The Shoulders of Atlas | Page 7

still quick, and he
loathed himself. He turned the paper with a rattling jerk to an account
of a crime in New York, and the difficulty the police had experienced
in taking the guilty man in safety to the police station. He read the
account aloud.
"Seems to me the principal thing the New York police protect is the
criminals," he said, bitterly. "If they would turn a little of their attention
to protecting the helpless women and children, seems to me it would be
more to the purpose. They're awful careful of the criminals."
Sylvia did not hear. She assented absently. She thought, in spite of
herself, of the good-fortune which was to befall them. She imagined
herself mistress of the old White homestead. They would, of course,
rent their own little cottage and go to live in the big house. She
imagined herself looking through the treasures which Abrahama would
leave behind her--then a monstrous loathing of herself seized her. She
resolved that the very next morning she would go over and help Miss
Babcock, that she would put all consideration of material benefits from
her mind. She brought her thoughts with an effort to the article which
Henry had just read. She could recall his last words.
"Yes, I think you are right," said she. "I think criminals ought not to be
protected. You are right, Henry. I think myself we ought to have a
doctor called from Alford to-morrow, if she is no better, and have a
consultation. Dr. Wallace is good, but he is only one, and sometimes
another doctor has different ideas, and she may get help."
"Yes, I think there ought to be a consultation," said Henry. "I will see
about it to-morrow. I will go over there with you myself to-morrow
morning. I think the police ought not to protect the criminals, but the

people who are injured by them."
"Then there would be no criminals. They would have no chance," said
Sylvia, sagely. "Yes, I agree with you, Henry, there ought to be a
consultation."
She looked at Henry and he at her, and each saw in the other's face that
same ignoble joy, and that same resentment and denial of it.
Neither slept that night. They were up early the next morning. Sylvia
was getting breakfast and Henry was splitting wood out in the yard.
Presently he came stumbling in. "Come out here," he said. Sylvia
followed him to the door. They stepped out in the dewy yard and stood
listening. Beneath their feet was soft, green grass strewn with tiny
spheres which reflected rainbows. Over their heads was a wonderful
sky of the clearest angelic blue. This sky seemed to sing with
bell-notes.
"The bell is tolling," whispered Henry. They counted from that instant.
When the bell stopped they looked at each other.
"That's her age," said Sylvia.
"Yes," said Henry.
Chapter III
The weather was wonderful on Abrahama White's funeral day. The air
had at once the keen zest of winter and the languor of summer. One
moment one perceived warm breaths of softly undulating pines, the
next it was as if the wind blew over snow. The air at once stimulated
and soothed. One breathing it realized youth and an endless vista of
dreams ahead, and also the peace of age, and of work well done and
deserving the reward of rest. There was something in this air which
gave the inhaler the certainty of victory, the courage of battle and of
unassailable youth. Even old people, pausing to notice the streamer of
crape on Abrahama White's door, felt triumphant and undaunted. It did
not seem conceivable, upon such a day, that that streamer would soon

flaunt for them.
The streamer was rusty. It had served for many such occasions, and
suns and rains had damaged it. People said that Martin Barnes, the
undertaker, ought to buy some new crape. Martin was a very old man
himself, but he had no imagination for his own funeral. It seemed to
him grotesque and impossible that an undertaker should ever be in need
of his own ministrations. His solemn wagon stood before the door of
the great colonial house, and he and his son-in-law and his daughter,
who were his assistants, were engaged at their solemn tasks within.
The daughter, Flora Barnes, was arraying the dead woman in her last
robe of state, while her father and brother-in-law waited in the south
room across the wide hall. When her task was performed she entered
the south room with a gentle pride evident in her thin, florid face.
"She makes a beautiful corpse," she said, in a hissing whisper.
Henry Whitman and his wife were in the room, with Martin Barnes and
Simeon Capen, his son-in-law. Barnes and Capen rose at once