Chapter VIII

Yet still, thou mourner, o’er the death-bed stand,
Still honour, as thou canst, the breathless clay,
Still bring thy flowers, and strew with pious hand,
And weep behind the bier in slow array;
And raise the stone, inscribe the record kind,
And all thy heart’s vain tenderness reveal,
And guard the dust, in awful hope resigned,
And bow to heaven, that formed thee thus to feel.

_Extract from a Letter from the Rev. E. Pelham, to Sir George Pelham, minister at Vienna._

——“You ask me if I can tell you any thing of Lady Fitzhenry.
Being some little time ago on a visit to a friend at Poole, and
anxious to be able to give you some more satisfactory account
than mere common report, I resolved to drive over one Sunday,
and attend divine service at the parish church of Arlingford, as
I was told that she was generally there to be seen; and, hearing
she lived perfectly retired, I did not like to intrude upon her
with the offer of a visit.

“You know it is now nearly a twelve-month since the death of
poor Fitzhenry. The pew belonging to the Arlingford family, the
pulpit, and communion table, are all still covered with black,
and with the escutcheons and arms of the Fitzhenrys. When the
church-bell had done ringing, Lady Fitzhenry, with her father
and mother, came into the gallery. A deep black veil at first
hid her face and nearly her whole person; but the church growing
very hot, she at length put it aside.

“Had I not previously known who it was, I certainly should not
have recognised her. There is no trace of the laughing eyes, of
the dimpled cheek, of the fresh gay young countenance, which I
was acquainted with. Perhaps it was partly owing to contrast and
to the quantity of black by which she was surrounded, but I
thought I had never seen so pale a face. Still, though she has
already lost much of the fresh beauty of youth, there is a charm
in her faded sadness—an air of sentiment over her whole person,
that more than compensates. Her hair was parted back on her
marble-white forehead; and the only thing about her that was not
black, was a gold chain, to which was hung a small watch. I am
thus particular, for I know you wish for particulars—and I
certainly never before paid such attention to the minutiæ of a
woman’s dress.

“During the service, Lady Fitzhenry appeared engrossed by it as
one whose heart’s home is in heaven. When it was ended, all
seemed respectfully to wait to let her pass; the village
children eagerly watching for an opportunity to catch her eye in
order to make their little obeisances, in the hope of a smile or
kind word from her in return. I too might then have spoken to
her, but a deep feeling of respect for her sorrows restrained
me. I feared the sight of me might recall past days, and I did
not like to intrude upon her.

“When all were gone, I still loitered in the church, and the
clergyman and I at last were left alone. Seeing me examining the
Fitzhenry arms with interest, he came up to me; and, after some
usual civilities had passed, I asked him whether Lord Fitzhenry
was buried in the church.

“‘Yes!’ he replied, pointing to a marble slab; ‘beneath that
stone is the family vault. It is now about a year since I read
over it the funeral service: and many such sad duties have I
performed, many melancholy scenes of death have I been witness
to; but never, I think, will the impression of that day be
effaced from my memory. I remember it was unusually fine for the
season, the bright sun forming such a striking contrast with the
scene. It seemed to be a gratification to Lord Arlingford’s
feelings to pay every possible outward mark of respect to his
son, and in every way to testify his deep affliction for his
loss; and, with this idea, he desired that no expense might be
spared at his funeral. ‘I don’t think that would have been the
way in which I should have indulged my grief,’ added the
respectable old pastor; ‘but we show our feelings differently;’
and certainly nothing could be more impressive than the sight of
the long funeral procession, and the waving of the black banners
and plumes, when moving slowly down the avenue that leads from
the house to the village. The whole parish, even the county for
many miles round attended; for Lord Fitzhenry was much and
justly beloved—and many too of course came for the mere show. Of
all this costly dismal pageant, what struck me with the
strongest feelings of melancholy was, the hearse, drawn by Lord
Fitzhenry’s own beautiful horses, which by his father’s orders
had been trained to a slow pace for the purpose; but, although
pains had been taken to break them into their mournful duty,
yet, excited and fretted I suppose by the crowd around them, and
the trappings with which they were covered, it was with
difficulty they could be restrained; and when, at last, they
were stopped at the gate of the church-yard, they proudly pawed
the ground, and tossed their heads, as in the days when they
drew their master in all the pride of youth and health, totally
unconscious of the last sad office they were then performing for
him. Lord Arlingford and Mr. Benson both attended, and were much
affected at the ceremony, particularly the latter.

“‘Late in the evening, I was,’ continued my narrator—‘roused
from no agreeable reverie, by being told that Lord Arlingford’s
carriage was driving through the village towards the church, and
that one of the servants had come to beg that the door of it
might be opened without delay; I immediately hurried thither. It
was a bright moonlight night, and I saw Mr. and Mrs. Benson, who
had already left the carriage, help out of it an almost lifeless
figure; they supported her along—for, as you may guess it was
poor Lady Fitzhenry. It seems, that nothing could divert her
from the idea of visiting the vault before it was again closed,
and at last the desire became so strong, that they thought it
best to comply with her wishes. Her hysteric screams, when she
threw herself on the coffin, still ring in my ears; and it was
with difficulty they tore her away from it. Twice, as if agony
of mind had given her more than usual strength, of body, she
broke from them. I really feared for her reason, under the
influence of such wild despair, and at length, by force, we
carried her back to the carriage. By Mrs. Benson’s desire, I
accompanied them to the house: she wished to try the effects of
my prayers and exhortations on the poor sufferer. When she was
laid on her couch, and had been given some composing medicine, I
went to her. It seemed as if all was then over with her in this
world. Not a tear fell from her fixed eyes. ‘He is gone—quite
gone—I shall never see him again—never—never,’ she repeated,
apparently quite unconscious of her words, and with a horrible
composure of voice, although there was wildness in her looks;
for she appeared as if gazing on some invisible form. I knelt by
her, I read, I said all that I thought was most likely to rouse
her from her stupor of grief, and move her feelings; and at
last, after one or two convulsive heavings of her bosom, tears
came to her relief. She fell sobbing into her mother’s arms; and
I left that excellent mother to give her all the comfort she was
then capable of receiving, that of sympathy and affection.’

