.” “Take my blessing
with you, then Blakely we may never meet again in this world.”
“What!” exclaimed Mark. “The medical men entertain hopes that my
life may not be terminated so speedily, I believe that a few months
will end it, I may not live to welcome you home.” It was the first
intimation Mark Blakely had received of Charles fatal malady, Charles
explained to him; he was overwhelmed. “Oh my friend! my friend!
can not death be coaxed to spare you!” he called out in excitement,
how many have vainly echoed the same cry! A few more words, a
long grasp of the lingering hands, and they parted, Charles with a
God speed, Mark with a different prayer, a God save upon his lips.
Mark Blakely turned to the road, Charles towards home. George
Taylor’s dinner-table was spacious, but the absence of one person
from it was conspicuous. Mr. Blakely’s chair was still left. “He would
come yet.” George said there was no clergyman present, and Charles
Taylor said the grace, he sat at the foot of the table opposite his
cousin.
“We are thirteen!” exclaimed Mr. Feathersmith, a young man of this
aristocratic gathering, “it is the ominous number, you know.” Some
of them laughed. “What is that peculiar superstition?” asked Major
“What is that peculiar superstition?” asked Major Black, “I have
never been able to understand it.” “The superstition is that if a party
of thirteen sit down to dinner one of them is sure to die before the
year is up,” replied the young man, speaking with grave seriousness.
“Why is not thirteen as good a number to sit down as any other
number?” cried Major Black. “As good as fourteen, for instance?”
“It’s the odd number.” “The odd number; it’s no more the odd
number than any other number is odd that’s not even. What do you
say to eleven? What do you say to fifteen?” “I can’t explain it,”
returned the young man, with an air of indifference. “I only know
that the superstition does exist, and that I have noticed in more
instances than one that it has been carried out. Three or four parties
of thirteen who have sat down to dinner have lost one of their
number before the close of the year. You laugh at me, of course. I
have been laughed at before; but suppose you notice it now; there
are thirteen of us, see if we all are alive at the end of the year.”
Charles Taylor in his heart thought it not unlikely that one of them,
at any rate, would not be living. Several faces were smiling with
amusement, the most serious of them was Mark Blakely. “You don’t
believe in it, Blakely?” cried one, in surprise, as he gazed at him. “I
certainly do not, why should you ask it?” “You look so grave over it.”
“I never like to joke, though it be but a smile, on the subject of
death,” replied Mark. “I once received a lesson on the point, and it
will serve me for life.” “Will you tell us what it was?” interposed Mr.
Feathersmith, who was introduced to Mr. Blakely that day. “I cannot
tell it now,” replied Mark. “It is not a subject suited to a merry party,”
he frankly added, “but it would not tend to bear out your
superstition, sir; you are possibly thinking that it might.” “If I have
sat down once with thirteen, I have sat down fifty times,” cried
Major Black, “and we all lived the year out and many after that. I
would not mention such nonsense again, if I were you.” The young
man did not answer for a moment, he was enjoying a glass of wine.
“Only notice, that’s all,” said he, “I don’t want to act the simpleton,
but I don’t like to sit down with thirteen.” “Could we not make Bell
the scapegoat and invoke the evil to fall on his head?” cried a
mocking voice. “It is his fault.” “Mr. Feathersmith,” interrupted
another, “how do you estimate the time? Is the damage to accrue
before this year is out or do you give us full twelve months from this
evening?” “Ridicule me as much as you like,” said the young man,
good humoredly. “All I say is, notice if every one of us now here are
alive this time next year, then I’ll not put faith in it again. I hope we
shall be.” “I hope we shall be, too,” said Major Black. “You are a
social subject, though, to invite to dinner. I should fancy Mr. George
Taylor was thinking so.” Mr. George Taylor appeared to be thinking of
something that rendered him somewhat mentally disturbed, in point
of fact his duties as host were considerably broken into by listening
at the door; above the conversation, the clatter of plates, the
drawing of corks, his ear was alive, hoping for the knock which
would announce Mr. Bell.
