THE LAST JOURNEY.
Not even at election-time had the streets of Kingslough and the roads
leading into it been so thronged as on the day of Lord Glendare’s
funeral.
From ten, fifteen, and twenty miles people came to see the sight. From
far and near they flocked into the town. Men, old and young; comely
women, with babies in their arms; elderly women, so wrinkled and aged
that the memory of their childhood must have seemed as a dream to them;
girls straight and handsome, with brilliant complexions and, as a rule,
light luxuriant hair came crowding in from the east, and north, and
west. Some in jaunting-cars, some in farm-carts, some on the national
low-backed car—in which the want of springs was frequently
counterbalanced by a feather-bed covered with a patchwork counterpane
being laid on the body of the conveyance—most, however, on foot.
Not every day does a nobleman go to his rest, not every day was it given
to Kingslough to behold the proud spectacle of a hearse drawn by six
horses passing through its streets.
Simple enough were the funerals the little town witnessed as a rule.
Quietly and unostentatiously the dead were laid in their graves. Little
pomp and many followers, such was the primitive fashion at Kingslough.
Amongst the poor, neighbour carried neighbour to that resting-place he
was helpless to reach for himself. Amongst the rich, if the distance to
the churchyard were great, a hearse was procured from Kilcurragh; but
there the black business began and ended. Friends and relations followed
in their own conveyances; in broughams, chariots, barouches, phaetons,
dog-carts, gigs, cars, with an invariable rear of foot-passengers.
At that period of the world’s history a man was not allowed to shirk out
of the world unnoticed, as if he had done something to be ashamed of. So
to speak, his friends accompanied him to the very portals of earth,
before they could prevail on themselves to say farewell. The worst fate
which could befall a human being was, when he went to the grave, to do
so without a “following;” but it did not matter how unpretentious that
following chanced to be. A certain number of persons had shown respect
for the dead, that was enough. There had been no apathy, no coldness, no
standing aloof. His friends had stuck to him to the last. In driving
sleet or blinding snow no one worthy the name of friend shrank from the
performance of the final duty. They followed if the roads were a foot
deep in mud, they stood beside the grave with the rain beating down on
their uncovered heads, with the long, rank, wet grass reaching above
their ankles.
No single mourning-coach preceded by a hearse feathered as heavily as it
might, would have contented that sympathetic population. Without a
hearse at all it was possible for a coffin to be carried to the grave;
without a coach it was possible to follow the coffin; but it was a thing
not to be thought of that any one should be permitted to walk out of
this life as through a back-door, unmourned, unattended.
And when this idea of companionship obtained concerning even the poorest
of the community, how should sufficient honour be done to the dead earl?
How? the question was easy enough to answer. It resolved itself into a
matter of multiplication. Where a commoner had fifties the peer must
have his thousands. In the days to come, when the high-stepping horses,
and the sombre velvets, and the waving plumes and all the undertaker’s
bravery should be forgotten, feeble old crones should still be able to
tell their grandchildren of the “grand burying,” when the road from
Rosemont to Kingslough was lined by spectators who, so soon as the
carriages and the horsemen, and the tenantry had passed, became
“followers” also; when the ladies, dressed all of them in black, sat at
the windows where the blinds were drawn half down, to view the sight;
when the tenants chosen for that purpose, all furnished by the new earl
with white linen hatbands, and white gloves, “kept the curb,” so that
the roadway might be clear and unimpeded for the procession; when all
the shops were closed, and the town was “like a Sunday;” when the clergy
of all denominations—and there were many different sects in
Kingslough—had white scarves, ornamented by bows of the best black
ribbon, and black kid gloves sent to them; when, for one appearance
only, the lion lay down with the lamb, and Father Kelly and Mr.
MacRoberts,—who disagreed as heartily as it is possible for two
Christians in name to do, and this is saying enough—walked demurely side
by side; when happy was he or she whose friends lived on the line of
route; when the halt, and the deaf, and the blind reaped a rich harvest,
and, their pockets full of halfpence, chanted the praises of the
departed, of the last Glendare who shall ever sleep with his ancestors
in the old abbey situated so picturesquely on the height overlooking the
sea.
It was slow work traversing the weary miles that stretched between
Rosemont and Ballyknock Abbey, and the Kingslough gentry had ample time
for luncheon before crowding to the windows to look at the show.
