THE FAMILY AND THE FUNERAL
It was the evening of the second day since the arrival of the black
letter in London from Lymport, and the wife of the brewer and the wife
of the Major sat dropping tears into one another’s laps, in expectation
of their sister the Countess. Mr. Andrew Cogglesby had not yet returned
from his office. The gallant Major had gone forth to dine with General
Sir George Frebuter, the head of the Marines of his time. It would have
been difficult for the Major, he informed his wife, to send in an
excuse to the General for non-attendance, without entering into
particulars; and that he should tell the General he could not dine with
him, because of the sudden decease of a tailor, was, as he let his wife
understand, and requested her to perceive, quite out of the question.
So he dressed himself carefully, and though peremptory with his wife
concerning his linen, and requiring natural services from her in the
button department, and a casual expression of contentment as to his
ultimate make-up, he left her that day without any final injunctions to
occupy her mind, and she was at liberty to weep if she pleased, a
privilege she did not enjoy undisturbed when he was present; for the
warrior hated that weakness, and did not care to hide his contempt for
it.
Of the three sisters, the wife of the Major was, oddly enough, the one
who was least inveterately solicitous of concealing the fact of her
parentage. Reticence, of course, she had to study with the rest; the
Major was a walking book of reticence and the observances; he
professed, also, in company with herself alone, to have had much
trouble in drilling her to mark and properly preserve them. She had no
desire to speak of her birthplace. But, for some reason or other, she
did not share her hero’s rather petulant anxiety to keep the curtain
nailed down on that part of her life which preceded her entry into the
ranks of the Royal Marines. Some might have thought that those fair
large blue eyes of hers wandered now and then in pleasant unambitious
walks behind the curtain, and toyed with little flowers of palest
memory. Utterly tasteless, totally wanting in discernment, not to say
gratitude, the Major could not presume her to be; and yet his wits
perceived that her answers and the conduct she shaped in accordance
with his repeated protests and long-reaching apprehensions of what he
called danger, betrayed acquiescent obedience more than the connubial
sympathy due to him. Danger on the field the Major knew not of; he did
not scruple to name the word in relation to his wife. For, as he told
her, should he, some day, as in the chapter of accidents might occur,
sally into the street a Knight Companion of the Bath and become known
to men as Sir Maxwell Strike, it would be decidedly disagreeable for
him to be blown upon by a wind from Lymport. Moreover she was the
mother of a son. The Major pointed out to her the duty she owed her
offspring. Certainly the protecting aegis of his rank and title would
be over the lad, but she might depend upon it any indiscretion of hers
would damage him in his future career, the Major assured her. Young
Maxwell must be considered.
For all this, the mother and wife, when the black letter found them in
the morning at breakfast, had burst into a fit of grief, and faltered
that she wept for a father. Mrs. Andrew, to whom the letter was
addressed, had simply held the letter to her in a trembling hand. The
Major compared their behaviour, with marked encomiums of Mrs. Andrew.
Now this lady and her husband were in obverse relative positions. The
brewer had no will but his Harriet’s. His esteem for her combined the
constitutional feelings of an insignificantly-built little man for a
majestic woman, and those of a worthy soul for the wife of his bosom.
Possessing, or possessed by her, the good brewer was perfectly happy.
She, it might be thought, under these circumstances, would not have
minded much his hearing what he might hear. It happened, however, that
she was as jealous of the winds of Lymport as the Major himself; as
vigilant in debarring them from access to the brewery as now the
Countess could have been. We are not dissecting human nature suffice
it, therefore, from a mere glance at the surface, to say, that just as
moneyed men are careful of their coin, women who have all the
advantages in a conjunction, are miserly in keeping them, and shudder
to think that one thing remains hidden, which the world they move in
might put down pityingly in favour of their spouse, even though to the
little man ’twere naught. She assumed that a revelation would diminish
her moral stature; and certainly it would not increase that of her
husband. So no good could come of it. Besides, Andrew knew, his whole
conduct was a tacit admission, that she had condescended in giving him
her hand. The features of their union might not be changed altogether
by a revelation, but it would be a shock to her.
Consequently, Harriet tenderly rebuked Caroline, for her outcry at the
breakfast-table; and Caroline, the elder sister, who had not since
marriage grown in so free an air, excused herself humbly, and the two
were weeping when the Countess joined them and related what she had
just undergone.