It was, of course, strange that he neither came nor sent, but no
knock seemed to come and George could only rally his powers and
forget him. It was a recherche repast. George Taylor’s state dinners
always were; no trouble or expense was spared at them; luxuries in
season and out of season were there; the turtle would seem richer
at his table than any other, the venison more than venison, the
turkeys had a sweeter flavor, the sparkling champagne was of the
rarest vintage, the dinner this day did not disgrace its predecessors
and the guests seemed to enjoy themselves to the utmost in spite of
the absence of Mr. Bell and Mr. Feathersmith’s prognostications
thereon. The evening was drawing on, and some of the gentlemen
were solacing themselves with a cup of coffee, when the butler
slipped a note into George’s hand. “The man is waiting for an
answer, sir,” he whispered. George glided out of the room and read
it, so fully impressed was he that it came from Mr. Bell explaining the
cause of his absence that he had to read it twice over before he
could take in the fact that it was not from him; it was few lines in
pencil from the popular hotel and running as follows: “Dear George,
I am not feeling well and have stopped here on my journey, call at
once or I shall be gone to bed, Adam Miller.” One burning desire had
hung over George all the evening that he could run up to Bell’s, and
learn the cause of his absence. His absence in itself would not in the
least have troubled George, but he had a most urgent reason for
wishing to see him, hence his anxiety. To leave his guests to
themselves would have been scarcely the thing, but this note
appeared to afford just the excuse wanting, at any rate he
determined to make it the excuse. “A messenger brought this, I
suppose,” he said to the butler. “Yes, sir.” “My compliments and I will
be with Mr. Miller directly.” George went into the room again,
intending to proclaim his proposed absence and plead Mr. Miller’s
illness which he would put up in a strong light as his justification for
the inroad upon good manners a sudden thought came over him
that he would only tell Charles. George drew him aside, “Charles,
you be host for me for half an hour,” he whispered. “Mr. Miller has
just sent me an urgent summons to come and see him at the hotel;
he was passing through here and was compelled to stop for
sickness.” “Won’t to-morrow morning do?” asked Charles. “No, I will
be back before they have time to miss me, if they do miss me, say it
is a duty of friendship that any one of them would have answered as
I am doing, if called upon. I’ll soon be back.” Away he went. Charles
felt unusually well that evening and exerted himself for his cousin.
Once out of the house George hesitated whether he should go to
see Mr. Bell or Mr. Miller. He went to Mr. Miller. They had been friends
first at school, then at college, and since up to now. “I am sorry to
have sent for you,” exclaimed Mr. Miller holding out his hand. “I hear
you have friends this evening.” “It’s the kindest thing you could have
done for me this evening,” answered George. “I would have given
anything for a plea to be absent myself, and your letter came and
afforded it.” What, else they said, was between themselves; it was
not much, and in five minutes he was on his way to Bell’s; on he
strode his eager feet scarcely touching the ground, he lifted his hat
and wiped his brow, hot with anxiety; it was a very bright night the
moon high; he reached the mansion, and rang the bell: “Is Mr. Bell
at home?” “He’s gone to the North River,” was the answer. “A pretty
trick he played me this evening,” said George in a tone of dismay.
“What trick,” repeated the house-keeper. “Gone to North River, it
cannot be.” “He is,” said she positively; “when I came from market, I
found him going off by the train he had received a message which
took him up.”
“Why did he not call upon me, he knew the necessity there was for
me to see him, he ought to have come.” “I conclude he was in a
hurry to catch the train,” said she. “Why did he not send?” “I heard
him send a verbal message by one of the servants to the effect that
he was summoned unexpectedly to North River, and could not,
therefore, attend your dinner. How early you have broken up!” “We
have not broken up, I left my guests to see after him. No message
was brought to me.” “Then I will enquire,” began she, rising, but
George waved her back. “It is of little consequence,” he said. “It
might have saved me some suspense, but I am glad I got the dinner
over without knowing it. I would like to see him.” George arose to
go. “Not there, not that way,” she said, for George was turning as if
he would go into a dark hall, and she arose and went with him to
the door. He intended to take the lonely road homewards, that dark,
narrow road you may remember, where the maple trees met
overhead. All at once George Taylor did take a step back with a
start, when just inside the walk there came a dismal groan from
some dark figure seated on a broken bench. It was all dark there,
the thick maple trees hid the moon. George had just emerged from
where her beams shone bright and open, and not at first did he
distinguish who was sitting there, but his eyes grew accustomed to
the obscurity. “Charles,” he uttered in consternation, “is that you?”
For answer, Charles Taylor caught hold of his cousin, bent forward
and laid his head on George’s arm, another deep groan breaking
from him; that George Taylor would rather have been waylaid by a
real ghost than by his cousin at that particular time and place, was
certain; better that the whole world should detect any undue anxiety
for Mr. Bell’s companionship then than Charles Taylor, at least George
thought so, but conscience makes the best of us cowards,
nevertheless he gave his earnest sympathy to his cousin. “Lean on
me Charles, let me support you, how have you been taken sick?”
another minute and the paroxysm of pain was past. Charles wiped
the moisture from his brow, and George sat down on the narrow
bench beside him. “How came you to be here alone, Charles. Where
is your carriage?” “I ordered the carriage early and it came just as
you were going away,” explained Charles. “Feeling well, I sent it
away again, saying I would walk home, the pain struck me just as I
reached this spot and but for the bench I should have fallen.” “But
George, what brings you here?” was the next very natural question.
