THE LESSON.
"Or those eighteen on whom the tower in Siloam fell, think ye...."
Many and many an hour had Peter spent, when he was a very little boy, in
gazing through the heavy banister-like railings of the gallery; and, as
he grew older, in pensively leaning upon them, and longing in vain to
get into the forbidden Paradise of the garden. The gallery floor being
about twelve feet from the ground he could see the whole place from it.
Oh the stores of nests that it must contain! the beautiful sharp sticks
for arrows! the capital elder shoots, full of pith! how he longed to get
at them for making pop-guns! Sometimes, when the pink hawthorns were in
flower, or the guelder-roses, he would throw a ball at one of them just
to see what showers of bloom would come down; and then what a commotion
such an event would make among the birds! what chattering and chirping,
and screaming and fluttering! But the experiment was rather a costly
one, for the ball once thrown there was no getting it back again, it
must lie and rot till the seams burst open, and birds picked the wool
out for their nests.
Sometimes Peter would get a hook tied to the end of a long string, and
amuse himself with what he called fishing, that is to say, he would
throw out his line, and try to get it tangled in the slight branches of
some shrub, and draw it up, with a few of the flowers attached; but
with all his fishing he never got up any thing worth having: the utmost
being a torn cabbage-rose, and two or three shattered peonies, leaf and
root and all.
It is melancholy to think how much valuable property was engulphed in
this untrodden waste, how many shuttlecocks, hit a little too hard, had
toppled over and settled on some flowery clump, in full view of, but out
of reach for ever of their unfortunate possessor; how many marbles had
bounded over and leaped into the green abyss; how many bits of
slate-pencil, humming-tops, little ships made of walnut-shells, and
other most precious articles, had been lost there to human ken, and now
lay hidden and mouldering away!
Sometimes when Peter had lost anything of more than common value, he
would complain to his aunt, or his mother, and hint a humble wish that
he could get it again. On such occasions his mother would remark, with a
languid sigh, that it certainly did seem a pity such a fine piece of
land should lie waste; but if Peter followed up the conversation by
declaring that he could easily climb over the gate and get down into the
garden if he might, he was immediately met by such stern rebukes from
all parties, and such fervent assurances that if he ever dared to do
such a thing he should certainly be sent to school, that he grew to the
age of seven years with two deep impressions on his mind; first, that it
would be very wicked to go down into the garden; second, that it would
be very dreadful to be sent to school.
One very fine hot day in July Madam Melcombe had caused a table to be
set in the gallery, that she might enjoy her early tea in the open air.
Peter and the rest of the party were with her, and after a long silence
he turned towards her and said, "Grandmother, there are no ghosts in our
house, are there?"
"Ne'er a one," exclaimed the nurse with zealous promptitude, "they
don't come to houses where _good folks live_."
"I wish they would," said Peter, thoughtfully, "I want to see one."
"What does he say?" asked the great-grandmother. The nurse repeated
Peter's audacious remark; whereupon Madam Melcombe said briskly and
sharply, "Hold your tongue, child, and eat your bread and milk like a
Christian; you're spilling it on the floor."
"But I wish they would," repeated Peter softly; and finishing his bread
and milk, he said his grace; and his fishing-rod being near at hand, he
leaned his elbows on the balustrade, threw his line, and began to play
at his favourite game.
"I think," he said, presently turning to his aunt, "I think, aunt, I
shall call the garden the 'field of the cloth of gold;' it's so covered
with marigolds just now that it looks quite yellow. Henry's tent shall
be the arbour, and I'll have the French king's down in this corner."
On hearing this, his mother slightly elevated her eyebrows, she had no
notion what he was alluding to; but his grandmother, who seemed to have
been made rather restless and uneasy by his remarks about ghosts,
evidently regarded this talk as something more of the same sort, and
said to her granddaughter, "I wish, Laura, you wouldn't let him read
such a quantity of fairy tales and heathenish nonsense--'field o' the
cloth o' gold, indeed!' Who ever heard of such a thing!"
"He has only been reading the 'History of England,' grandmother," said
Peter's aunt.
"I hadn't read anything out of that book for such a long time," said
Peter; "my Bible-lesson to-day made me remember it. About that other
field, you know, grandmother."
"Come, that's something like," said old Madam Melcombe. "Stand up now,
and let me hear your Bible-lesson."
"But, grandmother," Peter inquired, "I may call this the 'field of the
cloth of gold,' mayn't I?"
"O dear me, call it anything you like," she replied; "but don't stand in
that way to say your task to me; put your feet together now, and fold
your hands, and hold your head up. To think that you're the child's
aunt, Laura, she continued fretfully, and should take no more heed to
his manners. Now you just look straight at me, Peter, and begin."
