THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
The news which had produced so sudden and startling an effect upon the
inmates of No. 7 had been known early in the morning of the same day to
the inmates of No. 8. This it was which had prevented either of the
young men from paying their ordinary visits; but the wonder was that no
rumour should have reached at least the kitchen of Mr. Beresford’s house
of the sad news which had arrived next door. Probably the reason was
that the servants were all fully occupied, and had no time for
conversation. The news had come early, conveyed by Mr. Sommerville
personally, and by post from the official head-quarters, for Mr.
Meredith was a civil servant of standing and distinction. There was
nothing extraordinary or terrible in it. He had been seized with one of
the rapid diseases of the climate, and had succumbed like so many other
men, leaving everything behind him settled and in order. It was
impossible that a well-regulated and respectable household could have
been carried on with less reference to the father of the children, and
nominal master of the house, than Mrs. Meredith’s was; but perhaps this
was one reason why his loss fell upon them all like a thunderbolt. Dead!
no one had ever thought of him as a man who could die. The event brought
him near them as with the rapidity of lightning. Vaguely in their minds,
or at least in the wife’s mind, there had been the idea of some time or
other making up to him for that long separation and estrangement--how,
she did not inquire, and when, she rather trembled to think of, but some
time. The idea of writing a kinder letter than usual to him had crossed
her mind that very morning. They did not correspond much; they had
mutually found each other incompatible, unsuitable, and lately Mrs.
Meredith had been angry with the distant husband, who had been
represented as disapproving of her. But this morning, no later, some
thrill of more kindly feeling had moved her. She had realised all at
once that it might be hard for him to be alone in the world, and without
that solace of the boys, which from indifference, or from compunction,
he had permitted her to have without interference all these years. She
had thought that after all it was cruel, after such a long time, to deny
him a share in his own children, and she had resolved, being in a
serious mood and agitated state of mind, to make the sacrifice, or to
attempt to make the sacrifice more freely, and to write to him to
express her gratitude to him for leaving her both the boys so long; had
not he a right to them no less than hers?--in the eye of nature no less,
and in the eye of the law more. Yet he had been generous to her, and had
never disputed her possession of her children. These were the softening
thoughts that had filled her mind before she came downstairs. And no
sooner had she come down than the news arrived. He was dead. When those
die who are the most beloved and cherished, the best and dearest, that
calamity which rends life asunder and overclouds the world for us, has
seldom in it the same sickening vertigo of inappropriateness which makes
the soul sick when someone essentially earthly is suddenly carried away
into the unseen, with which he seems to have had nothing to do all his
previous life. He! _dead!_ a man so material, of the lower earth. What
could dying be to him? What connection had he with the mystery and
solemnity of the unseen? The vulgar and commonplace awe us more at these
dread portals than the noble or great. What have they to do there? What
had a man like Mr. Meredith to do there? Yet he had gone, no one
knowing, and accomplished that journey which classes those who have made
it, great and small, with the gods. A hundred discordant thoughts
entered into his wife’s mind--compunction, and wonder, and solemn
trembling. Could he have known what she had been thinking that morning?
Was it some dumb approach of his soul to hers which had aroused these
more tender thoughts? Had he been aware of all that had gone on in her
mind since the time when, she knowing of it, he had died? Nature has
always an instinctive certainty, whatever philosophy may say against it,
and however little religion may say in favour of it, that this sacred
and mysterious event of death somehow enlarges and expands the being of
those who have passed under its power. Since we lost them out of our
sight, it seems so necessary to believe that they see through us more
than ever they did, and know what is passing within the hearts to which
they were kindred. Why should the man, who living had concerned himself
so little about what his wife did, _know_ now instantaneously all about
it, having died? She could not have given a reason, but she felt it to
be so. The dark ocean, thousands of miles of it, what was that to an
emancipated soul? He had died in India; but he was there, passing
mysteriously through the doors, standing by her, ‘putting things into
her head,’ in this corner of England. Which of us has not felt the same
strange certainty? All at once the house seemed full of him, even to the
children, who had scarcely known him. He was dead; passed into a world
which mocks at distance, which knows nothing of fatigue. He was as God
in some mysterious way, able to be everywhere, able to influence the
living unconsciously, seeing, hearing them--simply because he was dead,
and had become to mortal vision incapable of either seeing or hearing
more.