All the men, as a matter of course, were either following the _cortége_
in carriages or holding in their horses to a walking pace in the rear of
the carriages, but the ladies ate their modest meal at their leisure,
and discussed many questions concerning the Glendares over it.
From the windows of Miss Riley’s house a good view was to be obtained of
the procession, and from attic to parlour her rooms were crammed by
guests possessed of sufficient forethought to take their mid-day repast
with them. As for Miss Riley—half blind, half deaf, whole
childish—seated close by the window-frame, she kept up an incessant wail
for Nettie. She had asked Nettie—why did she not come? it would amuse
Lillie to see the show; why, if Nettie did not care for it herself,
should she deprive her little girl of the pleasure? she had been a
little girl once herself, and a good girl too—before she was naughty and
ran away with Mr. Brady.
Poor old lady! who would not rather die in the summer’s prime than live
on into the dull December days, to babble idle stories to heedless
listeners? Who cared about the tale of Nettie’s marriage now? who cared
for Nettie herself, or Mr. Brady, or Miss Riley? The house was central,
and commanded a good view of the procession. Her older guests hearkened
to her civilly, if secretly impatient of her doting utterances. The
younger talked, and whispered, and laughed, charmingly oblivious of the
fact that, if they lived long-enough, age must come to them also—age
possibly even less attractive than that presented by Miss Riley. But
there was no Nettie; at no window in Kingslough did that most lovely
face keep watch for the long, and slow, and mournful funeral array.
Contrary to all precedent, Mrs. Brady grew fairer as she grew older.
Possibly had all gone well with her—had she married happily, and led the
easy, contented life it were devoutly to be wished all women could
lead—she might have grown plump, and so lost her beauty.
But as it was, the delicate carmine of her cheeks had not deepened, the
cheeks had grown no rounder, the hair had darkened but little, the
figure was lithe and slight as ever. She was the Nettie of old save for
this, that across her blue eyes there lay a dreamy shadow which added to
their tenderness, and that her mouth, once almost childish in the
pliability of its muscles, had acquired an expression which one who knew
nothing of her story might have failed to understand aright.
She had suffered cruelly, she had made a mistake, and some of the years
during which she must expiate her error were gone and past—a few, only a
few—but she was still so young that grief seemed to touch her with a
remorseful pencil, and increased her loveliness instead of destroying
the one great gift God had bestowed upon her.
Nevertheless, few now looked upon her winsome face. On the rare
occasions when she was compelled to enter Kingslough, she walked through
it with veil drawn close, with hurried steps, with eyes that looked
neither to right nor to left, that recognized and wished to recognize no
one who had known her in the old days departed.
Not so, however, Mr. Brady; about Kingslough he swaggered frequently,
and time, which works wonders, had brought him nods and “how-d’ye-do’s”
and “good mornings” from men too idle, or too busy, or too careless to
interest themselves concerning the antecedents of an apparently
prosperous man.
While Miss Riley moaned over Nettie’s absence, he was solemnly amongst
the other mourners reining in a mare that for blackness and uplifting of
all her feet in protest of the pace he forced her to adopt, might have
done credit to any undertaker in the United Kingdom.
As it was, the earl’s funeral brought him a good price for ‘Brunette.’
Common decency forbade a deal during the tedious journey to Kingslough,
but human nature suggested a series of remarks which led a certain
Captain Labucerbe to call next morning at Maryville and offer a given
sum for ‘Brunette,’ which, after a becoming hesitation and reluctance,
Mr. Brady accepted.
If, however, Nettie were nowhere to be seen, her old companion Miss
Moffat sat conspicuous amongst the ladies who crowded the windows of
Major Perris’ house. Time had amply fulfilled Mrs. Perris’ predictions
concerning her beauty. At four-and-twenty she was the most lovely woman
in all that part of the country. The world of Kingslough had settled
that she was certain to marry Robert Somerford, as it had settled years
before she must marry John Riley; but a girl possessed of her beauty and
her money had no lack of suitors, and if she were destined to wed the
late earl’s nephew she seemed also destined to refuse before doing so as
many would-be husbands as usually offer themselves to the favourable
consideration of an heiress.
Had it not indeed been for the fact of Mr. Somerford’s constant visits
at Bayview, Kingslough might have decided that Grace bade fair to become
an old maid; but as matters stood she was looked upon as almost engaged,
and treated by her friends accordingly.
