Well, at any rate, all that part of it was over, though neither of them could
possibly believe that father was never coming back. Josephine had had a moment
of absolute terror at the cemetery, while the coffin was lowered, to think that
she and Constantia had done this thing without asking his permission. What
would father say when he found out? For he was bound to find out sooner or
later. He always did. “Buried. You two girls had me buried!”
She heard his stick thumping. Oh, what would they say? What possible excuse
could they make? It sounded such an appallingly heartless thing to do. Such a
wicked advantage to take of a person because he happened to be helpless at the
moment. The other people seemed to treat it all as a matter of course. They
were strangers; they couldn’t be expected to understand that father was
the very last person for such a thing to happen to. No, the entire blame for it
all would fall on her and Constantia. And the expense, she thought, stepping
into the tight-buttoned cab. When she had to show him the bills. What would he
say then?
She heard him absolutely roaring. “And do you expect me to pay for this
gimcrack excursion of yours?”
“Oh,” groaned poor Josephine aloud, “we shouldn’t have
done it, Con!”
And Constantia, pale as a lemon in all that blackness, said in a frightened
whisper, “Done what, Jug?”
“Let them bu-bury father like that,” said Josephine, breaking down
and crying into her new, queer-smelling mourning handkerchief.
“But what else could we have done?” asked Constantia wonderingly.
“We couldn’t have kept him, Jug—we couldn’t have kept
him unburied. At any rate, not in a flat that size.”
Josephine blew her nose; the cab was dreadfully stuffy.
“I don’t know,” she said forlornly. “It is all so
dreadful. I feel we ought to have tried to, just for a time at least. To make
perfectly sure. One thing’s certain”—and her tears sprang out
again—“father will never forgive us for this—never!”
