The stone which covered the vault of the Hastings family had been
raised, and light and air let into the cold, damp interior. A ray of
sunshine, streaming through the church window, found its way across the
mouldy velvet of the old coffins as they stood ranged along in solemn
order, containing the dust of many ancestors of the present possessors
of the manor. There, too, apart from the rest were the coffins of those
who had died childless; the small narrow resting-place of childhood,
where the guileless infant, the father's and mother's joy and hope,
slept its last sleep, leaving tearful eyes and sorrowing hearts behind,
with naught to comfort but the blessed thought that by calling such from
earth, God peoples heaven with angels; the coffins, too, of those cut
off in the early spring of manhood, whom the fell mower had struck down
in the flower before the fruit was ripe. Oh, how his scythe levels the
blossoming fields of hope! There, too, lay the stern old soldier, whose
life had been given up to his country's service, and who would not spare
one thought or moment to soften domestic joys; and many another who had
lived, perhaps and loved, and passed away without receiving love's
reward.
Amongst these, close at the end of the line, stood two tressels, ready
for a fresh occupant of the tomb, and the church bell tolled heavily
above, while the old sexton looked forth from the door of the church
toward the gates of the park, and the heavy clouded sky seemed to menace
rain.
"Happy the bride the sun shines upon; happy the corpse the heaven rains
upon!" said the old man to himself. But the rain did not come down; and
presently, from the spot where he stood, which overlooked the park-wall,
he saw come on in slow and solemn procession along the great road to the
gates, the funeral train of him who had been lately heir to all the fine
property around. The body had been brought from London after the career
of youth had been cut short in a moment of giddy pleasure, and father
and mother, as was then customary, with a long line of friends,
relations, and dependents, now conveyed the remains of him once so
dearly loved, to the cold grave.
Only one of all the numerous connections of the family was wanting on
this occasion, and that was the brother of the dead; but he lay slowly
recovering from the shock he had received, and every one had been told
that it was impossible for him to attend. All the rest of the family had
hastened to the hall in answer to the summons they had received, for
though Sir John Hastings was not much loved, he was much respected and
somewhat feared--at least, the deference which was paid to him, no one
well knew why, savored somewhat of dread.
It is a strange propensity in many old persons to hang about the grave
to which they are rapidly tending, when it is opened for another, and to
comment--sometimes even with a bitter pleasantry--upon an event which
must soon overtake themselves. As soon as it was known that the funeral
procession had set out from the hall door, a number of aged people,
principally women, but comprising one or two shriveled men, tottered
forth from the cottages, which lay scattered about the church, and made
their way into the churchyard, there to hold conference upon the dead
and upon the living.
"Ay, ay!" said one old woman, "he has been taken at an early time; but
he was a fine lad, and better than most of those hard people."
"Ay, Peggy would praise the devil himself if he were dead," said an old
man, leaning on a stick, "though she has never a good word for the
living. The boy is taken away from mischief, that is the truth of it. If
he had lived to come down here again, he would have broken the heart of
my niece's daughter Jane, or made a public shame of her. What business
had a gentleman's son like that to be always hanging about a poor
cottage girl, following her into the corn-fields, and luring her out in
the evenings?"
"Faith! she might have been proud enough of his notice," said an old
crone; "and I dare say she was, too, in spite of all your conceit,
Matthew. She is not so dainty as you pretend to be; and we may see
something come of it yet."
"At all events," said another, "he was better than this white-faced,
spiritless boy that is left, who is likely enough to be taken earlier
than his brother, for he looks as if breath would blow him away."
"He will live to do something yet, that will make people talk of him;"
said a woman older than any of the rest, but taller and straighter;
"there is a spirit in him, be it angel or devil, that is not for death
so soon."
