XXI

The key turned, the heavy door of the cell swung open, and the constable who had just come on guard-duty looked in upon Abner.

“They’ve put her in,” he said. “It’s all over.”

“Yes,” said Abner, without lifting his gaze. He understood what was meant.

“They’ve planted her,” said the constable; his words to us would have sounded hard and cruel in their bareness and naked meaning, but he meant kindly. “They’ve planted her.”

Mary Shaw had been interred. Abner still said nothing.

“Her was buried in oak,” continued the constable. “Not many of her sort as has oak planking.”

“Who did that?” asked the prisoner, looking up.

“Miss Goring paid for it. Leastways her had it done; s’pose Mr. Goring paid for it. She said she could not abear her to be buried in deal like the workhouse folk. So her lies in oak. The kid is all right; Miss Goring have had it seed to. Don’t you fret; there ain’t no case agen you when it comes to a full bench.”

Abner had been simply remanded by Cornleigh Cornleigh till the day of the magistrates’ meeting.

“I knows that,” said the prisoner. “You knows I didn’t do it; they must be fools as says so.”

“Well, I told you I’d tell you all as there was,” said the constable, preparing to lock the door. “She could not have been buried nicer if she’d been a young lady. You’ll be discharged directly you sees the Bench.” The cell-door was closed.

The prisoner’s chin drooped on his broad chest. Out from his silent sorrow flowed warm tears, tears which neither the bitter loss of Mary nor the insult and injustice of his confinement could cause, but which flowed at a touch of kindness, Felise’s kindness went to his heart, already growing stubborn under the stony handling of fate.

To the dead there is no difference between deal and oak, or elm⁠—a ditch is the same as a tomb; but to the living, who will one day die, there is every difference. Depend upon it, too great respect cannot be paid to the dead. Therein the deepest, the most subtle of the chords of human nature is touched.

In London the coffins of the “pauper” dead (let the word “pauper” be accursed!) have been seen to tumble into the stony street; a heap of the dead carted at once, like the carcases of animals, till they broke down the carriage. What terrible folly our boasted self-government of boards is capable of⁠—this uttermost folly of destroying respect for the dead to save a few miserable shillings!

Abner Brown was by nature loyal and true⁠—of that “grit” and character of which Nelson’s worthies were made. He was willing to work and to laugh in his work, and to serve with faithful service for three score years and ten. Do you not think he had cause to be grateful? He had three principal causes of gratitude.

His aged and helpless parents were to be turned into the road.

His sweetheart had committed suicide because her parents should not be punished for her disgrace.

He was himself in prison, labelled forever as a suspected murderer, simply because he was poor; for no man who wore broadcloth and gold watch-chain would have been committed on so unsupported a charge.