Nathan was at his post next morning when the funeral cortège came quietly through the grounds surrounding the Hall, and was met by the vicar near the chancel door; but Nathan's mind was preoccupied, and he scarcely heard or saw anything which took place. He went through his duties mechanically, even to filling up the grave in silence, although many lingered near him to speak of her who lay beneath. They thought him strange, but held him in too much respect to venture a remark.
Squire Peregrine of Linden Hall had been a widower only a few months, having been left with seven daughters, who might have been termed the widower's garland. Alas! for that fragile beauty which fading rapidly droops into an early grave. The funeral of one fair girl had just taken place; and for Hilda Peregrine, the bell-ringers would on that evening ring a dumb peal, which should speak to every heart in its sorrow, and prove their sympathy with the bereaved. Six months before, they had rung for the mother, little anticipating the early removal of one of her children; she had passed away from them, beloved to the last. Was it any wonder that the men took their way to the belfry in silence, guided by the light of the lantern flashing on the snow-covered paths? The bell-ringers of Linden could boast of no slight skill in their manipulation of the splendid chime of eight bells which were wont to speak their stirring language to the villages for miles around. The sweet and musical bells of Linden had been a recent gift from the ladies of the Hall, and each bell bore upon it the name of the giver. Nathan Boltz preceded the ringers into the belfry. See him as he stands there divested of his wraps, and revealed by the light of candles burning in sconces fixed in the wall. He is a tall and stalwart man of thirty-five, with a muscular development rarely excelled, inherited from his father, a Dutch sailor. His face, of a true Saxon type, is remarkable for its repose and force of expression; firmness without obstinacy in the mouth and chin; benevolence written on the expansive forehead; forgiveness and charity in the clear dark gray eye.
Nathan Boltz was truly one of Nature's gentlemen; a self-educated man, a great reader, a deep thinker, a humble imitator of the Divine Master. This was the man who, unaware of his true greatness, lived a life of real enjoyment in zealously performing his duties and working for his daily bread. He had no desire to extend his sphere beyond his native village; the simple drama of his life had been played out amidst its rural scenes, and it had not been destitute of pathos and variation. Nathan had had a deep sorrow, which had washed his soul in its tumultuous waters and left it stranded upon the Rock of Ages; and when the memory of this sorrow came upon him, his voice took a deeper tone in the chants and hymns, and a shadow would obscure the brightness of his face. He had, like all his fellow-creatures, many faults; but the good in him outbalanced the evil.
‘Now!’ cried Nathan. Instantly the men were at their posts. Every hand grasped its respective rope; and there echoed forth on the night-air the solemn far-sounding peal, carrying the melody down to earth, catching it and bearing it to heaven above.
Hark to their dull unchanging roll!
As heavily on it floats,
And speaks of the dead to the mourner's soul
With its wildly solemn notes.
The cottagers opened their doors, and every heart answered its response of regret and hope as the bells rang on. At last it was over; the solemn sound died gradually away, and the silence which followed seemed the more expressive from the contrast.
Old Father Time rings many changes; hour by hour and day by day they steal upon us, imperceptibly but surely; and we mark their advent but slightly, until at our yearly gatherings, when friend meets friend and long-severed ties are reunited, the missing links shew many a vacant chair, and faces filled with joy in meeting their beloved once more, ever and anon cloud over, as memory recalls departed joys which never can return.
We return with the mourners to the Hall, where the sisters can scarcely realise the loss of her who has so lately been taken from them. Patricia, the eldest, possesses her father's hauteur of disposition and commanding manner. Gertrude, the second, resembles her mother in person and disposition. Of the four younger sisters, two of them were twins, and were a counterpart of their elder sister. The remaining two had been trained by her whom they lamented, and were, like her, beloved by all who knew them. The sisters sat together in the drawing-room, awaiting the entrance of their father and another member of the family regarded in the light of a son—their cousin, Oliver Peregrine, whose marriage with Patricia was necessarily delayed by her sister Hilda's death. These constituted the family dinner-party.
Oliver Peregrine grew impatient at the decorous silence preserved by his uncle, who in spite of his calm demeanour, was feeling the death of this daughter more than he cared to shew. The servants who waited had felt real affection for her, and their sorrow was not an outward form. But the delay of the marriage chafed Oliver's temper, and with difficulty he responded to his uncle's desire that all mention of it might be for the present suppressed. Let us describe him. He was about forty years of age; tall, thin, and stooping; his hair and moustache of a faint sandy hue, his light-blue eyes uncertain and cruel-looking, the mouth thin and compressed; haughty towards his dependents, possessing an unblemished reputation, heir to the greater part of his uncle's wealth, demanding respect, of love gaining none. He was a man who looked suspiciously on every action of those around him, at the same time given to concealment himself. He was an accomplished scholar, and had been educated for a learned profession, being the orphan son of a younger brother; but as the heir of Squire Peregrine, he followed his studies as a recreation, and spent most of his time at the Hall.
Dinner was proceeding in the manner just described, when up the snow-covered avenue a carriage rolled silently and swiftly; and presently the butler handed a card to his master. Squire Peregrine rose immediately; and all felt the interruption a welcome one. ‘My old friend Colonel Lindsay,’ he said in explanation, ‘whom I have not seen for many years.—Come with me, Patricia, and bid him welcome.’