"Ay! they're making a pomp of it I warrant," said another old woman,
fixing her eyes on the high road under the park wall, upon which the
procession now entered. "Marry, there are escutcheons enough, and coats
of arms! One would think he was a lord's son, with all this to do! But
there is a curse upon the race anyhow; this man was the last of eleven
brothers, and I have heard say, his father died a bad death. Now his
eldest son must die by drowning--saved the hangman something,
perchance--we shall see what comes of the one that is left. 'Tis a curse
upon them ever since Worcester fight, when the old man, who is dead and
gone, advised to send the poor fellows who were taken, to work as slaves
in the colonies."
As she spoke, the funeral procession advanced up the road, and
approached that curious sort of gate with a penthouse over it, erected
probably to shelter the clergyman of the church while receiving the
corpse at the gate of the burial-ground, which was then universally to
be found at the entrance to all cemeteries. She broke off abruptly, as
if there was something still on her mind which she had not spoken, and
ranging themselves on each side of the church-yard path, the old men and
women formed a lane down which good Dr. Paulding speedily moved with
book in hand. The people assembled, whose numbers had been increased by
the arrival of some thirty or forty young and middle-aged, said not a
word as the clergymen marched on, but when the body had passed up
between them, and the bereaved father followed as chief-mourner, with a
fixed, stern, but tearless eye, betokening more intense affliction
perhaps, in a man of his character, than if his cheeks had been covered
with drops of womanly sorrow, several voices were heard saying aloud,
"God bless and comfort you, Sir John."
Strange, marvelously strange it was, that these words should come from
tongues, and from those alone, which had been so busily engaged in
carping censure and unfeeling sneers but the moment before. It was the
old men and women alone who had just been commenting bitterly upon the
fate, history, and character of the family, who now uttered the unfelt
expressions of sympathy in a beggar-like, whining tone. It was those who
really felt compassion who said nothing.
The coffin had been carried into the church, and the solemn rites, the
beautiful service of the Church of England, had proceeded some way, when
another person was added to the congregation who had not at first been
there. All eyes but those of the father of the dead and the lady who sat
weeping by his side, turned upon the new-comer, as with a face as pale
as death, and a faltering step, he took his place on one of the benches
somewhat remote from the rest. There was an expression of feeble
lassitude in the young man's countenance, but of strong resolution,
which overcame the weakness of the frame. He looked as if each moment he
would have fainted, but yet he sat out the whole service of the Church,
mingled with the crowd when the body was lowered into the vault, and saw
the handful of earth hurled out upon the velvet coffin, as if in mockery
of the empty pride of all the pomp and circumstance which attended the
burial of the rich and high.
No tear came into his eyes--no sob escaped from his bosom; a slight
quivering of the lip alone betrayed that there was strong agitation
within. When all was over, and the father still gazing down into the
vault, the young lad crept quietly back into a pew, covered his face
with his hand, and wept.
The last rite was over. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust were committed. Sir
John Hastings drew his wife's arm through his own, and walked with a
heavy, steadfast, and unwavering step down the aisle. Everybody drew
back respectfully as he passed; for generally, even in the hardest
hearts, true sorrow finds reverence. He had descended the steps from the
church into the burying ground, and had passed half way along the path
toward his carriage, when suddenly the tall upright old woman whom I
have mentioned thrust herself into his way, and addressed him with a
cold look and somewhat menacing tone--
"Now, Sir John Hastings," she said, "will you do me justice about that
bit of land? By your son's grave I ask it. The hand of heaven has
smitten you. It may, perhaps, have touched your heart. You know the land
is mine. It was taken from my husband by the usurper because he fought
for the king to whom he had pledged his faith. It was given to your
father because he broke his faith to his king and brought evil days upon
his country. Will you give me back the land, I say? Out man! It is but a
garden of herbs, but it is mine, and in God's sight I claim it."
"Away out of my path," replied Sir John Hastings angrily. "Is this a
time to talk of such things? Get you gone, I say, and choose some better
hour. Do you suppose I can listen to you now?"
