The next morning Josephine came downstairs at the usual time. She assured herself that Gabriel had slept, and making no response to the similar question to herself, moved to the breakfast-table.
“You did not sleep, then, Josephine?” said Gabriel.
“Well, no, I did not, naturally, my dear. But I am glad you did; that was just as natural. Now let me see you do the natural thing by your breakfast, and do it justice.”
She supplied his needs as usual, moving her hands with energy, and adjusting the things on the table, as though she hardly took into account that they served any purpose for herself.
“Are you going to have absolutely nothing, Josephine?”
“Yes, I am this morning. I shall eat as soon as ever I can, I promise you. I am not a person to take a pride in not being able to eat and sleep. I am proud of things that do more for other people. As soon as Nature can control my foolishly responsive organism, I shall let her and be thankful.”
She raised her eyes with courteous interest as Ruth Giffard appeared at the door.
“Dear Mrs. Napier, Mother has arranged for the dressmaker to come to the house. Do you think you could bring yourself to see 114her? She is in the housekeeper’s room. You know certain things have to be done.”
“Dear child, how thoughtful of your mother! Of course certain things have to be done. I cannot be seen at all as I am now; and as I have no intention of immuring myself for the rest of my natural life, I will go and submit to the necessary steps to prevent it.” Josephine rose with a movement that revealed her unused plate, and, throwing her napkin over it, went to the door. “And will you stay and say a word to this poor Gabriel of mine? I cannot bear that mine should be the only woman’s face he sees to-day.”
“So brave and good this is, my dear,” said Elizabeth, as Josephine opened her door. “You need hardly be conscious of what is happening, if you will put yourself in our hands.”
“I must do so indeed. I plead guilty to being a very dull and unresponsive subject, and must simply hope to be borne with. I confess that I had not thought of this necessity, which was parasitic and dependent, and really exacting of me. I will be frank, and ask you to do your best for me, without expecting return; which is frank indeed.”
“Which gown shall we take first?” said the dressmaker.
“Good morning, Mrs. Faulkner,” said Josephine, roused to observation for the first time. “I hope you will excuse my not seeing you before.”
“I thought this for the day,” said Elizabeth, showing a material. “That very deep mourning is not worn now.”
“Simply the deepest mourning that is made for a widow,” said Josephine, in an almost light tone. “That is all I have to say.”
“But you will get tired of such heavy black, as the months go by.”
“Will you not sit down, Mrs. Faulkner? No, I shall not get tired of it, dear Elizabeth. I shall not give it a thought. That 115is where I have to ask you to be patient with me. And the same with the other things.” Josephine turned to the woman, and hurried her words, as if anxious to get the matter behind. “Simply the deepest widow’s mourning that is made. And of good quality and no definite date. I shall wear such things for a long time.”
“Well, you must have your own way,” said Elizabeth.
“It is not my way. It is my character, and has nothing to do with me. I have no way in the matter. It is settled for me from within, as it were behind my back.”
“Will Mrs. Napier be going to the funeral?” the dressmaker asked Elizabeth, possibly hardly going to meet Josephine’s methods of decision. “Because, if so, we must hurry some of her things.”
“No, I shall not be going,” said Josephine, turning on the speaker quiet, serious eyes. “I have no opinion on the question of women’s going to funerals. I simply know what I can do and what I cannot.”
“That will make things much easier. What I mean is, we shall not be so pressed.”
“I am glad of that,” said Josephine.
“I am sure you are wise, dear,” said Elizabeth.
“Well, there again it is settled for me. Now, if I have done my part, I will leave you both to do yours. Thank you for coming to the house, Mrs. Faulkner. And, Elizabeth, you will let me give you your dress for the service on Friday, and arrange for Mrs. Faulkner to make it? You will not deny me a small privilege just now?”
“No, dear, no; I shall not be going to the funeral. I will stay behind with you.”
“Simon would have liked you to go,” said Josephine, bending and looking into her eyes.116
“No, I don’t think so. I find funerals upsetting. And I shall not need black clothes. I shall have no right to wear them, no use for them afterwards.”