The child sighed: the constraint of his attitude perhaps made him feel
melancholy. He ventured to cast one glance at his fishing-rod, and at
the garden, then looking straight at his great-grandmother, he began in
a sweet and serious tone of voice to repeat his lesson from the
twenty-seventh chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel, the third to the tenth
verse.
3. _"Then Judas, which had betrayed him, when he saw that he was
condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of
silver to the chief priests and elders._
4. _"Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood.
And they said, What is that to us? see thou to that._
5. _"And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed,
and went and hanged himself._
6. _"And the chief priests took the silver pieces, and said, It is not
lawful for to put them into the treasury, because it is the price of
blood._
7. _"And they took counsel, and bought with them the potter's field, to
bury strangers in._
8. _"Wherefore that field was called, The field of blood unto this day._
9. _"Then was fulfilled that which was spoken by Jeremy the prophet,
saying, And they took the thirty pieces of silver, the price of him that
was valued, whom they of the children of Israel did value._
10. _"And gave them for the potter's field, as the Lord appointed me._"
What was this!--standing upright again, as she had done several times in
the church--was she listening? It scarcely appeared that she was; she
took first one hand from her staff, and looked earnestly at it, and then
she took the other, and with wide-open eyes examined that also.
"O cruel, cruel," thought Peter's mother, when Peter had repeated a
verse or two, "why did not Laura prevent this, she who knew what the
child's lesson was?" and she sat cold and trembling, with an anguish of
pity; but she felt that now it was too late to stop her boy, he must go
on to the end. As to the nurse, she sitting there still, with her work
on her knees, felt as if every word rose up and struck her on the face.
He was slowly, pensively, and O so calmly, describing to the poor mother
the manner of her son's death.
"That will do, master Peter," she exclaimed, the moment he had finished;
and she snatched his hand and led him away, telling him to go and play
in the orchard.
Peter was not destitute of gratitude, and as he made his exit, he
thought, what a good thing it was that he did not say his lesson to his
grandmother every day.
When the nurse turned again she observed that Madam Melcombe had
tottered a step or two forward: her grand-daughter, and her grandson's
widow were supporting her. One of them called to her to fetch some
cordial, and this seemed to disturb the poor old woman, for she
presently said slowly, and as if it caused her a great effort to
speak,--
"What are they gone for? and what are you doing?"
"We're holding you up, grandmother; you tremble, dear; you can hardly
stand. Won't you sit down?"
"Won't I what?" she repeated. "I don't hear;" and she began to move
with their help and that of her staff to the balustrade.
The old fancy; the constant fancy; gazing at the bed of lilies, and
talking to herself as, with her trembling hand to her brow, she peered
out towards the arbour. They were words of no particular significance
that she said; but just as the nurse came back bringing her a cordial,
she turned round and repeated them distinctly, and with a solemnity that
was almost awful.
"They all helped to dig it; and they know they did."
Words that appeared to be so far from the tragical recollection which
must have first caused this disturbance in her poor mind; but her
grand-daughter thought proper to make her some kind of answer.
"Did they, grandmother?" she said in a soothing tone, "and a very good
thing too."
She stopped short, for upon the aged face fell suddenly such a look of
affright, such renewed intelligence seemed to peer out of the dim eyes,
and such defiance with their scrutiny, that for the moment she was very
much alarmed.
"She's not quite herself. Oh, I hope she's not going to have a stroke!"
was her thought.
"What have I been a saying?" inquired Madam Melcombe.
"You said it was a good thing they dug the lily bed," answered her
grand-daughter.
"And nothing else?"
"No, ma'am, no," answered the nurse; "and if you had, what would it
signify?"
Madam Melcombe let them settle her in her chair and give her her
cordial, then she said--
"Folks are oft-times known to talk wild in their age. I thought I might
be losing my wits; might have said something."
"Dear grandmother, don't laugh!" exclaimed her grandson's widow; "and
don't look so strange. Lose your wits! you never will, not you. We shall
have you a little longer yet, please God, and bright and sensible to the
last."
"Folks are oft-times known to talk wild in their age," repeated Madam
Melcombe; and during the rest of that evening she continued silent and
lost in thought.
The next morning, after a late breakfast, her family observed that there
was still a difference in her manner. She was not quite herself, they
thought, and they were confirmed in their opinion when she demanded of
her grand-daughter and her grandson's widow, that a heavy old-fashioned
bureau should be opened for her, and that she should be left alone. "I
don't know as I shall be spared much longer," said the meek
nonogenarian, "and I've made up my mind to write a letter to my sons."
