THE TOMB BENEATH THE CEDARS.
THE last evening before the removal of the family from the Moat, the
moon shone out brightly at intervals from a cloudy sky, touching with
silvery light the gables and turrets of the mansion, the old church
tower, and the edges of the tombstones that nestled amidst the grass
and shrubs. Beneath three fine old cedars which wrapped one spot in the
churchyard in gloom, was the family vault of the Falconers, and thither
from her last visit to the cottage of the dying gardener, Mrs. Falconer
directed her steps.
It was not with any superstitious or fanciful idea of communing
with her husband's spirit that she sought the place where his dust
reposed, but, with the natural tenderness of a bereaved heart for the
hiding-place of something it has loved and lost, she liked to associate
her farewell to the home in which he had left her, with the remembrance
of that separation which had made her life a lonely pilgrimage, and her
heart for a long time a mere storm-swept wreck.
But she did not now forget that he whom she so deeply loved and truly
mourned was "absent from the body," and because of his faith in a
crucified Redeemer was "present with the Lord."
And though the tomb that enclosed the mortal part was to her a
consecrated memorial place, yet she could calmly leave that behind,
in the knowledge that the Saviour and His heaven, where the hosts of
the blessed are, cannot be limited by time or space, and would be as
real and near in the crowded haunts of busy life as in the moonlighted
solitude of the grave beneath the cedars.
There the gentle voice of the much-tried mother soothed her excited
boy, and her loving arm encircled him as they leaned together over the
marble slab that bore the record of so many honoured names.
"Guy, my son," she whispered, "here let all your wrong feelings be laid
aside, and your young life be consecrated to new and noble purposes."
"Oh, mother, it is so hard," murmured the boy.
"I know it, Guy; but I never felt it so hard as to-day, because it has
revealed to me the weakness and cowardliness of your heart, which fails
at the first touch of adversity. A sorry protector for us indeed, if
Maude and I had no other."
"Oh, mother!"
"I see at least one good reason for the reverse which has come to us,
Guy. You would have become the ruined child of ease and selfishness,
and you may now be something better, if you choose."
"But, mother, suppose it is good for me, it is not good or right for
you—it is cruel, wicked, unpardonable for you."
"My dear child, it is as good and right for me. And here by your dear
father's grave I am able to forgive fully and freely, as I hope to be
forgiven, all whose conduct may have seemed to injure us, and I charge
you solemnly before God to do the same. No peace, no rest can help the
unforgiving spirit, and so long as you encourage hate and anger, you
will be the unhappy slave of unspeakable wretchedness.
"Moreover I deny your right to associate me with your sinful murmurings
against God and His ways, and I forbid it. I know that all is wise
and well. 'Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.' 'They that trust in
Him shall not want for any good thing,' and there I find reason and
assurance enough to bear me through everything.
"Guy, my darling, try to tread with me this peaceful path, renounce
this angry, bitter, troublesome old self, and be a new creature by
God's grace, forgiving, submissive, patient, Christ's dear servant,
your mother's faithful prop and help, and the worthy son of him whose
life and example is echoed in the instruction I have tried to give. Oh,
let it be seen that I am faithful to my trust from God and him."
"Oh, mother, mother," sobbed the boy; "I see, I know I am wrong—I will
try—"
"To forgive, and to ask forgiveness, dear child. Oh, what a load
will roll off your heart as you feel the soothing sweetness of God's
pardoning love, and the godlike power to forgive as you are forgiven!
Guy, my son, I shall feel that I am the happy mother of the truest hero
of your race, for 'greater is he who conquereth his own spirit than he
that taketh a city.'"
They stood awhile in silence, the mother and her son; what prayers and
thoughts rose out of full hearts there were no words mighty enough to
tell, but at last drawing her gently away,—
"Come, mother," he said softly, "perhaps the angels may note to-night,
and so shall I."
And it was a night to be remembered, though not chiefly for its trying
farewells. There was a cloud, and no need to ignore it, but there was
light behind it, and it began to fringe the cloud and to illumine
life's future with touches of beauty and hope, which a few hours before
seemed impossible to the despairing spirit of Guy Falconer.
* * * * * * *
Early the next morning, all the inhabitants of the Falconer Range
were astir; groups of people well-to-do, and groups of poor people,
and of children innumerable, gathered about the park gates and along
the village street, and when Joe and the black horses emerged from
the park with the much loved exiles behind them, there was a rush
to the carriage windows, hands were shaken and kissed, and murmured
benedictions burst from many lips. Old men uncovered their grey heads,
women sobbed, and children for once moved quietly.
