His salary, however, would have been scarcely adequate to the support of his family, had he not added something to his little stipend by employing his leisure hours in keeping the books of a merchant. He removed with his wife and children to a small house in a remote part of the city; and they would, with all his exertions, have been obliged to live in the constant exercise of the most painful economy, had it not been for the aid they derived from his sister Constance Allerton. Since the death of her parents, this young lady had resided at New Bedford with her maternal aunt, Mrs. Ilford, a quakeress, who left her a legacy of ten thousand dollars.
After the demise of her aunt, Miss Allerton took lodgings at a private house in New Bedford; but on hearing of her brother's misfortunes, she wrote to know if it would be agreeable to him and to his family for her to remove to Philadelphia, and to live with them--supposing that the sum she would pay for her accommodation might, in their present difficulties, prove a welcome addition to their income. This proposal was joyfully acceded to, as Constance was much beloved by every member of her brother's family, and had kept up a continual intercourse with them by frequent letters, and by an annual visit of a few weeks to Philadelphia.
At this period, Constance Allerton had just completed her twenty-third year. She had a beautiful face, a fine graceful figure, and a highly cultivated mind. With warm feelings and deep sensibility, she possessed much energy of character--a qualification which, when called forth by circumstances, is often found to be as useful in a woman as in a man.
Affectionate, generous, and totally devoid of all selfish considerations, Constance had nothing so much at heart as the comfort and happiness of her brother's family; and to become an inmate of their house was as gratifying to her as it was to them. She furnished her own apartment, and shared it with little Louisa, the youngest of her three nieces, a lovely child about ten years old. She insisted on paying the quarter bills of her nephew Frederic Allerton, and volunteered to complete the education of his sisters, who were delighted to receive their daily lessons from an instructress so kind, so sensible, and so competent. Exclusive of these arrangements, she bestowed on them many little presents, which were always well-timed and judiciously selected; though, to enable her to purchase these gifts, she was obliged, with her limited income of six hundred dollars, to deny herself many gratifications, and, indeed, conveniences, to which she had hitherto been accustomed, and the want of which she now passed over with a cheerfulness and delicacy which was duly appreciated by the objects of her kindness.
In this manner the family had been living about a twelvemonth, when Mr.
Allerton was suddenly attacked by a violent and dangerous illness, which was soon accompanied by delirium; and in a few days it brought him to the brink of the grave.
His disease baffled the skill of an excellent physician; and the unremitting cares of his wife and sister could only effect a slight alleviation of his sufferings. He expired on the fifth day, without recovering his senses, and totally unconscious of the presence of the heart-struck mourners that were weeping round his bed.
When Mr. Allerton's last breath had departed, his wife was conveyed from the room in a fainting-fit. Constance endeavoured to repress her own feelings, till she had rendered the necessary assistance to Mrs.
Allerton, and till she had somewhat calmed the agony of the children.
She then retired to her own apartment, and gave vent to a burst of grief, such as can only be felt by those in whose minds and hearts there is a union of sense and sensibility. With the weak and frivolous, sorrow is rarely either acute or lasting.
The immortal soul of Mr. Allerton had departed from its earthly tenement, and it was now necessary to think of the painful details that belonged to the disposal of his inanimate corpse. As soon as Constance could command sufficient courage to allow her mind to dwell on this subject, she went down to send a servant for Mr. Denman (an old friend of the family), whom she knew Mrs. Allerton would wish to take charge of the funeral. At the foot of the stairs, she met the physician, who, by her pale cheeks, and by the tears that streamed from her eyes at sight of him, saw that all was over. He pressed her hand in sympathy; and, perceiving that she was unable to answer his questions, he bowed and left the house.
In a short time, Mr. Denman arrived; and Mrs. Allerton declaring herself incompetent to the task, Constance saw the gentleman, and requested him to make every necessary arrangement for a plain but respectable funeral.
