black coffin, with silver handles, carried by the pall-bearers, who kept an even pace. Jennie stiffened perceptibly, her nerves responding as though
to a shock from an electric current. She did not know any of these men.
She did not know Robert. She had never seen Mr. Midgely. Of the long
company of notables who followed two by two she recognised only three,
whom Lester had pointed out to her in times past. Mrs. Kane she saw, of
course, for she was directly behind the coffin, leaning on the arm of a
stranger; behind her walked Mr. Watson, solemn, gracious. He gave a
quick glance to either side, evidently expecting to see her somewhere; but not finding her, he turned his eyes gravely forward and walked on. Jennie looked with all her eyes, her heart gripped by pain. She seemed so much a part of this solemn ritual, and yet infinitely removed from it all.
The procession reached the altar rail, and the coffin was put down. A
white shroud bearing the insignia of suffering, a black cross, was put over it, and the great candles were set beside it. There were the chanted
invocations and responses, the sprinkling of the coffin with holy water,
the lighting and swinging of the censer and then the mumbled responses
of the auditors to the Lord's Prayer and to its Catholic addition, the
invocation to the Blessed Virgin. Jennie was overawed and amazed, but
no show of form colorful, impression imperial, could take away the sting
of death, the sense of infinite loss. To Jennie the candles, the incense, the holy song were beautiful. They touched the deep chord of melancholy in
her, and made it vibrate through the depths of her being. She was as a
house filled with mournful melody and the presence of death. She cried
and cried. She could see, curiously, that Mrs. Kane was sobbing
convulsively also.
When it was all over the carriages were entered and the body was borne
to the station. All the guests and strangers departed, and finally, when all was silent, she arose. Now she would go to the depot also, for she was
hopeful of seeing his body put on the train. They would have to bring it
out on the platform, just as they did in Vesta's case. She took a car, and a little later she entered the waiting-room of the depot. She lingered about, first in the concourse, where the great iron fence separated the passengers from the tracks, and then in the waiting-room, hoping to discover the
order of proceedings. She finally observed the group of immediate
relatives waiting—Mrs. Kane, Robert, Mrs. Midgely, Louise, Amy,
Imogene, and the others. She actually succeeded in identifying most of
them, though it was not knowledge in this case, but pure instinct and
intuition.
No one had noticed it in the stress of excitement, but it was Thanksgiving Eve. Throughout the great railroad station there was a hum of
anticipation, that curious ebullition of fancy which springs from the
thought of pleasures to come. People were going away for the holiday.
Carriages were at the station entries. Announcers were calling in
stentorian voices the destination of each new train as the time of its
departure drew near. Jennie heard with a desperate ache the description of a route which she and Lester had taken more than once, slowly and
melodiously emphasised. "Detroit, Toledo, Cleveland, Buffalo, and New York." There were cries of trains for "Fort Wayne, Columbus, Pittsburg, Philadelphia, and points East," and then finally for "Indianapolis, Louisville, Columbus, Cincinnati, and points South." The hour had
struck.
Several times Jennie had gone to the concourse between the waiting-
room and the tracks to see if through the iron grating which separated her from her beloved she could get one last look at the coffin, or the great
wooden box which held it, before it was put on the train. Now she saw it
coming. There was a baggage porter pushing a truck into position near the place where the baggage car would stop. On it was Lester, that last
shadow of his substance, incased in the honours of wood, and cloth, and
silver. There was no thought on the part of the porter of the agony of loss which was represented here. He could not see how wealth and position in
this hour were typified to her mind as a great fence, a wall, which divided her eternally from her beloved. Had it not always been so? Was not her
life a patchwork of conditions made and affected by these things which
she saw—wealth and force—which had found her unfit? She had
evidently been born to yield, not seek. This panoply of power had been
paraded before her since childhood. What could she do now but stare
vaguely after it as it marched triumphantly by? Lester had been of it. Him it respected. Of her it knew nothing. She looked through the grating, and once more there came the cry of "Indianapolis, Louisville, Columbus, Cincinnati, and points South." A long red train, brilliantly lighted, composed of baggage cars, day coaches, a dining-car, set with white linen and silver, and a half dozen comfortable Pullmans, rolled in and stopped.
A great black engine, puffing and glowing, had it all safely in tow.
As the baggage car drew near the waiting truck a train-hand in blue,
looking out of the car, called to some one within.
"Hey, Jack! Give us a hand here. There's a stiff outside!"
Jennie could not hear.
All she could see was the great box that was so soon to disappear. All she could feel was that this train would start presently, and then it would all be over. The gates opened, the passengers poured out. There were Robert,
and Amy, and Louise, and Midgely—all making for the Pullman cars in
the rear. They had said their farewells to their friends. No need to repeat them. A trio of assistants "gave a hand" at getting the great wooden case into the car. Jennie saw it disappear with an acute physical wrench at her heart.
There were many trunks to be put aboard, and then the door of the
baggage car half closed, but not before the warning bell of the engine
sounded. There was the insistent calling of "all aboard" from this quarter and that; then slowly the great locomotive began to move. Its bell was
ringing, its steam hissing, its smoke-stack throwing aloft a great black
plume of smoke that fell back over the cars like a pall. The fireman,
conscious of the heavy load behind, flung open a flaming furnace door to
throw in coal. Its light glowed like a golden eye.
Jennie stood rigid, staring into the wonder of this picture, her face white, her eyes wide, her hands unconsciously clasped, but one thought in her
mind—they were taking his body away. A leaden November sky was
ahead, almost dark. She looked, and looked until the last glimmer of the
red lamp on the receding sleeper disappeared in the maze of smoke and
haze overhanging the tracks of the far-stretching yard.
"Yes," said the voice of a passing stranger, gay with the anticipation of coming pleasures. "We're going to have a great time down there.
Remember Annie? Uncle Jim is coming and Aunt Ella."
Jennie did not hear that or anything else of the chatter and bustle around her. Before her was stretching a vista of lonely years down which she was steadily gazing. Now what? She was not so old yet. There were those two
orphan children to raise. They would marry and leave after a while, and
then what? Days and days in endless reiteration, and then—?