Chapter Twelve
There can be no perfect day for a funeral.
When the sun shines, the contrast between outer brightness and inner gloom renders that gloom yet more unbearable.
When rain falls, the grief-stricken imagine that the very heavens cry with them, and so cry all the harder.
When snow falls and ice rims every window and river, the frozen ground resists the gravedigger.
The consequences of summer heat do not bear thinking about.
Yet it must be said that some days are more appropriate for a funeral than others.
For instance, Mrs. Hurst—whose late husband’s residency in various icehouses had endured near two weeks, and for whom one day more or less would have made little difference—might have chosen a date that did not conflict with the burial of the unfortunate Becky.
“You would attend the funeral of a servant?” The incredulous Mrs. Hurst stared at her brother. “You compare that to the need to lay my husband to rest? He who was your brother for so very long?”
“Of course there is no question that we shall attend Mr. Hurst’s service,” Charles hastened to say. “Yet given Becky’s youth—the terrible nature of her death—”
“The very same nature of Mr. Hurst’s death,” retorted Mrs. Hurst, who was now fully sheathed in mourning black and a hat veiled with crepe, and in all the worse temper for it. “Unless you have forgot already?”
“No, dear Louisa, I shall never forget these wretched days so long as I live. Yet, were Mr. Hurst’s service to be but one day the later, what could be the harm?”
“You would slight him for the sake of a girl in service!” Mrs. Hurst took out her handkerchief, which she considered as good as weeping. “How cruel, how very cruel!”
All ended as she willed it, with simultaneous funerals, one to be presided over by Mr. Brooks and attended by Mr. Bingley, the other to be foisted upon a hapless curate.
Most funerals were held at night, a custom more rigidly adhered to in some parts of the nation than in others, but nearly invariably so in the environs of Meryton.
Thus both Becky and Mr. Hurst were laid to rest in the dark: Mr. Hurst ensconced in a place of honor within Mr. Brooks’s church, his stone laid very near the front, to be engraved with his name, his family, and Hasten, Oh Blessed Hour of Reunion; Becky in a humble graveyard overlooking the meadow, not far from a dogwood tree that flowered in the spring.
The reader may judge whose was the finer monument.
Mrs. Hurst seemed to take comfort in the custom in which only men attended the funeral itself.
“Women’s feelings are so very delicate,” she said, dry-eyed, to the ladies who sat around her in the drawing room, silent amid candlelight, while the men were gone.
“We cannot endure the agony of it. Men’s constitutions are stronger, and they must bear the burden. ”
Priscilla and Frederica Allerdyce exchanged a glance, which spoke much of their mutual doubt that their aunt was enduring any agony whatsoever. Their mother observed this but could not, under the circumstances, bring herself to chastise them either in the moment or later.
Juliet Tilney whispered to Mrs. Lofton, “I have been to a funeral, and there other women were present.”
“It is not the done thing in the city any longer,” said Mrs. Lofton, whose relative good humor had understandably faded much since the second murder at Netherfield. “One would never hear of such.”
“I had thought that was to protect ladies from the villainy of thieves.” Juliet had read the newspaper tales of women who had worn their finest jewelry to honor the dead, only to be brutally robbed as soon as clods of earth began to fall upon the coffin.
“I suppose you would not know much of feminine delicacy,” Mrs. Allerdyce said, and Juliet was obliged to stare at her hands and think of her father’s kindest words for the dead, lest unkind words issue from her mouth.
The next morning, other than for the black garb worn by all, might have been any other breakfast at Netherfield.
Charles and Jane Bingley were much downcast, and Juliet’s careful eye observed the dispiritedness of the servants, but it appeared that Becky was the more greatly mourned of the two recently deceased.
Visitors came soon to call. Mr. Isaac Lucas arrived first, eager as ever.
Having been informed by Mr. Darcy of Mr. Lucas’s intentions toward Miss Allerdyce, Juliet wondered that she had not seen it for herself before.
On this occasion, Mr. Lucas attended more to Mr. Allerdyce—but was that not the wisdom of a suitor?
—and Juliet noted how, from time to time, his gaze would drift toward Miss Allerdyce, who always saw it, and smiled.