Hearing of Caroline’s misdemeanour, however, Louisa’s eyes rolled aloft
in a paroxysm of tribulation. It was nothing to Caroline; it was
comparatively nothing to Harriet; but the Count knew not Louisa had a
father: believed that her parents had long ago been wiped out. And the
Count was by nature inquisitive: and if he once cherished a suspicion
he was restless; he was pointed in his inquiries: he was pertinacious
in following out a clue: there never would be peace with him! And then,
as they were secure in their privacy, Louisa cried aloud for her
father, her beloved father! Harriet wept silently. Caroline alone
expressed regret that she had not set eyes on him from the day she
became a wife.
“How could we, dear?” the Countess pathetically asked, under drowning
lids.
“Papa did not wish it,” sobbed Mrs. Andrew.
“I never shall forgive myself!” said the wife of the Major, drying her
cheeks. Perhaps it was not herself whom she felt she never could
forgive.
Ah! the man their father was! Incomparable Melchisedec! he might well
be called. So generous! so lordly! When the rain of tears would subside
for a moment, one would relate an anecdote or childish reminiscence of
him, and provoke a more violent outburst.
“Never, among the nobles of any land, never have I seen one like him!”
exclaimed the Countess, and immediately requested Harriet to tell her
how it would be possible to stop Andrew’s tongue in Silva’s presence.
“At present, you know, my dear, they may talk as much as they like—they
can’t understand one another one bit.”
Mrs. Cogglesby comforted her by the assurance that Andrew had received
an intimation of her wish for silence everywhere and toward everybody;
and that he might be reckoned upon to respect it, without demanding a
reason for the restriction. In other days Caroline and Louisa had a
little looked down on Harriet’s alliance with a dumpy man—a brewer—and
had always kind Christian compassion for him if his name were
mentioned. They seemed now, by their silence, to have a happier
estimate of Andrew’s qualities.
While the three sisters sat mingling their sorrows and alarms, their
young brother was making his way to the house. As he knocked at the
door he heard his name pronounced behind him, and had no difficulty in
recognizing the worthy brewer.
“What, Van, my boy! how are you? Quite a foreigner! By George, what a
hat!”
Mr. Andrew bounced back two or three steps to regard the dusky
sombrero.
“How do you do, sir?” said Evan.
“Sir to you!” Mr. Andrew briskly replied. “Don’t they teach you to give
your fist in Portugal, eh? I’ll ‘sir’ you. Wait till I’m Sir Andrew,
and then ‘sir’ away. You do speak English still, Van, eh? Quite jolly,
my boy?”
Mr. Andrew rubbed his hands to express that state in himself. Suddenly
he stopped, blinked queerly at Evan, grew pensive, and said, “Bless my
soul! I forgot.”
The door opened, Mr. Andrew took Evan’s arm, murmured a “hush!” and
trod gently along the passage to his library.
“We’re safe here,” he said. “There—there’s something the matter
up-stairs. The women are upset about something. Harriet—” Mr. Andrew
hesitated, and branched off: “You’ve heard we’ve got a new baby?”
Evan congratulated him; but another inquiry was in Mr. Andrew’s aspect,
and Evan’s calm, sad manner answered it.
“Yes,”—Mr. Andrew shook his head dolefully—“a splendid little chap! a
rare little chap! a we can’t help these things, Van! They will happen.
Sit down, my boy.”
Mr. Andrew again interrogated Evan with his eyes.
“My father is dead,” said Evan.
“Yes!” Mr. Andrew nodded, and glanced quickly at the ceiling, as if to
make sure that none listened overhead. “My parliamentary duties will
soon be over for the season,” he added, aloud; pursuing, in an
under-breath:
“Going down to-night, Van?”
“He is to be buried to-morrow,” said Evan.
“Then, of course, you go. Yes: quite right. Love your father and
mother! always love your father and mother! Old Tom and I never knew
ours. Tom’s quite well-same as ever. I’ll,” he rang the bell, “have my
chop in here with you. You must try and eat a bit, Van. Here we are,
and there we go. Old Tom’s wandering for one of his weeks. You’ll see
him some day. He ain’t like me. No dinner to-day, I suppose, Charles?”
