"There have been sweet singing voices
In your walks that now are still;
There are seats left void, in your earthly homes,
Which none again may fill."
Mrs. Hemans.
I never saw the body of my sister, after I handed it, resembling a
sleeping infant, to the arms of Lucy. There is a sort of mania in some, a
morbid curiosity, to gaze on the features of the dead; but, with me, it
has ever been the reverse. I had been taken to the family room to
contemplate and weep over the faces of both my parents, but this was at an
age when it became me to be passive. I was now at a time of life when I
might be permitted to judge for myself; and, as soon as I began to think
at all on the subject, which was not for some hours, however, I resolved
that the last look of love, the sweet countenance, sinking in death it is
true, but still animate and beaming with the sentiments of her pure heart,
should be the abiding impression of my sister's form. I have cherished it
ever since, and often have I rejoiced that I did not permit any subsequent
images of a corpse to supplant it. As respects both my parents, the images
left on my mind, for years and years, was painful rather than pleasing.
Grace's body was no sooner out of my arms, I had scarcely imprinted the
last long kiss on the ivory-like but still warm forehead, than I left the
house. Clawbonny had no impertinent eyes to drive a mourner to his closet,
and I felt as if it were impossible to breathe unless I could obtain the
freedom of the open air. As I crossed the little lawn, the wails from the
kitchens reached me. Now that the invalid could no longer be disturbed by
their lamentations, the unsophisticated negroes gave vent to their
feelings without reserve. I heard their outcries long after every other
sound from the house was lost on my ear.
I held my way along the road, with no other view but to escape from the
scene I had just quitted, and entered the very little wood which might be
said to have been the last object of the external world that had attracted
my sister's attention. Here everything reminded me of the past; of the
days of childhood and youth; of the manner in which the four Clawbonny
children had lived together, and roamed these very thickets, in confidence
and love. I sat in that wood an hour; a strange, unearthly hour it seemed
to me! I saw Grace's angel countenance imprinted on the leaves, heard her
low but gay laugh, as she was wont to let it be heard in the hours of
happiness, and the tones of her gentle voice sounded in my ears almost as
familiarly as in life. Rupert and Lucy were there too. I saw them, heard
them, and tried to enter into their innocent merriment, as I had done of
old; but fearful glimpses of the sad truth would interpose, in time to
break the charm.
When I left that little wood, it was to seek a larger cover, and fields
farther removed from the house. It was dark before I thought of returning;
all that time was passed in a species of mystical hallucination, in which
the mind was lost in scenes foreign to those actually present. I saw
Grace's sweet image everywhere; I heard her voice at every turn. Now she
was the infant I was permitted to drag in her little wagon, the earliest
of all my impressions of that beloved sister; then, she was following me
as I trundled my hoop; next came her little lessons in morals, and
warnings against doing wrong, or some grave but gentle reproof for errors
actually committed; after which, I saw her in the pride of young
womanhood, lovely and fitted to be loved, the sharer of my confidence, and
one capable of entering into all my plans of life. How often that day did
the murmuring of a brook or the humming of a bee become blended in my
imagination with the song, the laugh, the call, or the prayers of that
beloved sister whose spirit had ascended to heaven, and who was no more to
mingle in my concerns or those of life!
At one time I had determined to pass the night abroad, and commune with
the stars, each of which I fancied, in turn, as they began slowly to show
themselves in the vault above, might be the abiding-place of the departed
spirit. If I thought so much and so intensely of Grace, I thought also of
Lucy. Nor was good Mr. Hardinge entirely forgotten. I felt for their
uneasiness, and saw it was my duty to return. Neb, and two or three others
of the blacks, had been looking for me in all directions but that in which
I was; and I felt a melancholy pleasure as I occasionally saw these
simple-minded creatures meet and converse. Their gestures, their
earnestness, their tears, for I could see that they were often weeping,
indicated alike that they were speaking of their "young mistress;" _how_
they spoke, I wanted no other communications to understand.
