 | CHAPTER XXX.
THE FUNERAL. The story of Kennett |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE FUNERAL.
The next morning, at daybreak, Dr. Deane was summoned
in haste to the Barton farm-house. Miss Betsy
Lavender, whose secrets, whatever they were, had interfered
with her sleep, heard Giles's first knock, and thrust
her night-cap out the window before he could repeat it.
The old man, so Giles announced, had a bad spell, — a
'plectic fit, Lawyer Stacy called it, and they did n't know
as he 'd live from one hour to another.
Miss Lavender aroused the Doctor, then dressed herself
in haste, and prepared to accompany him. Martha, awakened
by the noise, came into the spinster's room in her
night-dress.
“Must you go, Betsy?” she asked.
“Child, it 's a matter o' life and death, more likely death;
and Ann 's a dooless critter at best, hardly ever off the
place, and need o' Chris'en help, if there ever was such;
so don't ask me to stay, for I won't, and all the better for
me, for I dares n't open my lips to livin' soul till I 've
spoke with Mary Potter!”
Miss Lavender took the foot-path across the fields, accompanied
by Giles, who gave up his saddled horse to Dr.
Deane. The dawn was brightening in the sky as they
reached the farm-house, where they found Alfred Barton
restlessly walking backwards and forwards in the kitchen,
while Ann and Mr. Stacy were endeavoring to apply such
scanty restoratives — consisting principally of lavender
and hot bricks — as the place afforded.
An examination of the eyes and the pulse, and a last
abortive attempt at phlebotomy, convinced Dr. Deane that
his services were no longer needed. Death, which so
many years before had lamed half the body, now asserted
his claim to the whole. A wonderfully persistent principle
of vitality struggled against the clogged functions, for two
or three hours, then yielded, and the small fragment of
soul in the old man was cast adrift, with little chance of
finding a comfortable lodging in any other world.
Ann wandered about the kitchen in a dazed state, dropping
tears everywhere, and now and then moaning, — “O
Betsy, how 'll I ever get up the funeral dinner?” while
Alfred, after emptying the square bottle of brandy, threw
himself upon the settle and went to sleep. Mr. Stacy and
Miss Lavender, who seemed to know each other thoroughly
at the first sight, took charge of all the necessary arrangements;
and as Alfred had said, — “I can't look after anything;
do as you two like, and don't spare expense!”
they ordered the coffin, dispatched messengers to the relatives
and neighbors, and soothed Ann's unquiet soul by selecting
the material for the dinner, and engaging the Unicorn's
cook.
When all was done, late in the day, Miss Lavender
called Giles and said, — “Saddle me a horse, and if no
side-saddle, a man's 'll do, for go I must; it 's business o'
my own, Mr. Stacy, and won't wait for me; not that I want
to do more this day than what I 've done, Goodness knows;
but I 'll have a fit, myself, if I don't!”
She reached the Potter farm-house at dark, and both
mother and son were struck with her flushed, excited, and
yet weary air. Their supper was over, but she refused to
take anything more than a cup of tea; her speech was
forced, and more rambling and disconnected than ever.
When Mary Potter left the kitchen to bring some fresh
cream from the spring-house, Miss Lavender hastily approached
Gilbert, laid her hand on his shoulder, and
said, —
“Lad, be good this once't, and do what I tell you. Make
a reason for goin' to bed as soon as you can; for I 've been
workin' in your interest all this while, only I 've got that to
tell your mother, first of all, which you must n't hear; and
you may hope as much as you please, for the news is n't
bad, as 'll soon be made manifest!”
Gilbert was strangely impressed by her solemn, earnest
manner, and promised to obey. He guessed, and yet
feared to believe, that the long release of which his mother
had spoken had come at last; how else, he asked himself,
should Miss Lavender become possessed of knowledge
which seemed so important? As early as possible he went
up to his bedroom, leaving the two women alone. The
sound of voices, now high and hurried, now, apparently,
low and broken, came to his ears. He resisted the temptation
to listen, smothered his head in the pillow to further
muffle the sounds, and after a long, restless struggle with
his own mind, fell asleep. Deep in the night he was
awakened by the noise of a shutting door, and then all was
still.
It was very evident, in the morning, that he had not miscalculated
the importance of Miss Lavender's communication.
Was this woman, whose face shone with such a mingled
light of awe and triumph, his mother? Were these
features, where the deep lines of patience were softened
into curves of rejoicing, the dark, smouldering gleam of
sorrow kindled into a flashing light of pride, those he had
known from childhood? As he looked at her, in wonder
renewed with every one of her movements and glances,
she took him by the hand and said, —
“Gilbert, wait a little!”
Miss Lavender insisted on having breakfast by sunrise,
and as soon as the meal was over demanded her horse.
