When Mr. Allerton's last breath had departed, his wife was conveyed from the room in a fainting-fit. Constance endeavoured to repress her own feelings, till she had rendered the necessary assistance to Mrs. Allerton, and till she had somewhat calmed the agony of the children. She then retired to her own apartment, and gave vent to a burst of grief, such as can only be felt by those in whose minds and hearts there is a union of sense and sensibility. With the weak and frivolous, sorrow is rarely either acute or lasting.
The immortal soul of Mr. Allerton had departed from its earthly tenement, and it was now necessary to think of the painful details that belonged to the disposal of his inanimate corpse. As soon as Constance could command sufficient courage to allow her mind to dwell on this subject, she went down to send a servant for Mr. Denman (an old friend of the family), whom she knew Mrs. Allerton would wish to take charge of the funeral. At the foot of the stairs, she met the physician, who, by her pale cheeks, and by the tears that streamed from her eyes at sight of him, saw that all was over. He pressed her hand in sympathy; and, perceiving that she was unable to answer his questions, he bowed and left the house.
In a short time, Mr. Denman arrived; and Mrs. Allerton declaring herself incompetent to the task, Constance saw the gentleman, and requested him to make every necessary arrangement for a plain but respectable funeral.
At such times, how every little circumstance seems to add a new pang to the agonized feelings of the bereaved family! The closing of the window-shutters, the arrival of the woman whose gloomy business it is to prepare the corpse for interment, the undertaker coming to take measure for the coffin, the removal of the bedding on which the deceased has expired, the gliding step, the half-whispered directions—all these sad indications that death is in the house, fail not, however quietly and carefully managed, to reach the ears and hearts of the afflicted relatives, assisted by the intuitive knowledge of what is so well understood to be passing at these melancholy moments.
In the evening, after Louisa had cried herself to sleep, Constance repaired to the apartment of her sister-in-law, whom, about an hour before, she had left exhausted and passive. Mrs. Allerton was extended on the bed, pale and silent; her daughters, Isabella and Helen, were in tears beside her; and Frederick had retired to his room.
In the fauteuil, near the head of the bed, sat Mrs. Bladen, who, in the days of their prosperity, had been the next door neighbour of the Allerton family, and who still continued to favour them with frequent visits. She was one of those busy people who seem almost to verify the justly-censured maxim of Rochefoucault, that "in the misfortunes of our best friends, there is always something which is pleasing to us."
True it was that Mrs. Bladen, being a woman of great leisure, and of a disposition extremely officious, devoted most of her time and attention to the concerns of others; and any circumstances that prevented her associates from acting immediately for themselves, of course threw open a wider field for her interference.
"And now, my dear friends," said Mrs. Bladen, squeezing Mrs. Allerton's hand, and looking at Constance, who seated herself in an opposite chair, "as the funeral is to take place on Thursday, you know there is no time to be lost. What have you fixed on respecting your mourning? I will cheerfully attend to it for you, and bespeak everything necessary."
At the words "funeral" and "mourning," tears gushed again from the eyes of the distressed family; and neither Mrs. Allerton nor Constance could command themselves sufficiently to reply.
"Come, my dear creatures," continued Mrs. Bladen, "you must really make an effort to compose yourselves. Just try to be calm for a few minutes, till we have settled this business. Tell me what I shall order for you. However, there is but one rule on these occasions—crape and bombazine, and everything of the best. Nothing, you know, is more disreputable than mean mourning."