Uncle Victor had put his arm on her shoulder. He was leaning rather
heavily.
He saw what she saw: the immense coffin set up on trestles at the foot of
the bed; the sheeted body packed tight in the padded white lining, the
hands, curling a little, smooth and stiff, the hands of a wax figure; the
firm, sallowish white face; the brown stains, like iodine, about the
nostrils; the pale under lip pushed out, proudly.
A cold, thick smell, like earth damped with stagnant water, came up to
them, mixed with the sharp, piercing smell of the coffin. The vigilant,
upright coffin-lid leaned with its sloping shoulders against the
chimney-piece, ready.
In spite of his heavy hand she was aware that Uncle Victor's
consciousness of these things was different from hers. He did not appear
to be in the least sorry for Papa. On his face, wistful, absorbed, there
was a faint, incongruous smile. He might have been watching a child
playing some mysterious game.
He sighed. His eyes turned from the coffin to the coffin-lid. He stared
at the black letters on the shining brass plate.
Emilius Olivier.
Born November 13th, 1827.
Died January 2nd, 1881.
The grip on her shoulder tightened.
"He was faithful, Mary."
He said it as if he were telling her something she couldn't possibly have
known.