A TOMBSTONE.
Are there any who do not quicken to the impulse of young life, lifted
free of long repression and the dread of dull relapse? Can we find a
man or woman (holding almost any age) able to come out and meet the
challenge of the sun, conveyed in cartel of white clouds of May, and
yet to stick to private sense of sulky wrongs and brooding hate?
If we could find such a man or woman (by great waste of labour, in a
search ungracious), and if it should seem worth while to attempt to
cure the case, scarcely anything could be thought of, leading more
directly towards the end in view, than to fetch that person, and plant
him or her, without a word of explanation, among the flower-beds on
the little lawn of Beckley Barton.
The flowers themselves, and their open eyes, and the sparkling smile
of the grass, and the untold commerce of the freighted bees, and rich
voluntaries of thrush and blackbird (ruffled to the throat with song);
and over the whole the soft flow of sunshine, like a vast pervasive
river of gold, with silver wave of clouds--who could dwell on petty
aches and pains among such grandeur?
The old Squire sat in his bower-chair with a warm cloak over his
shoulders. His age was threescore and ten this day; and he looked back
through the length of years, and marvelled at their fleeting. The
stirring times of his youth, and the daily perils of his prime of
life, the long hard battle, and the slow promotion--because he had
given offence by some projection of honest opinion--the heavy
disappointment, and the forced retirement from the army when the wars
were over, with only the rank of Major, which he preferred to sink in
Squire--because he ought to have been, according to his own view of
the matter, a good Lieutenant-general--and then a very short golden
age of five years and a quarter, from his wedding-day to the death of
his wife, a single and sweet-hearted wife--and after that (as sorrow
sank into the soothing breast of time) the soft, and gentle, and
undreamed-of step of comfort, coming almost faster than was welcome,
while his little daughter grew.
After that the old man tried to think no more, but be content. To let
the little scenes of dancing, and of asking, and of listening, and of
looking puzzled, and of waiting to know truly whether all was
earnest--because already childhood had suspicion that there might be
things intended to delude it--and of raising from the level of papa's
well-buttoned pocket, clear bright eyes that did not know a guinea
from a halfpenny; and then, with the very extraordinary spring from
the elasticity of red calves (which happily departs right early), the
jumping into opened arms, and the laying on of little lips, and the
murmurs of delighted love--to let his recollections of all these die
out, and to do without them, was this old man's business now.
For he had been convinced at last--strange as it may seem, until we
call to mind how the strongest convictions are produced by the weakest
logic--at last he could no longer hope to see his Grace again; because
he had beheld her tombstone. Having made up his mind to go to church
that very Sunday morning, in spite of all Widow Hookham could do to
stop him, he had spied a new stone in the graveyard corner sacred to
the family of Oglander. The old man went up to see what it was, and
nobody liked to follow him. And nobody was surprised that he did not
show his white head at the chancel-door; though the parson waited five
minutes for him, being exceeding loth to waste ten lines, which he had
interlarded into a sermon of thirty years back, for the present sad
occasion.
For the old Squire sat on his grandfather's tombstone (a tabular piece
of memorial, suited to an hospitable man; where all his descendants
might sit around, and have their dinners served to them), and he
leaned his shaven chin on the head of his stout oak staff, and he took
off his hat, and let his white hair fall about. He fixed his still
bright eyes on the tombstone of his daughter, and tried to fasten his
mind there also, and to make out how old she was. He was angry with
himself for not being able to tell to a day without thinking; but
days, and years, and thoughts, and doings of quiet love quite slipping
by, and spreading without ruffle, had left him little to lay hold of
as a knotted record. Therefore he sat with his chin on his stick, and
had no sense of church-time, until the choir (which comprised seven
Crippses) bellowed out an anthem, which must have shaken their
grandfathers in their graves; unless in their time they had done the
same.
In this great uproar and applause, which always travelled for half a
mile, the Squire had made his escape from the graveyard; and then he
had gone home without a word and eaten his dinner, because he must
when the due time came for it. And now, being filled with substantial
faith that his household was nicely enjoying itself, he was come to
his bower to think and wonder, and perhaps by-and-by to fall fast
asleep, but never awake to bright hope again.
To this relief and mild incline of gentle age, his head was bowing and
his white hair settling down, according as the sun, or wind, or
clouds, or time of day desired, when some one darkened half his light,
and there stood Mary Hookham.
