Lord Markland died at the Warren that night. He never recovered
consciousness, nor knew that his wife was by his side through all the
dreadful darkening of the summer evening, which seemed to image forth
in every new tone of gathering gloom the going out of life. They told
her as much as was necessary of the circumstances,--how, the distance
between the Warren and the churchyard being so short, and the whole
cortege on foot, Lord Markland's carriage had been left in the village;
how he had stayed there to luncheon (presumably with the rector, for no
particulars were given, nor did the bewildered young woman ask for any),
which was the reason of his delay. The rest was very easily explained:
everybody had said to him that "some accident" would happen one day or
other with the horses he insisted on driving, and the prophecy had been
fulfilled. Such prophecies are always fulfilled. Lady Markland was very
quiet, accepting that extraordinary revolution in her life with a look
of marble, and words that betrayed nothing. Was she broken-hearted? was
she only stunned by the suddenness, the awe, of such a catastrophe? The
boy clung to her, yet without a tear, pale and silent, but never, even
when the words were said that all was over, breaking forth into any
childish outburst. He sat on the floor in her shadow, even when she was
watching by the deathbed, never left her, keeping always a hold upon her
arm, her hand, or her dress. Mrs. Warrender would have taken him away,
and put him to bed,--it was so bad for him; but the boy opposed a steady
resistance, and Lady Markland put down her hand to him, not seeing
how wrong it was to indulge him, all the ladies said. After this, of
course nothing could be done, and he remained with her through all that
followed. What followed was strange enough to have afforded a scene for
a tragedy. Lady Markland asked to speak to Warrender, who had retired,
leaving his mother, as was natural, to manage everything. He came to her
at the door of the room which had so suddenly, with its bare, unused
look, in the darkness of a few flickering candles, become a sort of
presence chamber filled with the solemnity of dying. Her little figure,
so neat and orderly, an embodiment of the settled peace and calm of
life having nothing to do with tragedies, with the child close pressed
against her side, his pale face looking as hers did, pale too and
stony--never altogether passed from the memory of the man who came,
reluctant, almost afraid, to hear what she had to say to him. It was
like a picture against the darkness of the room,--a darkness both
physical and moral, which centred in the curtained gloom behind, about
which two shadowy figures were busy. Often and with very different
sentiments he saw this group again, but never wholly forgot it, or had
it effaced from the depths of his memory.
"Mr. Warrender," she said, in a voice which was very low, yet he thought
might have been heard all over the house, "I want you to help me."
"Whatever I can do," he began, with some fervour, for he was young, and
his heart was touched.
"I want," she continued, "to carry him home at once. I know it will not
be easy, but it is night, and all is quiet. You are a man; you will know
better how it can be done. Manage it for me."
Warrender was entirely unprepared for such a commission. "There will be
great difficulties, dear Lady Markland," he said. "It is a long way. I
am sure my mother would not wish you to think of her. This is a house of
death. Let him stay."
She gave him a sort of smile, a softening of her stony face, and put out
her hand to him. "Do it for me," she said. She was not at all moved by
his objections,--perhaps she did not even hear them; but when she had
thus repeated her command, as a queen might have done, she turned back
into the room, and sat down, to wait, it seemed, until that command
should be accomplished. Warrender went away with a most perplexed and
troubled mind. He was half pleased, underneath all, that she should have
sent for him and charged him with this office, but bewildered with the
extraordinary commission, and not knowing what to do.
"What is it, Theo? What did she want with you?" his sisters cried, in
subdued voices, but eager to know everything about Lady Markland, who
had been as the stars in the sky to them a little while before.
He told them in a few words, and they filled the air with whispered
exclamations. "How odd, how strange; oh, how unusual, Theo! People will
say it is our doing. They will say, How dreadful of the Warrenders! Oh,
tell her you can't do it! How could you do it, in the middle of the
night!"
"That is just what I don't know," Warrender rejoined.
"Mr. Theo," said the old man, who was not dignified with the name of
butler, "the lady is quite right. I can't tell you how it's to be done,
but gardener, he is a very handy man, and he will know. The middle of
the night--that's just what makes it easy, young ladies; and instead o'
watching and waiting, the 'holl of us 'ull get to bed."
"That is all you're thinking of, Joseph."
"Well, it's a deal, sir, after all that's been going on in this house,"
Joseph said, with an aggrieved air. He had to provide supper, which was
a thing unknown at the Warren, after all the trouble that every one had
been put to. He was himself of opinion that to be kept up beyond your
usual hours, and subjected to unexpected fatigues, made a "bit of supper"
needful even for the uncomfortable and incomprehensible people whom he
called the quality. They were a poorish lot, and he had a mild contempt
for them, and to get them supper was a hardship; still, it was his own
suggestion, and he was bound to carry it out.