Her denials of the statement were treated precisely then, as her denials
of a similar statement had been treated formerly. Kingslough was
convinced in its own mind that whenever Mr. Somerford got “an
appointment” the marriage would take place; and Kingslough also felt
satisfied she would have become a wife long previously but for her
father’s objection to her wedding a man who had no money and no
position. That Mr. Moffat had never been asked either to consent or
refuse was too absurd an idea to entertain.
Of course she was going to marry Robert Somerford—so said Kingslough,
and whatever Kingslough said, it implicitly believed to be true.
Slowly the hours crept by. On the road conversation grew brisker; at the
windows of the Kingslough houses it flagged grievously; in the streets
people were getting very weary, and not a few very drunk.
The shutters of the public-houses were closed, it is true, but the doors
stood hospitably open, and amongst the crowd of friends and neighbours
who thronged the streets there were not wanting plenty of persons
willing to treat and wishful to be treated.
Nevertheless, even with the charm whisky is capable of exercising, the
masses were beginning to get very tired. Everything about the late earl
and the new earl, and my lady, and Mr. Robert and Mr. and Mrs. Dillwyn
that could be said had been said. Speculation itself could advance
nothing further concerning the Glendare future, and the oldest
inhabitant could remember nothing about the Glendare past which he had
not already communicated.
As for the ladies—the best regulated mind could scarcely have considered
the entertainment provided that day particularly exhilarating. Hostesses
had committed the great mistake of inviting their guests to come for
luncheon, and consequently, when luncheon was over, and no sign of the
funeral still appeared, a feeling of boredom crept over even the
liveliest of the company.
The occupation of mentally criticizing each her neighbour’s apparel was
denied on this occasion. Every one appeared in black, and as of course
people could not be expected to purchase a new dress for the occasion, a
general effect of second or third best attire prevailed, which at once
defied and disarmed comment.
No Mrs. Hartley was there now in Kingslough to excite or amuse the
occupants of any drawing-room by her plain speech and sharp retorts.
Long previously she had returned to a country where, to quote her own
observation, “The poorest children are taught to pronounce the letters
in the alphabet properly.”
“How do they pronounce H?” Grace wrote back at once to inquire.
In congenial society she rustled her silks—in a civilized land she
recalled the years spent “amongst a warmhearted, barefooted, and
prejudiced race,” with something of the same feeling as Dr. Livingstone,
say, might evince if he ever returned to converse familiarly concerning
the inhabitants of Central Africa. In her descriptions of Irish ways, of
Irish notions, of Irish management, of Irish eccentricity, the lady was
merciless. The manners and customs of the Isle of Saints were described
to attentive listeners with a _verve_ and bitterness for which it seemed
difficult to account, except on the ground of intense dislike to the
country and the people; and in truth there had been a “difference”
between her and those of the Irish over whom she exercised some
authority, a difference of so grievous a description, that she sold all
the land she owned to Lord Ardmorne, and, shaking the dust of Ireland
off her feet, vowed a vow never to enter the country again.
Had she remained in Kingslough, it is possible the lives of Mrs. Brady
and Grace might have been different. As matters stood, both her former
favourites went on their separate ways without forming a close
friendship with any woman, without considering it necessary to establish
confidential relations with any adviser. There was no one now to talk
reproachfully to Grace about the honest heart she had stabbed by her
rejection of his love; no one to show Nettie how to make the best thing
of an existence she had marred for herself so young.
The peace of mind of Kingslough, no longer disturbed by the rich dress
and bold utterances of that strong-minded Englishwoman, who had been so
fond of golden-haired Nettie and dark-haired Grace, of the girl with
blue eyes and the girl with grey, had attained a state of tranquillity
verging on dulness. But for the sayings and doings of the democratic
party, there would literally have been no stock subject of conversation
amongst the _élite_ of Kingslough. As it happened, however, just at the
time of Lord Glendare’s death, the malcontents and those who, wishing to
acquire notoriety, self-elected themselves champions of the people’s
rights, had been making an unusual disturbance. Meetings were held and
speeches delivered; the beauties of Ireland described, and the soil,
“blessed by heaven and cursed by man,” invested with a number of
qualities subsequent experience has scarcely evolved from it. Tom Moore
was freely quoted, as well as some of the extremely beautiful poetry
produced during the time of the Rebellion. History was ransacked to
furnish instances of English cruelty and Irish chivalry. After listening
to the orations poured forth with all the fervour, and unreason, and
discursiveness for which democratic orators have always been noted, an
uninformed auditor could only draw one conclusion, namely, that there
had never been a great statesman, poet, patriot, soldier, sailor, or
writer born out of Ireland.
