CHAPTER III.
The stone which covered the vault of the Hastings family had beenraised, and light and air let into the cold, damp interior. A ray ofsunshine, streaming through the church window, found its way acrossthe mouldy velvet of the old coffins as they stood ranged along insolemn order, containing the dust of many ancestors of the presentpossessors of the manor. There, too, apart from the rest were thecoffins of those who had died childless; the small narrowresting-place of childhood, where the guileless infant, the father'sand mother's joy and hope, slept its last sleep, leaving tearful eyesand sorrowing hearts behind, with naught to comfort but the blessedthought that by calling such from earth, God peoples heaven withangels; the coffins, too, of those cut off in the early spring ofmanhood, whom the fell mower had struck down in the flower before thefruit was ripe. Oh, how his scythe levels the blossoming fields ofhope! There, too, lay the stern old soldier, whose life had been givenup to his country's service, and who would not spare one thought ormoment to soften domestic joys; and many another who had lived,perhaps and loved, and passed away without receiving love's reward.
Amongst these, close at the end of the line, stood two tressels, readyfor a fresh occupant of the tomb, and the church bell tolled heavilyabove, while the old sexton looked forth from the door of the churchtoward the gates of the park, and the heavy clouded sky seemed tomenace rain.
"Happy the bride the sun shines upon: happy the corpse the heavenrains upon!" said the old man to himself. But the rain did not comedown; and presently, from the spot where he stood, which overlookedthe park-wall, he saw come on in slow and solemn procession along thegreat road to the gates, the funeral train of him who had been latelyheir to all the fine property around. The body had been brought fromLondon after the career of youth had been cut short in a moment ofgiddy pleasure, and father and mother, as was then customary, with along line of friends, relations, and dependents, now conveyed theremains of him once so dearly loved, to the cold grave.
Only one of all the numerous connections of the family was wanting onthis occasion, and that was the brother of the dead; but he lay slowlyrecovering from the shock he had received, and every one had been toldthat it was impossible for him to attend. All the rest of the familyhad hastened to the hall in answer to the summons they had received,for though Sir John Hastings was not much loved, he was much respectedand somewhat feared--at least, the deference which was paid to him, noone well knew why, savored somewhat of dread.
It is a strange propensity in many old persons to hang about the graveto which they are rapidly tending, when it is opened for another, andto comment--sometimes even with a bitter pleasantry--upon an eventwhich must soon overtake themselves. As soon as it was known that thefuneral procession had set out from the hall door, a number of agedpeople, principally women, but comprising one or two shriveled men,tottered forth from the cottages, which lay scattered about thechurch, and made their way into the churchyard, there to holdconference upon the dead and upon the living.
"Ay, ay!" said one old woman, "he has been taken at an early time; buthe was a fine lad, and better than most of those hard people."
"Ay, Peggy would praise the devil himself if he were dead," said anold man, leaning on a stick, "though she has never a good word for theliving. The boy is taken away from mischief, that is the truth of it.If he had lived to come down here again, he would have broken theheart of my niece's daughter Jane, or made a public shame of her. Whatbusiness had a gentleman's son like that to be always hanging about apoor cottage girl, following her into the corn-fields, and luring herout in the evenings?"
"Faith! she might have been proud enough of his notice," said an oldcrone; "and I dare say she was, too, in spite of all your conceit,Matthew. She is not so dainty as you pretend to be; and we may seesomething come of it yet."
"At all events," said another, "he was better than this white-faced,spiritless boy that is left, who is likely enough to be taken earlierthan his brother, for he looks as if breath would blow him away."
"He will live to do something yet, that will make people talk of him;"said a woman older than any of the rest, but taller and straighter;"there is a spirit in him, be it angel or devil, that is not for deathso soon."
