CHAPTER VIII.
Yet still, thou mourner, o’er the death-bed stand,Still honour, as thou canst, the breathless clay,Still bring thy flowers, and strew with pious hand,And weep behind the bier in slow array;And raise the stone, inscribe the record kind,And all thy heart’s vain tenderness reveal,And guard the dust, in awful hope resigned,And bow to heaven, that formed thee thus to feel.
Yet still, thou mourner, o’er the death-bed stand,Still honour, as thou canst, the breathless clay,Still bring thy flowers, and strew with pious hand,And weep behind the bier in slow array;And raise the stone, inscribe the record kind,And all thy heart’s vain tenderness reveal,And guard the dust, in awful hope resigned,And bow to heaven, that formed thee thus to feel.
Yet still, thou mourner, o’er the death-bed stand,Still honour, as thou canst, the breathless clay,Still bring thy flowers, and strew with pious hand,And weep behind the bier in slow array;And raise the stone, inscribe the record kind,And all thy heart’s vain tenderness reveal,And guard the dust, in awful hope resigned,And bow to heaven, that formed thee thus to feel.
Yet still, thou mourner, o’er the death-bed stand,Still honour, as thou canst, the breathless clay,Still bring thy flowers, and strew with pious hand,And weep behind the bier in slow array;And raise the stone, inscribe the record kind,And all thy heart’s vain tenderness reveal,And guard the dust, in awful hope resigned,And bow to heaven, that formed thee thus to feel.
Yet still, thou mourner, o’er the death-bed stand,
Still honour, as thou canst, the breathless clay,
Still bring thy flowers, and strew with pious hand,
And weep behind the bier in slow array;
And raise the stone, inscribe the record kind,
And all thy heart’s vain tenderness reveal,
And guard the dust, in awful hope resigned,
And bow to heaven, that formed thee thus to feel.
Extract from a Letter from the Rev. E. Pelham, to Sir George Pelham, minister at Vienna.
——“You ask me if I can tell you any thing of Lady Fitzhenry. Being some little time ago on a visit to a friend at Poole, and anxious to be able to giveyou some more satisfactory account than mere common report, I resolved to drive over one Sunday, and attend divine service at the parish church of Arlingford, as I was told that she was generally there to be seen; and, hearing she lived perfectly retired, I did not like to intrude upon her with the offer of a visit.“You know it is now nearly a twelve-month since the death of poor Fitzhenry. The pew belonging to the Arlingford family, the pulpit, and communion table, are all still covered with black, and with the escutcheons and arms of the Fitzhenrys. When the church-bell had done ringing, Lady Fitzhenry, with her father and mother, came into the gallery. A deep black veil at first hid her face and nearly her whole person; but the churchgrowing very hot, she at length put it aside.“Had I not previously known who it was, I certainly should not have recognised her. There is no trace of the laughing eyes, of the dimpled cheek, of the fresh gay young countenance, which I was acquainted with. Perhaps it was partly owing to contrast and to the quantity of black by which she was surrounded, but I thought I had never seen so pale a face. Still, though she has already lost much of the fresh beauty of youth, there is a charm in her faded sadness—an air of sentiment over her whole person, that more than compensates. Her hair was parted back on her marble-white forehead; and the only thing about her that was not black, was a gold chain,to which was hung a small watch. I am thus particular, for I know you wish for particulars—and I certainly never before paid such attention to the minutiæ of a woman’s dress.“During the service, Lady Fitzhenry appeared engrossed by it as one whose heart’s home is in heaven. When it was ended, all seemed respectfully to wait to let her pass; the village children eagerly watching for an opportunity to catch her eye in order to make their little obeisances, in the hope of a smile or kind word from her in return. I too might then have spoken to her, but a deep feeling of respect for her sorrows restrained me. I feared the sight of me might recall past days, and I did not like to intrude upon her.“When all were gone, I still loitered in the church, and the clergyman and I at last were left alone. Seeing me examining the Fitzhenry arms with interest, he came up to me; and, after some usual civilities had passed, I asked him whether Lord Fitzhenry was buried in the church.