Mary had the newest of all new spring fashions on her head, and
breast, and waist, and everywhere. A truly spirited girl was she, as
well as a very handy one; and she never thought twice of a sixpence or
shilling, if a soiled paper-pattern could be had for it. And now she
was busy with half a guinea, kindly beginning to form its impress on
her moist hard-working palm.
"He have had a time of it!" she exclaimed, as her master began to gaze
around. "Oh my, what a time of it he have had!"
"Mary, I suppose you are talking of me. Yes, I have had a bad time on
the whole. But many people have had far worse."
"Yes, sir. And will you see one who hath? As fine a young gentleman as
ever lived; so ready to speak up for everybody, and walking like a
statute. It give me such a turn! I do believe you never would know
him, sir; without his name come in with him. Squire Overshute, sir, if
you please, requesteth the honour of seeing of you."
"Mary, I am hardly fit for it. I was doing my best to sit quite quiet,
and to try to think of things. I am not as I was yesterday, or even as
I was this morning. But if I ought to see him--why, I will. And
perhaps I ought, no doubt, when I come to think of things. The poor
young man has been very ill. To be sure, I remember all about it. Show
him where I am at once. What a sad thing for his mother! His mother is
a wonderful clever woman, of the soundest views in politics."
"His mother be dead, sir; I had better tell you for fear of begetting
any trifles with him; although we was told to keep such things from
you. Howsomever, I do think he be coming to himself, or he would not
have fallen out of patience as a hath done; and now here he be, sir!"
Russel Overshute, narrowed and flattened into half of his proper size,
and heightened thereby to unnatural stature--for stoop he would not,
although so weak--here he was walking along the damp walk, when a bed,
or a sofa, or a drawn-out chair at Shotover Grange, was his proper
place. He walked with the help of a crutch-handled stick, and his deep
mourning dress made him look almost ghastly. His eyes, however, were
bright and steady, and he made an attempt at a cheerful smile, as he
congratulated the Squire on the great improvement of his health.
"For that I have to thank you, my dear friend," answered Mr. Oglander;
"for weeks I had been helpless, till I helped myself; I mean, of
course, by the great blessing of the Lord. But of your sad troubles,
whatever shall I say----"
"My dear sir, say nothing, if you please--I cannot bear as yet to
speak of them. I ought to be thankful that life is spared to
me--doubtless for some good purpose. And I think I know what that
purpose is; though now I am confident of nothing."
"Neither am I, Russel, neither am I," said the old man, observing how
low his voice was, and speaking in a low sad voice himself. "I used to
have confidence in the good will and watchful care of the Almighty
over all who trust in Him. But now there is something over there"--he
pointed towards the churchyard--"which shows that we may carry such
ideas to a foolish point. But I cannot speak of it; say no more."
"I will own," replied Overshute, studying the Squire's downcast face,
to see how far he might venture, "at one time I thought that you
yourself carried such notions to a foolish length. That was before my
illness. Now, I most fully believe that you were quite right."
"Yes, I suppose that I was--so far as duty goes, and the parson's
advice. But as for the result--where is it?"
"As yet we see none. But we very soon shall. Can you bear to hear
something I want to say, and to listen to it attentively?"
"I believe that I can, Russel. There is nothing now that can disturb
me very much."
"This will disturb you, my dear sir, but in a very pleasant way, I
hope. As sure as I stand and look at you here, and as sure as the
Almighty looks down at us both, that grave in Beckley churchyard holds
a gipsy-woman, and no child of yours! Ah! I put it too abruptly, as I
always do. But give me your arm, sir, and walk a few steps. I am not
very strong, any more than you are. But, please God, we will both get
stronger, as soon as our troubles begin to lift."
Each of them took the right course to get stronger, by putting forth
his little strength, to help and guide the other's steps.
"Russel, what did you say just now?" Mr. Oglander asked, when the pair
had managed to get as far as another little bower, Grace's own, and
there sat down. "I must have taken your meaning wrong. I am not so
clear as I was, and often there is a noise inside my head."
"I told you, sir, that I had proved for certain that your dear
daughter has not been buried here--nor anywhere else, to my firm
belief. Also I have found out and established (to my own most bitter
cost) who it was that lies buried here, and of what terrible disease
she died. As regards my own illness, I would go through it again--come
what might come of it--for the sake of your darling Grace; but, alas!
I have lost my own dear mother through this utterly fiendish plot--for
such it is, I do believe! This poor girl buried here was the younger
sister of Cinnaminta!"
"Cinnaminta!" said the Squire, trying to arouse old memory. "Surely I
have heard that name. But tell me all, Russel; for God's sake, tell me
all, and how you came to find it out, and what it has to do with my
lost pet."
