_THE HOUSE OF MOURNING_
Eustace Marchmont came in sight of Penarvon Castle just as the last
rays of the winter sunset were striking upon its closed windows and
turning them into squares of flashing red light dazzling to the eye.
The castle stood commandingly upon its lofty promontory of jagged
cliff, and from its garden walls, as the young man remembered well, the
spectator could look sheer down a deep precipice into the tossing waves
of the sea beneath. He remembered the long side terrace of the castle,
against which the thunder of the surf in winter months made a perpetual
roar and battle; whilst even on summer evenings, when the sea lay like
a sheet of molten gold beneath them, the ceaseless murmur was always to
be heard, suggestive of the restless life of the ocean. It was natural
perhaps that Eustace should draw rein and look at the majestic pile
with something of pride in his gaze, for he was the Duke’s next of kin,
and in the course of nature would one day be master here. Yet there was
no exultation in the steady gaze he fixed upon his future home: it was
speculative and thoughtful rather than triumphant. There was a shade of
perplexity in the wide-open grey eyes intently fixed upon the place,
which looked at the moment as though lit up for illumination, and the
firm lips set themselves in lines that were almost grim.
Eustace Marchmont was clad in a suit of black, which was evidently
quite new, although slightly stained and disordered by the evidences of
a long and hasty journey. He had, in fact, ridden hard from town ever
since the news of the Duchess’s death reached him, now three days ago.
He knew that propriety demanded he should be present at her funeral,
even without the invitation from the Duke. He had come as fast as
post-horses could bring him, with his two servants in attendance, and
had travelled without mischance.
It was many years now since Eustace had visited Penarvon. His father
(dead two years since) and the Duke were cousins, and the Duke had no
brother. As young men there had been some attachment between them,
but they had grown apart with the advance of years. The Duke was by
many years the elder of the two; and perhaps on account of seniority,
perhaps from his position as head of the family, had striven with
possibly unwise persistence to mould his cousin after his own wishes.
Disagreement had ended in coolness, and the intercourse had become
slacker. Although Eustace had visited his “uncle’s” house (he had been
taught so to speak of the Duke), he did not remember ever having seen
his father there, and since his own boyhood he had not seen the place
himself.
He had not understood at the time why his visits ceased, but he knew it
well enough now. Although the Duke long cherished hopes of a son of his
own to succeed him, he had always regarded Eustace as a possible heir,
and had desired to have a voice in his education. The boy had been sent
to Eton at his suggestion; but when his school-days were ended, and his
uncle naturally supposed that the University would be the next step
in his training, Mr. Marchmont had suddenly decided to travel abroad
with the boy and see the world--the close of the long war having just
rendered travelling possible with safety. When he himself returned
to England at the end of two years, it was with the news that Eustace
had been left behind in Germany to finish his education there; and the
indignant remonstrances of the Duke had resulted in a coolness which
had never been altogether conquered. He considered that the young man
would be rendered entirely unfit by such training, for the position
every year seemed to make it more probable he would one day hold,
whilst Mr. Marchmont argued that, the youth’s heart being set upon it,
it was far better to give him his own way than try to force him into
paths uncongenial and distasteful.
Eustace was now seven-and-twenty, and in command of an ample fortune.
Both his parents were dead--his mother he did not even remember, and
he had neither brother nor sister. His second cousin, Lady Bride
Marchmont, whom he dimly remembered as a shrinking little girl, for
ever clinging to her mother’s hand, was the only relative of his own
generation that he possessed; and it had naturally occurred to him
before now that to marry the Duke’s daughter, if he could learn to
love her and teach her to love him, would be the best reparation he
could make to her for the lack of brothers of her own. It seemed to
him a hard and unjust thing that her sex should disqualify her from
succeeding to her father’s wealth and title. Eustace was no lover of
the time-honoured laws of primogeniture, entail, or the privileges of
the upper classes. The leaven of the day was working strongly in him,
and he was ready to break a lance in the cause of freedom and brotherly
equality with whatever foe came in his way.