“You told me that you was going to see Miller?” “So I was—so I did,”
said George, speaking volubly. “I found him poorly, I told him that he
would do better in bed and came away; it was a nice night; I felt
inclined for a run, and went to Bell’s to ask what kept him away. He
was sent for up at North River it seems, and sent an apology, but I
did not get it. In some way or other I think it was misplaced by the
servants.” Charles Taylor might well have rejoined “If Bell was away
where did you stop,” but he made no remark. “Are they all gone,”
asked George, alluding to his guests. “They are all gone, I made it
right with them respecting your absence; my being there was almost
the same thing, they appeared to regard it so. George, I believe I
must have your arm as far as the house, see what an old man I am
getting to be.” “Will you not rest longer, I am in no hurry as they
have gone? What can this pain be that seems to be attacking you of
late?” “Has it never occurred to you what it might be?” rejoined
Charles. “No,” replied George, but he noticed that Charles’ tone was
a peculiar one, and he began to think of all the ailments that flesh is
heir to. “It cannot be rheumatism, can it Charles?” “It is something
worse than rheumatism,” he said, in his serene, ever thoughtful
tone. “A short time George, and you will control my share of the
business.” George’s heart seemed to stand still and then bound
onward in a tumult. “What do you mean, Charles; what do you think
is the matter with you?” “Do you remember what killed my mother?”
There was a painful pause. “Oh, Charles!” “That is it,” said Charles
quietly. “I hope you are mistaken! I hope you are mistaken!”
reiterated George. “Have you a physician; you must have advice!” “I
have had it, Brown confirms my suspicions. I asked for the truth.”
“Who is Brown,” returned George, disparagingly. “Go to London,
Charles, and consult the best medical men there.”
“For the satisfaction of you all I can do so,” he replied; “but it will
not benefit me.” “Good heavens! what a dreadful thing,” uttered
George, with feeling; “what a blow to fall upon you.” “You would
regard it so were it to fall upon you, and naturally you are young,
joyous, and have something to live for.” George Taylor did not feel
joyous then, had not felt particularly joyous for a long time; some
how his own care was a burden to him; he lifted his right hand to his
temple and kept it there; Charles suffered his own hand to fall upon
George’s left, which rested on his knee. “Don’t grieve, George, I am
more than resigned. I think of it as a happy change; this world at its
best is full of care; if we seem free from it one year it only falls more
unsparingly the next; it is wisely ordered, were the world made too
pleasant for us, we might be wishing it was our permanent home;
few weary of it, whatever may be their care, until they have learned
to look for a better. In the days gone by, I have felt tempted to
wonder why Janey should have been taken,” resumed Charles. “I see
now how merciful the fiat was, George. I have been more
thoughtfully observant perhaps, than many are, and I have learned
to see, to know, how marvelously all the fiats are fraught with
mercy; full of dark sorrows as they may seem to us, it would have
been a bitter trial to me to leave her here unprotected in deep
sorrow. I scarcely think I could have been reconciled to go, and I
know what her grief would have been. All’s for the best.” Very rare
was it for undemonstrative Charles thus to express his hidden
sentiments. George never knew him to do so before; the time and
place were peculiarly fitted for it, the still, bright night, telling of
peacefulness, the shady trees around, the blue sky overhead; in
these paroxysms of pain Charles felt himself brought face to face
with death. “It will be a blow to Mary,” said George, the thought
striking him. “She will feel it as one. Charles, can nothing be done
for you?” was the impulsive rejoinder. “Could it have been done for
my mother?” “I know, but since then science has been broadened;
diseases once incurable yield now to medical skill. I wish you would
go to London. There are some diseases which bring death with them
in spite of human skill, which will bring it to the end of time,”
rejoined Charles. “This is one.” “Well, Charles, you have given me
enough for to-night, and for a great many more nights and days,
too. I wish I had not heard it; it is a dreadful affliction for you. I
must say it is a dreadful affliction.” “The disease or the ending you
mean?” asked Charles, with a smile. “Both are, but I spoke more
particularly of the disease. The disease in itself is a lingering death,
and nothing better.” “A lingering death is the most favored, as I
regard it; a sudden death the most unhappy one. See what time has
given me to set my house in order,” he added, the sober smile
deepening. “I must not fail to do it well.” “And the pain, Charles, that
will be lingering, too.” “I must bear it.” He rose as he spoke, and put
his arm in his cousin’s. He stood a minute or two as if getting
strength, and then walked on, leaning heavily on George. It was the
pain, the excessive agony, that unnerved him; a little while, and he
would seem in the possession of his strength again. “George, I can
not tell how you will manage the business when I am gone,” he
continued, more in a business-like tone. “I think of it a great deal.
Sometimes I fancy it might be better if you took a staid, sober
partner, one of middle age, a thorough man of business. Great
confidence has been accorded me, you know, George. I suppose
people like my steady habits.”
“They like you for your honest integrity;” returned George, the
words seemed to break from him impulsively, “I shall manage very
well, I dare say, when the time comes, I suppose I must settle down
to business to be more like what you have been, I can,” he
continued in a sort of soliloquy, “I can, and I will.” But they walked
on slowly neither saying a word until they reached the house.
George shook hands with his cousin, “don’t you attempt to come to
business to-morrow,” he said, “I will come up in the evening to see
you.”
