The stone which covered the vault of the Hastings family had been
raised, and light and air let into the cold, damp interior. A ray of
sunshine, streaming through the church window, found its way across
the mouldy velvet of the old coffins as they stood ranged along in
solemn order, containing the dust of many ancestors of the present
possessors of the manor. There, too, apart from the rest were the
coffins of those who had died childless; the small narrow
resting-place of childhood, where the guileless infant, the father's
and mother's joy and hope, slept its last sleep, leaving tearful eyes
and sorrowing hearts behind, with naught to comfort but the blessed
thought that by calling such from earth, God peoples heaven with
angels; the coffins, too, of those cut off in the early spring of
manhood, whom the fell mower had struck down in the flower before the
fruit was ripe. Oh, how his scythe levels the blossoming fields of
hope! There, too, lay the stern old soldier, whose life had been given
up to his country's service, and who would not spare one thought or
moment to soften domestic joys; and many another who had lived,
perhaps and loved, and passed away without receiving love's reward.
Amongst these, close at the end of the line, stood two tressels, ready
for a fresh occupant of the tomb, and the church bell tolled heavily
above, while the old sexton looked forth from the door of the church
toward the gates of the park, and the heavy clouded sky seemed to
menace rain.
"Happy the bride the sun shines upon: happy the corpse the heaven
rains upon!" said the old man to himself. But the rain did not come
down; and presently, from the spot where he stood, which overlooked
the park-wall, he saw come on in slow and solemn procession along the
great road to the gates, the funeral train of him who had been lately
heir to all the fine property around. The body had been brought from
London after the career of youth had been cut short in a moment of
giddy pleasure, and father and mother, as was then customary, with a
long line of friends, relations, and dependents, now conveyed the
remains of him once so dearly loved, to the cold grave.
Only one of all the numerous connections of the family was wanting on
this occasion, and that was the brother of the dead; but he lay slowly
recovering from the shock he had received, and every one had been told
that it was impossible for him to attend. All the rest of the family
had hastened to the hall in answer to the summons they had received,
for though Sir John Hastings was not much loved, he was much respected
and somewhat feared--at least, the deference which was paid to him, no
one well knew why, savored somewhat of dread.
It is a strange propensity in many old persons to hang about the grave
to which they are rapidly tending, when it is opened for another, and
to comment--sometimes even with a bitter pleasantry--upon an event
which must soon overtake themselves. As soon as it was known that the
funeral procession had set out from the hall door, a number of aged
people, principally women, but comprising one or two shriveled men,
tottered forth from the cottages, which lay scattered about the
church, and made their way into the churchyard, there to hold
conference upon the dead and upon the living.
"Ay, ay!" said one old woman, "he has been taken at an early time; but
he was a fine lad, and better than most of those hard people."
"Ay, Peggy would praise the devil himself if he were dead," said an
old man, leaning on a stick, "though she has never a good word for the
living. The boy is taken away from mischief, that is the truth of it.
If he had lived to come down here again, he would have broken the
heart of my niece's daughter Jane, or made a public shame of her. What
business had a gentleman's son like that to be always hanging about a
poor cottage girl, following her into the corn-fields, and luring her
out in the evenings?"
"Faith! she might have been proud enough of his notice," said an old
crone; "and I dare say she was, too, in spite of all your conceit,
Matthew. She is not so dainty as you pretend to be; and we may see
something come of it yet."
"At all events," said another, "he was better than this white-faced,
spiritless boy that is left, who is likely enough to be taken earlier
than his brother, for he looks as if breath would blow him away."
"He will live to do something yet, that will make people talk of him;"
said a woman older than any of the rest, but taller and straighter;
"there is a spirit in him, be it angel or devil, that is not for death
so soon."
"Ay! they're making a pomp of it, I warrant," said another old woman,
fixing her eyes on the high road under the park wall, upon which the
procession now entered. "Marry, there are escutcheons enough, and
coats of arms! One would think he was a lord's son, with all this to
do! But there is a curse upon the race anyhow; this man was the last
of eleven brothers, and I have heard say, his father died a bad death.
