Miles Wallingford Part 15

I pa.s.s over the details of the funeral procession. This last was ordered as is usual in the country, the friends following the body in vehicles or on horseback, according to circ.u.mstances. John Wallingford went with me agreeably to my own arrangement, and the rest took their places in the order of consanguinity and age. I did not see Rupert in the procession at all, though I saw little beside the hea.r.s.e that bore the body of my only sister. When we reached the church-yard, the blacks of the family pressed forward to bear the coffin into the building. Mr. Hardinge met us there, and then commenced those beautiful and solemn rites which seldom fail to touch the hardest heart. The rector of St. Michael's had the great excellence of reading all the offices of the church as if he felt them; and, on this occasion, the deepest feelings of the heart seemed to be thrown into his accents. I wondered how he could get on; but Mr. Hardinge felt himself a servant of the altar, standing in his master's house, and ready to submit to his will. Under such circ.u.mstances it was not a trifle that could unman him. The spirit of the divine communicated itself to me.

I did not shed a tear during the whole of the ceremony, but felt myself sustained by the thoughts and holy hopes that ceremony was adapted to inspire. I believe Lucy, who sat in a far corner of the church, was sustained in a similar manner; for I heard her low sweet voice mingling in the responses. Lip service! Let those who would subst.i.tute their own crude impulses for the sublime rites of our liturgy, making ill digested forms the supplanter of a ritual carefully and devoutly prepared, listen to one of their own semi-conversational addresses to the Almighty over a grave, and then hearken to these venerable rites, and learn humility. Such men never approach sublimity, or the sacred character that should be impressed on a funeral ceremony, except when they borrow a fragment here and there from the very ritual they affect to condemn. In their eagerness to dissent, they have been guilty of the weakness of dissenting, so far as forms are concerned, from some of the loftiest, most comprehensive, most consolatory and most instructive pa.s.sages of the inspired book!

It was a terrible moment when the first clod of the valley fell on my sister's coffin. G.o.d sustained me under the shock! I neither groaned nor wept. When Mr. Hardinge returned the customary thanks to those who had a.s.sembled to a.s.sist me "in burying my dead out of my sight," I had even sufficient fort.i.tude to bow to the little crowd, and to walk steadily away. It is true, that John Wallingford very kindly took my arm to sustain me, but I was not conscious of wanting any support. I heard the sobs of the blacks as they crowded around the grave, which the men among them insisted on filling with their own hands, as if "Miss Grace" could only rest with their administration to her wants; and I was told not one of them left the spot until the place had resumed all the appearance of freshness and verdure which it possessed before the spade had been applied. The same roses, removed with care, were restored to their former beds; and it would not have been easy for a stranger to discover that a new-made grave lay by the side of those of the late Captain Miles Wallingford and his much-respected widow. Still it was known to all in that vicinity, and many a pilgrimage was made to the spot within the next fortnight, the young maidens of the adjoining farms in particular coming to visit the grave of Grace Wallingford, the "Lily of Clawbonny," as she had once been styled.

Chapter IX.

"I knew that we must part--no power could save Thy quiet goodness from an early grave: Those eyes so dull, though kind each glance they cast, Looking a sister's fondness to the last; Thy lips so pale, that gently press'd my cheek; Thy voice--alas! Thou could'st but try to speak;-- All told thy doom; I felt it at my heart; The shaft had struck--I knew that we must part."

Sprague.

It is not easy to describe the sensation of loss that came over me after the interment of my sister. It is then we completely feel the privation with which we have met. The body is removed from out of our sight; the places that knew them shall know them no more; there is an end to all communion, even by the agency of sight, the last of the senses to lose its hold on the departed, and a void exists in the place once occupied. I felt all this very keenly, for more than a month, but most keenly during the short time I remained at Clawbonny. The task before me, however, will not allow me to dwell on these proofs of sorrow, nor do I know that the reader could derive much advantage from their exhibition.

I did not see Rupert at the funeral. That he was there I knew, but either he, himself, or Lucy for him, had managed so well, as not to obtrude his person on my sight. John Wallingford, who well knew my external or visible relation to all the Hardinges, thinking to do me a pleasure, mentioned, as the little procession returned to the house, that young Mr. Hardinge had, by dint of great activity, succeeded in reaching Clawbonny in time for the funeral. I fancy that Lucy, under the pretence of wis.h.i.+ng his escort, contrived to keep her brother at the rectory during the time I was abroad.

On reaching the house, I saw all my connexions, and thanked them in person for this proof of their respect for the deceased. This little duty performed, all but John Wallingford took their leave, and I was soon left in the place alone with my bachelor cousin. What a house it was! and what a house it continued to be as long as I remained at Clawbonny! The servants moved about it stealthily; the merry laugh was no longer heard in the kitchen; even the heavy-footed seemed to tread on air, and all around me appeared to be afraid of disturbing the slumbers of the dead. Never before, nor since, have I had occasion to feel how completely a negative may a.s.sume an affirmative character, and become as positive as if it had a real existence. I thought I could _see_ as well as feel my sister's absence from the scene in which she had once been so conspicuous an actor.