Ours had ever been a family of love. My father, manly, affectionate, and
strongly attached to my mother, was admirably suited to sustain that
dominion of the heart which the last had established from her earliest
days at Clawbonny. This power of the feelings had insensibly extended
itself to the slaves, who seldom failed to manifest how keenly alive they
all were to the interests and happiness of their owners. Among the negroes
there was but one who was considered as fallen below his proper level, or
who was regarded as an outcast. This was an old fellow who bore the name
of Vulcan, and who worked as a blacksmith on the skirts of the farm,
having been named by my grandfather with the express intention of placing
him at the anvil. This fellow's trade caused him to pass most of his youth
in an adjacent village, or hamlet, where unfortunately he had acquired
habits that unsuited him to live as those around him were accustomed to
live. He became in a measure alienated from us, drinking, and otherwise
living a life that brought great scandal on his sable connections, who
were gathered more closely around the homestead. Nevertheless, a death, or
a return home, or any important event in the family, was sure to bring
even Vulcan back to his allegiance; and, for a month afterwards, he would
be a reformed man. On this occasion he was one of those who were out in
the fields and woods in quest of me, and he happened to be the very
individual by whom I was discovered.
The awe-struck, solemn manner in which the reckless Vulcan approached,
were all other proofs wanting, would have proclaimed the weight of the
blow that had fallen on Clawbonny. The eyes of this fellow were always
red, but it was easy to see that even he had been shedding tears. He knew
he was no favourite; seldom came near me, unless it were to excuse some of
his neglects or faults, and lived under a sort of ban for his constantly
recurring misdeeds. Nevertheless, a common cause of grief now gave him
confidence, and Neb himself could hardly have approached me with a manner
of more easy but respectful familiarity.
"Ah! Masser Mile! Masser Mile!" Vulcan exclaimed, certain that we felt
alike on this topic, if on no other; "poor young missus! when we ebber get
'noder like _she!_"
"My sister is in heaven, Vulcan, where I hope all at Clawbonny, blacks as
well as whites, will endeavour to meet her, by living in a manner that
will improve the mercy of God."
"You t'ink dat _posserbul,_ Masser Mile?" demanded the old man, fixing his
dull eyes on me, with an earnest intentness that proved he had not
entirely lost all sensibility to his moral condition.
"All things are possible with God, Vulcan. Keeping him and his
commandments constantly in mind, you may still hope to see your young
mistress, and to share in her happiness."
"Wonnerful!" exclaimed the old man; "dat would be a great conserlation.
Ah! Masser Mile, how often she come when a little lady to my shop door,
and ask to see 'e spark fly! Miss Grace hab a great taste for
blacksmit'in', and a great knowledge too. I do t'ink, dat next to some
oder t'ing, she lub to see iron red-hot, and 'e horse shod!"
"You have come to look for me, Vulcan, and I thank you for this care. I
shall return to the house presently; you need give yourself no further
trouble. Remember, old man, that the only hope that remains of either of
us ever seeing Miss Grace again, is in living as Mr. Hardinge so often
tells us all we ought to live."
"Wonnerful!" repeated old Vulcan, whose mind and feelings were in a happy
condition to receive such a lesson. "Yes, _sah_, Masser Mile; she come to
my shop to see 'e spark fly;--I shall miss her like a darter."
This was a specimen of the feelings that prevailed among the negroes,
though the impression on most of the others was more lasting than that
made on the blacksmith, whom I now dismissed, taking the path myself that
led to the house. It was quite dark when I crossed the lawn. A figure was
just visible in the shadows of the piazza, and I was on the point of
turning in the direction of a side door, in order to avoid the meeting,
when Lucy advanced eagerly to the edge of the steps to receive me.
"Oh! Miles--_dear_ Miles, how happy I am to see you again," the precious
girl said, taking my hand with the warmth and frankness of a sister. "My
father and myself have been very uneasy about you; my father, indeed, has
walked towards the rectory, thinking you may have gone thither."
"I have been with you, and Grace, and your father, my good Lucy, ever
since we parted. I am more myself now, however, and you need feel no
further concern on my account. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for
that which you have already felt, and will give you no further concern."
The manner in which Lucy now burst into tears betrayed the intensity of
the feelings that had been pent up in her bosom, and the relief she found
in my assurances. She did not scruple, even, about leaning on my shoulder,
so long as the paroxysm lasted. As soon as able to command herself,
however, she wiped her eyes, again took my hand with confiding affection,
looked anxiously towards me as she said, soothingly--
"We have met with a great loss, Miles; one that even time cannot repair.