His face bespoke something of this temperament. He had the broad lofty
brow of the thinker, the keen steady eye of the man of battle, the open
sensitive nostril of the enthusiast, and the firm tender mouth of the
philanthropist. Without being handsome he was attractive, and his face
was worthy of study. There was something of quiet scorn lying latent in
his expression, which argument easily called into active existence.
The face could darken sternly, or soften into ardent tenderness and
enthusiasm, as the case might be. He had the air of a leader of men.
His voice was deep, penetrating, and persuasive, and he had a fine
command of language when his pulses were stirred. In person he was tall
and commanding, and had that air of breeding which goes far to win
respect with men of all classes. He moved with the quiet dignity and
ease of one perfectly trained in all physical exercises, and in whom
no thought of self-consciousness lurks. He looked well on horseback,
riding with the grace of long practice. As he followed the windings of
the zigzag road which led up to the castle, looking about him with keen
eyes to observe what changes time had made in the old place, he looked
like one whom the Duke might welcome with pride as his heir, since it
had not pleased Providence to bestow upon him a son of his own.
He rode quietly up to the great sweep before the gateway and passed
beneath it, answering the respectful salute of the porter with a
friendly nod, and found himself in the quadrangle upon which the great
hall door opened. His approach had been observed, and the servants in
their sombre dress were waiting to receive him; but the drawn blinds
over all the windows, and the deep hush which pervaded the house,
struck a chill upon the spirit of the young man as he passed beneath
the portal, and a quick glance round the hall assured him that none but
servants were there.
A great hound lying beside the roaring fire of logs rose with a
suspicious bay and advanced towards him, but seeming to recognise
kinship in the stranger, permitted him to stroke his head, as Eustace,
standing beside the hearth, addressed the butler in low tones:--
“How is it with his Grace?”
The man slowly shook his head.
“Sadly, sir, but sadly. He keeps himself shut up in his own room--the
room next to that in which her Grace lies--and unless it be needful
nobody disturbs him. He looks ten years older than he did a month back:
it has made an old man of him in a few weeks.”
“And the Lady Bride?”
“She is bearing up wonderfully, but we think she has scarce realised
her loss yet. She seems taken out of herself by it all--uplifted
like--almost more than is natural in so young a lady. But she was
always half a saint, like her Grace herself. She will be just such
another as her mother.”
“And the funeral is to-morrow?”
“Yes, sir--on the first day of the new year. Her Grace died very early
upon the morning of Christmas Day--just a week from now.”
Eustace was silent for a few minutes, and then turning to the servant,
said--
“Does his Grace know I am here? Shall I see him to-day? Does he see
anybody?”
“If you will let me show you your rooms, sir, I will let him know you
have arrived. He will probably see you at dinner-time. He and Lady
Bride dine together at five--their other meals they have hitherto taken
in their own rooms, but that may be changed now. You will join them at
dinner, of course, sir.”
“If they wish it, certainly,” answered Eustace; “but I have no wish to
intrude if they would prefer to be alone. Is anybody else here?”
“There is nobody else to come, sir. Her Grace’s few relatives are in
Ireland, and there has not been time to send for them, and they were
not nearly related to her either. I am glad you are here, sir. It is a
long time since Penarvon has seen you.”
“Yes, I have been much abroad, but the place looks exactly the same. I
could believe I had been here only yesterday.”
And then Eustace followed the man up the grand marble staircase and
down a long corridor, so richly carpeted that their foot-falls made no
sound, till they reached a small suite of apartments, three in number,
which had been prepared for the use of the guest, and which were
already bright with glowing fires, and numbers of wax candles in silver
sconces arranged along the walls.
The costliness and richness of his surroundings was strange to Eustace,
for although wealth was his, his habits were very simple, and he
neither desired nor appreciated personal indulgences of whatever kind
they might be. He looked round him now with a smile not entirely free
from contempt, although he recognised in the welcome thus accorded him
a spirit of friendly regard, which was pleasant.
