_A wedding, a last interview, and a death.--Mrs. Lupton's funeral._
It was a proud morning, a glorious day for Colin, when, with Jane
Calvert on his arm, he hastened to the little rural church which stood
hard by Mr. Woodruff's residence, there to pronounce openly what he had
long felt in his heart,--the sacred promise to love and cherish till
death, in sickness and in health, through weal and woe, the beautiful
and good creature beside him. Singularly enough, the bride was
accompanied by the two young ladies who, on one hand or the other, might
each have been expected to fill her place.
Fanny Woodruff and Harriet Wintlebury officiated as bridesmaids; one
who had loved him, and one whom he had loved. By both, however, was
his marriage with another looked upon with pleasure, since the altered
circumstances under which both were now placed, rendered envy or
jealousy incapable of finding a place in either breast.
The marriage ceremony was not yet wholly over,--the priest had just
uttered the solemn injunction, “Those whom Heaven hath joined together
let no man put asunder,”--when a stir was heard at the church door, and
Mr. Calvert and his son, in a state of great excitement, hurried in. The
former rushed towards the altar, and suddenly seizing his daughter Jane
by the arm, exclaimed, “I forbid the marriage!” The priest waved his
hand as signifying him to draw back, and pronounced before all present
that Colin and Jane were man and wife together, concluding with that
blessing which so beautifully finishes the Church ceremony on these
occasions.
As the party retired in confusion and pain, Mr. Calvert approached them,
and taking the newly-made wife's hand,--“Jane!” said he, “as you are my
daughter, I never expected this. However, I will not reproach you now.
The thing is done, and cannot now be undone. It is not for me to put
asunder whom God hath joined together: I _must_ make the best of it in
my power, and therefore, seeing there is no remedy, let me join in the
blessing that has been pronounced, and ask of Heaven _that ye may
so live in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life
everlasting_.”
At these words and this conduct, poor Jane burst into tears and wept
bitterly as she clung round her father's neck; while Colin stood by,
deeply affected both by the distress of his wife, and the manner in
which, at this last scene of all, Mr. Calvert had conducted himself.
Roger complimented his father and brother in a good-humoured manner upon
their being too late; and declared the uncommon gratification with which
he found them thus disappointed: while Fanny and Miss Wintlebury could
not refrain expressing in their countenances, if not in words, the
sincerity with which they joined in the young man's sentiments.
On the return of the whole party to the residence of Mr. Woodruff,
Jane's father informed them how he had, in the first instance, directed
his steps to Kiddal Hall, and thence to the place where he now was, in
hopes of arriving in time to prevent a marriage in which he did not, at
that time, acquiesce: and the more particularly did he feel objections
upon the occasion, as he found on his arrival at the Hall that his old
acquaintance and friend, Mrs. Lupton, was in a state of health
that promised nothing less than a speedy dissolution. Under those
circumstances, he had felt anxious at least to defer for awhile, if he
could not finally prevent, the ceremony which had that morning taken
place. These intentions, however, being now altogether frustrated,
nothing remained but to endeavour to reconcile matters finally with
all parties interested therein, in the best manner of which they were
susceptible; and, in order to effect this, Mr. Calvert deemed it needful
that the newly-married pair should return with him to Kiddal,--where,
indeed, on receiving the intelligence of the marriage, Mrs. Lupton
afterwards most strongly invited them. This step he considered the
more advisable, because in case of the unfortunate lady of that house
desiring to see them before her death, their immediate presence on
the spot would prevent the otherwise possible contingency of her dying
wishes being disappointed.
Accordingly, at an early and convenient period they set out; and, on
their arrival at Kiddal, were welcomed by the Squire with a degree of
satisfaction scarcely to be expressed sufficiently. A portion of the
house was, for the present, devoted entirely to their use; and, for
awhile, a degree of unmixed happiness would have reigned throughout that
building so unaccustomed to such scenes, but for the situation of Mrs.
Lupton, who now rapidly sunk under an accumulation of anxieties and
grief, with part of which the reader is already acquainted, but the
great and unsustainable weight of which no heart could ever truly know
save her own.
At length, upon some inquiries that she herself had made respecting Jane
Calvert, it was cautiously communicated to her that she had married Mr.
Clink, and believed she should be as happy with him as their lives were
long.
“Never!” she exclaimed,--“never! I feel this last blow deeply. Yet it is
useless--very useless. I might as well persuade myself to be happy,
only unhappily there is no such thing as a feeling left that will be
persuaded. Mary!” And Miss Shirley approached her.
“Whoever you live with when I am gone, be it with a woman. There is
no faith in any else; and none in her sometimes. That Jenny Calvert
now--Well, well,--I must see the young people--both of them,--and talk
to them myself. Let them be asked up now, for I cannot sit in this chair
much longer. I must see them.”
Her wishes were shortly afterwards obeyed, and Colin and Jane were
conducted into Mrs. Lupton's apartment.
“So you are married, Jenny?” said Mrs. Lupton, as she took the young
wife by the hand and kissed her.
“I hope we shall always be very happy,” replied she.
“So _I_ hoped once,” returned Mrs. Lupton; “and now see what has come of
it! Yet I loved him just as you may now; only I found there were other
women in the world besides me, just as I had persuaded myself that he
thought me the only one. That may seem strange to you, but it is plain
enough in itself, and a sad thing to think on.--Well! as it is so,
my dear,--love your husband: think him the best of men, living or
dead,--the handsomest,--the kindest,--the most worthy,--the only man
deserving of that curious treasure your whole heart. And even then,
perhaps, though all this be done,--you may fail to be happy, as others
have who have done quite as much before you. But it is best to do it, as
being your duty before heaven and in your own conscience.”
