Chapter Ten.
Graves in the Levels.
Oliver so much wished that the next day (Sunday, and the day of his little brother’s funeral) should be one of rest and decent quiet, that he worked extremely hard, as long as the light lasted, and was glad of all the help the rest of the party could give.
To make an excavation large enough for the body was no difficult task;—the earth being soft, and easily removed from the trunks, roots, and branches of buried trees, which seemed to run all through the interior of the bank. But the five stones with which the grave was to be lined were of considerable thickness; and Oliver chose to have them nicely fitted in, that no living creature should be able to enter this place sacred to the dead.
How astonished were they all to find that this was already a place of the dead! While Ailwin was holding one of the stones against one end of the excavation, and Oliver was striking and fixing it with the great hammer, Roger was emptying out soil from the other end. He exclaimed that he had come upon some large thing made of leather.
“I dare say you have,” said Ailwin. “There are all manner of things found by those who dig in the Levels—except useful things, I mean. No one ever knew anything useful come out of these odd places.”
“You are wrong there,” said Roger. “I have got useful things myself from under the carr, that brought me more money than any fish and fowl I ever took out of the ponds on it. Uncle and I found some old red earthenware things...”
“Old red earthenware!” exclaimed Ailwin. “As if old earthenware was better than fish and fowl, when there is so much new to be had now-a-days! My uncle is a sailor, always going between this and Holland; and he says the quantity of ware they bring over in a year will hold victuals for all Lincolnshire. And Dutch ware does not cost above half what it did in my grandfather’s time: so don’t you be telling your wonderful tales, Roger. We sha’n’t believe them.”
“Well, then don’t. But I say again, uncle Stephen and I took gold for the old red ware we got out of a deep hole in the carr.”
“Very likely, indeed. I wonder who has gold to throw away in that manner. However, I don’t say but there may be such. ‘Fools and their money are soon parted,’ some folks say.”
“Who gave you the gold?” asked Oliver.
“You may ask that,” said Roger; “but you may not believe me when I tell you. You know the Earl of Arundel comes sometimes into these parts. Well,—it was he.”
“When? Why?”
“He often comes down to see the Trent, having the care of the forests upon it: and one time he stopped near here, on his way into Scotland, about some business. They say he has a castle full of wonderful things somewhere.”
“What sort of things?” asked Ailwin. “Horn spoons and pewter drinking-mugs to his old red earthenware?”
“Perhaps,” replied Roger, “But I heard nothing of them. What I heard of was old bricks, and stone figures, and all manner of stone jars. Well, a gentleman belonging to the Earl of Arundel chanced to come across us, just after we had found a pitcher or two down in the moss; and he made us go with him to the Earl...”
“You don’t mean that you ever saw a lord to speak to!” exclaimed Ailwin, turning sharp round upon Roger.
“I tell you I did, and uncle too.”
Ailwin muttered that she did not believe a word of it; but her altered manner towards Roger at the moment, and ever after, showed that she did.
“He asked us all manner of questions about the Levels,” continued Roger:—“I mean about the things that lie in the moss. He did not seem to care about the settlers and the crops, otherwise than in the way of business. All that he did about the earthenware was plainly for his pleasure. He bought all we could find on that spot; and he said if we found any more curiosities at any time, we were ... But I can’t stand talking any more.”
And Roger glanced with suspicious eyes from the piece of leather (as he called it) that he had met with in the bank to Oliver. He wanted to have the sole benefit of this new discovery.
“And what were you to do, if you found anything more?” asked Ailwin. “One might easily bury some of the ware my uncle brings, and keep it in the moss till it is well wetted; and then some earl might give one gold for it. Come, Roger, tell me what you were to do with your findings. You owe it to me to tell me; considering that your people have got away my cloak and warm stockings.”
“Look for them in the moss,—you had better,” said Roger. “You will find them there or nowhere.”
Not a word more would he say of his own concerns.