At such times, how every little circumstance seems to add a new pang to the agonized feelings of the bereaved family! The closing of the window-shutters, the arrival of the woman whose gloomy business it is to prepare the corpse for interment, the undertaker coming to take measure for the coffin, the removal of the bedding on which the deceased has expired, the gliding step, the half-whispered directions--all these sad indications that death is in the house, fail not, however quietly and carefully managed, to reach the ears and hearts of the afflicted relatives, assisted by the intuitive knowledge of what is so well understood to be passing at these melancholy moments.
In the evening, after Louisa had cried herself to sleep, Constance repaired to the apartment of her sister-in-law, whom, about an hour before, she had left exhausted and passive. Mrs. Allerton was extended on the bed, pale and silent; her daughters, Isabella and Helen, were in tears beside her; and Frederick had retired to his room.
In the fauteuil, near the head of the bed, sat Mrs. Bladen, who, in the days of their prosperity, had been the next door neighbour of the Allerton family, and who still continued to favour them with frequent visits. She was one of those busy people who seem almost to verify the justly-censured maxim of Rochefoucault, that "in the misfortunes of our best friends, there is always something which is pleasing to us."
True it was that Mrs. Bladen, being a woman of great leisure, and of a disposition extremely officious, devoted most of her time and attention to the concerns of others; and any circumstances that prevented her associates from acting immediately for themselves, of course threw open a wider field for her interference.
"And now, my dear friends," said Mrs. Bladen, squeezing Mrs. Allerton's hand, and looking at Constance, who seated herself in an opposite chair, "as the funeral is to take place on Thursday, you know there is no time to be lost. What have you fixed on respecting your mourning? I will cheerfully attend to it for you, and bespeak everything necessary."
At the words "funeral" and "mourning," tears gushed again from the eyes of the distressed family; and neither Mrs. Allerton nor Constance could command themselves sufficiently to reply.
"Come, my dear creatures," continued Mrs. Bladen, "you must really make an effort to compose yourselves. Just try to be calm for a few minutes, till we have settled this business. Tell me what I shall order for you.
However, there is but one rule on these occasions--crape and bombazine, and everything of the best. Nothing, you know, is more disreputable than mean mourning."
"I fear, then," replied Mrs. Allerton, "that our mourning attire must be mean enough. The situation in which we are left will not allow us to go to any unnecessary expense in that, or in anything else. We had but little to live upon--we could lay by nothing. We have nothing beforehand: we did not--we could not apprehend that this dreadful event was so near. And you know that his salary--that Mr. Allerton's salary--of course, expires with him."
"So I suppose, my dear friend," answered Mrs. Bladen; "but you know you _must_ have mourning; and as the funeral takes place so soon, there will be little enough time to order it and have it made."
"We will borrow dresses to wear at the--to wear on Thursday," said Mrs.
Allerton.
"And of whom will you borrow?"
"I do not know. I have not yet thought."
"The Liscom family are in black," observed Isabella; "no doubt they would lend us dresses."
"Oh! none of their things will fit you at all," exclaimed Mrs. Bladen.
"None of the Liscoms have the least resemblance to any of you, either in height or figure. You would look perfectly ridiculous in _their_ things."
"Then there are Mrs. Patterson and her daughters," said Helen.
"The Pattersons," replied Mrs. Bladen, "are just going to leave off black; and nothing that _they_ have looks either new or fresh. You know how soon black becomes rusty. You certainly would feel very much mortified if you had to make a shabby appearance at Mr. Allerton's funeral. Besides, nobody now wears borrowed mourning--it can always be detected in a moment. No--with a little exertion--and I repeat that I am willing to do all in my power--there is time enough to provide the whole family with genteel and proper mourning suits. And as you _must_ get them at last, it is certainly much better to have them at first, so as to appear handsomely at the funeral."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Allerton, sighing, "at such a time, what consequence can we possibly attach to our external appearance? How can we for a moment think of it?"
"To be sure, my dear friend," said Mrs. Bladen, kissing her, "you have had a very severe loss--very severe, indeed. It is really quite irreparable; and I can sincerely sympathize in your feelings. Certainly everybody ought to feel on these occasions; but you know it is impossible to devote every moment between this and the funeral to tears and sobs. One cannot be crying all the time--nobody ever does. And, as to the mourning, that is of course indispensable, and a thing that _must_ be."
