I
She was very old, and therefore it was very hard for her to make up her
mind to die. I am aware that this is not at all the general view, but
that it is believed, as old age must be near death, that it prepares the
soul for that inevitable event. It is not so, however, in many cases. In
youth we are still so near the unseen out of which we came, that death is
rather pathetic than tragic,--a thing that touches all hearts, but to
which, in many cases, the young hero accommodates himself sweetly and
courageously. And amid the storms and burdens of middle life there are
many times when we would fain push open the door that stands ajar, and
behind which there is ease for all our pains, or at least rest, if
nothing more. But age, which has gone through both these phases, is apt,
out of long custom and habit, to regard the matter from a different view.
All things that are violent have passed out of its life,--no more strong
emotions, such as rend the heart; no great labors, bringing after them
the weariness which is unto death; but the calm of an existence which is
enough for its needs, which affords the moderate amount of comfort and
pleasure for which its being is now adapted, and of which there seems no
reason that there should ever be any end. To passion, to joy, to anguish,
an end must come; but mere gentle living, determined by a framework of
gentle rules and habits--why should that ever be ended? When a soul has
got to this retirement and is content in it, it becomes very hard to die;
hard to accept the necessity of dying, and to accustom one's self to the
idea, and still harder to consent to carry it out.
The woman who is the subject of the following narrative was in this
position. She had lived through almost everything that is to be found in
life. She had been beautiful in her youth, and had enjoyed all the
triumphs of beauty; had been intoxicated with flattery, and triumphant in
conquest, and mad with jealousy and the bitterness of defeat when it
became evident that her day was over. She had never been a bad woman, or
false, or unkind; but she had thrown herself with all her heart into
those different stages of being, and had suffered as much as she enjoyed,
according to the unfailing usage of life. Many a day during these storms
and victories, when things went against her, when delights did not
satisfy her, she had thrown out a cry into the wide air of the universe
and wished to die. And then she had come to the higher table-land of
life, and had borne all the spites of fortune,--had been poor and rich,
and happy and sorrowful; had lost and won a hundred times over; had sat
at feasts, and kneeled by deathbeds, and followed her best-beloved to the
grave, often, often crying out to God above to liberate her, to make an
end of her anguish, for that her strength was exhausted and she could
bear no more. But she had borne it and lived through all; and now had
arrived at a time when all strong sensations are over, when the soul is
no longer either triumphant or miserable, and when life itself, and
comfort and ease, and the warmth of the sun, and of the fireside, and the
mild beauty of home were enough for her, and she required no more. That
is, she required very little more, a useful routine of hours and rules, a
play of reflected emotion, a pleasant exercise of faculty, making her
feel herself still capable of the best things in life--of interest in her
fellow-creatures, kindness to them, and a little gentle intellectual
occupation, with books and men around. She had not forgotten anything in
her life,--not the excitements and delights of her beauty, nor love, nor
grief, nor the higher levels she had touched in her day. She did not
forget the dark day when her first-born was laid in the grave, nor that
triumphant and brilliant climax of her life when every one pointed to her
as the mother of a hero. All these things were like pictures hung in the
secret chambers of her mind, to which she could go back in silent
moments, in the twilight seated by the fire, or in the balmy afternoon,
when languor and sweet thoughts are over the world. Sometimes at such
moments there would be heard from her a faint sob, called forth, it was
quite as likely, by the recollection of the triumph as by that of the
deathbed. With these pictures to go back upon at her will she was never
dull, but saw herself moving through the various scenes of her life with
a continual sympathy, feeling for herself in all her troubles,--sometimes
approving, sometimes judging that woman who had been so pretty, so happy,
so miserable, and had gone through everything that life can go through.
How much that is, looking back upon it!--passages so hard that the wonder
was how she could survive them; pangs so terrible that the heart would
seem at its last gasp, but yet would revive and go on.