“Won’t you come in now, George?” “Thank you. Good night, Charles,
I heartily wish you better.” There went on the progress of a few days
and another week had dawned and Charles seemed to all
appearances to be improving, he arose now to the early breakfast
table, he began to hasten to business for there was much work
there with the accounts, and one morning when they were at
breakfast the old servant entered with one or two letters for Charles,
but before the old man could reach his master, whose back was
toward the door, Mary made him a sign and he laid the letters down
on a remote table. Charles had been receiving a large number of
letters of late, and Mary was fearful that so much business might
bring on another of those spells and deemed it just as well that he
should at least eat his breakfast in peace. The circumstances of the
letters having passed from her mind he ate on in silence, but Martha
and Matilda were discussing certain news which they had received
the previous day, news which had surprised them concerning the
engagement of a lady who had looked upon matrimony as folly.
 Chapter IX.
CHARLES RECEIVES ANOTHER STROKE.

USY talking they did not particularly notice that Charles had
risen from his chair at the breakfast table and was seated at
a distant table opening his letters until a faint sound,
something like a groan, startled them; he was leaning back
in his chair seemingly unconscious, his hands had fallen, his face
gave signs of the grave; surely those dews upon it were not the
dews of death! Martha screamed, Matilda flung open the door and
called out for help; Mary only turned to them her hands lifted to
enjoin silence, a warning word upon her lips, their old servant came
running in and looked at Charles. “He’ll be better directly,” he
whispered. “Yes, he will be better,” assented Mary, “but I should call
the doctor.” Charles began to revive. He slowly opened his eyes and
raised his hand to wipe the moisture from his white brow. On the
table before him lay one of the letters open. Mary pushed the letters
aside with a gesture of grievous vexation. “It is this business that
has affected you,” she cried out with a wail. “Not so,” breathed
Charles. “It was the pain here.” He touched himself below the chest
in the same place where the pain had been before. What had caused
the pain, mental agony arising from overwork or the physical agony
arising from disease? Probably some of both. He stretched out his
hand toward the letters making a motion that they should be placed
in envelopes. George, who could not have read a word without his
glasses, took up the letters, folded them and put them in their
envelopes. Charles’ mind seemed at rest and he closed his eyes
again. “I’ll step for the doctor now,” whispered George to Mary, “I
shall catch him before he goes out on his rounds.” He took his hat
and went down the road to the office, putting forth his best step,
when he reached the office the doctor had gone. “Will he be long,”
asked George? “I don’t know,” was the reply, “he was called out at
seven this morning.” “He is wanted at the Taylor mansion. Mr. Taylor
is worse.” “Is he?” returned the assistant, his quick tone indicating
concern. “I can tell you where he is, and that’s at Bangs,” continued
the assistant. “You might call and speak to him if you like, it’s on
your way home.” George hastened there and succeeded in finding
the doctor. He informed him that Charles was worse; was very sick.
“One of the old attacks of pain, I suppose,” said the doctor. “Yes, sir,”
answered George. “He was taken sick while answering letters. Miss
Mary thought it might be overwork that brought it on.”
“Ah!” said the doctor, and there was a world of emphasis on the
monosyllable. “Well, I shan’t be detained here over half an hour
longer, and I shall come straight up.” He reached there within half an
hour after George. Mary saw him approaching and came into the hall
to meet him. She was looking very sad and pale. “Another attack, I
hear,” began the doctor, in his unceremonious mode of salutation,
“bothered into it, I suppose; George says it came on while he was
reading letters.” “Yes,” answered Mary, in acquiescence, her tone a
resentful one. “It was brought on by overwork.” The doctor gave a
groan as he turned towards the stairs. “Not there,” interposed Mary,
“he is in the dining-room.” With the wan, white look upon his face,
with the moisture of pain on his brow lay Charles Taylor. He was on
the sofa now, but he partially rose from it and assumed a sitting
posture when the doctor entered. A few professional questions and
answers and then the doctor began to scold. “Did I not warn you
that you must have perfect tranquility,” cried he, “rest of body and of
mind?” “You did, but how am I to get it, even now I ought to be at
the office. I shall die however it may be, doctor,” was the reply of
Charles Taylor. “So will most of us, I expect,” returned the doctor,
“but there’s no necessity for us to be helped on to it ages before
death would come of itself.” “True,” replied Charles, but his tone was
not a hopeful one. There was a pause, Charles broke it. “I wish you
could give me something to avert these sharp attacks of pain,
doctor, it is agony in fact, not pain.” “I know it,” replied the doctor.