“‘Yes!’ he replied, pointing to a marble slab; ‘beneath that stone is the family vault. It is now about a year since I read over it the funeral service: and many such sad duties have I performed, many melancholy scenes of death have I been witness to; but never, I think, will the impression of that day be effaced from my memory. I remember it was unusually fine for the season, the bright sun forming such a striking contrastwith the scene. It seemed to be a gratification to Lord Arlingford’s feelings to pay every possible outward mark of respect to his son, and in every way to testify his deep affliction for his loss; and, with this idea, he desired that no expense might be spared at his funeral. ‘I don’t think that would have been the way in which I should have indulged my grief,’ added the respectable old pastor; ‘but we show our feelings differently;’ and certainly nothing could be more impressive than the sight of the long funeral procession, and the waving of the black banners and plumes, when moving slowly down the avenue that leads from the house to the village. The whole parish, even the county for many miles round attended; for LordFitzhenry was much and justly beloved—and many too of course came for the mere show. Of all this costly dismal pageant, what struck me with the strongest feelings of melancholy was, the hearse, drawn by Lord Fitzhenry’s own beautiful horses, which by his father’s orders had been trained to a slow pace for the purpose; but, although pains had been taken to break them into their mournful duty, yet, excited and fretted I suppose by the crowd around them, and the trappings with which they were covered, it was with difficulty they could be restrained; and when, at last, they were stopped at the gate of the church-yard, they proudly pawed the ground, and tossed their heads, as in the days when they drew their master in all thepride of youth and health, totally unconscious of the last sad office they were then performing for him. Lord Arlingford and Mr. Benson both attended, and were much affected at the ceremony, particularly the latter.“‘Late in the evening, I was,’ continued my narrator—‘roused from no agreeable reverie, by being told that Lord Arlingford’s carriage was driving through the village towards the church, and that one of the servants had come to beg that the door of it might be opened without delay; I immediately hurried thither. It was a bright moonlight night, and I saw Mr. and Mrs. Benson, who had already left the carriage, help out of it an almost lifeless figure; they supported her along—for, as you may guess it was poor Lady Fitzhenry. It seems, that nothing coulddivert her from the idea of visiting the vault before it was again closed, and at last the desire became so strong, that they thought it best to comply with her wishes. Her hysteric screams, when she threw herself on the coffin, still ring in my ears; and it was with difficulty they tore her away from it. Twice, as if agony of mind had given her more than usual strength, of body, she broke from them. I really feared for her reason, under the influence of such wild despair, and at length, by force, we carried her back to the carriage. By Mrs. Benson’s desire, I accompanied them to the house: she wished to try the effects of my prayers and exhortations on the poor sufferer. When she was laid on her couch, and had been given some composing medicine, I wentto her. It seemed as if all was then over with her in this world. Not a tear fell from her fixed eyes. ‘He is gone—quite gone—I shall never see him again—never—never,’ she repeated, apparently quite unconscious of her words, and with a horrible composure of voice, although there was wildness in her looks; for she appeared as if gazing on some invisible form. I knelt by her, I read, I said all that I thought was most likely to rouse her from her stupor of grief, and move her feelings; and at last, after one or two convulsive heavings of her bosom, tears came to her relief. She fell sobbing into her mother’s arms; and I left that excellent mother to give her all the comfort she was then capable of receiving, that of sympathy and affection.’“The kind-hearted old man here stopped, much overcome with his recollections.“‘Lady Fitzhenry has, I believe, resided here ever since the death of her husband?’ I said, as soon as I saw he had sufficiently recovered himself. ‘Yes,’ he replied: ‘by agreement, and the wording of the deed, which, at the time of Lord and Lady Fitzhenry’s marriage, saved this estate from falling into the hands of Lord Arlingford’s creditors, (it not being, like the rest of the property, entailed,) it became hers in the event of their having no children.’ ‘Does she do much good here?’ I enquired: ‘has she taken to the only employment left for the unhappy?’ ‘Oh! she is the friend and hope of all the poor of the neighbourhood,’rejoined the good pastor with fervency: ‘at first, indeed, she was so absorbed by her grief, that she seemed to heed nothing which was passing around her, and I have seen her mechanically bestow charity to any one who chanced to cross her path; but her good mother gradually brought her to make it the occupation and interest of her life. Alas! I fear she has now no other. She is indefatigable in her exertions to do good; and may the happiness she bestows on others be at length repaid back on herself, and at least bring her peace and comfort, if not enjoyment! I understand she is in general quite calm, and even, at times, cheerful; she never, in the most distant manner, alludes to her loss, or to the past year of her life, and hastily turns off all conversation thatcan possibly lead to any circumstance connected with it; even with her parents, since the very first, she has maintained this same reserve. It seems as if her husband’s memory was buried within her own heart, and that she felt the grave had shut too close over such an adored being for its sacredness ever to be disturbed.’ I further learnt from my companion, that Mr. Benson has given up all share both in his mercantile concerns and in the banking-house; that his spirits and health seem to be both much broken; that he has lost all his bustling activity, and that he has just purchased a small place in the neighbourhood of Arlingford, intending there to pass the remainder of his days.“By this time, we had reached the door of the parsonage; its owner invitedme in, but I had already loitered much, and could delay my departure no longer. Finding that I could return to my place of destination by crossing Arlingford Park, I gave my name at the lodge, and being admitted, although not without difficulty, I drove as near the house as I could venture. The hatchment darkened the windows of the principal room—many of the others were closed. How different the whole place looked from what it did only a few months back, when I met you there at the time of the large shooting party which Fitzhenry had collected! Poor fellow! I used to abuse him then for his strange unaccountable conduct and coldness towards his pretty, interesting little wife; but I believe others had worked upon him and done mischief there. The place seemedkept in good order as formerly; but all was silent, and had a look of desertion. I did not see a living creature, except some horses at grass, which I recognized to be Fitzhenry’s favourite hunters. They eagerly pricked up their ears when I past, and threw back their long-neglected manes, as if a carriage was now an unusual sight; but when I had driven by, they quietly returned to their food.“I travelled on many miles before I could get poor Lady Fitzhenry out of my head; pondering too with some compunction on a silly report to which I had carelessly given credence. The said report concerned her and you; for you must know, George, that the thoughtless, gossiping world, judging by its own unfeeling self, even whileLady Fitzhenry is still shaded by her weeds, and you are closely fixed at your political post at Vienna, have already married you to each other.“Remember, I am not so indiscreet as to ask how far this story comes home to yourself. That you admired Lady Fitzhenry was certainly very evident to my observation; but how far that admiration may lead you in forming wishes for the future, I can’t pretend to say. Indeed, I almost fear the account I have now been giving, may destroy, or at least throw the gloom of doubt over some flattering vision of connubial bliss. For, (I may be mistaken,) but if I can judge of woman’s countenance, and by it of woman’s constancy, I should say, the first could never beam with joy again,and that her every affection is for ever buried in the grave of her husband.“Time will prove whether I am right; for your sake, I hope I am not.”
——“You ask me if I can tell you any thing of Lady Fitzhenry. Being some little time ago on a visit to a friend at Poole, and anxious to be able to giveyou some more satisfactory account than mere common report, I resolved to drive over one Sunday, and attend divine service at the parish church of Arlingford, as I was told that she was generally there to be seen; and, hearing she lived perfectly retired, I did not like to intrude upon her with the offer of a visit.
“You know it is now nearly a twelve-month since the death of poor Fitzhenry. The pew belonging to the Arlingford family, the pulpit, and communion table, are all still covered with black, and with the escutcheons and arms of the Fitzhenrys. When the church-bell had done ringing, Lady Fitzhenry, with her father and mother, came into the gallery. A deep black veil at first hid her face and nearly her whole person; but the churchgrowing very hot, she at length put it aside.