"My dear sir, if you tremble so I shall fear to tell you another word.
Remember, it is all good, so far as it goes; instead of trembling you
should smile and rejoice."
"So I will--so I will; or at least I will try. There, now, look--I
have taken a pinch of snuff, you need have no fear for me after that."
"All I know beyond what I have told you is that your Gracie--and my
Grace too--was driven off in a chaise and pair, through the narrow
lanes towards Wheatley. I have not been able to follow the track in my
present helpless condition; and, indeed, what I know I only learned
this morning; and I thought it my duty to come and tell you at once. I
had it from poor Cinnaminta's own lips, who for a week or more had
been lurking near the house to see me. This morning I could not resist
a little walk--lonely and miserable as it was--and the poor thing told
me all she knew. She was in the deepest affliction herself at the loss
of her only surviving child, and she fancied that I had saved his life
before, and she had deep pangs of ingratitude, and of Nemesis, etc.;
and hence she was driven to confess all her share; which was but a
little one. She was tempted by the chance of getting money enough to
place her child in the care of a first-rate doctor."
"But Grace--my poor Grace!--how was she tempted--or was she forced
away from me?"
"That I cannot say as yet; Cinnaminta had no idea. She did not even
see the carriage; for she herself was borne off by her tribe, who were
quite in a panic at the fever. But she heard that no violence was
used, and there was a lady in the chaise; and poor Grace went quite
readily, though she certainly did seem to sob a little. It was no
elopement, Mr. Oglander, nor anything at all of that kind. The poor
girl believed that she was acting under your orders in all she did;
just as she had believed that same when she left her aunt's house to
meet you on the homeward road, through that forged letter, which, most
unluckily, she put into her pocket. There, I believe I have told you
all I can think of for the moment. Of course, you will keep the whole
to yourself, for we have to deal with subtle brutes. Is there anything
you would like to ask?"
"Russel Overshute," said the Squire, "I am not fit to go into things
now; I mean all the little ins and outs. And you look so very ill, my
dear fellow, I am quite ashamed of allowing you to talk. Come into the
house and have some nourishment. If any man ever wanted it, you do
now. How did you come over?"
"Well, I broke a very ancient vow. If there is anything I detest it is
to see a young man sitting alone inside of a close carriage. But we
never know what we may come to. I tried to get upon my horse, but
could not. By the bye, do you know Hardenow?"
"Not much," said the Squire; "I have seen him once or twice, and I
know that he is a great friend of yours. He is one of the new lights,
is not he?"
"I am sure I don't know, or care. He is a wonderfully clever fellow,
and as true as steel, and a gentleman. He has heard of course of your
sad trouble, but only the popular account of it. He does not even know
of my feelings--but I will not speak now of them----"
"You may, my dear fellow, with all my heart. You have behaved like a
true son to me; and if ever a gracious Providence----"
Overshute took Mr. Oglander's hand, and held it in silence for a
moment; he could not bear the idea of even the faintest appearance of
a bargain now. The Squire understood, and liked him all the better,
and waved his left hand towards the dining-room.
"One thing more, while we are alone," resumed the young man, much as
he longed for, and absolutely needed, good warm victuals; "Hardenow is
a tremendous walker; six miles an hour are nothing to him; the 'Flying
Dutchman' he is called, although he hasn't got a bit of calf. Of
course, I would not introduce him into this matter without your leave.
But may I tell him all, and send him scouting, while you and I are so
laid upon the shelf? He can go where you and I could not, and nobody
will suspect him. And, of course, as regards intelligence alone, he is
worth a dozen of that ass John Smith; at any rate, he would find no
mare's nests. May I try it? If so, I will take on the carriage to
Oxford, as soon as I have had a bit to eat."
"With all my heart," cried the Squire, whose eyes were full again of
life and hope. "Hardenow owes a debt to Beckley. It was Cripps who got
him his honours and fellowship--or at least the Carrier says so; and
we all believe our Carrier. And after all, whatever there is to do,
nobody does it like a gentleman, and especially a good scholar. I
remember a striking passage in the syntax of the Eton Latin grammar. I
make no pretension to learning when I quote it, for it hath been
quoted in the House of Lords. Perhaps you remember it, my dear
Russel."
"My Latin has turned quite rusty, Squire," answered Overshute,
knowing, as well as Proteus, what was coming.
"The passage is this,"--Mr. Oglander always smote his frilled shirt,
in this erudition, and delivered, _ore rotundo_--
"Scilicet ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes,
Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros."