It had made it very awkward for them when Mr. Farolles, of St. John’s,
called the same afternoon.
“The end was quite peaceful, I trust?” were the first words he said as
he glided towards them through the dark drawing-room.
“Quite,” said Josephine faintly. They both hung their heads. Both of
them felt certain that eye wasn’t at all a peaceful eye.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Josephine.
“Thank you, Miss Pinner,” said Mr. Farolles gratefully. He folded his
coat-tails and began to lower himself into father’s arm-chair, but just
as he touched it he almost sprang up and slid into the next chair
instead.
He coughed. Josephine clasped her hands; Constantia looked vague.
“I want you to feel, Miss Pinner,” said Mr. Farolles, “and you, Miss
Constantia, that I’m trying to be helpful. I want to be helpful to you
both, if you will let me. These are the times,” said Mr Farolles, very
simply and earnestly, “when God means us to be helpful to one another.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Farolles,” said Josephine and Constantia.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Farolles gently. He drew his kid gloves through
his fingers and leaned forward. “And if either of you would like a
little Communion, either or both of you, here _and_ now, you have only
to tell me. A little Communion is often very help—a great comfort,” he
added tenderly.
But the idea of a little Communion terrified them. What! In the
drawing-room by themselves—with no—no altar or anything! The piano
would be much too high, thought Constantia, and Mr. Farolles could not
possibly lean over it with the chalice. And Kate would be sure to come
bursting in and interrupt them, thought Josephine. And supposing the
bell rang in the middle? It might be somebody important—about their
mourning. Would they get up reverently and go out, or would they have
to wait... in torture?
“Perhaps you will send round a note by your good Kate if you would care
for it later,” said Mr. Farolles.
“Oh yes, thank you very much!” they both said.
Mr. Farolles got up and took his black straw hat from the round table.
“And about the funeral,” he said softly. “I may arrange that—as your
dear father’s old friend and yours, Miss Pinner—and Miss Constantia?”
Josephine and Constantia got up too.
“I should like it to be quite simple,” said Josephine firmly, “and not
too expensive. At the same time, I should like—”
“A good one that will last,” thought dreamy Constantia, as if Josephine
were buying a nightgown. But, of course, Josephine didn’t say that.
“One suitable to our father’s position.” She was very nervous.
“I’ll run round to our good friend Mr. Knight,” said Mr. Farolles
soothingly. “I will ask him to come and see you. I am sure you will
find him very helpful indeed.”
V
Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them
could possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had
had a moment of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin was
lowered, to think that she and Constantia had done this thing without
asking his permission. What would father say when he found out? For he
was bound to find out sooner or later. He always did. “Buried. You two
girls had me _buried_!” She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would
they say? What possible excuse could they make? It sounded such an
appallingly heartless thing to do. Such a wicked advantage to take of a
person because he happened to be helpless at the moment. The other
people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They were
strangers; they couldn’t be expected to understand that father was the
very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame
for it all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she
thought, stepping into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him
the bills. What would he say then?
She heard him absolutely roaring. “And do you expect me to pay for this
gimcrack excursion of yours?”
“Oh,” groaned poor Josephine aloud, “we shouldn’t have done it, Con!”
And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a
frightened whisper, “Done what, Jug?”
“Let them bu-bury father like that,” said Josephine, breaking down and
crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief.
“But what else could we have done?” asked Constantia wonderingly. “We
couldn’t have kept him, Jug—we couldn’t have kept him unburied. At any
rate, not in a flat that size.”
Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy.
“I don’t know,” she said forlornly. “It is all so dreadful. I feel we
ought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make perfectly
sure. One thing’s certain”—and her tears sprang out again—“father will
never forgive us for this—never!”