Of what followed that night of mourning I remember but snatches and
brief glimpses. There is nothing more positively torturing to the mind
in sorrow than the way in which the mere excitement of grief robs
the intellect of all power of perspective, and gives to the smallest,
meanest incidents the prominence and force of great events. It is as
though the jar given to the nervous system had untuned us for the entire
world, and all things come amiss. I am sure, indeed, I know it would
have been impossible to have met more gentle and considerate kindness
than I now experienced on every hand, and yet I lived in a sort of
feverish irritability, as though expecting each moment to have my
position questioned, and my right to be there disputed.
In obedience to the custom of the country, it was necessary that the
funeral should take place within forty-eight hours after death, and
though all the details had been carefully looked to by the Count's
orders, certain questions still should be asked of me, and my leave
obtained for certain acts.
The small church of Hunyadi-Naglos was fixed on for the last
resting-place. It contained the graves of eight generations of Hunyadis,
and to accord a place amongst them to a stranger, and a Protestant, was
deemed a high honor. Affliction seemed to have developed in me all the
pride of my race, for I can recall with what sullen hauteur I heard of
this concession, and rather took it as a favor accorded than accepted.
An overweening sense of all that my father himself would have thought
due to his memory was on me, and I tortured my mind to think that no
mark of honor he would have desired should be forgotten. As a soldier,
he had a right to a soldier's funeral, and a “Honved” battalion, with
their band, received orders to be present For miles around the landed
gentry and nobles poured in, with hosts of followers. Next to a death in
battle, there was no such noble death as in the hunting-field, and the
splendid prowess of my father's achievement had won him imperishable
honor.
All was conducted as if for the funeral of a magnate of Hungary. The
titles and rank of the deceased were proclaimed aloud as we entered the
graveyard, and each whose station entitled him to be thought a friend
came forward and kissed the pall as the body was borne in.
One part of the ceremony overcame me altogether. When the third round of
musketry had rung out over the grave, a solemn pause of half a minute or
so was to ensue, then the band was to burst out with the first bars
of “God preserve the Emperor;” and while a wild cheer arose, I was to
spring into the saddle of my father's horse, which had been led close
after the coffin, and to join the cheer. This soldier declaration that
death was but a passing terror, revolted me to the heart, and I over and
over asserted I could not do this. They would not yield, however; they
regarded my reasons as childish sentimentality, and half impugned my
courage besides. I do not know why I gave in, nor am I sure I ever did
yield; but when the heavy smoke of the last round slowly rose over the
bier, I felt myself jerked up into the saddle of a horse that plunged
wildly and struck out madly in affright With a rider's instinct, I
held my seat, and even managed the bounding animal with the hand of a
practised rider. Four fearful bounds I sat unshaken, while the air rang
with the hoarse cheer of some thousand voices, and then a sickness like
death itself gathered over my heart,--a sense of horror, of where I was
and why, came over me. My arms fell powerless to my sides, and I rolled
from the saddle and fell senseless and stunned to the ground.
Without having received serious injury, I was too ill to be removed from
the little village of Naglos, where I was confined to bed for ten days.
The doctor remained with me for some days, and came again and again
to visit me afterwards. The chief care of me, however, devolved on my
father's valet, a smart young Swiss, whom I had difficulty in believing
not to be English, so perfectly did he speak our language.
I soon saw this fellow was thoroughly conversant with all my father's
history, and, whether in his confidence or not, knew everything that
concerned him, and understood his temperament and nature to perfection.
There was much adroitness in the way in which he showed me this,
without ever shocking my pride or offending my taste by any display of a
supposed influence. Of his consummate tact I need give but one,--a
very slight instance, it is true, but enough to denote the man. He, in
addressing me as Sir Digby, remarked how the sound of my newly acquired
title seemed to recall my father to my mind at once, and ever after
limited himself to saying simply “sir,” which attracted no attention
from me.
Another instance of his address I must record also. I had got my
writing-desk on the bed, and was writing to my mother, to whom I had
already despatched two telegraphic messages, but as yet received no
reply. “I beg pardon, sir,” said La Grange, entering in his usual
noiseless fashion; “but I thought you would like to know that my Lady
has left Schloss Hunyadi. She took her departure last night for Pesth.”
“You mean--” I faltered, not really knowing what I. would say.
“Yes, sir,” said he, thoroughly aware of what was passing in my mind.
