CHAPTER II

THE HERITAGE OF THE SON

Toward evening, a carriage drove up to the door of the muted house, and

the card of Lady Racial, bearing a hurried line in pencil, was handed to

the widow.

It was when you looked upon her that you began to comprehend how great

was the personal splendour of the husband who could eclipse such a woman.

Mrs. Harrington was a tall and a stately dame. Dressed in the high waists

of the matrons of that period, with a light shawl drawn close over her

shoulders and bosom, she carried her head well; and her pale firm

features, with the cast of immediate affliction on them, had much

dignity: dignity of an unrelenting physical order, which need not express

any remarkable pride of spirit. The family gossips who, on both sides,

were vain of this rare couple, and would always descant on their beauty,

even when they had occasion to slander their characters, said, to

distinguish them, that Henrietta Maria had a Port, and Melchisedec a

Presence: and that the union of a Port and a Presence, and such a Port

and such a Presence, was so uncommon, that you might search England

through and you would not find another, not even in the highest ranks of

society. There lies some subtle distinction here; due to the minute

perceptions which compel the gossips of a family to coin phrases that

shall express the nicest shades of a domestic difference. By a Port, one

may understand them to indicate something unsympathetically impressive;

whereas a Presence would seem to be a thing that directs the most affable

appeal to our poor human weaknesses. His Majesty King George IV., for

instance, possessed a Port: Beau Brummel wielded a Presence. Many, it is

true, take a Presence to mean no more than a shirt-frill, and interpret a

Port as the art of walking erect. But this is to look upon language too

narrowly.

On a more intimate acquaintance with the couple, you acknowledge the,

aptness of the fine distinction. By birth Mrs. Harrington had claims to

rank as a gentlewoman. That is, her father was a lawyer of Lymport. The

lawyer, however, since we must descend the genealogical tree, was known

to have married his cook, who was the lady's mother. Now Mr. Melchisedec

was mysterious concerning his origin; and, in his cups, talked largely

and wisely of a great Welsh family, issuing from a line of princes; and

it is certain that he knew enough of their history to have instructed

them on particular points of it. He never could think that his wife had

done him any honour in espousing him; nor was she the woman to tell him

so. She had married him for love, rejecting various suitors, Squire

Uplift among them, in his favour. Subsequently she had committed the

profound connubial error of transferring her affections, or her thoughts,

from him to his business, which, indeed, was much in want of a mate; and

while he squandered the guineas, she patiently picked up the pence. They

had not lived unhappily. He was constantly courteous to her. But to see

the Port at that sordid work considerably ruffled the Presence--put, as

it were, the peculiar division between them; and to behave toward her as

the same woman who had attracted his youthful ardours was a task for his

magnificent mind, and may have ranked with him as an indemnity for his

general conduct, if his reflections ever stretched so far. The

townspeople of Lymport were correct in saying that his wife, and his wife

alone, had, as they termed it, kept him together. Nevertheless, now that

he was dead, and could no longer be kept together, they entirely forgot

their respect for her, in the outburst of their secret admiration for the

popular man. Such is the constitution of the inhabitants of this dear

Island of Britain, so falsely accused by the Great Napoleon of being a

nation of shopkeepers. Here let any one proclaim himself Above Buttons,

and act on the assumption, his fellows with one accord hoist him on their

heads, and bear him aloft, sweating, and groaning, and cursing, but proud

of him! And if he can contrive, or has any good wife at home to help him,

to die without going to the dogs, they are, one may say, unanimous in

crying out the same eulogistic funeral oration as that commenced by

Kilne, the publican, when he was interrupted by Barnes, the butcher,

'Now, there's a man!--'

Mrs. Harrington was sitting in her parlour with one of her married

nieces, Mrs. Fiske, and on reading Lady Racial's card she gave word for

her to be shown up into the drawing-room. It was customary among Mrs.

Harrington's female relatives, who one and all abused and adored the

great Mel, to attribute his shortcomings pointedly to the ladies; which

was as much as if their jealous generous hearts had said that he was

sinful, but that it was not his fault. Mrs. Fiske caught the card from

her aunt, read the superscription, and exclaimed: 'The idea! At least she

might have had the decency! She never set her foot in the house

before--and right enough too! What can she want now? I decidedly would

refuse to see her, aunt!'

The widow's reply was simply, 'Don't be a fool, Ann!'

Rising, she said: 'Here, take poor Jacko, and comfort him till I come

back.'

