THE FUNERAL DAY.
The day of Sir Walter Penton’s funeral was a great if gloomy holiday for
the whole country about. A man so old, and so little known to the
neighborhood, could not be greatly mourned. He had kept up, no doubt,
the large charities which it is the worthy privilege of a great family
to maintain for the benefit of the country, but he had never appeared in
them, and few people associated a personal kindness with the image of
the stately old man who had been seen so seldom for years past. The
people in the village and all the houses scattered along the road were
full of excitement and curiosity. The carriages which kept arriving all
the morning gradually raised the interest of the spectators toward the
great climax of the funeral procession, which it was expected would be
half a mile long, and embraced everybody of any importance in the
neighborhood, besides the long line of the tenantry. And then the
flowers--that new evidence of somber vanity and extravagant fashion. To
see these alone was enough to draw a crowd. In the heart of the winter,
just after Christmas, what masses of snowy blossoms, piled up, crushing
and spoiling each other--flowers that cost as much as would have fed a
parish! The villagers stood with open mouths of wonder. No one there in
all their experiences of life--all the weddings, christenings, summer
festivals of their recollection--had seen such a display. The
procession, headed by no black mournful hearse, such as would have
seemed natural to the lookers-on, but by a sort of triumphal car,
covered with flowers, drew forth crowds all along the way.
The Pentons, who were now the lords of all--or rather of as little as
was practicable, for all that was unentailed naturally went without
question to Sir Walter’s daughter--had not a carriage of their own in
which to swell the procession. And though they were now naturally in the
chief place, they were perhaps the least known of all the rural
potentates, great and small, who shook hands in silence, with looks of
sympathy more or less solemn, with Mr. Russell Penton after the ceremony
was over. Sir Edward, indeed, the new baronet, had known them all in his
day; but Walter looked on with a half-defiant shyness, with scarcely an
acquaintance in the multitude. And the sensation was very strange to
both father and son when all the train had dispersed and they came back
to the great house which was henceforward theirs. Mrs. Russell Penton
had not since the moment of her father’s death made any show of her
grief. She had been entirely stricken down on that day. A frightful
combination and mingling of emotions had prostrated her. Grief for her
father; ah, yes! He had been perhaps the one individual in the world
upon whose full comprehension she had leaned; but in his dying even this
had failed her, and she felt that he comprehended her and she him no
longer, and that at the last moment his steps had strayed from hers. A
more bitter and terrible discovery could not be; and when with that came
the sense that all her hopes had failed--that the plans so nearly
brought to some practical possibility had all come to nothing--that
everything was too late--that, instead of securing her home for an
eternal possession, which was what her eager spirit desired, she had
only presented herself to the world in the aspect of a grasping woman,
endeavoring to take advantage of a poor man and seize his
inheritance--when all this became apparent to her, Alicia covered her
face and withdrew from the light of day. The loss of one who had been
the chief object in her life for so long, the father whom she had loved,
was not much more than a pretense (and she felt this too to the bottom
of her heart) for the misery that overwhelmed her; which was not grief
only, but disappointment almost more bitter than grief; disenchantment
and failure mingled with the sorrow and loss, and made them more keen
and poignant than words can tell. And she was ashamed that it should be
so--ashamed that, when all around her gave her credit for thus
profoundly mourning her father, she was mourning in him her own
disappointed hopes, her disgust, her failure, as well as the loss her
heart had sustained. This consciousness was in itself one of the
bitterest parts of her burden. Her husband came into the room with
sympathetic looks, her maid stole about on tiptoe, everything was kept
in darkness and quiet to soothe her grief. And yet her grief was but a
small part of what her proud spirit was suffering. To feel that this was
so was almost more than she could bear.
After the first day she would indeed bear it no longer. She would permit
no more of that obsequious tenderness which is given to sorrow, but got
up and came forth to take her usual place in the house and fulfill her
ordinary duties, refusing as much as she could the praises lavished upon
her for her self-control and unselfishness and regard for others. She
“bore up” wonderfully, everybody said; but Alicia, to do her justice,
would have none of the applause which was murmured about her. “I did not
expect my father would live forever,” she said, with a tone of
impatience to her husband; “and to lie there and think everything over
again, is that to be desired? I would rather feel I had some duty still
and claims upon me.”
“Oh, many claims,” he said; “but you must not overtask your strength.”
