Beauty for Ashes (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

Glory continued through those endless days with that sweet, hopeless look in her eyes and utter indifference for the things of life.

      Sometimes her father would give her a long, understanding glance, and that helped. She had had very little time with him alone; always someone else was by. Just a low spoken word when he came: "Child, this is going to be hard! Keep steady! You're a brave girl!" Just that and a tender kiss. There never had to be many words between them. They understood each other better than the rest of the family. It seemed to Gloria that her father was the wisest man living.

      No one but her father knew how awful it was for Gloria to go and stand beside that dead form of the fiance who had been killed with another girl. It was expected of her of course. She had to go. She wasn't sure but she expected it of herself, but she shrank inexpressibly from looking on his face. What she felt was not merely a natural shrinking from death, it was the agony of looking upon a face that had been her fiance’s and knowing that he had never been hers.

      Everybody said how wonderful he looked, as if he might open his eyes and call out some cheerful witticism. As if the merriment that had been on his lips when he was suddenly called away lingered, ready for expression as soon as he should awake.

      But to Gloria it did not seem that way. It was as if a house that had been her welcome abiding place had suddenly closed its doors against her very existence. That face that all her life had been so familiar, so dear, was like a stranger's. The spirit she had thought she loved had fled. Had it ever been what she thought it?

      Characteristics she had never seen before stood out on the features. Those closed lips had a selfish, spoiled look now that they could no longer curve and turn with a pleasant expression.

      She closed her eyes and turned away. They thought she was trying to keep back the tears. Her father hoped she would weep. He felt it would relieve the strain. But Gloria had turned away to shut out sights she did not want to see. She had hoped that somehow the sight of Stanwood dead would dispel this awful feeling she had about the way he had died. But instead of that it brought out lacks she had never noticed in his laughter-crowded lifetime.

      Gloria was glad that she did not have to sit facing that casket during that long, awful service, more thankful than she would have cared to tell anybody that she could hide away upstairs in a darkened room with the family, before the world thronged into the palatial residence to do honor to the son of the house. As she went upstairs, her bright hair shrouded in a heavy veil, she caught glimpses of her young friends huddled in frightened groups, with eyes cast down and gloomy countenances. It was all too evident that they did not want to come here, did not want to be reminded that death was inevitable, did not want to be drawn into this tragedy, yet knew that for very decency they must.

      It was like the tolling of a bell for a lost soul when the solemn words of the burial service began. Gloria shivered, and Vanna sobbed silently in her corner. Mrs. Asher, swathed in deep black, moaned audibly beside her tortured husband, while Nancy sat like a grim specter, her handkerchief to her eyes.

      "Man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble," began the preacher in a solemn and monotonous voice. "He cometh forth like a flower and is cut down, he fleeth also as a shadow and continueth not. As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more."

      Gloria listened to the desolating statements and shuddered in her soul. How horrible was life! Why did anybody want to live? Stan was gone! In a few hours, this place where he had been the life of everything would know him no more! Gloria heard his mother moan and cry out, "Oh, my baby boy!" and there came to her a sudden desire to scream and cry out, too, in protest. Oh, why did they have such terrible things as funerals? Why put the tortured relatives to any more pain than they had to suffer already? She felt if this thing went on very long she would go stark crazy.

      But the monotonous, cultured voice of the minister went steadily on through what seemed an endless multiplication of words, statements of facts that they all knew. Death was inevitable of course, but what could one do about it? Why all this harrowing language?

      Gloria tried to listen, to catch the reason for all these words. Presumably they were a ritual of the church. She did not know even vaguely that any of them were taken from the Bible. It would not have made any difference to her if she had. There was no hope in the words that were chosen. What hope was there for one in her position? None! All her days she must go with blight on her life. How she was going to do it, she knew not. She had not thought one hour beyond this funeral service. Since ever she had heard the awful news she had lived from hour to hour to endure the things that had to be endured until all that she owed to the family of her fiance should be fulfilled. After that chaos! A blank! She did not think of it now except to hope for oblivion in sleep. After that–well that would have to be dealt with when she came to it.

      The monotonous reading ceased at last, followed by a prayer by a retired pastor of the church with which the Ashers were associated. A trembling voice, cultured sentences, becoming more and more personal. Gloria heard herself prayed for as the mourning bride. She grew cold and hot behind her thick veil and trembled again, wondering if this terrible ordeal were not almost over.

      But after the prayer, the first speaker took up a refrain beginning: "Forasmuch as it hath pleased almighty God to take out of this world our departed brother–" and Gloria wondered if it had pleased God to do a thing like that, and do it in that way? Had Stan's actions nothing to do with his departure? Had the assassin nothing to do with it? The girl? Was God like that? Was there a God? What made anybody think there was a God in a world like this full of horror?

      When she came back from her thoughts to the voice again, she beheld a word picture of the young man, a picture that showed him forth almost as a hero! She listened in amazement. Beginning with incidents of his childhood showing forth his kindly temperament and desire to please, the speaker worked his way up through the years, showing what a charming character the young man had possessed, how he had grown in beauty and manly virtues; he told of his merry ways, his popularity, his wonderful prospects in a worldly way. When the discourse was finished, Stanwood Asher lived before them as an innocent hero. All else was ignored.

      At last the discourse was ended, and a well-paid quartet of well-trained male voices sang:

      "Sunset and evening star,

       And one clear call for me"

      They chanted it exquisitely till it almost seemed there had been a call for Stan, and he had answered it merrily with a cocktail in his hand as he had answered most calls these last few years.

      The interment was supposed to be private, and Gloria was glad of that, but it was surprising how many people got in on it for one reason or another. There were cameras ready wherever they went, cameras even, not far from the grave.

      By reason of her relation to the deceased, Gloria with her father beside her had to stand close to that flower-lined opening into which the casket was lowered, had to watch it slowly go down among the lilies and roses.

      Everything about the grave was as lovely as money could make it. There were none of the horrors of an old-fashioned burial. Even the earth that was presently to cover all that was left of her bridegroom was smothered in a bank of flowers. There was no hint or suggestion of darkness and the tomb. And yet as Gloria stood beside that grave, she felt as if somehow her own soul was being drawn down into its flowery darkness, to be buried with the man who had so lightly gone from her a few days before, never to return alive.

      Her father steadied her to the car when at last everything was over and they turned away home. Gloria felt that if it had lasted one minute longer, she could not have gone on. But it was not over yet. Mrs. Asher went weeping aloud from the grave, crying out to go back for one more last look, and there was quite a scene at the car. Mrs. Sutherland went to comfort her and came bustling back hurriedly to their own car.

      "She wants you to go home with them, Gloria! She says she has got to have a talk with you."

      "No!" said Gloria's father. "She is not able! Can't you see she has borne all she can?"

      "But I promised that she