With a look Mr. Sylvester expressed his thanks. Then while Bertram again attempted to speak, he gave him a cordial pressure of the hand, and withdrew once more to his favorite spot.
And the rain beat, beat, and it sounded more and more like the droppings of earth upon a nailed down coffin-lid.
The funeral was a large one. The largest some said that had ever been seen in that quarter of the city. If Mrs. Sylvester’s position had not been what it was, the sudden and awful nature of her death, would have been sufficient to draw together a large crowd. Among those who thus endeavored to show their respect was Miss Stuyvesant.
“I could not join you here in your pleasures,” she whispered to Paula in the short interview they had upstairs, preparatory to the services, “but I cannot keep away in the dark hours!” And from her look and the clasp of her hand, Paula gained fresh courage to endure the slow pressure of anxiety and grief with which she was secretly burdened.
Moreover she had the pleasure of introducing her beloved friend to Mr. Bertram Sylvester, a pleasure which she had long promised herself whenever the opportunity should arrive, as Miss Stuyvesant was somewhat of an enthusiast as regards music. She did not notice particularly then, but she remembered afterwards, with what a blushing cheek and beautiful glance the dainty young girl received his bow, and responded to his few respectful words of pleasure at meeting the daughter of a man whom he had learned to regard with so much respect.
Mr. Sylvester was in a room by himself. The few glimpses obtained of him by his friends, convinced them all, that this trouble touched him more deeply than those who knew his wife intimately could have supposed. Yet he was calm, and already wore that fixed look of rigidity which was henceforth to distinguish the expression of his fine and noble features.