It is unnecessary to enter into all Warrender's perplexities and all the
expedients that were suggested. At last the handy gardener and himself
hit upon a plan by which Lady Markland's wishes could be carried out.
She sat still in the gloomy room where her husband lay dead, waiting
till they should be ready; doubting nothing, as little disturbed by any
difficulty as if it had been the simplest commission in the world which
she had given the young man. Geoff sat at her feet, leaning against her,
holding her hand. It is to be supposed that he slept now and then, as
the slow moments went on, but whenever any one spoke to his mother his
eyes would be seen gleaming against the darkness of her dress. They sat
there waiting, perfectly still, with the candles flickering faintly
about the room in the night air that breathed in through the open windows.
The dark curtains had been drawn round the bed. It was like a catafalque
looming darkly behind. Mrs. Warrender had used every persuasion to induce
her guest to come into another room, to take something, to rest, to
remember all that remained for her to do, and not waste her strength,--all
those formulas which come naturally to the lips at such a moment. Lady
Markland only answered with that movement of her face which was intended
for a smile and a shake of her head.
At last the preparations were all complete. The night was even more
exquisite than the evening had been; it was more still, every sound
having died out of the earth except those which make up silence,--the
rustling among the branches, the whirr of unseen insects, the falling
of a leaf or a twig. The moon threw an unbroken light over the broad
fields; the sky spread out all its stars, in myriads and myriads,
faintly radiant, softened by the larger light; the air breathed a
delicate, scarcely perceptible fragrance of growing grass, moist earth,
and falling dew. How sweet, how calm, how full of natural happiness!
Through this soft atmosphere and ethereal radiance a carriage made its
way that was improvised with all the reverence and tenderness possible,
in which lay the young man, dead, cut off in the very blossom and
glory of his days, followed by another in which sat the young woman
who had been his wife. What she was thinking of who could tell? Of their
half-childish love and wooing, of the awaking of her own young soul to
trouble and disappointment, of her many dreary days and years; or of the
sudden severance, without a moment's warning, without a leave-taking, a
word, or a look? Perhaps all these things, now for a moment distinct,
now mingling confusedly together, formed the current of her thoughts.
The child, clasped in her arms, slept upon her shoulder; nature being
too strong at last for that which was beyond nature, the identification
of his childish soul with that of his mother. She was glad that he
slept, and glad to be silent, alone, the soft air blowing in her face,
the darkness encircling her like a veil.
Warrender went with this melancholy cortege, making its way slowly
across the sleeping country. He saw everything done that could be done:
the dead man laid on his own bed; the living woman, in whom he felt so
much more interest, returned to the shelter of her home and the tendance
of her own servants. His part in the whole matter was over when he stepped
back into the brougham which she had left. The Warrenders had seen but
little of the Marklands, though they were so near. The habits of the young
lord had naturally been little approved by Theo Warrender's careful
parents; and his manners, when the young intellectualist from Oxford met
him, were revolting at once to his good taste and good breeding. On the
other hand, the Warrenders were but small people in comparison, and
any intimacy with Lord and Lady Markland was almost impossible. It was
considered by all the neighbours "a great compliment" when Lord Markland
came to the funeral. Ah, poor Markland, had he not come to the funeral!
Yet how vain to say so, for his fate had been long prophesied, and
what did it matter in what special circumstances it came to pass! But
Warrender felt, as he left the house, that there could be no longer
distance and partial acquaintance between the two families. Their lines
of life--or was it of death?--had crossed and been woven together. He
felt a faint thrill go through him,--a thrill of consciousness, of
anticipation, he could not tell what Certainly it was not possible that
the old blank of non-connection could ever exist again. _She_, to whom
he had scarcely spoken before, who had been so entirely out of his
sphere, had now come into it so strangely, so closely, that she could
never be separated from his thoughts. She might break violently the
visionary tie between them,--she might break it, angry to have been
drawn into so close a relation to any strangers,--but it never could be
shaken off.
