CHAPTER VIII.
The day for Dr Greendale’s funeral arrived. It was Sunday. This arrangement was made in order to give opportunity for the poor and the labouring classes to attend, and pay their last tribute of respect to their benefactor and friend. It was a very fine day, such as often happens in the middle of September; and the day seemed like a holiday. For, such is the nature of the human mind that the attending on any ceremony seems more a matter of amusement than of sorrow. Joy, it appears, cannot be solitary, and sorrow can hardly be social. When a multitude assembles, be the purpose what it may for which the assembling takes place, it wears generally the aspect of amusement or pleasure. This is particularly the case at funerals, and much more so in other countries than our own.
The village of Smatterton was unusually full. Many came from a distance, some to visit their friends, some for a little extraordinary amusement for the Sunday, and some probably with a desire to pay a tribute of respect to the late rector; for the name of Dr Greendale was celebrated beyond the narrow limits of his own parish. There were visitors at almost every house in the village, and the little public-houses, which on Sunday were ordinarily closed, now were indulged with the privilege of being open, Indeed the indulgence was absolutely necessary. The funeral procession was very long, and many of the mourners were mourners indeed. They had a great regard for the late doctor, not for any very profuse generosity which he had exhibited, for that was not in his power; not for any unbounded hospitality, for in that respect he was limited in his circumstances, and confined as to his time; not because he was a very eloquent and entertaining preacher, for his sermons were plainness itself; not because he was a sturdy politician, either demagogue or sycophant, for it was absolutely impossible for any one to conjecture with plausibility to which party he belonged; not because he indulged and flattered the vices of either the great or the little, for he was not unsparing in his rebukes of wickedness whenever he met with it; but they loved and respected him for the steadiness and respectability of his character, for the integrity, purity, simplicity, and sincerity of his life. Therefore they mourned at his grave, and wept tears of real sorrow at the loss of him.
The very persons who paid tithes were sorry that he was departed from them, for they did not think it likely that any other could be put in his place to whom they would more cheerfully make such payments. The funeral service was impressively read by Mr Darnley, and in the afternoon the same gentleman took the duty at the church, in order to deliver a funeral sermon for his late friend and neighbour.
While the rites of sepulture were being performed at the church, the daughters of Mr Darnley were, by their presence and kind sympathy, endeavouring to console the sorrowing widow, and the doubly orphaned niece, at the rectory house. Miss Darnley had heard at the beginning of the week from her father the suspicion which he entertained of the unsteadiness of Penelope’s affections; and though the present was not a proper time to make any direct enquiries, or to use any obvious diligence to discover the secret, yet she could not help showing her attention a little alive to aught which might seem to promise any clue for the discovery of the young lady’s state of mind to her brother. And as Mr Darnley had given a hint that Penelope Primrose seemed to regard Lord Spoonbill with very great approbation, and to throw herself entirely on the patronage of the Countess, Miss Darnley endeavoured to let a word or two fall which might either corroborate or remove the suspicions which had been entertained on that head.
It was very easy to direct the conversation to their noble friends at the castle. Mrs Greendale and Penelope both expressed great gratitude for the kind sympathy which they had experienced from the earl and countess. Penelope also praised the very humane and feeling conduct of Lord Spoonbill; but the language which she used, and the manner in which she spoke of his lordship, gave no light upon the subject of suspicion. It was not indeed probable that the son of so proud a nobleman as the Earl of Smatterton should think of allying himself by marriage with the niece of a clergyman, portionless and unconnected. Nor indeed was it likely that a young woman of such excellent understanding as Miss Primrose should be weak enough to imagine an attachment where none existed. Suffice it to say, that notwithstanding all the pains which Miss Darnley used for the purpose, she could not ascertain whether or not there existed such an attachment. Her conclusion rather inclined to the opinion that her brother’s suspicions were but a little emanation of constitutional jealousy.
We have said that Mr Darnley was engaged to perform the service of the church in the afternoon. On this occasion the multitude assembled was very great. The church was crowded to suffocation, and besides the great mass of people within, there were also many without; many young persons who loved rather to idle about the churchyard than to take pains to press their way in. They loitered about in groups, and they amused themselves with reading the monumental inscriptions, and some perhaps were then and there reminded of pious and amiable parents, of intimate friends and companions. They did not loiter altogether unprofitably, if feelings of a kind and tender nature were excited in their breasts by recollections of the departed.
But there was one who seemed to have no companion there, or friend among the living or the dead. There was a young female in deep mourning, walking sorrowfully up and down the broad gravel-walk which led from the road to the church-door. She looked not at those that passed her, and she did not seem to regard the monumental inscriptions with any interest. Her form was graceful, but her figure was small. There was a paleness on her cheeks which looked like the paleness of sorrow and privation; but amidst that paleness might be discerned much beauty. There had been brightness in those eyes, and dimples on those cheeks, and wreathed smiles upon those lips; but these were now departed, and instead thereof was the
“Leaden look that loves the ground.”
She seemed to be heedless of all that was around her. The young beaux and coquettes of the village attracted not her attention, and all the change of look that was seen was an occasional and earnest direction of her eyes towards the door of the church when any footsteps were heard near it. There were no tears in the eyes, but there was an expression of countenance, which told that tears had been, and there was a stillness of sorrow which intimated that tears had done their utmost, and could no longer relieve.
The young are ever prone to pity, and they most deeply and feelingly commiserate such as seem to be least importunate for sympathy; for despair is the sublimity of grief, and its very unobtrusiveness rivets the attention. An image of sorrow like this is not easily shaken from the mind. We may pass by it, and seem not to heed it; but it comes upon us again in our recollections; and our thoughts revert to it without effort, or even against effort. Thus did this vision fascinate and enchain the minds of those who in the indolence of their sabbath holiday were strolling about the churchyard. By degrees their idle talk was suspended or subdued. Their own little interests were forgotten, and they one and all wondered who it could be. And they were saying one to another, “How beautiful she looks!”—“How very pale she is!”—“She looks as if she were very ill.” Many such remarks were made, but they were uttered in a low tone, and with an endeavour not to appear to take particular notice of the melancholy stranger.
At length the service in the church was over, and the multitude was pouring out. Then the beautiful mourner took her station at the porch, and watched with earnestness every face that passed by; and over her pale countenance there came a hectic flush, as the numbers increased and as the expected one seemed to be nearer. The numbers diminished and the paleness returned.
A sound of carriage-wheels was heard at a little distance, and the stranger, moving from the porch at which she had stationed herself, saw in another direction a narrow path, leading from a different door, and on that path were walking three persons, who, before she could reach them, were seated in the carriage and had vanished from her sight.
To explain these appearances as far as it is at present necessary, we must turn our attention awhile from the newly-introduced fair one, and accompany the Earl and Countess, with their hopeful son, back again to the castle.
Scarcely had the Earl alighted from the carriage when he was informed that, during his absence, a young person in deep mourning had been at the castle nearly an hour ago, and had been very importunate for an audience with his lordship. To the very natural enquiries of name, description, and business, the only answer which could be given was, that the stranger refused to state her name or business, and that her appearance was that of a very respectable and rather pretty young woman; and that though she had expressed great anxiety to see his lordship, yet there was nothing in her manner obtrusive or troublesome.
While this information was being conveyed to the Earl, the Countess had passed on to her own apartment; but Lord Spoonbill attended to what was said, and that with no small share of interest. His recollection and conscience interpreted the mystery, and his ingenuity was now taxed to evade an exposure, which he dreaded. Assuming an air of indifference, he said:
“Perhaps, sir, it may be a daughter of one of your Yorkshire tenants. She is described as being in mourning, and if I recollect rightly, we heard of the death of one of them very lately. It is however very unsuitable to come here on a Sunday on matters of business. I am about to walk down into the village, and if I can meet with the young person I will save you the trouble of attending to her.”
“Do so, Spoonbill, do so: I do not approve of being interrupted on a Sunday; it is a bad example to the people in the country: it does not so much signify in London.”
It was fortunate, or, more properly speaking unfortunate, for the young lord that the Earl his father was very easy to be imposed upon; and perhaps the more so from the very high opinion which he entertained of his own wisdom and sagacity. But such was his confidence in the good conduct and good disposition of his son, that he would not easily have been brought to give credence to any story of a disgraceful nature told against him. The young man took advantage of this, and so he always passed for a very prudent and steady person: and it was not unfrequent that the Earl himself would commend the steadiness and sobriety of his son, and propose him as an example to those who were companions of his irregularities.
After the conversation above recorded, the young lord made the best of his way through the park towards that gate which led into the village; carefully at the same time observing that his victim did not escape him and return by another path to the castle.
He met her not in the park; and when he arrived at the gate he was at a loss which way to turn. It would have been a miserable exposure of his conduct had the stranger found her way back to the castle and obtained an interview with the Earl. Still worse in the mind of Lord Spoonbill would it have been that the Countess should become acquainted with that part of his character and conduct which might be communicated to her by the mysterious stranger; for, with all his irregularity of demeanour, and amidst conduct which manifested a most serious want of good feeling and good principle, he felt a regard for his mother, and an anxiety for her comfort and composure of mind: he disguised himself to his father from fear, and to his mother from love.
Agitated by distracting thoughts, he stood at the park gate, gazing alternately in different directions; and by the intensity of his feelings was at last rivetted in an almost unconscious state of mind to the spot on which he was standing. Suddenly his pulse beat quicker, and his heart seemed to swell within him, when at a little distance he saw the dreaded one approaching him. Had he seen her anywhere else his first impulse would have been to avoid her; but here his truest and best policy was to submit to an interview, however painful. Shall he meet her with kindness?—shall he meet her with reproaches?—shall he meet her with coldness? These were enquiries rapidly passing through his mind as she drew nearer and nearer. It was difficult for him to decide between cruelty and hypocrisy: but the last was most natural to him, so far as custom is a second nature.
The afflicted one moved slowly with her eyes fixed on the ground, and she saw not her enemy till so near to him, that on lifting up her face and recognizing his well-known features, the sudden shock produced a slight hysteric shriek.
Lord Spoonbill was not so lost to all feeling of humanity as to be insensible to the anguish of mind which she now suffered, who had once regarded him as a friend, and had loved him, “not wisely, but too well.” He held out his hand to her with an unpremeditated look of kindness and affection; and which, being unpremeditated, bore the aspect of sincerity. The stranger at first hesitated, and seemed not disposed to accept the offered hand; but she looked up in his face, and the blood mounted to her cheeks and the tears stood in her eyes, and she gave him her hand, and covered her face and wept bitterly.
There are moments in which shameless profligates look foolish and feel that they are contemptible. This was such a moment to Lord Spoonbill. He was moved, and he was mortified that he was moved; and there was a general feeling of confusion and perplexity in his mind. What could he say? or how could he act? He began to stammer out something like gentleness, and something like reproof. But she who stood before him was as an accusing spirit, to whom apology was mockery, and repentance too late. At length, when the first emotion began to abate, he said:
“Ellen, what brings you here? Surely this is not a proper day for a visit like this. What could induce you too to endeavour to see the Earl? If you once mention the affair to him you are irretrievably ruined; I can do nothing for you.”
A reproachful look, a deep sigh, and the withdrawing her hand from his, were the only answer which the above speech received. She attempted to speak, but words were wanting; and after a little more appearance of confusion on the part of his lordship, he seemed for the first time to notice her mourning dress, and with real tenderness of manner asked her what peculiar loss or misfortune had brought her to Smatterton. Assuming then a steadiness of tone and greater composure of manner, she at last spoke out:
“My lord, it is indeed a deep affliction which has brought me to appeal to your pity. You took me from a widowed mother; you deserted me with promises unfulfilled. I returned to that dwelling which was destined to be my home no more. I have closed my mother’s eyes, which did indeed look a forgiveness which she could not speak. I am now an outcast, unless I can find the means of reaching a distant relative, who will give me a home. I have made frequent application by letter to your lordship and to the Earl, and I was fearful that my letters had not reached you; and I had no resource but to come here to speak for myself.”
Lord Spoonbill had received these letters; not only those addressed to himself, but those designed for his father. He had paid but little attention to them; for the name of Ellen Fitzpatrick had ceased to be interesting to him. He had in former days made small pecuniary remittances; but had latterly declined them. But now seeing before him one whom he had deeply injured, and beholding her as a suppliant in the most humble attitude, and hearing that it was possible that an arrangement might be made, whereby he should no longer be troubled with her visits or letters, he felt his mind greatly relieved, and he was disposed to be generous. He therefore promptly supplied her with the means of reaching her friend, and enjoined, with no little earnestness, that she should leave Smatterton immediately, and that without even returning again to the village.
What account the hopeful hereditary legislator gave to the Earl we shall not state; suffice it to say, that he told his own story, that the Earl believed it, that it answered the purpose for which it was invented. And it came to pass that, on the day following, when there was mention made of the young person in deep mourning who was seen in the churchyard on Sunday, it was confidently stated, and easily believed, that it was a young lady out of her mind who had escaped from her keepers.