Oh, when was he ever deaf before to the music of that voice? Oh, how could Ruth (G.o.d forgive her!) look upon those dumb lips and say, "Thy will be done!"

"Horrible!" muttered Hyacinth, as the undertaker pa.s.sed him on the stairs with Harry's coffin. "These business details are very shocking to a sensitive person. I beg your pardon; did you address me?" said he, to a gentleman who raised his hat as he pa.s.sed.

"I wished to do so, though an entire stranger to you," said the gentleman, with a sympathizing glance, which was quite thrown away on Hyacinth. "I have had the pleasure of living under the same roof, this summer, with your afflicted sister and her n.o.ble husband, and have become warmly attached to both. In common with several warm friends of your brother-in-law, I am pained to learn that, owing to the failure of parties for whom he had become responsible, there will be little or nothing for the widow and her children, when his affairs are settled.

It is our wish to make up a purse, and request her acceptance of it, through you, as a slight token of the estimation in which we held her husband's many virtues. I understand you are to leave before the funeral, which must be my apology for intruding upon you at so unseasonable an hour."

With the courtliest of bows, in the blandest of tones, Hyacinth a.s.sured, while he thanked Mr. Kendall, that himself, his father, and, indeed, all the members of the family, were abundantly able, and most solicitous, to supply every want, and antic.i.p.ate every wish of Ruth and her children; and that it was quite impossible she should ever suffer for anything, or be obliged in any way, at any future time, to exert herself for her own, or their support; all of which good news for Ruth highly gratified Mr. Kendall, who grasped the velvet palm of Hyacinth, and dashed away a grateful tear, that the promise to the widow and fatherless was remembered in heaven.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

"They are very attentive to us here," remarked the doctor, as one after another of Harry's personal friends paid their respects, for his sake, to the old couple at No. 20. "Very attentive, and yet, Mis. Hall, I only practiced physic in this town six months, five years ago. It is really astonishing how long a good physician will be remembered," and the doctor crossed his legs comfortably, and tapped on his snuff-box.

"Ruth's brother, Hyacinth, leaves before the funeral, doctor," said the old lady. "I suppose you see through _that_. He intends to be off and out of the way, before the time comes to decide where Ruth shall put her head, after Harry is buried; and there's her father, just like him; he has been as uneasy as an eel in a frying-pan, ever since he came, and this morning _he_ went off, without asking a question about Harry's affairs. I suppose he thinks it is _our_ business, and he owning bank stock. I tell you, doctor, that Ruth may go a-begging, for all the help she'll get from _her_ folks."

"Or from me, either," said the doctor, thrusting his thumbs into the arm-holes of his vest, and striding across the room. "She has been a spoiled baby long enough; she will find earning her living a different thing from sitting with her hands folded, with Harry chained to her feet."

"What did you do with that bottle of old wine, Mis. Hall, which I told you to bring out of Harry's room? He never drank but one gla.s.s of it, after that gentleman sent it to him, and we might as well have it as to let those lazy waiters drink it up. There were two or three bunches of grapes, too, he didn't eat; you had better take them, too, while you are about it."

"Well, it don't seem, after all, as if Harry was dead," said the doctor, musingly; "but the Lord's will be done. Here comes your dress-maker, Mis. Hall."

"Good afternoon, ma'am, good afternoon, sir," said Miss Skinlin, with a doleful whine, drawing down the corners of her mouth and eyes to suit the occasion. "Sad affliction you've met with. As our minister says, 'man is like the herb of the field; blooming to-day, withered to-morrow.' Life is short: will you have your dress gathered or biased, ma'am?"

"Quite immaterial," said the old lady, anxious to appear indifferent; "though you may as well, I suppose, do it the way which is worn the most."

"Well, some likes it one way, and then again, some likes it another. The doctor's wife in the big, white house yonder--do you know the doctor's wife, ma'am?"

"No," said the old lady.

"Nice folks, ma'am; open-handed; never mind my giving 'em back the change, when they pay me. _She_ was a Skefflit. Do you know the Skefflits? Possible? why they are our first folks. Well, la, where was I? Oh! the doctor's wife has _her_ gowns biased; but then she's getting fat, and wants to look slender. I'd advise you to have yourn gathered.

Dreadful affliction you've met with, ma'am. Beautiful corpse your son is. I always look at corpses to remind me of my latter end. Some corpses keep much longer than others; don't you think so, ma'am? They tell me your son's wife is most crazy, because they doted on one another so."

The doctor and his wife exchanged meaning looks.

"_Do tell?_" said Miss Skinlin, dropping her shears. "Well, I never!

'How desaitful the heart is,' as our minister says. Why, everybody about here took 'em for regular turtle-doves."

