Mrs. Loudon

“He lies beside the dead; at frantic starts,
Kisses the cold lips of Julius.”
“At such a moment, piety becomes
The only passion of the soul!”

Although the conversation related in our last chapter, was not, as we have already hinted, held between the parties till thirteen years after the present era, owing to the nurse’s unwillingness to confess that she had slept when she should have watched; yet, as the subjects of which it treats, belong strictly to this epoch of our history, we do not consider that we anticipate unjustifiably, in giving the conversation itself the place it now fills.

The melancholy events to which it alludes, divested only of the additions made by superstition, did indeed but too truly, too surely, take place at this period. Lady L.’s infant died at her breast, soon after the closing in of evening had rendered the illuminations for its birth conspicuous; and in less than half an hour she herself expired.

When once the termination of the miserable scene had separated the remaining members of the family, Lord L. could not be prevailed on to see again, even for a moment, Mrs. Montgomery or the children. He lay, day and night, without retiring, on the sofa in his dressing-room, till the funeral was over, and then fled to the continent in a state of mind the most alarming.

Henry, now destined to a naval life, went with him as far as the port where both embarked, though on board different vessels.

Henry, usually so unamiable, had, on the present occasion, greatly endeared himself both to Mrs. Montgomery and Lord L. by the excessive grief he had evinced. Indeed, his countenance appeared haggard, and expressive not only of sorrow, but almost of despair.

Mr. Jackson was the only person who had conducted any thing like business; not only the family, but the very servants, were in consternation; and even the doctor had been quite unable to give the slightest assistance. He, indeed, from the time that Lady L.’s unfavourable symptoms had appeared, had behaved as if seized with sudden insanity; while life remained, he had continued in the sick room, in a state of uncontrollable perturbation; he had drained or tasted every bottle from which the patient had taken medicine; his hand had trembled to that degree, that he had broken almost every thing he had attempted to take up; he had repeated incessantly the word “No, no, no,” beginning with low murmurs, and increasing gradually in quickness and loudness, and again declining into whispers; till, finally, the moment Lady L. had expired, he rushed from the house without hat or cane, and ran till he reached home, while his horse stood in the stables at Lodore.

It was Mr. Jackson too, who had put all the household in mourning, and who had made the arrangements for the funeral: at which, what was remarkable, was the concourse of the poor, and, perhaps, the unpremeditated part taken by our hero in the solemn pageant; for, when the hearse arrived at its destination, and the body was about to be lifted out, poor Edmund, to the astonishment of every one, was discovered lying across the coffin. He had not fainted; for, when brought into the light, he looked all round him vacantly, and, with a sudden movement, hid his face again.

Mrs. Smyth had, it seems, some days before shown him the chamber of death, with all its awful circumstances; and on this morning, when dressing him, she had, inconsiderately, given vent to the petulance which often accompanies sorrow, in the following words:—“And its her ain sel ’at brought ye in aff the cald stanes, boy, and tak the wet rags aff ye, and put the warm clothing on ye, and geed ye bread when ye were hungry, boy; its hersel’ they’re goin’ to carry oot the day, and leave her by hersel’, in the cald church-yard!”

Edmund made no reply; but soon after this he stole from the nursery, and lingered about the halls. Presently the bearers brought out the coffin; he followed at their feet, and when they lifted it into the hearse, he too clambered up unheeded. But here, no sooner was the hearse closed, and the consequent darkness complete, than the situation into which an impulse of grateful affection had led the poor child, proved too much for his strength. A strange sensation of awe, and worse than loneliness, at once silenced the sobs which had hitherto shaken his frame; the tears, which had been streaming over his cheeks, ceased to flow; his forehead became covered with the cold dew of superstitious terror; he was motionless; his very breathing was suspended; while still the wretched consciousness remained, that his little heart was breaking. And had the funeral not arrived at the church door at the moment it did, most probably either life or reason must have yielded to a combination of feelings so overwhelming.

Mr. Jackson also preached the funeral sermon. All he was able to deliver were a few broken sentences of passionate admiration and pathetic regret, mingled with the tender hopes of piety, for the triumphant ones he could not reach.

And now it was painful to witness, even on the outside, the appearance of the late gay Lodore House. All was silent; the very bells were taken off the necks of the sheep that fed on the lawn; no sound was heard, but the uninterrupted murmur of the fall; every window was closed by a blind or shutter; and when any symptom of remaining life was seen, it was, at times, the figure of Mr. Jackson, in deep mourning, both of habit and attitude, leaning against the paling, and looking fixedly at the two little girls, in their little black frocks, walking, one on each side of Edmund, also dressed in black, up and down the gravel before the door, without speaking a word, or deviating from the direct path. If a meal of the children happened to be ready, Mrs. Smyth would come to the door, and preserving silence, beckon them in; then letting them pass her, and following them, look at them, and shake her head mournfully.