“Black is always useful,” said Josephine gently. “I often wear it myself; often did, I mean. But perhaps you are right, that there is no need for us both, for anyone but me to be involved in the sombreness. You will have something else for a gift, some remembrance of Simon. He would have wished you to have one.” She turned to the dressmaker and took a kindly leave.
At the funeral luncheon she presided herself, calm, considerate, self-controlled; talked in a normal, if rather absent, manner on matters of the day, and met with kindness rather than solemnity the mourners’ farewell.
“Keep your thoughts on one thing,” she said to Gabriel, her low, clear tone not approaching a whisper, “that your home and your life are safe. You are too young to be held by sorrow. I will see that the future is fair to you.”
On his return she gave him a cheerful welcome, drew him out on the funeral for his own relief, and left him while she went herself on a pilgrimage through her awakening house.
On the mistresses’ landing she came upon Mrs. Chattaway, who turned and ran back as she saw her, and then turned again and ran forward, as though reconsidering the question of an encounter.
“Well, how have you been in these last days?” said Josephine, with an open smile for this vacillation. “You have found me but an indifferent head, but I can assure you only in one sense. Has everything gone well with all of you?”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Napier; as far as it could, considering the trouble of the house. It is a small matter how things have gone with us; the question is, how they have gone with you. Of course, there is no question; we have been so grieved for you.”117
“Now, that does not alter the fact that the question exists with you. Believe me, you have been much in my mind. If I had thought that you could doubt it, I would have made the effort, made a point of coming to see you.”
“No, of course not, Mrs. Napier. How could we think of such a thing? I cannot express what we should have felt. We should have sunk through the floor with shame and compunction.”
“Well, I hope you will let me do so almost at once, and that you will not sink through the floor, but will all sit comfortably in your chairs. It will be a satisfaction to me to see you. Will you give your companions that message?”
Mrs. Chattaway remained still for a moment, and then openly abandoned her errand and ran back to the common room.
A little while later Josephine knocked at the door.
“May I come in?” she said, entering with hardly a question in her tone, in simple acceptance of the concessions to her situation.
“Indeed you may,” said Miss Luke in a low, deep voice.
Josephine sat down, and placing her elbows on her knees, leant forward over folded hands.
“I have not seen any of you for several days. Have you all been well?”
“The point is, how you have been, Mrs. Napier?”
“I have been well,” said Josephine, in an incidental cordial tone, that at once assigned her health to its place and readily bore witness to it.
“You have been constantly in our thoughts,” said Miss Luke.
“I have felt it. I assure you it has been a support to me.”
“Oh no, Mrs. Napier; if we had known—” Mrs. Chattaway broke off.
“I know,” said Josephine, leaning forward to touch her hand. “It was clear to me; I am grateful.”118
Mrs. Chattaway withdrew her hand and replaced it, withdrew it again, and again set it at Josephine’s disposal; and Josephine turned as if unconsciously to Miss Munday.
“I have to thank you for taking prayers for me. I must not impose my duties on you any longer.”
“You should not return to them yet, Mrs. Napier,” said Miss Rosetti in a friendly tone. “You must spare yourself.”
“No,” said Josephine, her voice rising; “that is just what I have been doing, and what I must not do. I do not see any of you doing it, and that should make me pause and take myself to task. It has made me do so.”
“You must not pretend that it is not quite different,” said Miss Luke.
“Yes, it is a little different; well, quite different, as you are so kind as to see it. But I must not yield to the difference. I have faced it; you need not in your kindness fear for me.”
“It does not seem to me right,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“Well, you know it does seem right in a way,” said Miss Luke, wisely making the move to normal ground. “What did not seem right, was that Miss Munday should take prayers.”
“Prayers do seem rather too right a thing for Miss Munday,” said Helen.
Josephine gave a ready laugh.
“No, and it is not right,” she said. “She has her own duties to complete, without mine.”
