The funeral woke her. A line of light slid through the chink of the door,
crooked itself and staggered across the ceiling, a blond triangle
throwing the shadows askew. That was Catty, carrying the lamp for the
bearers.
It came again. There was a shuffling of feet in the passage, a secret
muttering at the head of the stairs, the crack of a banister, a thud as
the shoulder of the coffin butted against the wall at the turn. Then the
grinding scream of the brakes on the hill, the long "Shr-issh" of the
checked wheels ploughing through the snow.
She could see her mother's face on the pillow, glimmering, with shut
eyes. At each sound she could hear her draw a shaking, sobbing breath.
She turned to her and took her in her arms. The small, stiff body yielded
to her, helpless, like a child's.
"Oh Mary, what shall I do? To send him away like that--in a train--all
the way.... Your Grandmamma Olivier tried to keep him from me, and now
he's gone back to her."
"You've got Mark."
"What's that you say?"
"Mark. Mark. Nobody can keep Mark from you. He'll never want anybody but
you. He said so."
How small she was. You could feel her little shoulder-blades, weak and
fine under your fingers, like a child's; you could break them. To be
happy with her either you or she had to be broken, to be helpless and
little like a child. It was a sort of happiness to lie there, holding
her, hiding her from the dreadful funeral dawn.
Five o'clock.
The funeral would last till three, going along the road to Reyburn
Station, going in the train from Reyburn to Durlingham, from Durlingham
to King's Cross. She wondered whether Dan and Roddy would keep on feeling
the funeral all the time. The train was part of it. Not the worst part.
Not so bad as going through the East End to the City of London Cemetery.
When it came to the City of London Cemetery her mind stopped with a jerk
and refused to follow the funeral any further.
Ten o'clock. Eleven.
They had shut themselves up in the dining-room, in the yellow-ochreish
light. Mamma sat in her arm-chair, tired and patient, holding her Bible
and her Church Service on her knees, ready. Every now and then she dozed.
When this happened Mary took the Bible from her and read where it opened:
"And he made the candlestick of pure gold: of beaten work made he the
candlestick; his shaft, and his branch, his bowls, his knops, and his
flowers, were of the same.... And in the candlestick were four bowls made
like almonds, his knops and his flowers: And a knop under two branches of
the same, and a knop under two branches of the same, and a knop under two
branches of the same, according to the six branches going out of it.
Their knops and their branches were of the same: all of it was one beaten
work of pure gold."
At two o'clock the bell of Renton Church began to toll. Her mother sat up
in a stiff, self-conscious attitude and opened the Church Service. The
bell went on tolling. For Papa.
It stopped. Her mother was saying something.
"Mary--I can't see with the blind down. Do you think you could read it to
me?"
* * * * *
"'I am the Resurrection and the Life--'"
A queer, jarring voice burst out violently in the dark quiet of the room.
It carried each sentence with a rush, making itself steady and hard.
"'...He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live....
"'I said, I will take heed to my ways: that I offend not with my
tongue--'"
"Not that one," her mother said.
"'O Lord, Thou hast been our refuge; from one generation to another.
"'Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever the earth and the
world were made--'"
(Too fast. Much too fast. You were supposed to be following Mr. Propart;
but if you kept up that pace you would have finished the Service before
he had got through the Psalm.)
"'Lord God most holy--'"
"I can't _hear_ you, Mary."
"I'm sorry. 'O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour,
deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.
"'Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts: shut not Thy merciful
ears to our prayers: but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most Mighty, O
holy and merciful Saviour--'"
(Prayers, abject prayers for themselves. None for him. Not one word. They
were cowards, afraid for themselves, afraid of death; their funk had made
them forget him. It was as if they didn't believe that he was there. And,
after all, it was _his_ funeral.)
"'Suffer us not, at our last hour--'"
The hard voice staggered and dropped, picked itself and continued on a
note of defiance.
"'...For on pains of death, to fall from Thee....'"
(They would have come to the grave now, by the black pointed cypresses.
There would be a long pit of yellow clay instead of the green grass and
the white curb. Dan and Roddy would be standing by it.)
"'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His mercy to take unto
Himself the soul of our dear brother--'"
The queer, violent voice stopped.
"I can't--I can't."
Mamma seemed gratified by her inability to finish the Order for the
Burial of the Dead.