Hark! at that death-betok'ning knell
Of yonder doleful passing bell.
GILBERT COWPER.
Immediately after Sir Henry Seymour's death Mordaunt wrote to inform Mr.
Seymour of the event, who was the nearest male relative to Sir Henry
then alive, but who had not lived on terms of any intimacy with the
Baronet, having chiefly resided on his own estate in Cumberland. He,
however, lost no time in repairing to the Hall, less out of respect to
the memory of his relation, than in hopes of benefiting by his decease.
The day after his arrival was appointed for opening the will, but in it
he was completely disappointed; it had evidently been written but a few
days before Sir Henry died; and, except small legacies to his servants,
no bequest was made in it to any person but Mrs. Galton, Augustus, and
Selina. To the first, Sir Henry gave a thousand pounds as a slight
testimony of his friendship and esteem; to Augustus he left a small
estate in Cumberland, and to Selina all his other property of every
description, appointing Lady Eltondale sole guardian of her person;
Mordaunt and Mr. Temple trustees to her estates till she married or came
of age. The interest of a large sum in the funds was appropriated to her
support till either of these events occurred; a considerable portion of
which was to be paid to Lady Eltondale for her maintenance, as it was
Sir Henry's wish that she should reside with her.
Mr. Seymour endeavoured to conceal his own disappointment by paying a
variety of compliments to Selina and Augustus, whom he chose to class
together, in a manner which, had either of them been sufficiently
disengaged to observe it, would have been not a little embarrassing to
both: fortunately, however, they were each too much occupied by their
own feelings to attend to him; and, as his only motive for visiting
Deane Hall was now at an end, he was glad to escape from the house of
mourning, with as little delay as possible.
Sir Henry's generosity, which was totally unexpected by Augustus, served
but to imbitter his regrets for the loss of his benefactor. In him he
had lost his earliest friend; for his uncle he considered as an entire
stranger, and of his parents he retained no recollection. Whatever had
been the errors of Sir Henry's judgment, his benevolence had never
failed towards Mordaunt; and, while his many virtues had always ensured
respect, his kindness had sunk deep in the grateful heart of Augustus,
as, in their intercourse, essential obligation had never been cancelled
by casual caprice, or rendered irksome by ungracious austerity of
manner. He however carefully suppressed his own feelings, in order the
better to administer consolation to those of Selina; and while Mrs.
Galton and Mr. Temple, with affection almost paternal, used every
argument which religion and reason could suggest, to reconcile her as
much as possible to her loss; Augustus endeavoured by the tenderest care
and unremitting attention to divert her thoughts from her recent
calamity, and thereby gradually soften the poignancy of her sorrow.
Selina had, till the moment when she was deprived of her father, been
totally unacquainted with grief; for when her mother died, she was too
young to be sensible of her loss; and Mrs. Galton's almost maternal
kindness had filled the void of her infant heart, while she was yet
scarcely conscious of its existence. At first she could hardly be
persuaded that Sir Henry really breathed no more; so sudden, and to her
so unexpected, was his dissolution. But, after she had in some degree
relieved her heart, by giving way to the first outrageous burst of
sorrow, on being convinced he was indeed no longer in existence, she
became almost stupified by the overpowering weight of her misfortune.
Sometimes she would rouse herself from her torpor, by questioning
herself, was what had passed but a dream, or an agonizing reality? Was
it possible she should never more hear his beloved voice, or see the
smile of parental fondness play round the cold lips, that were now
closed for ever? Was she never again to feel the delight of cheering a
parent's couch of sickness by the playful sallies of her imagination, or
soothing the acuteness of pain by those considerate attentions affection
only teaches us to pay. Alas! from whom could she now expect to hear the
joyful sound of welcome, with which her return was always greeted,
however short her absence might have been? or from whom could she now
hope to meet the approving glance, that more than rewarded the merit it
applauded; or experience that partiality, that accorded a ready
extenuation of the errors it could not overlook? Whilst these
reflections crowded on her mind, she felt as if the spring of all her
actions was broken, and in the despondency of the moment, thought she
would willingly have exchanged half the remaining years of her life to
recal a few short moments of her past existence.
From these afflicting ideas she was however roused by receiving a letter
from Lady Eltondale. It was couched in terms that were intended as kind,
though the selfish feelings that dictated them were easily discernible.
The viscountess drew the consolation she offered to the mourner, not
from the source of religion, or that of friendship, but from the cold
unfeeling calculations of interest. She congratulated Selina on her
immense fortune, and on her speedy prospect of being emancipated from
the cloistered seclusion in which she had hitherto lived; and then,
assuming the tone of guardian, left Selina no pretext for refusing her
"orders" immediately to come to reside under her roof, though the
_orders_ were couched in the most polite terms of invitation. She
concluded by asking Selina, whether Mrs. Galton meant to continue at the
Hall, which was immediately understood by both as an intimation that she
was not expected to accompany Selina; but the interdiction was rendered
still more explicit by a postscript, that conveyed her Ladyship's
compliments to Mrs. Galton, and her hopes, at a future time, to prevail
on her to visit Eltondale.
