THE HERITAGE OF THE SON
Toward evening, a carriage drove up to the door of the muted house, and
the card of Lady Racial, bearing a hurried line in pencil, was handed
to the widow.
It was when you looked upon her that you began to comprehend how great
was the personal splendour of the husband who could eclipse such a
woman. Mrs. Harrington was a tall and a stately dame. Dressed in the
high waists of the matrons of that period, with a light shawl drawn
close over her shoulders and bosom, she carried her head well; and her
pale firm features, with the cast of immediate affliction on them, had
much dignity: dignity of an unrelenting physical order, which need not
express any remarkable pride of spirit. The family gossips who, on both
sides, were vain of this rare couple, and would always descant on their
beauty, even when they had occasion to slander their characters, said,
to distinguish them, that Henrietta Maria had a Port, and Melchisedec a
Presence: and that the union of a Port and a Presence, and such a Port
and such a Presence, was so uncommon, that you might search England
through and you would not find another, not even in the highest ranks
of society. There lies some subtle distinction here; due to the minute
perceptions which compel the gossips of a family to coin phrases that
shall express the nicest shades of a domestic difference. By a Port,
one may understand them to indicate something unsympathetically
impressive; whereas a Presence would seem to be a thing that directs
the most affable appeal to our poor human weaknesses. His Majesty King
George IV., for instance, possessed a Port: Beau Brummel wielded a
Presence. Many, it is true, take a Presence to mean no more than a
shirt-frill, and interpret a Port as the art of walking erect. But this
is to look upon language too narrowly.
On a more intimate acquaintance with the couple, you acknowledge the
aptness of the fine distinction. By birth Mrs. Harrington had claims to
rank as a gentlewoman. That is, her father was a lawyer of Lymport. The
lawyer, however, since we must descend the genealogical tree, was known
to have married his cook, who was the lady’s mother. Now Mr.
Melchisedec was mysterious concerning his origin; and, in his cups,
talked largely and wisely of a great Welsh family, issuing from a line
of princes; and it is certain that he knew enough of their history to
have instructed them on particular points of it. He never could think
that his wife had done him any honour in espousing him; nor was she the
woman to tell him so. She had married him for love, rejecting various
suitors, Squire Uplift among them, in his favour. Subsequently she had
committed the profound connubial error of transferring her affections,
or her thoughts, from him to his business, which, indeed, was much in
want of a mate; and while he squandered the guineas, she patiently
picked up the pence. They had not lived unhappily. He was constantly
courteous to her. But to see the Port at that sordid work considerably
ruffled the Presence—put, as it were, the peculiar division between
them; and to behave toward her as the same woman who had attracted his
youthful ardours was a task for his magnificent mind, and may have
ranked with him as an indemnity for his general conduct, if his
reflections ever stretched so far. The townspeople of Lymport were
correct in saying that his wife, and his wife alone, had, as they
termed it, kept him together. Nevertheless, now that he was dead, and
could no longer be kept together, they entirely forgot their respect
for her, in the outburst of their secret admiration for the popular
man. Such is the constitution of the inhabitants of this dear Island of
Britain, so falsely accused by the Great Napoleon of being a nation of
shopkeepers. Here let any one proclaim himself Above Buttons, and act
on the assumption, his fellows with one accord hoist him on their
heads, and bear him aloft, sweating, and groaning, and cursing, but
proud of him! And if he can contrive, or has any good wife at home to
help him, to die without going to the dogs, they are, one may say,
unanimous in crying out the same eulogistic funeral oration as that
commenced by Kilne, the publican, when he was interrupted by Barnes,
the butcher, “Now, there’s a man!—”
Mrs. Harrington was sitting in her parlour with one of her married
nieces, Mrs. Fiske, and on reading Lady Racial’s card she gave word for
her to be shown up into the drawing-room. It was customary among Mrs.
Harrington’s female relatives, who one and all abused and adored the
great Mel, to attribute his shortcomings pointedly to the ladies; which
was as much as if their jealous generous hearts had said that he was
sinful, but that it was not his fault. Mrs. Fiske caught the card from
her aunt, read the superscription, and exclaimed: “The idea! At least
she might have had the decency! She never set her foot in the house
before—and right enough too! What can she want now? I decidedly would
refuse to see her, aunt!”
The widow’s reply was simply, “Don’t be a fool, Ann!”
Rising, she said: “Here, take poor Jacko, and comfort him till I come
back.”
Jacko was a middle-sized South American monkey, and had been a pet of
her husband’s. He was supposed to be mourning now with the rest of the
family. Mrs. Fiske received him on a shrinking lap, and had found time
to correct one of his indiscretions before she could sigh and say, in
the rear of her aunt’s retreating figure, “I certainly never would let
myself down so”; but Mrs. Harrington took her own counsel, and Jacko
was of her persuasion, for he quickly released himself from Mrs.