Mrs. Allerton wept bitterly. "Indeed, indeed!" said she, "I cannot discuss it now."
"And if it is not settled to-night," resumed Mrs. Bladen, "there will be hardly time to-morrow to talk it over, and get the things, and send to the mantua-maker's and milliner's. You had better get it off your mind at once. Suppose you leave it entirely to me. I attended to all the mourning for the Liscoms, and the Weldons, and the Nortons. It is a business I am quite used to. I pique myself on being rather clever at it."
"I will, then, trust to your judgment," replied Mrs. Allerton, anxious to get rid of the subject, and of the light frivolous prattle of her _soi-disant_ dear friend. "Be kind enough to undertake it, and procure for us whatever you think suitable--only let it not be too expensive."
"As to that," answered Mrs. Bladen, "crape is crape, and bombazine is bombazine; and as everybody likes to have these articles of good quality, nothing otherwise is now imported for mourning. With regard to Frederick's black suit, Mr. Watson will send to take his measure, and there will be no further difficulty about it. Let me see--there must be bombazine for five dresses: that is, for yourself, three daughters, and Miss Allerton."
"Not for me," said Constance, taking her handkerchief from her eyes. "I shall not get a bombazine."
"My dear creature!" cried Mrs. Bladen; "not get a bombazine! You astonish me! What else can you possibly have? Black gingham or black chintz is only fit for wrappers; and black silk is no mourning at all."
"I shall wear no mourning," replied Constance, with a deep sigh.
"Not wear mourning!" ejaculated Mrs. Bladen. "What, no mourning at all!
Not wear mourning for your own brother! Now you do indeed surprise me."
Mrs. Allerton and her daughters were also surprised; and they withdrew their handkerchiefs from their eyes, and gazed on Constance, as if scarcely believing that they had understood her rightly.
"I have considered it well," resumed Miss Allerton; "and I have come to a conclusion to make no change in my dress. In short, to wear no mourning, even for my brother--well as I have loved him, and deeply as I feel his loss."
"This is very strange," said Mrs. Allerton.
"Excuse me, Miss Constance," said Mrs. Bladen, "but have you no respect for his memory? He was certainly an excellent man."
"Respect for his memory!" exclaimed Constance, bursting into tears.
"Yes! I indeed respect his memory! And were he still living, there is nothing on earth I would not cheerfully do for him, if I thought it would contribute to his happiness or comfort. But he is now in a land where all the forms and ceremonies of this world are of no avail; and where everything that speaks to the senses only, must appear like the mimic trappings of a theatre. With him, all is now awful reality. To the decaying inhabitant of the narrow and gloomy grave, or to the disembodied spirit that has ascended to its Father in heaven, of what consequence is the colour that distinguishes the dress of those whose mourning is deep in the heart? What to him is the livery that fashion has assigned to grief, when he knows how intense is the feeling itself, in the sorrowing bosoms of the family that loved him so well?"
"All this is very true," remarked Mrs. Bladen; "but still, custom is everything, or fashion, as you are pleased to call it. You know you are not a Quaker; and therefore I do not see how you can possibly venture to go without mourning on such an occasion as this. Surely, you would not set the usages of the world at defiance?"
"I would not," replied Constance, "in things of minor importance; but on this subject I believe I can be firm."
"Of course," said Mrs. Bladen, "you will not go to the funeral without mourning."
"I cannot go to the funeral at all," answered Constance.
"Not go to the funeral!" exclaimed Mrs. Allerton. "Dear Constance, you amaze me!"
"I hope," observed Mrs. Bladen, looking very serious, "there can be no reason to doubt Miss Allerton's affection for her brother?"
"Oh! no! no! no!" cried the two girls indignantly. "If you had only seen," said Isabella, "how she nursed my dear father in his illness--how she was with him day and night."