MRS. LEE'S FUNERAL.
As I sat buried in miserable thoughts, a faint stir in the bed draperies
made me start and hold my breath. It was Lottie, who had been all the
time crouching close to the floor, guarding the remains of her mistress
in profound stillness. The light was so dim that I had not been aware of
her presence till then. Such companionship did not disturb me; indeed,
without the faithful girl that death-chamber would have been desolate
indeed.
"Lottie," I said, in a whisper,--"Lottie, is it you?"
She was sitting on the floor, with both arms locked around her knees, on
which her forehead rested. The girl looked up, and her heavy eyes met
mine.
"Yes, it's me, Miss Hyde; I haven't left her a minute since then," she
said, drearily. "Don't ask me to go away--I couldn't do it."
"Ask you to go away, Lottie? Oh! no, my poor girl! We have watched
together in this room many a time; but never in this sad way."
"I know it," she said; "you were always good to her, and she felt it.
But tell me, Miss Hyde, do you think it was the letter I brought that
laid her there?"
"I cannot tell. Still it must have been, she was so well only a moment
before it touched her hand. Who could have written it?"
"I have been thinking and thinking, Miss Hyde. The writing was like Miss
Jessie's; I thought so at the time."
"Miss Jessie's? Are you sure?"
"So it seemed to me; but I've got the envelope, look for yourself."
I took the crumpled envelope which she took from her bosom and held
toward me. It was of creamy-white paper, very thick, and with an inner
lining of blue, a color that Jessie affected where it could be
delicately introduced among her stationery. The writing was like hers,
but with a slight appearance of disguise.
"You see," said Lottie, still in a whisper, "it looks like Miss
Jessie's; but what could she write to _her_ about?"
"It is strange," I murmured.
"Terribly strange! I can't make it out. All the time, for two whole
nights and days, I have thought of it; and the more I think the darker
it all grows. Oh, if she could only speak; but that will never be
again--"
Her voice broke here, and clasping her knees tighter, she began rocking
to and fro, uttering faint, dry moans, that went to my heart. Lottie had
not shed a tear since her mistress's death.
"Never again--never again!" she kept whispering.
"Don't Lottie," I said; "it breaks my heart to hear you go on in this
way."
She looked at me earnestly; then dropped her face and said, with
infinite pathos,--
"Oh! that _my_ heart could break!"
I bent over her.
"Be comforted, Lottie. If our friend could speak, this is what she would
say--"
"Don't, don't. Who could be comforted, and she lying there like a
beautiful lily broken off at the stem? Look at her, Miss Hyde, and see
if the smile is there yet."
"Yes, Lottie, there is a heavenly look on her face. See for yourself."
"No, no, I cannot stand it; in the morning I will kiss her hands for the
last time. Let her sleep with the angels to-night; I won't come between
her and them. They will take care of her now she don't want me."
"Oh, Lottie!"
She shook her head disconsolately, then it sunk on her knees once more,
and was not lifted again all night; still I do not think she slept a
moment.
Jessie came to her mother's room late that night. Lottie did not move; I
arose to go, knowing how sacred were the rights of an only child; but
she asked me to stay, saying--oh, how sadly--that her mother's true
friend could not be in the way even there.
I told her that Lottie was watching, and had not once left her place by
the bed. She went round to where the girl was crouching and kissed that
portion of the forehead left exposed by the folded arms. Then, for the
first time, I heard low sobs break from the faithful creature, and felt
glad to know that she was crying.
"She is happier far than I am," said Jessie, with unutterable sadness.
"It seems as if I should never shed tears again."
She came back to where I was sitting, and sinking on the footstool that
always stood near the chair, her head fell on my lap, her hands clasped
themselves under the pale forehead, and thus she lay, heavy and still,
weary with pain, but sleepless, till the day dawned.
That morning Mrs. Lee was to be buried.
With the first gray of dawn, we heard Mr. Lee's step coming up from the
library below, where he had passed the night. Jessie and I arose, and,
bending over that calm face, left our solemn kisses on the lips and went
away, giving her up to the man she had loved so devotedly. Even Lottie
was aroused by his approach, and, rising to her feet, went heavily into
her own little room, which was soon filled with bitter sobs.
We met Mr. Lee on the stairs. He had not been in bed that night and
looked strangely haggard. No words passed among us; but Jessie and her
father exchanged a mournful glance that was more eloquent than
language.
It rained when we took her away from her home, and a heavy gloom lay
upon the beautiful landscape she had loved so well. Across the terrace,
and down the flight of steps bordered with flowers that wept heavy
drops, she passed away into the valley--away to her eternal rest. On a
rise of ground on the verge of the hills, we paused amid a cluster of
white stones where sods lay in a heap, and the torn earth contrasted
mournfully with the fresh grass.
As we neared the hill, a burst of sunshine broke the clouds asunder and
lighted us forward. There were no sobs at the grave; our sorrow was very
silent, and solemn as death itself. The very air seemed thrilled with
awe as the funeral service rose upon it. Some one, Lottie I suppose, had
laid a garland of white flowers on the coffin, knotted together with
snowy ribbons. As they lowered the coffin the wind took these ribbons,
and they fluttered up from the grave like the wings of an angel striving
to rise heavenward; and through the first shovelful of earth rose a
faint perfume pressed from the flowers which the gravel had bruised upon
her coffin.
It was all over, and we returned to the house. On the steps, Mrs.
Dennison stood to receive us clothed in white, with black ribbons
knotting up the sleeves and clustering at the bosom of her dress. This
was the first time I had seen her since that fatal day.
Nothing could have been more decorous than her demeanor; her beautiful
eyes seemed heavy with unshed tears, and Christianity itself is not more
gentle than her tone and manner.
"Come," she said, addressing our Jessie, "let us mourn together as
friends who have lost one who is dearest to us. If I have ever pained
you, dear Jessie, forgive me for her sake."
Mr. Lee heard this, and looked wistfully at his daughter. Poor girl! she
was too heart-broken for resentment, and held forth her hand. Mr. Lee
stepped forward and laid his hand on those that the beautiful woman had
just clasped.
"Jessie," he said, in a voice that thrilled all within its influence,
"remember this lady was very dear to your mother."
Jessie did not answer; I think she could not command words, but she bent
her head in acquiescence and passed into the house.
It is a strange thing to say, but I believe that the few weeks that
followed Mrs. Lee's funeral were the most tranquil of any that had
preceded them since Mrs. Dennison came to our house. The great central
object of interest in the household was at rest. All the little cares
that had occupied us were over; the very altar of our household had been
torn away, and for a long time we found it impossible to find new
channels of interest, or settle ourselves down to anything. There was no
longer an attempt at amusing our guest, and she did not seem to require
it; indeed, from all appearances she had become a member of the family.
We seldom met now, but kept our own rooms. Jessie became sadder and
sadder each day; nothing interested her; she absolutely pined to follow
her mother.