JOHN MORTONSON was dead: his lines in “the tragedy ‘Man’” had all been
spoken and he had left the stage.
The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of glass.
All arrangements for the funeral had been so well attended to that had
the deceased known he would doubtless have approved. The face, as it
showed under the glass, was not disagreeable to look upon: it bore a
faint smile, and as the death had been painless, had not been distorted
beyond the repairing power of the undertaker. At two o’clock of the
afternoon the friends were to assemble to pay their last tribute of
respect to one who had no further need of friends and respect. The
surviving members of the family came severally every few minutes to the
casket and wept above the placid features beneath the glass. This did
them no good; it did no good to John Mortonson; but in the presence of
death reason and philosophy are silent.
As the hour of two approached the friends began to arrive and after
offering such consolation to the stricken relatives as the proprieties of
the occasion required, solemnly seated themselves about the room with an
augmented consciousness of their importance in the scheme funereal. Then
the minister came, and in that overshadowing presence the lesser lights
went into eclipse. His entrance was followed by that of the widow, whose
lamentations filled the room. She approached the casket and after
leaning her face against the cold glass for a moment was gently led to a
seat near her daughter. Mournfully and low the man of God began his
eulogy of the dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing which
it was its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose and fell, seemed to
come and go, like the sound of a sullen sea. The gloomy day grew darker
as he spoke; a curtain of cloud underspread the sky and a few drops of
rain fell audibly. It seemed as if all nature were weeping for John
Mortonson.
When the minister had finished his eulogy with prayer a hymn was sung and
the pall-bearers took their places beside the bier. As the last notes of
the hymn died away the widow ran to the coffin, cast herself upon it and
sobbed hysterically. Gradually, however, she yielded to dissuasion,
becoming more composed; and as the minister was in the act of leading her
away her eyes sought the face of the dead beneath the glass. She threw
up her arms and with a shriek fell backward insensible.
The mourners sprang forward to the coffin, the friends followed, and as
the clock on the mantel solemnly struck three all were staring down upon
the face of John Mortonson, deceased.
They turned away, sick and faint. One man, trying in his terror to
escape the awful sight, stumbled against the coffin so heavily as to
knock away one of its frail supports. The coffin fell to the floor, the
glass was shattered to bits by the concussion.
From the opening crawled John Mortonson’s cat, which lazily leapt to the
floor, sat up, tranquilly wiped its crimson muzzle with a forepaw, then
walked with dignity from the room.