In vain the occupants of the carriage strove to smile or seem calm;
in vain Joe made hideous grimaces to keep up his dignity; in vain Mr.
Herbert, who had mounted escort for a part of the way, rode gently
amongst the people, and entreated them to restrain their feelings for
the sake of the dear, tried lady from whom they had to part; in vain
Guy impatiently called out his orders to Joe to "drive on;" the solemn
black horses, perfectly self-possessed, were masters of the position,
and all poor Joe's struggles failed to move them beyond their own
conceptions of the occasion.
Before the Falconer's Arms they nearly came to a stand, as if there
were something special to be noted there. And perhaps there was,
for the worthy landlord and the dame his wife had made decided
demonstration. Blinds were down, and shutters closed, a black crape
scarf was thrown over the far-famed sign, and the whole family stood
bare-headed under the beautiful elms in solemn silence.
At the village school, the children stood in silent array, and the
tallest of them presented a basket filled with little pin-cushions,
needle-books, and such like tokens of loving handiwork. And a boy,
gentle and modest-looking, handed up a little carving in wood of the
front of the Moat House, which he had privately executed in his leisure
time.
All this, with an occasional "God bless you," "May you come back to
your own again," marked the progress through the village. And then Joe,
exasperated beyond endurance with his self-sufficient steeds, commenced
a most unusual belabouring of their shining coats. Mr. Herbert, equally
out of patience, adding the stimulus of the riding whip, so that the
stately march was at last urged into a brisk walk, such as they usually
assumed for a funeral at a distant church when wayside observers were
neither numerous nor mournful.
Joe's foresight had provided for the occasion, though he had not dared
to controvert his master's orders, so far as the first three miles were
concerned. There however, he had soothed his own feelings, and obliged
his passengers by securing a relay, and joyfully began the acceptable
exchange.
While this was proceeding, a carriage-and-four drove briskly up to the
inn door.
The gentleman who was driving threw the reins to his servant, and
dismounted, noticed the dignified black horses, asked a question or two
of the ostler, held a short parley at the window of his carriage, where
appeared the pleasant faces of a middle-aged lady and a young girl, and
finally bidding Joe "hold in," advanced to the chaise door, and hastily
opened it.
"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, "but we cannot let you pass us on
the road without a word. We meant to have put up at the Falcon Range
last night, hoping to have stopped your journey this morning, but the
horses were too tired. Is it too late? Cannot you return now? But I
forgot—you don't know me. Roger Hazelwood, madam—at your service. Here!
Dorothy, Evelyn! Come and speak to Mrs. Falconer, the lady from the
Moat."
[Illustration: THE MEETING ON THE ROAD.]
Guy and his sister hereupon resisted the strong desire to see again
the bright face of the girl as she peeped round from her corner in
the carriage, and utterly amazed and confounded, saw the elder lady
alight and advance to their mother. Her countenance was sweet and fair,
with a mingled expression of sympathy, respect, and humility, and in
the most winning of voices she entreated Mrs. Falconer to delay her
journey at least for a time, and return with them to the Moat, echoing
her husband's regret that they had not arrived in time to make their
request more opportunely.
"Dear sir, dear madam," said Mrs. Falconer warmly, "I can but attempt
to express my thanks; I could not have anticipated such kindness, but
our arrangements are made, and we are proceeding at once to London."
"Well, I'm very sorry," said Squire Hazelwood; "it can't be helped
then, I suppose, but I'm a bad hand at writing; I let the lawyers
settle everything, and I did not know how matters stood, else I would
have said my say in proper time."
"It is indeed too late now," said the lady, taking Mrs. Falconer's hand
with a gentle pressure; "but we may perhaps meet again under happier
circumstances." And drawing back with a curtsey, she re-entered her
carriage.
"The sooner the better," said the Squire; "Evelyn is shy, but she means
well, silly child. Good-bye, madam; your hand, young sir—we must be
friends you know, though the Moat is between us. I hate feuds, and
would rather carry your God-speed with us among the people who may be
pardoned for feeling that we can't supply your place."
"May God-speed you, sir, I pray so with all my heart," said Mrs.
Falconer earnestly, giving her hand into that which her son had
scarcely touched.
