CHAPTER XVIII.
The first conviction that there is death in the house is perhaps themost awful moment of youth. When we are young, we think that not onlyourselves, but that all about us, are immortal. Until the arrow hasstruck a victim round our own hearth, death is merely an unmeaningword; until then, its casual mention has stamped no idea upon ourbrain. There are few, even among those least susceptible of thoughtand emotion, in whose hearts and minds the first death in the familydoes not act as a powerful revelation of the mysteries of life, and oftheir own being; there are few who, after such a catastrophe, do notlook upon the world and the world's ways, at least for a time, withchanged and tempered feelings. It recalls the past; it makes us ponderover the future; and youth, gay and light-hearted youth, is taught,for the first time, to regret and to fear.
On Cadurcis, a child of pensive temperament, and in whose strangeand yet undeveloped character there was, amid lighter elements, aconstitutional principle of melancholy, the sudden decease of hismother produced a profound effect. All was forgotten of his parent,except the intimate and natural tie, and her warm and genuineaffection. He was now alone in the world; for reflection impressedupon him at this moment what the course of existence too generallyteaches to us all, that mournful truth, that, after all, we have nofriends that we can depend upon in this life but our parents. Allother intimacies, however ardent, are liable to cool; all otherconfidence, however unlimited, to be violated. In the phantasmagoriaof life, the friend with whom we have cultivated mutual trust foryears is often suddenly or gradually estranged from us, or becomes,from, painful, yet irresistible circumstances, even our deadliest foe.As for women, as for the mistresses of our hearts, who has not learntthat the links of passion are fragile as they are glittering; andthat the bosom on which we have reposed with idolatry all our secretsorrows and sanguine hopes, eventually becomes the very heart thatexults in our misery and baffles our welfare? Where is the enamouredface that smiled upon our early love, and was to shed tears over ourgrave? Where are the choice companions of our youth, with whom we wereto breast the difficulties and share the triumphs of existence? Evenin this inconstant world, what changes like the heart? Love is adream, and friendship a delusion. No wonder we grow callous; for howfew have the opportunity of returning to the hearth which they quittedin levity or thoughtless weariness, yet which alone is faithful tothem; whose sweet affections require not the stimulus of prosperityor fame, the lure of accomplishments, or the tribute of flattery; butwhich are constant to us in distress, and console us even in disgrace!
Before she retired for the night, Lady Annabel was anxious to seePlantagenet. Mistress Pauncefort had informed her of his visit tohis mother's room. Lady Annabel found Cadurcis in the gallery, nowpartially lighted by the moon which had recently risen. She enteredwith her light, as if she were on her way to her own room, and notseeking him.
'Dear Plantagenet,' she said, 'will you not go to bed?'
'I do not intend to go to bed to-night,' he replied.
She approached him and took him by the hand, which he did not withdrawfrom her, and they walked together once or twice up and down thegallery.
'I think, dear child,' said Lady Annabel, 'you had better come and sitwith us.'
'I like to be alone,' was his answer; but not in a sullen voice, lowand faltering.
'But in sorrow we should be with our friends,' said Lady Annabel.
'I have no friends,' he answered. 'I only had one.'
'I am your friend, dear child; I am your mother now, and you shallfind me one if you like. And Venetia, have you forgotten your sister?Is she not your friend? And Dr. Masham, surely you cannot doubt hisfriendship?'
Cadurcis tried to stifle a sob. 'Ay, Lady Annabel,' he said, 'you aremy friend now, and so are you all; and you know I love you much. Butyou were not my friends two years ago; and things will change again;they will, indeed. A mother is your friend as long as she lives; shecannot help being your friend.'
'You shall come to Cherbury and live with us,' said Lady Annabel.' Youknow you love Cherbury, and you shall find it a home, a real home.'
He pressed her hand to his lips; the hand was covered with his tears.
'We will go to Cherbury to-morrow, dear Plantagenet; remaining herewill only make you sad.'
'I will never leave Cadurcis again while my mother is in this house,'he said, in a firm and serious voice. And then, after a moment'spause, he added, 'I wish to know when the burial is to take place.'
'We will ask Dr. Masham,' replied Lady Annabel. 'Come, let us go tohim; come, my own child.'
He permitted himself to be led away. They descended to the smallapartment where Lady Annabel had been previously sitting. They foundthe Doctor there; he rose and pressed Plantagenet's hand with greatemotion. They made room for him at the fire between them; he sat insilence, with his gaze intently fixed upon the decaying embers,yet did not quit his hold of Lady Annabel's hand. He found it aconsolation to him; it linked him to a being who seemed to love him.As long as he held her hand he did not seem quite alone in the world.
Now nobody spoke; for Lady Annabel felt that Cadurcis was in somedegree solaced; and she thought it unwise to interrupt the morecomposed train of his thoughts. It was, indeed, Plantagenet himselfwho first broke silence.
'I do not think I can go to bed, Lady Annabel,' he said. 'The thoughtof this night is terrible to me. I do not think it ever can end. Iwould much sooner sit up in this room.'
'Nay! my child, sleep is a great consoler; try to go to bed, love.'
'I should like to sleep in my mother's room,' was his strange reply.'It seems to me that I could sleep there. And if I woke in the night,I should like to see her.'
Lady Annabel and the Doctor exchanged looks.
'I think,' said the Doctor, 'you had better sleep in my room, andthen, if you wake in the night, you will have some one to speak to.You will find that a comfort.'
'Yes, that you will,' said Lady Annabel. 'I will go and have the sofabed made up in the Doctor's room for you. Indeed that will be the verybest plan.'
So at last, but not without a struggle, they persuaded Cadurcis toretire. Lady Annabel embraced him tenderly when she bade him goodnight; and, indeed, he felt consoled by her affection.
As nothing could persuade Plantagenet to leave the abbey until hismother was buried, Lady Annabel resolved to take up her abode there,and she sent the next morning for Venetia. There were a great manyarrangements to make about the burial and the mourning; and LadyAnnabel and Dr. Masham were obliged, in consequence, to go the nextmorning to Southport; but they delayed their departure until thearrival of Venetia, that Cadurcis might not be left alone.
The meeting between himself and Venetia was a very sad one, and yether companionship was a great solace. Venetia urged every topic thatshe fancied could reassure his spirits, and upon the happy home hewould find at Cherbury.
'Ah!' said Cadurcis, 'they will not leave me here; I am sure of that.I think our happy days are over, Venetia.'
What mourner has not felt the magic of time? Before the funeral couldtake place, Cadurcis had recovered somewhat of his usual cheerfulness,and would indulge with Venetia in plans of their future life. Andliving, as they all were, under the same roof, sharing the samesorrows, participating in the same cares, and all about to wear thesame mournful emblems of their domestic calamity, it was difficult forhim to believe that he was indeed that desolate being he had at firstcorrectly estimated himself. Here were true friends, if such couldexist; here were fine sympathies, pure affections, innocent anddisinterested hearts! Every domestic tie yet remained perfect, exceptthe spell-bound tie of blood. That wanting, all was a bright and happyvision, that might vanish in an instant, and for ever; that perfect,even the least graceful, the most repulsive home, had its irresistiblecharms; and its loss, when once experienced, might be mourned forever, and could never be restored.