Besides these, however, she had many mild pleasures. She had a pretty
house full of things which formed a graceful _entourage_ suitable, as
she felt, for such a woman as she was, and in which she took pleasure for
their own beauty,--soft chairs and couches, a fireplace and lights
which were the perfection of tempered warmth and illumination. She had a
carriage, very comfortable and easy, in which, when the weather was
suitable, she went out; and a pretty garden and lawns, in which, when she
preferred staying at home, she could have her little walk, or sit out
under the trees. She had books in plenty, and all the newspapers, and
everything that was needful to keep her within the reflection of the busy
life which she no longer cared to encounter in her own person. The post
rarely brought her painful letters; for all those impassioned interests
which bring pain had died out, and the sorrows of others, when they were
communicated to her, gave her a luxurious sense of sympathy, yet
exemption. She was sorry for them; but such catastrophes could touch her
no more: and often she had pleasant letters, which afforded her something
to talk and think about, and discuss as if it concerned her,--and yet did
not concern her,--business which could not hurt her if it failed, which
would please her if it succeeded. Her letters, her papers, her books,
each coming at its appointed hour, were all instruments of pleasure. She
came down-stairs at a certain hour, which she kept to as if it had been
of the utmost importance, although it was of no importance at all: she
took just so much good wine, so many cups of tea. Her repasts were as
regular as clockwork--never too late, never too early. Her whole life
went on velvet, rolling smoothly along, without jar or interruption,
blameless, pleasant, kind. People talked of her old age as a model of old
age, with no bitterness or sourness in it. And, indeed, why should she
have been sour or bitter? It suited her far better to be kind. She was in
reality kind to everybody, liking to see pleasant faces about her. The
poor had no reason to complain of her; her servants were very
comfortable; and the one person in her house who was nearer to her own
level, who was her companion and most important minister, was very
comfortable too. This was a young woman about twenty, a very distant
relation, with "no claim," everybody said, upon her kind mistress and
friend,--the daughter of a distant cousin. How very few think anything
at all of such a tie! but Lady Mary had taken her young namesake when she
was a child, and she had grown up as it were at her godmother's
footstool, in the conviction that the measured existence of the old was
the rule of life, and that her own trifling personality counted for
nothing, or next to nothing, in its steady progress. Her name was Mary
too--always called "little Mary" as having once been little, and not yet
very much in the matter of size. She was one of the pleasantest things
to look at of all the pretty things in Lady Mary's rooms, and she had the
most sheltered, peaceful, and pleasant life that could be conceived. The
only little thorn in her pillow was, that whereas in the novels, of which
she read a great many, the heroines all go and pay visits and have
adventures, she had none, but lived constantly at home. There was
something much more serious in her life, had she known, which was that
she had nothing, and no power of doing anything for herself; that she had
all her life been accustomed to a modest luxury which would make poverty
very hard to her; and that Lady Mary was over eighty, and had made no
will. If she did not make any will, her property would all go to her
grandson, who was so rich already that her fortune would be but as a drop
in the ocean to him; or to some great-grandchildren of whom she knew very
little,--the descendants of a daughter long ago dead who had married an
Austrian, and who were therefore foreigners both in birth and name. That
she should provide for little Mary was therefore a thing which nature
demanded, and which would hurt nobody. She had said so often; but she
deferred the doing of it as a thing for which there was no hurry. For why
should she die? There seemed no reason or need for it. So long as she
lived, nothing could be more sure, more happy and serene, than little
Mary's life; and why should she die? She did not perhaps put this into
words; but the meaning of her smile, and the manner in which she put
aside every suggestion about the chances of the hereafter away from her,
said it more clearly than words. It was not that she had any
superstitious fear about the making of a will. When the doctor or the
vicar or her man of business, the only persons who ever talked to her on
the subject, ventured periodically to refer to it, she assented
pleasantly,--yes, certainly, she must do it--some time or other.
"It is a very simple thing to do," the lawyer said. "I will save you all
trouble; nothing but your signature will be wanted--and that you give
every day."
"Oh, I should think nothing of the trouble!" she said.
"And it would liberate your mind from all care, and leave you free to
think of things more important still," said the clergyman.
