SWARMS OF CHILDREN.
"As our hope is that this our sister doth."--_Burial Service._
And now was to take place that ceremony to which Madam Melcombe's
thoughts had so often been directed. She had tried to arrange that it
should be imposing, and imposing indeed it was, but not by virtue of the
profusion of the refreshment, not by the presence of the best hearse
from the county town, the best mourning coaches, the grandest plumes,
but by the unsolicited attendance of a great company of people come
together to do homage to a life distinguished by its misfortunes, its
patience, and its charities.
She had never been able to think of herself as taking part in that
ceremony unconsciously; her orders had always been given as if by one
who felt that if things were meanly done she should know it; but in
taking care that refreshments should be provided for all the funeral
attendants, she little thought that the whole parish, men and women,
were to follow her, and most of them in tears. But it was so. The
tenants had been invited; they walked after her in scarf and band, two
and two, and after them, in such mourning as they could afford, came all
the people, and pressed on in a procession that seemed to the real
mourners almost endless, to look down upon her coffin and obtain a place
near her grave.
It was out of doors, and all nature was in white. Round the churchyard
pear-trees grew, and leaned their laden branches over its walls.
Pear-trees, apple-trees, and cherries filled the valley and crowded one
another up all the hills. Mr. Craik's voice, as he stood at the grave,
also in white, was heard that quiet afternoon far and near. It was
remarked on all sides how impressively he read, and there were plenty to
be edified by the solemn words who had never heard his voice before, for
many people had walked over from neighbouring parishes, and stood in
groups at respectful distances.
All looked at the stranger-sons; they stood side by side, awe-struck,
motionless, depressed. The old do not easily shed tears, but there was
something in the demeanour of both these old men that was felt to tell
of no common emotion. One of them seemed unable to look down into the
grave at all, he kept his eyes and his face lifted up. The other, as
little Peter stood crying by his side, put his hand down and let it rest
on the child's uncovered head, as if to quiet and comfort him.
This little, half-unconscious action gave great umbrage to some of the
spectators. "Hadn't the dear child allers been the biggest comfort to
his grandmother, and why indeed wasn't he to cry as much as ever he
liked? He had nothing to reproach himself with, and if he had had his
rights, he would have been made chief mourner. Those that stood next the
corpse had never been any comfort or pleasure to her, but that dear
child had walked beside her to church ever since he had been old enough
to go there himself."
"And so those were Daniel and Augustus Mortimer's sons. Very fine young
gentlemen too, one of them not over young, neither; he looked at least
thirty. Well, very mysterious were the ways of Providence! Poor Cuthbert
Melcombe, the eldest son, had left neither chick nor child; no more had
poor Griffith, the youngest. As for Peter, to be sure he had left
children, but then he was gone himself. And these that had behaved so
bad to their blessed mother were all she had to stand by her grave. It
was very mysterious, but she was at rest now, and would never feel their
undutifulness any more."
It was about four o'clock on that summer-like afternoon that the
mourners came home from the funeral. The ladies for the sake of quiet
retired with Peter to their rooms in the roof; the Mortimers, after
partaking of a slight repast in the great parlour, stepped out and began
to pace up and down before the house to refresh their spirits with a
little air.
The will had been read in the morning, before the funeral took place.
Valentine Mortimer and John Mortimer, the two grandsons, were both
present. Valentine being a mere boy, barely eighteen, may well have been
excused if he did not notice anything peculiar in the demeanour of the
two old men; did not notice, as John Mortimer did, the restless
excitement of both, and how they appeared to be sustaining and
encouraging one another, and yet, when the important sentence came which
left them without so much as a shilling, how bravely and soberly they
took it, without the least betrayal of mortified feeling, without any
change of countenance or even of attitude.
Valentine had often heard his father say that he had no expectations
from his mother, that he was quite sure the property never would come to
him. He had believed this, and excepting that he found the preamble of
the will solemn and the reading impressive, he did not take any special
interest in it.