“Unless, indeed, it is all the work of hired servants,” he said, after
a moment’s cogitation. “Probably it is so--who else would have thought
to spare for a guest at such a time as this? This is the regular thing
at the castle for every visitor. There is nothing personal to me in all
this warmth and brightness.”
His baggage had arrived, and his servant had laid out his evening
dress: but Eustace never required personal attention, and the man had
already taken his departure. The young man donned his new suit of
decorous black with rapidity and precision. He was no dandy, but he
was no sloven either, and always looked well in his clothes. After
his rapid toilet was completed, he sat down beside the fire to muse,
and was only interrupted by the message to the effect that his Grace
desired the pleasure of his company at the dinner-table that evening.
This being the case, and the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece
pointing ten minutes only to the hour of five, Eustace at once rose and
descended to the drawing-room, the door of which was thrown open for
him by one of the footmen carrying in some logs to feed the huge fire.
One glance round the once familiar apartment showed him that it was
empty. It was the smallest of the three drawing-rooms, opening one into
the other in a long suite, and formed indeed the ante-chamber to the
larger ones beyond; but it was the one chiefly used when there were no
guests at the castle; and Eustace remembered well the pictures on the
white and gold walls, the amber draperies, and the cabinets with their
treasures of silver, china, and glass.
Nothing seemed changed about the place, and the sense of stationary
immutability and repose struck strangely upon the alert faculties of
the young man, whose life had always been full of variety--not only of
place and scene, but of thought and principle. A dreamlike feeling came
over him as he stood looking about him, and he did not know whether the
predominant sensation in his mind were of satisfaction or impatience.
The door slowly opened, and in came a slim black-robed figure. For a
moment Eustace, standing near to an interesting picture, and shadowed
by a curtain, passed unnoticed, so that he took in the details of
this living picture before he himself was seen. He knew in a moment
who it was--his cousin Bride--the little timid girl of his boyish
recollections; but if all else were unchanged at Penarvon, there was
change at least here, for had he seen her in any other surroundings he
would never have known or recognised her.
Bride’s face was very pale, and there were dark violet shadows beneath
the eyes which told of vigil and of weeping; yet the face was now not
only calm, but full of a deep spiritual tranquillity and exaltation,
which gave to it an aspect almost unearthly in its beauty. Bride had
inherited all her mother’s exceptional loveliness of feature, but she
owed more to that expression--caught from, rather than transmitted
by, that saintly mother--which struck the beholder far more than mere
delicacy of feature or purity of colouring. Eustace was no mean
student of art, and had studied at the shrine of the old masters
with an enthusiasm born of true appreciation for genius; yet never
had he beheld, even in the greatest masterpieces, such a wonderfully
spiritualised and glorified face as he now beheld in the person of his
cousin Bride. A wave of unwonted devotional fervour came suddenly upon
him. He felt that he could have bent the knee before her and kissed the
hem of her garment; but instead of that he was constrained by custom to
walk forward with outstretched hand, meeting the startled glance of her
liquid dark eyes as she found herself not alone.
“You are my cousin Eustace,” she said, in a low melodious voice that
thrilled him strangely as it fell upon his ear; “my father will be glad
you are come.”
For once Eustace’s readiness failed him. He held Bride’s hand, and knew
not how to address her. His heart was beating with quick strong throbs.
He felt as though he were addressing some being from another sphere.
What could he say to her at such a moment?
Perhaps his silence surprised her, for she raised her soft eyes again
to his, and the glance went home to his soul like a sword-thrust, so
that he quivered all over. But he found his voice at last.
“Forgive me,” he said, and his voice was soft and even tremulous. “If
I am silent, it is because I have no words in which to express what I
wish. There are moments in life when we feel that words are no true
medium of thought. I remember your mother, Bride--that is all I can
find to say. I remember her--and before the thought of your great loss
I am dumb. Silence is sometimes more eloquent that any speech can be.”
He still held her hand. She raised her eyes to his, and he saw that he
had touched her heart, for they were swimming now in bright tears, but
her sweet mouth did not quiver.