Neither of us can ever find another to fill the place that Grace has
occupied. Our lives cannot be lived over again; we cannot return to
childhood; feel as children; love as children; live as children; and grow
up together, as it might be, with one heart, with the same views, the same
wishes, the same opinions; I hope it is not presuming on too great a
resemblance to the departed angel, if I add, the same principles."
"No, Lucy; the past, for us, is gone for ever. Clawbonny will never again
be the Clawbonny it was."
There was a pause, during which I fancied Lucy was struggling to repress
some fresh burst of emotion.
"Yet, Miles," she presently resumed, "we could not ask to have her
recalled from that bliss which we have so much reason to believe she is
even now enjoying. In a short time Grace will be to you and me a lovely
and grateful image of goodness, and virtue, and affection; and we shall
have a saddened, perhaps, but a deep-felt pleasure in remembering how much
we enjoyed of her affection, and how closely she was united to us both
in life."
"That will be indeed a link between us two, Lucy, that I trust may
withstand _all_ the changes and withering selfishness of the world!"
"I hope it may, Miles," Lucy answered, in a low voice; and, as I fancied
at the moment, with an embarrassment that I did not fail to attribute to
the consciousness she felt of Andrew Drewett's claims on all such intimate
association of feeling. "We, who have known each other from children, can
scarcely want causes for continuing to esteem and to regard each other
with affection."
Lucy now appeared to think she might trust me to myself, and she led the
way into the house. I did not see her again until Mr. Hardinge caused the
whole household to be assembled at evening prayers. The meeting of the
family that night was solemn and mournful. For myself, I fancied that the
spirit of Grace was hovering around us; more than once did I fancy that I
heard her sweet, voice mingling in the petitions, or leading the service,
as was her practice on those occasions when our good guardian could not
attend. I observed all the negroes looking at me with solicitude, like
those who recognised my right to feel the blow the deepest, It was a
touching evidence of respectful interest that each man bowed to me
reverently, and each woman curtsied, as he or she left the room. As for
Chloe, sobs nearly choked her; the poor girl having refused to quit the
body of her mistress except for that short moment. I thought Lucy would
have remained with her father and myself for a few minutes, but for the
necessity of removing this poor heart-stricken creature, who really felt
as if the death of her young mistress was a toss of part of her own
existence.
I have already dwelt on the circumstances attending the death of Grace
longer than I intended, and shall now cease to harass my own feelings, or
to distress those of my readers by unnecessarily enlarging on more of the
details. The next three or four days produced the usual calm; and though
it was literally years ere Lucy or myself ceased altogether to weep for
her loss, we both obtained the self-command that was necessary for the
discharge of our ordinary duties. Grace, it will be remembered, died of a
Sunday, about the usual hour for dinner. Agreeably to the custom of the
country, in which there is usually a little too much of an indecent haste
in disposing of the dead, owing in some degree to climate, however, the
funeral would have taken place on Wednesday, and that would have been
delaying twenty-four hours longer than might have been granted in most
cases; but Mr. Hardinge, who gave all the directions, had named Thursday
noon as the hour for the interment. We had few relatives to expect; most
of those who would have been likely to attend, had circumstances admitted
of it, living in distant places that rendered it inconvenient, and indeed
scarcely possible.
I passed most of the intervening time in my study, reading and indulging
in such contemplations as naturally suggest themselves to the mourner.
Lucy, dear girl, had written me two or three short notes, asking my wishes
on various points; among other things, when I wished to pay a last visit
to the body. My answer to this question brought her to my room, with some
little surprise of manner; for she had been so much with Grace, living and
dead, as to think it strange one who had loved her so well while living
should not desire to take a final look at the beautiful remains. I
explained my feelings on this head, and Lucy seemed struck with them.
"I am not sure you will not have decided wisely, Miles," she said--"the
picture being one too precious to destroy. You will be gratified in
knowing, however, that Grace resembles an angel quite as much in death as
she did in life; all who have seen her being struck with the air of
peaceful tranquillity her features now present."
"Bless you--bless you, Lucy--this is all-sufficient. I did wish for some
such assurance, and am now content."
"Several of your family are in the house, Miles, in readiness to attend
the funeral; a stranger has just arrived who seems to have some such
desire, too, though his face is unknown to all at the place. He has asked
to see you with an earnestness that my father scarce knows how to refuse."