With throbs of national pride the people listened and believed, as name
after name was recited from what the speakers were pleased to style the
“glory-roll of time.” With rejoicing they gathered beside ingle nooks,
and around the turf fire of some wayside public-house, to hear the
schoolmaster or any other “scholard” read out leaders in which the Whig
paper of the county spoke of the “oppressed tenants,” of the “grinding
tyranny” of the landlords, of the right of the men who in the “sweat of
their brows tilled the soil to reap the fruit of their labours.”
It would have been touching—had it not been almost heart-breaking—to
behold the simple faith with which these utterances were received. Now
that men had “arisen to speak for them,” the population felt satisfied
the future would be bright as the past had been gloomy.
That they were in danger of falling between two stools never occurred to
them; that old friends might withdraw helping hands, that new friends
might be unable really to benefit was too common sense a view of the
matter to present itself; that orators were all unconsciously driving
nails into the coffins of one generation in order to benefit generations
then unborn, was a truth too self-evident to be acknowledged by anybody.
They believed that in gaining fresh advantages, they should lose none of
the old; that in being independent of the rich, they stood no danger of
losing the help and friendly feeling of the class above them.
It was not much they really wanted, something less than justice would
have satisfied every honest, sensible man in the community; but a great
deal more than justice would not have contented the new brooms, who
believed society only wanted to be swept by them to be made clean, who
held the doctrine that the only way to remodel old ways was to destroy
them, to encourage affection between all classes in the community was to
exterminate class altogether, and to exemplify practically the truth of
the Irish theory that “one man is as good as another—and better.”
In no community could social changes such as these indicated, have
passed altogether unnoticed; and in a neighbourhood like Kingslough,
where the upper ten bore an absurdly small proportion to the lower
thousand, much conversation was induced by the evil doings of the new
prophets who had arisen to lead the people to destruction.
Even amongst ladies the topic proved one of considerable interest, and
much of the talk in many houses on the day of Lord Glendare’s funeral
centred in the grievances, real or fancied, of the lower orders.
As for Miss Moffat, her sympathies were with the people, but she had no
toleration for the demagogues who were deluding them.
An earnest, quiet, patient friend of the poor, she did not care to
listen to foolish talk, either about their wrongs or the way to right
them.
With all the strength of her nature she loved the hard-working, devoted,
uncomplaining men and women amongst whom she had grown from a child to a
woman, but well she knew it was because of their unconsciousness of
fortitude, of endurance, of humble heroism, that she had grown so fond
of them, and she almost hated the orators who were trying to change the
very natures of those they addressed.
At the same time she had seen too much of the bitterness of the poverty
against which her humble friends waged incessant war; she understood too
well the struggle occupiers of land had to get enough out of the soil to
pay their rent and keep soul and body together, to endure with patience
senseless remarks concerning the discontent and ingratitude of poor
deluded creatures who flocked all too eagerly to hear the tale of their
wrongs and their trials recounted with dangerous eloquence, with
declamation and exaggeration.
Her heart was sore for the people. Had she sprung from them, had she
been of their blood and their bone, her soul could not have gone out to
them in their sorrow and their suffering more freely than proved the
case. She “spoke up for them,” and did no good either to them or herself
by her advocacy.
“When you are older you will know better,” said one antiquated lady,
shaking her ancient head with an air of solemn wisdom.
“The whole matter,” broke in a lively little matron, “puts me in mind of
that story which tells how a client, who suddenly burst into tears
whilst his counsel was speaking, being asked why he cried, answered ‘I
never knew how much I had lost until now;’ and in like manner the
peasantry never knew they were oppressed and injured till Mr. Hanlon,
and men such as he, told them so.”
“Do you mean us to infer from your anecdote that the client had lost
nothing?” asked Grace with judicial calmness.
“How can I tell? you have the story as I heard it.”
