The cottage parlour contained the unusual luxury of a sofa, from which Mrs Hallings affected to brush, with her snowy apron, the dust that could scarce have been perceptible to “microscopic eye,” as she courteously begged us to be seated; and her husband, as he shook up one of the end cushions to make the corner seat, into which L—— had thrown himself, more commodious, said, smiling, as he addressed himself to me,—“You may well wonder to see such a piece of furniture in a poor man’s house, sir, but my poor master had it put for me into my own room at the Hall, when I had my first fit of the gout there, and we made shift to buy it, and a few others of the old things that were so natural to us, when all was sold;” and the old man’s speech, that had begun cheerfully, ended in a deep sigh.
“Ah, Hallings! I wish with all my heart more had fallen to your share of the venerable relics that fell into far other hands at that revolting sale,” observed L——, echoing the faithful servant’s sigh; “but I love to look at those few familiar things you have saved from the unhallowed hands of indifference. Look, Hervey,” he continued, turning to me, “at that beautiful shell-work basket on the bracket, yonder. It is the work of that dear and venerable friend whose loss, and that of her excellent brother, you have heard me lament so deeply and sincerely.”
The object to which my attention was so directed, was a beautiful specimen of female ingenuity, an elegantly formed corbeille of flowers, imitated from nature, with art little less than magical, considering the nature of the materials employed in its construction. The elegant trifle, now the boast of a poor cottage, might have been conceited by a fanciful gazer to have been the work of sea-nymphs, for the pearl grotto of their queen; but a nearer inspection must have assigned it to mortal fingers, for the name of “Eleanor Devereux” was inlaid with minute gold-coloured shells in a dark medallion, that formed the centre of the basket.
“That was not bought at the sale, sir,” said Mrs Hallings, drawing towards the precious relic I was inspecting, and regarding it herself with looks of almost devotional reverence. “Be pleased to read what is written there, sir,” she added, in a voice not sufficiently steady to have articulated the sentence to which she pointed, written apparently with a trembling hand, in old Italian characters, on a slip of paper, laid within the glass cover of the basket. I looked as she directed, and read,
“The work of Eleanor Devereux.
Her last gift to her old and faithful servant, Celia Hallings.”
“This is indeed a precious relic,” I remarked, in a low voice, and with not unmoistened eyes. Those of the good woman to whom I spoke were filled to overflowing; but with that modesty of feeling which is a sure test of its deep sincerity, she quietly drew back, and left the room, on “hospitable cares intent,” in quest of the “brimming bowl,” for which my friend had preferred our joint petition. During her absence, L—— continued to talk with his old acquaintance on the subject so deeply interesting to both the speakers, and not a little so even to myself, a stranger in the neighbourhood, and uninformed of more than the general character of the deceased person of whom they discoursed with such affectionate and melancholy sympathy. My friend had noticed in the looks and tone of Hallings, and even in his wife’s, during the few moments she had remained with us, a troubled and sorrowful expression, far different from the placid cheerfulness with which they had been wont to receive him, since Time had mellowed their affliction for the loss of those they had served with life-long fidelity; and even from the tender seriousness of their manners, when reverting—as it was their delight to do—to the revered memories of the departed, and the fond ones of days that were gone.
On L——’s gently hinting his fear that some recent cause had arisen to disturb the serenity of his worthy friends, the old man shook his head in mournful affirmation of the implied suspicion; and, after a moment’s pause to subdue the tremor of his voice, answered,—“Oh, sir! I am ashamed you should see how my poor wife and I are overcome by the work which has been going on for this last fortnight, and to which almost the finishing-stroke has been put this very day. And I, old fool that I am! have hardly been able to keep away from the place, sir! though every stroke of the masons seemed like a blow upon my heart, and every stone that fell, like a drop of blood from it. And poor Celia! though she kept at home, could hear the sounds even here. Grief has sharp ears, sir.”
“Ah, is it even so, my good friend?” said L——, affected even to tears. “I have been away from home almost this month, you know; I had not heard what was going on. So then the old Hall is no more? I have looked my last at its venerable walls. Would I had returned a few days earlier—in time to have seen but one fragment standing.”
“That you may do yet, sir! that you may do yet,” sobbed out the old servant, with a burst of now uncontrolled feeling; “one fragment is still standing, half of the south gable, and a part of the north side wall,—just the corner of one chamber, with the bit of flooring hanging to it. My master’s own chamber, sir, and the chair in which he died stood in that very corner, on those crazy boards that will be down to-morrow.”
“Then, Hallings, I must go this very evening—this very moment, to take my farewell look at all that remains—that last remaining portion so sacred to my feelings and to yours.”