“Had I not previously known who it was, I certainly should not have recognised her. There is no trace of the laughing eyes, of the dimpled cheek, of the fresh gay young countenance, which I was acquainted with. Perhaps it was partly owing to contrast and to the quantity of black by which she was surrounded, but I thought I had never seen so pale a face. Still, though she has already lost much of the fresh beauty of youth, there is a charm in her faded sadness—an air of sentiment over her whole person, that more than compensates. Her hair was parted back on her marble-white forehead; and the only thing about her that was not black, was a gold chain,to which was hung a small watch. I am thus particular, for I know you wish for particulars—and I certainly never before paid such attention to the minutiæ of a woman’s dress.
“During the service, Lady Fitzhenry appeared engrossed by it as one whose heart’s home is in heaven. When it was ended, all seemed respectfully to wait to let her pass; the village children eagerly watching for an opportunity to catch her eye in order to make their little obeisances, in the hope of a smile or kind word from her in return. I too might then have spoken to her, but a deep feeling of respect for her sorrows restrained me. I feared the sight of me might recall past days, and I did not like to intrude upon her.
“When all were gone, I still loitered in the church, and the clergyman and I at last were left alone. Seeing me examining the Fitzhenry arms with interest, he came up to me; and, after some usual civilities had passed, I asked him whether Lord Fitzhenry was buried in the church.
“‘Yes!’ he replied, pointing to a marble slab; ‘beneath that stone is the family vault. It is now about a year since I read over it the funeral service: and many such sad duties have I performed, many melancholy scenes of death have I been witness to; but never, I think, will the impression of that day be effaced from my memory. I remember it was unusually fine for the season, the bright sun forming such a striking contrastwith the scene. It seemed to be a gratification to Lord Arlingford’s feelings to pay every possible outward mark of respect to his son, and in every way to testify his deep affliction for his loss; and, with this idea, he desired that no expense might be spared at his funeral. ‘I don’t think that would have been the way in which I should have indulged my grief,’ added the respectable old pastor; ‘but we show our feelings differently;’ and certainly nothing could be more impressive than the sight of the long funeral procession, and the waving of the black banners and plumes, when moving slowly down the avenue that leads from the house to the village. The whole parish, even the county for many miles round attended; for LordFitzhenry was much and justly beloved—and many too of course came for the mere show. Of all this costly dismal pageant, what struck me with the strongest feelings of melancholy was, the hearse, drawn by Lord Fitzhenry’s own beautiful horses, which by his father’s orders had been trained to a slow pace for the purpose; but, although pains had been taken to break them into their mournful duty, yet, excited and fretted I suppose by the crowd around them, and the trappings with which they were covered, it was with difficulty they could be restrained; and when, at last, they were stopped at the gate of the church-yard, they proudly pawed the ground, and tossed their heads, as in the days when they drew their master in all thepride of youth and health, totally unconscious of the last sad office they were then performing for him. Lord Arlingford and Mr. Benson both attended, and were much affected at the ceremony, particularly the latter.
“‘Late in the evening, I was,’ continued my narrator—‘roused from no agreeable reverie, by being told that Lord Arlingford’s carriage was driving through the village towards the church, and that one of the servants had come to beg that the door of it might be opened without delay; I immediately hurried thither. It was a bright moonlight night, and I saw Mr. and Mrs. Benson, who had already left the carriage, help out of it an almost lifeless figure; they supported her along—for, as you may guess it was poor Lady Fitzhenry. It seems, that nothing coulddivert her from the idea of visiting the vault before it was again closed, and at last the desire became so strong, that they thought it best to comply with her wishes. Her hysteric screams, when she threw herself on the coffin, still ring in my ears; and it was with difficulty they tore her away from it. Twice, as if agony of mind had given her more than usual strength, of body, she broke from them. I really feared for her reason, under the influence of such wild despair, and at length, by force, we carried her back to the carriage. By Mrs. Benson’s desire, I accompanied them to the house: she wished to try the effects of my prayers and exhortations on the poor sufferer. When she was laid on her couch, and had been given some composing medicine, I wentto her. It seemed as if all was then over with her in this world. Not a tear fell from her fixed eyes. ‘He is gone—quite gone—I shall never see him again—never—never,’ she repeated, apparently quite unconscious of her words, and with a horrible composure of voice, although there was wildness in her looks; for she appeared as if gazing on some invisible form. I knelt by her, I read, I said all that I thought was most likely to rouse her from her stupor of grief, and move her feelings; and at last, after one or two convulsive heavings of her bosom, tears came to her relief. She fell sobbing into her mother’s arms; and I left that excellent mother to give her all the comfort she was then capable of receiving, that of sympathy and affection.’
