The house was thronged till after the funeral. We sat in state, to be
condoled with and waited upon. Not a jot of the customary rites
was abated, though I am sure the performers thereof had small
encouragement. Veronica alone would see no one; her room was the only
one not invaded; for the neighbors took the house into their hands,
assisted by that part of the Morgesons who were too distantly related
to consider themselves as mourners to be shut up with us. It was put
under rigorous funeral law, and inspected from garret to cellar. They
supervised all the arrangements, if there were any that they did not
make, received the guests who came from a distance, and aided their
departure. Every child in Surrey was allowed to come in, to look at
the dead, with the idle curiosity of childhood. Veronica knew nothing
of this. Her course was taken for granted; mine was imposed upon me.
I remonstrated with Temperance, but she replied that it was all well
meant, and always done. I endured the same annoyances over and over
again, from relays of people. Bed-time especially was their occasion.
I was not allowed to undress alone. I must have drinks, either to
compose or stimulate; I must have something read to me; I must be
watched when I slept, or I must be kept awake to give advice or be
told items of news. All the while, like a chorus, they reiterated the
character, the peculiarities, the virtues of the mother I had lost,
who could never be replaced--who was in a better world. However, I
was, in a measure, kept from myself during this interval. The matter
is often subservient to the manner. Arthur's feelings were played upon
also. He wept often, confiding to me his grief and his plans for the
future. "If people would die at the age of seventy-five, things would
go well," he said, "for everybody must expect to die then; the Bible
says so." He informed me also that he expected to be an architect, and
that mother liked it. He had an idea, which he had imparted to her, of
an arch; it must be made of black marble, with gold veins, and ought
to stand in Egypt, with the word "_Pandemonium_" on it. The kitchen
was the focus of interest to him, for meals were prepared at all hours
for comers and goers. Temperance told me that the mild and indifferent
mourners were fond of good victuals, and she thought their hearts were
lighter than their stomachs when they went away. She presided there
and wrangled with Fanny, who seemed to have lost her capacity for
doing anything steadily, except, as Temperance said, where father was
concerned. "It's a pity she isn't his dog; she might keep at his
feet then. I found her crying awfully yesterday, because he looked so
grief-struck."
Aunt Merce was engaged with a dressmaker, and with the orders for
bonnets and veils. She discussed the subject of the mourning with the
Morgesons. I acquiesced in all her arrangements, for she derived a
simple comfort from these external tokens. Veronica refused to wear
the bonnet and veil and the required bombazine. Bombazine made her
flesh crawl. Why should she wear it? Mother hated it, too, for she had
never worn out the garments made for Grand'ther Warren.
"She's a bigger child than ever," Temperance remarked, "and must have
her way."
"Do you think the border on my cap is too deep?" asked Aunt Merce,
coming into my room dressed for the funeral.
"No."
"The cap came from Miss Nye in Milford; she says they wear them so. I
could have made it myself for half the price. Shall you be ready
soon? I am going to put on my bonnet. The yard is full of carriages
already."
Somebody handed me gloves; my bonnet was tied, a handkerchief given
to me, and the door opened. In the passage I heard a knocking from
Veronica's room, and crossed to learn what she wanted.
"Is this like her?" she asked, showing me a drawing.
"How could you have done this?"
"Because I have tried. _Is_ it like?"
"Yes, the idea."
But what a picture she had attempted to make! Mother's shadowy face
serenely looked from a high, small window, set in clouds, like those
which gather over the sun when it "draws water." It was closely
pressed to the glass, and she was regarding dark, indefinite creatures
below it, which Veronica either could not or would not shape.
"Keep it; but don't work on it any more." And I put it away. She was
wan and languid, but collected.
"I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go. Will the house
be empty?"
"Yes."
"Good; I can walk through it once more."
"The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be
certain that _I_ must be the one to do it?"
"You think I can go through with it, then?"
"I have set your behavior down to your will."
"You may be right. Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she
was against me."
She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart
bleed. "I think we might kiss each other _now_," she said.
I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she
drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a
flaçon of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain,
and said again, "Go," but recalling me, said, "One thing more; I will
never lose temper with you again."
The landing-stair was full of people. I locked the door, and took out
the key; the stairs were crowded. All made way for me with a silent
respect. Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair,
beside father, who sat by the coffin. Those passages in the Bible
which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of
man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on
the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted
them. A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the
feelings to the utmost. Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some
considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that
she grew faint, and caught hold of me. I gave her the flaçon of salts,
which revived her; but I felt as father looked--stern, and anxious to
escape the unprofitable trial.
As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and
palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not
leave her. But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life--the Keeper would
not let me go; her he had let loose.
We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present
had passed before her for the last time. When the hearse moved down
the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own
chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father's hands,
and the horse was led behind the hearse. At last the word was given,
and the long procession began to move through the street, which was
deserted. A cat ran out of a house, and scampered across the way;
Arthur laughed, and father jumped nervously at the sound of his laugh.
The graveyard was a mile outside the village--a sandy plain where a
few stunted pines transplanted from the woods near it struggled to
keep alive. As we turned from the street into the lane which led
to it, and rode up a little hill where the sand was so deep that it
muffled the wheels and feet of the horses, the whole round of the gray
sky was visible. It hung low over us. I wished it to drop and blot out
the vague nothings under it. We left the carriage at the palings and
walked up the narrow path, among the mounds, where every stone was
marked "Morgeson." Some so old that they were stained with blotches
of yellow moss, slanting backward and forward, in protest against the
folly of indicating what was no longer beneath them. The mounds were
covered with mats of scanty, tangled grass, with here and there a rank
spot of green. I was tracing the shape of one of those green patches
when I felt father's arm tremble. I shut my eyes, but could not close
my ears to the sound of the spadeful of sand which fell on the coffin.
It was over. We must leave her to the creatures Veronica had seen. I
looked upward, to discern the shadowy reflection behind the gray haze
of cloud, where she might have paused a moment on her eternal journey
to the eternal world of souls.
It was the custom, and father took his hat off to thank his friends
for their sympathy and attention. His lips moved, but no words were
audible.
The procession moved down the path again. Arthur's hand was in mine;
he stamped his feet firmly on the sand, as if to break the oppressive
silence which no one seemed disposed to disturb. The same ceremonies
were performed in starting us homeward, by the same person, who let
go the reins, and lifted his hat as we passed, as the final token of
attention and respect.
The windows were open; a wind was blowing through the house, the
furniture was set in order, the doors were thrown back, but not a soul
was there when we went in. The duties of friendship and tradition had
been fulfilled; the neighbors had gone home to their avocations. For
the public, the tragedy was over; all speculation on the degree of
our grief, or our indifference, was settled. We could take off our
mourning garments and our mourning countenance, now that we were
alone; or we could give way to that anguish we are afraid and ashamed
to show, except before the One above human emotion.