“She will soon be ready,” said Mrs. Priddo, as a matter of course, leading the way into a large but very plainly-furnished room. She then took Mr. Clavering’s cloak, which in the brief moment of leaving the carriage, and mounting the stairs, was covered with a white load. This she gave to another servant to shake out, and then breaking up a large coal on the fire, called the “raking-coal” in that part of the country, and which is put on to burn slowly through the night, she immediately set on a small kettle to boil water for coffee. In a few minutes a tray with tea-cups was set on the table, and soon after Mrs. Heritage entered, wrapped in a thick cloak, and with a black quilted hood on her head. As she advanced to take the hand of Henry Clavering, he was struck with her resemblance to some handsome middle-aged abbess, her fine, solemn, but kindly features, showing with a monastic gravity and grace within her hood.
“I fear thou bringest us but indifferent tidings of thy dear father’s health,” she said, most sympathetically. Henry found himself unable to reply, but sat down, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed violently.
“We must not grieve too much,” said Mrs. Heritage; “all things are in our Father’s hand, and are surely for the best. He does not afflict us willingly, and he afflicts us only to instruct and improve. Let me give thee a cup of coffee; we must not delay.” She handed a cup of warm coffee to Henry, which he took and held mechanically. “Drink it, dear friend,” she said, “it will do thee good on our way,” and ringing the bell, she said, taking up another cup and handing it to the servant, “give that to the coachman: poor man, what a night for him.”
“And what a night for you!” said Henry Clavering. “How can I ask you to brave such a night? and yet your presence would be such a comfort to my dear father.”
“Dear friend,” said Mrs. Heritage, smiling tenderly, “it is what our dear Lord expects of us. In life or in death, it is our duty and our privilege to follow Him. Now, shall we go?”
Henry Clavering had set down his cup of coffee untasted. Mrs. Heritage, however, compelled him to take it, and having taken one herself, and tied a warm woollen handkerchief around her throat, she led the way to the door. Henry Clavering gave her his arm down the steps, where Sylvanus Crook stood with the carriage-door in his hand ready to open it and shut them in, looking more like a pillar of snow than a man, and the coachman on his seat, looking a living snow-pile.
Silently rolled the carriage away through the mass of snow, and with difficulty hitting the gateway, disappeared beyond. The story of that drive of only two miles, if related at full, would leave only the wonder that it was accomplished at all. Darkness, deep snowdrifts, that blew down across the way, and the blinding, bewildering effect of the snowstorm, amid the roar and fury of the winds, made every step one of the highest daring, peril, and difficulty. Repeatedly Henry Clavering had to get out, and assist the coachman in forcing his way through some huge track of snow, or in rounding the extremity of some fallen tree, without overturning into a ditch or down some steep descent. But through all Mrs. Heritage sate calm and resigned, expressing no care on her own account, but much concern for Henry Clavering, the coachman, and the poor horses.
At length the terrible journey was completed, and Mrs. Heritage, taking off her upper garments, was conducted by Henry Clavering to his father’s chamber. The whole household was up, and wearing the solemn aspect, and moving about with the silent steps, of those who seem to feel that the angel of death is amongst them. As they ascended the ample staircase, hung with the portraits of the ancestors of five hundred years, and embellished with steel casques of rare workmanship, supported on consoles, and suits of ancient, dusky, or more recent and brightly burnished armour, richly inlaid with gold—suits borne valiantly by their owners in fields renowned in English history, the grave Friend said to herself, “No, not all these things can detain those whom the Lord calls. These all, in their places, tell the tale of departures.”
The next moment her conductor opened softly a chamber door and as softly closed it after her. He led her forward through the dimly-lighted room to the bed in which lay Sir Emanuel Clavering, pale and wasted, but with a bright eye which turned towards her, watching earnestly her approach, and as she drew near extending his hand to grasp hers. Around were several relatives, whom Mrs. Heritage did not particularly notice.
“How kind, how very kind,” he said, warmly clasping her hand. “I could not leave, without seeing you. How very kind to come at such an hour.” His son had fallen on his knees by the bed, and laying his clasped hands on his father’s arm pressed his face against it. In a chair close to the bedhead Mrs. Heritage perceived Thomas Clavering, Sir Emanuel’s brother, the rector, who rose up, took the left hand of Mrs. Heritage, pressed it to his lips passionately, and sat down again without a word.