Selina was indignant at this marked exclusion of her beloved aunt; and
Mrs. Galton found some difficulty in prevailing on her to return even a
polite answer to the Viscountess; but being persuaded from the tenor of
her Ladyship's letter that excuses would be of no avail, she, at last,
persuaded Miss Seymour to name that day fortnight for leaving the Hall,
in hopes, her promptitude in obeying the summons, would, in some degree,
conceal the mortification it had occasioned. Mrs. Galton also wrote to
say, that she herself would accompany Miss Seymour to Eltondale, as she
could, on no account, think of resigning her charge, till she delivered
her in safety to her new guardian; adding, that Mr. Mordaunt had
promised to escort Mrs. Galton from thence to Bath, whither she purposed
proceeding immediately. When Selina saw these letters absolutely
dispatched, and found the time was decidedly fixed for her parting from
the beloved scenes of her infancy, she gave way to an extravagance of
grief, that resisted all Mrs. Galton's reasoning, and even Mordaunt's
anxious entreaties, that she would not thus endanger her health. While
Selina thus resigned herself to an excess of feeling, which was one of
the most conspicuous traits of her character; and indulged,
uncontrolled, a sorrow that was too poignant to be permanent, Mrs.
Galton was struggling against hers with that firmness, by which she was
equally distinguished. She not only did not obtrude her misery on
others, but her calmness, her mildness, her fortitude, proved she really
practised her own precepts of resignation. However, her mental was
superior to her bodily strength: and when she found she was suddenly to
be separated, probably for life, from the child of her fondest
affection; and recollected the pains, it was more than probable, her new
guardian would take to eradicate from the too pliant mind of her young
pupil, not only all the precepts she had so carefully instilled, but
even all remembrance of the instructress; her spirits drooped under the
painful anticipation: and her increased paleness, and declining
appetite, betrayed the approach of disease, to which, notwithstanding,
she was yet unwilling to yield. It was not, however, to be warded off,
and, before the day appointed for Selina's departure, Mrs. Galton was
confined to her bed in an alarming fever: for several days she continued
in imminent danger, but at length the complaint took a favourable turn,
and she was yet spared to the prayers of her anxious attendants. It was
by no means an unfortunate circumstance for Selina, that Mrs. Galton's
illness occurred, to divert her thoughts from the melancholy subject on
which alone she had hitherto permitted them to dwell. By feeling she had
yet much to lose, she imperceptibly became reconciled to the loss she
had already sustained. And when Mrs. Galton was able to sit up in her
dressing room, she, in some degree, resumed her natural character, once
more contributing to the comfort of those she loved.
In this delightful task Mordaunt participated: when Mrs. Galton was
able, he would sit for hours reading out to her and Selina, while the
grateful smile that lightened the expressive countenance of the latter
sufficiently rewarded his toil. Sometimes, when Mrs. Galton reclined on
the couch, he would draw his chair closer to Selina's work-table, and
continue their conversation in that low tone, which belongs only to
confidence or feeling, which, therefore he doubly prized; but, though he
thus momentarily drank deeper of the draughts of love, no word escaped
his lips to betray the secret struggles of his soul. It is true, that
profiting by the name of brother, which their long intimacy, in some
degree, entitled him to use, he hesitated not to pay her every attention
the most assiduous lover could devise. But yet he scrupulously respected
the engagement her father had made, and studiously endeavoured to
conceal, even from its object, the passion that prayed upon his soul.
Nor was Selina insensible to his kindness; on the contrary, she felt it
with her characteristic gratitude, and expressed her feelings with her
usual ingenuousness; and such were the charms of Mordaunt's society,
notwithstanding the sincerity and depth of her affliction for her
father's death, the hours thus passed in the reciprocal interchange of
kindness from those most loved were amongst the happiest of her life:
and when, at length, Dr. Norton pronounced his patient sufficiently
recovered to travel, the regrets at leaving the Hall were, probably, not
a little increased on the minds both of Selina and Augustus, by the idea
that such hours might possibly never again recur.
At last the day came, when Selina was to bid adieu to the only scene,
with which happiness was as yet associated in her mind. It was a cold
stormy morning in December. A mizzling rain darkened the atmosphere, and
the leafless trees presented a scene of external desolation, that in
some degree corresponded with the mental gloom of the travellers. The
sun was scarcely risen, and the domestics, that flitted about in the
bleak twilight, all eager to offer some last attention to their beloved
young mistress and her respected aunt, seemed by their mourning habits,
and sorrowful countenances, to sympathize in their grief; whilst the
mournful present was contrasted in every mind with the recollection of
those joyous days of benevolent hospitality, that season of the year had
formerly presented. Mrs. Galton, suppressing her own feelings, to soothe
those of others, stopped to take a friendly leave of all, while poor
Selina, overcome by their well meant commiseration, rushed past them,
and threw herself into a corner of the carriage in an agony of grief.
When they reached the outer gate of the park, they found a few of her
father's favourite tenants, and some of the cottagers on whom Selina had
formerly bestowed her bounty, assembled to offer their last token of
respect and hearty wishes for her future happiness; but few of the
number could articulate their simple, though honest, salutations.
Unbidden tears trickled down their furrowed cheeks, as they thus parted
with the last of their revered master's family. The old men stood in
silence with their bare heads exposed to "the pelting of the pitiless
storm," while their hearts gave the blessing their lips refused to
utter. And the mothers held up their shivering infants to kiss their
little hands as the carriage passed, in hopes their infantine gestures
would explain the feelings they only could express by tears.
When they arrived opposite to the parsonage, they found its kind
inhabitants equally anxious to bestow the parting benediction. Nor were
their greetings as they drove through the village less numerous or
sincere: most of the windows were crowded; and the few tradesmen Deane
boasted were waiting at their doors, to make their passing bow, whilst
poor Mrs. Martin and Lucy continued waving their handkerchiefs over the
white pales, till the carriage was out of sight.