Chapter 3 The Tomb Beneath The Cedars
THE last evening before the removal of the family from the Moat, the moon shone out brightly at intervals from a cloudy sky, touching with silvery light the gables and turrets of the mansion, the old church tower, and the edges of the tombstones that nestled amidst the grass and shrubs. Beneath three fine old cedars which wrapped one spot in the churchyard in gloom, was the family vault of the Falconers, and thither from her last visit to the cottage of the dying gardener, Mrs. Falconer directed her steps.
It was not with any superstitious or fanciful idea of communing with her husband's spirit that she sought the place where his dust reposed, but, with the natural tenderness of a bereaved heart for the hiding-place of something it has loved and lost, she liked to associate her farewell to the home in which he had left her, with the remembrance of that separation which had made her life a lonely pilgrimage, and her heart for a long time a mere storm-swept wreck.
But she did not now forget that he whom she so deeply loved and truly mourned was "absent from the body," and because of his faith in a crucified Redeemer was "present with the Lord."
And though the tomb that enclosed the mortal part was to her a consecrated memorial place, yet she could calmly leave that behind, in the knowledge that the Saviour and His heaven, where the hosts of the blessed are, cannot be limited by time or space, and would be as real and near in the crowded haunts of busy life as in the moonlighted solitude of the grave beneath the cedars.
There the gentle voice of the much-tried mother soothed her excited boy, and her loving arm encircled him as they leaned together over the marble slab that bore the record of so many honoured names.
"Guy, my son," she whispered, "here let all your wrong feelings be laid aside, and your young life be consecrated to new and noble purposes."
"Oh, mother, it is so hard," murmured the boy.
"I know it, Guy; but I never felt it so hard as to-day, because it has revealed to me the weakness and cowardliness of your heart, which fails at the first touch of adversity. A sorry protector for us indeed, if Maude and I had no other."
"Oh, mother!"
"I see at least one good reason for the reverse which has come to us, Guy. You would have become the ruined child of ease and selfishness, and you may now be something better, if you choose."
"But, mother, suppose it is good for me, it is not good or right for you—it is cruel, wicked, unpardonable for you."
"My dear child, it is as good and right for me. And here by your dear father's grave I am able to forgive fully and freely, as I hope to be forgiven, all whose conduct may have seemed to injure us, and I charge you solemnly before God to do the same. No peace, no rest can help the unforgiving spirit, and so long as you encourage hate and anger, you will be the unhappy slave of unspeakable wretchedness.
"Moreover I deny your right to associate me with your sinful murmurings against God and His ways, and I forbid it. I know that all is wise and well. 'Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.' 'They that trust in Him shall not want for any good thing,' and there I find reason and assurance enough to bear me through everything.
"Guy, my darling, try to tread with me this peaceful path, renounce this angry, bitter, troublesome old self, and be a new creature by God's grace, forgiving, submissive, patient, Christ's dear servant, your mother's faithful prop and help, and the worthy son of him whose life and example is echoed in the instruction I have tried to give. Oh, let it be seen that I am faithful to my trust from God and him."
"Oh, mother, mother," sobbed the boy; "I see, I know I am wrong—I will try—"
"To forgive, and to ask forgiveness, dear child. Oh, what a load will roll off your heart as you feel the soothing sweetness of God's pardoning love, and the godlike power to forgive as you are forgiven! Guy, my son, I shall feel that I am the happy mother of the truest hero of your race, for 'greater is he who conquereth his own spirit than he that taketh a city.'"
They stood awhile in silence, the mother and her son; what prayers and thoughts rose out of full hearts there were no words mighty enough to tell, but at last drawing her gently away,—
"Come, mother," he said softly, "perhaps the angels may note to-night, and so shall I."
And it was a night to be remembered, though not chiefly for its trying farewells. There was a cloud, and no need to ignore it, but there was light behind it, and it began to fringe the cloud and to illumine life's future with touches of beauty and hope, which a few hours before seemed impossible to the despairing spirit of Guy Falconer.
* * * * * *
Early the next morning, all the inhabitants of the Falconer Range were astir; groups of people well-to-do, and groups of poor people, and of children innumerable, gathered about the park gates and along the village street, and when Joe and the black horses emerged from the park with the much loved exiles behind them, there was a rush to the carriage windows, hands were shaken and kissed, and murmured benedictions burst from many lips. Old men uncovered their grey heads, women sobbed, and children for once moved quietly.