There is nothing more usual than to rail at the dreadful and often
unduly prolonged moment between death and the final ceremonial which
clears us away from cumbering the living soil any longer; but this
moment is often a blessing to the survivors. In such a case as this
‘the bereaved family’ did not know what to do. How were they to gain
that momentary respite from the common round? If the blinds were drawn
down, and the house shut up, according to the usual formula, that would
be purely fictitious; for of course he had been buried long ago. Edward
paused with the shutter in his hand when about to close it, struck by
this reflection, and Oswald gave vent to it plainly--‘What’s the good?
he’s in his grave long ago.’ Mrs. Meredith had retired to her room on
the receipt of the news, where her maid took her her cup of tea; and the
young men sat down again, and ate their breakfast, as it were under
protest, ashamed of themselves for the good appetites they had, and
cutting off here and there a corner of their usual substantial meal, to
prove to themselves that they were not quite without feeling. What were
they to do to make the fact evident that they had just heard of their
father’s death, and to separate this day, which was to them as the day
of his death, from other days? They were very much embarrassed to know
how they were to manage this. To abstain altogether from their usual
occupations was the only thing which instinctively occurred to them.
They sat down after breakfast was over, as though it had been a doubly
solemn dolorous Sunday, on which they could not even go to church.
Edward was doubtful even about _The Times_, and Oswald hesitated about
going to his smoking-room as usual. A cigar seemed a levity when there
was a death in the house. On the whole, however, it was Oswald who
settled the matter most easily, for he began a copy of verses, ‘To the
memory of my Father,’ which was a very suitable way indeed of getting
through the first hours, and amusing too.
The house was very still all the morning, and then there was another
subdued meal. Meals are a great thing to fall back upon when young
persons of healthful appetite, not broken down by grief, feel themselves
compelled to decorous appearance of mourning. By this time Oswald and
Edward both felt that not to eat was an absurd way of doing honour to
their dead father, and accordingly they had an excellent luncheon;
though their mother still ‘did not feel able,’ her maid reported, to
come down. After this the two young men went out together to take a
walk. This, too, was a kind of solemn Sabbatical exercise, which they
had not taken in the same way since they were boys at school together.
When they met any acquaintance, one of them would bow formally, or
stretch out a hand to be shaken, passing on, too grave for talk, while
the other paused to explain the ‘bad news’ they had received. When it
was a friend of Oswald’s, Edward did this, and when it was Edward’s
friend, Oswald did it. This little innocent solemn pantomime was so
natural and instinctive that it impressed everyone more or less, and
themselves most of all. They began to feel a certain importance in their
position, enjoying the sympathy, the kind and pitying looks of all they
met as they strolled along slowly arm-in-arm. They had not been so much
united, or felt so strong a connection with each other, for years. Then
they began to discuss in subdued tones the probable issues. ‘Will it
change our position?’ Edward asked.
‘I think not, unless to better it,’ said Oswald. ‘I don’t think you need
go to India now unless you like.’
He had just said this, when they were both addressed by someone coming
up behind them, as hasty and business-like as they were languid and
solemn.
‘I say, can you tell me whereabouts the India Office is?’ said the new
comer. ‘Good-morning. I shouldn’t have disturbed you but that I
remembered you were going to India too. I’m in for my last Exam., that
is, I shall be directly, and I’ve got something to do at the India
Office; but the fact is, I don’t know where to go.’
It was Edward who directed him, Oswald standing by holding his brother’s
arm. Roger Burchell was very brisk, looking better than usual in the
fresh spring sunshine, and Oswald’s eye was caught by his face, which
was like someone he had seen recently--he could not remember where--the
ruddy, mellow, warmly-toned complexion, brown eyes, and dusky gold of
the hair. Who was it? Roger, being out of his depth in London, was glad
to see faces he knew, even though he loved them little; and then he had
heard that Cara was to return to the Hill, and felt that he had
triumphed, and feared them no more.
‘I hope your neighbours are well?’ he said. ‘They are coming back, I
hear, to the country. I suppose they don’t care for London after being
brought up in a country place? I should not myself.’
‘Mr. Beresford is going abroad,’ said Edward, coldly.
‘Everybody is going abroad, I think; but few people so far as we are. I
don’t think I should care for the Continent--just the same old thing
over and over; but India should be all fresh. You are going to India
too, ain’t you? at least, that is what I heard.’
‘I am not sure,’ said Edward. ‘The truth is, we have had very bad news
this morning. My father died at Calcutta----’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Roger, who had kind feelings. ‘I should
not have stopped you had I known; I thought you both looked grave. I am
very sorry. I hope you don’t mind----?’