As none of the Hardinges returned to dinner, the good divine writing a note to say he would see me in the evening after my connexions had withdrawn, John Wallingford and myself took that meal _tete a tete_. My cousin, with the apparent motive of diverting my thoughts from dwelling on the recent scene, began to converse on subjects that he was right in supposing might interest me. Instead of flying off to some topic so foreign to my feelings as constantly to recall the reason, he judiciously connected the theme with my loss.

"I suppose you will go to sea again, as soon as your s.h.i.+p can be got ready, cousin Miles," he commenced, after we were left with the fruit and wine. "These are stirring times in commerce, and the idle man misses golden opportunities."

"Gold has no longer any charm for me, cousin John," I answered gloomily.

"I am richer now than is necessary for my wants, and, as I shall probably never marry, I see no great use in toiling for more. Still, I shall go out in my own s.h.i.+p, and that as soon as possible. _Here_ I would not pa.s.s the summer for the place, and I love the sea. Yes, yes; I must make a voyage to some part of Europe without delay. It is the wisest thing I can do."

"That is hearty, and like a man! There is none of your mopes about the Wallingfords, and I believe you to be of the true stock. But why never marry, Miles? Your father was a sailor, and _he_ married, and a very good time I've always understood he had of it."

"My father was happy as a husband, and, did I imitate his example, I should certainly marry, too. Nevertheless, I feel I am to be a bachelor."

"In that case, what will become of Clawbonny?" demanded Jack Wallingford, bluntly.

I could not avoid smiling at the question, as I deemed him my heir, though the law would give it to nearer relatives, who were not of the name; but it is probable that John, knowing himself to be so much my senior, had never thought of himself as one likely to outlive me.

"I shall make a new will, the instant I get to town, and leave Clawbonny to you," I answered steadily, and truly, for such a thought had come into my mind the instant I saw him. "You are the person best ent.i.tled to inherit it, and should you survive me, yours it shall be."

"Miles, I like that," exclaimed my cousin, with a strange sincerity, stretching out a hand to receive mine, which he pressed most warmly. "You are very right; I _ought_ to be the heir of this place, should you die without children, even though you left a widow,"

This was said so naturally, and was so much in conformity with my own notions on the subject, that it did not so much offend, as surprise me. I knew John Wallingford loved money, and, all men having a very respectful attachment to the representative of value, such a character invariably means, that the party named suffers that attachment to carry him too far.

I wished, therefore, my kinsman had not made just such a speech; though it in no manner shook my intentions in his favour.

"You are more ready to advise your friends to get married, than to set the example," I answered, willing to divert the discourse a little. "You, who must be turned of fifty, are still a bachelor."

"And so shall I remain through life. There was a time I might have married, had I been rich; and now I am reasonably rich, I find other things to employ my affections. Still, that is no reason you should not leave me Clawbonny, though it is not probable I shall ever live to inherit it. Notwithstanding, it is family property, and ought not to go out of the name. I was afraid, if you were, lost at sea, or should die of any of those outlandish fevers that sailors sometimes take, the place would get into females, and there would no longer be a Wallingford at Clawbonny.

Miles, I do not grudge _you_ the possession of the property the least in the world; but it would make me very unhappy to know one of those Hazens, or Morgans, or Van-der-Schamps had it." Jack had mentioned the names of the children of so many Miss Wallingfords, aunts or great-aunts, of mine, and cousins of his own.--"Some of them may be nearer to you, by a half-degree, or so, but none of them are as near to Clawbonny. It is Wallingford land, and Wallingford land it ought to remain."

I was amused in spite of myself, and felt a disposition now, to push the discourse further, in order better to understand my kinsman's character.

"Should neither of us two marry," I said, "and both die bachelors, what would then be the fate of Clawbonny?"

"I have thought of all that, Miles, and here is my answer: Should such a thing happen, and there be no other Wallingford left, then no Wallingford would live to have his feelings hurt by knowing that a Vander-dunder-Schamp, or whatever these Dutchmen ought to be called, is living in his father's house; and no harm would be done. But, there _are_ Wallingfords besides you and me."

"This is quite new; for I had supposed we two were the last."

"Not so: Miles the first left two sons; our ancestor, the eldest, and one younger, who removed into the colony of New Jersey, and whose descendants still exist. The survivors of us two might go there in quest of our heir, in the long run. But do not forget I come before these Jersey Blues, let them be who, or what they may."

I a.s.sured my kinsman he _should_ come before them, and changed the discourse; for, to own the truth, the manner in which he spoke began to displease me. Making my apologies, I retired to my own room, while John Wallingford went out, professedly with the intention of riding over the place of his ancestors, with a view to give it a more critical exanimation than it had hitherto been in his power to do.

It was quite dark, when I heard the arrival of the Hardinges, as the carriage of Lucy drove up to the door. In a few minutes Mr. Hardinge entered the study. He first inquired after my health, and manifested the kind interest he had ever taken in my feelings; after which, he proceeded:

"Rupert is here," he said, "and I have brought him over to see you. Both he and Lucy appeared to think it might be well not to disturb you to-night; but I knew you better. Who should be at your side at this bitter moment, my dear Miles, if it be not Rupert, your old friend and play-mate; your fellow truant, as one might say, and almost your brother?"

