Romance and Reality (Landon)/Chapter 26
CHAPTER II.
"And the presence of death was in the house, and the shadows of the grave rested upon it."
"You had far better, Emily, go to bed, and take a little hot wine and water—the nurse can sit up. What," in a lower tone, "is she here for?"
"I cannot—indeed I cannot," was the answer.
"Well, you always were obstinate;" and Mrs. Arundel took her own advice, viz. the hot wine and water, and the going to bed, leaving Emily to that sad and solemn watch the living keep by the dead.
A week had now elapsed; and let even the most indifferent—those linked to the dead by no ties of love or kindred—say what such a week is. The darkened windows—the empty rooms, whose very furniture looks unfamiliar in the dim, excluded light—the stealthy steps, the whispering voices—faces with a strange, because necessary, gravity—and, whether it be those bowed down with real affliction, or those whose only feeling can be the general awe of death, all differing from their ordinary selves. And, with one of life's most usual, yet most painful contrasts—while the persons are so much changed, yet the things remain the same. The favourite chair, never to be filled again by its late occupier—the vacant place at table—a picture, perhaps now with more of life than its original—the thousand trifles that recall some taste or habit—and all these things so much more deeply felt when no long illness has already thrown events out of their usual circle, already broken in upon all old accustomed ways. When he who is now departed was amongst us but yesterday—when there has been, as it were, but a step from the fireside to the deathbed—a surprise and a shock add to the sorrow which takes us so unawares. And then the common events that fill up the day in domestic life—the provision for the living made in the presence of the dead; in one room a dinner, in the other a coffin—that strange mixture of ordinary occurrence and unusual situation. And yet 'tis well:—make that week the gloomiest we can—exclude the glad daylight—silence the human voice and step—yet how soon, amid the after-hurry and selfishness of life, will that brief space of mourning be forgotten! There is wisdom in even the exaggeration of grief—there is little cause to fear we should feel too much.
It was nearly one o'clock when Emily began her solitary watch; and as the last sound died along the passage, her heart died within her too. Who shall account for the cold, creeping sensation that, in the depth of the night, steals over us? Who is there that has not felt that vague, but strong terror, which induces us—to use a childish, but expressive phrase—to hide our head under the bedclothes, as if there was some appearance which to look for was to see?—when we ourselves could give no definite cause for our fear, which our reason at the very moment tells us is folly, and tells us so in vain.
Even grief gave way before this sensation in Emily. She had said to herself that she would pray by the dead—take a long, last gaze on features so dear; and now she was rivetted to her chair by a creeping terror, perhaps worse for having no ostensible cause. The arm-chair where she sat seemed a protection; what did, what could she dread in moving from it? She knew not, but she did dread. Her sight seemed to fail her as she looked round the vast dim room: the old painted ceiling appeared a mass of moving and hideous faces—the huge faded red curtains had, as it were, some unnatural motion, as if some appalling shape were behind—and the coffin—the unclosed coffin—left unclosed at her earnest prayer—her limbs refused to bear her towards it, and her three hours' vigil passed in mute terror rather than affliction. Suddenly a shadow fell before her—and not if life had depended on its suppression, could Emily have checked the scream that rose to her lips: it was only the nurse, who, her own sleep over, was to share the few hours that yet remained. The relief of a human face—the sound of a human voice—Emily felt absolutely grateful for the old woman's company. It was oppressively hot, and the nurse, drawing back the heavy curtains, opened one of the windows. Though the shutters still remained closed, a gleam of daylight came warm and crimson through each chink and crevice—"and it has been light some time," thought Emily; and shame and regret, at having wasted in fear and folly hours so sacred, so precious, smote upon her inmost heart. Seated in an arm-chair, with her back to the light, her companion was soon again sleeping; and Emily, kneeling beside the coffin, looked for the last time on her uncle.
Deep as may be the regret, though the lost be the dearest, nay, the only tie that binds to earth, never did the most passionate grief give way to its emotion in the presence of the dead. Awe is stronger than sorrow: there is a calm, which, though we do not share, we dare not disturb: the chill of the grave is around them and us.—I have heard of the beauty of the dead: it existed in none that I have seen. The unnatural blue tinge which predominates in the skin and lips; the eyes closed, but so evidently not in sleep—in rigidity, not repose; the set features, stern almost to reproof; the contraction, the drawn shrunk look about the nose and mouth; the ghastly thin hands,—Life, the animator, the beautifier—the marvel is not, how thou couldst depart, but how ever thou couldst animate this strange and fearful tenement. Is there one who has not at some time or other bent down—with that terrible mingling of affection and loathing impulse, each equally natural, each equally beyond our control—bent down to kiss the face of the dead? and who can ever forget the in definable horror of that touch?—the coldness of snow, the hardness of marble felt in the depth of winter, are nothing to the chill which runs through the veins from the cold hard cheek, which yields no more to our touch: icy and immovable, it seems to repulse the caress in which it no longer has part.
Emily strove to pray; but her thoughts wandered in spite of every effort. Prayers for the dead we know are in vain; and prayers for ourselves seem so selfish. The first period is one of such mental confusion—fear, awe, grief, blending and confounding each other; we are, as it were, stunned by a great blow. Prayers and tears come afterwards.
She was roused from her reverie by words whose sense she comprehended not, but mechanically she obeyed the nurse, who led her into the adjoining room. It was her uncle's dressing closet, and his clothes were all scattered about. There is no wretchedness like the sight of these ordinary and common objects—that these frail, worthless garments should thus outlast their wearer! But the noise in the next room became distinct—heavy steps, suppressed but unfamiliar—a clink as of workman's tools—and then the harsh grating sounds: they were screwing down the coffin. She threw herself on her knees; she buried her head in the cushions of the chair in vain; her sense of hearing was acute to agony; every blow struck upon her heart; but the stillness that followed was even worse. She rushed into the next room: it was empty—the coffin was gone! The sound of wheels, unnoticed till now, echoed from the paved court-yard—the windows only looked towards the garden; but the voices of strangers, from whose very thought she shrank, prevented her stirring. Slowly one coach after another drove off; she held her breath to catch the last sound of the wheels. All in a few minutes was silence, like that of the grave to which they were journeying.
Emily suddenly remembered that one of the windows commanded a turn in the road. She opened it just in time to see the last black coach wind slowly through the boughs, so green, so sunny: that, too, past—and Emily sunk back, as if the conviction had but just reached her, that her uncle was indeed dead!