“What’s the use of my attempting to give you anything? You don’t
take my prescription.” Charles lifted his eyes in surprise. “I have
taken all that you desired me.” “No, you have not; I prescribe
tranquillity of mind and body; you take neither.” Charles leaned
nearer to the doctor and paused before he answered. “Tranquillity of
mind for me has passed, I can never know it again; were my life to
be prolonged by the great healer of all things, time might bring it to
me in a degree, but for that I shall not live, doctor; you must know
this to be the case under the calamity which has fallen upon my
head.” “At any rate you cannot go on facing business any longer.” “I
must, indeed, there is no help for it.” “And suppose it kills you,” was
the retort. “If I could help going I would,” said Charles. “George has
gone away.” The doctor arose and departed after giving Charles a
severe lecture. Miss Taylor sat at one of the west windows, her
cheek rested pensively on her fingers as she thought, oh, with what
bitterness of the grievous past she sat there losing herself in regret
after regret. If my father and mother had not died; she lost herself, I
say, in these regrets, bitter as they were vain. How many of these
useless regrets might embitter the lives of us all, how many do
embitter them? If I had but done so and so; if I had taken the right
when I turned to the wrong; if I had known who that person was
from the first and shunned his acquaintance; if I had chosen that
path in life instead of this one; if I had, in short, done exactly the
opposite to what I did do. Vain, vain repinings; vain, useless
repinings. The only plan is to keep them as far as possible from our
hearts. If we could foresee the end of a thing at its beginning, if we
could buy a stock of experience at the outset of life, if we could, in
fact, become endowed with the light of divine wisdom, what
different men and women the world would see. But we cannot undo
the past, it is ours with all its folly, its shortsightedness. Perhaps its
guilt, though we stretch out our yearning and pitiful hands to
Heaven in their movement of agony, though we wail out our bitter
my Lord pardon me! heal me! help me! though we beat on our
remorseful bosom and tear away its flesh piecemeal in bitter
repentance. We cannot undo the past; we cannot undo it. The past
remains to us unaltered, and must remain so forever. Perhaps some
idea of this kind of the utter uselessness of these regrets, but no
personal remorse attached to her, was making itself heard in the
mind of Miss Taylor even through her grief. She had clasped her
hands upon her bosom now and bent her head downwards,
completely lost in retrospect.
She was aroused by the entrance of Charles. He sat opposite her at
the other corner of the window; he appeared to be buried in
thought, neither spoke a word; presently Mary arose to leave the
room and George met her almost immediately, showing in Mr.
Blakely. He hastened forward to prevent Charles from rising. Laying
one hand upon his shoulder and the other on his hands he pressed
him down and would not let him rise. The slanting rays of the setting
sun were falling on the face of Charles Taylor, lighting up its
handsome outlines, the cheeks were thinner, the hair seemed
scantier, the truthful gray eyes had acquired an habitual expression
of pain. Mr. Blakely leaned over him and noted it all. “Sit down,” said
Charles, drawing the chair which had been occupied by Mary nearer
to him. Mr. Blakely accepted the invitation, but did not release the
hand. They subsided into conversation, its theme as was natural, the
health of Charles and the topics of the day and weather. Charles sat
in calmness waiting for him to proceed; nothing could stir him
greatly now. Mr. Blakely gave him the outline of the past, of his love
for Martha and her rejection of him. “There has been something in
her manner of late,” he continued, “which has renewed hope within
me, otherwise I should not be saying this to you now; quite of late,
since her rejection of me, I have observed what I could not describe,
and I have determined to risk my fate once more.” “But I did not
know that you loved Martha.” “I suppose not. It has seemed to me,
though, that my love must have been patent to the world. You
would give her to me, would you not?” “Thankfully,” was the warm
answer. “The thought of leaving these girls unprotected has been
one of my cares. Let me give you one consolation Blakely, that if
Martha has rejected you she has rejected others. Mary fancied she
had some secret attachment; can it have been concerning yourself?”
“If so why has she rejected me?” “I don’t know; she has been
grievously unhappy since I have been sick, almost like one who had
no further hope in life.” “What is it, George?” “A message has come
from Mrs. Bangs.” Charles spoke a word of apology to Blakely and
left the room; in the hall he met Martha crossing to it; she went in
quite unconscious who was its occupant; he rose to welcome her. A
momentary hesitation in her steps, a doubt whether she should not
run away again, and then she recalled her senses and went forward.
How it went on and what was exactly said or done neither of them
could remember afterwards. A very few minutes and Martha’s head
was resting upon his shoulder; all the mistakes of the past cleared
up between them. She might not have confessed to him how long
she had loved, all since that long time when they were together at
his home, but for her dread that he might think she was only
accepting him on account of Charles’ days being numbered. She told
the truth, that she had loved him and him only all along. “Martha,
my dear, what a long misery might have been spared me had I
known this.” Martha looked down. Perhaps some might have been
spared her also. “Would you like to live here?” asked Mark. “Oh, yes;
if it can be.” “They will be glad to have me set a price on some of
these houses around here.” Martha’s eyelids were bent on her hot
cheeks; she did not raise them. “If you like we might ask Mary and
Matilda to live with us,” resumed Mark Blakely in his thoughtful
consideration. “Our home will be large enough.” “Their home is
decided upon,” said Martha shaking her head, “and they will remain
in their own home. Mary has an annuity, you know; it was money
left to her by mamma’s sister, so that she is independent; can live
where she pleases; but I am sure she will go to New York on a visit
as soon as”—“I understand you Martha; as soon as Charles shall
have passed away.” The tears were glistening in her eyes. “Do you
not see a great change in him?”