Then first she announced the fact of Old-man Barton's
death, and that the funeral was to be on the following day.
“Mary, you must be sure and come,” she said, as she
remember!”
Gilbert noticed that his mother laid aside her sewing,
and when the ordinary household labor had been performed,
seated herself near the window with a small old
Bible, which he had never before seen in her hands.
There was a strange fixedness in her gaze, as if only her
eyes, not her thoughts, were directed upon its pages. The
new expression of her face remained; it seemed already to
have acquired as permanent a stamp as the old. Against
his will he was infected by its power, and moved about in
barn and field all day with a sense of the unreality of
things, which was very painful to his strong, practical
nature.
The day of the old man's funeral came. Sam led up
the horses, and waited at the gate with them to receive his
master's parting instructions. Gilbert remarked with surprise
that his mother placed a folded paper between the
leaves of the Bible, tied the book carefully in a linen handkerchief,
and carried it with her. She was ready, but still
hesitated, looking around the kitchen with the manner of
one who had forgotten something. Then she returned to
her own room, and after some minutes, came forth, paler
than before, but proud, composed, and firm.
“Gilbert,” she said, almost in a whisper, “I have tried
you sorely, and you have been wonderfully kind and patient.
I have no right to ask anything more; I could tell
you everything now, but this is not the place nor the time I
had thought of, for so many years past. Will you let me
finish the work in the way pointed out to me?”
“Mother,” he answered, “I cannot judge in this matter,
knowing nothing. I must be led by you; but, pray, do not
let it be long?”
“It will not be long, my boy, or I would n't ask it. I
have one more duty to perform, to myself, to you, and to
the Lord, and it must be done in the sight of men. Will
my actions, however strange they may seem, but simply believe
and obey?”
“I will, mother,” he said, “because you make me feel
that I must.”
They mounted, and side by side rode up the glen.
Mary Potter was silent; now and then her lips moved, not,
as once, in some desperate appeal of the heart for pity and
help, but as with a thanksgiving so profound that it must
needs be constantly renewed, to be credited.
After passing Carson's, they took the shorter way across
the fields, and approached the Barton farm-house from
below. A large concourse of people was already assembled;
and the rude black hearse, awaiting its burden in
the lane, spread the awe and the gloom of death over the
scene. The visitors were grouped around the doors, silent
or speaking cautiously in subdued tones; and all new-comers
passed into the house to take their last look at the face
of the dead.
The best room, in which the corpse lay, was scarcely
used once in a year, and many of the neighbors had never
before had occasion to enter it. The shabby, antiquated
furniture looked cold and dreary from disuse, and the smell
of camphor in the air hardly kept down the musty, mouldy
odors which exhaled from the walls. The head and foot
of the coffin rested on two chairs placed in the centre of
the room; and several women, one of whom was Miss
Betsy Lavender, conducted the visitors back and forth, as
they came. The members of the bereaved family were
stiffly ranged around the walls, the chief mourners consisting
of the old man's eldest son, Elisha, with his wife and
three married sons, Alfred, and Ann.
Mary Potter took her son's arm, and they passed
through the throng at the door, and entered the house.
Gilbert silently returned the nods of greeting; his mother
neither met nor avoided the eyes of others. Her step was
Miss Lavender, who met her with a questioning glance at
the door, walked beside her to the room of death, and then
— what was remarkable in her — became very pale.
They stood by the coffin. It was not a peaceful, solemn
sight, that yellow face, with its wrinkles and creases and
dark blotches of congealed blood, made more pronounced
and ugly by the white shroud and cravat, yet a tear rolled
down Mary Potter's cheek as she gazed upon it. Other
visitors came, and Gilbert gently drew her away, to leave
the room; but with a quick pressure upon his arm, as if to
remind him of his promise, she quietly took her seat near
the mourners, and by a slight motion indicated that he
should seat himself at her side.
It was an unexpected and painful position; but her face,
firm and calm, shamed his own embarrassment. He saw,
nevertheless, that the grief of the mourners was not so profound
as to suppress the surprise, if not indignation, which
the act called forth. The women had their handkerchiefs
to their eyes, and were weeping in a slow, silent, mechanical
way; the men had handkerchiefs in their hands, but their
faces were hard, apathetic, and constrained.
By-and-by the visitors ceased; the attending women
exchanged glances with each other and with the mourners,
and one of the former stepped up to Mary Potter and said
gently, —
“It is only the family, now.”
This was according to custom, which required that just
before the coffin was closed, the members of the family of
the deceased should be left alone with him for a few minutes,
and take their farewell of his face, undisturbed by
other eyes. Gilbert would have risen, but his mother, with
her hand on his arm, quietly replied, —
“We belong to the family.”
The woman withdrew, though with apparent doubt and
hesitation, and they were left alone with the mourners.