"_My sons_!" When they heard this they were startled almost as they
might have been if she had had no sons, for neither of them had ever
heard her mention their names. Nothing, in fact, was known concerning
them in that house, excepting that what portion of success and happiness
had been allotted to the family seemed all to have fallen to their
share.
They were vastly unpopular in the hamlet. Not that any but the very old
people remembered the day when they had first been missing, or what an
extraordinary effect their behaviour had produced on their mother; but
that the new generation had taken up her cause--the new parson also--and
that the story being still often told had lost nothing in the narration.
Parson Craik had always been poor old Madam's champion since his coming
among them. He had taken pains to ascertain the facts from the oldest
Ledger's old wife, and when first he heard her tell how she had opened
her door at dawn to let in her husband, during the great gale that was
rocking the orchard trees and filling the air with whirls of blossom,
that came down like a thick fall of snow, he made an observation which
was felt at the time to have an edifying power in it, and which was
incorporated with the story ever after. "And when I telled him how the
grete stack of chimneys fell not half-an-hour after, over the very place
where they had passed, and how they were in such a hurry to be off that
they jumped the edge for fear us should stop them or speak to them. Then
says Parson Craik to me, sitting as it might be there, and I a sitting
opposite (for I'd given him the big chair), says he to me, 'My friend,
we must lay our hands on our mouths when we hear of the afflictions of
the righteous. And yet man,' says he, 'man, when he hears of such
heartless actions, can but feel that it would have been a just judgment
on them, if the wind had been ordained in the hauling of those chimneys
down, to fling 'em on their undutiful heads.'"
Poor Madam Melcombe, her eldest son, whose heir she was, had caused the
stack of chimneys to be built up again; but she was never the same woman
from that day, and she had never seen those sons again (so far as was
known), or been reconciled to them. And now she had desired to be left
alone, and had expressly said, "I've made up my mind to write a letter
to my sons."
So she was left alone and undertook, with trembling hands and dimmed
eyes, her unwonted task. She wrote a letter which, if those about her
could have seen it, would certainly have affected their feelings, and
would perhaps have made them think more highly yet of her meek forgiving
nature, for she neither blamed her sons nor reminded them of what they
had done; but rather seemed to offer a strange kind of apology for
troubling them, and to give a reason for doing so that was stranger
still.
THE LETTER.
"Son Daniel and Son Augustus,--This comes from your poor unfortunate
mother that has never troubled you these many, many years, and hoping
you and your families are better than I am at present, son Daniel and
you son Augustus; and my desire is both of you, that now you will not
deny your poor mother to come and see her, but will, on receipt of this,
come as soon as may be, for it's about my funeral that I want to speak,
and my time is very short, and I was never used to much writing.
"If you don't come, in particular you, son Daniel, you will break your
poor mother's heart.
"And so no more at present from her that never said an unkind word to
you.
"Elizabeth Melcombe."
This letter was addressed to the elder son, went through the village
post-office, and when its direction was seen, such interest was excited
and so much curiosity, that half the women in the hamlet had been
allowed to take a look at its cover before it was sent away.
Perhaps Madam Melcombe herself, when she sat expecting these long-lost
sons to appear, was scarcely more agitated or more excited than were the
people in that sequestered place. A good many cottagers were hanging
about or looking out of the windows when they alighted, and going into
the small inn called for spirits and water. It was known outside at once
what they had asked for. No wonder they wanted some Dutch courage to
take them into her presence, was the general thought.
Several little boys had gathered in front of the door longing, and yet
dreading, to get a sight of them. Some inhabitants would have liked to
hiss, but lacked unanimity or courage, nobody wanted to begin. Some
would have liked to speak, but had not considered beforehand what to
say.
The brothers came out, the children fell back; but one little fellow, a
child five years old, with a sort of holy necessity upon him (as was
supposed) to give his testimony, threw a very little bit of soft dirt at
the legs of one of them.
This action was not noticed; and before the other little urchins had
found time for aught more fruitful than regret that they had not done
likewise, the gentlemen got into their post-chaise, and were driven to
the old mansion.
And their mother?
She was quite alone, sitting in all state and expectation, in one of the
alcoves, while the deep shadow of the house fell distinct and well
defined over the wilderness of a garden.
Her senses were more acute than usual. She was grasping her long staff,
and already wearying for them, when she heard the sound of wheels, and
presently after a foot in her parlour, and the nurse appeared with two
cards on a tray.
Mr. Mortimer, Mr. Augustus Mortimer. This formal introduction flurried
Madam Melcombe a little. "The gentlemen are coming," the nurse almost
whispered; and then she withdrew, and shutting the glass-doors behind
her, left this mother to meet with these sons.