“Thank you,” she said, in tones that were little raised above a
whisper. “I am glad you have said that. I am glad you remember her. I
think she was fond of you, Eustace.”
Then the door opened and the Duke appeared.
Eustace was shocked at his aspect. He remembered him as a very upright,
dignified, majestic man, whose words were few and to the point, whose
personality inspired awe and reverence in all about him, whose wishes
were law, and whose will none ventured to dispute. He beheld before him
now a bowed, white-headed man, out of whose eyes the light and keenness
had passed, whose voice was low and enfeebled, and whose whole aspect
betokened a mind and heart broken by grief, and a physique shattered by
the blow which had desolated his home.
Nevertheless this form of grief did not appear to the young man so
pathetic as Bride’s, and he was not tongue-tied before the Duke. His
well-chosen words of sympathy and condolence were received kindly by
the old man, and before the first dinner was over Eustace felt that the
ice was broken, and that he began to have some slight knowledge of the
relatives with whom he felt he should in the future have considerable
dealings if he succeeded in winning their favour. Their loneliness,
isolation, and weakness appealed to the manly instincts of his nature,
and he resolved that any service he could perform to lighten their
burden should not be lacking.
When left alone with the Duke after Bride had vanished, little passed
between them. The host apologised for his silence, but said he could
not yet begin to talk of common things, and contented himself by
obtaining a promise from Eustace to remain some weeks at the castle as
his guest. In those days visits were always of considerable length, and
Eustace had made his preparations for a lengthened absence from London,
in case he should be required here. He accepted the invitation readily,
and the Duke, rising and saying good night, with an intimation that
he should retire at once to his room, Eustace strolled across the vast
hall to the drawing-room, half expecting to find it empty; but his
heart gave a quick bound as he saw it tenanted by the slim black-robed
figure, and met the earnest gaze of Bride’s soft eyes.
She rose as he appeared, and advanced to met him. Upon her face was an
expression which he did not understand till her next words explained it.
“Would you like to come and see her for the last time? To-morrow it
will be too late.”
Eustace bent his head in voiceless assent. He could not say nay to such
an invitation, albeit he thought that there was something morbid in the
feeling which prompted it. Habituated to foreign ways and customs, this
keeping of the dead unburied for so many days was in his eyes slightly
repulsive; but he followed the noiseless steps of his guide, and was
at last ushered into a large dim room, lighted by many wax tapers, the
light of which seemed, however, absorbed into the heavy black draperies
with which the walls were hung.
In this sombre apartment the Duchess had lain in state (if such a
phrase might be used) for many days. The whole population of St. Bride
and St. Erme had combined to plead for a last look upon her who in life
had been so greatly beloved; and both the Duke and his daughter had
been touched by the request, which was promptly gratified.
And so Eustace now found himself before a prostrate figure that bore
the likeness of a marble effigy, but was clad in soft white robes
of sheeny texture, the fine dark hair being dressed as in life, and
crowned by the film of priceless lace which the Duchess was wont to
wear. Tall lilies in pots made a background for the recumbent figure,
and the wax tapers cast their light most fully upon the tranquil
face of the dead. And when once the eye rested on that face, the
accessories were all forgotten. Eustace looked, and a great awe and
wonder fell upon him. Bride looked, and her face kindled with that
expression which he marked upon it when first he had seen her, and
which afterwards, when he heard the words, seemed to him best described
in this phrase, “Death is swallowed up of victory.”
She knelt down beside the couch on which all that was mortal of her
mother lay, and when Eustace turned his eyes away from the peaceful
face of the dead, it was to let them rest for a moment upon the
ecstatic countenance of the living.
But after one glance he softly retired, unnoticed by Bride, and shut
the door behind him noiselessly.
In the shelter of his own room the sense of mystic awe and wonder that
possessed him fell away by degrees. He paced up and down, lost in
thought, and presently a frown clouded the eyes that had been till now
full of pity and sympathy.
