‘And you, mother, must you wear that cap—that mountain of white stuff?’
‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Mrs. Meredith with fervour. ‘You don’t think I would omit any sign of respect? And what do I care whether it is becoming or not? Oh, Edward, your dear papa has a right to all that we can do to show respect.’
There was a faltering in her lip as of something more she had to say, but decorum restrained her. That first day nothing ought to be thought of, nothing should be mentioned, she felt, in which consolation had a part. But when the night came after that long, long day, which they all felt to be like a year, the secret comfort in her heart came forth as she bade her boy good-night. ‘Edward, oh, I wish you had gone years ago, when you might have been a comfort to him! but now that there is no need——’ Here she stopped and kissed him, and looked at him with a smile in her wet eyes, which, out of ‘respect,’ she would no more have suffered to come to her lips than she would have worn pink ribbons in her cap, and said quickly, ‘You need not go to India now.’
This was the blessing with which she sent him away from her. She cried over it afterwards, in penitence looking at her husband’s portrait, which had been brought out of a corner in the library downstairs. Poor soul, it was with a pang of remorse that she felt she was going to be happy in her widow’s mourning. If she could have restrained herself, she would have kept in these words expressive of a latent joy which came by means of sorrow. She stood and looked at the picture with a kind of prayer for pardon in her heart—Oh, forgive me! with once more that strange confidence that death had given the attributes of God to the man who was dead. If he was near, as she felt him to be, and could hear the breathing of that prayer in her heart, then surely, as Edward said, it was with ‘larger, other eyes’ that he must look upon her, understanding many things which up to his last day he had not been able to understand.
But they were all very glad when the day was over—that first day which was not connected with the melancholy business or presence of death which ‘the family’ are supposed to suffer from so deeply, yet which proves a kind of chapel and seclusion for any grief which is not of the deepest and most overwhelming kind. The Merediths would have been glad even of a mock funeral, a public assuming of the trappings of woe, a distinct period after which life might be taken up again. But there was nothing at all to interrupt their life, and the whole affair remained unauthentic and strange to them. Meanwhile, in the house next door these strange tidings had made a sudden tumult. The packings had been stopped. The servants were angry at their wasted trouble; the ladies both silenced and startled, with thoughts in their minds less natural and peaceful than the sympathy for Mrs. Meredith, which was the only feeling they professed. As for Mr. Beresford himself, it would be difficult to describe his feelings, which were of a very strange and jumbled character. He was glad to have the bondage taken off his own movements, and to feel that he was free to go where he pleased, to visit as he liked; and the cause of his freedom was not really one which moved him to sorrow though it involved many curious and uncomfortable questions. How much better the unconscious ease of his feelings had been before anyone had meddled! but now so many questions were raised! Yet his mind was relieved of that necessity of immediate action which is always so disagreeable to a weak man. Yes, his mind was entirely relieved. He took a walk about his room, feeling that by-and-by it would be his duty to go back again to Mrs. Meredith’s drawing-room to ask what he could do for her, and give her his sympathy. Not to-night, but soon; perhaps even to-morrow. The cruel pressure of force which had been put upon him, and which he had been about to obey by the sacrifice of all his comforts, relaxed and melted away. It was a relief, an undeniable relief; but yet it was not all plain-sailing—the very relief was an embarrassment too.
CHAPTER XXXII.
TAKING UP DROPT STITCHES.
Next day Mr. Beresford paid Mrs. Meredith a visit of condolence. It was natural and necessary, considering their friendship; but the manner in which that friendship had been interrupted, and the occasion upon which it was resumed, were both embarrassing. It had been a short note from Maxwell which had communicated the news to him, and in this it had been taken for granted that he would now remain at home. Old Mr. Sommerville had himself communicated the information to Maxwell, and his letter was enclosed. ‘I hear your friend Beresford had made up his mind to go away, out of consideration for Mrs. Meredith,’ he had written, ‘which was very gentlemanly on his part, and showed fine feeling. I think it right accordingly to let you know at once of the great change which has taken place in her position. I have received the news this morning of her husband and my poor friend John Meredith’s death at Calcutta on the 3rd inst. It was sudden, but not quite unexpected, as he had been suffering from fever. This of course changes Mrs. Meredith’s situation altogether. She is now a widow, and of course responsible to no one. I would not for the world be answerable for depriving her of the sympathy of a kind friend, which may in the long run be so important for her, at a period of trouble. So I trust you will communicate the news to your friend with the least possible delay. I have not seen Mrs. Meredith; but as they have been long separated, I do not doubt that she bears the loss with Christian composure,’ said the sharp-witted old man. ‘I send you old Sommerville’s letter,’ Mr. Maxwell added on his own account; ‘it does not require any comment of mine; and of course you will act as you think proper; but my own opinion is, that he is an old busybody, making suggestions of patent absurdity.’ Mr. Beresford was much nettled by this note. Whatever Sommerville’s suggestion might mean it was for him to judge of it, not Maxwell, who thrust himself so calmly into other people’s business. Sommerville’s letter might not have pleased him by itself, but Maxwell’s gloss was unpardonable. He tore it up and threw it into his waste-basket with unnecessary energy. But for that perhaps he might have felt more abashed by the embarrassing character of the reunion; but being thus schooled, he rebelled. He went to the house next door in the afternoon, towards the darkening. The spring sunshine had died away, and the evening was cold as winter almost. There had been no reception that day—visitor after visitor had been sent away with the news of the ‘bereavement.’ The same word has to be used whether the loss is one which crushes all delight out of life, or one which solemnly disturbs the current for a moment, to leave it only brighter than before. All the servants at Mrs. Meredith’s were preternaturally solemn. The aspect of the house could not have been more funereal had half the population succumbed. Already, by some wonderful effort of millinery, the maids as well as their mistress had got their black gowns.
Mrs. Meredith herself sat in the drawing-room, crape from head to foot, in all the crispness of a fresh widow’s cap. Never was black so black, or white so white. She had an innocent satisfaction in heaping up this kind of agony. Already a design drawn by Oswald was in the hands of the goldsmith for a locket to hold her husband’s hair. She would not bate a jot of anything that the most bereaved mourner could do to show her ‘respect.’ Even the tears were ready, and they were sincere tears. A pang of compunction, a pang of regret, of remorseful pity and tenderness, melted her heart, and there was a certain pleasure of melancholy in all this which made it spontaneous. It was the very luxury of sentiment, to be able to feel your heart untouched underneath, and yet to be so deeply, unfeignedly sorry, to be so true a mourner at so little real cost. Mrs. Meredith held out her hand to her visitor as he came in—he was the only one whom she had received.
‘This is kind,’ she said—‘very kind. As you were always such a good friend to us, I could not say no to you.’