Boston a novel
was “virtuous”--meaning that she never gave herself to any of her
adorers. But living in the house with Alice meant that you had to know
the details of these emotional entanglements; just what the new young
genius found in the soul of Alice that was so especially wonderful and
why he preferred it to what he found in any of the available unopened
buds who had not been beaten upon by the storms of experience. You had
to know whether these young geniuses were happy or unhappy, whether
they were coming or going; and after they were gone, you had to know
just why they had been so disappointing to Alice, so unworthy of the
high faith she had placed in them.
“Henry,” said Cornelia, “I suppose I’m going to have a little money
left me out of the wreck of Josiah’s fortune?”
“I hope so.”
“I suppose James will tell me about it in due time. If it’s enough,
maybe you’ll advise me about renting an apartment in the Fenway, where
I understand things don’t have to be so proper.” And Henry laughed--he
couldn’t help laughing, of course; but at the same time he was somewhat
shocked. How much did his mother-in-law know about such matters? How
much should he admit to her that he knew that she knew? He had an
impulse to glance behind him at the open door.
“Henry,” said Cornelia, suddenly, “I am ashamed of the way this family
is behaving. But, you know, the Thornwells have not been exactly what
you call ‘nice’ people.”
“No,” said Henry, “they have been ‘great’ people.”
“Which means,” countered the woman, “they have been greedy--and with a
streak of insanity.”
IX
The heavens, regardful of the dignity and standing of the late governor
of the Commonwealth, sent rain on the night before the funeral to
wash the air and make every blade of grass to shine. They sent the
sun especially early to chase away the clouds, all but a few fleecy
ones, setting off the deep blue of the sky. The expanses of lawn that
stretched out on every side from “Hillview” were smoother and cleaner
and brighter than any rug that a Shah of Persia ever trod. Under the
great dark oaks a flock of sheep were feeding, and behind a steel fence
a herd of deer. On the opposite slope in the distance were the white
columns of the Scatterbridge home, and at one side the cottages of
the tenants who worked the thousand acres of farmland. To the east,
underneath the newly risen sun, were glimpses of the great mills, red
brick stained with coal smoke; also of the river through the trees, and
day and night came the music of water pouring over the dams.
The mansion had tall columns in front, going up over the second story,
covering both the veranda and the graveled driveway. The house was
painted white, the paint, like everything else, being decently old.
Wings had been added on each side, and in the rear the music-room, and
beyond that the conservatory: nothing regular, because the architects
had had to adjust themselves to the elm trees which bowered the
structure.
All morning there was the sound of wheels on the driveway, and delivery
men and chauffeurs in uniform ringing the bell, bringing wreaths and
floral designs. “Say it with flowers,” ran the formula; and every
saying had a card attached, to identify the sayer: the Governor of the
Commonwealth and his lady, the Bishop of the Diocese and his wife, the
members of the Republican State Committee, the Society of the Sons of
St. Andrew, the Society of Colonial Dames, the Class of ’58 of Harvard
University, the employees of the Pilgrim National Bank, the executives
and managers of the Thornwell Mills Company, the Chamber of Commerce
of Boston, the Board of Trade of Thornwell--so on through a long list.
Addicks, the perfect family servant, received each offering with grave
thanks, deposited the cards on a silver tray and handed the flowers to
the footman, who took them to the music-room and placed them under
Deborah’s direction.
The room had been made into a church, the “highest” possible. There
was an altar with a large cross made of white roses and at each side a
seven-branched candle-stick, with tall candles burning. The casket was
in place, holding the lean body of Josiah, his face upturned to the
light for his last few hours, the long thin nose seeming longer and
thinner than ever could have been possible in life. The skin was a pale
waxy color, tinted with great skill--since Mr. Hobson was not merely a
psychologist but a “cosmetologist” also. In his advertisements he said
“Every funeral is _my_ funeral”; which was why Deborah considered him
so vulgar. Boston--the real Boston--does not wish its advertisements
“peppy.”
The three reporters and the gentleman from the _Transcript_ came again;
and this time there had been an understanding between James and his
sister-in-law. It was like the case of the man who said that he and
his wife had worked out a solution of the domestic problem; on all
major issues he was to have his way and on minor issues she was to have
hers; and so far, no major issues had arisen. The three reporters and
the gentleman were received by James and Deborah, and James got the
cards from the silver tray and dictated the names of those who had sent
floral tributes; while every now and then Deborah would say, quietly,
“Omit that name, if you please.” Not every one was entitled to send
tributes to a Thornwell funeral!
The organist from St. Luke’s Church arrived, and Addicks knew exactly
what to say to him. “This way, if you please, sir. The choir will robe
itself in the little room back of the governor’s study. The ceremony
will begin promptly at two.” Attired in a flowing white day-gown, the
visitor proceeded to test the organ, and mysterious vibrations crept up
and down the timbers of the building. “Jesus, lover of my soul, let me
to thy bosom fly,” whispered walls and ceilings; and at the same moment
Deborah Thornwell Alvin was standing with her two hands clenched,
addressing Clara Thornwell Scatterbridge: “I wish to say once for all,
I consider one-third of the family heirlooms are my property; and if
they are taken from me because of any mortgage I shall regard the taker
as a pawnbroker for the rest of my days.”