“The kind-hearted old man here stopped, much overcome with his recollections.
“‘Lady Fitzhenry has, I believe, resided here ever since the death of her husband?’ I said, as soon as I saw he had sufficiently recovered himself. ‘Yes,’ he replied: ‘by agreement, and the wording of the deed, which, at the time of Lord and Lady Fitzhenry’s marriage, saved this estate from falling into the hands of Lord Arlingford’s creditors, (it not being, like the rest of the property, entailed,) it became hers in the event of their having no children.’ ‘Does she do much good here?’ I enquired: ‘has she taken to the only employment left for the unhappy?’ ‘Oh! she is the friend and hope of all the poor of the neighbourhood,’rejoined the good pastor with fervency: ‘at first, indeed, she was so absorbed by her grief, that she seemed to heed nothing which was passing around her, and I have seen her mechanically bestow charity to any one who chanced to cross her path; but her good mother gradually brought her to make it the occupation and interest of her life. Alas! I fear she has now no other. She is indefatigable in her exertions to do good; and may the happiness she bestows on others be at length repaid back on herself, and at least bring her peace and comfort, if not enjoyment! I understand she is in general quite calm, and even, at times, cheerful; she never, in the most distant manner, alludes to her loss, or to the past year of her life, and hastily turns off all conversation thatcan possibly lead to any circumstance connected with it; even with her parents, since the very first, she has maintained this same reserve. It seems as if her husband’s memory was buried within her own heart, and that she felt the grave had shut too close over such an adored being for its sacredness ever to be disturbed.’ I further learnt from my companion, that Mr. Benson has given up all share both in his mercantile concerns and in the banking-house; that his spirits and health seem to be both much broken; that he has lost all his bustling activity, and that he has just purchased a small place in the neighbourhood of Arlingford, intending there to pass the remainder of his days.
“By this time, we had reached the door of the parsonage; its owner invitedme in, but I had already loitered much, and could delay my departure no longer. Finding that I could return to my place of destination by crossing Arlingford Park, I gave my name at the lodge, and being admitted, although not without difficulty, I drove as near the house as I could venture. The hatchment darkened the windows of the principal room—many of the others were closed. How different the whole place looked from what it did only a few months back, when I met you there at the time of the large shooting party which Fitzhenry had collected! Poor fellow! I used to abuse him then for his strange unaccountable conduct and coldness towards his pretty, interesting little wife; but I believe others had worked upon him and done mischief there. The place seemedkept in good order as formerly; but all was silent, and had a look of desertion. I did not see a living creature, except some horses at grass, which I recognized to be Fitzhenry’s favourite hunters. They eagerly pricked up their ears when I past, and threw back their long-neglected manes, as if a carriage was now an unusual sight; but when I had driven by, they quietly returned to their food.
“I travelled on many miles before I could get poor Lady Fitzhenry out of my head; pondering too with some compunction on a silly report to which I had carelessly given credence. The said report concerned her and you; for you must know, George, that the thoughtless, gossiping world, judging by its own unfeeling self, even whileLady Fitzhenry is still shaded by her weeds, and you are closely fixed at your political post at Vienna, have already married you to each other.
“Remember, I am not so indiscreet as to ask how far this story comes home to yourself. That you admired Lady Fitzhenry was certainly very evident to my observation; but how far that admiration may lead you in forming wishes for the future, I can’t pretend to say. Indeed, I almost fear the account I have now been giving, may destroy, or at least throw the gloom of doubt over some flattering vision of connubial bliss. For, (I may be mistaken,) but if I can judge of woman’s countenance, and by it of woman’s constancy, I should say, the first could never beam with joy again,and that her every affection is for ever buried in the grave of her husband.
“Time will prove whether I am right; for your sake, I hope I am not.”
THE END.
THE END.
THE END.