This was addressed to the footman. He announced:
“Dinner to-day at half-past six, as usual, sir,” bowed, and retired.
Mr. Andrew pored on the floor, and rubbed his hair back on his head.
“An odd world!” was his remark.
Evan lifted up his face to sigh: “I’m almost sick of it!”
“Damn appearances!” cried Mr. Andrew, jumping on his legs.
The action cooled him.
“I’m sorry I swore,” he said. “Bad habit! The Major’s here—you know
that?” and he assumed the Major’s voice, and strutted in imitation of
the stalwart marine. “Major—a—Strike! of the Royal Marines! returned
from China! covered with glory!—a hero, Van! We can’t expect him to be
much of a mourner. And we shan’t have him to dine with us to-day—that’s
something.” He sank his voice: “I hope the widow’ll bear it.”
“I hope to God my mother is well!” Evan groaned.
“That’ll do,” said Mr. Andrew. “Don’t say any more.”
As he spoke, he clapped Evan kindly on the back.
A message was brought from the ladies, requiring Evan to wait on them.
He returned after some minutes.
“How do you think Harriet’s looking?” asked Mr. Andrew. And, not
waiting for an answer, whispered,
“Are they going down to the funeral, my boy?”
Evan’s brow was dark, as he replied: “They are not decided.”
“Won’t Harriet go?”
“She is not going—she thinks not.”
“And the Countess—Louisa’s upstairs, eh?—will she go?”
“She cannot leave the Count—she thinks not.”
“Won’t Caroline go? Caroline can go. She—he—I mean—Caroline can go?”
“The Major objects. She wishes to.”
Mr. Andrew struck out his arm, and uttered, “the Major!”—a compromise
for a loud anathema. But the compromise was vain, for he sinned again
in an explosion against appearances.
“I’m a brewer, Van. Do you think I’m ashamed of it? Not while I brew
good beer, my boy!—not while I brew good beer! They don’t think worse
of me in the House for it. It isn’t ungentlemanly to brew good beer,
Van. But what’s the use of talking?”
Mr. Andrew sat down, and murmured, “Poor girl! poor girl!”
The allusion was to his wife; for presently he said: “I can’t see why
Harriet can’t go. What’s to prevent her?”
Evan gazed at him steadily. Death’s levelling influence was in Evan’s
mind. He was ready to say why, and fully.
Mr. Andrew arrested him with a sharp “Never mind! Harriet does as she
likes. I’m accustomed to—hem! what she does is best, after all. She
doesn’t interfere with my business, nor I with hers. Man and wife.”
Pausing a moment or so, Mr. Andrew intimated that they had better be
dressing for dinner. With his hand on the door, which he kept closed,
he said, in a businesslike way, “You know, Van, as for me, I should be
very willing—only too happy—to go down and pay all the respect I
could.” He became confused, and shot his head from side to side,
looking anywhere but at Evan. “Happy now and to-morrow, to do anything
in my power, if Harriet—follow the funeral—one of the family—anything I
could do: but—a—we’d better be dressing for dinner.” And out the
enigmatic little man went.
Evan partly divined him then. But at dinner his behaviour was
perplexing. He was too cheerful. He pledged the Count. He would have
the Portuguese for this and that, and make Anglican efforts to repeat
it, and laugh at his failures. He would not see that there was a father
dead. At a table of actors, Mr. Andrew overdid his part, and was the
worst. His wife could not help thinking him a heartless little man.
The poor show had its term. The ladies fled to the boudoir sacred to
grief. Evan was whispered that he was to join them when he might,
without seeming mysterious to the Count. Before he reached them, they
had talked tearfully over the clothes he should wear at Lymport,
agreeing that his present foreign apparel, being black, would be
suitable, and would serve almost as disguise, to the inhabitants at
large; and as Evan had no English wear, and there was no time to
procure any for him, that was well. They arranged exactly how long he
should stay at Lymport, whom he should visit, the manner he should
adopt toward the different inhabitants. By all means he was to avoid
the approach of the gentry. For hours Evan, in a trance, half
stupefied, had to listen to the Countess’s directions how he was to
comport himself in Lymport.
“Show that you have descended among them, dear Van, but are not of
them. Our beautiful noble English poet expresses it so. You have come
to pay the last mortal duties, which they will respect, if they are not
brutes, and attempt no familiarities. Allow none: gently, but firmly.