Now his eldest son must die by drowning--saved the hangman something,
perchance--we shall see what comes of the one that is left. 'Tis a
curse upon them ever since Worcester fight, when the old man, who is
dead and gone, advised to send the poor fellows who were taken, to
work as slaves in the colonies."
As she spoke, the funeral procession advanced up the road, and
approached that curious sort of gate with a penthouse over it, erected
probably to shelter the clergyman of the church while receiving the
corpse at the gate of the burial-ground, which was then universally to
be found at the entrance to all cemeteries. She broke off abruptly, as
if there was something still on her mind which she had not spoken, and
ranging themselves on each side of the church-yard path, the old men
and women formed a lane down which good Dr. Paulding speedily moved
with book in hand. The people assembled, whose numbers had been
increased by the arrival of some thirty or forty young and
middle-aged, said not a word as the clergymen marched on, but when the
body had passed up between them, and the bereaved father followed as
chief-mourner, with a fixed, stern, but tearless eye, betokening more
intense affliction perhaps, in a man of his character, than if his
cheeks had been covered with drops of womanly sorrow, several voices
were heard saying aloud. "God bless and comfort you, Sir John."
Strange, marvelously strange it was, that these words should come from
tongues, and from those alone, which had been so busily engaged in
carping censure and unfeeling sneers but the moment before. It was the
old men and women alone who had just been commenting bitterly upon the
fate, history, and character of the family, who now uttered the unfelt
expressions of sympathy in a beggar-like, whining tone. It was those
who really felt compassion who said nothing.
The coffin had been carried into the church, and the solemn rites, the
beautiful service of the Church of England, had proceeded some way,
when another person was added to the congregation who had not at first
been there. All eyes but those of the father of the dead and the lady
who sat weeping by his side, turned upon the new-comer, as with a face
as pale as death, and a faltering step, he took his place on one of
the benches somewhat remote from the rest. There was an expression of
feeble lassitude in the young man's countenance, but of strong
resolution, which overcame the weakness of the frame. He looked as if
each moment he would have fainted, but yet he sat out the whole
service of the Church, mingled with the crowd when the body was
lowered into the vault, and saw the handful of earth hurled out upon
the velvet coffin, as if in mockery of the empty pride of all the pomp
and circumstance which attended the burial of the rich and high.
No tear came into his eyes--no sob escaped from his bosom; a slight
quivering of the lip alone betrayed that there was strong agitation
within. When all was over, and the father still gazing down into the
vault, the young lad crept quietly back into a pew, covered his face
with his hand, and wept.
The last rite was over. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust were committed.
Sir John Hastings drew his wife's arm through his own, and walked with
a heavy, steadfast, and unwavering step down the aisle. Everybody drew
back respectfully as he passed; for generally, even in the hardest
hearts, true sorrow finds reverence. He had descended the steps from
the church into the burying ground, and had passed half way along the
path toward his carriage, when suddenly the tall upright old woman
whom I have mentioned thrust herself into his way, and addressed him
with a cold look and somewhat menacing tone--
"Now, Sir John Hastings," she said, "will you do me justice about that
bit of land? By your son's grave I ask it. The hand of heaven has
smitten you. It may, perhaps, have touched your heart. You know the
land is mine. It was taken from my husband by the usurper because he
fought for the king to whom he had pledged his faith. It was given to
your father because he broke his faith to his king and brought evil
days upon his country. Will you give me back the land, I say? Out man!
It is but a garden of herbs, but it is mine, and in God's sight I
claim it."
"Away out of my path," replied Sir John Hastings angrily. "Is this a
time to talk of such things? Get you gone, I say, and choose some
better hour. Do you suppose I can listen to you now?"
