The elder Mr. Warrender was a country gentleman of an undistinguished
kind. The county gentry of England is a very comprehensive class. It
includes the very best and most delightful of English men and English
women, the truest nobility, the finest gentlemen; but it also includes
a number of beings the most limited, dull, and commonplace that human
experience knows. In some cases they are people who do well to be proud
of the generation of gentlefolk through whom they trace their line, and
who have transmitted to them not only the habit of command, but the
habit of protection, and that easy grace of living which is not to be
acquired at first hand; and there are some whose forefathers have handed
down nothing but so many farms and fields, and various traditions, in
which father and son follow each other, each smaller and more petty of
soul than he that went before. The family at the Warren were of this
class. They were acknowledged gentry, beyond all question, but their
estates and means were small and their souls smaller. Their income never
reached a higher level than about fifteen hundred a year. Their paternal
home was a house of rather mean appearance, rebuilt on the ruins of the
old one in the end of last century, and consequently as ugly as four
square walls could be. The woods had grown up about it, and hid it almost
entirely from sight, which was an advantage, perhaps, to the landscape,
but not to those who were condemned to dwell in the house, which was
without light and air and everything that was cheering. The name of the
Warren was very well adapted to the place, which, except one corner of
the old house which had stood fast when the rest was pulled down, might
almost have been a burrow in the soft green earth, damp and warm and
full of the mould of ages, though it was a mere new-comer in the world.
Its furniture was almost entirely of the same date as the house, which
means dingy carpets, curtains of harsh and unpliable stuff, and immense
catafalques of mahogany in the shape of sideboards, arm-chairs, and
beds. A four-poster of mahogany, with hangings of red moreen, as stiff
as a board and much less soft,--that was the kind of furnishing; to be
sure, it was full of feather-beds and pillows, warm blankets and fresh
linen, which some people thought made amends.
The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Warrender, two daughters, and the
son, with whom the reader has already made acquaintance. How he had
found his way into such a nest was one of those problems which the
prudent evolutionist scarcely cares to tackle. The others were in their
natural place: the father a Warrender like the last dozen Warrenders who
had gone before him, and the girls cast exactly in the mould of all the
previous Minnies and Chattys of the family. They were all dull, blameless,
and good--to a certain extent; perfectly satisfied to live in the Warren
all the year long, to spend every evening of their lives round the same
hearth, to do the same thing to-day as they had done yesterday and should
do to-morrow. To be so easily contented, to accommodate one's self with
such philosophy to one's circumstances,--what an advantage that is!
But it required no philosophy on the part of the girls, who had not
imagination enough to think of anything different, and who devoutly
believed that nothing on earth was so virtuous, so dignified, so
praiseworthy, as to keep the linen in order, and make your own
underclothing, and sit round the fire at home. When any one would read
aloud to them they wanted no better paradise; but they were not very
exacting even in the matter of reading aloud. However exciting the
book might be, they were quite willing that it should be put away at a
quarter to ten, with a book-marker in it to keep the place. Once Chatty
had been known to take it up clandestinely after prayers, to see whether
the true murderer was found out; but Minnie waited quite decorously
till eight o'clock next evening, which was the right hour for resuming
the reading. Happy girls! They thus had in their limited little world
quite a happy life, expecting nothing, growing no older from year
to year. Minnie was twenty-five, Chatty twenty-three: they were
good-looking enough in their quiet way, very neat and tidy, with brown
hair so well brushed that it reflected the light. Theodore was the
youngest, and he had been very welcome when he came; for otherwise the
property would have gone to a distant heir of entail, which would not
have been pleasant for any of the family. He had been a very quiet boy
so long as he was at home, though not perhaps in the same manner of
quietness as that of the girls; but since he was thirteen he had been
away for the greater part of the years, appearing only in the holidays,
when he was always reading for something or other,--so that nobody was
aware how great was the difference between the fastidious young scholar
and the rest of his belongings.
Mr. Warrender himself was not a scholar. He had got through life
very well without ever being at the university. In his day it was not
considered such a necessity as now. And he was not at all critical of
his son. So long as the boy got into no scrapes he asked no more of him.
He was quite complacent when Theo brought home his school prizes, and
used to point them out to visitors. "This is for his Latin verses," he
would say. "I don't know where the boy got a turn for poetry. I am sure
it was not from me." The beautiful smooth binding and the school arms
on the side gave him great gratification. He had a faint notion that as
Theo brought home no prizes from Oxford he was not perhaps getting on so
well; but naturally he knew nothing of his son's experiences with the
Rector and the dons. And by that time he was ill and feverish, and far
more taken up about his beef-tea than about anything else in the world.
