This poor, pale Primrose, who had died so young, though not unmarried,
was laid to rest, with babe on arm, only a few days before the Flora
dance, and her friend Cherry, who would none the less foot it gaily on
that occasion, attended, with a length of black crape round her buxom
waist and her eyes swollen by the easy tears of an easy nature.
Loveday was not present, for, friendly as she had ever been with Mrs.
Lear, the dead girl's petulance lay between them now; memory of it
become to Loveday a pang of pity, and to Mrs. Lear a sacred duty.
Nevertheless, an odd notion, such as Loveday was apt to take, made her
feel that some tie, slight, but persistent, between Primrose and herself
drew her, at least, to give the last look possible from behind the hedge
screening the road.
There, hidden as a bird, she saw how highly the world had thought of the
girl to whom she had dared feel a flashing sense of superiority; she saw
how true respectability is to be admired. For never at any funeral, save
that of actual gentry, had there been seen so many of those elegant
floral tokens of esteem which reflect, perhaps, even more honour upon
those who bestow them than upon the dead who receive them. Primrose may
have been a poor creature enough, but the Lears had always held their
heads high among their fellows, without ever trying to push above their
station. No unseemly ambitions, no fantastic desires, had ever drawn
just censure upon Upper Farm, and wreaths and crosses decked with
tasteful streamers bore witness to this fact.
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