She had no fear of overtasking her strength, but rather a feeling that
if she could get to work--as her maid did, as the house-maids did, to
prepare for her departure and the entry of the other family--that would
be the thing which would do her good. After the funeral she came out in
her deep mourning, out of the library, in which she had been spending
that solemn hour, to meet the chief mourners when they returned. It
would have pleased her better to have been chief mourner herself; but it
had been said on all hands that it would be “too much for her.” So she
had spent the time while the slow _cortege_ was winding along the
country road and all the gloomy formulas were being fulfilled, by
herself in the old man’s favorite room, where everything spoke of him,
reading the funeral service over and over, thinking--now they will be
there, and there; now arrived at the grave; now leaving him--beside the
boys. It was that thought that brought the tears. Beside the boys! They
had lain there for twenty years and more, but she could still shed tears
for them; for all the rest her eyes were dry. And when the carriages
came back she came out quite composed, though so pale, in all the
solemnity of her mourning, covered with crape, to the drawing-room to
receive them. She had bidden her husband to bring the new proprietor
back with him, that everything might at once be said which remained to
say. She gave her hand to Edward, who came forward to meet her, he too
in deep mourning; but her eye went beyond him to “the boy” who stood
behind, and whose slight young figure seemed to hold itself more erect,
and with an air of greater self-belief than when she saw him last. What
wonder! he was the heir.
“I wanted to see you,” she said. “Gerald will have told you--that
everything might be put at once on the footing we wish it to be.”
“I told you, Alicia, that your cousin would not hurry you. He is as
anxious as I am that you should have no trouble. We have talked it all
over--”
“Why shouldn’t I have trouble?” she said. “There is no reason in the
world for sparing me my share of the roughness. I am better so. Edward,
if you should wish to get possession soon, you and your wife, you may be
sure I will put no obstacles in your way.”
“I wish you would believe that we have no wish, no desire. We want you
to act exactly as may suit you best--to consider yourself still in your
own house.”
“That is impossible,” she said, quickly; “mine it is not, nor ever was;
and now that he is gone who was its natural master--I know perfectly
well how considerate you will be. What I am expressing is my own
wish--not to be in your way--not to put off your settling down. You have
a large family--you will want to settle everything.”
At this Sir Edward began to clear his throat, and it took him some time
to get out the next words.
“Alicia,” he said, “we have been thinking a great deal about it, my wife
and I.”
“Yes, you must naturally have thought about it. Mrs. Penton”--here the
speaker paused, grew red, hesitated a little, and then went on--“she
must wish to have everything decided about the removal, and to know what
furniture will be wanted, and a great deal besides. If you would like
to bring her to see for herself, and judge what is necessary--I hope you
understand me--my husband and I will give every facility.”
“My dear, your cousin knows all that,” said Russell Penton, not without
impatience.
“It was something else I wanted to say. My wife--is a woman of great
sense, Alicia.”
Mrs. Russell Penton made a slight bow of assent. She had nothing to do
with his wife. She did not like to hear of her at all, the woman who was
now Lady Penton, and yet was a woman of no account, an insignificant
mother of a family. This description, which the person to whom it
belongs is generally somewhat proud of, is often to women without that
distinction a contemptuous way of dismissing an individual of whom
nothing else can be said. Edward Penton’s wife was no more than that.
Sense! Oh, yes, she might have sense, so far as her brood and its wants
were concerned.
“She always thought--an opinion which, however, she did not express till
very lately, and in which I did not agree--that this house, which you
and my poor uncle kept up so splendidly--”
Alicia gave an impatient wave of her hand. She could not see why Sir
Walter should be called poor because he was dead.
“Yes,” said Sir Edward, “it has been splendidly kept up; nothing could
be more beautiful, or in better taste. You always had admirable taste,
Alicia; and my poor dear uncle--”
“Don’t,” she cried; “what is it you want to say? I beg your pardon,
Edward, if I am impatient. For Heaven’s sake come to the point.”
“I know,” he said, with a compassionate look, “grief is irritable. My
wife has always been of opinion that for us, with our large family, the
possession of Penton would be no advantage. We could not keep it up as
it has been kept up. The entailed estates by themselves are not--you
must have a little patience with me, my dear Alicia, or I never can get
out what I have to say.”
She seated herself with a sigh of endurance. All this was intolerable to
her. She wanted nothing to be said, but simply that she should go away,
who no longer could keep possession, and that they who had the right
should come in--no struggle about it, not a word said, not a lament on
her side, and if possible not a flourish of trumpets on theirs--at
least, not anything that she should hear. It was like Edward to maunder
on, though he must have known that she could not endure it. And his wife
with her sense! But an appearance of dignity must be kept up, and she
must, she knew, hear out what he had to say.
“Go on,” said Russell Penton, “you can understand that she is not able
for very much.” And he came and stood by the back of his wife’s chair
with his usual undemonstrative self-forgetfulness, full of sympathy for
her, though he did not approve of her--all of which things she knew.
“It comes to this,” said Edward Penton, a little confused in his story;
“I did not agree with her at all. When we entered into the
negotiations--which have come to nothing--I did it without any heart. It
was only on the morning I spent here, you know, the morning that--it was
only then I perceived that my wife was right. We have talked it over
since, Alicia, and I have a proposal to make you. If you like to
remain--”
She got up from her chair suddenly, clinching her hands in impatience.
“No, no, no, _no_,” she cried, almost violently, “I want to hear nothing
more about it. There is nothing, nothing more to say.”