They did not make it half strong enough. If they only would make it
strong he felt sure he would soon regain his strength. But how could a
man pick up, who was allowed nothing but slops, when his beef-tea was
like water? This was the matter that occupied him most, while his son
was going through the ordeal above described,--there never was any taste
in the beef-tea. Mr. Warrender thought the cook must make away with the
meat; or else send the best of the infusion to some of her people in
the village, and give it to him watered. When it was made over the
fire in his room he said his wife had no skill; she let all the goodness
evaporate. He never could be satisfied with his beef-tea; and so,
grumbling and indignant, finding no savour in anything, but thoroughly
convinced that this was "their" fault, and that they could make it
better if they were to try, he dwindled and faded away.
It was a long illness; a family gets used to a long illness, and after
a while accepts it as the natural course of events. And the doctor
had assured them all that no sudden "change" was to be looked for.
Nevertheless, there was a sudden change. It had become the routine of
the house that each of the ladies should spend so many hours with papa.
Mrs. Warrender was with him, of course, the greater part of the day, and
went out and in to see if he was comfortable every hour or two during
the night; but one of the girls always sat with him in the evening,
bringing her needlework upstairs, and feeling that she was doing her
duty in giving up the reading just when the book was at its most
interesting point. It was after Chatty had fulfilled this duty, and
everybody was serenely preparing to go to bed, that the change came.
"How is he?" Mrs. Warrender had said, as they got out the Prayer-Book
which was used at family prayers. "Just as usual, mamma: quite quiet and
comfortable. I think he was asleep, for he took no notice when I bade
him good-night," Chatty said; and then the servants came in, and the
little rites were accomplished. Mrs. Warrender then went upstairs, and
received the same report from her maid, who sat with the patient in the
intervals when the ladies were at prayers. "Quite comfortable, ma'am,
and I think he is asleep." Mrs. Warrender went to the bedside and drew
back the curtain softly,--the red moreen curtain which was like a board
suspended by the head of the bed,--and lo, while they all had been so
calm, the change had come.
The girls thought their mother made a great deal more fuss than was
necessary; for what could be done? It might be right to send for the
doctor, who is an official whose presence is essential at the last act
of life; but what was the good of sending a man on horseback into
Highcombe, on the chance of the telegraph office being still open? Of
course it was not open; and if it had been, Theo could not possibly
leave Oxford till next morning. But then it was a well-known fact that
mamma was excitable, and often did things without thought. He lingered
all night, "just alive, and that is all," the doctor said. It was Chatty
who sent for the rector, who came and read the prayers for the sick at
the bedside, but agreed with Dr. Durant that it was of no use attempting
to rouse the departing soul from the lethargy in which he lay. And before
Theodore arrived all was over. He knew it before he entered the house by
the sight of the drawn blinds, which received him with a blank whiteness
of woe as soon as he caught sight of the windows. They had not sent to
meet him at the station, thinking he would not come till the later
train.
"Try and get mamma to lie down," Minnie said, as she kissed her brother.
"She is going on exciting herself for nothing. I am sure everything was
done that could be done, and we can do him no good by making ourselves
more miserable now."
Minnie had cried in the early morning as much as was right and
natural,--her eyes were still a little red; but she did not think it
necessary to begin over again, as Chatty did, who had a tendency to
overdo everything, like mamma. As for Theodore, he did not cry at all,
but grew very pale, and did not say a word when he was taken into the
chamber of death. The sight of that marble, or rather waxen, figure
lying there had a greater effect upon his imagination than upon that
of either of the girls, who perhaps had not got much imagination to be
affected. He was overawed and silenced by that presence, which he had
never met before so near. When his mother threw herself into his arms,
with that excess of emotion which was peculiar to her, he held her close
to him with a throb of answering feeling. The sensation of standing
beside that which was not, although it was, his father, went through
and through the being of the sensitive young man. Death is always most
impressive in the case of a commonplace person, with whom we have no
associations but the most ordinary ones of life. What had come to
him?--to the mind which had been so much occupied with the quality of his
beef-tea? Was it possible that he could have leaped all at once into the
contemplation of the highest subjects, or must there not be something
intermediate between the beef-tea and the _Gloria in Excelsis_? This
was the thought, inappropriate, unnatural, as he felt it, which came
into his mind as he stood by the bed upon which lay that which had
been the master of the Warren yesterday, and now was "the body"; a
solemn, inanimate thing arranged with dreadful neatness, presently to be
taken away and hid out of sight of the living. Tears did not come even
when he took his mother into his arms, but only a dumb awe not unmixed
with horror, and even that sense of repulsion with which some minds
regard the dead.
