That night was a night of storms. When the heavy rain ceased, peals of
thunder shook the house, and vivid lightning flashed through the
darkness. When the funeral procession was safe, Marget fastened her
plaid across the door of the dining-room as a precaution, and went up
stairs to attend to the Mistress. She found the widow kneeling down,
where she had stood, leaning her hands and her face against the railings
of the gallery, not fainting, perfectly conscious, yet in a condition in
comparison with which a swoon would have been happiness. Her hands clung
tight and rigid about the rails. She had sunk upon her knees from pure
exhaustion, and kept that position for the same reason. Yet she was
terribly conscious of the approach of Marget, afraid of her in the
darkness, as if she were an enemy. The faithful servant managed to rouse
her after great pains, and at last was able to lead her down stairs, to
the gathered fire in the kitchen, where the two sat in the darkness,
with one red spark of fire preserving some appearance of life in the
apartment, listening to the blast of rain against the window, watching
the flashes of wild light which blazed through the three round holes in
the kitchen shutter, and the thunder which echoed far among the distant
hills. Sitting together without a word, listening with feverish anxiety
to every sound, and fearing every moment that the storm must wake their
undesired inmate, who could not stir in the dining-room without their
hearing. It was thus the solemn night passed, lingering and terrible,
over the heads of the women who remained at home.
And through that wild summer midnight--through the heavy roads, where
their feet sank at every step, and the fluttering ghostly branches on
the hedgerows, which caught the rude pall, a large black shawl, which
had been thrown over the coffin--the melancholy clandestine procession
made its way. When they had gone about half a mile, they were met by the
old post-chaise from the Norlaw Arms, at Kirkbride, which had been
waiting there for them. In it, relieving each other, the little party
proceeded onward. At length they came to Tweed, to the pebbly beach,
where the ferryman’s boat lay fastened by its iron ring and hempen
cable. But for the fortunate chance of finding it here, Huntley, who was
unrivaled in all athletic exercises, had looked for nothing better than
swimming across the river, to fetch the boat from the other side.
Rapidly, yet reverently, their solemn burden was laid in the boat; two
of the men, by this time, had ventured to light torches, which they had
brought with them, wrapt in a plaid. The rain had ceased. The broad
breast of Tweed “grit” with those floods, and overflowing the pebbles
for a few yards before they reached the real margin of the stream,
flowed rapidly and strongly, with a dark, swift current, marked with
foam, which it required no small effort to strike steadily across. The
dark trees, glistening with big drops of rain--the unseen depths on
either side, only perceptible to their senses by the cold full breath of
wind which blew over them--the sound of water running fierce in an
expanded tide; and as they set out upon the river, the surrounding gleam
of water shining under their torches, and the strong swell of downward
motion, against which they had to struggle, composed altogether a scene
which no one there soon forgot. The boat had to return a second time, to
convey all its passengers; and then once more, with the solemn tramp of
a procession, the little party went on in the darkness to the grave.
And then the night calmed, and a wild, frightened moon looked out of the
clouds into solemn Dryburgh, in the midst of her old monkish orchards.
Through the great grass-grown roofless nave, the white light fell in a
sudden calm, pallid and silent as death itself, yet looking on like an
amazed spectator of the scene.
The open grave stood ready as it had been prepared this morning--a dark,
yawning breach in the wet grass, its edge all defined and glistening in
the moonlight. It was in one of the small side chapels, overgrown with
grass and ivy, which are just distinguishable from the main mass of the
ruin; here the torches blazed and the dark figures grouped together, and
in a solemn and mysterious silence these solitary remains of the old
house of God looked on at the funeral. The storm was over; the thunder
clouds rolled away to the north; the face of the heavens cleared; the
moon grew brighter. High against the sky stood out the Catherine window
in its frame of ivy, the solitary shafts and walls from which the trees
waved--and in a solemn gloom, broken by flashes of light which magnified
the shadow, lay those morsels of the ancient building which still
retained a cover. The wind rustled through the trees, shaking down great
drops of moisture, which fell with a startling coldness upon the faces
of the mourners, some of whom began to feel the thrill of superstitious
awe. It was the only sound, save that of the subdued footsteps round the
grave, and the last heavy, dreadful bustle of human exertion, letting
down the silent inhabitant into his last resting-place, which sounded
over the burial of Norlaw.
