Nell was pleasantly surprised at the small turn-out, and later explained it charitably by saying, “It was the weather, not at all clement.” It had been a gray day, but neither cold nor raining. People from out of town and, indeed, the whole county were there, but they had not come in large family groups as they had when Arnold Kendrick died. Rather, one person of a family attended, to represent the whole. It was the end of winter, and people had had their fill of winter dyings, of which there were always so very many. They longed for spring. Early plowing and sowing had been done. The earth having been turned and opened to air, would teem again with life. It was the wrong time for dying. Alive, Deborah had been a force. Dead, she was of no consequence, beyond that decorum required. It was not that she had been bad or hated; but she had not been loved.

Even the Reverend Curtis Lamont did not seem to have his mind on Deborah. The funeral sermon was aimed rather at one absent, whom he epitomized as “the thankless child of a dutiful parent.” Those who listened to his words were mildly disconcerted, but few listened. At the end of it they said it had been a nice funeral and cleared the church without lingering on the porch to exchange reminiscences of the dead.

Not many went to the cemetery for the interment, and there was no spontaneous outpouring of song from the Beulah Land slaves who had attended. Strong emotion of any temper was lacking. Edna had kind thoughts, remembering the afternoon not so very long ago that she and Deborah had worked together there. She remembered Deborah’s saying she didn’t care where they put her when her time came. She remembered the end of the afternoon: the gathering of tools, and Deborah’s putting them away in the back box of the buggy; of her finding the peach brandy where she had left it under the seat. She remembered their taking the homely comfort of the brandy together, and then riding through town and on home in the twilight and falling night. But who was there to tell of all that?

9

What is called love may not be such at all, and that which is never called love may sometimes be the very essence of it. Lovey would deny that she had loved Deborah. She had done her duty by her. She had often been made uneasy by her. She had disapproved of her, now and then briefly hated her. She had spoken to her, though, more often than to anyone else in her silent monologue that, sleeping and waking, provided the running commentary on her life. Now that Deborah was dead, she missed her. That made her angry, and that was a kind of love.