“She looks as though she had been living with the dead till she is more
spirit than flesh. How can they let her? It is enough to kill her or
send her mad! Well, thank heaven, the funeral is to-morrow. After that
this sort of thing must cease. Poor child, poor girl! A father who
seems to have no knowledge of her existence, her mother snatched away
in middle life. And she does not look made of the stuff that forgets
either. She will have a hard time of it in the days to come. I wonder
if she will let me help her, if I can in any wise comfort her. That
must be a heart worth winning, if one had but the key.”
Upon the forenoon of the next day the funeral of the Duchess was
celebrated with all the pomp and sombre show incident to such occasions
in the days of which we write. Bride did not accompany the sable
procession as it left the castle and wound down the hill. Women did not
appear in public on such occasions then; and she only watched from a
turret window the mournful cortège as it set forth, the servants of the
household forming in rank behind the coaches, and walking in procession
in the rear, and as the gates were reached, being followed in turn by
almost every man, woman, and child within a radius of five miles, the
whole making such a procession as had never been seen in the place
before.
Hitherto the girl had been supported by the feeling that her mother,
although dead, was still with her; that she could gaze on that dear
face at will, feel the shadowing presence of her great love, and know
something of the hallowing brooding peace which rested upon the quiet
face of the dead. Moreover, she was upheld all these days by a wild
visionary hope that perhaps even yet her mother would be restored
to her. Her intense faith in the power of God made it easy to her
to imagine that in answer to her fervent prayer the soul might be
restored to its tenement--the dead raised up to life. If the prayer
of faith could move mountains--if _all_ things were possible to him
that believeth, why might not she believe that her own faith, her own
prayer, might be answered after this manner? Had not men been given
back from the dead before now? Why not this precious life, so bound up
in her own and in the hearts of so many?
Thus the girl had argued, and thus she had spent her days and her
nights in fasting and prayer, raised up above the level of earth by her
absorbing hope and faith, till she had almost grown to believe that
the desired miracle would become a reality. And now that the dream
was ended, now that she stood watching the disappearance of that long
procession, and knew that God had not answered her prayers, had not
rewarded her faith as she felt it deserved to be rewarded, a strange
leaden heaviness fell upon her spirit. The reaction from the ecstatic
fervour of spirit set in with somewhat merciless force. She felt that
the earth was iron and the heavens brass, that there was none below
to love her, none above to hear her. A sense akin to terror suddenly
possessed her. She turned from her post of observation and fled
downwards. She felt choking, and craved the fresh salt air, which had
not kissed her cheek for more than this eternity of a week. At the foot
of the turret was a door opening into the garden. She fled down, and
found herself in the open air, and with hasty steps she passed through
the deserted gardens till she came to the great glass conservatory,
which had been erected at no small cost for the winter resort of the
Duchess since she became so much the invalid; and flinging herself
down upon the couch which still stood in its accustomed place in the
recess made for it, the girl burst into wild weeping, and beat her head
against the cushions in a frenzy akin to despair.
How long she thus remained she knew not. Darkness seemed to fall upon
her, and a great horror of she knew not what. The next sensation of
which she was really conscious was the touch of a hand on her shoulder,
and the sound of a kindly and familiar voice in her ear--
“Lady Bride, ladybird, don’tee take on so bitterly, my lamb. It is not
_her_ they have put underground. May be _she_ is near yu now whilst
you weep. May be it was she who put it into my heart to come here just
at this time. If they can grieve whom the peace of God Almighty has
wrapped round, I think ’twould grieve her to see yu breaking your heart
to-day.”
“O Abner!” cried the girl, sitting up and pushing the heavy hair out of
her eyes, “I am glad you have come! I felt as though there was no one
left in the wide world but me--that I was all alone, and all the world
was dead. But I have not been like this before. Till they took her
away I felt I had her with me. I knew that she was near--that she was
watching over me. There was always the hope that she was not dead--that
her spirit might come back once more. O Abner, Abner! why does God
always take those who can least be spared? There are so many who would
scarce be missed, and she----”
Bride could not complete her sentence, and the old gardener looked
tenderly at her. He had known her from her birth. He had guided her
tottering steps round the garden before she could fairly walk alone.