And now, at last, it was all over; the terrible excitement, the dismal,
long, self-restraint, the unnatural force of human resentment and
defiance which had mingled with the grief of these three lads. At last
he was in his grave, solemnly and safely; at last he was secure where no
man could insult what remained of him, or profane his dwelling-place. As
the moon shone on the leveled soil, Cosmo cried aloud in a boyish agony
of nature, and fell upon the wet grass beside the grave. The cry rang
through all the solemn echoes of the place. Some startled birds flew out
of the ivied crevices, and made wild, bewildered circles of fright among
the walls. A pang of sudden terror fell upon the rustic attendants; the
torch bearers let their lights fall, and the chief among them hurriedly
entreated Huntley to linger no longer.
“A’s done!” said Willie Noble, lifting his bonnet reverently from his
head. “Farewell to a good master that I humbly hope’s in heaven lang
afore now. We can do him nae further good, and the lads are timid of the
place. Maister Huntley, may I give them the word to turn hame?”
So they turned home; the three brothers, last and lingering, turned back
to life and their troubles--all the weary weight of toil which _he_ had
left on their shoulders, for whom this solemn midnight expedition was
their last personal service. The three came together, hand in hand,
saying never a word--their hearts “grit” like Tweed, and flowing full
with unspeakable emotions--and passed softly under the old fruit trees,
which shed heavy dew upon their heads, and through the wet paths which
shone in lines of silver under the moon; Tweed, lying full in a sudden
revelation of moonlight, one bank falling off into soft shadows of
trees, the other guarding with a ledge of rock some fair boundary of
possession, and the bubbles of foam gleaming bright upon the rapid
current, was not more unlike the invisible gloomy river over which they
passed an hour ago, than was their own coming and going. The strain was
out of their young spirits, the fire of excitement had consumed itself,
and Norlaw’s sons, like lads as they were, were melting, each one
silently and secretly, into the mood of tears and loving recollections,
the very tenderness of grief.
And when Marget took down the shutter from the window, to see by the
early morning light how this night of watching had at last taken the
bloom from the Mistress’ face, three other faces, white with the wear of
extreme emotion, but tender as the morning faces of children, appeared
to her coming slowly and calmly, and with weariness, along the green
bank before the house. They had not spoken all the way. They were worn
out with passion and sorrow, and want of rest--even with want of
food--for these days had been terrible days for boys of their age to
struggle through. Marget could not restrain a cry of mingled alarm and
triumph. That, and the sound of the bolts withdrawn from the door, did
what the thunder storm could not do. It broke the slumbers of the
sheriff’s officer, who had slept till now. He ran to the window hastily,
and drew aside the curtain--he saw the face of the widow at the
kitchen-door; the lads, travel-soiled and weary, with their wet clothes
and exhausted faces, coming up to meet her; and the slumbrous sentinel
rushed out of the room to entangle himself in the folds of Marget’s
plaid, and overwhelm her with angry questions; for she came to his call
instantly, with a pretense of care and solicitude exasperating enough
under any circumstances.
“Where have the lads been?” cried Elliot, throwing down at her, torn
through the middle, the plaid which she had hung across his door.
“They’ve been at their father’s funeral,” said Marget, solemnly, “puir
bairns!--through the storm and the midnicht, to Dryburgh, to the family
grave.”
The man turned into the room again in a pretended passion--but,
sheriff’s officer though he was, perhaps he was not sorry for once in
his life to find himself foiled.