Whatever anxiety, whatever sensations of maternal affection might have
been stirring within her, it is certain that her first feeling was one
of intense surprise. The well-remembered faces that she had cherished
now for much more than half a century--the tall, beautiful youth--the
fine boy, almost a child, that had gone off with him, could they be now
before her? She was not at all oblivious of the flight of time; she did
not forget that the eldest of these sons was scarcely nineteen years
younger than herself; yet she had made no defined picture of their
present faces in her mind, and it was not without a troubled sense of
wonder that she rose and saw coming on towards her two majestic old men,
with hair as white as snow.
Her first words were simple and hesitating. She immediately knew them
from one another.
"Son Dan'el," she said, turning to the taller, "I expect this is you;"
and she shifted her staff to her left hand while he took the right; and
then the other old man, coming up, stooped, and kissed her on the
forehead.
Madam Melcombe shed a few tears. Both her sons looked disturbed, and
very ill at ease. She sat down again, and they sat opposite to her. Then
there was such a long, awkward pause, and her poor hand trembled so
much, that at last, as if in order to give her time to feel more at
ease, her younger son began to talk to her of her grand-daughter who
lived with her, and of her little great-grandson, Peter Melcombe. He
hoped, he said with gravity, that they were well.
There seemed to be nothing else that either of them could think of to
say; and presently, helped by the rest their words gave her, Madam
Melcombe recovered her self-possession.
"Son Dan'el," she said, "my time must be short now; and I have sent for
you and your brother to ask a favour of you. I could not lie easy in my
grave," she continued, "if I thought there would be nobody of all my
children to _follow me_. I have none but poor Peter's daughter and
grandson here now, and I hope you and Augustus and your sons will come
to my funeral. I hope you'll promise me faithfully, both of you, that
you'll certainly come and follow me to the grave."
A silence followed. The disappointment of both the sons was evident.
They had hoped, the younger remarked, that she might have had something
else to say.
No, she had not, she answered. Where would be the good of that? They had
written to her often enough about that.
And then she went on to repeat her request. There was nothing she would
not do for them, nothing, if they would but promise to come.
"So be it," replied the elder; "but then, you must make me a promise,
mother, in your turn."
"It isn't the land?" she inquired with humble hesitation. "I should be
agreeable to that."
"No, God forbid! What you have to promise me is, that if I come to your
funeral, you will make such a will that not one acre of the land or one
shilling you possess shall ever come to me or mine."
"And," said the other promptly, "I make the same promise, on the same
condition."
Then there was another pause, deeper and more intense than the first.
The old mother's face passed through many changes, always with an air of
cogitation and trouble; and the old sons watched her in such a suspense
of all movement, that it seemed as if they scarcely breathed.
"You sent your cards in," she said as if with sudden recollection, "to
remind me that you'd kept your father's name?"
"Nothing will ever induce either of us to change it," was the answer.
"You're very hard on me, son Dan'el," she said at last; "for you know
you was always my favourite son."
A touching thing to say to such an old man; but there was no reply.
"And I never took any pride in Peter," she continued, "he was that
undutiful; and his grandson's a mere child."
Still no reply.
"I was in hopes, if I could get speech of you, I should find you'd got
reasonable with age, Dan'el; for God knows you was as innocent of it as
the babe unborn."
Old Daniel Mortimer sighed deeply. They had been parted nearly sixty
years, but their last words and their first words had been on the same
subject; and it was as fresh in the minds of both as if only a few days
had intervened between them. Still it seemed he could find nothing to
say, and she, rousing up, cried out passionately,--
"Would you have had me denounce my own flesh and blood?"
"No, madam, no," answered the younger.
She noticed the different appellation instantly, and turning on him,
said, with vigour and asperity,--
"And you, Augustus, that I hear is rich, and has settled all your
daughters well, and got a son of your own, _you_ might know a parent's
feelings. It's ill done of you to encourage Dan'el in his obstinacy."
Then, seeing that her words did not produce the slightest effect, she
threw her lace apron over her head, and pressing her wrinkled hands
against her face, gave way to silent tears.
"I'm a poor miserable old woman," she presently cried; "and if there's
to be nobody but that child and the tenants to follow me to the grave,
it'll be the death of me to know it, I'm sure it will."
With an air of indescribable depression, the elder son then repeated the
same promise he had given before, and added the same condition.
The younger followed his example, and thereupon humbly taking down the
lace from her face, and mechanically smoothing it over her aged knees,
she gave the promise required of her, and placed her hand on a
prayer-book which was lying on the small table beside her, as if to add
emphasis and solemnity to her words.