"You have never listened, and you never will," replied the old woman,
and suffering him to pass without further opposition, she remained upon
the path behind him muttering to herself what seemed curses bitter and
deep, but the words of which were audible only to herself.
The little crowd gathered round her, and listened eagerly to catch the
sense of what she said, but the moment after the old sexton laid his
hand upon her shoulder and pushed her from the path, saying, "Get along
with you, get along with you, Popish Beldam. What business have you here
scandalizing the congregation, and brawling at the church door? You
should be put in the stocks!"
"I pity you, old worm," replied the old woman, "you will be soon among
those you feed upon," and with a hanging head and dejected air she
quitted the church-yard.
In the meanwhile Dr. Paulding had remained gazing down into the vault,
while the stout young men who had come to assist the sexton withdrew the
broad hempen bands by which the coffin had been lowered, from beneath
it, arranged it properly upon the tressels in its orderly place among
the dead, and then mounted by a ladder into the body of the church,
again preparing to replace the stone over the mouth of the vault. He
then turned to the church door and looked out, and then quietly
approached a pew in the side aisle.
"Philip, this is very wrong," he said; "your father never wished or
intended you should be here."
"He did not forbid me," replied the young man. "Why should I only be
absent from my brother's funeral?"
"Because you are sick. Because, by coming, you may have risked your
life," replied the old clergyman.
"What is life to a duty?" replied the lad. "Have you not taught me, sir,
that there is no earthly thing--no interest of this life, no pleasure,
no happiness, no hope, that ought not to be sacrificed at once to that
which the heart says is right?"
"True--true," replied the old clergyman, almost impatiently; "but in
following precept so severely, boy, you should use some discrimination.
You have a duty to a living father, which is of more weight than a mere
imaginary one to a dead brother. You could do no good to the latter; as
the Psalmist wisely said, 'You must go to him, but he can never come
back to you.' To your father, on the contrary, you have high duties to
perform; to console and cheer him in his present affliction; to comfort
and support his declining years. When a real duty presents itself,
Philip, to yourself, to your fellow men, to your country, or to your
God--I say again, as I have often said, do it in spite of every possible
affection. Let it cut through everything, break through every tie,
thrust aside every consideration. There, indeed, I would fain see you
act the old Roman, whom you are so fond of studying, and be a Cato or a
Brutus, if you will. But you must make very sure that you do not make
your fancy create unreal duties, and make them of greater importance in
your eyes than the true ones. But now I must get you back as speedily as
possible, for your mother, ere long, will be up to see you, and your
father, and they must not find you absent on this errand."
The lad made no reply, but readily walked back toward the court with Dr.
Paulding, though his steps were slow and feeble. He took the old man's
arm, too, and leaned heavily upon it; for, to say the truth, he felt
already the consequences of the foolish act he had committed; and the
first excitement past, lassitude and fever took possession once more of
every limb, and his feet would hardly bear him to the gates.
The beautiful girl who had been the first to receive him at that house,
met the eyes both of the young man and the old one, the moment they
entered the gardens. She looked wild and anxious, and was wandering
about with her head uncovered; but as soon as she beheld the youth, she
ran toward him, exclaiming, "Oh, Philip, Philip, this is very wrong and
cruel of you. I have been looking for you everywhere. You should not
have done this. How could you let him, Dr. Paulding?"
"I did not let him, my dear child," replied the old man, "he came of his
own will, and would not be let. But take him in with you; send him to
bed as speedily as may be; give him a large glass of the fever-water he
was taking, and say as little as possible of this rash act to any one."
The girl made the sick boy lean upon her rounded arm, led him away into
the house, and tended him like a sister. She kept the secret of his
rashness, too, from every one; and there were feelings sprang up in his
bosom toward her during the next few hours which were never to be
obliterated. She was so beautiful, so tender, so gentle, so full of all
womanly graces, that he fancied, with his strong imagination, that no
one perfection of body or mind could be wanting; and he continued to
think so for many a long year after.