Fiske’s dispassionate embrace, and was slinging his body up the
balusters after his mistress.
“Mrs. Harrington,” said Lady Racial, very sweetly swimming to meet her
as she entered the room, “I have intruded upon you, I fear, in
venturing to call upon you at such a time?”
The widow bowed to her, and begged her to be seated.
Lady Racial was an exquisitely silken dame, in whose face a winning
smile was cut, and she was still sufficiently youthful not to be
accused of wearing a flower too artificial.
“It was so sudden! so sad!” she continued. “We esteemed him so much. I
thought you might be in need of sympathy, and hoped I might—Dear Mrs.
Harrington! can you bear to speak of it?”
“I can tell you anything you wish to hear, my lady,” the widow replied.
Lady Racial had expected to meet a woman much more like what she
conceived a tradesman’s wife would be: and the grave reception of her
proffer of sympathy slightly confused her. She said:
“I should not have come, at least not so early, but Sir Jackson, my
husband, thought, and indeed I imagined—You have a son, Mrs.
Harrington? I think his name is—”
“Evan, my lady.”
“Evan. It was of him we have been speaking. I imagined that is, we
thought, Sir Jackson might—you will be writing to him, and will let him
know we will use our best efforts to assist him in obtaining some
position worthy of his—superior to—something that will secure him from
the harassing embarrassments of an uncongenial employment.”
The widow listened to this tender allusion to the shears without a
smile of gratitude. She replied: “I hope my son will return in time to
bury his father, and he will thank you himself, my lady.”
“He has no taste for—a—for anything in the shape of trade, has he, Mrs.
Harrington?”
“I am afraid not, my lady.”
“Any position—a situation—that of a clerk even—would be so much better
for him!”
The widow remained impassive.
“And many young gentlemen I know, who are clerks, and are enabled to
live comfortably, and make a modest appearance in society; and your
son, Mrs. Harrington, he would find it surely an improvement upon—many
would think it a step for him.”
“I am bound to thank you for the interest you take in my son, my lady.”
“Does it not quite suit your views, Mrs. Harrington?” Lady Racial was
surprised at the widow’s manner.
“If my son had only to think of himself, my lady.”
“Oh! but of course,”—the lady understood her now—“of course! You cannot
suppose, Mrs. Harrington, but that I should anticipate he would have
you to live with him, and behave to you in every way as a dutiful son,
surely?
“A clerk’s income is not very large, my lady.”
“No; but enough, as I have said, and with the management you would
bring, Mrs. Harrington, to produce a modest, respectable maintenance.
My respect for your husband, Mrs. Harrington, makes me anxious to press
my services upon you.” Lady Racial could not avoid feeling hurt at the
widow’s want of common gratitude.
“A clerk’s income would not be more than £100 a year, my lady.”
“To begin with—no; certainly not more.” The lady was growing brief.
“If my son puts by the half of that yearly, he can hardly support
himself and his mother, my lady.”
“Half of that yearly, Mrs. Harrington?”
“He would have to do so, and be saddled till he dies, my lady.”
“I really cannot see why.”
Lady Racial had a notion of some excessive niggardly thrift in the
widow, which was arousing symptoms of disgust.
Mrs. Harrington quietly said: “There are his father’s debts to pay, my
lady.”
“His father’s debts!”
“Under £5000, but above £4000, my lady.”
“Five thousand pounds! Mrs. Harrington!” The lady’s delicately gloved
hand gently rose and fell. “And this poor young man”—she pursued.
“My son will have to pay it, my lady.”
For a moment the lady had not a word to instance. Presently she
remarked: “But, Mrs. Harrington, he is surely under no legal
obligation?”
“He is only under the obligation not to cast disrespect on his father’s
memory, my lady; and to be honest, while he can.”
“But, Mrs. Harrington! surely! what can the poor young man do?”
“He will pay it, my lady.”
“But how, Mrs. Harrington?”
“There is his father’s business, my lady.”
His father’s business! Then must the young man become a tradesman in
order to show respect for his father? Preposterous! That was the lady’s
natural inward exclamation. She said, rather shrewdly, for one who knew
nothing of such things: “But a business which produces debts so
enormous, Mrs. Harrington!”
The widow replied: “My son will have to conduct it in a different way.
It would be a very good business, conducted properly, my lady.”
“But if he has no taste for it, Mrs. Harrington? If he is altogether
superior to it?”
For the first time during the interview, the widow’s inflexible
countenance was mildly moved, though not to any mild expression.
