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Page 64
VIII.
The day after the funeral, Bennett returned alone to Dr. Pitts's house
at Medford, and the same evening his trunks and baggage, containing his
papers--the records, observations, journals, and log-books of the
expedition--followed him.
As Bennett entered the gate of the place that he had chosen to be his
home for the next year, he was aware that the windows of one of the
front rooms upon the second floor were wide open, the curtains tied up
into loose knots; inside a servant came and went, putting the room to
rights again, airing it and changing the furniture. In the road before
the house he had seen the marks of the wheels of the undertaker's wagon
where it had been backed up to the horse-block. As he closed the front
door behind him and stood for a moment in the hallway, his valise in his
hand, he saw, hanging upon one of the pegs of the hat-rack, the hat
Ferriss had last worn. Bennett put down his valise quickly, and,
steadying himself against the wall, leaned heavily against it, drawing a
deep breath, his eyes closing.
The house was empty and, but for the occasional subdued noises that came
from the front room at the end of the hall, silent. Bennett picked up
his valise again and went upstairs to the rooms that had been set apart
for him. He did not hang his hat upon the hat-rack, but carried it with
him.
The housekeeper, who met him at the head of the stairs and showed him
the way to his apartments, inquired of him as to the hours he wished to
have his meals served. Bennett told her, and then added:
"I will have all my meals in the breakfast-room, the one you call the
glass-room, I believe. And as soon as the front room is ready I shall
sleep there. That will be my room after this."
The housekeeper stared. "It won't be quite safe, sir, for some time. The
doctor gave very strict orders about ventilating it and changing the
furniture."
Bennett merely nodded as if to say he understood, and the housekeeper
soon after left him to himself. The afternoon passed, then the evening.
Such supper as Bennett could eat was served according to his orders in
the breakfast-room. Afterward he called Kamiska, and went for a long
walk over the country roads in a direction away from the town,
proceeding slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. Later, toward ten
o'clock, he returned. He went upstairs toward his room with the
half-formed idea of looking over and arranging his papers before going
to bed. Sleep he could not; he foresaw that clearly.
But Bennett was not yet familiar with the arrangement of the house. His
mind was busy with other things; he was thoughtful, abstracted, and upon
reaching the stair landing on the second floor, turned toward the front
of the house when he should have turned toward the rear. He entered what
he supposed to be his room, lit the gas, then stared about him in some
perplexity.
The room he was in was almost bare of furniture. Even part of the carpet
had been taken up. The windows were wide open; a stale odour of drugs
pervaded the air, while upon the bed nothing remained but the mattress
and bolster. For a moment Bennett looked about him bewildered, then he
started sharply. This was--had been--the sick-room. Here, upon that bed,
Ferriss had died; here had been enacted one scene in the terrible drama
wherein he, Bennett, had played so conspicuous a part.
As Bennett stood there looking about him, one hand upon the foot-board of
the bed, a strange, formless oppression of the spirit weighed heavily
upon him. He seemed to see upon that naked bed the wasted,
fever-stricken body of the dearest friend he had ever known. It was as
though Ferriss were lying in state there, with black draperies hung
about the bier and candles burning at the head and foot. Death had been
in that room. Empty though it was, a certain religious solemnity, almost
a certain awe, seemed to bear down upon the senses. Before he knew it
Bennett found himself kneeling at the denuded bed, his face buried, his
arms flung wide across the place where Ferriss had last reposed.
He could not say how long he remained thus--perhaps ten minutes, perhaps
an hour. He seemed to come to himself once more when he stepped out into
the hall again, closing and locking the door of the death-room behind
him. But now all thought of work had left him. In the morning he would
arrange his papers. It was out of the question to think of sleep. He
descended once more to the lower floor of the silent house, and stepped
out again into the open air.
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