‘Don’t mind my father’s death?’
‘Oh, I mean don’t mind my having stopped you. Perhaps it was rude; but I
said to myself, “Here is someone I know.” Don’t let me detain you now. I
am very sorry, but I wish you were coming to India,’ said Roger, putting
out his big fist to shake hands. Oswald eluded the grip, but Edward took
it cordially. He was not jealous of Roger, but divined in him an
unfortunate love like his own.
‘Poor fellow!’ Edward said as they went on.
‘Poor fellow!--why poor fellow? he is very well off. He is the very sort
of man to get on; he has no feelings, no sensitiveness, to keep him
back.’
‘It is scarcely fair to decide on such slight acquaintance that he has
no feelings; but he is going to India.’
‘Ned, you are a little bit of a fool, though you’re a clever fellow.
Going to India is the very best thing a man can do. My mother has always
made a fuss about it.’
‘And yourself----’
‘Myself! I am not the sort of fellow. I am no good. I get dead beat; but
you that are all muscle and sinew, and that have no tie except my
mother----’
‘That to be sure,’ said Edward with a sigh, and he wondered did his
brother now at last mean to be confidential and inform him of the
engagement with Cara? His heart began to beat more quickly. How
different that real sentiment was from the fictitious one which they had
both been playing with! Edward’s breath came quickly. Yes, it would be
better to know it--to get it over; and then there would be no further
uncertainty; but at the same time he was afraid--afraid both of the fact
and of Oswald’s way of telling it. If Cara’s name was spoken with
levity, how should he be able to bear it? Needless to say, however, that
Oswald had no intention of talking about Cara, and nothing to disclose
on that subject at least.
‘You that have no tie--except my mother,’ repeated Oswald, ‘(and of
course she would always have me), I would think twice before I gave up
India. It’s an excellent career, nothing better. The governor (poor old
fellow) did very well, I have always heard, and you would do just as
well, or more so, with the benefit of his connection. I wonder rather
that my mother kept us out of the Indian set, except the old Spy. Poor
old man, I daresay he will be cut up about this. He’ll know better than
anyone,’ continued Oswald, with a change of tone, ‘what arrangements
have been made.’
‘I wonder if it will be long before we can hear?’ Thus they went on
talking in subdued tones, the impression gradually wearing off, and even
the feeling of solemn importance--the sense that, though not unhappy,
they ought to conduct themselves with a certain gravity of demeanour
becoming sons whose father was just dead. They had no very distinct
impression about the difference to be made in their own future, and even
Oswald was not mercenary in the ordinary sense of the word. He thought
it would be but proper and right that he should be made ‘an eldest son;’
but he did not think it likely--and in that case, though he would be
absolutely independent, he probably would not be very rich--not rich
enough to make work on his own part unnecessary. So the excitement on
this point was mild. They could not be worse off than they were--that
one thing he was sure of, and for the rest, one is never sure of
anything. By this time they had reached the region of Clubs. Oswald
thought there was nothing out of character in just going in for half an
hour to see the papers. A man must see the papers whoever lived or died.
When the elder brother unbent thus far, the younger brother went home.
He found his mother still in her own room taking a cup of tea. She had
been crying, for her eyes were red, and she had a shawl wrapped round
her, the chill of sudden agitation and distress having seized upon her.
Mr. Meredith’s picture, which had not hitherto occupied that place of
honour, had been placed above her mantelpiece, and an old Indian box,
sweet with the pungent odour of the sandal-wood, stood on the little
table at her elbow. ‘I was looking over some little things your dear
papa gave me, long before you were born,’ she said, with tears in her
voice. ‘Oh, my poor John!’
‘Mother, you must not think me unfeeling; but I knew so little of him.’
‘Yes, that was true--yes, that was true. Oh, Edward, I have been asking
myself was it my fault? But I could not live in India, and he was so
fond of it. He was always well. He did not understand how anyone could
be half killed by the climate. I never should have come home but for the
doctors, Edward.’
She looked at him so appealingly that Edward felt it necessary to take
all the responsibility unhesitatingly upon himself. ‘I am sure you did
not leave him as long as you could help it, mother.’
‘No, I did not--that is just the truth--as long as I could help it; but
it does seem strange that we should have been parted for so much of our
lives. Oh, what a comfort it is, Edward, to feel that whatever
misunderstanding there might be, he knows all and understands everything
_now_!’