"Ay! they're making a pomp of it, I warrant," said another old woman,fixing her eyes on the high road under the park wall, upon which theprocession now entered. "Marry, there are escutcheons enough, andcoats of arms! One would think he was a lord's son, with all this todo! But there is a curse upon the race anyhow; this man was the lastof eleven brothers, and I have heard say, his father died a bad death.Now his eldest son must die by drowning--saved the hangman something,perchance--we shall see what comes of the one that is left. 'Tis acurse upon them ever since Worcester fight, when the old man, who isdead and gone, advised to send the poor fellows who were taken, towork as slaves in the colonies."
As she spoke, the funeral procession advanced up the road, andapproached that curious sort of gate with a penthouse over it, erectedprobably to shelter the clergyman of the church while receiving thecorpse at the gate of the burial-ground, which was then universally tobe found at the entrance to all cemeteries. She broke off abruptly, asif there was something still on her mind which she had not spoken, andranging themselves on each side of the church-yard path, the old menand women formed a lane down which good Dr. Paulding speedily movedwith book in hand. The people assembled, whose numbers had beenincreased by the arrival of some thirty or forty young andmiddle-aged, said not a word as the clergymen marched on, but when thebody had passed up between them, and the bereaved father followed aschief-mourner, with a fixed, stern, but tearless eye, betokening moreintense affliction perhaps, in a man of his character, than if hischeeks had been covered with drops of womanly sorrow, several voiceswere heard saying aloud. "God bless and comfort you, Sir John."
Strange, marvelously strange it was, that these words should come fromtongues, and from those alone, which had been so busily engaged incarping censure and unfeeling sneers but the moment before. It was theold men and women alone who had just been commenting bitterly upon thefate, history, and character of the family, who now uttered the unfeltexpressions of sympathy in a beggar-like, whining tone. It was thosewho really felt compassion who said nothing.
The coffin had been carried into the church, and the solemn rites, thebeautiful service of the Church of England, had proceeded some way,when another person was added to the congregation who had not at firstbeen there. All eyes but those of the father of the dead and the ladywho sat weeping by his side, turned upon the new-comer, as with a faceas pale as death, and a faltering step, he took his place on one ofthe benches somewhat remote from the rest. There was an expression offeeble lassitude in the young man's countenance, but of strongresolution, which overcame the weakness of the frame. He looked as ifeach moment he would have fainted, but yet he sat out the wholeservice of the Church, mingled with the crowd when the body waslowered into the vault, and saw the handful of earth hurled out uponthe velvet coffin, as if in mockery of the empty pride of all the pompand circumstance which attended the burial of the rich and high.
No tear came into his eyes--no sob escaped from his bosom; a slightquivering of the lip alone betrayed that there was strong agitationwithin. When all was over, and the father still gazing down into thevault, the young lad crept quietly back into a pew, covered his facewith his hand, and wept.
The last rite was over. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust were committed.Sir John Hastings drew his wife's arm through his own, and walked witha heavy, steadfast, and unwavering step down the aisle. Everybody drewback respectfully as he passed; for generally, even in the hardesthearts, true sorrow finds reverence. He had descended the steps fromthe church into the burying ground, and had passed half way along thepath toward his carriage, when suddenly the tall upright old womanwhom I have mentioned thrust herself into his way, and addressed himwith a cold look and somewhat menacing tone--
"Now, Sir John Hastings," she said, "will you do me j
ustice about thatbit of land? By your son's grave I ask it. The hand of heaven hassmitten you. It may, perhaps, have touched your heart. You know theland is mine. It was taken from my husband by the usurper because hefought for the king to whom he had pledged his faith. It was given toyour father because he broke his faith to his king and brought evildays upon his country. Will you give me back the land, I say? Out man!It is but a garden of herbs, but it is mine, and in God's sight Iclaim it."
"Away out of my path," replied Sir John Hastings angrily. "Is this atime to talk of such things? Get you gone, I say, and choose somebetter hour. Do you suppose I can listen to you now?"