“The kind-hearted old man here stopped, much overcome with his
recollections.

“‘Lady Fitzhenry has, I believe, resided here ever since the
death of her husband?’ I said, as soon as I saw he had
sufficiently recovered himself. ‘Yes,’ he replied: ‘by
agreement, and the wording of the deed, which, at the time of
Lord and Lady Fitzhenry’s marriage, saved this estate from
falling into the hands of Lord Arlingford’s creditors, (it not
being, like the rest of the property, entailed,) it became hers
in the event of their having no children.’ ‘Does she do much
good here?’ I enquired: ‘has she taken to the only employment
left for the unhappy?’ ‘Oh! she is the friend and hope of all
the poor of the neighbourhood,’ rejoined the good pastor with
fervency: ‘at first, indeed, she was so absorbed by her grief,
that she seemed to heed nothing which was passing around her,
and I have seen her mechanically bestow charity to any one who
chanced to cross her path; but her good mother gradually brought
her to make it the occupation and interest of her life. Alas! I
fear she has now no other. She is indefatigable in her exertions
to do good; and may the happiness she bestows on others be at
length repaid back on herself, and at least bring her peace and
comfort, if not enjoyment! I understand she is in general quite
calm, and even, at times, cheerful; she never, in the most
distant manner, alludes to her loss, or to the past year of her
life, and hastily turns off all conversation that can possibly
lead to any circumstance connected with it; even with her
parents, since the very first, she has maintained this same
reserve. It seems as if her husband’s memory was buried within
her own heart, and that she felt the grave had shut too close
over such an adored being for its sacredness ever to be
disturbed.’ I further learnt from my companion, that Mr. Benson
has given up all share both in his mercantile concerns and in
the banking-house; that his spirits and health seem to be both
much broken; that he has lost all his bustling activity, and
that he has just purchased a small place in the neighbourhood of
Arlingford, intending there to pass the remainder of his days.

“By this time, we had reached the door of the parsonage; its
owner invited me in, but I had already loitered much, and could
delay my departure no longer. Finding that I could return to my
place of destination by crossing Arlingford Park, I gave my name
at the lodge, and being admitted, although not without
difficulty, I drove as near the house as I could venture. The
hatchment darkened the windows of the principal room—many of the
others were closed. How different the whole place looked from
what it did only a few months back, when I met you there at the
time of the large shooting party which Fitzhenry had collected!
Poor fellow! I used to abuse him then for his strange
unaccountable conduct and coldness towards his pretty,
interesting little wife; but I believe others had worked upon
him and done mischief there. The place seemed kept in good order
as formerly; but all was silent, and had a look of desertion. I
did not see a living creature, except some horses at grass,
which I recognized to be Fitzhenry’s favourite hunters. They
eagerly pricked up their ears when I past, and threw back their
long-neglected manes, as if a carriage was now an unusual sight;
but when I had driven by, they quietly returned to their food.

“I travelled on many miles before I could get poor Lady
Fitzhenry out of my head; pondering too with some compunction on
a silly report to which I had carelessly given credence. The
said report concerned her and you; for you must know, George,
that the thoughtless, gossiping world, judging by its own
unfeeling self, even while Lady Fitzhenry is still shaded by her
weeds, and you are closely fixed at your political post at
Vienna, have already married you to each other.

“Remember, I am not so indiscreet as to ask how far this story
comes home to yourself. That you admired Lady Fitzhenry was
certainly very evident to my observation; but how far that
admiration may lead you in forming wishes for the future, I
can’t pretend to say. Indeed, I almost fear the account I have
now been giving, may destroy, or at least throw the gloom of
doubt over some flattering vision of connubial bliss. For, (I
may be mistaken,) but if I can judge of woman’s countenance, and
by it of woman’s constancy, I should say, the first could never
beam with joy again, and that her every affection is for ever
buried in the grave of her husband.

“Time will prove whether I am right; for your sake, I hope I am
not.”

THE END.

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ERRATA TO VOL. II.
(See Transcriber’s Notes.)

Page 5, _for_ her heart sunk, _read_ sank.

Page 5, _for_ then when fearful of betraying herself she at others, &c.
_read_ at others, fearful of betraying herself, she suddenly,
&c.

Page 51, _after_ beneath the scrutiny, _omit_ of her rival.

Page 66, _after_ drive up, _omit_ their vehicles.

Page 86, _after_ out of the carriage, _read_ she desired, &c.

Page 104, _for_ Mr. Benson, _read_ Mrs. Benson.

LONDON:

IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ The Errata have been applied to this text.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).