"I think I am very free of care," she replied.
Then the doctor added bluntly, "And you will not die an hour the sooner
for having made your will."
"Die!" said Lady Mary, surprised. And then she added, with a smile, "I
hope you don't think so little of me as to believe I would be kept back
by that?"
These gentlemen all consulted together in despair, and asked each other
what should be done. They thought her an egotist--a cold-hearted old
woman, holding at arm's length any idea of the inevitable. And so she
did; but not because she was cold-hearted,--because she was so accustomed
to living, and had survived so many calamities, and gone on so long--so
long; and because everything was so comfortably arranged about her--all
her little habits so firmly established, as if nothing could interfere
with them. To think of the day arriving which should begin with some
other formula than that of her maid's entrance drawing aside the
curtains, lighting the cheerful fire, bringing her a report of the
weather; and then the little tray, resplendent with snowy linen and
shining silver and china, with its bouquet of violets or a rose in the
season, the newspaper carefully dried and cut, the letters,--every detail
was so perfect, so unchanging, regular as the morning. It seemed
impossible that it should come to an end. And then when she came
downstairs, there were all the little articles upon her table always
ready to her hand; a certain number of things to do, each at the
appointed hour; the slender refreshments it was necessary for her to
take, in which there was a little exquisite variety--but never any change
in the fact that at eleven and at three and so forth something had to be
taken. Had a woman wanted to abandon the peaceful life which was thus
supported and carried on, the very framework itself would have resisted.
It was impossible (almost) to contemplate the idea that at a given moment
the whole machinery must stop. She was neither without heart nor without
religion, but on the contrary a good woman, to whom many gentle thoughts
had been given at various portions of her career. But the occasion
seemed to have passed for that as well as other kinds of emotion. The
mere fact of living was enough for her. The little exertion which it was
well she was required to make produced a pleasant weariness. It was a
duty much enforced upon her by all around her, that she should do nothing
which would exhaust or fatigue. "I don't want you to think," even the
doctor would say; "you have done enough of thinking in your time." And
this she accepted with great composure of spirit. She had thought and
felt and done much in her day; but now everything of the kind was over.
There was no need for her to fatigue herself; and day followed day, all
warm and sheltered and pleasant. People died, it is true, now and then,
out of doors; but they were mostly young people, whose death might have
been prevented had proper care been taken,--who were seized with violent
maladies, or caught sudden infections, or were cut down by accident; all
which things seemed natural. Her own contemporaries were very few, and
they were like herself--living on in something of the same way. At
eighty-five all people under seventy are young; and one's contemporaries
are very, very few.
Nevertheless these men did disturb her a little about her will. She had
made more than one will in the former days during her active life; but
all those to whom she had bequeathed her possessions were dead. She had
survived them all, and inherited from many of them; which had been a hard
thing in its time. One day the lawyer had been more than ordinarily
pressing. He had told her stories of men who had died intestate, and left
trouble and penury behind them to those whom they would have most wished
to preserve from all trouble. It would not have become Mr. Furnival to
say brutally to Lady Mary, "This is how you will leave your godchild when
you die." But he told her story after story, many of them piteous enough.
"People think it is so troublesome a business," he said, "when it is
nothing at all--the most easy matter in the world. We are getting so
much less particular nowadays about formalities. So long as the
testator's intentions are made quite apparent--that is the chief matter,
and a very bad thing for us lawyers."
"I dare say," said Lady Mary, "it is unpleasant for a man to think of
himself as 'the testator.' It is a very abstract title, when you come to
think of it."
"Pooh'" said Mr. Furnival, who had no sense of humor.
"But if this great business is so very simple," she went on, "one could
do it, no doubt, for one's self?"
"Many people do, but it is never advisable," said the lawyer. "You will
say it is natural for me to tell you that. When they do, it should be as
simple as possible. I give all my real property, or my personal property,
or my share in so-and-so, or my jewels, or so forth, to--whoever it may
be. The fewer words the better,--so that nobody may be able to read
between the lines, you know,--and the signature attested by two
witnesses; but they must not be witnesses that have any interest; that
is, that have anything left to them by the document they witness."