Every shilling and every acre were left to little Peter Melcombe, his
mother being appointed his sole guardian till he reached the age of
twelve years, and a request being added that her dear son Daniel would
see to the repairing of the house, and the setting in order of the
garden and woodland.
"And yet not a shilling left to either of them," thought John. "I always
fancied there was some estrangement--felt sure of it; but if my father
and uncle were so far friendly with their mother that she could ask this
favour, how odd that she leaves nothing, not so much as a remembrance,
to either of them! The eldest son, by all accounts, was a very violent,
overbearing man; I've heard my father say as much; but he has been dead
so long that, if there was any estrangement on his account, they must
have made it up long ago."
And now the funeral was over. John Mortimer, taking the youth with him,
was walking about among the pear-trees close to the garden-wall, and the
two old brothers, who appeared to have a dislike to being separated,
even for a moment, were leisurely walking on, and in silence looking
about them.
"I should like to get into the garden," said John Mortimer; "here's a
door."
"But it's locked," remarked Valentine, "and Mrs. Peter Melcombe told me
yesterday that none of them ever walked in it."
"Ah, indeed!" said John carelessly--he was far from giving a literal
meaning to the information. "It looks a rotten old thing," he continued;
"the key is in the house, no doubt, but I don't want to have the trouble
of going in to ask for it."
"Perhaps it's not locked," said Valentine; "perhaps it only wants a
push."
John and Valentine were standing among some cherry-trees, which, being
thickly laden with their blossom, screened them from observation as far
as the windows of the now opened house were concerned. John did push,
and when the door creaked he pushed again, and the rotten old lock
yielded, came away from the lintel, and as the two old fathers turned,
they were just in time to see their sons disappear through the doorway
and walk into the garden. With a troubled glance at one another, and an
effort not to appear in haste, the fathers followed them.
"Can't we get them away?" exclaimed Mr. Mortimer; "can't we tell them to
come out?"
"Certainly not, certainly not, brother," answered old Augustus, in a
reassuring tone. "You'll not say a word to dissuade them from going
wherever they please."
"No," said the other, in a nervous, hesitating manner. "You're quite
right, Augustus; you always are."
"Is it not a strange place?" exclaimed John, as they walked forward and
looked about them. "It seems to me that really and truly they never do
enter it."
"Well, I told you so," answered Valentine. "It is on account of the
eldest son. Miss Melcombe told me that he was a very eccentric
character, and for many years before his death he made gardening his one
occupation. He never suffered any one but himself to garden here, not
even so much as to mow the grass. After he was dead the poor old
grandmother locked it up. She didn't like any one else to meddle with
it."
"Why, he was dead before I was born," exclaimed John, "and I am
two-and-thirty. Poor soul! and she never got over that misfortune, then,
in all those years. There's a grand pear-tree! lots of rotten fruit
lying under it--and what a fine apple-tree! Is this of the celebrated
'redstreak' variety, I wonder, that Phillips praises so in his poem on
cider."
"A poem on cider!"
"Yes, I tell you, a poem on cider, and as long as 'Paradise Lost.' It
has some very fine passages in it, and has actually been translated into
Italian. I picked up a copy of it at Verona when I was a boy, and
learned a good deal of it by heart, by way of helping myself with the
language. I remember some of it to this day:--
"'Voi, donne, e Cavalier del bel paese
A cui propizio il ciel tanto concesse
Di bene, udite il mio cantare,' &c., &c.
"I wonder, now, whether this is a redstreak."
As their sons talked thus the two fathers approached, and gravely looked
on at this scene of riotous and yet lovely desolation. Nests with eggs
in them adorned every little bush, vines having broken the trellis ran
far along the ground. John, remembering that the place must have painful
thoughts connected with their dead brother for his father and uncle,
continued to talk to Valentine, and did not address either of them: and
whatever they may have felt they did not say a word; but Valentine
presently observed the bed of lilies, and he and John moved on together,
the two fathers following.
They outwalked their fathers, and Valentine, stooping over the bed,
gathered two or three of the lovely flowers.
