MY MOTHER'S FUNERAL.
I never saw my Uncle Robert Moncton until the morning of my mother's
funeral; and the impression that first interview made upon my young
heart will never be forgotten. It cast the first dark shadow upon the
sunny dial of my life, and for many painful years my days and hours
were numbered beneath its gloomy influence.
It was a chill, murky November day, such a day as London or its
immediate vicinity can alone produce. The rain fell slowly and steadily
to the ground; and trickled from the window-frames in one continuous
stream. A thick mist hung upon the panes of glass like a gauze veil,
intersected by innumerable channels of water, which looked like a
pattern of open work left in the dingy material. The shutters of our
once populous parlour were half-closed; and admitted into the large,
deserted apartment only a portion of this obscure light. The hearse
destined to convey the remains of my dear mother to their last, long
resting-place, was drawn up at the door. I saw it looming through the
fog, with its tall, black shadowy plumes, like some ghostly and
monstrous thing. A hitherto unknown feeling of dread stole over me. My
life had been all sunshine up to the present moment--the sight of that
mournful funeral array swept like a dark cloud over the smiling sky,
blotting out all that was bright and beautiful from my eyes and heart.
I screamed in terror and despair, and hid my face in the lap of my old
nurse to shut out the frightful vision, and shed torrents of tears.
The good woman tried to soothe me while she adjusted my black dress, as
I was to form one in that doleful procession as chief mourner--I was my
mother's only child. The only real mourner there.
The door which led into the next room was partly open. I saw the
undertaker's people removing the coffin in order to place it in the
hearse. This was a fresh cause for anxiety. I knew that that black,
mysterious-looking box contained the cold, pale, sleeping form of my
mother; but I could not realize the fact, that the beautiful and
beloved being, who had so lately kissed and blessed me, was unconscious
of her removal from her home and weeping boy.
"Mamma!--dear mamma!" I cried, struggling violently with nurse. "Let me
go, nurse! those wicked men shall not take away mamma!"
Two gentlemen, attracted by my cries and struggles, entered the room.
The foremost was a tall, portly man, whom the world would call
handsome. His features were good, and his complexion darkly brilliant;
but there was a haughty, contemptuous expression in his large,
prominent, selfish-looking eyes, which sent a chill to my heart.
Glittering and glassy, they sparkled like ice--clear, sarcastic and
repelling--and oh, how cold! The glance of that eye made me silent in a
moment. It fascinated like the eye of a snake. I continued to shiver
and stare at him, as long as its scornful gaze remained riveted upon my
face. I felt a kindred feeling springing up in my heart--a feeling of
defiance and resistance which would fain return hatred for hatred,
scorn for scorn; and never in after-life could I meet the searching
look of that stern cold eye, without experiencing the same outward
abhorrence and inward revulsion.
He took my hand, and turning me round, examined my countenance with
critical minuteness, neither moved by my childish indignation nor my
tears. "A strong-limbed straight-made fellow, this. I did not think
that Edward could be the father of such an energetic-looking boy. He's
like his grandfather, and if I mistake not, will be just as obstinate
and self-sustained."
"A true Moncton," returned his companion, a coarse-featured,
vulgar-looking man, with a weak, undecided, but otherwise kindly
countenance. "You will not be able to bend that young one to your
purpose."
A bitter smile was the reply, and a fixed stare from those terribly
bright eyes.
"Poor child! He's very unfortunate," continued the same speaker. "I
pity him from my very soul!" He placed his large hand kindly upon my
head, and drawing me between his knees held up my face and kissed me
with an air of parental tenderness. Touched by the unexpected caress, I
clasped my arms about his neck, and hid my face in his bosom. He flung
himself into a large chair, and lifted me upon his knee.
"You seem to have taken a fancy to the boy," said my uncle, in the same
sarcastic tone. "Suppose you adopt him as _your_ son. I would gladly
be rid of him for ever; and would pay well for his change of name and
country. Is it a bargain?" and he grasped his companion by the
shoulder.
"No. I will not incur the responsibility. I have done too much against
the poor child already. Besides, a man with ten children has no need of
adopting the child of a stranger. Providence has thrown him into your
hands, Robert Moncton; and whether for good or evil, I beseech you to
treat the lad kindly for his father's sake."
"Well, well, I must, I see, make the best of a bad bargain. But,
Walters, you could so easily take him with you to America. He has no
friends by his mother's side, to make any stir about his disappearance.
Under your name his identity will never be recognized, and it would be
taking a thorn out of my side."
"To plant it in my own heart. The child must remain with you."
I did not pay very particular attention to this conversation at the
time, but after events recalled it vividly to my recollection.
The undertaker put an end to the conference by informing the gentlemen
that "all was ready, and the hearse was about to move forward." My
nurse placed me in a mourning coach, beside my uncle and his companion,
in order that I might form part of that dismal procession, to the
nearest cemetery. I shall never forget the impression that solemn scene
made on my mind. My first ideas of death and decay were formed whilst
standing beside my mother's grave. There my heart received its first
life-lesson; and owned its first acquaintanceship with grief--the
_ideal_ vanished, and the hard, uncompromising _real_ took its place.
After the funeral was over, I accompanied my Uncle Robert to his house
in Hatton Garden. At the door we parted with Mr. Walters, and many
years elapsed, before I saw his face again.