Lady Mary put up her hand defensively, with a laugh. It was still a most
delicate hand, like ivory, a little yellowed with age, but fine, the
veins standing out a little upon it, the finger-tips still pink. "You
speak," she said, "as if you expected me to take the law in my own hands.
No, no, my old friend; never fear, you shall have the doing of it."
"Whenever you please, my dear lady--whenever you please. Such a thing
cannot be done an hour too soon. Shall I take your instructions now?"
Lady Mary laughed, and said, "You were always a very keen man for
business. I remember your father used to say, Robert would never neglect
an opening."
"No," he said, with a peculiar look. "I have always looked after my
six-and-eightpences; and in that case it is true, the pounds take care of
themselves."
"Very good care," said Lady Mary; and then she bade her young companion
bring that book she had been reading, where there was something she
wanted to show Mr. Furnival. "It is only a case in a novel, but I am sure
it is bad law; give me your opinion," she said.
He was obliged to be civil, very civil. Nobody is rude to the Lady Marys
of life; and besides, she was old enough to have an additional right to
every courtesy. But while he sat over the novel, and tried with
unnecessary vehemence to make her see what very bad law it was, and
glanced from her smiling attention to the innocent sweetness of the girl
beside her, who was her loving attendant, the good man's heart was sore.
He said many hard things of her in his own mind as he went away.
"She will die," he said bitterly. "She will go off in a moment when
nobody is looking for it, and that poor child will be left destitute."
It was all he could do not to go back and take her by her fragile old
shoulders and force her to sign and seal at once. But then he knew very
well that as soon as he found himself in her presence, he would of
necessity be obliged to subdue his impatience, and be once more civil,
very civil, and try to suggest and insinuate the duty which he dared not
force upon her. And it was very clear that till she pleased she would
take no hint. He supposed it must be that strange reluctance to part with
their power which is said to be common to old people, or else that horror
of death, and determination to keep it at arm's length, which is also
common. Thus he did as spectators are so apt to do, he forced a meaning
and motive into what had no motive at all, and imagined Lady Mary, the
kindest of women, to be of purpose and intention risking the future of
the girl whom she had brought up, and whom she loved,--not with passion,
indeed, or anxiety, but with tender benevolence; a theory which was as
false as anything could be.
That evening in her room, Lady Mary, in a very cheerful mood, sat
by a little bright unnecessary fire, with her writing-book before her,
waiting till she should be sleepy. It was the only point in which she
was a little hard upon her maid, who in every other respect was the
best-treated of servants. Lady Mary, as it happened, had often no
inclination for bed till the night was far advanced. She slept little, as
is common enough at her age. She was in her warm wadded dressing-gown, an
article in which she still showed certain traces (which were indeed
visible in all she wore) of her ancient beauty, with her white hair
becomingly arranged under a cap of cambric and lace. At the last moment,
when she had been ready to step into bed, she had changed her mind, and
told Jervis that she would write a letter or two first. And she had
written her letters, but still felt no inclination to sleep. Then there
fluttered across her memory somehow the conversation she had held with
Mr. Furnival in the morning. It would be amusing, she thought, to cheat
him out of some of those six-and-eightpences he pretended to think so
much of. It would be still more amusing, next time the subject of her
will was recurred to, to give his arm a little tap with her fan, and say,
"Oh, that is all settled, months ago." She laughed to herself at this,
and took out a fresh sheet of paper. It was a little jest that pleased
her.
"Do you think there is any one up yet, Jervis, except you and me?" she
said to the maid. Jervis hesitated a little, and then said that she
believed Mr. Brown had not gone to bed yet; for he had been going over
the cellar, and was making up his accounts. Jervis was so explanatory
that her mistress divined what was meant. "I suppose I have been spoiling
sport, keeping you here," she said good-humoredly; for it was well known
that Miss Jervis and Mr. Brown were engaged, and that they were only
waiting (everybody knew but Lady Mary, who never suspected it) the death
of their mistress, to set up a lodging-house in Jermyn Street, where they
fully intended to make their fortune. "Then go," Lady Mary said, "and
call Brown. I have a little business paper to write, and you must both
witness my signature." She laughed to herself a little as she said this,
thinking how she would steel a march on Mr. Furnival. "I give, and
bequeath," she said to herself playfully, after Jervis had hurried away.
