VIII
On the thick summer air, in the close room, the scent of flowers was overpowering. Laurence, standing by the door, looking round at the silent black assemblage, at the black coffin heaped with roses, felt deeply impatient with this show of grief. No one there grieved for the Judge, except perhaps Nora, sobbing in a corner, and himself. Mary was upstairs, not able to be present.
He looked coldly at Hilary, reading in his deep musical voice the funeral service. It was the custom to pronounce a panegyric on the departed; and he wondered what Hilary would say, and waited cynically for some hypocritical praise, for how could the preacher appreciate the Judge's real qualities? But he underrated Hilary's honesty. In truth it was impossible for Hilary to praise the Judge's life and character. It was not for him to betray the confidence of the old man's last days, of his fears, doubts and regrets, his halting steps toward the unknown. So he uttered simply a brief prayer, full of solemn tenderness for the passing soul. In Hilary's feeling the infinite was like the living air surrounding, interpenetrating, every finite thing; there was no line between life and death, except for a personal loss. To him also, the funeral panoply was unpleasant; he also reflected that the Judge had perhaps only one or two real mourners.
When it was all over and Laurence had returned to the house alone, he went up to see Mary. She was lying in bed, in the big room they shared together; she looked very white and tired and had evidently been weeping. Laurence bent to kiss her tenderly, and sat by her, holding her hand.
"He was a good friend to us," she said at last softly.
"Yes, he was, indeed."
"He thought everything of you, Laurence."
"I didn't deserve it especially."