Gilbert could scarcely trust his senses. A swift suspicion
of his mother's insanity crossed his mind; but when
he looked around the room and beheld Alfred Barton gazing
upon her with a face more livid than that of the dead
man, this suspicion was followed by another, no less overwhelming.
For a few minutes everything seemed to whirl
and spin before his eyes; a light broke upon him, but so
unexpected, so incredible, that it came with the force of a
blow.
The undertaker entered the room and screwed down the
lid of the coffin; the pall-bearers followed and carried it
to the hearse. Then the mourners rose and prepared to
set forth, in the order of their relation to the deceased.
Elisha Barton led the way, with his wife; then Ann, clad
in her Sunday black, stepped forward to take Alfred's
arm.
“Ann,” said Mary Potter, in a low voice, which yet was
heard by every person in the room, “that is my place.”
She left Gilbert and moved to Alfred Barton's side.
Then, slightly turning, she said, — “Gilbert, give your arm
to your aunt.”
For a full minute no other word was said. Alfred Barton
stood motionless, with Mary Potter's hand on his arm.
A fiery flush succeeded to his pallor; his jaw fell, and his
eyes were fixed upon the floor. Ann took Gilbert's arm in
a helpless, bewildered way.
“Alfred, what does all this mean?” Elisha finally asked.
He said nothing; Mary Potter answered for him, — “It
is right that he should walk with his wife rather than his
sister.”
The horses and chairs were waiting in the lane, and
helping neighbors were at the door; but the solemn occasion
was forgotten, in the shock produced by this announcement.
Gilbert started and almost reeled; Ann clung to
him with helpless terror; and only Elisha, whose face grew
dark and threatening, answered.
“Woman,” he said, “you are out of your senses! Leave
us; you have no business here!”
She met him with a proud, a serene and steady countenance.
“Elisha,” she answered, “we are here to bury your
father and my father-in-law. Let be until the grave has
closed over him; then ask Alfred whether I could dare
to take my rightful place before to-day.”
The solemn decision of her face and voice struck him
dumb. His wife whispered a few words in his ear, and he
turned away with her, to take his place in the funeral procession.
It was Alfred Barton's duty to follow, and if it was not
grief which impelled him to bury his face in his handkerchief
as they issued from the door, it was a torture keener
than was ever mingled with grief, — the torture of a mean
nature, pilloried in its meanest aspect for the public gaze.
Mary, (we must not call her Potter, and cannot yet call
her Barton,) rather led him than was led by him, and lifted
her face to the eyes of men. The shame which she might
have felt, as his wife, was lost in the one overpowering
sense of the justification for which she had so long waited
and suffered.
When the pair appeared in the yard, and Gilbert followed
with Miss Ann Barton on his arm, most of the funeral
guests looked on in stupid wonder, unable to conceive the
reason of the two thus appearing among the mourners.
But when they had mounted and were moving off, a rumor
of the startling truth ran from lip to lip. The proper order
of the procession was forgotten; some untied their horses
in haste and pushed forward to convince themselves of the
astonishing fact; others gathered into groups and discussed
it earnestly. Some had suspected a relation of the kind, all
along, so they said; others scouted at the story, and were
ready with explanations of their own. But not a soul had
another thought to spare for Old-man Barton that day.
Dr. Deane and Martha heard what had happened as
places in the line, the singular companionship, behind the
hearse, was plainly visible. Neither spoke a word, but
Martha felt that her heart was beating fast, and that her
thoughts were unsteady.
Presently Miss Lavender rode up and took her place at
her side. Tears were streaming from her eyes, and she
was using her handkerchief freely. It was sometime before
she could command her feelings enough to say, in a
husky whisper, —
“I never thought to ha' had a hand in such wonderful
doin's, and how I held up through it, I can't tell. Glory
to the Lord, the end has come; but, no — not yet —
not quite; only enough for one day, Martha; is n't it?”
“Betsy,” said Martha, “please ride a little closer, and
explain to me how it came about. Give me one or two
points for my mind to rest on, for I don't seem to believe
even what I see.”
“What I see. No wonder, who could? Well, it 's
enough that Mary was married to Alf. Barton a matter
o' twenty-six year ago, and that he swore her to keep it
secret till th' old man died, and he 's been her husband
all this while, and knowed it!”
“Father!” Martha exclaimed in a low, solemn voice,
turning to Dr. Deane, “think, now, what it was thee would
have had me do!”
The Doctor was already aware of his terrible mistake.
“Thee was led, child,” he answered, “thee was led! It
was a merciful Providence.”
“Then might thee not also admit that I have been led
in that other respect, which has been so great a trial to
thee?”
He made no reply.