"You have never listened, and you never will," replied the old woman,and suffering him to pass without further opposition, she remainedupon the path behind him muttering to herself what seemed cursesbitter and deep, but the words of which were audible only to herself.
The little crowd gathered round her, and listened eagerly to catch thesense of what she said, but the moment after the old sexton laid hishand upon her shoulder and pushed her from the path, saying, "Getalong with you, get along with you, Popish Beldam. What business haveyou here scandalizing the congregation, and brawling at the churchdoor? You should be put in the stocks!"
"I pity you, old worm," replied the old woman, "you will be soon amongthose you feed upon," and with a hanging head and dejected air shequitted the church-yard.
In the meanwhile Dr. Paulding had remained gazing down into the vault,while the stout young men who had come to assist the sexton withdrewthe broad hempen bands by which the coffin had been lowered, frombeneath it, arranged it properly upon the tressels in its orderlyplace among the dead, and then mounted by a ladder into the body ofthe church, again preparing to replace the stone over the mouth of thevault. He then turned to the church door and looked out, and thenquietly approached a pew in the side aisle.
"Philip, this is very wrong," he said; "your father never wished orintended you should be here."
"He did not forbid me," replied the young man. "Why should I only beabsent from my brother's funeral?"
"Because you are sick. Because, by coming, you may have risked yourlife," replied the old clergyman.
"What is life to a duty?" replied the lad. "Have you not taught me,sir, that there is no earthly thing--no interest of this life, nopleasure, no happiness, no hope, that ought not to be sacrificed atonce to that which the heart says is right?"
"True--true," replied the old clergyman, almost impatiently; "but infollowing precept so severely, boy, you should use somediscrimination. You have a duty to a living father, which is of moreweight than a mere imaginary one to a dead brother. You could do nogood to the latter; as the Psalmist wisely said, 'You must go to him,but he can never come back to you.' To your father, on the contrary,you have high duties to perform; to console and cheer him in hispresent affliction; to comfort and support his declining years. When areal duty presents itself, Philip, to yourself, to your fellow men, toyour country, or to your God--I say again, as I have often said, do itin spite of every possible affection. Let it cut through everything,break through every tie, thrust aside every consideration. There,indeed, I would fain see you act the old Roman, whom you are so fondof studying, and be a Cato or a Brutus, if you will. But you must makevery sure that you do not make your fancy create unreal duties, andmake them of greater importance in your eyes than the true ones. Butnow I must get you back as speedily as possible, for your mother, erelong, will be up to see you, and your father, and they must not findyou absent on this errand."
The lad made no reply, but readily walked back toward the court withDr. Paulding, though his steps were slow and feeble. He took the oldman's arm, too, and leaned heavily upon it; for, to say the truth, hefelt already the consequences of the foolish act he had committed; andthe first excitement past, lassitude and fever took possession oncemore of every limb, and his feet would hardly bear him to the gates.
The beautiful girl who had been the first to receive him at thathouse, met the eyes both of the young man and the old one, the momentthey entered the gardens. She looked wild and anxious, and waswandering about with her head uncovered; but as soon as she beheld theyouth, she ran toward him, exclaiming, "Oh, Philip, Philip, this isvery wrong and cruel of you. I have been looking for you everywhere.You should not have done this. How could you let him, Dr. Paulding?"
"I did not let him, my dear child," replied the old man, "he came ofhis own will, and would not be let. But take him in with you; send himto bed as speedily as may be; give him a large glass of thefever-water he was taking, and say as little as possible of this rashact to any one."
The girl made the sick boy lean upon her rounded arm, led him awayinto the house, and tended him like a sister. She kept the secret ofhis rashness, too, from every one; and there were feelings sprang upin his bosom toward her during the next few hours which were never tobe obliterated. She was so beautiful, so tender, so gentle, so full ofall womanly graces, that he fancied, with his strong imagination, thatno one perfection of body or mind could be wanting; and he continuedto think so for many a long year after.