“You will not take prayers in the morning?” said Miss Rosetti. “I hope you will not be down as early as that.”
“Now,” said Josephine, looking straight at her, “why do you hope it? You will all of you be down, and I should take my place with you.”
“Well, it will relieve me of the strain of being in time,” said Miss Munday.119
“Yes,” said Josephine, with an uncritical smile, “I thought of that; of your waiving your personal inclinations in deference to mine. I have not thought little of it.”
“Are you eating and sleeping, Mrs. Napier?” said Miss Luke.
“Now,” said Josephine, “what an awkward question! Suppose I asked any of you, if you had taken your proper recreation during these last days! What answer should you make?”
“You are thinner, Mrs. Napier!” accused Mrs. Chattaway.
“Am I?” said Josephine, absently lifting her bodice a distance from her figure. “I daresay I may be.”
“Your dress is quite loose,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“Well, we could not expect the dressmaker to foresee the changes of the immediate future. Exacting as we are with dressmakers, we do not expect from them the gift of prophecy.”
“No one could have foreseen that anyone could be so affected in so short a time,” said Mrs. Chattaway, half under her breath. “It shows how much more sensitive some people are than others.”
“Well, in that case, I think they should hide their sensitiveness,” said Josephine. “It is a quality that should work both ways.”
“How is your nephew, Mrs. Napier?” said Miss Rosetti.
“Keeping up his spirits, thank you. It is a great relief, that he is not letting them get out of hand. Happily youth is resilient.”
“It is a great loss for him,” said Miss Rosetti.
“Yes,” said Josephine; “so great, that I shudder at the thought of a greater. There are some things—well, the heart stands still before the imagination.”
“Your courage must have done everything for him,” said Miss Luke; “or rather, done the one thing, and held out hope for the future.”
“What I have tried to do,” said Josephine, “is so to appear to him, that he should not have to counterfeit a maturer than the 120natural grief. That is often the saddest side of sorrow for the young. That is the principle underlying the course I have been seen to be taking.”
“We have thought you so brave,” said Mrs. Chattaway, disclaiming misconception of Josephine’s demeanour.
There was a knock at the door, and Josephine turned on Miss Munday a look of question.
“Come in,” said Miss Munday.
Felix came in, and perceiving Josephine, made as if to withdraw.
“Now, I don’t know what is the matter with me,” said Josephine, in another tone. “First Mrs. Chattaway runs away from me in the passage, and now Mr. Bacon gives a glance in my direction, and prepares to flee! I had better take myself off, and leave you free of the sight of my sable form. You will become inured to it by degrees.”
“I am glad that I am not capable of real grief,” said Felix, as he closed the door behind her.
“Most people would not like to feel that. They are so blind to their own advantage,” said Helen.
“I am afraid I should not show the dignity of it.”
“You can plan your own death after everyone else’s, without a misgiving,” said Helen.
“You have a right to, as regards most of us here,” said Miss Luke.
“Oh, I shall really have a great deal of real grief,” said Felix.
“I have not been marked out for sorrow,” said Miss Munday.
“What I cannot understand,” said Felix, “is how all of you, who knew Simon Napier, are not in real grief and showing its dignity.”
“I thought I was showing it,” said Helen. “I am.”
“We did not see much of him,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“Well, that is some excuse.”
“But not enough,” said Helen.121
“Did you—you were very much attracted—you liked him very much, Miss Keats?” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“Yes, very much,” said Helen.
“So did I,” said Felix.
“I had great respect for him, of course; but I cannot say he was my ideal for a man,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“No—no—perhaps not,” said Miss Luke.
“He was mine,” said Helen and Felix at once.
“You two seem to think very much alike,” said Mrs. Chattaway.
“Exactly alike in this matter,” said Helen.
“When people feel that there cannot be two opinions, they have to share one,” said Felix. “I am glad I am not alone in feeling an admiration for a fellow creature. I might be thought to be easily pleased, when really my standard is very high.”
Josephine had gone downstairs and entered the library, unreminded once again of the scene it had witnessed.