The road to Old Kennett never seemed so long; never
was a corpse so impatiently followed. A sense of decency
restrained those who were not relatives from pushing in
look upon the backs of Alfred Barton and Mary, Gilbert
and Ann, when their faces must be such a sight to see!
These four, however, rode in silence. Each, it may be
guessed, was sufficiently occupied with his or her own sensations,
— except, perhaps, Ann Barton, who had been
thrown so violently out of her quiet, passive round of life
by her father's death, that she was incapable of any great
surprise. Her thoughts were more occupied with the
funeral-dinner, yet to come, than with the relationship
of the young man at her side.
Gilbert slowly admitted the fact into his mind, but he
was so unprepared for it by anything in his mother's life
or his own intercourse with Alfred Barton, that he was
lost in a maze of baffled conjectures. While this confusion
lasted, he scarcely thought of his restoration to honor,
or the breaking down of that fatal barrier between him
and Martha Deane. His first sensation was one of humiliation
and disappointment. How often had he been disgusted
with Alfred Barton's meanness and swagger! How much
superior, in many of the qualities of manhood, was even
the highwayman, whose paternity he had so feared! As
he looked at the broad, heavy form before him, in which
even the lines of the back expressed cowardice and abject
shame, he almost doubted whether his former disgrace
was not preferable to his present claim to respect.
Then his eyes turned to his mother's figure, and a sweet,
proud joy swept away the previous emotion. Whatever
the acknowledged relationship might be to him, to her it
was honor — yea, more than honor; for by so much and
so cruelly as she had fallen below the rights of her pure
name as a woman, the higher would she now be set, not
only in respect, but in the reverence earned by her saintly
patience and self-denial. The wonderful transformation
of her face showed him what this day was to her life,
and he resolved that no disappointment of his own should
come between her and her triumph.
To Gilbert the way was not too long, nor the progress
too slow. It gave him time to grow familiar, not only with
the fact, but with his duty. He forcibly postponed his
wandering conjectures, and compelled his mind to dwell
upon that which lay immediately before him.
It was nearly noon before the hearse reached Old Kennett
meeting-house. The people of the neighborhood,
who had collected to await its arrival, came forward and
assisted the mourners to alight. Alfred Barton mechanically
took his place beside his wife, but again buried his
face in his handkerchief. As the wondering, impatient
crowd gathered around, Gilbert felt that all was known,
and that all eyes were fixed upon himself and his mother,
and his face reflected her own firmness and strength.
From neither could the spectators guess what might be
passing in their hearts. They were both paler than usual,
and their resemblance to each other became very striking.
Gilbert, in fact, seemed to have nothing of his father except
the peculiar turn of his shoulders and the strong build
of his chest.
They walked over the grassy, briery, unmarked mounds
of old graves to the spot where a pile of yellow earth denoted
Old Barton's resting-place. When the coffin had
been lowered, his children, in accordance with custom,
drew near, one after the other, to bend over and look into
the narrow pit. Gilbert led up his trembling aunt, who
might have fallen in, had he not carefully supported her.
As he was withdrawing, his eyes suddenly encountered
those of Martha Deane, who was standing opposite, in the
circle of hushed spectators. In spite of himself a light
color shot into his face, and his lips trembled. The eager
gossips, who had not missed even the wink of an eyelid,
saw this fleeting touch of emotion, and whence it came.
Thenceforth Martha shared their inspection; but from the
sweet gravity of her face, the untroubled calm of her eyes,
they learned nothing more.
When the grave had been filled, and the yellow mound
ridged and patted with the spade, the family returned to
the grassy space in front of the meeting-house, and now
their more familiar acquaintances, and many who were
not, gathered around to greet them and offer words of
condolence. An overpowering feeling of curiosity was
visible upon every face; those who did not venture to use
their tongues, used their eyes the more.
Alfred Barton was forced to remove the handkerchief
from his face, and its haggard wretchedness (which no
one attributed to grief for his father's death), could no
longer be hidden. He appeared to have suddenly become
an old man, with deeper wrinkles, slacker muscles, and a
helpless, tottering air of weakness. The corners of his
mouth drooped, hollowing his cheeks, and his eyes seemed
unable to bear up the weight of the lids; they darted
rapidly from side to side, or sought the ground, not daring
to encounter, for more than an instant, those of others.
There was no very delicate sense of propriety among
the people, and very soon an inquisitive old Quaker remarked,
—
“Why, Mary, is this true that I hear? Are you two
man and wife?”
“We are,” she said.
“Bless us! how did it happen?”
The bystanders became still as death, and all ears were
stretched to catch the answer. But she, with proud, impenetrable
calmness, replied, —
“It will be made known.”
And with these words the people were forced, that day,
to be satisfied.
| CHAPTER XXX.
THE FUNERAL. The story of Kennett | |