It was about five in the afternoon of a summer’s day, that Henry and his son left the sign of the Mermaid to pursue their third day’s journey: the young man’s spirits elated with the prospect of the reception he should meet from Rebecca: the elder dejected at not having received a speedy welcome from his brother.

The road which led to Anfield by the shortest course of necessity took our travellers within sight of the bishop’s palace. The turrets appeared at a distance; and on the sudden turn round the corner of a large plantation, the whole magnificent structure was at once exhibited before his brother’s astonished eyes. He was struck with the grandeur of the habitation; and, totally forgetting all the unkind, the contemptuous treatment he had ever received from its owner (like the same Henry in his earlier years), smiled with a kind of transport “that William was so great a man.”

After this first joyous sensation was over, “Let us go a little nearer, my son,” said he; “no one will see us, I hope; or, if they should, you can run and conceal yourself; and not a creature will know me; even my brother would not know me thus altered; and I wish to take a little farther view of his fine house, and all his pleasure grounds.”

Young Henry, though impatient to be gone, would not object to his father’s desire. They walked forward between a shady grove and a purling rivulet, snuffed in odours from the jessamine banks, and listened to the melody of an adjoining aviary.

The allurements of the spot seemed to enchain the elder Henry, and he at length sauntered to the very avenue of the dwelling; but, just as he had set his daring yet trembling feet upon the turf which led to the palace gates, he suddenly stopped, on hearing, as he thought, the village clock strike seven, which reminded him that evening drew on, and it was time to go. He listened again, when he and his son, both together, said, “It is the toll of the bell before some funeral.”

The signals of death, while they humble the rich, inspire the poor with pride. The passing bell gave Henry a momentary sense of equality; and he courageously stepped forward to the first winding of the avenue.

He started back at the sight which presented itself.

A hearse—mourning coaches—mutes—plumed horses—with every other token of the person’s importance who was going to be committed to the earth.

Scarcely had his terrified eyes been thus unexpectedly struck, when a coffin borne by six men issued from the gates, and was deposited in the waiting receptacle; while gentlemen in mourning went into the different coaches.

A standard-bearer now appeared with an escutcheon, on which the keys and mitre were displayed. Young Henry, upon this, pathetically exclaimed, “My uncle! it is my uncle’s funeral!”

Henry, his father, burst into tears.

The procession moved along.

The two Henrys, the only real mourners in the train, followed at a little distance—in rags, but in tears.

The elder Henry’s heart was nearly bursting; he longed to clasp the dear remains of his brother without the dread of being spurned for his presumption. He now could no longer remember him either as the dean or bishop; but, leaping over that whole interval of pride and arrogance, called only to his memory William, such as he knew him when they lived at home together, together walked to London, and there together almost perished for want.

They arrived at the church; and, while the coffin was placing in the dreary vault, the weeping brother crept slowly after to the hideous spot. His reflections now fixed on a different point. “Is this possible?” said he to himself. “Is this the dean, whom I ever feared? Is this the bishop, of whom within the present hour I stood in awe? Is this William, whose every glance struck me with his superiority? Alas, my brother! and is this horrid abode the reward for all your aspiring efforts? Are these sepulchral trappings the only testimonies of your greatness which you exhibit to me on my return? Did you foresee an end like this, while you treated me, and many more of your youthful companions, with haughtiness and contempt; while you thought it becoming of your dignity to shun and despise us? Where is the difference now between my departed wife and you? Or, if there be a difference, she, perchance, has the advantage. Ah, my poor brother! for distinction in the other world, I trust, some of your anxious labours have been employed; for you are now of less importance in this than when you and I first left our native town, and hoped for nothing greater than to be suffered to exist.”

On their quitting the church, they inquired of the bystanders the immediate cause of the bishop’s death, and heard he had been suddenly carried off by a raging fever.

Young Henry inquired “if Lady Clementina was at the palace, or Mr. Norwynne?”

“The latter is there,” he was answered by a poor woman; “but Lady Clementina has been dead these four years.”

“Dead! dead!” cried young Henry. “That worldly woman! quitted this world for ever!”

“Yes,” answered the stranger; “she caught cold by wearing a new-fashioned dress that did not half cover her, wasted all away, and died the miserablest object you ever heard of.”

The person who gave this melancholy intelligence concluded it with a hearty laugh, which would have surprised the two hearers if they had not before observed that amongst all the village crowd that attended to see this solemn show not one afflicted countenance appeared, not one dejected look, not one watery eye. The pastor was scarcely known to his flock; it was in London that his meridian lay, at the levÉe of ministers, at the table of peers, at the drawing-rooms of the great; and now his neglected parishioners paid his indifference in kind.

The ceremony over, and the mourning suite departed, the spectators dispersed with gibes and jeering faces from the sad spot; while the Henrys, with heavy hearts, retraced their steps back towards the palace. In their way, at the crossing of a stile, they met a poor labourer returning from his day’s work, who, looking earnestly at the throng of persons who were leaving the churchyard, said to the elder Henry—“Pray, master, what are all them folk gathered together about? What’s the matter there?”

“There has been a funeral,” replied Henry.

“Oh, zooks! what! a burying!—ay, now I see it is; and I warrant of our old bishop—I heard he was main ill. It is he they have been putting into the ground! is not it?”

“Yes,” said Henry.

“Why, then, so much the better.”

“The better!” cried Henry.

“Yes, master; though I should be loth to be where he is now.”

Henry started—“He was your pastor, man!”

“Ha! ha! ha! I should be sorry that my master’s sheep, that are feeding yonder, should have no better pastor—the fox would soon get them all.”

“You surely did not know him!”

“Not much, I can’t say I did; for he was above speaking to poor folks, unless they did any mischief—and then he was sure to take notice of them.”

“I believe he meant well,” said Henry.

“As to what he meant, God only knows; but I know what he did.”

“And what did he?”

“Nothing at all for the poor.”

“If any of them applied to him, no doubt—”

“Oh! they knew better than all that comes to; for if they asked for anything, he was sure to have them sent to Bridewell, or the workhouse. He used to say, ‘The workhouse was a fine place for a poor man—the food good enough, and enough of it;’ yet he kept a dainty table himself. His dogs, too, fared better than we poor. He was vastly tender and good to all his horses and dogs, I will say that for him; and to all brute beasts: he would not suffer them to be either starved or struck—but he had no compassion for his fellow-creatures.”

“I am sensible you do him wrong.”

“That he is the best judge of by this time. He has sent many a poor man to the house of correction; and now ’tis well if he has not got a place there himself. Ha, ha, ha!”

The man was walking away, when Henry called to him—“Pray can you tell me if the bishop’s son be at the palace?”

“Oh, yes! you’ll find master there treading in the old man’s shoes, as proud as Lucifer.”

“Has he any children?”

“No, thank God! There’s been enow of the name; and after the son is gone, I hope we shall have no more of the breed.”

“Is Mrs. Norwynne, the son’s wife, at the palace?”

“What, master! did not you know what’s become of her?”

“Any accident?—”

“Ha, ha, ha! yes. I can’t help laughing—why, master, she made a mistake, and went to another man’s bed—and so her husband and she were parted—and she has married the other man.”

“Indeed!” cried Henry, amazed.

“Ay, indeed; but if it had been my wife or yours, the bishop would have made her do penance in a white sheet; but as it was a lady, why, it was all very well—and any one of us, that had been known to talk about it, would have been sent to Bridewell straight. But we did talk, notwithstanding.”

The malicious joy with which the peasant told this story made Henry believe (more than all the complaints the man uttered) that there had been want of charity and Christian deportment in the whole conduct of the bishop’s family. He almost wished himself back on his savage island, where brotherly love could not be less than it appeared to be in this civilised country.