It was the height of summer, the time at which the Warren looked its
best. The sunshine, which scarcely got near it in the darker part of the
year, now penetrated the trees on every side, and rushed in as if for a
wager, every ray trying how far it could reach into the depths of the
shade. It poured full into the drawing-room by one window, so that Minnie
was mindful at all times to draw down that blind, that the carpet might
not be spoiled; and of course all the blinds were down now. It touched
the front of the house in the afternoon, and blazed upon the lawn, making
all the flowers wink. Inside, to people who had come out of the heat and
scorching of other places more open to the influences of the skies, the
coolness of the Warren in June was delightful. The windows stood open,
the hum of bees came in, the birds made an unceasing chorus in the trees.
Neither birds nor bees took the least notice of the fact that there
was death in the house. They carried on their jubilation, their hum of
business, their love-making and nursery talk, all the same, and made the
house sound not like a house of mourning, but a house of rejoicing; all
this harmonious noise being doubly audible in the increased stillness
of the place, where Minnie thought it right to speak in a whisper, and
Chatty was afraid to go beyond the example of her sister. Mrs. Warrender
kept her room, except in the evening, when she would go out with Theo
for a little air. Only in the grounds! no farther,--through the woods,
which the moonlight pierced with arrows of silver, as far as the pond,
which shone like a white mirror with all the great leaves of the
water-lilies black upon its surface. But the girls thought that even
this was too much. They could not think how she could feel able for it
before the funeral. They sat with one shaded lamp and the shutters all
closed, "reading a book," which was their severest estimate of gravity.
That is to say, each had a book: one a volume of sermons, the other
_Paradise Lost_, which had always been considered Sunday reading by the
Warrenders, and came in very conveniently at this moment. They had been
busy all day with the maid and the dressmaker from the village, getting
their mourning ready. There were serious doubts in their minds how high
the crape ought to come on their skirts, and whether a cuff of that
material would be enough without other trimmings on the sleeves; but as
it was very trying to the eyes to work at black in candlelight, they
had laid it all aside out of sight, and so far as was possible out of
thought, and composed themselves to read as a suitable occupation for
the evening, less cheerful than either coloured or white needlework, and
more appropriate. It was very difficult, especially for Minnie, upon
whom the chief responsibility would rest, to put that question of the
crape out of her thoughts; but she read on in a very determined manner,
and it is to be hoped that she succeeded. She felt very deeply the
impropriety of her mother's proceedings. She had never herself stirred
out-of-doors since her father's death, and would not till after the
funeral, should the interests of nations hang on it. She, at least,
knew what her duty was, and would do it. Chatty was not so sure on this
subject, but she had been more used to follow Minnie than to follow
mamma, and she was loyal to her traditions. One window was open a little
behind the half-closed shutters, and let in something of the sounds and
odours of the night. Chatty was aware that the moon was at the full, and
would have liked to stretch her young limbs with a run; but she dared
not even think of such a thing in sight of Minnie's face.
"I wonder how long mamma means to stay. One would think she was _enjoying_
it," Minnie said, with a little emphasis on the word. As she used it, it
seemed the most reprehensible verb in the world.
"She likes to be with Theo," said Chatty; "and she is always such a one
for the air."
"Likes!" said her sister. "Is this a time to think of what one likes,
with poor dear papa in his coffin?"
"She never left him as long as he wanted her," said the apologetic
sister.
"No, indeed, I should hope not; that would have been criminal. Poor dear
mamma would never do anything really bad; but she does not mind if she
does a thing that is unusual. It is _very_ unusual to go out before the
funeral; it is a thing that is never done, especially by the ladies of
the house."
"Shall we be able to go out on Friday, Minnie?" Friday was the funeral
day.
"It would be very bad taste, I think. Of course, if it does not prove
too much for us, we ought to go to church to meet the procession. Often
it is thought to be too much for the ladies of a family."
"I am sure it would not be too much for me. Oh, I shall go as far as we
can go with him--to the grave, Minnie."
"You had better wait till you see whether it will not be too much for
you," said the elder sister, while Chatty dried her eyes. Minnie's eyes
had no need of drying. She had cried at the right time, but it was
little more than levity to be always crying. It was nearly as bad as
enjoying anything. She did not like extravagance of any kind.
And then they turned to their reading again, and felt that, whatever
mamma might think herself at liberty to do, they, at least, were
paying that respect to their father's memory which young women in a
well-regulated household should always be the first to pay.