"'All is not gold that glitters,'" remarked the old lady. "There is many a heart-ache that n.o.body knows anything about, but He who made the heart. In my opinion our son was not anxious to continue in this world of trial longer."

"You don't?" said Miss Skinlin. "Pious?"

"_Certainly_," said the doctor. "Was he not _our_ son? Though, since his marriage, his wife's influence was very worldly."

"Pity," whined Miss Skinlin; "professors should let their light shine.

_I_ always try to drop a word in season, wherever business calls _me_.

Will you have a cross-way fold on your sleeve, ma'am? I don't think it would be out of place, even on this mournful occasion. Mrs. Tufts wore one when her eldest child died, and she was dreadful grief-stricken. I remember she gave me (poor dear!) a five-dollar note, instead of a two; but that was a thing I hadn't the heart to hara.s.s her about at such a time. I respected her grief too much, ma'am. Did I understand you that I was to put the cross-way folds on your sleeve, ma'am?"

"You may do as you like," whined the old lady; "people _do_ dress more at hotels."

"Yes," said Miss Skinlin; "and I often feel reproved for aiding and abetting such foolish vanities; and yet, if I refused, from conscientious scruples, to trim dresses, I suppose somebody else _would_; so you see, it wouldn't do any good. Your daughter-in-law is left rich, I suppose. I always think that's a great consolation to a bereaved widow."

"You needn't _suppose_ any such thing," said the doctor, facing Miss Skinlin; "she hasn't the first red cent."

"Dreadful!" shrieked Miss Skinlin. "What _is_ she going to do?"

"That tells the whole story," said the doctor; "sure enough, what _is_ she going to do?"

"I suppose she'll live with _you_," said Miss Skinlin, suggestively.

"You needn't suppose _that_, either," retorted the doctor. "It isn't every person, Miss Skinlin, who is agreeable enough to be taken into one's house; besides, she has got folks of her own."

"Oh,--ah!"--said Miss Skinlin; "rich?"

"Yes, very," said the doctor; "unless some of their poor relatives turn up, in which case, they are always dreadfully out of pocket."

"I un-der-stand," said Miss Skinlin, with a significant nod. "Well; I don't see anything left for her to do, but to earn her living, like some other folks."

"P-r-e-c-i-s-e-l-y," said the doctor.

"Oh--ah,"--said Miss Skinlin, who had at last possessed herself of "the whole story."

"I forgot to ask you how wide a hem I should allow on your black c.r.a.pe veil," said Miss Skinlin, tying on her bonnet to go. "Half a yard width is not considered too much for the _deepest_ affliction. Your daughter, the widow, will probably have that width," said the crafty dress-maker.

"In my opinion, Ruth is in no deeper affliction than we are," said the doctor, growing very red in the face; "although she makes more fuss about it; so you may just make the hem of Mis. Hall's veil half-yard deep too, and send the bill into No. 20, where it will be footed by Doctor Zekiel Hall, who is not in the habit of ordering what he can't pay for. _That_ tells the whole story."

"Good morning," said Miss Skinlin, with another doleful whine. "May the Lord be your support, and let the light of His countenance shine upon you, as our minister says."

CHAPTER x.x.xI.

Slowly the funeral procession wound along. The gray-haired gate-keeper of the cemetery stepped aside, and gazed into the first carriage as it pa.s.sed in. He saw only a pale woman veiled in sable, and two little wondering, rosy faces gazing curiously out the carriage window. All about, on either side, were graves; some freshly sodded, others green with many a summer's verdure, and all treasuring sacred ashes, while the mourners went about the streets.

"Dust to dust."

Harry's coffin was lifted from the hea.r.s.e, and laid upon the green sward by the side of little Daisy. Over him waved leafy trees, of his own planting; while through the branches the shifting shadows came and went, lending a mocking glow to the dead man's face. Little Katy came forward, and gazed into the yawning grave till her golden curls fell like a veil over her wondering eyes. Ruth leaned upon the arm of her cousin, a dry, flinty, ossified man of business; a man of angles--a man of forms--a man with veins of ice, who looked the Almighty in the face complacently, "thanking G.o.d he was not as other men are;" who gazed with stony eyes upon the open grave, and the orphan babes, and the bowed form at his side, which swayed to and fro like the young tree before the tempest blast.

"Dust to dust!"

Ruth shrinks trembling back, then leans eagerly forward; now she takes the last lingering look at features graven on her memory with lines of fire; and now, as the earth falls with a hard, hollow sound upon the coffin, a lightning thought comes with stunning force to little Katy, and she sobs out, "Oh, they are covering my papa up; I can't ever see papa any more."