“A very great one, Martha; I should like him to give you to me. Will
you waive ceremony and be mine at once?” “At once,” she repeated,
stammering and looking at him. “I mean in the course of a week or
two, as soon as you can make it convenient. Surely we have waited
long enough.” “I will see,” murmured Martha, a grave expression
arose to Mr. Blakely’s face. “It must not be very long, Martha, if you
would be mine while your brother is in life.” “I will! I will! it shall be
as you wish,” she answered, the tears falling from her eyes, and
before she could make any rejoinder she had hastily quitted him,
and standing before the window stealthily drying her wet cheeks, for
the door had opened and Charles Taylor had entered the room.
All the neighbors of Bellville lingered at its doors and windows
curious to witness the outer signs of Martha Taylor’s wedding; the
arrangements for it were to them more a matter of speculation than
of certainty since various rumors had been afloat and were eagerly
caught up, although of the most contradictory character, all that
appeared certain as yet, was that the day was charming and the
bells were ringing; to keep the crowd back was an impossibility and
when the first carriage came, the excitement in the street was great;
it was drawn by two beautiful horses, the livery of the postillions and
the crest on the panels of the carriage proclaimed it to be Charles
Taylor’s. Mark Blakely sat inside with Martha, the next carriage
contained the sisters and Charles Taylor, the third contained the
bridesmaids wearing hats and beautiful gowns, and the others
coming up contained the aristocratic friends of the parties
concerned; there was a low murmur of sorrow, of sympathy and it
was called forth by the appearance of Charles Taylor; it was some
little time now since Charles Taylor had been seen in public and the
change in him was startling; he walked forward leaning on the arm
of George Taylor, lifting his hat to the greeting that was breathed
around, a greeting of sorrow meant, as he knew, for him and his
blighted life, the few scanty hairs stood out to their view as he
uncovered his head, and the ravages of the disease that was killing
him were all too conspicuous on his wasted features. “God bless
him, he’s very near to the grave,” who said this among the crowd,
Charles could not tell, but the words and their pathos full of rude
sympathy came distinctly upon his ear. The Reverend Mr. Davis stood
at the altar, he, too had changed, the keen, vigorous, healthy man
had now a gray worn look; he stood there waiting for the wedding
party; the pews were filled with ladies dressed appropriately for the
occasion, and the church was filled with sweet-smelling flowers and
their fragrance filled the air; the bridesmaids led the way, then came
Martha and Charles Taylor; she wore an elegant gown of white satin,
a tulle veil and orange blossoms, diamond ornaments, the gift of the
groom—as lovely a bride as ever stood at the altar. Mr. Blakely and
Miss Mary Taylor came next; she wore a gray silk of rare modern
pattern. The recollection of the wedding service that he had
promised to perform for Charles Taylor and Janey Brewster caused
the pastor’s voice to be subdued now as he read; how had that
contemplated union ended; the pastor was thinking it over now. This
one was over, the promises made, the register signed and parson
Davis stepped before them and took the hand of Martha. “I pray God
that your union may be a happy one; that rests in a great degree
with you; Mark Blakely, take care of her,” her eyes filled with tears,
but Blakely grasped his hand warmly and said: “I will! I will.” “Let me
bless you both, Blakely,” broke in the quiet voice of Charles Taylor.
“It may be that I shall not see you again.”
“Oh! but we shall meet again, you must not die yet,” exclaimed Mark
Blakely with feverish eagerness. “My friend I would rather part with
the whole world, save Martha than with you.” Their hands lingered
together and separated. They reached the carriage, notwithstanding
the crowd pushed and danced around it, the placing in of Martha,
and Mark taking his seat beside her, seemed to be but the work of a
moment, so quickly was it done, and Mark Blakely, a pleasant smile
upon his face, bowed to the shouts on either side as the carriage
wended its way through the crowd, not until it had got into clear
ground did the postillions put their horses to a canter, and the bride
and groom were fairly on their bridal tour. There was more
ceremony needed to place the ladies in the other carriages. Miss
Taylor’s skirts in their extensive richness took five minutes to arrange
themselves, ere a space could be found for Charles beside her, the
footman held the door for him, the other carriages drove up in order
and were driven quietly away, after having been filled with fair ladies
and their escorts.
 Chapter X.
A PEACEFUL HOUR.

N the old porch at Bellville, of which you have read so much, sat
Charles Taylor. An invalid-chair had been placed there, and he
lay back on its pillows in the beams of the afternoon sun of the
late autumn; a warm sunny day it had been. He was feeling
wonderously well; almost, but for his ever present weakness, quite
well; his fatigue of the previous day, that of Martha’s wedding, had
left no permanent effects upon him, and had he not known
thoroughly his own hopeless state he might have fancied this
afternoon that he was approaching convalescence. Not in his looks,
pale, wan, ghastly were they, the shadow of the grim implacable
visitor, that was so soon to come, was already on them; but the face
in its calm, stillness told of ineffable peace. The brunt of the storm
had passed. The white walls of the Taylor mansion glittered brightly
in the distance, the dark blue sky was seen through the branches of
the trees, growing bare and more bare against the coming winter.
