There was something so womanly in her manner that Silas was convinced that she would live only to honor the memory of his friend. There was inexpressible sadness in her face, but there was also strength, and capacity, and love, and honor.
"I am the one person whose good opinion he cared for," she said again; "and I forget everything except his love for me, and his manliness in everything. It is nothing to me what he was away from here. A single atom in the human sea, he may have committed a wrong while attempting to do right, and came here a penitent, trying to right it; but as I knew him he was worthy of any woman's profoundest admiration, and he shall receive it from me as long as I live. The stream of life leads upwards to heaven against a strong current, and, knowing myself, I do not wonder that occasionally the people forget, and float down with the tide. He has told me that he had but one apology to make to any one,--to me, for not finding me sooner. This was a pretty and an undeserved compliment; but it was evident that in his own mind he did not feel that he had wronged anyone, and I feel so. I have no idle regrets, and do not blame you and Tug. On the contrary, I thank you both for your thoughtful care. When Tug returns, as I am sure he will, bring him here. Who has not wounded their best friends in trying to befriend them? Though you two have grievously wounded me, I recognize the goodness of your motives, and feel grateful."
She got up at this, and started toward the door, motioning Silas to follow. From the dark hall she stepped through the door which Dorris had never entered alive; but he had been carried there dead. A dim light burned near the door, and there was something in the air--a taint not to be described, but to be remembered with dread--which made Silas think of a sepulchre.
On a raised platform, in the room to which the steps of poor Helen were always leading, stood a metallic burial case, with a movable lid showing the face under glass. The face was so natural that Silas thought it must have been preserved in some manner, for his friend seemed to be quietly sleeping, and he could not realize that he had been dead a week. Even before Silas had taken his hasty glance, Annie Dorris had knelt beside the inanimate clay of her husband, and he thought he had better go away--he could think of nothing else to do--and leave her. And this he did, only stopping at the door to see a picture which he never forgot,--the coffin, the sobbing woman, the dim light, and the gloomy hangings of the room.