“She admitted no one, not even the doctor, and started at last with only
a few words of adieu in writing for the Countess.”
“What impression has this left? How are they speaking of her?” asked I,
blurting out against my will what was working within me.
“I believe, sir,” said he, with a very faint smile, “they lay it all to
English ways and habits. At least I have heard no other comments than
such as would apply to these.”
“Be sure that you give rise to no others,” said I, sternly.
“Of course not, sir. It would be highly unbecoming in me to do so.”
“And greatly to your disservice besides,” added I, severely.
He bowed in acquiescence, and said no more.
“How long have you served my father, La Grange?” asked I.
“About two years, sir. I succeeded Mr. Nixon, sir, who often spoke of
you.”
“Ah, I remember Nixon. What became of him?”
“He set up the Hôtel Victoria at Spa, sir. You know, sir, that he
married, and married very well too?”
“No, I never heard of it,” said I, carelessly.
“Yes, sir; he married Delorme's daughter, la belle Pauline they used to
call her at Brussels.”
“What, Pauline Delorme?” said I, growing crimson with I know not what
feeling.
“Yes, sir, the same; and she's the size of old Pierre, her father,
already: not but she's handsome still,--but such a monster!”
I cannot say with what delight I heard of her disfigurement. It was a
malice that warmed my heart like some good news.
“It was Sir Roger, sir, that made the match.”
“How could that be? What could he care about it?”
“Well, sir, he certainly gave Nixon five hundred pounds to go and
propose for her, and promise old Pierre his patronage, if he agreed to
it.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked I, eagerly.
“Nixon himself told me, sir. I remember he said, 'I haven't much time to
lose about it, for the tutor, Mr. Eccles, is quite ready to take her, on
the same terms, and Sir Roger doesn't care which of us it is.”
“Nor the lady either, apparently,” said I, half angrily.
“Of course not. Pauline was too well brought up for that.”
I was not going to discuss this point of ethics with Mr. La Grange, and
soon fell off into a vein of reflection over early loves, and what they
led to, which took me at last miles away from Pauline Delorme, and her
fascinations.
I would have liked much to learn what sort of a life my father had led
of late: whether he had plunged into habits of dissipation and excess;
or whether any feeling of remorse had weighed with him, and that he
sorrowed over the misery and the sorrow he had so recklessly shed around
him; but I shrunk from questioning a servant on such matters, and merely
asked as to his habitual spirits and temper.
“Sir Roger was unlike every other gentleman I ever lived with, sir,”
said he. “He was never in high spirits except when he was hard up for
money. Put him down in a little country inn to wait for his remittances,
and live on a few francs a day till they arrived, and I never saw his
equal for good humor. He 'd play with the children; he 'd work in the
garden. I 've seen him harness the donkey, and go off for a load of
firewood. There's nothing he would not do to oblige, and with a kind
word and a smile for every one all the while; but if some morning he 'd
get up with a dark frown on his face, and say, 'La Grange, get in your
bills here, and pay them; we must get away from this dog-hole,' I knew
well the banker's letter had come, and that whatever he might want, it
would not be money.”
“And had my Lady--Madame, I mean--no influence over him?”
“None, sir, or next to none; he was all ceremony with her; took her
in to dinner every day with great state, showed her every attention at
table, left her at liberty to spend what money she liked. If she fancied
an equipage, it was ordered at once. If she liked a bracelet, it was
sent home. As to toilette, I believe there are queens have not as many
dresses to change. We had two fourgons of her luggage alone, when we
came to the Schloss, and she was always saying there was something she
was longing for.”
“Did not this irritate my father?”
“No, sir; he would simply say, 'Don't wish, but write for it.' And I
verily believe this indifference piqued her,--she saw that no sacrifice
of money cost him anything, and this thought wounded her pride.”
“So that there was not much happiness between them?”
“There was none, sir! Something there was that Sir Roger would never
consent to, but which she never ceased to insist on, and I often
wondered how she could go on, to press a man of his dangerous temper,
as she did, and at times she would do so to the very verge of a
provocation. Do you know, sir,” said he, after a short silence,--“if I
was to be on my oath to-morrow, I 'd not say that he was not seeking his
death when he met it? I never saw a man so sick of life,--he was only
puzzled how to lay it down without dishonor.”
I motioned him to leave me as he said this, and of my father I never
spoke to him more.