THE MIDNIGHT FUNERAL.
Ernestine had been watching our approach from a window. It was some
time before she recovered from the stupefaction into which the
appearance of the body of Gabrielle, and the relation of our terrible
narrative (which then wanted the unity that after inquiries have
enabled me to give it), had plunged her. As yet one of the principal
actors had not come forward; thus, the cause of Gabrielle's death was
involved in a mystery, alike perplexing and impenetrable.
"All is over now," said Ernestine; "all is over now! My father--my
father--let me reach my father's side, and then die too!"
Grief affected her by alternate fits of bitterness and calmness. At
one time she was somewhat composed in her woe; at others, she flung
herself upon her knees beside the bed on which the body lay (the same
bed whereon her sister's slayer so nearly assassinated herself), and
fondly kissed her again and again, playing with the masses of
golden-coloured hair, that streamed over the pillow, with the pretty
but pallid fingers that still yielded to her touch--arranging, and
re-arranging her dress, uttering the while many a piteous endearing
epithet, with many of those pious and beautiful exclamations of hope
and woe, which the prayers of her Catholic preceptor had taught her.
"It is my own Gabrielle come back to me, after all! God has sent her
to me, that once more I might take a sister's fond farewell of her.
But God has been very cruel to me! Oh! what do I say? No, no--he
has taken you to himself--you are now among the angels in heaven,
sister; you were too good for this bad world! You are happy, and I
must not grudge you to Him, who will one day require me too."
"She will know how kind you are to her," said Phadrig Mhor, who,
being a Catholic, had earnestly begged leave to say his prayers at
the foot of the bed, where he knelt down, and behind his bonnet was
making very wry faces to conceal his sorrow, for grief easily affects
the hearts of the brave and honest; "she will indeed, lady, for the
dead know all that passes here."
There is something sacred in grief. We all withdrew, and at her own
request left Ernestine along with the body for a time.
With a delicacy of sentiment that charmed me, she would not allow
either the hostess of the inn, or any other woman, to assist her in
arranging the remains of the poor child (for in many things Gabrielle
was but a child) for the grave. She knew whose hands Gabrielle would
have preferred to perform this sad and solemn, this last duty of
affection; and thus unaided, she lifted and laid her in the coffin,
tying her consecrated medals round her neck, laying a chaplet of
white roses on her brow, and a crucifix upon her breast; she
concluded, by repeatedly reading aloud, with a broken voice, those
prayers which the church, in whose tenets she had been reared,
directed shall be said for the dead.
These little offices, the pleasing dictates of mingled affection and
religion, soothed and occupied her mind; and I could not help
thinking how much the ideas inculcated by the ancient faith (whether
derived from paganrie or not), were calculated to rob the grim tyrant
of his terrors, rather, than like our Scottish customs, to invest him
with others more appalling.
I beheld her with admiration, and her faith and fervour stirred a
thousand deep and pious thoughts within me. The memory of those two
days at Hesinge is full of pain; for we spent one day more, Ian
delaying his march, in consequence of this melancholy catastrophe,
over which I mean to hurry as briefly as possible.
It appeared at times impossible to realise the conviction, that our
poor Gabrielle had passed away, or now existed only in memory!
During nearly an entire day I sat with Ernestine beside the body,
which was to be buried at midnight in the old village church close
by. As the dusk of evening stole on, strange alternations of light
and shadow fell on the beautiful face of the dead girl, giving it at
times a most lifelike expression. Then it would seem as if the
features moved, and, but for her awful placidity, I could have
imagined that, in her old spirit of waggery, the pretty Gabrielle was
mocking us all. Though my brother-soldiers mourned for the untimely
end of the poor young girl, I thought they should all love her as
much as I did; for sorrow is sometimes unreasonable; and the easy
indifference with which they continued their military duties, made me
indignant at them all. But they felt like soldiers. Their first
impulse was to have Merodé punished, and after considerable
disputation among the officers as to who should have the honour of
effecting this, unknown to me lots were cast in Ian's helmet under
the _Green-Tree_, and it fell to the stout old Laird of Kildon to
challenge Merodé to advance one hundred paces from the gate of
Helnœsland, and, after exchanging four pistol-shots on foot or
horseback, to decide the contest by the sword; but the necessity for
immediately marching by daybreak, prevented this desirable rencontre
from taking place. Had it been, sure am I that the white-haired
Mackenzie had cut the German count into pieces.
The whole regiment attended the funeral, which the rank of Gabrielle
required should take place at midnight.
It was a strange and striking scene! The coffin of that young being,
once so happy and so full of life, with a chaplet of white lilies on
its lid, borne on the shoulders of four tall Highland soldiers,
preceded by the village girls in white, and old Torquil Gorm, with
his pipes, pouring to the still midnight a slow and subdued lament;
our bronzed and scarred officers in their picturesque arms and garb
following close behind, with the veiled form of Ernestine in the
midst;--all this was seen, be it remembered, by the lurid and
uncertain light of twenty torches carried by Highland soldiers.
The night air was soft and mild; no moon was visible, but occasional
red stars shot across the sky, and the pale northern lights were
gleaming at the far and flat horizon. The leaves of the old
yew-trees, the grass of the graves, and the flowers that bordered the
churchyard path, were gleaming in dew; and the grotesque architecture
of the massive and ancient porch, the low-browed arches of every
window and aisle were bathed in red and wavering light, or rounded
into deep and gloomy shadow, as the funeral train swept slowly down
the centre of the church, preceded by a minister of the Lutheran
faith, a venerable Dane, clad in a white surplice and embroidered
stole, with a large brass-bound Bible in his hand. He was an aged
and silver-haired man, whose thin wan _haffets_ glittered in the
light of the uplifted torches. There was no sound but the sputtering
of the latter, and the sobs of Ernestine, who leant upon my arm.
The coffin, which was placed upon a bier above the grave, emitted a
hollow sound as it was deposited. Then I felt Ernestine tremble.
That faint but terrible sound vibrated among the chords of her
desolate heart.
I remember still the words of the burial-service, the solemn and
beautiful prayer for the innocent dead; but the memory of that
midnight funeral floats before me wavering and indistinctly, like a
half-forgotten but impressive dream. The yawning grave and the
descending coffin; the sputtering torches and the green tartans; the
glittering cuirasses and sunburnt faces of my comrades; the grey and
grotesque columns of the old Danish church; the veiled figure that
knelt in a paroxysm of prayer and grief beside the closing tomb, from
which she would be far away tomorrow; the kind and solemn face of the
old village pastor, as he covered it with his sleeve, bowed his aged
head, and closed his book; the jarring sound of hasty shovels; the
depositation of a large stone; the quiet and slow departure of the
many; the lingering of the few, who seemed loth to leave the sobbing
and sorrowing sister. The torches by that time were extinguished,
and all was over.
All seemed to be a fantasy--a thing that could not be; and the idea
that haunted me was, that Gabrielle should meet us at our return.
But, alas! there was nothing in the little chamber to indicate her
former presence but the outline of her coffin, which still was
impressed upon the bed; and, on seeing that, poor Ernestine fainted.
As her elder kinsman, Ian had held the principal cord of the coffin;
thus it was by the hand she loved best that the head of poor
Gabrielle was lowered into her early grave.
Book the Twelfth.