“If you would but hear me out, Alicia! this that I’m speaking of would
really be a favor to us. We have not the means to keep it up. We have
things to think of, of far more importance than the gardens and glass
and all that. We have our children to think of. The house is a great
deal to you--and--and it’s something to me that know it so well; but to
them--to them it doesn’t matter,” he said, with a sort of contempt for
the Pentons who were only half Pentons though they were his children. “I
would rather a great deal you kept it and lived in it, and remained as
you have been.”
There was a curious little by-play going on in the meantime. Walter
listened to his father with consternation, moving a step nearer, looking
on eagerly as if desiring to interfere in his own person--while over the
face of Russell Penton there came a shade of anxiety, suspense, and
annoyance. He was sufficiently calm to put out his hand keeping Walter
back; but he was no longer a mere spectator of the interview. Alarm was
in his face; he had thought he had escaped, and here was the chain again
ready to drag him back. Sir Edward turned to him at the end of his
little speech with a direct appeal, “Speak to her, Russell; I make the
offer in a friendly spirit. There’s nothing behind,” he said.
“That I am sure of, but it is for Alicia to answer. She must decide, not
me.”
“I have decided,” said Mrs. Penton, with something like suppressed
passion. “No; if it had been mine I should have been glad, why should I
deny it? I was born here. I like it better than any other place in the
world. But there are some things more important than even the house in
which one was born. Go back to your wife, Edward, and tell her I dare
say she understands many things, but me she doesn’t understand. To owe
my house to your civility and hers, to hold it at your pleasure, no,
no--a thousand times. Perhaps you mean well--I will say I am sure you
mean well; but I couldn’t do it. Gerald, there’s been enough of this, I
should like to go away.”
Over Russell’s face there shot a gleam of satisfaction; but he did not
let it appear in what he said. “Alicia, you must not be hasty. Your
cousin can mean nothing but kindness. Let me tell him you will think of
it. He does not want an immediate answer. You might be sorry after--”
“Gerald! it is not a thing you have ever wished.”
“No, I am like your cousin’s wife,” he said, with a slight laugh. “But
what has that to do with it? It is for you to judge; and you might
repent--”
She cast a glance round the stately room, with all the beautiful
furniture so carefully chosen to enhance and embellish it. Can one help
the hideous thoughts that against one’s will come into one’s mind? Swift
as lightning there flashed before her a picture of what it would be--the
pictures gone, the rich carpets, in which the foot sunk, the hangings of
satin and velvet--and the whole furnished as an upholsterer would do it,
called in in a hurry, and kept to the lowest possible estimate; and then
the children of all ages, rampant, running over everything. She saw this
in her imagination, and with it at the same instant felt a shrinking of
horror from the desecration, and a horrible momentary exultation. Yes,
exultation! over the difference, over the contrast. It was better so;
the stateliness and splendor must sink with her reign. With the others,
her supplanters, would come in squalor, pettiness, all the unlovely
details of poverty. It gave her a sense almost of guilty pleasure that
the contrast should be so marked beyond all possibility of mistake.
“No,” she said, with forced composure, “I shall not repent. This chapter
of life is over. It has been long, far longer than is usually permitted
to a woman. I shall not interfere with you, Edward; it is your place,
and you must take it. Good-bye; it was only to tell you that no
hinderance should be raised on my part--that as soon almost as you
please--as soon as it is possible--”
“There was something else, Alicia, you meant to say.”
“What else?” Her eyes followed her husband’s to where Walter stood; then
a sudden flush covered her pale face. “Yes, that is true--it is
concerning your son. Mr. Rochford will give you the papers, and my
husband will explain. My father had an idea, I can not think how it
arose; but he had an idea, and it is my business to carry it out.”
“Then is this all?” cried Edward Penton; for his part, he was not even
curious as to what had been done for Walter. He almost resented it as
she did. “Is this all? You will not allow us to offer--you will not
listen. After all, if I am my poor uncle’s successor I am still your
cousin, Alicia. It is not my fault.”
“It is no one’s fault,” she said.
“And we all feel for you. Even were it a sacrifice we should be glad to
make it. My wife--”
Mrs. Russell Penton rose hurriedly. “You are very kind,” she said.
“Good-bye, Edward; I have had a great deal to try me, and I don’t think
I can bear any more.”
She hurried out of the room as the servant came in with a message. She
could not bear to hear the new title, and yet how could she avoid
hearing it? Sir Edward--it was in her ears all the time. And when her
husband had said in that cumbrous way, “your cousin’s wife,” there had
passed through her mind the “Lady Penton” which he would not say, which
she could not say, which seemed to choke her. Lady Penton, her mother’s
name! And it was all perfectly just and right. This was what made it so
intolerable. They had a right to the name. They had a right to the
position. And nothing could be more wretched, envious, miserable than
the exasperation in her soul.