Almost my brother! Still I commanded myself. Grace had received my solemn a.s.surances, and so had Lucy, and Rupert had nothing to apprehend. I even asked to see him, desiring, at the same time, that it might be alone. I waited several minutes for Rupert's appearance, in vain. At length the door of my room opened, and Chloe brought me a note. It was from Lucy, and contained only these words--"Miles, for _her_ sake, for mine, command yourself." Dear creature! She had no reason to be alarmed. The spirit of my sister seemed to me to be present; and I could recall every expression of her angel-countenance as it had pa.s.sed before my eyes in the different interviews that preceded her death.

At length Rupert appeared. He had been detained by Lucy until certain her note was received, when she permitted him to quit her side. His manner was full of the consciousness of undeserving, and its humility aided my good resolutions. Had he advanced to take my hand; had he attempted consolation; had he, in short, behaved differently in the main from what he actually did, I cannot say what might have been the consequences. But his deportment, at first, was quiet, respectful, distant rather than familiar, and he had the tact, or grace, or caution, not to make the smallest allusion to the sad occasion which had brought him to Clawbonny.

When I asked him to be seated, he declined the chair I offered, a sign he intended the visit to be short. I was not sorry, and determined, at once, to make the interview as much one of business as possible. I had a sacred duty confided to me, and this might be as fit an occasion as could offer in which to acquit myself of the trust.

"I am glad so early an opportunity has offered, Mr. Hardinge," I said, as soon as the opening civilities were over, "to acquaint you with an affair that has been entrusted to me by Grace, and which I am anxious to dispose of as soon as possible."

"By Grace--by Miss Wallingford!" exclaimed Rupert, actually recoiling a step in surprise, if not absolutely in alarm--"I shall feel honoured--that is, shall have a melancholy gratification in endeavouring to execute any of her wishes. No person commanded more of my respect, Mr.

Wallingford, and I shall always consider her one of the most amiable and admirable women with whom it was ever my happy fortune to be acquainted."

I had no difficulty now in commanding myself, for it was easy to see Rupert scarce knew what he said. With such a man I saw no great necessity for using extraordinary delicacy or much reserve.

"You are doubtless aware of two things in our family history," I continued, therefore, without circ.u.mlocution: "one that my sister would have been mistress of a small fortune, had she reached the term of twenty-one years, and the other that she died at twenty."

Rupert's surprise was now more natural, and I could see that his interest--shame on our propensities for it!--was very natural, too.

"I am aware of both, and deeply deplore the last," he answered.

"Being a minor, she had it not in her power to make a will, but her requests are legal legacies in my eyes, and I stand pledged to her to see them executed. She has left rather less than $22,000 in all; with $500 of this money I am to present Lucy with some suitable memorial of her departed friend; some small charitable dispositions are also to be made, and the balance, or the round sum of $20,000, is to be given to you."

"To me, Mr. Wallingford!--Miles!--Did you really say to me?"

"To you, Mr. Hardinge,--such is my sister's earnest request--and this letter will declare it, as from herself. I was to hand you this letter, when acquainting you with the bequest." I put Grace's letter into Rupert's hand, as I concluded, and I sat down to write, while he was reading it.

Though employed at a desk for a minute or two, I could not avoid glancing at Rupert, in order to ascertain the effect of the last words of her he had once professed to love. I would wish not to be unjust even to Rupert Hardinge. He was dreadfully agitated, and he walked the room, for some little time, without speaking. I even fancied I overheard a half-suppressed groan. I had the compa.s.sion to affect to be engaged, in order to allow him to recover his self-possession. This was soon done, as good impressions were not lasting in Rupert; and I knew him so well, as soon to read in his countenance, gleanings of satisfaction at the prospect of being master of so large a sum. At the proper moment, I arose and resumed the subject.

"My sister's wishes would be sacred with me," I said, even had she not received my promise to see them executed. "When a thing of this character is to be done the sooner it is done the better. I have drawn a note at ten days, payable at the Bank of New York, and in your favour, for $20,000: it will not inconvenience me to pay it when due, and that will close the transaction."

"I am not certain, Wallingford, that I ought to receive so large a sum--I do not know that my father, or Lucy or indeed the world, would altogether approve of it."

"Neither your father, nor Lucy, nor the world will know anything about it, sir, unless you see fit to acquaint them I shall not speak of the bequest; and I confess that, on my sister's account, I should prefer that _you_ would not."

"Well, Mr. Hardinge," answered Rupert, coolly putting the note into his wallet, "I will think of this request of poor Grace's, and if I can possibly comply with her wishes, I will certainly do so. There is little that she could ask that I would deny, and my effort will be to honour her memory. As I see you are distressed, I will now retire; you shall know my determination in a few days."

Rupert did retire, taking my note for $20,000 with him. I made no effort to detain him, nor was I sorry to hear he had returned to the rectory to pa.s.s the night, whither his sister went with him. The next day he proceeded to New York, without sending me any message, retaining the note however; and, a day or two later, I heard of him on his way to the springs to rejoin the party of the Mertons.