The Whirligig of Time

by Wayland Wells Williams

"Yes. It's got to be done, you know."

"Oh, go away and leave me alone."

James bent his head down close to that of his brother. "You feel better when you're doing something," he said softly.

Harry, at length persuaded, arose and began to dress, and before long he began to feel that James was right. Doing something did not remove the pain, or even ease it, but it made you notice it less. It was even better during breakfast. Both the boys ate steadily and fairly copiously, though their enjoyment, if there was any, of what was customarily their pleasantest meal, was wholly subconscious. There was honey on the table, and Harry, without realizing what he was doing, helped himself to it for a second time. He mechanically pushed the pot back toward James, who also partook. Almost simultaneously their teeth closed on honey and muffin, and at the same time their eyes met. For two or three seconds they gazed shamefacedly at each other, and then stopped eating. Harry left the table and stood in front of the window, looking out over the wide lawn.

"Oh, Mother, Mother," he cried within himself; "to think I should be eating honey and muffin, now, so soon, and enjoying it! Oh, forgive me, forgive me!"

When the first shock of self-contempt had passed off, the boys wandered into the library, in search of their father. They discovered him, seated at his desk as they had expected, but it was with a sharp shock of surprise that they perceived that he was interviewing the cook. Both were more or less disgusted at the discovery, but they felt nevertheless, in a vague but reassuring way, that this partly justified the honey episode.

The interview closed almost as soon as they entered, and their father called them over to him.

"You have both been very good," he said, taking a hand of each of them; "this has all been very hard for you, I know." He paused, and then, seeing signs of tears on their faces, he went on somewhat hurriedly: "You must go down town with Miss Garver now; she has very kindly offered to get you what you will need for the funeral. Aunt Cecilia will take you to New York after that, I expect, and will fit you out more fully. The funeral will be to-morrow at three o'clock, and you will be on hand for that. I don't know whether any one told you; the baby died—the one that was born last night. It was a little girl; she only lived a few minutes. She will be buried with your mother. There will be a lot of people coming up to-day and to-morrow for the funeral; Uncle James and Aunt Cecilia and various others, and as there is a good deal to arrange you must try to be a help and not a hindrance, and make yourselves useful if you can. Now run along with Miss Garver and—oh, one more thing. I should advise you not to ask to see your mother again. You can, of course, if you want to, but I rather think you will not be sorry if you don't. You see, you probably have a good many years in which you will have to live on her memory, and I think it will be better if your last recollection of her is as she was when she was alive, not when she was dead ... and if you want to drive down to the station after lunch to meet Uncle James and Aunt Cecilia on the two-fifty, you can. You'd better do that; it's a good thing to give yourself plenty of occupation. That's all—good-by."

Then they went off in search of black clothes, and somewhat to their surprise they noticed that Miss Garver had returned to her companionable self of the preceding days; it was almost as if their mother had not died, except that she was gravely cheerful now, instead of cheerfully cheerful, as before.

Before long the boys noticed that almost every one they had to do with adopted the attitude taken by Miss Garver. Lunch, to be sure, was a rather terrible meal, for then they were alone with their father, and he, though he refrained from further allusion to the loss that hung over them all, was silent and preoccupied. But Uncle James and Aunt Cecilia, when met at the station by their nephews, spoke and acted much as usual, and neither of them noticed that Aunt Cecilia's gentle eyes filled with tears as she kissed them. They had always loved Aunt Cecilia best of all their aunts, though she was not their real aunt, being the wife of their father's younger brother. Of their Uncle James the boys were both a little afraid, and never felt they understood him. He was much like their father, both in behavior and appearance—though he was clean-shaven and their father wore a beard and mustache—but he was much more unapproachable. He had an uncomfortable way of suddenly joining in a conversation with an apparently irrelevant remark, at which everybody would generally remain silent for a moment and then laugh, while he sat with grave and unchanged countenance. The boys had once spoken to their father of their uncle's apparent lack of sympathy; Harry had complained that Uncle James never seemed to "have any feelings." "Well," replied their father, "he is a better lawyer than I am," and the boys never saw any sense in that reply till they remembered it years afterward, and even then they never could decide whether it was meant as an explanation or a corollary.