X
Members of the family arriving. The ladies went upstairs to put their
hair and complexions in order, while the men stood about, exchanging
phrases in soft whispers: a beautiful day, yes, ideal for the occasion,
most fortunate; a fine editorial in the _Transcript_, the press had
been dignified; a great man was gone, we don’t have that kind any more;
a very convincing tribute from the party, yes, they would find it hard
to replace him; looked as if the Germans might get to the channel;
amazing the way the market continued to boom.
There came John Quincy Thornwell, another son of Abner, with his
father’s heavy frame and his uncle’s long nose; soft-voiced, semi-bald,
president of the Fifth National Bank. And Grandfather Porter Alvin,
father of Rupert, and Andrew Alvin, his younger son, a polo player and
sport, tanned as brown as a Kanaka, with a puffy checked necktie and
every shiny strand of his black hair in exactly the right position. He
stood in the library, listening to Great-uncle Abner shouting “Who will
read Josiah’s books now?” Andrew ran his eyes over the shelves of heavy
works on political science and history and economics and law, and knew
that he was not the one.
Two automobiles deposited six pairs of choir boys, subdued in voice but
eager of eye; they were herded into the robing room by the Reverend Mr.
Quincy Adams Thornwell, the cousin who was to assist in the ceremony;
tall, flat-footed, with large bunion shoes and black suit and flat
black hat like an English curate--its ugliness excused for the reason
that it had ritual significance. Also came the rector and his lady; the
Reverend Dr. James Lowell Wolverhampton, pronounced Woolton, physically
and phonetically equipped to become a bishop; he gathered up the letter
“rs” which the Boston Brahmins all drop, and saved them and rolled them
out two or three at a time in his sermons.
He received the final advice from Deborah: “The family will descend
at one-fifty-five.” After which he retired into Josiah’s study, to
instruct his assistant concerning the service. “First I recite, ‘Lord,
let me know mine end,’ and you make the responses. The choir sings,
‘Lord, Thou hast been our refuge,’ and then, before the Lesson from
the Epistle of St. Paul, we intone the anthem--”
“Then I will need both books?” broke in the Reverend Mr. Thornwell.
“No, no! You don’t understand.” And with Christian patience the rector
said it all over again, but more slowly, pointing out the passages.
He would have added the word “Dunce!” but that would not have been a
Christian thing to say to a cousin of a governor.
XI
The guests arriving. They stepped onto the veranda and the chauffeurs
parked the cars in a long line down the driveway. There were three
policemen in blue uniforms stationed in front of the house, but in this
well-trained community they had only to confer dignity. The guests
did not chat, merely murmured a few greetings, after which they went
to the music-room, which most of them knew well; walking softly, on
padded feet, and not permitting their eyes to show signs of animation.
They were old people for the most part; gentlemen with white heads or
gray, flesh-colored or rosy; they wore black broadcloth, some with
black stripes of braid down the side of the trousers. The ladies were
in black, with now and then a touch of white at the collar and cuffs;
many of them wore black-dotted veils and fur neckpieces even in summer
weather. They were much wrinkled and the older ones had hanging mouths;
they let themselves carefully down the three polished steps into the
music-room and took their seats, seeing only what it was possible to
see without moving the eyes.
The place was open and airy, full of sunshine; divided into four
sections by an aisle down the center and a cross aisle with open doors
at each side. It had white Doric columns set in the walls, and panels
with the stern ancestors painted. There were tall windows, with dark
red curtains at the side, and seats upholstered in red velvet to match.
The front of the room had a bower of flowers and in the center, where
the two aisles crossed, stood the casket with the body of the great
man, white carnations at his head and white roses at his feet; if you
looked down through the glass, as a few did, you saw his thin nose of
pale waxen color, and his white wig, resting securely in position with
no trace of safety-pins.
Across the aisle was stretched a purple ribbon, marking the seats
reserved for the family and the family servants; in this solemn
hour class distinctions were abolished, there was only Thornwell or
not-Thornwell. The governor of the Commonwealth--the living one--came
in with his lady, but no one did them special honor; they seated
themselves among the guests. So with the lieutenant-governor and his
lady, and the senator who represented the Commonwealth in Washington;
a “scholar in politics” with a very famous name, a dapper little
gentleman with sharply trimmed mustaches and beard. If you knew the
“blue-bloods” of this community, you would recognize great bankers and
lawyers, the presidents of two universities and several scholars of
fame. You would not know the timid old ladies dressed in rusty black,
who had got out of cars some distance down the driveway and walked
about for a while so as not to get there too early; poor relations, who
had been in receipt of pensions from Josiah, and were trembling with
anxiety until the will should be read.
Through the side door you saw a throng of humble people; the employees
of the mills, which were shut down for the afternoon. They came