He had watched her growth and development with an almost fatherly
tenderness and pride. She was as dear to him as though she had been his
own flesh and blood; and the mother who was now taken away had never
interfered with the friendship between the child and the old servant;
nay, she had many and many a time held long talks herself with Abner,
and knew how strong a sympathy there was between his views and her own,
despite their widely different walk in life. And so in the old gardener
Bride had a friend to whom at such a moment as this she could talk more
freely than to any other living creature.
“May be the Lord wants the most beautiful flowers for His own garden,
my Ladybird,” answered the old man, using the familiar pet name which
had grown up between them in childhood. “When I used to gather flowers
for her Grace’s room, I chose the sweetest and most perfect blossoms I
could find. We mustn’t wonder if the Lord sometimes does the same--nor
grudge Him the fairest and purest flowers, even though the loss is
ours.”
Slightly soothed by the thought, Bride tried to smile.
“Only it seems as though we wanted them so much more,” said she.
“I don’t know. The dear Lord must have loved her full as much as we do.
He lent her to us for many years; may be He knew she would be better
placed in His garden now, where no pruning-knife need ever touch her,
and no suns can scorch her, and where her leaves will never wither.
Sure, my Ladybird, yu du not grudge her her place in God’s garden of
Paradise?”
“O Abner! I will try not. I know what you mean; she did have much
suffering to bear here, and I am thankful she will have no more. But
there are some things so hard to understand, even when we believe
them. I cannot bear to think of her body lying in the cold ground, and
becoming--oh! it does not bear thinking of.”
“Then, why think of it, Ladybird?--why not look beyond this poor
corruptible body, and think of the glorious resurrection body with
which we shall all arise?”
“Oh, it is so hard to understand!” cried Bride, pressing her hands
together--“it is so hard to understand!”
“I think it is not possible to understand,” said the old man quietly,
“but surely it is easy to believe, for we see it every day and every
year.”
“How do we see it?” asked Bride, almost listlessly.
Abner put his hand in his pocket and drew forth a little packet of
seed, some of which he poured into his palm.
“Lady Bride,” he said in his grave meditative way, “it does not seem
wonderful to yu that each of these tiny seeds will, after it has rotted
in the ground, germinate and bear leaves and flowers and fruit. But if
yu did not know it from constant seeing it year by year, if it was a
strange thing that yu have been told, and yu would not believe it, and
yu said to me, ‘No, Abner, that cannot be. It is not sense. It cannot
be understood. I must prove it first before I believe it.’ And suppose
yu took that seed and put it under that glass which clever men use for
discoveries, and suppose beneath that powerful glass yu pulled it bit
by bit to pieces to see if it contained the germ of the mystery, du yu
think yu would find it there? Du yu think your seed would grow after
being treated so?”
“No, of course not,” answered Bride.
“Well, isn’t it just so with the mysteries of God? He gives them to
us, and says, ‘Here is your body. It is corruptible and mortal; but
it has within it the germ of immortality, and though it will die and
perish in the ground, yet it will rise again glorified when the day of
resurrection comes.’ But men in these days take that mystery and say,
‘We will not take God’s word for it; we will put it beneath the glass
of our great intellects, and examine and see if it be true, and if we
may not prove it by examination, then we will not believe it!’ And so
they set to work, and when they have done, they tell men not to believe
God any longer, because they have proved Him a liar by the gauge of
their own intellects. Du yu think these men would believe that this
seed would sprout into a flower if they did not see it do so with their
own eyes? No; they would laugh yu to scorn for telling them so. And so
they laugh us to scorn who tell them that there will be a resurrection
of the dead. But, Ladybird, never let your heart fail you. Never let
doubt steal over your mind. What God has promised we know He will
surely accomplish--and His words cannot fail.”
She rose with a faint smile and held out her hand, which the old
gardener took reverently and tenderly between both of his own.
“I will try to think of that if ever I doubt again,” she said softly.
“I do know--I do believe--but sometimes it is very hard to keep fast
hold on the faith.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]