The warm rays of the sun fell on Charles Taylor. In his hand he held
a book from which others than Charles Taylor have derived
consolation and courage. “God is love.” He was reading at that
moment of the great love of God towards those who strive as he had
done to live for him. He looked up, repeating the sentence, “He
loves them in death and will love them through the never ending
ages to come.” Just then his eyes fell on the figure of George, their
old servant man, who was advancing towards the mansion. Charles
closed his book and held out his hand. “You are not going to leave
us yet, Mr. Taylor.” “I know not how soon it may be George, very
long it cannot be; sit down.” He stood yet, however, looking at him,
disregarding the bench to which he had pointed, stood with a
saddened expression and compressed lips. George’s eye was an
experienced one, and it may be that he saw the picture which had
taken up its abode in his face.
“You be going to see my old master and mistress sir,” he said
dashing some rebellious moisture from his eyes. “Mr. Charles do you
remember it, my poor mistress sat here in this porch the very day
she died.” “I remember it well, George. I am dying quietly, thank
God, as my mother died.” “And what a blessing it is when folks can
die quietly with their conscience, and all about ’em at peace,”
ejaculated George. “I am on the threshold of a better world,
George,” was his quiet answer, “one where sorrow cannot enter.”
George sat for some little time on the bench talking to him, they had
gone back in thought to old times, to the illness and death of his
mother, to the long gone scenes of the past, whether of pleasure or
pain—a past which for us all seems to bear a charm when recalled to
the memory which it had never borne; at length George arose to
depart, declining to remain longer; Charles was in his armchair
seated by the fire as Mary entered the room, his face would have
been utterly colorless save for the bluish tinge which had settled
there a tinge distinguishable even in the red blaze. “Have you come
back alone,” asked Charles, turning towards her. “George Taylor
accompanied me as far as the head of the street. Have you had your
medicine, Charles?” “Yes.” Mary drew a chair near to him, and sat
down, glancing almost stealthily at him; when this ominous look
appears on the human face we do not like to look into it too boldly
lest its owner, so soon to be called away, may read the fiat in our
own dread countenance, she need not have feared its effects, had
he done so, on Charles Taylor. “How are you feeling to night?”
somewhat abruptly asked Mary. “Never better of late days; it seems
as if ease both of mind and body has come to me.” Mary turned her
eyes from the fire that the tears rising in them might not be seen to
glisten, and exclaimed: “What a misfortune.” “A misfortune to be
taken to my rest, to the good God who has so loved and kept me
here. A few minutes before you came in I fell into a doze and I
dreamt I saw Jesus Christ standing by the window waiting for me,
he had his hand stretched out to me with a smile, so vivid had been
the impression that when I awoke, I thought it was a reality. Death a
misfortune! no, Mary, not for me.” Mary rang the bell for lights to be
brought in, Charles, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, bent
his head upon his hand and became lost in the imagination of glories
that might so soon open to him, bright forms were flitting around a
throne of wondrous beauty, golden harps in their hands, and in one
of them, her harp idle, her radiant face turned as if watching for one
who might be coming, he seemed to recognize Janey. A misfortune
for the good to die! No.
George Taylor, a cousin to this family, was seated at his desk in the
office when his attention was called by a rap at the door. George
opened the door, and the old servant came in. “It is all over, sir,” he
said; his manner strangely still, his voice unnaturally calm and low,
as is sometimes the case where emotion is striven to be suppressed.
Miss Mary bade me come to you with the tidings. George’s bearing
was suspiciously quiet, too. “It is very sudden,” he presently
rejoined. “Very sudden, sir, and yet my mistress did not seem
unprepared for it, he took his tea with her, and was so cheerful over
it that I began to hope he had taken a fresh turn, my mistress called
me in to give directions about a little matter she wanted done to-
morrow, and while she was speaking to me, Miss Matilda cried out.
We turned round and saw her leaning over my master, he had
slipped back in his chair powerless, and I hastened to raise and
support him. Death was in his face, there was no mistaking it, but he
was quite conscious, quite sensible and smiled at us. ‘I must say
farewell to you,’ he said, and Miss Matilda burst into a fit of sobs, but
my mistress kneeled down quietly before him and took his hands in
hers and said, ‘Charles, is the moment come?’ ‘Yes, it is come;’ he
answered, and tried to look round at Miss Matilda, who stood a little
behind his chair. ‘Don’t grieve,’ he said, ‘I am going on first,’ but she
only sobbed the more. ‘Good by, my dear ones,’ he continued, ‘I
shall wait for you all as I know I am being waited for.’ ‘Fear?’ he
went on, for Miss Matilda sobbed out something that sounded like
the word. ‘Fear, when I am going to God, when I saw Jesus—Jesus
—’” George fairly broke down with a great burst of grief, and the
tears were silently rolling over the old man’s cheeks. “It was the last
word he spoke, ‘Jesus,’ his voice ceased, his hands fell, and the
eyelids dropped, there was no struggle, nothing but a long gentle
breath, and he died with the smile upon his lips.” Cousin George
leaned his head on the side of the window to subdue his emotion, to
gather the outward calmness that man likes not to have ruffled
before the world; he listened to the strokes of the passing bell
ringing out so sharply in the still night air, and every separate stroke
was laden with its weight of pain.