"Let him come here, then, Lucy. I can only suppose it to be some one of
the many persons Grace has served; her short life was all activity in that
particular."
Lucy's face did not corroborate that notion; but she withdrew to let my
decision be known. In a few minutes a large, hard-featured, but not
ill-looking man approaching fifty, entered my room, walked up to me with
tears in his eyes, squeezed my hand warmly, and then seated himself
without ceremony. He was attired like a thriving countryman, though his
language, accent, and manner denoted one superior to the ordinary run of
those with whom he was otherwise associated in externals. I had to look at
him a second time ere I could recognise Jack Wallingford, my father's
bachelor cousin, the western land-holder.
"I see by your look, cousin Miles, that you only half, remember me," my
visitor remarked; "I deeply regret that I am obliged to renew our
acquaintance on so melancholy an occasion."
"There are so few of, us left, Mr. Wallingford, that this kindness will be
doubly appreciated," I answered. "If I did not give orders to have you
apprised of the loss we have all sustained, it is because your residence
is so far from Clawbonny as to render it improbable you could have
received the intelligence in time to attend the solemn ceremony that
remains to be performed. I did intend to write to you, when a little
better fitted to perform such a duty."
"I thank you, cousin. The blood and name of Wallingford are very near and
dear to me, and Clawbonny has always seemed a sort of home."
"The dear creature who now lies dead under its roof, cousin John, so
considered you; and you may be pleased to know that she wished me to leave
you this property in my will the last time I went to sea, as of the direct
line, a Wallingford being the proper owner of Clawbonny. In that
particular, she preferred your claims to her own."
"Ay, this agrees with all I ever heard of the angel," answered John
Wallingford, dashing a tear from his eyes, a circumstance that gave one a
favourable opinion of his heart. "Of course you refused, and left the
property to herself, who had a better right to it."
"I did sir; though she threatened to transfer it to you, the moment it
became her's."
"A threat she would have found it difficult to execute, as I certainly
would have refused to receive it. We are half savages, no doubt, out west
of the bridge; but our lands are beginning to tell in the markets, and we
count already some rich men among us."
This was said with a self-satisfied manner, that my cousin was a little
too apt to assume when property became the subject of conversation. I had
occasion several times that day, even, to remark that he attached a high
value to money; though, at the same time, it struck me that most of his
notions were just and honourable. He quite worked his way into my favour,
however, by the respect he manifested for Clawbonny, and all that belonged
to it. So deep was this veneration, that I began to think of the necessity
of making a new will, in order to bequeath him the place in the event of
my dying without heirs, as I now imagined must sooner or later occur. As
Lucy was not likely to be my wife, no one else, I fancied, ever should be.
I had nearer relations than Jack Wallingford, some of whom were then in
the house; cousins-german by both father and mother; but they were not of
the direct line; and I knew that Miles the First would have made this
disposition of the place, could he have foreseen events, and had the law
allowed it. Then Grace had wished such an arrangement, and I had a sad
happiness in executing all the known wishes of my sister.
The funeral did not occur until the day after the arrival of John
Wallingford, who accidentally heard of the death that had occurred in the
family, and came uninvited to attend the obsequies, as has been mentioned.
I passed most of the evening in the company of this relative, with whom I
became so much pleased as to request he would walk with me next day as
second nearest of kin. This arrangement, as I had reason to know in the
end, gave great offence to several who stood one degree nearer in blood to
the deceased, though not of her name. Thus are we constituted!--we will
quarrel over a grave even, a moment that should lay open eternity to our
view, with all its immense consequences and accompaniments, in order to
vindicate feelings and passions that can only interest us, as it might be,
for a day. Fortunately I knew nothing of the offence that was taken at
the time, nor did I see any of my kinsmen but John Wallingford that
evening; his presence in my room being owing altogether to a certain
self-possession and an _à plomb_ that caused him to do very much as he
pleased in such matters.
