THE weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocent
childhood--beautiful still, though its animating spirit had
fled--and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When she
lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then
the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the
emotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, with
audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two they
gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow,
and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present
experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation.
As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family
passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping
neighbours--such as, with no particular acquaintance with the
principal members of a household, know all about the internal
management of every dwelling in the square--assembled close by, and
thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying.
"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of that
sweet little fellow!"
"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked a
sour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well
as we poor folks."
No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary
silence.
"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker.
"Little Willie only died yesterday morning."
"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth.
"Hardly," said the other.
"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made
the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the
chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to
borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all
hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to
attend the funeral in."
"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did
about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group.
"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any
one," replied the woman who had first spoken.
"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works
ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so
dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a
to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long
black veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellent
counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the
money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there
would be less misery in the world by a great deal."
And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus
exercised the privilege of independent thought and free discussion,
carriage after carriage was filled and moved off, and soon the whole
passed out of sight.
It was near the hour of twilight when the afflicted family returned,
and after partaking of supper, sparingly, and in silence, the
different members retired to their chambers, and at an early hour
sought relief to their troubled thoughts in sleep.
On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the
oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty
dollars.
"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an
expression of grave inquiry.
"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is
to be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as a
bargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to go
out this morning and buy the goods."
Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and
somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife
steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his
countenance--
"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning
cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little
one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word,
and the moisture dimmed his eyes.
"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put
on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of
non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to
her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow
awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you
think of such a thing?"
"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest
daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I
were to neglect so binding a duty."
"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived
at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning
garments.
"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any
thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and
need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments
cannot add to our sorrow."
But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads,
and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings were
loosened, and the required amount of money handed over.
After thinking a good deal about the matter, Mary suggested, about
an hour after breakfast, that it would not look well for her and
Jane to be seen shopping, and Willie only buried the day before; and
it was agreed to send for Ellen Maynard, who always sewed in the
family when there was much to do, and get her to make the purchases.
This determined, Lucy was despatched for Ellen.
The reader will transfer his mental vision to a small but neat and
comfortable room in another part of the town. The inmates are two.
One, with a pale, thin face, and large bright eyes, reclines upon a
bed. The other is seated by a window, sewing.
"I think I will try to sit up a little, Ellen," said the former,
raising herself up with an effort.
"I wouldn't, if I were you, Margaret," replied the other, dropping
her work and coming to the bedside. "You had better keep still, or
that distressing cough may come back again."
"Indeed, sister," returned the invalid, "I feel so restless that it
is almost impossible to lie here. Let me sit up a little while, and
I am sure I shall feel better."
Ellen did not oppose her further, but assisted her to a large
rocking-chair, and, after placing a pillow at her back, resumed her
work.
"I can't help thinking of Mrs. Condy's little Willie," said Ellen,
after a pause. "Dear little fellow! How much they must all feel his
loss."
"He is better off, though," remarked the sister; but even that idea
could not keep her eyes from glistening. The thought of death always
referred itself to her own near approach to the thick shadows and
the dark valley.
"Yes, he is with the angels," was the brief response of Ellen.
Just at that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Condy's chambermaid
entered.
"Good morning, Lucy, how do you do?" said Ellen, rising. "How is
Mrs. Condy and all the family?"
"They are very well, Miss Ellen," replied Lucy. "Mrs. Condy wants
you to come there this morning and go and buy the mourning for the
family. And then they want you to come and sew all this week, and
part of next, too."