And so they parted on life's highway with its "changes and chances,"
unexpected and unknown, but all appointed and ordered in the omniscient
love that links together only what works "for good," and drops out of
the chain all that we mistake and mismanage for ourselves.
The carriage-and-four rolled deliberately through Falcon Range,
where, notwithstanding the novelty of a private equipage in mail
coach style, doors were suddenly banged, and surly faces peered from
cottage windows; the crape yet hung over the Falconer's Arms, and its
landlord stood with his hands in his pockets, and his hat on his head,
not deigning to salute the purchaser of the estate of the Falconers,
even though his pedigree dated back to the Saxon instead of the Norman
Conquest.
But the generous-hearted English gentleman was more touched by the
evident sympathy of the villagers for the late occupants of the Moat
than disturbed by the slight to himself.
"Poor things," he remarked afterwards to his wife, "I like them for it;
who wins their hearts will keep them, and I hate weather-cock friends.
However we'll wait our time, Dorothy, and if you don't find your way
within those noisy doors that said so plainly, 'You shan't come here,'
I shall be more surprised than ever I was in my life yet. So I'll bid
you welcome to the Moat, if nobody else does."
And gallantly kissing his wife and daughter, he left them to explore
their new abode.
There had not been very much to regret in the removal from Hazel Copse,
which had been a long contemplated event, and where many circumstances
had estranged them for some time. All that they particularly valued in
the form of servants, pet ponies, horses, dogs, and other delights,
accompanied them, and Squire Hazelwood of the Falcon Range would be
a more important personage in the world's history than the Squire of
Hazel Copse. At least so thought the little spoiled heiress of his
house and fortune, as she flew about exclaiming with rapture over all
she saw.
"Such a dear old place, mother," "Come here," and "Go there," was the
frequent interruption to the work of the lady in newly arranging her
household, as Evelyn lighted on a terrace walk, or penetrated some
dark corner, or, best of all, explored her way into a real "tapestried
chamber," haunted of course, ever since Judge Jeffries, of evil renown,
tarried there for a night in the civil wars, and was reported to have
left some token of ill, like an ancient leper, in the walls of the
house that sheltered him.
Evelyn declared herself bold enough to face any wig and gown that might
venture from behind the arras, but beyond a saucy rat of venerable
lineage, and a few hungry spiders on the search for flies, she never
discovered anything to test her boasted courage.
The mansion itself might have served as an illustration of the
varieties of English architecture since the first Falconer planted his
lance on the sunny slope where his castle was to stand.
There was a tower, ivy-clad and crumbling, remnant of feudal times;
there were gables and turretted roofs, porches and pilasters, oriel
windows, lattices, arches, and griffins, in fact tokens of all tastes
and fashions—Plantagenet, Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian, with carvings
and heraldic devices blending the armorial bearings of all the family
alliances of the ancient House innumerable.
There were huge fire-places, oak parlours, and deep bay window seats;
a hall decorated with the old armour of knights, and the antlers of
hunted stags, the crusader's sword and the palmer's staff, the banners
of rival Roses, the doublet of a cavalier, and the buff coat of a
Round-head, the falconer's glove, and the sportsman's fowling-piece,
all named and dated with aristocratic pride, harmless and pardonable.
The gardens and grounds were even more attractive, with quaint borders,
straight walks, and clipped trees in my lady's pleasaunce, winding
paths to wild dingles and dells, accommodation for every kind of the
animal creation of the British Isles, from stables and kennels for my
lord to covers for foxes, and nests for hornets; there was a lake for
fish, a rookery for birds, and far-spreading meads for cattle.
Of the original "Moat," there remained no precise indication,
unless the dingles which terminated the shrubbery, and a river
which divided some meadows, had once done guardian duty in that
capacity,—a reasonable surmise, from the fact of a broken arch in near
neighbourhood, where resolute antiquarians discovered symptoms of
portcullis pretensions, though a portly bailiff had left on record his
belief that it was merely a remnant of modern masonic skill, erected
of material cleared away from a fallen tower of the old castle, and in
which sheep used to be penned on washing days!
There was no auction at the Moat House. Things were to stand as in past
time, with the addition of a few valued possessions from Hazel Copse,
for which there was ample space in chambers long disused, and which
were now opened, renovated, and made to partake somewhat of the sunny
spirt of the new owners of the mansion.
The Squire was busy with lands and live stock, the lady with domestic
improvements, and Miss Evelyn, as long accustomed, ran wild over
everything, including the stiff prejudices of dependants and villagers.