"The poor old grandmother!" he observed. "Miss Melcombe told me she
loved to watch this bed of lilies, and said only a few days ago, that
she could wish they might never be disturbed."
He turned--both the old men stood stock still behind him, looking down
on the lily-bed. Valentine repeated what Miss Melcombe had told him. "So
no doubt, papa, you'll give orders that it shall not be touched, as you
are going to have all the place put in order."
"Yes, yes, certainly my boy--certainly he will," said Uncle Augustus,
answering for his brother.
Valentine was not gifted with at all more feeling or sentiment than
usually falls to the lot of a youth of his age, but a sort of
compunction visited him at that moment to think how soon they all, alive
and well, had invaded the poor old woman's locked and guarded sanctuary!
He stooped to gather another lily, and offered the flowers to his
father. Old Daniel looked at the lilies, but his unready hand did not
move forward to take them; in fact, it seemed that he slightly shrank
back. With an instantaneous flash of surprise Valentine felt rather than
thought, "If you were dead, father, I would not decline to touch what
you had loved." But in the meantime his uncle had put forth a hand and
received them. "And yet," thought Valentine, "I know father must have
felt that old lady's death. Why, when he was in the mourning-coach he
actually cried." And so thinking, as he walked back to the garden-door
with John Mortimer, he paused to let John pass first; and chancing to
turn his head for one instant, he saw his uncle stoop and jerk those
lilies under a clump of lilac bushes, where they were hidden. Before
either of the old men had noticed that he had turned, Valentine was
walking with his cousin outside, but an uneasy sensation of surprise and
suspicion haunted him. He could not listen to John Mortimer's talk, and
when, the rest of the party had gone back to the house, he lingered
behind, returned to the garden, and, stooping down for an instant, saw
that it was as he had supposed; there, under the lilac bushes, were
lying those gathered lilies.
So he went back to the house. The two grandsons were to return home that
afternoon; the two sons were going to remain for a few days, that the
wishes of the deceased might have prompt attention, as regarded the
setting of the place in order. They were to sleep at the inn in the
hamlet, by their own desire, that, as they said, they might not give
trouble.
When Valentine entered the great parlour, his cousin was talking to
Peter's mother, and in the presence of his father and uncle he was
inviting her to let the boy come and stay awhile with his children
shortly.
Mrs. Peter Melcombe hesitated, and observed that her dear child had
never been away from her in his life, and was very shy.
"No wonder," quoth John Mortimer; "but I have several jolly little boys
and girls at home; they would soon cure him of that."
Mrs. Peter Melcombe seemed pleased. She had taken a great fancy to the
good-looking young widower; she remarked that Peter had never been used
to playing with other children--she was half-afraid he would get hurt;
but as Mr. Mortimer was so kind she would risk it.
"Poor little beggar!" said John Mortimer to his father, as they all
walked to the inn together; "those two women will mope that boy into his
grave if they don't look out."
"No, John," exclaimed his uncle, "I hope you really don't think so."
John, in spite of his youth, had some experience. He had already filled
his house with little Mortimers. There were seven of them--some of the
largest pattern, and with the finest appetites possible. So his opinion
carried weight, and was at the same time worth nothing, for as his
children had never but once had anything the matter with them, his
general view of childhood was that if it had plenty to eat, a large
garden to play in, and leave to go out in all weathers, it was sure to
prosper, as in fact the little Mortimers did. They brought themselves up
(with a certain amount of interference from their governess) in a high
state of health and good-humour, and with no quarrelling to speak of,
while the amount of sleep they got out of their little beds, the rapid
skill with which they wore down their shoes, and the quantity of rice
milk and roast meat they could consume, were a wonder to the matrons
round.
"I see nothing special the matter with him," continued John Mortimer;
"but one cannot help pitying a child that has no companions and no
liberty. I thought I should like to plunge him for a little while into
the sweet waters of real child-life, and let him learn to shout and
stamp and dig and climb, as my little urchins do."
"But his mother is a poor, faded, fat creature," observed Valentine.