Oliver did not want to hear more. On being told of the Earl of Arundel’s statues and vases, he had, for a moment, longed to see them, and wondered whether there were any alabaster cups in the collection; but his thoughts were presently with George again. He remembered that Mildred had been left long enough alone with the body; and he dismissed Ailwin, saying that he himself should soon have done, it was now growing so dark.
As he worked on silently and thoughtfully, Roger supposed he was observing nothing; and therefore ventured, turning his back on Oliver, to investigate a little more closely the leathern curiosity he had met with. He disengaged the earth more and more, drew something out, and started at what he saw.
“You have found a curiosity,” observed Oliver, quietly. “That is a mummy.”
“No—’tis a man,” exclaimed Roger, in some agitation. “At least it is something like a man. Is not this like an arm, with a hand at the end of it?—a little dried, shrunk, ugly arm. ’Tis not stiff, neither. Look! It can’t be Uncle Stephen, sure—or Nan!”
“No, no: it is a mummy—a human body which has been buried for hundreds and thousands of years.”
Roger had never heard of a mummy; and there was no great wonder in that, when even Oliver did not rightly know the meaning of the word. All animal bodies (and not only human bodies) which remain dry, by any means, instead of putrefying, are called mummies.
“What do you mean by hundreds and thousands of years?” said Roger. “Look here, how the arm bends, and the wrist! I believe I could make its fingers close on mine,” he continued, stepping back—evidently afraid of the remains which lay before him. “If I was sure now, that it was not Stephen or Nan ... But the peat water does wonders, they say, with whatever lies in it.”
“So it does. It preserves bodies, as I told you. I will show you in a minute that it is nobody you have ever known.”
And Oliver took from Roger’s hand the slip of wood with which he had been working, and began to clear out more soil about the figure.
“Don’t, don’t now!” exclaimed Roger. “Don’t uncover the face! If you do, I will go away.”
“Go, then,” replied Oliver. It appeared as if the bold boy and the timid one had changed characters. The reason was that Roger had some very disagreeable thoughts connected with Stephen and Nan Redfurn. He never forgot, when their images were before him, that they had died in the midst of angry and contemptuous feelings between them and him. Oliver, on the other hand, was religious. Though, in easy times, more afraid than he ought to have been of dishonest and violent persons, he had yet enough trust in God to support his spirits and his hope in trial, as we have seen: and about death and the grave, and the other world, where he believed the dead went to meet their Maker and Father, he had no fear at all. Nothing that Roger now said, therefore, made him desist, till he had uncovered half the dried body.
“Look here!” said he—for Roger had not gone away as he had threatened—“come closer and look, or you will see nothing in the dusk. Did either Stephen or Nan wear their hair this way? And is this dress anything like Ailwin’s cloak? Look at the long black hair hanging all round the little flat brown face. And the dress: it is the skin of some beast, with the hair left on—a rough-edged skin, fastened with a bit of something like coal on the left shoulder. I dare say it was once a wooden skewer. I wonder how long ago this body was alive. I wonder what sort of a country this was to live in, at that day.”
Roger’s fear having now departed, his more habitual feelings again prevailed.
“I say,” said he, returning to the spot, and wrenching the tool from Oliver’s hand; “I say—don’t you meddle any more. The curiosity is mine, you know. I found it, and it’s mine.”
“What will you do with it?” asked Oliver, who saw that, even now, Roger rather shrank from touching the limbs, and turned away from the open eyes of the body.
“It will make a show. If I don’t happen to see the earl, so as to get gold for it, I’ll make people give me a penny a piece to see it; and that will be as good as gold presently.”
“I wish you would bury it,” earnestly exclaimed Oliver, as the thought occurred to him that the time might come, though perhaps hundreds of years hence, when dear little George’s body might be found in like manner. He could not endure the idea of that body being ever made a show of.
Of course, Roger would not hear of giving up his treasure; and Oliver was walking away, when Roger called after him—
“Don’t go yet, Oliver. Wait a minute, and I will come with you.”
Oliver proceeded, however, thinking that Roger would have to acquire some courage yet before he could carry about his mummy for a show.
Oliver was only going for Mildred—to let her see, before it was quite dark, what had been done, and what found. When they returned, Roger was standing at some distance from the bank, apparently watching his mummy as it lay in the cleft that he had cleared. He started when he heard Mildred’s gentle voice exclaiming at its being so small and so dark-coloured. She next wondered how old it was.
After the boys had examined the ground again, and put together all they had heard about the ancient condition of the Levels, they agreed that this person must have been buried, or have died alone in the woods, before the district became a marsh. Pastor Dendel had told Oliver about the thick forest that covered these lands when the Romans invaded Britain; and how the inhabitants fled to the woods, and so hid themselves there that the Roman soldiers had to cut down the woods to get at them; and how the trees, falling across the courses of the streams, dammed them up, so that the surrounding soil was turned into a swamp; and how mosses and water-plants grew over the fallen trees, and became matted together, so that more vegetation grew on the top of that, till the ancient forest was, at length, quite buried in the carr. Oliver now reminded his sister of all this: and they looked with a kind of veneration on the form which they supposed was probably that of an ancient Briton, who, flying from the invaders, into the recesses of the forest, had perished there alone. There was no appearance of his having been buried. No earthen vessels, or other remains, such as were usually found in the graves of the ancients, appeared to be contained in the bank. If he had died lying along the ground, his body would have decayed like other bodies, or been devoured by wild beasts. Perhaps he was drowned in one of the ponds or streams of the forest, and the body, being immediately washed over with sand or mud, was thus preserved.
“What is the use of guessing and guessing?” exclaimed Roger. “If people should dig up George’s bones, out of this bank, a thousand years hence, and find them lying in a sort of oven, as they would call it, with a fine carved stone for one of the six sides, do you think they could ever guess how all these things came to be here?”
“This way of burying is an accident, such as no one would think of guessing,” said Oliver, sighing. “And this dried body may be here, to be sure, by some other accident that we know nothing about. I really wish, Roger, you would cover up the corpse again; at least, till we know whether we shall all die together here.”
This was what Roger could never bear to hear of. He always ran away from it: and so he did now. Dark as it was growing, he passed over to the house, and mounted the staircase (which stood as firm as ever, and looked something like a self-supported ladder). While he was vainly looking abroad for boats, which the shadows of the evening would have prevented his seeing if they had been there by hundreds, the brother and sister speculated on one thing more, in connection with the spectacle which had powerfully excited their imaginations. Mildred whispered to Oliver—
“If this old man and George lie together here, I wonder whether their spirits will know it, and come together in heaven.”
They talked for some time about the difference there must be between the thoughts of an ancient Briton, skin-clothed, a hunter of the wolf, and living on the acorns and wild animals of the forest, and the mind of a little child, reared in the Levels, and nourished and amused between the farm-yard and the garden. Yet they agreed that there must have been some things in which two so different thought and felt alike. The sky was over the heads of both, and the air around them, and the grass spread under their feet:—both, too, had, no doubt, had relations, by whom they had been beloved: and there is no saying how many things may become known alike to all, on entering upon the life after death. Oliver and Mildred resolved that if ever they should see Pastor Dendel again, they would ask him what he thought of all this. They agreed that they would offer to help Roger to seek for other curiosities, to make a show of; and would give him, for his own, all they could find, if he would but consent to bury this body again, decently, and beside little George.
The supper was eatable to-night; and so was the breakfast on the Sunday morning; and yet Roger scarcely touched anything. Oliver heard him tossing and muttering during the night, and was sure that he was ill. He was ill. He would not allow that he was so, however; and dressed himself again in the fine clothes he had taken from the chest. It was plain, from his shaking hand and his heavy eye, that he was too weak, and his head aching too much for him to be able to do any work; therefore Ailwin helped Oliver to finish the grave.