I rose on the following morning at a late hour, and with a heaviness at
the heart that was natural to the occasion. It was a lovely summer's day;
but all in and around Clawbonny wore the air of a Sunday. The procession
was to form at ten o'clock; and, as I cast my eyes from my window, I could
see the negroes moving about on the lawns, and in the lanes, attired in
their best, but wearing no holiday faces. It seemed to me to be a species
of unnatural Sabbath, possessing all its solemnity, its holy stillness,
its breathing calm, but wanting in that solacing spirit of peace which is
so apt to be imparted to the day of rest in the country, most particularly
at that season of the year. Several of the neighbours, who did not belong
to Clawbonny, were beginning to appear; and I felt the necessity of
dressing in order to be in readiness for what was to follow.
I had eaten alone in my little study or library from the time my sister
died, and had seen no one since my return to the house, the servants
excepted, besides my guardian, Lucy, and John Wallingford. The last had
taken a light supper with me the previous night; but he was then
breakfasting with the rest of the guests in the family eating-room, Mr.
Hardinge doing the honours of the house.
As for myself, I found my own little table prepared with its coffee and
light meal, as I had ordered before retiring. It had _two_ cups, however,
and a second plate had been laid in addition to my own. I pointed to this
arrangement, and demanded of the old white-headed house-servant, who was
in-waiting, what it meant.
"Miss Lucy, sah--she say she mean to breakfast wid Masser Mile, dis
mornin', sah."
Even the accents of this negro were solemn and sad as he made this
familiar explanation, like those of a man who was conscious of having
reached an hour and an occasion that called for peculiar awe. I bade him
let Miss Lucy know that I was in the study.
"Ah, Masser Mile," added the old man, with tears in his eyes as he left
the room, "Miss Lucy 'e only young missus now, sah!"
In a few minutes Lucy joined me. She was in deep black of course, and that
may have added to the appearance of paleness; but no one could be deceived
in the manner in which the dear girl had mourned and wept since we parted.
The subdued expression of her face gave it a peculiar sweetness; and, in
spite of the absence of colour, I thought, as Lucy advanced towards me,
both hands extended, and a smile of anxious inquiry on her lips, that she
had never appeared more lovely. I did not hesitate about pressing those
hands with fervour, and of kissing the warm though colourless cheek. All
this passed as it might have done between an affectionate brother and
sister, neither of us thinking, I am persuaded, of aught but the
confidence and friendship of childhood.
"This is kind of you, dear Lucy," I said, as we took our seats at the
little table; "my cousin John Wallingford, though a good man in the main,
is scarcely near enough, or _dear_ enough, to be admitted at a time
like this."
"I have seen him," Lucy replied--the tremour in her voice showing how hard
she found it to avoid melting in tears, "and rather like him. I believe he
was a favourite with mamma Wallingford," so Lucy was accustomed to call my
mother, "and that ought to be a high recommendation with us, Miles."
"I am disposed to like him, and shall endeavour to keep up more
intercourse with him than I have hitherto done. It is as we begin to find
ourselves alone in the world, Lucy, that we first feel the necessity of
counting blood and kin, and of looking around us for support."
"Alone you are not, Miles, and never can be while I and my dear father
live. We are certainly nearer to you than any that now remain among your
blood relatives! You can neither suffer nor be happy without our partaking
in the feelings."
This was not said without an effort; that much I could detect; yet it was
said firmly, and in a way that left no doubt of its entire sincerity. I
even wished there had been less of nature and more of hesitation in the
dear girl's manner while she was endeavouring to assure me of the
sympathy she felt in my happiness or unhappiness. But the waywardness of a
passion as tormenting, and yet as delightful as love, seldom leaves us
just or reasonable.
Lucy and I then talked of the approaching ceremony. Each of us was grave
and sorrowful, but neither indulged in any outward signs of grief. We knew
the last sad offices were to be performed, and had braced ourselves to the
discharge of this melancholy duty. It was not customary with the females
of purely New York families of the class of the Hardinges, to be present
at the performance of the funeral rites; but Lucy told me she intended to
be in the little church, and to share in as much of the religious offices
as were performed within the building. In a population as mixed as ours
has become, it is not easy to say what is and what is not now a national
or state usage, on such an occasion; but I knew this was going farther
than was usual for one of Lucy's habits and opinions, and I expressed a
little surprise at her determination.