‘With larger, other eyes than ours,’ said Edward piously, and the boy
believed it in the confidence of his youth. But how the narrow-minded
commonplace man who had been that distinguished civil servant, John
Meredith, should all at once have come to this godlike greatness by the
mere fact of dying, neither of them could have told. Was it nature in
them that asserted it to be so? or some prejudice of education and
tradition so deeply woven into their minds that they did not know it to
be anything but nature? But be it instinct or be it prejudice, what more
touching sentiment ever moved a human bosom? He had not been a man
beloved in his life; but he was as the gods now.
By-and-by, however--for reverential and tender as this sentiment was, it
was neither love nor grief, and could not pretend to the dominion of
these monarchs of the soul--the mother and son fell into talk about
secondary matters. She had sent for her dressmaker about her mourning,
and given orders for as much crape as could be piled upon one not
gigantic female figure, and asked anxiously if the boys had done their
part--had got the proper depth of hatbands, the black studs, &c., that
were wanted. ‘I suppose you may have very dark grey for the mourning;
but it must be _very_ dark,’ she said.
‘And you, mother, must you wear that cap--that mountain of white stuff?’
‘Certainly, my dear,’ said Mrs. Meredith with fervour. ‘You don’t think
I would omit any sign of respect? And what do I care whether it is
becoming or not? Oh, Edward, your dear papa has a right to all that we
can do to show respect.’
There was a faltering in her lip as of something more she had to say,
but decorum restrained her. That first day nothing ought to be thought
of, nothing should be mentioned, she felt, in which consolation had a
part. But when the night came after that long, long day, which they all
felt to be like a year, the secret comfort in her heart came forth as
she bade her boy good-night. ‘Edward, oh, I wish you had gone years ago,
when you might have been a comfort to him! but now that there is no
need----’ Here she stopped and kissed him, and looked at him with a
smile in her wet eyes, which, out of ‘respect,’ she would no more have
suffered to come to her lips than she would have worn pink ribbons in
her cap, and said quickly, ‘You need not go to India now.’
This was the blessing with which she sent him away from her. She cried
over it afterwards, in penitence looking at her husband’s portrait,
which had been brought out of a corner in the library downstairs. Poor
soul, it was with a pang of remorse that she felt she was going to be
happy in her widow’s mourning. If she could have restrained herself, she
would have kept in these words expressive of a latent joy which came by
means of sorrow. She stood and looked at the picture with a kind of
prayer for pardon in her heart--Oh, forgive me! with once more that
strange confidence that death had given the attributes of God to the man
who was dead. If he was near, as she felt him to be, and could hear the
breathing of that prayer in her heart, then surely, as Edward said, it
was with ‘larger, other eyes’ that he must look upon her, understanding
many things which up to his last day he had not been able to understand.
But they were all very glad when the day was over--that first day which
was not connected with the melancholy business or presence of death
which ‘the family’ are supposed to suffer from so deeply, yet which
proves a kind of chapel and seclusion for any grief which is not of the
deepest and most overwhelming kind. The Merediths would have been glad
even of a mock funeral, a public assuming of the trappings of woe, a
distinct period after which life might be taken up again. But there was
nothing at all to interrupt their life, and the whole affair remained
unauthentic and strange to them. Meanwhile, in the house next door these
strange tidings had made a sudden tumult. The packings had been stopped.
The servants were angry at their wasted trouble; the ladies both
silenced and startled, with thoughts in their minds less natural and
peaceful than the sympathy for Mrs. Meredith, which was the only feeling
they professed. As for Mr. Beresford himself, it would be difficult to
describe his feelings, which were of a very strange and jumbled
character. He was glad to have the bondage taken off his own movements,
and to feel that he was free to go where he pleased, to visit as he
liked; and the cause of his freedom was not really one which moved him
to sorrow though it involved many curious and uncomfortable questions.
How much better the unconscious ease of his feelings had been before
anyone had meddled! but now so many questions were raised! Yet his mind
was relieved of that necessity of immediate action which is always so
disagreeable to a weak man. Yes, his mind was entirely relieved. He took
a walk about his room, feeling that by-and-by it would be his duty to go
back again to Mrs. Meredith’s drawing-room to ask what he could do for
her, and give her his sympathy. Not to-night, but soon; perhaps even
to-morrow. The cruel pressure of force which had been put upon him, and
which he had been about to obey by the sacrifice of all his comforts,
relaxed and melted away. It was a relief, an undeniable relief; but yet
it was not all plain-sailing--the very relief was an embarrassment too.