"It is the last sad duty I can pay him," she said, "not to quit his remains until they are carried to their last home!"
Lady Desmond, therefore, determined to stay with her; and Mrs. Crook's establishment were put to their wits' end by the mingled excitement of a death, and a ladyship in a carriage-and-four.
Recovered from her fatigue, by a night's rest, Lady Desmond devoted herself to the care of her young cousin, with all the eagerness of a passionate nature, remorseful for the past; but though she hushed Kate to sleep each night in her arms, she performed every task that could by possibility devolve on Miss Vernon, such as attending to the details of the funeral, &c., with a diligence and tact that spared Kate many a pang; it was the latter who, amid her own absorbing grief, found time and gentle wisdom, wherewith to calm the sudden bursts of sorrow which often welled up from the heart of that proud, but generous and impulsive woman, who ever rushing into extremes, found food for self-reproach in every little incident which either nurse or Kate betrayed, of their life, for the last year.
"It was so obstinate, so unkindly obstinate of you not to join me at Florence; God only knows how much it might have spared; yet that was no excuse for my selfish negligence; though, Kate, I had powerful inducements not to return to England, I will—perhaps I may yet tell you them, and you will then understand me."
The day after the funeral, that renewal of death and sorrow, Kate readily acceded to her cousin's wish to leave the spot, no longer sanctified by the inanimate presence of him they had lost. And it was with a dull feeling of weariness, as if even the capacity of suffering had been worn out, that she threw herself into the carriage that was to take her away from the scene of her late bereavement. All was now over, nothing more to be done; and all she longed for was silence, solitude, and sleep.
"Come to the hotel as soon as you possibly can. Miss Vernon looks terribly cut up; she will want you to comfort her," was Lady Desmond's last injunction to Mrs. O'Toole, who remained behind to settle all the final affairs of packing and payment.
"I will, me lady," returned Mrs. O'Toole, who had found some consolation in the handsome appointments of the hearse and mourning coaches, which the day before had carried the remains of her beloved master to the grave; and re-entering the house, she immediately applied herself to her task. "How'll I iver get the dog away?" she asked, when about to depart.
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Mrs. Crook; "he's done nothing but wander about the house all day, and whine so piteous-like every time he went into the poor old gentleman's room!"
"Faith, I thought he'd have ate up the undertaker's min whin they kem into the room. Ah, God help us, is it any wondher me sweet young lady's heart is broke, whin the dumb baste itself knows what we have lost; where is he now?"