Oh! sir, I did love you
With such a fixed heart, that in that minute
Wherein you slighted or betrayed me rather;
I took a vow to obey your last decree,
And never more look up to any hope,
Should bring me comfort that way.
Your suit to me,
Henceforth be ever silenced.
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick was gifted with a mind of unusual strength; but for
some days all the fortitude that she possessed, seemed to abandon her.
She found, like many others, that often as she had pictured to herself
what must come, all her imaginings fell far short of the desolation, and
the anguish of the reality. Mr. Haveloc took upon himself all those
arrangements which are so painful to the survivors. She did not see him,
but she occasionally sent him a few words in pencil expressive of her
wishes. She had very few relations, and those few resided far in the
north of Ireland; and the only connexion of her husband whom he had ever
heard her name was Lord Raymond, whose estate of Wardenscourt lay within
a few miles of his own. He wrote to this nobleman, giving him notice of
Aveline's death, in common with the other relations; and greatly to his
surprise, Lord Raymond answered his letter in person as soon as it was
possible.
He was a very well-meaning man, and he thought that it would be a mark
of attention to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and to the memory of her husband, if
he were to attend the funeral of their child; for they had so few
connections left, that but for him she would have been followed to the
grave by strangers.
He became Mr. Haveloc's guest for a week, and managed to pass the time
tolerably well considering that he was away from all his horses. In that
retired spot, he did not feel obliged to confine himself to the house;
he took to shooting sea-gulls, and obtained some little skill with the
rifle. He watched over the Norwegian pony, and endeavoured to feel some
interest in his proceedings; he helped Mr. Haveloc to feed him from the
window with bread, and tried to bear in mind that he was a horse, and
therefore an object of respect and importance. He wandered about the
gardens and ate the fruit, and went out in a boat to visit the yacht;
and expressed a wish to buy her, and gave up the idea, because he was
not sure whether Lucy cared about cruising; and whenever his host
appeared dejected, he endeavoured to condole with him, and very
fortunately, was never able to do so, on account of his stammering.
And during the week that he stayed, he was known to write a letter; but
literature was not his forte, and nobody ever saw him take up a book.
Whenever Mr. Haveloc went to the cottage to inquire after Mrs.
Fitzpatrick, he desired that his compliments and inquiries might be
added to his own; and he usually inquired, at the same time, if Mrs.
Fitzpatrick was not a very fine woman, adding that such was his
recollection of her some years ago.
The day of the funeral arrived. Lord Raymond and Mr. Haveloc were the
only persons who attended it.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick had desired to do so, but she had been peremptorily
forbidden by her friend, Mr. Lindsay, and she acquiesced. Her spirit was
too broken to attempt opposition, even in a thing of trifling
importance.
She sent a few lines to Lord Raymond, thanking him for his kindness, but
she declined the visit which he volunteered to pay her. She entertained
a very reasonable estimate of the condolences of a stranger.
Two or three weeks elapsed before she could nerve herself sufficiently
to admit Mr. Haveloc; but, at last, fearing that he might leave the
neighbourhood without her seeing him, she appointed him to come.
Mr. Lindsay was with her in the drawing-room; she looked dreadfully ill,
and her hand was as cold as ice. Mr. Haveloc took a chair beside her,
and in vain tried to speak. There was something so absolute in her
bereavement, that he was dumb before her; he felt the influence, for the
first time, of that grief that "makes its owner great."
It fell to Mr. Lindsay to sustain the conversation.
"So you have not parted with your yacht yet, Mr. Haveloc," he said, "we
shall lose a pretty object when she leaves this part of the coast."
"No; I had nearly an opportunity of getting rid of her lately," said Mr.
Haveloc, "I thought Lord Raymond would have--"
And he stopped suddenly, remembering that Lord Raymond had come to him
expressly to attend Aveline's funeral. "Ay--you find, like many other
people, that it is much easier to purchase a toy than to part with it."
"Exactly."
"So many people want to sell, and so few care to buy," continued Mr.
Lindsay.
"That is just the case."
"Do you know," said Mr. Lindsay, turning to Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as if it
was a subject in which she must take a deep interest; "I feel sure we
shall have a very fine autumn!"
"You think so! You are such an excellent judge of the weather," said
Mrs. Fitzpatrick in a languid voice.
"I shall see the Pyrenees to advantage a month hence," said Mr. Haveloc.
"Ah! you are a traveller. It is singular that nobody stays at home
now-a-days," said Mr. Lindsay. "I should like to know where you would
see a finer country than your own?"
"I do not expect anything but novelty in my tour," said Mr. Haveloc.
"True. For you it is the best thing that could happen," said the doctor,
with a look of commiseration. "Change of scene. Young people, my dear
Mrs. Fitzpatrick, can run away from thought. You and I are obliged to
trust to time alone."
It struck Mr. Haveloc that both the doctor, and Lord Raymond seemed to
take for granted that he must have been attached to Aveline, for which,
with his usual impatience, he set them down as idiots, and thought no
more about it.