“And as for you, sir--” said she, addressing Colin, “look that you never
despise what you once loved; that you do not take up as a jewel what
you afterwards cast away as a stone. I have loved that girl from her
childhood; and now she is married, I would not have you do as some men
do. Take care of that. For if you do,--if you forget to look upon her
when she expects you,--if you leave her as an unwelcome thing in her
own house,--I tell you it will break her heart. I say you will break her
heart,--even as mine,--Heaven knows,--_is_ broken!”
And so saying, Mrs. Lupton shrieked hysterically, and fell back
insensible.
Grieved to the soul, Colin and his wife retired in tears, while Miss
Shirley assisted in having the poor lady conveyed to her own room and
laid in bed, where such restoratives were resorted to as her case
seemed to require. When she had somewhat recovered--“Walter!” she
exclaimed--“Walter! I want to see my husband.”
After a while Mr. Lupton entered the chamber, and all present retired
into an adjoining room.
“Walter!” said she faintly, “I am going--but I wish to tell you I die in
peace--in _love_ with you, even now. Very soon and I shall trouble you
no more. But if I can come back to you, I will. I have loved and watched
over you here--I will do so hereafter. You shall see me--but do not be
afraid, for I would not injure you even to gain heaven. Try to be
good for the future, and then perhaps we may meet again. I have lost
happiness here, but I hope for it to come. It is mine, I know it is!
Heaven will not make me miserable for ever, as I have endured so much.
Give me your hand--say one good kind word to me--nay, kiss me truly, and
I am content. See you! There about the bed angels are asking me to come.
I knew they would. I knew those blessed creatures would pity my misery,
and wait for me when the gate of the Everlasting was opened. Heaven
bless you--bless you!” And as she uttered those words the gripe of her
hand on his became convulsive.
“_I will come again!_” she exclaimed with preternatural energy, as she
strove to rise up towards her husband, but sunk back dying,--dead, in
the effort.
If ever grief was in any house it was there on this occasion, when the
death of Mrs. Lupton became known. All the household, as well as those
who were not of it, flocked round the bed whereon she was laid, to weep
in truth and earnest heart over the corpse of one who had won all love
from all but him who should have loved her most--though from him she
had won it even at last when such love became useless. And if ever the
living felt truly that the dead should be strewn with flowers--“sweets
to the sweet,”--if ever it were felt that a funeral garment ought to
be decked with the choicest offerings of the garden, and the melancholy
grave be made beautiful,--assuredly was it felt then. Not one but felt
that a friend was lost,--that an emptiness existed in the bosom
unknown before, and never to be remedied; while some gave loose to
that expression of grief which tells us that all hope was gone with
the departed, and that the world had nothing more left in it for man to
love, or by man to be beloved.
Amongst those latter must be numbered Mr. Lupton himself. The words of
his dying wife had sunk deep into his soul--too deep ever again to be
eradicated. Misery had made him wise. Or, as Shakspeare has it--
“Being gone,--
The hand would call her back that pushed her on.”
But it was now too late. Nature's fiat had been pronounced, and man was
left to reconcile himself to her decree as best he might.
I shall not linger over this scene of death, save just to record how,
during some days, the body lay in solemn state in a certain room always
appropriated to that purpose; during which time it was looked upon by
many eyes that grew dim as they gazed, and spoken of by many a voice
that faltered and failed in the stifling effort to record the kindnesses
and virtues of the dead.
Mr. Lupton, it was observed, frequently haunted that room alone. There
lay a charm in it that he could not resist, and one that evidently day
by day gained power upon his mind.
Amongst other signs of his having become in some respects a changed man,
it was remarked that he gave strict orders that the private sitting room
of the departed lady should not under any circumstances be disturbed,
but that everything should remain exactly in the state in which she had
last left it. And so it remained. The very work-table stood open as when
last she had sat there; the snow-white muslin was thrown negligently
upon it; and there also lay the opened book with which, in some perhaps
painful moment, she had tried to beguile her weary heart, and to forget
her own too real sorrows in the imaginary joys described of another.
At length the night for the interment came. The doors which opened into
the court-yard, conducting to the little chapel, were thrown back upon
their reluctant hinges, and, amidst the uncertain and mingled light and
shadow produced by flickering torches, while all friends attended in a
black and mournful troop, the corpse of the Lady of Kiddal was carried
in and laid in like state beside the similar remains of many a fanciful
beauty and many a stalwart man who had laid down their beauty and their
strength, and gone in there before her.
Some time ere midnight the solemn ceremony was concluded, and the grave
doors were closed, not to be opened again, perhaps, until that widowed
man who now walked slowly from them should himself return, and, with the
tongue of death, demand a lodging there.
All gathered together in the great hall itself that night; and few, save
those to whom it was absolutely necessary to visit other portions of the
building, ventured out even with a light. The dead, somehow, seemed to
pervade every place under the roof, to have become endued, as it were,
with the principle of ubiquity, and to affright, with its presence,
the air of the whole house. The servants fancied they heard noises and
groanings, and took abundant pains to alarm one another with the most
horrible stories they could produce by the combination of memory and
invention. Neither, at last, did they retire to bed until, by common
consent, all had finished their work exactly at the same point of time,
so as to enable them to make their transit, from the great kitchen to
the top of the staircase, in one compact though small squadron.
Now, whether there be or be not any truth in the supposed appearance
of such disembodied forms as were here evidently dreaded to be seen, I
shall leave to the reader to determine for himself; but I am bound
to relate a curious occurrence which took place during the night, as
being--I can vouch for--a true part and parcel of this our history.