"You'll see she won't let that boy go. You can no more get her to do a
sensible thing than you can dry your face with a wet towel."
"Gently, sir, gently," said his father, not liking this attempt at a
joke on a day which had begun so solemnly.
So Mr. John Mortimer presently departed, taking his handsome young
cousin with him, and the old men, with heavy steps and depressed
countenances, went into the inn and began anxiously to talk over the
various repairs that would be wanted, and all that would have to be done
in the garden and the grounds.
In the meantime it was known in the neighbourhood that parson Craik was
going to preach a funeral sermon for poor old Madam the very next Sunday
morning, and an edifying description of her death passed from mouth to
mouth--how she had called her little great-grandson, Peter, to her as
the child was playing near, probably that she might give him her
blessing--how, when the nurse came running out, she had seen her looking
most earnestly at him, but evidently not able to say a word. Afterwards,
she had a little revived and had risen and beautifully expressed her
gratitude to all about her for their long kindness and attention, and
then, how, piously lifting up her hands and eyes, she had told them that
she was now going to meet with those that she had loved and lost. "O
Lord!" she had exclaimed, "what a meeting that will be!" and thereupon
she had departed without a sigh.
For several days after this Mr. Mortimer and his brother went about the
business left to them to do. They sent for an architect, and put the
house into his hands to be thoroughly repaired. Mrs. Peter Melcombe was
desirous not to leave it, and this they arranged to allow, giving orders
that the apartments which the family had always occupied should remain
untouched till the rest of the house was finished and ready for her.
They also had the garden-door repaired to give her ingress, and the
gallery-gate taken away. These same sons who for so many years had never
come near their mother, seemed now very anxious to attend to her every
wish; scarcely a shrub was cut down in the garden excepting in the
presence of one of them, and when Mrs. Peter Melcombe especially begged
that the grandmother's wish respecting the bed of lilies might be
attended to, Mr. Mortimer, with evident emotion, gave orders to the
gardener that it should not be touched.
And then Sunday came, and with it a trial that the two sons had not
expected. It was announced by the churchwarden to the family, first to
the ladies at the hall, and then to the gentlemen at the inn, that Mr.
Craik was going to preach a funeral sermon. He did not wish, he said, to
take them by surprise--he felt that they would wish to know. In his
secret soul he believed that the old men would not come to hear it--he
hoped they would not, because their absence would enable him more freely
to speak of the misfortunes of the deceased.
But they did come. The manner of their coming was thought by the
congregation to be an acknowledgment that they felt their fault. They
did not look any one in the face; but with brows bent down, and eyes on
the ground, they went to the places given them in the family pew, and
when morning prayers were over and the text was given out, as still as
stones they sat and listened.
"Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like
his."
The sermon was more full of eulogy than was in good taste, but the
ladies of the family did not find it so; they wept passionately--so did
many of the congregation, but the two sons, though their hands might
plainly be seen to tremble, maintained a deep, distressed immobility,
and because it was neither right to upbraid them to their faces, nor to
judge them publicly, a piece of the sermon which concerned Madam
Melcombe's sorrow, caused by their desertion, was mercifully left out.
That was the last the people saw of the brothers; they went away almost
before it was light on Monday morning, and for a long time after, their
faces, their words, and their every attitude, remained the talk of the
place.
In the meantime, John Mortimer and Valentine had a very pleasant little
excursion. As soon as they were out of the presence of their fathers,
they naturally threw off any unusual gravity of demeanour, for though
suitable to a solemn funeral, this might well pass away with it, as
their grandmother had been a total stranger to them.
John hired horses, and they rode about the country together to see the
rosy apple orchards; they inspected an old Roman town, then they went
and looked at some fine ruins, and otherwise they enjoyed themselves for
three days; for John had plenty of money, and Valentine was far from
suspecting that not many months before his own father had dispossessed
him, with himself, of an ample fortune and a good inheritance. He had
always been brought up to understand that his father was not well off,
and that he would have to work for his place in the world. John's place
was made already--lucky for him! Lucky for Valentine, too, for John was
very liberal to his young relative, and had taken him about with him
more than once before.