He drove quickly down the long bare avenue, where all was so naked and
clear, and put his head out of the carriage window to look back at the
house, standing out bare and defenceless in the full moonlight, showing
faintly, through the white glory which blazed all around, a little
pitiful glimmer of human lights in the closed windows, the watch-lights
of the dead. It seemed a long time to the young man since in his own
house these watch-lights had been extinguished. The previous event
seemed to have become dim to him, though he was so much more closely
connected with it, in the presence of this, which was more awful, more
terrible. He tried to return to the thoughts of the morning, when his
father was naturally in all things his first occupation, but it was
impossible to do it. Instead of the thoughts which became him, as being
now in his father's place, with the fortunes and comfort of his family
more or less depending upon him, all that his mind would follow were the
events of this afternoon, so full of fate. He saw Lady Markland stand,
with the child clinging to her, in the dim room, the shrouded bed and
indistinct attendant figures behind, the dimly flickering lights. Why
had she so claimed his aid, asked for his service, with that certainty
of being obeyed? Her every word trembled in his ear still:--they were
very few; but they seemed to be laid up there in some hidden repository,
and came out and said themselves over again when he willed, moving him
as he never had been moved before. He made many efforts to throw off
this involuntary preoccupation as the carriage rolled quickly along;
the tired horse quickening its pace as it felt the attraction of home,
the tired coachman letting it go almost at its own pleasure, the broad
moonlight fields, with their dark fringes of hedge, spinning past. Then
the village went past him, with all its sleeping houses, the church
standing up like a protecting shadow. He looked out again at this,
straining his eyes to see the dark spot where his father was lying, the
first night in the bosom of the earth: and this thought brought him back
for a moment to himself. But the next, as the carriage glided on into
the shadow of the trees, and the overgrown copses of the Warren received
him into their shadow, this other intrusive tragedy, this story which
was not his, returned and took possession of him once more. To see her
standing there, speaking so calmly, with the soft tones that perhaps
would have been imperious in other circumstances: "Do it for me." No
question whether it could be done, or if he could do it. One thing
only there was that jarred throughout all,--the child that was always
there, forming part of her. "If ever I have anything to do with that
boy"--Warrender said to himself; and then there was a moment of dazzle
and giddiness, and the carriage stopped, and a door opened, and he found
himself standing out in the fresh, soft night with his mother, on the
threshold of his own home. There was a light in the hall behind her,
where she stood, with the whiteness of the widow's cap, which was still
a novelty and strange feature in her, waiting till he should return. It
was far on in the night, and except herself the household was asleep.
She came out to him, wistfully looking in his face by the light of the
moon.
"You did everything for her, Theo?"
"All that I could. I saw him laid upon his bed. There was nothing more
for me to do."
"Are you very tired, my boy? You have done so much."
"Not tired at all. Come out with me a little. I can't go in yet. It is a
lovely night."
"Oh, Theo, lovely and full of light!--the trees, and the bushes, and
every blade of grass sheltering something that is living; and yet death,
death reigning in the midst."
She leaned her head upon his arm and cried a little, but he did not make
any response. It was true, no doubt, but other thoughts were in his
mind.
"She will have great trouble with that child, when he grows up," he said,
as if he had been carrying on some previous argument. "It is ridiculous
to have him always hanging about her, as if he could understand."
Mrs. Warrender started, and the movement made his arm which she held
tremble, but he did not think what this meant. He thought she was tired,
and this recalled his thoughts momentarily to her. "Poor mother!" he
said; "you sat up for me, not thinking of your own fatigue and trouble,
and you are over-tired. Am I a trouble to you, _too_?" His mind was
still occupied with the other train of thinking, even when he turned to
subjects more his own.
"Do you know," she said, not caring to reply, "it is the middle of the
night?"
"Yes, and you should be in bed. But I couldn't sleep. I have never had
anything of the kind to do before, and it takes all desire to rest out
of one. It will soon be daylight. I think I shall take my bath, and then
get to work."
"Oh no, Theo. You would not work,--you would think; and there are some
circumstances in which thinking is not desirable. Come out into the
moonlight. We will take ten minutes, and then, my dear boy, good-night."
"Good-morning, you mean, mother, and everything new,--a new life. It has
never been as it will be to-morrow. Have you thought of that?" She gave
a sudden pressure to his arm, and he perceived his folly. "That I should
speak so to you, to whom the greatest change of all has come!"
"Yes," she said, with a little tremor. "It is to me that it will make
the most difference. And that poor young creature, so much younger than
I, who might be my child!"
"Do you think, when she gets over all this, that it will be much to her?
People say----"
"That is a strange question to ask," she said, with agitation,--"a very
strange question to ask. When we get over all this,--that is, the shock,
and the change, and the awe of the going away,--what will it be then, to
all of us? We shall just settle down once more into our ordinary life,
as if nothing had happened. That is what will come of it. That is what
always comes of it. There is nothing but the common routine, which goes
on and on for ever."
She was excited, and shed tears, at which he wondered a little, yet was
compassionate of, remembering that she was a woman and worn out. He put
his hand upon hers, which lay on his arm. "Poor mother!" he murmured,
caressing her hand with his, and feeling all manner of tender cares for
her awake in him. Then he added softly, returning in spite of himself to
other thoughts, "The force of habit and of the common routine, as you
say, cannot be so strong when one is young."
"No," she said; and then, after a pause, "If it is poor Lady Markland
you are thinking of, she has her child."
This gave him a certain shock, in the softening of his heart. "The child
is the thing I don't like!" he exclaimed, almost sharply. Then he added,
"I think the dawn must be near; I feel very chilly. Mother, come in; as
you say, it is the best thing not to think, but to go to bed."