She fully intended to leave both of these good servants something, but
then she recollected that people who are interested in a will cannot sign
as witnesses. "What does it matter?" she said to herself gayly; "If it
ever should be wanted, Mary would see to that." Accordingly she dashed
off, in her pretty, old-fashioned handwriting, which was very angular and
pointed, as was the fashion in her day, and still very clear, though
slightly tremulous, a few lines, in which, remembering playfully Mr.
Furnival's recommendation of "few words," she left to little Mary all she
possessed, adding, by the prompting of that recollection about the
witnesses, "She will take care of the servants." It filled one side only
of the large sheet of notepaper, which was what Lady Mary habitually
used. Brown, introduced timidly by Jervis, and a little overawed by the
solemnity of the bedchamber, came in and painted solidly his large
signature after the spidery lines of his mistress. She had folded down
the paper, so that neither saw what it was.
"Now I will go to bed," Lady Mary said, when Brown had left the room.
"And Jervis, you must go to bed too."
"Yes, my lady," said Jervis.
"I don't approve of courtship at this hour."
"No, my lady," Jervis replied, deprecating and disappointed.
"Why cannot he tell his tale in daylight?"
"Oh, my lady, there's no tale to tell," cried the maid. "We are not of
the gossiping sort, my lady, neither me nor Mr. Brown." Lady Mary
laughed, and watched while the candles were put out, the fire made a
pleasant flicker in the room,--it was autumn and still warm, and it was
"for company" and cheerfulness that the little fire was lit; she liked to
see it dancing and flickering upon the walls,--and then closed her eyes
amid an exquisite softness of comfort and luxury, life itself bearing her
up as softly, filling up all the crevices as warmly, as the downy pillow
upon which she rested her still beautiful old head.
If she had died that night! The little sheet of paper that meant so much
lay openly, innocently, in her writing-book, along with the letters she
had written, and looking of as little importance as they. There was
nobody in the world who grudged old Lady Mary one of those pretty placid
days of hers. Brown and Jervis, if they were sometimes a little
impatient, consoled each other that they were both sure of something in
her will, and that in the mean time it was a very good place. And all the
rest would have been very well content that Lady Mary should live
forever. But how wonderfully it would have simplified everything, and how
much trouble and pain it would have saved to everybody, herself included,
could she have died that night!
But naturally, there was no question of dying on that night. When she was
about to go downstairs, next day, Lady Mary, giving her letters to be
posted, saw the paper she had forgotten lying beside them. She had
forgotten all about it, but the sight of it made her smile. She folded
it up and put it in an envelope while Jervis went down-stairs with the
letters; and then, to carry out her joke, she looked round her to see
where she would put it. There was an old Italian cabinet in the room,
with a secret drawer, which it was a little difficult to open,--almost
impossible for any one who did not know the secret. Lady Mary looked
round her, smiled, hesitated a little, and then walked across the room
and put the envelope in the secret drawer. She was still fumbling with it
when Jervis came back; but there was no connection in Jervis's mind, then
or ever after, between the paper she had signed and this old cabinet,
which was one of the old lady's toys. She arranged Lady Mary's shawl,
which had dropped off her shoulders a little in her unusual activity,
and took up her book and her favorite cushion, and all the little
paraphernalia that moved with her, and gave her lady her arm to go
down-stairs; where little Mary had placed her chair just at the right
angle, and arranged the little table, on which there were so many little
necessaries and conveniences, and was standing smiling, the prettiest
object of all, the climax of the gentle luxury and pleasantness, to
receive her godmother, who had been her providence all her life.
But what a pity! oh, what a pity, that she had not died that night!