“Because,” proceeded Miss Moffat, “if you wish to make me believe that
the tenants even in this neighbourhood have no just cause of complaint—”
“For pity’s sake,” interrupted Mrs. Perris, “do not let us open up that
question, Grace! We are none of us landowners. If there is anything
wrong, we are utterly powerless to put it right. For my own part, I
agree with my husband that nothing could place the present race of
tenants in a better position. They ought all to be labourers. They have
not money enough to work the land easily or profitably. If they are
miserably poor it is not because their rent is too high, but because
they have no capital to put into their farms excepting their own and
their children’s labour.”
“Yes; and they would shoot anybody with money, who took a farm and
offered to give them employment, or else burn his house down about his
ears, or set fire to his ricks,” finished a maiden lady, whose brother,
having tried the experiment of going afield for his tenants, had been
compelled to abandon the attempt. “Take my word for it, Miss Moffat,
when you become one of the Glendares, you will see there is another side
to the land question than that espoused by Mr. Hanlon and his set.”
“When I become one of the Glendares, it is extremely likely I shall
adopt the opinions of the family on all subjects,” said Grace a little
bitterly.
“It is supposed,” remarked the lively matron who had previously spoken,
“that if Mr. Somerford were in a position to declare his sentiments, he
would side with the people.”
“The younger members of great houses are generally in opposition,” said
Colonel Perris’ father, who, by reason of an attack of gout had been
compelled to forego the pleasure of accompanying Lord Glendare’s remains
to the family vault; “just as men who want to rise are Radicals, and men
who have risen are Tories. Am I not right, Miss Moffat?”
“Possibly,” she replied. “Your experience of life has been much wider
and longer than mine.”
“Ah, Miss Grace!” exclaimed the old man, “how cruel it is of you to
remind me how far behind I have left my youth.”
“I do not think youth such a particularly happy season that one ought to
regret its departure,” was the answer.
“Wait till you are old before you decide that question,” he retorted.
“And others, you would imply,” she added.
“And others,” he repeated. “Believe me, those who think there can be
nothing easier than to put the world right, often find the operation
more difficult in practice than in theory. Take for instance Mr. Robert
Somerford—”
“Perhaps, Mr. Perris, you will defer pointing a moral by the help of Mr.
Somerford till he is present to hear for himself. I beg to state I am
not the keeper of his conscience.” And with a heightened colour Miss
Moffat walked to the window, whilst the ladies exchanged significant
looks, and Mr. Perris chuckled audibly.
“If they do not come soon, it will be quite dark before they get to the
abbey,” said Mrs. Mynton, referring to the funeral party, and, true to
her instincts, striving to make matters comfortable for Grace. “Hush! is
not that the bell?”
It was the bell of St. Martin’s Church tolling slowly, solemnly.
“They have got to the Black River, then,” observed Mr. Perris, that
being the point where the parish of Kingslough was supposed to commence.
“As they pass through the town the whole peal is to be clammed—muffled,”
said his daughter-in-law.
“I thought it was considered unsafe to ring all the bells,” remarked
Grace, not sorry, perhaps, to have an opportunity of speaking on an
indifferent subject.
“The risk is to be run to-day, at all events,” was the reply. “If the
tower comes down, and the ringers are killed, it will be a graceful
opportunity for the new earl to win golden opinions by rebuilding the
first, and providing for the families of the second.”
“I wonder if he will remain at Rosemont?” marvelled Mrs. Mynton.
“I should think he would reside with his mother,” observed a widow, who
had kept her only son tied to her apron-strings till he was long past
forty.
“I should think he would do no such thing,” said Mrs. Perris decidedly.
“He ought to travel, and get enlarged ideas, and rid himself of the
absurd notion that the earth was created solely and exclusively for the
benefit of the Glendares.”
“Who is Radical now?” suggested Grace.
“I am not,” was the reply; “but I would have young men be young men, and
learn what is passing in the world, and acquire fresh ideas. How should
any one be benefited by living with Lady Glendare—a silly, affected
woman?”
“Who must be in grievous trouble,” interposed Miss Moffat softly.
“True, my dear, and I beg her and your pardon for speaking so
ill-naturedly. She must be in trouble. The earl’s death will make a
great difference to her.”
“She intends to go to her sister, Lady Martinell, for the present,”
Grace explained; “and Lord Trevor—the new earl—talks of staying at
Rosemont.”
“At Rosemont! what attraction can he find there?” exclaimed the company
in chorus.
“Mr. Dillwyn thinks it would be advantageous to the property for him to
remain on the spot for a time at least.”
