A Reaping

by E. F. Benson

Then about the Psalm. There were two Psalms already provided for the Burial Service, and surely ‘“The Lord is my Shepherd” struck a different note.’ So said our Vicar. That was undeniable. And when should we sing that Psalm? Then Helen was firm, and said that we thought we should go back into church at the end of the service, and—well, just sing it. It was rather good to end with. But Mr. Eversley looked even more pained than before. He had never heard of such a thing being done. That point was left undecided for the moment, for there was clearly something even more crucial to come.

It came.

Ever since the organist had heard of Legs’ death he had been most diligent at Chopin’s Funeral March, of which he had of his own initiative bought a copy in order to be able to perform it. The organist in question, who was also the schoolmaster, had had a sort of distant adoration for Legs ever since a year ago he had seen him drive a golf-ball two hundred and sixty measured yards. Since then Legs had played with him once or twice, giving him enormous odds, and the distant adoration had ripened into a nearer one. ‘He was such a pleasant young gentleman,’ was the upshot of it. And the dear man had bought Chopin’s Funeral March, since he wanted to play something ‘more uncommon’ than the Dead March in ‘Saul’!

Here Helen and I were completely at one. There should be no A flat Preludes; it was to be Chopin’s Funeral March.

There remained the question of the Twenty-third Psalm. Oh yes, it would strike a different note, that was quite true; so there would be no going back into church, but we should have Chopin’s Funeral March and ‘Now the labourer’s task is o’er.’

The Vicar did not exactly beam when these things were settled, but he was visibly relieved. He shook hands with us both, and said:

‘Terribly sudden, terribly sudden. At two precisely.’

(Oh, Legs, how you would have enjoyed that! We did, too, for you told us to buck up. And it was so funny, after all we had planned!)

The Vicar’s call had been made quite early, and it was scarcely twelve when he went away; but to us both it seemed as if Legs had been waiting somewhere upstairs till he went in order to laugh over it with us. It was as if he had been waiting on the landing, fresh from his bath, with just a dressing-gown on, so that he could not appear when other people were there, but might come down barefooted when they had gone. He must have been so amused at it. How he would skip into the drawing-room, afraid of prowling housemaids, to find us alone, and say, ‘Sorry I haven’t got much on, but I had to come down after my bath.’ Yes, after his bath. It was so that it seemed to us. That wholesome spirit had been washed, we thought, by what is called death. It was fresher, more jubilant than ever. And on the Vicar’s departure down he came to join us again. I have no other words for it.

There was more to come, for hardly had the Vicar gone when it was announced to us that Mr. Holmes had called, and might he see one of us for a moment only. I felt that Legs was cornered now. He would have to stop here, hide behind the piano or something. I hoped he would behave himself, and not make me laugh. So Mr. Holmes came in.