So the first few days after the reading of that will were passed by
Valentine in very good spirits, and with much self-gratulation on things
in general. John invited him to stay at his house till his father came
home, and Valentine accepting, they reached their station, and John was
at once received into the bosom of his family, that is to say, he was
pushed and pulled with difficulty into a very large carriage so
excessively full of young Mortimers that it was perfectly impossible to
add Valentine also.
"What did you bring them all for?" said John, falling foul of the
servants in a momentary fit of impatience, while they sat smiling all
over him.
"Well, sir, they were all inside the carriage and out of it ready,
before even we put the horses to. We didn't know which to pull out,"
answered the coachman, grinning.
John Mortimer's house was only reached by a country lane; and to all
appearances (though it was situated but two miles from the small town of
Wigfield), it was buried in the depths of the country. It was a
thoroughly unreasonable house, appearing outside to be more than half of
it roof, the stables being so arranged as to seem almost imposing in
comparison with it.
These stables ran down at right angles with the house, their windows and
doors below, being on the further side. But a story had been added which
was made of long wooden shingles, and one of these shingles having been
removed to admit light and air, you might very often see seven round
faces in a row looking out there, for the opening overlooked every
window in the front of the house without exception. The long loft, which
was called "parliament," and had been annexed by the children, admitted
of their sending down cheerful greetings to their grandfather and other
friends; and it was interesting, particularly when there was company to
dinner, to watch their father sitting at the head of the table, and to
see the dishes handed round.
The inside of the house was peculiar also. There was a very fine hall in
the centre, and a really beautiful old oak staircase wound round it,
being adorned with carving, and having a fine old fireplace on one of
the landings. This hall was the only good room in the house: on the
right of it were the kitchens and the kitchen offices, on its left was
the dining-room, which was a thoroughfare to the drawing-room, and
through that again you reached a pleasant library; John Mortimer's own
particular den or smoking room being beyond again. All these rooms had
thorough lights excepting the last, and in fine weather every one
entered them, back or front, from the garden.
Up-stairs there were a great many bedrooms, and not one good one: most
of them had sloping roofs. Then there was a long school-room, with a
little staircase of its own. You could make a good deal of noise in that
room, and not be heard beyond it; but this circumstance is no particular
advantage, if your father has no nerves at all, and scarcely observes
whether there is a noise or not.
John and Valentine Mortimer had a cheerful dinner, and after that a
riotous game at romps with the children. It was four days since the
funeral; it had now passed into the background of their thoughts, and
they concerned themselves very little further with the will of old Madam
Melcombe; for it must not be supposed that they knew much about her--not
half as much, in fact, as every man, woman, and child knew round about
the place where her house was situated.
They knew she had had a large family of sons, and that their father and
uncle had left home early in life--had been _sent away_, was their
thought, or would have been if the question had ever been raised so as
to lead them to think about it.
They were sent to Wigfield, which was about sixty miles from their home.
Here they had an old second cousin, of whom they always spoke with great
respect and affection. He took Augustus into his bank, and not only
became as fond of him as if he had been his son, but eventually left him
half of what he possessed. Daniel went into a lawyer's office, and got
on very well; but he was not at all rich, and had always let his son
know, that though there was an estate in the family, it never could come
to him. John having also been told this, had not doubted that there must
have been a family quarrel at some time or other; but in his own mind he
never placed it very far back, but always fancied it must be connected
with his uncle's first marriage, which was a highly imprudent and very
miserable one.
Whatever it had arisen from, his father had evidently taken part with
his uncle; but old Augustus never mentioned the subject. John was aware
that he wrote to his mother once a year, but she never answered. This
might be, John thought, on account of her great age and her infirmities;
and that very evening he began to dismiss the subject from his mind,
being aided by the circumstance that he was himself the only son of a
very rich and loving father, so that anything the mother might have left
to her second surviving son was not a matter of the slightest importance
to her grandson, or ever likely to be.