THE LAST OF THE ROKESTONES.
A solemn low-voiced fuss was going on in the old house at Dorracleugh;
preparations and consultations were afoot; a great deal was not being
done, but there were the whispering and restlessness of expectation, and
the few grisly arrangements for the reception of the coffined guest.
Old Mrs. Shackleton, the housekeeper, crept about the rooms, her
handkerchief now and then to her eyes; and the housemaid-in-chief, with
her attendant women, was gliding about.
Sir Harry had, years before, left a letter in Mr. Blount's hands, that
there might be no delay in searching for a will, directing all that
concerned his funeral.
The coffin was to be placed in the great hall of the house, according to
ancient custom, on tressels, under the broad span of the chimney. This
arrangement is more than once alluded to in Pepys's Diary. He was to be
followed to the grave by his tenantry, and such of the gentry, his
neighbours, as might please to attend. There was to be ample repast for
all comers, consisting of as much "meat and drink of the best as they
could consume;" what remained was to be distributed among the poor in
the evening.
He was to be laid in the family vault adjoining the church of Golden
Friars; a stone with the family arms, and a short inscription, "but no
flatteries," was to be set up in the church, on the south wall, next the
vault, and near the other family monuments, and it was to mention that
he died unmarried, and was the last of the old name of Rokestone, of
Dorracleugh.
The funeral was to proceed to Golden Friars, not by the "mere road,"
but, as in the case of other family funerals, from Dorracleugh to Golden
Friars, by the old high-road.
If he should die at home, at Dorracleugh, but not otherwise, he was to
be "waked" in the same manner as his father and his grandfather had
been.
There were other directions, presents to the sexton and parish-clerk,
and details that would weary you.
About twelve o'clock the hearse arrived, and two or three minutes after
Mr. Blount drove up in a chaise.
The almost gigantic coffin was carried up the steps, and placed under
the broad canopy assigned to it at the upper end of the hall.
Mr. Blount, having given a few directions, inquired for Mr. Marston, and
found that gentleman, in a suit of black, in the drawing-room.
He came forward; he did not intend it, but there was something in the
gracious and stately melancholy of his reception, which seemed to
indicate not only the chief mourner, but the master of the house.
"Altered circumstances--a great change," said Mr. Marston, taking his
hand. "Many will feel his death deeply. He was to me--I have said it a
thousand times--the best friend that ever man had."
"Yes, yes, sir; he did show wonderful patience and forbearance with you,
considering his temper, which was proud and fiery, you know--poor
gentleman!--poor Sir Harry!--but grandly generous, sir, grandly
generous."
"It is a consolation to me, having lost a friend, and, I may say, a
father, who was, in patience, forbearance, and generosity, all you
describe, and all you know, that we were lately, thanks, my good friend,
mainly to your kind offices, upon the happiest terms. He used to talk to
me about that farm; he took such an interest in it--sit down,
pray--won't you have some sherry and a biscuit--and such a growing
interest in me."
"I think he really was coming gradually not to think quite so ill of
you as he did," said good Mr. Blount. "No sherry, no biscuit--no, I
shan't mind. I know, sir, that under great and sudden temptation a man
may do the thing he ought not to have done, and repent from his heart
afterwards, and from very horror of his one great lapse, may walk, all
the rest of his life, not only more discreetly, but more safely than a
man who has never slipped at all. But Sir Harry was sensitive and fiery.
He had thought that you were to represent the old house, and perhaps to
bear the name after his death; and that both should be slurred by, if I
may be allowed the expression, a shabby crime...."
"Once for all, Mr. Blount, you'll be good enough to remember that such
language is offensive and intolerable," interrupted Richard Marston,
firmly and sharply. "My uncle had a right to lecture me on the
subject--you can have none."
"Except as a friend," said Mr. Blount. "I shall, however, for the
future, observe your wishes upon that subject. You got my letter about
the funeral, I see."
"Yes, they are doing everything exactly as you said," said Marston,
recovering his affability.
"Here is the letter," said Mr. Blount. "You should run your eye over
it."
"Ha! It is dated a long time ago," said Mr. Marston. "It was no sudden
presentiment, then. How well he looked when I was leaving this!"
"We are always astonished when death gives no warning," said Mr. Blount;
"it hardly ever does to the persons most interested. Doctors, friends,
they themselves, are all in a conspiracy to conceal the thief who has
got into the bed-room. It matters very little that the survivors have
had warning."
Richard Marston shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"Some day I must learn prudence," said he.
"Let it be the true prudence," said Mr. Blount. "It is a short foresight
that sees no further than the boundary of this life."
Mr. Marston opened the letter, and the old gentleman left him, to see
after the preparations.
Some one at Golden Friars--I think it was the vicar--sent me the country
paper, with a whole column in mourning, with a deep black edge, giving a
full account of the funeral of Sir Harry Rokestone, of Dorracleugh. The
ancient family whose name he bore was now extinct. I saw in the list the
names of county people who had come in their carriages more than twenty
miles to attend the funeral, and people who had come by rail hundreds of
miles. It was a great county gathering mostly that followed the last of
the Rokestones, of Dorracleugh, to the grave.