“Too much,” observed Martin. “In short, ’tis out of the question that a human being can be so mournful as black edges half-an-inch wide. I’m sure people don’t feel more than a very narrow border when they feels most of all.”
“And there are two little girls, are there not?” said Stephen.
“Nice clane little faces!—left motherless now.”
“They used to come to Parson Swancourt’s to play with Miss Elfride when I were there,” said William Worm. “Ah, they did so’s!” The latter sentence was introduced to add the necessary melancholy to a remark which, intrinsically, could hardly be made to possess enough for the occasion. “Yes,” continued Worm, “they’d run upstairs, they’d run down; flitting about with her everywhere. Very fond of her, they were. Ah, well!”
“Fonder than ever they were of their mother, so ’tis said here and there,” added a labourer.
“Well, you see, ’tis natural. Lady Luxellian stood aloof from ’em so—was so drowsy-like, that they couldn’t love her in the jolly-companion way children want to like folks. Only last winter I seed Miss Elfride talking to my lady and the two children, and Miss Elfride wiped their noses for em’ SO careful—my lady never once seeing that it wanted doing; and, naturally, children take to people that’s their best friend.”
“Be as ’twill, the woman is dead and gone, and we must make a place for her,” said John. “Come, lads, drink up your ale, and we’ll just rid this corner, so as to have all clear for beginning at the wall, as soon as ’tis light to-morrow.”
Stephen then asked where Lady Luxellian was to lie.
“Here,” said his father. “We are going to set back this wall and make a recess; and ’tis enough for us to do before the funeral. When my lord’s mother died, she said, ‘John, the place must be enlarged before another can be put in.’ But ’a never expected ’twould be wanted so soon. Better move Lord George first, I suppose, Simeon?”
He pointed with his foot to a heavy coffin, covered with what had originally been red velvet, the colour of which could only just be distinguished now.