At last the doctor took his leave, and then Mrs. Fitzpatrick, turning to
Mr. Haveloc, said to him with a steady voice, "I should like you, Mr.
Haveloc, to take me to see Aveline's grave. I do not know where it is,
and I could not ask any one else to point it out to me."
Mr. Haveloc consented directly. Mrs. Grant, who was still in the house,
and came in with her mistress's walking-dress, was very reluctant that
she should go. She founded her objections upon the wet grass, and the
quantity of rain that had fallen.
"My good, Mrs. Grant," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, as she fastened her shawl,
"I wish a little damp grass could hurt me;" and turning to Mr. Haveloc,
she repeated with a half smile. "When the mind's free, the body's
delicate."
It was a soft fine evening. They walked slowly, and in silence towards
the church-yard. Half hidden among the hills you descended the narrow
shady lane, and came suddenly upon the quiet burying-ground, and small
village church. The long shadows lay upon the graves; the rooks were
wheeling and settling among the surrounding trees, and the rain had
called out the mingled scent of flowers and shrubs from every thicket.
"It is very wet," said Mr. Haveloc, as they stepped on the long
saturated grass.
"It does not matter," replied Mrs. Fitzpatrick. "Do you know," she
added, "that on the night of her funeral, I looked from my window, and
was quite relieved to see the turf whitened by the broad moonlight. If
the rain had beat on her grave that first night--but this is very weak."
"I cannot think so," said Mr. Haveloc. "I cannot believe that any of the
natural feelings which we cherish for the remains of those who are dear
to us, serve to be classed as weaknesses to be derided or overcome. I
detest the philosophy which can analyse and reject the most sacred of
our affections--that can strip death of the awe and the mystery which
should protect and surround the breathless effigy destined to be
immortal. A philosophy so blind that it sees but a heap of clay in the
ashes that wait for the breath of God to summon them to Heaven!"
"You always feel strongly, you know," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick with a faint
smile.
They had crossed the church-yard by this time, and stopped before a
recent grave. It was covered with white stone, and a cross of the same
material carved in the early English fashion, bore the simple
inscription of her name and age.
"Already!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, "I am surprised. I had no idea that it
could have been done so soon."
"It was placed here two days after the funeral," said Mr. Haveloc. "I
did not choose that the spot should remain unmarked."
At another time, Mrs. Fitzpatrick would have smiled at the self-will
which her companion was apt to display even in trifles; and have
wondered how much it would avail him in the serious business of life.
But now she leaned upon the cross absorbed in her own painful thoughts;
her mind wandered involuntarily from scene to scene of her daughter's
illness and death. Every tone, every change of countenance presented
itself in turn to her memory.
All was perfectly still. It was very rare for a footstep, except on
Sundays, to cross that lovely spot. One benefit arising from a thinly
scattered population, is the decent repose afforded to the dead. Here,
the graves were not crowded, and there was no need to disturb them for
the new inmates. The old mounds sank level with the soil, and the grey
crumbling stones fell in every variety of position over the ground. The
old unclipped yew trees, feathered down to the earth, and sheltered the
north side of the ground from the cold winds.
It was not infested, as in populous places, with the rude children of
the lower classes, filling the place with discordant sounds and hideous
gestures, and spurning with their coarse feet the earth that had been
consecrated to so solemn a purpose.
At last, Mr. Haveloc interrupted the reverie of his companion.
"It is late," he said, "and you are quite wet, I fear. Let me advise you
to return home."
"Home!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick mournfully. "To what do I return? I am
less solitary here, than I am in my own house."
"You must be persuaded," said he, leading her from the tomb. "Mrs. Grant
will, I am sure, be wretched until she sees you again."
"It is true," said she, "I ought not to indulge in such feelings. How
silent! How ineffably still! I feel so deeply the fitness and the luxury
of this calm that surrounds the dead, now that I also have a treasure
buried here."
They walked homewards. Their foot-steps rustled in the long grass; and
the latch of the wicket fell with a sharp sound, so deep was the quiet
of the place.
At the gate of the cottage they met the postman; always late, and often
very irregular in that village. He knew Mr. Haveloc by sight; and, glad
to escape a walk to his residence, he touched his hat, and presented him
with a letter. The handwriting was Margaret's. He had often seen it,
and admired its beauty, although she had never before written to him.
Knowing the conditions upon which Mr. Grey had agreed that she should
write to him, he hesitated to open it. He knew it must contain bad news
of his friend's health.
"But read it, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had stood
glancing over one or two indifferent letters, while he was hesitating.
"You would not stand on ceremony with me."
He tore it open with trembling hands, and read the following lines:--
"I am desired by Mr. Grey to summon
you to Ashdale. He is very ill; and I tell
you now, because it is easier to write than
to speak it; that we must meet and part as
strangers."
"MARGARET CAPEL."