"You have never listened, and you never will," replied the old woman,
and suffering him to pass without further opposition, she remained
upon the path behind him muttering to herself what seemed curses
bitter and deep, but the words of which were audible only to herself.
The little crowd gathered round her, and listened eagerly to catch the
sense of what she said, but the moment after the old sexton laid his
hand upon her shoulder and pushed her from the path, saying, "Get
along with you, get along with you, Popish Beldam. What business have
you here scandalizing the congregation, and brawling at the church
door? You should be put in the stocks!"
"I pity you, old worm," replied the old woman, "you will be soon among
those you feed upon," and with a hanging head and dejected air she
quitted the church-yard.
In the meanwhile Dr. Paulding had remained gazing down into the vault,
while the stout young men who had come to assist the sexton withdrew
the broad hempen bands by which the coffin had been lowered, from
beneath it, arranged it properly upon the tressels in its orderly
place among the dead, and then mounted by a ladder into the body of
the church, again preparing to replace the stone over the mouth of the
vault. He then turned to the church door and looked out, and then
quietly approached a pew in the side aisle.
"Philip, this is very wrong," he said; "your father never wished or
intended you should be here."
"He did not forbid me," replied the young man. "Why should I only be
absent from my brother's funeral?"
"Because you are sick. Because, by coming, you may have risked your
life," replied the old clergyman.
"What is life to a duty?" replied the lad. "Have you not taught me,
sir, that there is no earthly thing--no interest of this life, no
pleasure, no happiness, no hope, that ought not to be sacrificed at
once to that which the heart says is right?"
"True--true," replied the old clergyman, almost impatiently; "but in
following precept so severely, boy, you should use some
discrimination. You have a duty to a living father, which is of more
weight than a mere imaginary one to a dead brother. You could do no
good to the latter; as the Psalmist wisely said, 'You must go to him,
but he can never come back to you.' To your father, on the contrary,
you have high duties to perform; to console and cheer him in his
present affliction; to comfort and support his declining years. When a
real duty presents itself, Philip, to yourself, to your fellow men, to
your country, or to your God--I say again, as I have often said, do it
in spite of every possible affection. Let it cut through everything,
break through every tie, thrust aside every consideration. There,
indeed, I would fain see you act the old Roman, whom you are so fond
of studying, and be a Cato or a Brutus, if you will. But you must make
very sure that you do not make your fancy create unreal duties, and
make them of greater importance in your eyes than the true ones. But
now I must get you back as speedily as possible, for your mother, ere
long, will be up to see you, and your father, and they must not find
you absent on this errand."
The lad made no reply, but readily walked back toward the court with
Dr. Paulding, though his steps were slow and feeble. He took the old
man's arm, too, and leaned heavily upon it; for, to say the truth, he
felt already the consequences of the foolish act he had committed; and
the first excitement past, lassitude and fever took possession once
more of every limb, and his feet would hardly bear him to the gates.
The beautiful girl who had been the first to receive him at that
house, met the eyes both of the young man and the old one, the moment
they entered the gardens. She looked wild and anxious, and was
wandering about with her head uncovered; but as soon as she beheld the
youth, she ran toward him, exclaiming, "Oh, Philip, Philip, this is
very wrong and cruel of you. I have been looking for you everywhere.
You should not have done this. How could you let him, Dr. Paulding?"
"I did not let him, my dear child," replied the old man, "he came of
his own will, and would not be let. But take him in with you; send him
to bed as speedily as may be; give him a large glass of the
fever-water he was taking, and say as little as possible of this rash
act to any one."
The girl made the sick boy lean upon her rounded arm, led him away
into the house, and tended him like a sister. She kept the secret of
his rashness, too, from every one; and there were feelings sprang up
in his bosom toward her during the next few hours which were never to
be obliterated. She was so beautiful, so tender, so gentle, so full of
all womanly graces, that he fancied, with his strong imagination, that
no one perfection of body or mind could be wanting; and he continued
to think so for many a long year after.