Jacko was a middle-sized South American monkey, and had been a pet of her

husband's. He was supposed to be mourning now with the rest of the

family. Mrs. Fiske received him on a shrinking lap, and had found time to

correct one of his indiscretions before she could sigh and say, in the

rear of her aunt's retreating figure, 'I certainly never would let

myself, down so'; but Mrs. Harrington took her own counsel, and Jacko was

of her persuasion, for he quickly released himself from Mrs. Fiske's

dispassionate embrace, and was slinging his body up the balusters after

his mistress.

'Mrs. Harrington,' said Lady Racial, very sweetly swimming to meet her as

she entered the room, 'I have intruded upon you, I fear, in venturing to

call upon you at such a time?'

The widow bowed to her, and begged her to be seated.

Lady Racial was an exquisitely silken dame, in whose face a winning smile

was cut, and she was still sufficiently youthful not to be accused of

wearing a flower too artificial.

'It was so sudden! so sad!' she continued. 'We esteemed him so much. I

thought you might be in need of sympathy, and hoped I might--Dear Mrs.

Harrington! can you bear to speak of it?'

'I can tell you anything you wish to hear, my lady,' the widow replied.

Lady Racial had expected to meet a woman much more like what she

conceived a tradesman's wife would be: and the grave reception of her

proffer of sympathy slightly confused her. She said:

'I should not have come, at least not so early, but Sir Jackson, my

husband, thought, and indeed I imagined--You have a son, Mrs. Harrington?

I think his name is--'

'Evan, my lady.'

'Evan. It was of him we have been speaking. I imagined that is, we

thought, Sir Jackson might--you will be writing to him, and will let him

know we will use our best efforts to assist him in obtaining some

position worthy of his--superior to--something that will secure him from

the harassing embarrassments of an uncongenial employment.'

The widow listened to this tender allusion to the shears without a smile

of gratitude. She replied: 'I hope my son will return in time to bury his

father, and he will thank you himself, my lady.'

'He has no taste for--a--for anything in the shape of trade, has he, Mrs.

Harrington?'

'I am afraid not, my lady.'

'Any position--a situation--that of a clerk even--would be so much better

for him!'

The widow remained impassive.

'And many young gentlemen I know, who are clerks, and are enabled to live

comfortably, and make a modest appearance in society; and your son, Mrs.

Harrington, he would find it surely an improvement upon--many would think

it a step for him.'

'I am bound to thank you for the interest you take in my son, my lady.'

'Does it not quite suit your views, Mrs. Harrington?' Lady Racial was

surprised at the widow's manner.

'If my son had only to think of himself, my lady.'

'Oh! but of course,'--the lady understood her now--'of course! You cannot

suppose, Mrs. Harrington, but that I should anticipate he would have you

to live with him, and behave to you in every way as a dutiful son,

surely?

'A clerk's income is not very large, my lady.'

'No; but enough, as I have said, and with the management you would bring,

Mrs. Harrington, to produce a modest, respectable maintenance. My respect

for your husband, Mrs. Harrington, makes me anxious to press my services

upon you.' Lady Racial could not avoid feeling hurt at the widow's want

of common gratitude.

'A clerk's income would not be more than L100 a year, my lady.'

'To begin with--no; certainly not more.' The lady was growing brief.

'If my son puts by the half of that yearly, he can hardly support himself

and his mother, my lady.'

'Half of that yearly, Mrs. Harrington?'

'He would have to do so, and be saddled till he dies, my lady.'

'I really cannot see why.'

Lady Racial had a notion of some excessive niggardly thrift in the widow,

which was arousing symptoms of disgust.

Mrs. Harrington quietly said: 'There are his father's debts to pay, my

lady.'

'His father's debts!'

'Under L5000, but above L4000, my lady.'

'Five thousand pounds! Mrs. Harrington!' The lady's delicately gloved

hand gently rose and fell. 'And this poor young man--'she pursued.

'My son will have to pay it, my lady.'

For a moment the lady had not a word to instance. Presently she remarked:

'But, Mrs. Harrington, he is surely under no legal obligation?'

'He is only under the obligation not to cast disrespect on his father's

memory, my lady; and to be honest, while he can.'

'But, Mrs. Harrington! surely! what can the poor young man do?'

'He will pay it, my lady.'

'But how, Mrs. Harrington?'

'There is his father's business, my lady.'

His father's business! Then must the young man become a tradesman in

order to show respect for his father? Preposterous! That was the lady's

natural inward exclamation. She said, rather shrewdly, for one who knew

nothing of such things: 'But a business which produces debts so enormous,

Mrs. Harrington!'

The widow replied: 'My son will have to conduct it in a different way. It

would be a very good business, conducted properly, my lady.'

'But if he has no taste for it, Mrs. Harrington? If he is altogether

superior to it?'

For the first time during the interview, the widow's inflexible

countenance was mildly moved, though not to any mild expression.