Swiftly following Mr. Lucas came the Brookses.
Mr. Brooks showed no sign of weariness, despite having performed the service for Mr. Hurst the night before.
Juliet watched Mrs. Hurst carefully, and indeed, she did become restless after the Brookses arrived.
She made a show of noticing her niece. “Why, Priscilla, what a lovely cross you wear. Are they amethysts?” Although Priscilla had scant interest in her aunt, she cared very much about her personal ornamentation, and so began speaking of her little cross with much animation.
Mrs. Hurst nodded and smiled, but her efforts to avoid so much as glimpsing Mr. Brooks were all too apparent.
Does Mrs. Brooks see nothing? Juliet wondered.
It appeared she did not, for she sat in a group with Mr. Lofton and Miss Allerdyce, chatting easily about the weather.
Juliet noted that Mrs. Brooks was wearing a new pair of gloves: butter yellow, trimmed with fine cord.
They would have been notably handsome regardless of the wearer; as much of Mrs. Brooks’s attire was modest and plain, the gloves stood out all the more.
Could the gloves have been a gift from Mr. Brooks—an unusual show of affection—meant to allay any suspicions his wife might harbor within her breast?
How Juliet longed to discuss all this with Mr. Darcy!—and of course, as all young lovers, she could not be entirely at rest until she could look upon his face once more. Yet, by midmorning, still he had not appeared. Where could he be?
As it happened, breakfast at Longbourn had been delayed that morning at Mr. Bennet’s request.
“At my time of life, I have laid to rest too many friends to be glad of the opportunity of burying a man I hardly knew,” he said, hobbling toward the breakfast table.
Jonathan steeled himself and offered his grandfather his arm; the effort of attending the funeral had cost the old man and made his infirmity more apparent than was customary.
“This Mr. Hurst slights my daughters in their youth, drinks all the wine one of ’em can offer him for years thereafter, then gets himself poisoned, and so I am obliged to be out in the night and the damp. ”
Mrs. Bennet was displeased, for she considered complaints about the night and the damp to be solely her province.
“You knew that you must go. It would not be proper, would not be civil, for you to have remained home. I will not have those dreadful sisters of Mr. Bingley’s saying we have no manners. ”
“Then you have enforced your edict poorly, my dear, for they have been saying as much these twenty-five years.” Mr. Bennet settled into his chair and smiled up at Jonathan; he could be kind to his grandson when not jesting about his particularities of temperament.
“Come, come, my lad. Let us eat, and then you can return to your investigations.”
When at last Jonathan was freed, he rode toward Netherfield.
October had come, and a slight morning chill still lingered over the fields.
How bracing it felt! With health and liberty restored to him, and all the triumph of the successful lover in his heart, little wonder that Jonathan should be of good cheer even on his way to find a murderer.
His horse came up the path just as Aunt Jane was preparing to go in the carriage to Longbourn. She waited for him and greeted him warmly.
“Do you return already?” Jonathan said.
“Mamma sent a note this morning, telling me how difficult the funeral was for Papa, so I am bringing wine and cake, and will read him the newspaper.” The recent issue of the Chronicle was tucked within her basket. “I would have gone even earlier, yet I wished to wait for you.”
“For me, Aunt Jane? Why?” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Have you thought of another observation regarding the death of Mr. Hurst? Or of Becky?”
“Would that I had.” Aunt Jane smiled gently and said, “I have at last written your parents. Please forgive me, Jonathan, for ultimately I knew that I must speak of Miss Tilney’s presence here. The letter was posted two days ago.”
Deeply as Jonathan had trusted his aunt Jane to keep the secret, he found he could not consider himself betrayed.
His parents’ learning of this was inevitable, and now that he and Miss Tilney had become engaged, he no longer feared his parents’ power to separate them.
“I understand, Aunt Jane. You did as you thought right.”
“I told your mother that if she does not allow a match between you and Miss Tilney, she is a fool.”
Jonathan required some moments to be certain of what he had heard.
He felt some chagrin that his aunt had been so very aware of his sentiments, though of course she would have received letters discussing Miss Tilney in the past. Yet chief among his astonishment was the idea that his aunt Jane might, in any way whatsoever, be critical of his mother. “You told her this?”