“My son will have not to consult his tastes,” she observed: and seeing
the lady, after a short silence, quit her seat, she rose likewise, and
touched the fingers of the hand held forth to her, bowing.
“You will pardon the interest I take in your son,” said Lady Racial. “I
hope, indeed, that his relatives and friends will procure him the means
of satisfying the demands made upon him.”
“He would still have to pay them, my lady,” was the widow’s answer.
“Poor young man! indeed I pity him!” sighed her visitor. “You have
hitherto used no efforts to persuade him to take such a step,—Mrs.
Harrington?”
“I have written to Mr. Goren, who was my husband’s fellow-apprentice in
London, my lady; and he is willing to instruct him in cutting, and
measuring, and keeping accounts.”
Certain words in this speech were obnoxious to the fine ear of Lady
Racial, and she relinquished the subject.
“Your husband, Mrs. Harrington—I should so much have wished!—he did not
pass away in—in pain!”
“He died very calmly, my lady.”
“It is so terrible, so disfiguring, sometimes. One dreads to see!—one
can hardly distinguish! I have known cases where death was dreadful!
But a peaceful death is very beautiful! There is nothing shocking to
the mind. It suggests heaven! It seems a fulfilment of our prayers!”
“Would your ladyship like to look upon him?” said the widow.
Lady Racial betrayed a sudden gleam at having her desire thus
intuitively fathomed.
“For one moment, Mrs. Harrington! We esteemed him so much! May I?”
The widow responded by opening the door, and leading her into the
chamber where the dead man lay.
At that period, when threats of invasion had formerly stirred up the
military fire of us Islanders, the great Mel, as if to show the great
Napoleon what character of being a British shopkeeper really was, had,
by remarkable favour, obtained a lieutenancy of militia dragoons: in
the uniform of which he had revelled, and perhaps, for the only time in
his life, felt that circumstances had suited him with a perfect fit.
However that may be, his solemn final commands to his wife, Henrietta
Maria, on whom he could count for absolute obedience in such matters,
had been, that as soon as the breath had left his body, he should be
taken from his bed, washed, perfumed, powdered, and in that uniform
dressed and laid out; with directions that he should be so buried at
the expiration of three days, that havoc in his features might be
hidden from men. In this array Lady Racial beheld him. The curtains of
the bed were drawn aside. The beams of evening fell soft through the
blinds of the room, and cast a subdued light on the figure of the
vanquished warrior. The Presence, dumb now for evermore, was sadly
illumined for its last exhibition. But one who looked closely might
have seen that Time had somewhat spoiled that perfect fit which had
aforetime been his pride; and now that the lofty spirit had departed,
there had been extreme difficulty in persuading the sullen excess of
clay to conform to the dimensions of those garments. The upper part of
the chest alone would bear its buttons, and across one portion of the
lower limbs an ancient seam had started; recalling an incident to them
who had known him in his brief hour of glory. For one night, as he was
riding home from Fallowfield, and just entering the gates of the town,
a mounted trooper spurred furiously past, and slashing out at him,
gashed his thigh. Mrs. Melchisedec found him lying at his door in a not
unwonted way; carried him up-stairs in her arms, as she had done many a
time before, and did not perceive his condition till she saw the blood
on her gown. The cowardly assailant was never discovered; but Mel was
both gallant and had, in his military career, the reputation of being a
martinet. Hence, divers causes were suspected. The wound failed not to
mend, the trousers were repaired: Peace about the same time was made,
and the affair passed over.
Looking on the fine head and face, Lady Racial saw nothing of this. She
had not looked long before she found covert employment for her
handkerchief. The widow standing beside her did not weep, or reply to
her whispered excuses at emotion; gazing down on his mortal length with
a sort of benignant friendliness; aloof, as one whose duties to that
form of flesh were well-nigh done. At the feet of his master, Jacko,
the monkey, had jumped up, and was there squatted, with his legs
crossed, very like a tailor! The imitative wretch had got a towel, and
as often as Lady Racial’s handkerchief travelled to her eyes, Jacko’s
peery face was hidden, and you saw his lithe skinny body doing grief’s
convulsions till, tired of this amusement, he obtained possession of
the warrior’s helmet, from a small round table on one side of the bed;
a calque of the barbarous military-Georgian form, with a huge knob of
horse-hair projecting over the peak; and under this, trying to adapt it
to his rogue’s head, the tricksy image of Death extinguished himself.
All was very silent in the room. Then the widow quietly disengaged
Jacko, and taking him up, went to the door, and deposited him outside.
During her momentary absence, Lady Racial had time to touch the dead
man’s forehead with her lips, unseen.