In vain the occupants of the carriage strove to smile or seem calm; in vain Joe made hideous grimaces to keep up his dignity; in vain Mr. Herbert, who had mounted escort for a part of the way, rode gently amongst the people, and entreated them to restrain their feelings for the sake of the dear, tried lady from whom they had to part; in vain Guy impatiently called out his orders to Joe to "drive on;" the solemn black horses, perfectly self-possessed, were masters of the position, and all poor Joe's struggles failed to move them beyond their own conceptions of the occasion.
Before the Falconer's Arms they nearly came to a stand, as if there were something special to be noted there. And perhaps there was, for the worthy landlord and the dame his wife had made decided demonstration. Blinds were down, and shutters closed, a black crape scarf was thrown over the far-famed sign, and the whole family stood bare-headed under the beautiful elms in solemn silence.
At the village school, the children stood in silent array, and the tallest of them presented a basket filled with little pin-cushions, needle-books, and such like tokens of loving handiwork. And a boy, gentle and modest-looking, handed up a little carving in wood of the front of the Moat House, which he had privately executed in his leisure time.
All this, with an occasional "God bless you," "May you come back to your own again," marked the progress through the village. And then Joe, exasperated beyond endurance with his self-sufficient steeds, commenced a most unusual belabouring of their shining coats. Mr. Herbert, equally out of patience, adding the stimulus of the riding whip, so that the stately march was at last urged into a brisk walk, such as they usually assumed for a funeral at a distant church when wayside observers were neither numerous nor mournful.
Joe's foresight had provided for the occasion, though he had not dared to controvert his master's orders, so far as the first three miles were concerned. There however, he had soothed his own feelings, and obliged his passengers by securing a relay, and joyfully began the acceptable exchange.
While this was proceeding, a carriage-and-four drove briskly up to the inn door.
The gentleman who was driving threw the reins to his servant, and dismounted, noticed the dignified black horses, asked a question or two of the ostler, held a short parley at the window of his carriage, where appeared the pleasant faces of a middle-aged lady and a young girl, and finally bidding Joe "hold in," advanced to the chaise door, and hastily opened it.
"I beg your pardon, madam," he said, "but we cannot let you pass us on the road without a word. We meant to have put up at the Falcon Range last night, hoping to have stopped your journey this morning, but the horses were too tired. Is it too late? Cannot you return now? But I forgot—you don't know me. Roger Hazelwood, madam—at your service. Here! Dorothy, Evelyn! Come and speak to Mrs. Falconer, the lady from the Moat."
Guy and his sister hereupon resisted the strong desire to see again the bright face of the girl as she peeped round from her corner in the carriage, and utterly amazed and confounded, saw the elder lady alight and advance to their mother. Her countenance was sweet and fair, with a mingled expression of sympathy, respect, and humility, and in the most winning of voices she entreated Mrs. Falconer to delay her journey at least for a time, and return with them to the Moat, echoing her husband's regret that they had not arrived in time to make their request more opportunely.
"Dear sir, dear madam," said Mrs. Falconer warmly, "I can but attempt to express my thanks; I could not have anticipated such kindness, but our arrangements are made, and we are proceeding at once to London."
"Well, I'm very sorry," said Squire Hazelwood; "it can't be helped then, I suppose, but I'm a bad hand at writing; I let the lawyers settle everything, and I did not know how matters stood, else I would have said my say in proper time."
"It is indeed too late now," said the lady, taking Mrs. Falconer's hand with a gentle pressure; "but we may perhaps meet again under happier circumstances." And drawing back with a curtsey, she re-entered her carriage.
"The sooner the better," said the Squire; "Evelyn is shy, but she means well, silly child. Good-bye, madam; your hand, young sir—we must be friends you know, though the Moat is between us. I hate feuds, and would rather carry your God-speed with us among the people who may be pardoned for feeling that we can't supply your place."
"May God-speed you, sir, I pray so with all my heart," said Mrs. Falconer earnestly, giving her hand into that which her son had scarcely touched.
And so they parted on life's highway with its "changes and chances," unexpected and unknown, but all appointed and ordered in the omniscient love that links together only what works "for good," and drops out of the chain all that we mistake and mismanage for ourselves.