"Were it at any other funeral, I would not be present, Miles," she said,
the tremour of her voice sensibly increasing; "but I cannot divest myself
of the idea that the spirit of Grace will be hovering near; that the
presence of her more than sister will be acceptable. Whatever the
Providence of God may have ordered for the dear departed, I know it will
be grateful to myself to join in the prayers of the church--besides, I am
not altogether without the womanly feeling of wishing to watch over the
form of Grace while it remains above ground. And now, Miles, brother,
friend, _Grace's_ brother, or by whatever endearing term I may address
you," added Lucy, rising, coming to my side of the table, and taking my
hand. "I have one thing to say that I alone can say, for it would never
suggest itself as necessary to my dear father."
I looked earnestly at Lucy's sweet countenance, and saw it was full of
concern--I had almost said of alarm.
"I believe I understand you, Lucy," I answered, though a sensation at the
throat nearly choked me--"Rupert is here?"
"He is, Miles; I implore you to remember what would be the wishes of her
who is now a saint in heaven--what her entreaties, her tears would
implore of you, had not God placed a barrier between us."
"I understand you, Lucy"--was the husky reply--"I do remember all you
wish, though that recollection is unnecessary. I would rather not see him;
but never can! forget that he is your brother!"
"You will see as little of him as possible, Miles--bless you, bless you,
for this forbearance!"
I felt Lucy's hasty but warm kiss on my forehead as she quitted the room.
It seemed to me a seal of a compact between us that was far too sacred
ever to allow me to dream of violating it.
I pass over the details of the funeral procession. This last was ordered
as is usual in the country, the friends following the body in vehicles or
on horseback, according to circumstances. John Wallingford went with me
agreeably to my own arrangement, and the rest took their places in the
order of consanguinity and age. I did not see Rupert in the procession at
all, though I saw little beside the hearse that bore the body of my only
sister. When we reached the church-yard, the blacks of the family pressed
forward to bear the coffin into the building. Mr. Hardinge met us there,
and then commenced those beautiful and solemn rites which seldom fail to
touch the hardest heart. The rector of St. Michael's had the great
excellence of reading all the offices of the church as if he felt them;
and, on this occasion, the deepest feelings of the heart seemed to be
thrown into his accents. I wondered how he could get on; but Mr. Hardinge
felt himself a servant of the altar, standing in his master's house, and
ready to submit to his will. Under such circumstances it was not a trifle
that could unman him. The spirit of the divine communicated itself to me.
I did not shed a tear during the whole of the ceremony, but felt myself
sustained by the thoughts and holy hopes that ceremony was adapted to
inspire. I believe Lucy, who sat in a far corner of the church, was
sustained in a similar manner; for I heard her low sweet voice mingling in
the responses. Lip service! Let those who would substitute their own crude
impulses for the sublime rites of our liturgy, making ill digested forms
the supplanter of a ritual carefully and devoutly prepared, listen to one
of their own semi-conversational addresses to the Almighty over a grave,
and then hearken to these venerable rites, and learn humility. Such men
never approach sublimity, or the sacred character that should be impressed
on a funeral ceremony, except when they borrow a fragment here and there
from the very ritual they affect to condemn. In their eagerness to
dissent, they have been guilty of the weakness of dissenting, so far as
forms are concerned, from some of the loftiest, most comprehensive, most
consolatory and most instructive passages of the inspired book!
It was a terrible moment when the first clod of the valley fell on my
sister's coffin. God sustained me under the shock! I neither groaned nor
wept. When Mr. Hardinge returned the customary thanks to those who had
assembled to assist me "in burying my dead out of my sight," I had even
sufficient fortitude to bow to the little crowd, and to walk steadily
away. It is true, that John Wallingford very kindly took my arm to sustain
me, but I was not conscious of wanting any support. I heard the sobs of
the blacks as they crowded around the grave, which the men among them
insisted on filling with their own hands, as if "Miss Grace" could only
rest with their administration to her wants; and I was told not one of
them left the spot until the place had resumed all the appearance of
freshness and verdure which it possessed before the spade had been
applied. The same roses, removed with care, were restored to their former
beds; and it would not have been easy for a stranger to discover that a
new-made grave lay by the side of those of the late Captain Miles
Wallingford and his much-respected widow. Still it was known to all in
that vicinity, and many a pilgrimage was made to the spot within the next
fortnight, the young maidens of the adjoining farms in particular coming
to visit the grave of Grace Wallingford, the "Lily of Clawbonny," as she
had once been styled.