You might have taken it for Sunday in Bellville, except that Sundays
in ordinary do not look so gloomy; the stores were closed, a drizzling
rain came down, and the heavy bell was booming out at solemn
intervals; it was tolling for the funeral of Charles Taylor. Morning and
night from eight to nine had it so tolled since his death, he had gone
to his long home, to his last resting-place, and Bellville mourned for
him as for a brother. Life wears different aspects for us and its cares
and its joys are unequally allotted, at least they appear so to be.
One glances up heavily from careworn burdens, and sees others
without care basking in the sunshine, but I often wonder whether
those who seem so gay whose path seems to be cast on the broad
sunshiny road of pleasure whether they have not a skeleton in their
closet; nothing but gayety, nothing but lightness, nothing to all
appearances, but freedom from care. Is it really so, perhaps with
some, a very few. Is it well for those few? Oh, if we could but see
the truth when the burden upon us is heavy and pressing. Fellow
sufferers, if we could but read that burden aright, we should see
how good it is, and bless the hand that sends it. But we never can;
we are but mortal; born with a mortal’s keen susceptibility to care
and pain, we preach to others that these things are sent for their
good, we say so to ourselves when not actually suffering, but when
the fiery trial is upon us then we groan out in our sore anguish that
it is greater than we can bear. The village clock struck eleven and
the old sexton opened the doors of the church, and the inhabitants
of this beautiful village assembled to see the funeral as it came
slowly winding along the street to the sound of the solemn bell; they
might have attended him to the grave following unobtrusively, but
that was known to be the wish of the family that such demonstration
should not be made. “Bury me in the plainest manner possible” had
been his directions when the end was drawing near. The hearse and
carriages are standing at the mansion; fine horses, with splendid
trappings, in modern carriages, have come from the various parts of
the country near and distant to show their owners’ homage to that
good man who had earned their deepest respect through life; slowly
the procession reached the church, and the hearse and carriages
stopped at it; some of the carriages filed off, and the drivers turned
their horses’ heads to face the church, and waited still and quiet
while the hearse was emptied. The Reverend Mr. Davis stood at the
altar, book in hand, reciting the commencement of the service for
the burial of the dead, “I am the resurrection and the life,” with
measured steps slowly following went those who bore the coffin;
their heads covered with a black pall, the sisters and their cousin
George came next, with their old servants following, thus they
entered the church, he remained at the altar, but not reading from it,
the church was nearly filled by ones and twos; they had come in,
and when all was quiet, he read the history of the life of the
deceased in a solemn manner, there was not a dry eye in the
audience; the sermon having been finished, they repaired to the
grave, the pastor taking his place at the head, and read the service
as the coffin was lowered, the mourners stood next to him, and the
other friends were clustered around, their heads bent, the drizzling
rain beat down upon their bare heads, the doctor came up, unable
to attend earlier, he came now at the last moment, just as George
Taylor had come years ago to the funeral of Janey Brewster. Did the
pastor of Bellville, standing there with his pale face, his sonorous
voice echoing over the graves, recall those back funerals, when he
over whom the service was now being read had stood as chief
mourner? No doubt he did. Did George recall it? The pastor glanced
at him once, and saw that he had a difficulty in suppressing his
emotion. “I heard a voice from Heaven saying unto me, write from
henceforth blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, even so saith
the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.” So profound was the
silence, that every word as it fell solemnly from the lips of the
minister might be heard in all parts of the churchyard; if ever that
verse could apply to frail humanity, with its unceasing struggle after
holiness, and its unceasing failure here, it most surely apply to him
over whom it was being spoken. Bend forward, as so many of those
spectators are doing, and read the inscription on the plate, Charles
Taylor, aged 40 years. Only forty years, a period at which some men
think they are beginning life, it seemed to be an untimely death, and
it would have been, after all his pain and sorrow, but that he had
entered upon a better life.
They left him in the vaulted grave, his coffin near his mother’s, who
lay beside his father; the spectators began to draw unobtrusively
away, silently and solemnly. In the general crowd and bustle, for
everybody was on the move, George turned to the pastor and shook
hands with him. “It was a peaceful ending.” George was gazing
down dreamily as he spoke the last words; the pastor looked at him.
“A peaceful ending! yes; it could not be otherwise with him.” “No,
no,” murmured George; “Not otherwise with him.” “May God in his
mercy send us all as happy a one when our time shall come.” As the
words left the pastor’s lips the loud and heavy bell boomed out
again, giving notice to the town that the last rites were over, that life
had closed forever on Charles Taylor.
 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.
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