Clara Vaughan, Volume 1 (of 3)
Page 20
CHAPTER II.
Although I find a sad pleasure in lingering over these times, with sucha history still impending, I cannot afford the indulgence.
Dear mother's simple funeral took me once more to my native place. Evenwithout Mr. Huxtable's generous and noble assistance, I should have laidher to rest by the side of the husband she loved so well. Butdifficulties, sore to encounter at such a time, would have met me onevery side. Moreover the kind act cheered and led me throughdespondency, like the hand and face of God.
Caring little what people might say or think, I could not stay at adistance. Nature told me that it was my duty to go, and duty or not, Icould not stay away.
And now for the last time I look on the face and form of my mother.That which I have played, and talked, and laughed with, though latelynot much of laughter, that which has fed and cared for me, till itneeded my care in turn; that which I have toddled beside, or proudly runin front of; whose arms have been round me whenever I wept, and whosebosom the haven of childhood's storms; first to greet me with smiles inthe morning, and last to bless me with tears at night; ever loving, andnever complaining--in one word for a thousand, my mother. So far awaynow, so hopelessly far away! There it lies indeed, I can touch it, kissit, and embrace it; but oh how small a part of mother! and even thatpart is not mine. So holy and calm it lies, such loving kindness stillupon its features, so near me, but in mystery so hopelessly far away! Ican see it, but it never will know me again; I may die beside it, and itcannot weep. The last last look of all on earth--they must have carriedme away.
I remember tottering down the hill, supported by a stalwart arm. Theapproach to the house prevented--or something. Two children ran beforeme, stopping now and then to wonder, and straggling to pickhedge-flowers. One of them brought me a bunch, then stared, and wasafraid to offer them. "Nancy, I'll be the death of thee," whispered awoman's voice. The little girl shrunk to me for shelter, with timidtears in her great blue eyes. So I took her hand, and led her on, andsomehow it did me good.
At intervals, the funeral hymn, which they sing on the road to thegrave, fell solemnly on our ears. Some one from time to time gave outthe words of a verse and then it was sung to a simple impressive tune.That ancient hymn, which has drowned so many sobs, I did not hear, butfelt it.
We arrived at Vaughan St. Mary late in the afternoon of the second day.The whole of the journey was to me a long and tearful dream. Mr.Huxtable came with us. He had never before been further from home thanExeter; and his single visit to that city had formed the landmark of hislife. He never tried to comfort me as the others did. The ignorant manknew better.
Alone I sat by my father's grave, with my mother's ready before my feet.They had cast the mould on the other side, so as not to move my father'scoverlet. The poor old pensioner had been true to her promise, and man'slast garden was blooming like his first flower-bed.
My mind (if any I had) seemed to have undergone some change. Defiance,and pride, and savage delight in misery, were entirely gone; anddepression had taken the place of dejection. Death now seemed to me theusual and proper condition of things, and I felt it an impertinence thatI should still be alive. So I waited, with heavy composure, till sheshould be brought, who so often had walked there with me. At length shewas coming for good and all, and a space was left for me. But I mustnot repose there yet; I had still my task before me.
The bell was tolling faster, and the shadows growing longer, and thechildren who had been playing at hide-and-seek, where soon themselvesshall be sought in vain, had flitted away from sight, perhaps scared atmy presence, perhaps gone home to tea, to enjoy the funeral afterwards.The evening wind had ceased from troubling the yews, and the short-livedsongs of the birds were done. The place was as sad as I could wish.The smell of new earth inspired, as it always does, some unsearchableeverlasting sympathy between the material and the creature.
The sun was setting behind me: suddenly a shadow eclipsed my own uponthe red loam across the open grave. Without a start, and dreamily (as Idid all things now), I turned to see whence it came. Within a yard ofme stood Mr. Edgar Vaughan. In a moment the old feeling was at myheart, and my wits were all awake.
I observed that he was paler than when I had seen him last, and therigid look was wavering on his face, like steel reflected by water. Helifted his hat to me. I neither rose nor spoke, but turned and watchedhim.
"Clara," he said in a low, earnest voice, "I see you are still the same.Will no depth of grief, no length of time, no visitation from Him who isover us all, ever bend your adamant and implacable will?"
I heard, with some surprise, his allusion to the Great Being, whom hewas not wont to recognise; but I made him no reply.
"Very well," he resumed, with the ancient chill hardening over hisfeatures; "so then let it be. I am not come to offer you condolence,which you would despise; nor do I mean to be present when you wouldaccount the sight of me an insult. And yet I loved your mother, Clara;I loved her very truly."
This he said with such emotion, that a new thought broke upon me.
Quick as the thought, he asked, "Would you know who killed your father?"
"And my mother, too," I answered, "whose coffin I see coming."
The funeral turned the corner of the lane, and the dust rose from thebearers' feet. He took his hat off, and the perspiration stood upon hisforehead. Betwixt suspense and terror, and the wildness of grief, I wasobliged to lean on the headstone for support, and a giddiness came overme. When I raised my eyes again, there was no one near me. In vain Iwiped them hurriedly and looked again. Mr. Vaughan was gone; but on thegrass at my feet lay a folded letter. I seized it quickly, and broke theseal. That moment a white figure appeared between the yew-trees by theporch. It was the aged minister leading my mother the last path of all.The book was in his hand, and his form was tall and stately, and hisstep so slow, that the white hair fell unruffled, while the grand wordson his lips called majesty into his gaze. Thrusting aside the letter, Ifollowed into the Church, and stood behind the old font where I had beenbaptized; a dark and gloomy nook, fit for such an entrance. She who hadcarried me there was carried past it now, and the pall waved in the dampcold air, and all the world seemed stone and mould.
But afterwards, on the fair hill-side, while the faint moon gatheredpower from the deepening sky, and glancing on that hoary brow sealed theimmortal promises and smoothed the edges of the grave, around which bentthe uncovered heads of many who had mourned before, and after a fewbounds of mirth should bend again in mourning, until in earth's fairturn and turn, others should bend and they lie down--beholding this, andfeeling something higher than "dust to dust," I grew content to bide mytime with the other children of men, and remembered that no wave canbreak until it reach the shore.