The carriage-and-four rolled deliberately through Falcon Range, where, notwithstanding the novelty of a private equipage in mail coach style, doors were suddenly banged, and surly faces peered from cottage windows; the crape yet hung over the Falconer's Arms, and its landlord stood with his hands in his pockets, and his hat on his head, not deigning to salute the purchaser of the estate of the Falconers, even though his pedigree dated back to the Saxon instead of the Norman Conquest.
But the generous-hearted English gentleman was more touched by the evident sympathy of the villagers for the late occupants of the Moat than disturbed by the slight to himself.
"Poor things," he remarked afterwards to his wife, "I like them for it; who wins their hearts will keep them, and I hate weather-cock friends. However we'll wait our time, Dorothy, and if you don't find your way within those noisy doors that said so plainly, 'You shan't come here,' I shall be more surprised than ever I was in my life yet. So I'll bid you welcome to the Moat, if nobody else does."
And gallantly kissing his wife and daughter, he left them to explore their new abode.
There had not been very much to regret in the removal from Hazel Copse, which had been a long contemplated event, and where many circumstances had estranged them for some time. All that they particularly valued in the form of servants, pet ponies, horses, dogs, and other delights, accompanied them, and Squire Hazelwood of the Falcon Range would be a more important personage in the world's history than the Squire of Hazel Copse. At least so thought the little spoiled heiress of his house and fortune, as she flew about exclaiming with rapture over all she saw.
"Such a dear old place, mother," "Come here," and "Go there," was the frequent interruption to the work of the lady in newly arranging her household, as Evelyn lighted on a terrace walk, or penetrated some dark corner, or, best of all, explored her way into a real "tapestried chamber," haunted of course, ever since Judge Jeffries, of evil renown, tarried there for a night in the civil wars, and was reported to have left some token of ill, like an ancient leper, in the walls of the house that sheltered him.
Evelyn declared herself bold enough to face any wig and gown that might venture from behind the arras, but beyond a saucy rat of venerable lineage, and a few hungry spiders on the search for flies, she never discovered anything to test her boasted courage.
The mansion itself might have served as an illustration of the varieties of English architecture since the first Falconer planted his lance on the sunny slope where his castle was to stand.
There was a tower, ivy-clad and crumbling, remnant of feudal times; there were gables and turretted roofs, porches and pilasters, oriel windows, lattices, arches, and griffins, in fact tokens of all tastes and fashions—Plantagenet, Tudor, Stuart, and Hanoverian, with carvings and heraldic devices blending the armorial bearings of all the family alliances of the ancient House innumerable.
There were huge fire-places, oak parlours, and deep bay window seats; a hall decorated with the old armour of knights, and the antlers of hunted stags, the crusader's sword and the palmer's staff, the banners of rival Roses, the doublet of a cavalier, and the buff coat of a Round-head, the falconer's glove, and the sportsman's fowling-piece, all named and dated with aristocratic pride, harmless and pardonable.
The gardens and grounds were even more attractive, with quaint borders, straight walks, and clipped trees in my lady's pleasaunce, winding paths to wild dingles and dells, accommodation for every kind of the animal creation of the British Isles, from stables and kennels for my lord to covers for foxes, and nests for hornets; there was a lake for fish, a rookery for birds, and far-spreading meads for cattle.
Of the original "Moat," there remained no precise indication, unless the dingles which terminated the shrubbery, and a river which divided some meadows, had once done guardian duty in that capacity,—a reasonable surmise, from the fact of a broken arch in near neighbourhood, where resolute antiquarians discovered symptoms of portcullis pretensions, though a portly bailiff had left on record his belief that it was merely a remnant of modern masonic skill, erected of material cleared away from a fallen tower of the old castle, and in which sheep used to be penned on washing days!
There was no auction at the Moat House. Things were to stand as in past time, with the addition of a few valued possessions from Hazel Copse, for which there was ample space in chambers long disused, and which were now opened, renovated, and made to partake somewhat of the sunny spirt of the new owners of the mansion.
The Squire was busy with lands and live stock, the lady with domestic improvements, and Miss Evelyn, as long accustomed, ran wild over everything, including the stiff prejudices of dependants and villagers.