“We have reached the stage when realisation sweeps over us, Josephine,” said Gabriel.
“Don’t realise more than is necessary, or more than is natural,” said Josephine, taking the hand he held out to her. “That kind of realisation tends to become imagination, as the days go by, if we do not put on the curb in time. I am thinking of myself more than of you, as my danger is greater. I shall put myself under a tight rein. Think what it would have been, if we had lost each other.”
“You talk of putting curb and rein on imagination, and then allow it to become utterly unbridled.”
“Yes, it was going too far, imagining too much. I should not have said it; I do not say it. We shall be nearer than ever to each other. You have a right to demand it. I am under the duty to meet the demand.”122
“Will you keep on the school?” said Gabriel, after a silence. “Of course you have hardly had time to decide.”
“There is nothing to decide. The parents and pupils will wish it; the staff and servants will wish it; and I consider all and each of them before myself. And there is someone, for whom I am putting by money with every year that I keep it, and for his sake I shall hold to it as long as I am able.”
“You must not save money for me,” said Gabriel, in a new, sharp tone. “You have done enough for me, and must do no more. I shall be going forth to work for myself as soon as I can leave you.”
“Well, that won’t be soon,” said Josephine. “I have done a woman’s part by you, and you must do a man’s part by me. To leave a lonely widow by herself would hardly be doing it.”
“I could not take Uncle Simon’s place in the school.”
“No, you could not,” Josephine gently agreed. “It is not a thing I should care for, that you should make your career in a girls’ school. Your uncle had the difference within himself; it was involved in his being as an individual, and for him it was possible. I mean nothing but appreciation of either of you, when I agree that for you it is not possible.”
Jonathan and his friends were to come to dinner, to help his family over the funeral night.
Josephine gave them her usual welcome, and showed particular concern for their comfort.
“My dear, you must think of yourself, and not of us,” said Jonathan.
“No, that is what I must not do. That is where my danger lies. And it is best to avoid danger. Surely discretion is the better part of valour.”
“It is good of you to tolerate the company of a comparative stranger, Mrs. Napier,” said Fane.123
“I must have ceased to regard you in that light, or I should not have expected you to tolerate my company, even the glimpse of it that I shall give you.” Josephine put a cushion behind her brother. “Now, are you all as you like to be?”
“Are you not going to stay, Josephine?” said Gabriel.
“No, not to-night, my dear.”
“Then are you not going to have any dinner?”
“Yes,” said Josephine, in a light tone. “I am. I am rather faint, rather hungry. It will be brought to my room.”
“Why do you not stay and have it with us?”
“Why, you do not want to know my reasons, do you? They are not of a surprising kind.”
“You will get into low spirits, if you do not take care.”
Josephine gave a low laugh at this account of her situation.
“Of course you are already in low spirits. But there is no point in letting them get lower.”
“I am going to let them get a little lower than you have seen them,” said Josephine, almost brightly. “That is my object in going away by myself, since you insist on a precise explanation. There is just a little point in it for me, you know; I am not an abnormal woman.”
“Ah, your aunt is a courageous creature, Gabriel,” said Jonathan, when his sister had left them.
“I am less proud of her at the moment than I have been.”
“Ah, the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” said his father.
“You will have to fill your uncle’s place, Gabriel,” said Fane.
“I am far from such an ambition. I shall have all I can do to fill my own place, when I find one to fill.”
“Is not your aunt very dependent on you?”
“She is dependent on herself, as you can see. It is I who ought to be dependent on myself. I hope to get a post in my old school, and cast off my reproach.”124
“I shall not miss you,” said Felix. “You have killed my feeling for you. And I find that I like women better than men.”
Jonathan looked from Felix to Gabriel, as if rejoicing in his possession of each.
“I suppose all men do in a way,” said Fane.
“I did not mean in a way,” said Felix.
As Jonathan and Gabriel laughed, Josephine came into the room, and giving them a smile of sympathy for their mood of mirth, crossed to the bookcase, and taking a packet of letters, left them without a word.