Long hours passed in talking and reading till we had to go in that dread room again. Finally morning came, and with it a neighbour who relieved us. Going home in the early dawn, the queer look of the quiet streets, the physical weariness, combined with the night’s experiences, made me feel years older. Stealing up the steps at home and creeping into the hammock on the veranda, I slept until the opening of doors and windows in the house announced the family astir.
Perhaps a year after the death of this girl, another schoolmate died of the same disease—a brilliant, beautiful girl with smouldering dark eyes, a girl of great promise, who had made a brave fight for life.
Her mother, who was given to doing things in a theatrical way, asked four of us girls to be honorary pall-bearers—to dress in white and follow the casket in and out of the church.
At the house the general gloom and our own grief had been a strain on us, but as we got into the carriage we calmed down from our weeping and were trying to get in condition to face the ordeal at the church when, just as we were driving through the main street, without any warning, one of us broke into laughter! Two others followed in sympathy, the fourth girl looking so disgusted that it made us laugh the more. Finally she gave way, too, and we were all in a state of uncontrolled, unreasoning mirth!
Although the carriage was closed, we feared the driver would hear us, or people in the street catch a glimpse of us. Our efforts at self-control were painful in the extreme. What would Ruth think if she could know of our conduct? But everything we tried to say only made matters worse. When the carriage drove into the churchyard, we were still in a pitiable plight, and how we ever mastered ourselves enough to step out and walk past the by-standers and on into the church behind the casket is something I marvel at even yet. But we had had our escape-valve, and now everything was done “decently and in order.” Long after that, we thought with remorse of our conduct, not understanding how blameless we were—how wrong it was to subject a group of impressionable girls to such an emotional strain.
I recall some by-word meetings which I think had some share in my development at a plastic period. They were conducted by the wife of the Presbyterian minister, their object being to help us refrain from the use of slang. That minister’s wife seems to me, even yet, the most beautiful woman I ever saw—tall, slender, with a queenly carriage, the smoothest, creamiest skin, bewitching dimples, jet black hair and eyes, and slender white hands.
On the street she wore a heavy veil, and when she lifted it as she came into the meetings, it was like the unveiling of a beautiful statue. She had a silvery voice, so different from any voice I had heard. In fact, she seemed a little too bright and good for everyday life. We children idolized her. Some of our playmates would not go to her meetings, and spitefully told us she was “proud”; wore a veil to preserve her complexion; never ate butter; and nearly starved herself to keep slender; but, resenting these rude charges against our divinity, we continued her willing devotees.
How good she used to talk to us! She began her prayers with “Dear Father,” praying easily as she stood before us, as though talking to a loved parent. She listened to our confessions of what by-words we had been betrayed into saying during the week, smiling brilliantly at times, looking grieved at other disclosures, and sometimes shocked, but always encouraging us to try harder the next week. The by-words permitted were, “Oh!” “Oh, my!” “Oh, dear!” and “Oh, dear me!”—these with varying intensity were the legitimate outlets for the various experiences and emotions of our lives! All others we must strive to keep from saying, “with the aid of our Heavenly Father.” I think “Grief!” was the word with which I kicked over the traces the oftenest; but her reproving smile was not a hard punishment; and it was such a delight to see her approval when we could make a good confession. It was an excellent influence she shed, not the least of which was due to her beauty. My aversion to slang (except when “right off the bat”) is probably due to those early by-word meetings.
Although the hands of this woman strongly appealed to me by their beauty and delicacy, my mother’s appealed more powerfully—the whole woman in her seems typified in her hands. Not small, nor especially white, they are well-formed, and, in spite of a life filled with work, are soft, yet firm, strong, capable, and tender. Even as a child I seemed aware of her emotion, as well as her strength, in them. I used to like to clasp them—such a warm, sustaining grasp! And I liked to open them and look at the palms. She has a hollow palm (something like my own), and all the mounds are full and elastic—a warm, soft, brooding handclasp peculiarly her own. In my emotional nature I am more like Mother, in mental make-up more like Father. Sister’s hands are more like Father’s, yet her physical type in general, and her mental, is more like Mother’s. From Mother she and Brother get their fairer skin, while mine is the brunette shade, like Father’s. How mysterious it all is! How complex!—“Mate and make beget such different issues!”