“Mr. Dillwyn, oh! Mr. Dillwyn, ah! Mr. Dillwyn has great influence. Mr.
Dillwyn knows all the ins and outs of the Glendare estates.”
These and other expressions like them were uttered in different tones by
the assembled ladies. In their hearts, perhaps, they had hoped the death
of the earl would prove the signal for Mr. Dillwyn’s dismissal. Amongst
them there were several who could not have married the agent themselves,
but there were few who ever intended to forgive his marrying Mrs.
Somerford.
By the window stood Grace Moffat, listening to the storm in a teapot she
had brewed so unwittingly. She was sorry now she had come into
Kingslough. The whole of the talk about herself and Robert Somerford,
the Glendares and their tenantry, seemed to her ill chosen on such an
occasion.
She had longed, with a longing the nature of which she could not have
explained to herself or any one else, to see the funeral procession—the
hearse, the coaches, the carriages, the long, long train of mourners.
The whole thing had taken possession of her imagination; she had brooded
over the earl’s death; she recalled the stories of the Somerfords’
former greatness; the years when, as legends ran amongst the poor, their
doors stood wide to all comers; when the gentry feasted in the hall, and
there was plenty and to spare in the kitchen; when no beggar left the
gate unrelieved; when, let money be spent in England or abroad, or
wherever it might be, with a careless prodigality, there was no stint at
home; and she contrasted those years with the later and more evil times
upon which the Glendares had fallen.
That was the beginning, this was the end. From Robert Somerford she had
heard histories of the shifts to which his uncle was compelled to
resort, the anxieties he endured, the small gratification he was ever
able to take out of his estates, his title, his wife, his children.
To Grace, who formerly thought the life of an earl must be one of
unqualified happiness, these revelations proved a disillusion almost
impossible to endure. To be placed so high, and yet have to stoop so
low; to have the power, apparently, of achieving so much, and yet to be
unable to do anything useful; to hold the happiness of so many in his
hand, and still to fail in bettering the condition of those most
dependent upon him; to be burdened with debt, not altogether of his own
contracting but to a great extent, an ever-increasing legacy handed down
from ancestor to ancestor through generations to him, and yet lacking
moral courage to retrench and live in honour and comfort, if not
luxury,—the whole thing seemed to her so pitiful, that she could neither
get the life nor the death of the late earl out of her mind.
What would the new earl, invested so young with such a terrible
responsibility, make of his life? On him devolved the debts, the duties,
the cares, the upholding of an ancient name. How would he, still almost
a boy, support the burden thrust upon him—the legacy of debt, the duty
of honour, the commission to put wrong right? How would he act?
And if not he, how would Robert Somerford—supposing—only supposing?
She put the idea swiftly aside. Robert was still only a cadet of a noble
house. So far as she was concerned, she had no desire ever to see him
otherwise, only—
Round at that moment went the bells, taken from the old abbey, open;
round again, muffled; round again open; round muffled, and still once
again, then clammed, muffled.
With tongue silenced, with face a little pale, each woman hurried to the
window; the procession was at hand—they were about to see the last in
this world of Louis Earl of Glendare.
On came the cavalcade—first the undertaker’s men, a strange sight in the
little town, then the hearse conveying all that was mortal of the late
earl, then the first coach, containing the new earl, the Hon. Cecil
Somerford, the late earl’s uncle, a shrivelled, weird old man, my lady’s
brother, and Mr. Robert Somerford.
That vehicle held the probable succession in this order,—first, the
earl, then Mr. Cecil, then Mr. Robert. It were idle to suppose the two
latter were not calculating chances, even on the way to the grave.
It was quite possible Mr. Cecil might be a peer before he died. On the
other hand, given some chances in his favour, it was equally possible
Mr. Somerford might step into the coveted position.
How they loved each other, those two mourners! how they hated each other
were indeed the better phrase; with the low, vulgar hatred wherewith
Mrs. Briggs’ laundress regards her relation Mrs. Griggs’ nurse when she
imagines Mrs. Wiggs, aunt to both, has left to the latter a snug sum in
the savings’ bank and her personal effects as well.
Looking around, and seeing how money and rank are coveted, which amongst
us is there that should wish to live?
Reverse the notion, and which is there that should wish to die, and
leave such prizes, as most people regard them, behind?
Slowly the procession passed along, the sad, grey waves lapping in upon
the shore, wailing out a requiem for the dead.