'My son will have not to consult his tastes,' she observed: and seeing

the lady, after a short silence, quit her seat, she rose likewise, and

touched the fingers of the hand held forth to her, bowing.

'You will pardon the interest I take in your son,' said Lady Racial. 'I

hope, indeed, that his relatives and friends will procure him the means

of satisfying the demands made upon him.'

'He would still have to pay them, my lady,' was the widow's answer.

'Poor young man! indeed I pity him!' sighed her visitor. 'You have

hitherto used no efforts to persuade him to take such a step,--Mrs.

Harrington?'

'I have written to Mr. Goren, who was my husband's fellow-apprentice in

London, my lady; and he is willing to instruct him in cutting, and

measuring, and keeping accounts.'

Certain words in this speech were obnoxious to the fine ear of Lady

Racial, and she relinquished the subject.

'Your husband, Mrs. Harrington--I should so much have wished!--he did not

pass away in--in pain!'

'He died very calmly, my lady.'

'It is so terrible, so disfiguring, sometimes. One dreads to see!--one

can hardly distinguish! I have known cases where death was dreadful! But

a peaceful death is very beautiful! There is nothing shocking to the

mind. It suggests heaven! It seems a fulfilment of our prayers!'

'Would your ladyship like to look upon him?' said the widow.

Lady Racial betrayed a sudden gleam at having her desire thus intuitively

fathomed.

'For one moment, Mrs. Harrington! We esteemed him so much! May I?'

The widow responded by opening the door, and leading her into the chamber

where the dead man lay.

At that period, when threats of invasion had formerly stirred up the

military fire of us Islanders, the great Mel, as if to show the great

Napoleon what character of being a British shopkeeper really was, had, by

remarkable favour, obtained a lieutenancy of militia dragoons: in the

uniform of which he had revelled, and perhaps, for the only time in his

life, felt that circumstances had suited him with a perfect fit. However

that may be, his solemn final commands to his wife, Henrietta Maria, on

whom he could count for absolute obedience in such matters, had been,

that as soon as the breath had left his body, he should be taken from his

bed, washed, perfumed, powdered, and in that uniform dressed and laid

out; with directions that he should be so buried at the expiration of

three days, that havoc in his features might be hidden from men. In this

array Lady Racial beheld him. The curtains of the bed were drawn aside.

The beams of evening fell soft through the blinds of the room, and cast a

subdued light on the figure of the vanquished warrior. The Presence, dumb

now for evermore, was sadly illumined for its last exhibition. But one

who looked closely might have seen that Time had somewhat spoiled that

perfect fit which had aforetime been his pride; and now that the lofty

spirit had departed, there had been extreme difficulty in persuading the

sullen excess of clay to conform to the dimensions of those garments. The

upper part of the chest alone would bear its buttons, and across one

portion of the lower limbs an ancient seam had started; recalling an

incident to them who had known him in his brief hour of glory. For one

night, as he was riding home from Fallow field, and just entering the

gates of the town, a mounted trooper spurred furiously past, and slashing

out at him, gashed his thigh. Mrs. Melchisedec found him lying at his

door in a not unwonted way; carried him up-stairs in her arms, as she had

done many a time before, and did not perceive his condition till she saw

the blood on her gown. The cowardly assailant was never discovered; but

Mel was both gallant and had, in his military career, the reputation of

being a martinet. Hence, divers causes were suspected. The wound failed

not to mend, the trousers were repaired: Peace about the same time was

made, and the affair passed over.

Looking on the fine head and face, Lady Racial saw nothing of this. She

had not looked long before she found covert employment for her

handkerchief. The widow standing beside her did not weep, or reply to her

whispered excuses at emotion; gazing down on his mortal length with a

sort of benignant friendliness; aloof, as one whose duties to that form

of flesh were well-nigh done. At the feet of his master, Jacko, the

monkey, had jumped up, and was there squatted, with his legs crossed,

very like a tailor! The imitative wretch had got a towel, and as often as

Lady Racial's handkerchief travelled to her eyes, Jacko's peery face was

hidden, and you saw his lithe skinny body doing grief's convulsions till,

tired of this amusement, he obtained possession of the warrior's helmet,

from a small round table on one side of the bed; a calque of the

barbarous military-Georgian form, with a huge knob of horse-hair

projecting over the peak; and under this, trying to adapt it to his

rogue's head, the tricksy image of Death extinguished himself.

All was very silent in the room. Then the widow quietly disengaged Jacko,

and taking him up, went to the door, and deposited him outside. During

her momentary absence, Lady Racial had time to touch the dead man's

forehead with her lips, unseen.