 | CHAPTER XXXIV. The Morgesons |  |
34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
The house was thronged until 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 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 vails. 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 vail, 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 of 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.”
“If mother's soul should return,” I thought, “she would
find herself a stranger; her dead body has taken its place.”
Somebody handed me my gloves; my bonnet was tied my
handkerchief given to me, and the door opened. In the passage
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, creeping 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.
“She is fifty-three years old, and you are twenty-five.”
“I know it.”
“I see you are ready. Somebody must bury the dead. Go.
Will the house be left 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.”
I was called in a suppressed voice.
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 fiercely,
that she drew back embarrassed; but she kissed my cheek
gently, adjusted my shawl, 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
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. 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 into 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 grave-yard 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 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 they were stained with blotches of
yellow moss, slanting backwards and forwards, 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 these green patches, when I felt father's arm
tremble. I shut my eyes, but could not close my ears to the
sound of the spadefull of sand which fell on the coffin.
It was over. We must leave her to the creeping creatures
Veronica had seen. I looked upwards, 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 off his hat 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 countenances, 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.
| CHAPTER XXXIV. The Morgesons | |