Dark and sullen looked the sea under the leaden sky—like a vast desert
the waters stretched away to the horizon, where clouds and waves seemed
to touch each other.
It was a sight to make one shiver, that mournful pageant—that sorrowful
sea, and all the time the bells rang out open, muffled, clammed.
Next behind the coach containing the new earl followed one in which were
seated other relatives of the deceased nobleman, then came my lady’s
brother, then Lord Ardmorne’s carriage, occupied by himself and two of
his sister’s sons; to that succeeded a long line of carriages belonging
to the gentry for twenty miles round, then more humble vehicles, covered
and jaunting-cars, phaetons and dog-carts, all conveying
self-constituted mourners to Ballyknock Abbey, while beside the
carriages and cars rode gentlemen and officers who had come from far and
near to pay the last token of respect to the late earl.
As the procession moved on, the tenants closed in behind the
conveyances.
Many of them had walked all the way from Rosemont; but those selected to
keep the line, so soon as the carriages had passed by, fell into
position as part of the funeral train.
Altogether an impressive pageant, not by reason of any great pomp or
grandeur in the arrangement, but rather by the mere force and
accumulation of numbers.
Along the Parade, past Glendare Terrace, then making a slight sweep
inland, it began to ascend the steep hill it was needful to climb before
the abbey could be reached.
It was late in the afternoon, and the evening shadows were already to
the east darkening down over the sea, when the hearse stopped at the
rusty gate of the burying-ground, through which no conveyance could
pass.
With many pauses, with many relays of bearers, the heavy coffin was
borne into the abbey, where, in the roofless chancel, with the heavy
branches of the ivy falling across crumbling walls, the clergyman read
the first part of the funeral service over the remains of him who had so
lately been Earl of Glendare.
Borne through the stillness came the cry of the sea-birds hurrying
homeward to their rocky haunts. The tide, which had turned some hours
previously, was rapidly covering the shingle, and the waves broke with a
monotonous plash on the beach below Ballyknock head; whilst seaward, a
little between the town, nestling under its hills, and the extreme east,
over which night seemed to be settling down, a line of white foam marked
the spot where sunken rocks lay concealed.
A dreary landscape to contemplate, a dreary time and place for such a
ceremony.
Black yawned the vault where so many a Glendare slept dreamlessly, and
when the coffin had been lowered and the handful of earth was flung upon
it, the sound echoed back upon the ears of the bystanders with a hollow
reverberation which had in it something awful to the imagination.
It was all over, and the multitude dispersed, tenants, friends,
relatives, they had done everything they could for the dead, and the
time had come to leave him till eternity. Already the great funeral was
a thing of the past, the late earl a memory. From the east darkness
crept up swiftly, night was coming on apace; the sheep that, frightened
by such a concourse of people, had stood huddled together on the
hillside, now came timidly back and made their way over the low broken
wall into the old graveyard; the men whose business it was to close the
vault stood waiting with their lanterns and tools to begin their work;
but still Mr. Dillwyn could not prevail on the earl to leave the coffin.
Through the whole of the time occupied in traversing the long road that
stretched between Rosemont and Ballyknock he never spoke a word, he
never evinced a sign of emotion. During the burial service it was
noticed by several persons that he seemed as collected as though the
dead had been neither kith nor kin to him; and the calmness with which
he informed Mr. Dillwyn that he wished to go down into the vault alone,
for a moment deceived even that astute gentleman as to his real
feelings.
Five, ten minutes passed, then Mr. Dillwyn followed into the
charnel-house, where, by the light of two candles that were flickering
in the draught, he saw the new earl kneeling on the ground, his arms
stretched across the coffin and his head laid upon them, crying like a
child.
He took no notice either of entreaty or remonstrance. It was all in vain
that the agent tried first to soothe and then to rouse him. He might
have been deaf for any heed he paid to comfort or expostulation, and
when at length he was almost dragged into the open air, he continued
sobbing as though his heart were breaking.
Then the damp night wind, laden with sea mist, brought on a violent fit
of coughing, which lasted till they had descended the hill and entered
their carriage.
“We had better have the windows up,” said Mr. Dillwyn, the moment they
were in motion, anxiously suiting his actions to his words.
For he saw, and so did Robert Somerford, that the handkerchief the young
man held to his mouth was stained with blood!