Imitate Silva. You remember, at Dona Risbonda’s ball? When he met the
Comte de Dartigues, and knew he was to be in disgrace with his Court on
the morrow? Oh! the exquisite shade of difference in Silva’s behaviour
towards the Comte. So finely, delicately perceptible to the Comte, and
not a soul saw it but that wretched Frenchman! He came to me: ‘Madame,’
he said, ‘is a question permitted?’ I replied, ‘As many as you please,
M. le Comte, but no answers promised.’ He said: ‘May I ask if the
Courier has yet come in?’—‘Nay, M. le Comte,’ I replied, ‘this is
diplomacy. Inquire of me, or better, give me an opinion on the new
glacé silk from Paris.’—‘Madame,’ said he, bowing, ‘I hope Paris may
send me aught so good, or that I shall grace half so well.’ I smiled,
‘You shall not be single in your hopes, M. le Comte. The gift would be
base that you did not embellish.’ He lifted his hands, French-fashion:
‘Madame, it is that I have received the gift.’—‘Indeed! M. le
Comte.’—‘Even now from the Count de Saldar, your husband.’ I looked
most innocently, ‘From my husband, M. le Comte?’—‘From him, Madame. A
portrait. An Ambassador without his coat! The portrait was a finished
performance.’ I said: ‘And may one beg the permission to inspect
it?’—‘Mais,’ said he, laughing: ‘were it you alone, it would be a
privilege to me.’ I had to check him. ‘Believe me, M. le Comte, that
when I look upon it, my praise of the artist will be extinguished by my
pity for the subject.’ He should have stopped there; but you cannot
have the last word with a Frenchman—not even a woman. Fortunately the
Queen just then made her entry into the saloon, and his mot on the
charity of our sex was lost. We bowed mutually, and were separated.”
(The Countess employed her handkerchief.) “Yes, dear Van! that is how
you should behave. Imply things. With dearest Mama, of course, you are
the dutiful son. Alas! you must stand for son and daughters. Mama has
so much sense! She will understand how sadly we are placed. But in a
week I will come to her for a day, and bring you back.”
So much his sister Louisa. His sister Harriet offered him her house for
a home in London, thence to project his new career. His sister Caroline
sought a word with him in private, but only to weep bitterly in his
arms, and utter a faint moan of regret at marriages in general. He
loved this beautiful creature the best of his three sisters (partly, it
may be, because he despised her superior officer), and tried with a few
smothered words to induce her to accompany him: but she only shook her
fair locks and moaned afresh. Mr. Andrew, in the farewell squeeze of
the hand at the street-door, asked him if he wanted anything. He
negatived the requirement of anything whatever, with an air of careless
decision, though he was aware that his purse barely contained more than
would take him the distance, but the instincts of this amateur
gentleman were very fine and sensitive on questions of money. His
family had never known him beg for a shilling, or admit his necessity
for a penny: nor could he be made to accept money unless it was thrust
into his pocket. Somehow his sisters had forgotten this peculiarity of
his. Harriet only remembered it when too late.
“But I dare say Andrew has supplied him,” she said.
Andrew being interrogated, informed her what had passed between them.
“And you think a Harrington would confess he wanted money!” was her
scornful exclamation. “Evan would walk—he would die rather. It was
treating him like a mendicant.”
Andrew had to shrink in his brewer’s skin.
By some fatality all who were doomed to sit and listen to the Countess
de Saldar, were sure to be behindhand in an appointment.
When the young man arrived at the coach-office, he was politely
informed that the vehicle, in which a seat had been secured for him,
was in close alliance with time and tide, and being under the same
rigid laws, could not possibly have waited for him, albeit it had
stretched a point to the extent of a pair of minutes, at the urgent
solicitation of a passenger.
“A gentleman who speaks so, sir,” said a volunteer mimic of the office,
crowing and questioning from his throat in Goren’s manner. “Yok! yok!
That was how he spoke, sir.”
Evan reddened, for it brought the scene on board the Jocasta vividly to
his mind. The heavier business obliterated it. He took counsel with the
clerks of the office, and eventually the volunteer mimic conducted him
to certain livery stables, where Evan, like one accustomed to command,
ordered a chariot to pursue the coach, received a touch of the hat for
a lordly fee, and was soon rolling out of London.