Roger inquired how the work proceeded: and it appeared that he meant to attend the funeral, when he found that it was to be in the afternoon. His companions did not believe him able: and he himself doubted it in his heart, resolved as he was to refuse to believe himself very ill, as long as he could keep off the thought. He found an excuse, however, for lying on the grass while the others were engaged at the grave. Oliver hinted to him, very gently, that Mildred and he had rather see him dressed in the shabbiest clothes of his own, than following their little brother to his grave in fine things which they could not but consider stolen. Roger was, in reality, only ashamed; but he pretended to be angry; and made use of the pretence to stay behind. While he lay, ill and miserable, remembering that little George alone had seemed to love him, and that George was dead, he believed it impossible that any one should mourn the child as he did in his heart.
Oliver himself took something from the chest—carefully and reverently; and carefully and reverently he put it back before night. There was a Bible, in Dutch; and with it a Prayer-book. He carried these, while Ailwin carried the body, wrapped in cloth, with another piece hanging over it, like a pall. As Oliver took Mildred’s hand, and saw how pale and sorrowful she looked (though quite patient), he felt how much need they all had of the consolations and hopes which speak to mourners from the book he held.
Ailwin did not understand Dutch; so Oliver thought it kindest and best to say in English what he read, both from the Bible and Prayer-book. He read a short portion of what Saint Paul says about the dead and their rising again. Then all three assisted in closing the tomb, firmly and completely; and then they kneeled down, and Oliver read a prayer for mourners from his book. They did not sing; for he was not sure that Mildred could go through a hymn. He made a sign to her to stay when Ailwin went home; and they two sat down on the grass above the bank, and read together that part of the Scripture in which Jesus desires his followers not to let their hearts be troubled, but to believe in God and in him.
Mildred was soon quite happy; and Oliver was cheered to see her so. He even began, after a time, to talk of the future. He pointed out how the waters had sunk, leaving now, he supposed, only about three feet of depth, besides mud and slime. This mud would make the soil more fertile than it had ever been, if the remainder of the flood could by any means be drawn off. He thought his father might return, and drain his ground, and rebuild the house. Then the bank they sat on would overlook a more beautiful garden than they had ever yet possessed. The whole land had been so well warped (that is, flooded with fertilising mud) that everything that was planted would flourish. They might get the finest tulip-roots from Holland, and have a bed of them; and another of choice auriculas, just below George’s tomb; and honeysuckles might be trained round it, to attract the bees.
Mildred liked to hear all this; and she said so; but she added that she should like it better still to-morrow, perhaps. She felt so strangely tired now, that she could not listen any more, even to what she liked to hear.
“Are you going to be ill, do you think, dear?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you think Roger is ill?”
“Yes; and I dare say we shall all have the fever, from the damps and bad smells of this place.”
“Well—never mind about me, Oliver. I am only very, very tired yet.”
“Come home, and lie down, and I will sit beside you,” said Oliver. “You will be patient, I know, dear. I will try if I can be patient, if I should see you very ill.”
He led her home, and laid her down, and scarcely left her for many hours. It was plain now that the fever had seized upon them; and where it would stop, who could tell? During the night he and Ailwin watched by turns beside their sick companions. This would not have been necessary for Mildred; but Roger was sometimes a little delirious; and they were afraid of his frightening Mildred by his startings and strange sayings.
When Ailwin came, at dawn, to take Oliver’s place, she patted him on the shoulder, and bade him go to sleep, and be in no hurry to rouse himself again; for he would not be wanted for anything if he should sleep till noon.
Oliver was tired enough; but there was one thing which he had a great mind to do before he slept. He wished to look out once again from the staircase, when the sun should have risen, to see whether there was no moving speck on the wide waters—no promise of help in what now threatened to be his extremity. Ailwin thought him perverse; but did not oppose his going when he said he was sure he should sleep better after it. She soon, therefore, saw his figure among the ruins of the roof, standing up between her and the brightening sky.