After this she sank into a stupor, from which she never awoke, and gasped away her life at that fatal hour before dawn when so many souls are summoned. Now I was indeed alone. I cried a little—not nearly as much as Mrs. Gabb. I was thankful that there was an end to Emma’s terrible sufferings; but I felt in a sort of stupor myself—my brain seemed sodden. I had not slept nor taken off my clothes for three days. Mrs. Gabb was very kind, so were Mrs. Mound, the Doctor, and even Miss Skuce—but she was also terribly inquisitive.
The funeral was small, indeed, it could scarcely have been smaller. Dr. Skuce and I followed in the only mourning-coach. The cemetery was on a hillside, quite a mile from Stonebrook, and it was a bright springlike morning—a day that December had stolen from May, and that May would filch from December in turn—as we proceeded at a foot pace on our mournful errand.
There was a meet in the neighborhood; numbers of red-coated fox hunters trotted past on their hunters. One drew up for a moment to a walk, and lifted his hat as he went by. It was Mr. Somers. His scarlet coat, his bright handsome face, his spirited hunter, which he reined in with great difficulty—what a painful contrast this picture afforded to that of myself—veiled, and shrinking into the corner of a dingy mourning-coach—following my only friend to her grave.
Little did Mr. Somers suspect, as he dashed onward, that he had been showing a last token of respect to Emma Hayes.
After the funeral, I had to face the world. Poor people cannot afford an extended period of retirement and mourning. I made my black gown, and as I sewed, I made plans. I had nearly twenty pounds. I had youth, health. I would go to London and work for my bread like other girls. But how? I could teach French. I could sew and embroider beautifully. No, I would not be a nursery governess, a bonne d’enfants. I could play the guitar and sing. I had a fine mezzo-soprano, and had been well taught. My singing had been in requisition at the rectory tea-parties and in the church choir; but it would not bring me in a pennyworth of bread. I must leave Stonebrook; I saw no means of earning my living there, and I detested the place for many reasons. It was evidently well known that I had been left almost penniless. The rector and his wife had called; they had been very sympathetic, and had inquired as to my future plans; but they could not give me much beyond their sympathy. They had a large grown-up family, and but narrow means. Mrs. Cholmondeley was a victim to influenza, and extremely ill. The Blosses and Bennys had left cards, and this, with the exception of Miss Skuce, brought me to the end of my acquaintances. The mere fact of thinking of her appeared to have summoned her to my presence! There she was, shaking her damp waterproof on the landing; it was a dreary, drizzling January afternoon.
“Do you know that you have never put it in the papers?” she began, without preamble. “I thought Mound would have seen to that. It ought to be done at once.”
“Yes, of course; and I have been extremely remiss,” I acknowledged, with dismay.
“I will write it out and send it to the Times for you,” producing a pencil—“the Times and the Stonebrook Star. What shall I say?”
After thinking a moment, I said—