The first conviction that there is death in the house is perhaps the
most awful moment of youth. When we are young, we think that not only
ourselves, but that all about us, are immortal. Until the arrow has
struck a victim round our own hearth, death is merely an unmeaning
word; until then, its casual mention has stamped no idea upon our
brain. There are few, even among those least susceptible of thought
and emotion, in whose hearts and minds the first death in the family
does not act as a powerful revelation of the mysteries of life, and of
their own being; there are few who, after such a catastrophe, do not
look upon the world and the world's ways, at least for a time, with
changed and tempered feelings. It recalls the past; it makes us ponder
over the future; and youth, gay and light-hearted youth, is taught,
for the first time, to regret and to fear.
On Cadurcis, a child of pensive temperament, and in whose strange
and yet undeveloped character there was, amid lighter elements, a
constitutional principle of melancholy, the sudden decease of his
mother produced a profound effect. All was forgotten of his parent,
except the intimate and natural tie, and her warm and genuine
affection. He was now alone in the world; for reflection impressed
upon him at this moment what the course of existence too generally
teaches to us all, that mournful truth, that, after all, we have no
friends that we can depend upon in this life but our parents. All
other intimacies, however ardent, are liable to cool; all other
confidence, however unlimited, to be violated. In the phantasmagoria
of life, the friend with whom we have cultivated mutual trust for
years is often suddenly or gradually estranged from us, or becomes,
from, painful, yet irresistible circumstances, even our deadliest foe.
As for women, as for the mistresses of our hearts, who has not learnt
that the links of passion are fragile as they are glittering; and
that the bosom on which we have reposed with idolatry all our secret
sorrows and sanguine hopes, eventually becomes the very heart that
exults in our misery and baffles our welfare? Where is the enamoured
face that smiled upon our early love, and was to shed tears over our
grave? Where are the choice companions of our youth, with whom we were
to breast the difficulties and share the triumphs of existence? Even
in this inconstant world, what changes like the heart? Love is a
dream, and friendship a delusion. No wonder we grow callous; for how
few have the opportunity of returning to the hearth which they quitted
in levity or thoughtless weariness, yet which alone is faithful to
them; whose sweet affections require not the stimulus of prosperity
or fame, the lure of accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery; but
which are constant to us in distress, and console us even in disgrace!
Before she retired for the night, Lady Annabel was anxious to see
Plantagenet. Mistress Pauncefort had informed her of his visit to
his mother's room. Lady Annabel found Cadurcis in the gallery, now
partially lighted by the moon which had recently risen. She entered
with her light, as if she were on her way to her own room, and not
seeking him.
'Dear Plantagenet,' she said, 'will you not go to bed?'
'I do not intend to go to bed to-night,' he replied.
She approached him and took him by the hand, which he did not withdraw
from her, and they walked together once or twice up and down the
gallery.
'I think, dear child,' said Lady Annabel, 'you had better come and sit
with us.'
'I like to be alone,' was his answer; but not in a sullen voice, low
and faltering.
'But in sorrow we should be with our friends,' said Lady Annabel.
'I have no friends,' he answered. 'I only had one.'
'I am your friend, dear child; I am your mother now, and you shall
find me one if you like. And Venetia, have you forgotten your sister?
Is she not your friend? And Dr. Masham, surely you cannot doubt his
friendship?'
Cadurcis tried to stifle a sob. 'Ay, Lady Annabel,' he said, 'you are
my friend now, and so are you all; and you know I love you much. But
you were not my friends two years ago; and things will change again;
they will, indeed. A mother is your friend as long as she lives; she
cannot help being your friend.'
'You shall come to Cherbury and live with us,' said Lady Annabel.' You
know you love Cherbury, and you shall find it a home, a real home.'
He pressed her hand to his lips; the hand was covered with his tears.
'We will go to Cherbury to-morrow, dear Plantagenet; remaining here
will only make you sad.'
'I will never leave Cadurcis again while my mother is in this house,'
he said, in a firm and serious voice. And then, after a moment's
pause, he added, 'I wish to know when the burial is to take place.'
'We will ask Dr. Masham,' replied Lady Annabel. 'Come, let us go to
him; come, my own child.'
He permitted himself to be led away. They descended to the small
apartment where Lady Annabel had been previously sitting. They found
the Doctor there; he rose and pressed Plantagenet's hand with great
emotion. They made room for him at the fire between them; he sat in
silence, with his gaze intently fixed upon the decaying embers,
yet did not quit his hold of Lady Annabel's hand. He found it a
consolation to him; it linked him to a being who seemed to love him.
As long as he held her hand he did not seem quite alone in the world.
Now nobody spoke; for Lady Annabel felt that Cadurcis was in some
degree solaced; and she thought it unwise to interrupt the more
composed train of his thoughts. It was, indeed, Plantagenet himself
who first broke silence.
'I do not think I can go to bed, Lady Annabel,' he said. 'The thought
of this night is terrible to me. I do not think it ever can end. I
would much sooner sit up in this room.'
'Nay! my child, sleep is a great consoler; try to go to bed, love.'
'I should like to sleep in my mother's room,' was his strange reply.
'It seems to me that I could sleep there. And if I woke in the night,
I should like to see her.'
Lady Annabel and the Doctor exchanged looks.
'I think,' said the Doctor, 'you had better sleep in my room, and
then, if you wake in the night, you will have some one to speak to.
You will find that a comfort.'
'Yes, that you will,' said Lady Annabel. 'I will go and have the sofa
bed made up in the Doctor's room for you. Indeed that will be the very
best plan.'
So at last, but not without a struggle, they persuaded Cadurcis to
retire. Lady Annabel embraced him tenderly when she bade him good
night; and, indeed, he felt consoled by her affection.
As nothing could persuade Plantagenet to leave the abbey until his
mother was buried, Lady Annabel resolved to take up her abode there,
and she sent the next morning for Venetia. There were a great many
arrangements to make about the burial and the mourning; and Lady
Annabel and Dr. Masham were obliged, in consequence, to go the next
morning to Southport; but they delayed their departure until the
arrival of Venetia, that Cadurcis might not be left alone.
The meeting between himself and Venetia was a very sad one, and yet
her companionship was a great solace. Venetia urged every topic that
she fancied could reassure his spirits, and upon the happy home he
would find at Cherbury.
'Ah!' said Cadurcis, 'they will not leave me here; I am sure of that.
I think our happy days are over, Venetia.'
What mourner has not felt the magic of time? Before the funeral could
take place, Cadurcis had recovered somewhat of his usual cheerfulness,
and would indulge with Venetia in plans of their future life. And
living, as they all were, under the same roof, sharing the same
sorrows, participating in the same cares, and all about to wear the
same mournful emblems of their domestic calamity, it was difficult for
him to believe that he was indeed that desolate being he had at first
correctly estimated himself. Here were true friends, if such could
exist; here were fine sympathies, pure affections, innocent and
disinterested hearts! Every domestic tie yet remained perfect, except
the spell-bound tie of blood. That wanting, all was a bright and happy
vision, that might vanish in an instant, and for ever; that perfect,
even the least graceful, the most repulsive home, had its irresistible
charms; and its loss, when once experienced, might be mourned for
ever, and could never be restored.