University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
THE MORNING OF THE FUNERAL.

IF Frank Irving had been poor, instead of the grandson
of a wealthy man, he would have made a splendid
carpenter; for all his tastes, which were not given to
horses, ran in the channel of a mechanic, and numerous were
the frames and boxes and stools which he had fashioned at
Millbank with the set of tools his grandfather had bought him.
The tools had been kept at Millbank, for Mrs. Walter Scott
would not have her house on Lexington Avenue “lumbered
up;” and with the first dawn of the morning after Roger's
return, Frank was busy in devising what he intended as a cradle
for the baby. He had thought of it the night before, when he
saw it on the settee; and, now, with the aid of a long, narrow
candle-box and a pair of rockers which he took from an old
chair, he succeeded in fashioning as uncouth a looking thing
as ever a baby was rocked in.

“It's because the sides are so rough,” he said, surveying his
work with a rueful face. “I mean to paper it, and maybe the
darned thing will look better.”

He knew where there were some bits of wall paper, and selecting
the very gaudiest piece, with the largest pattern, he fitted
it to the cradle, and then letting Ruey into his secret, coaxed
her to make some paste and help him put it on. The cradle
had this in its favor, that it would rock as well as a better one;
and tolerably satisfied with his work, Frank took it to the
kitchen, where it was received with smothered bursts of laughter
from the servants, who nevertheless commended the boy's
ingenuity; and when the baby, nicely dressed in a cotton slip
which Roger used to wear, was brought from Hester's room
and lifted into her new place, she seemed, with her bright, flashing
eyes, and restless, graceful motions, to cast a kind of halo
around the candle-box and make it beautiful just because she

was in it. Roger was delighted, and in his generous heart he
thought how many things he would do for Frank in return for
his kindness to the little child, crowing, and spattering its hands
in its dish of milk, and laughing aloud as the white drops fell on
Frank's face and hair. Baby evidently felt at home, and fresh
and neat in her clean dress, she looked even prettier than on
the previous night, and made a very pleasing picture in her
papered cradle, with the two boys on their knees paying her
homage, and feeling no jealousy of each other because of the
attentions the coquettish little creature lavished equally upon
them.

Our story leads us now away from the candle-box to the
dining-room, where the breakfast was served, and where Mrs.
Walter Scott presided in handsome morning-gown, with a becoming
little breakfast cap, which concealed the curl-papers
not to be taken out till later in the day, for fear of damage to
the glossy curls from the still damp, rainy weather. The lady
was very gracious to Roger, and remembering the penchant he
had manifested for raspberry jam, she asked for the jar and
gave him a larger dish of it than she did to Frank, and told
him he was looking quite rested, and then proceeded to speak
of the arrangements for the funeral, and asked if they met his
approbation. Roger would acquiesce in whatever she thought
proper, he said; and he swallowed his coffee and jam hastily to
force down the lumps which rose in his throat every time he
remembered what was to be that afternoon. The undertakers
came in to see that all was right while he was at breakfast, and
after they were gone Roger went to the darkened chamber for
a first look at his dead father.

Hester was with him. She was very nervous this morning,
and hardly seemed capable of anything except keeping close to
Roger. She knew she would not be in the way, even in the
presence of the dead; and so she followed him, and uncovered
the white face, and cried herself a little when she saw how passionately
Roger wept, and tried to soothe him, and told him

how much his father had talked of him the last few weeks, and
how he had died in the very act of writing to him.

“The pen was in his hand, right over the words, `My dear
Roger,' Aleck said, for he found him, you know; and on the
table lay another letter, — a soiled, worn letter, which had been
wet with — with — sea-water —”

Hester was speaking with a great effort now, and Roger was
looking curiously at her.

“Whose letter was it?” he asked; and Hester replied:

“It was his,— your father's; and it came from — her — your
mother.”

With a low, suppressed scream, Roger bounded to Hester's
side, and, grasping her shoulder, said, vehemently:

“From mother, Hester, — from mother! Is she alive, as I
have sometimes dreamed? Is she? Tell me, Hester!”

The boy was greatly excited, and his eyes were like burning
coals as he eagerly questioned Hester, who answered, sadly:

“No, my poor boy! Your mother is dead, and the letter was
written years ago, just before the boat went down. Your father
must have had it all the while, though I never knew it — till —
well, not till some little while ago, when Mrs. Walter Scott was
here the last time. I overheard him telling her about it, and
when I found that yellow, stained paper on the table, I knew
in a minute it was the letter, and I kept it for you, with the
one your father had begun to write. Shall I fetch 'em now, or
will you wait till the funeral is over? I guess you better wait.”

This Roger could not do. He knew but little of his mother's
unfortunate life. He could not remember her, and all his
ideas of her had been formed from the beautiful picture in the
garret, and what Hester had told him of her. Once, when a
boy of eleven, he had asked his father what it was about his
mother, and why her picture was hidden away in the garret, and
his father had answered, sternly:

“I do not wish to talk about her, my son. She may not
have been as wicked as I at first supposed, but she disgraced
you, and did me a great wrong.”

And that was all Roger could gather from his father; while
Hester and Aleck were nearly as reticent with regard to the
dark shadow which had fallen on Millbank and its proud owner.

When, therefore, there was an opportunity of hearing directly
from the mysterious mother herself, it was not natural for Roger
to wait, even if a dozen funerals had been in progress, and he
demanded that Hester should bring him the letters at once.

“Bring them into this room. I would rather read mother's
letter here,” he said, and Hester departed to do his bidding.

She was not absent long, and when she returned she gave
into Roger's hands a fresh sheet of note-paper, which had never
been folded, together with a soiled, stained letter, which looked
as if some parts of it might have come in contact with the sea.

“Nobody knows I found this one but Aleck, and, perhaps,
you better say nothing about it,” Hester suggested, as she passed
him poor Jessie's letter, and then turned to leave the room.

Roger bolted the door after her, for he would not be disturbed
while he read these messages from the dead, — one from
the erring woman who for years had slept far down in the ocean
depths, and the other from the man who lay there in his coffin.
He took his father's first, but that was a mere nothing. It
only read:

Whose writing was it, and how came the letter to be mailed
in New York, if, as Hester had said, it had been written on
board the ill-fated “Sea-Gull”? Roger asked himself this question,
as he lingered over the unread letter, till, remembering
that the inside was the place to look for an explanation, he
turned to the first page and began to read. It was dated on
board the “Sea-Gull,” off Cape Hatteras, and began as follows:

“My Husband: — It would be mockery for me to put the
word dear before your honored name. You would not believe
I meant it, — I, who have sinned against you so deeply, and
wounded your pride so sorely. But, oh, if you knew all which
led me to what I am, I know you would pity me, even if you
condemned, for you were always kind, — too kind by far to a
wicked girl like me. But, husband, I am not as bad as you
imagine. I have left you, I know, and left my darling boy, and
he is here with me, but by no consent of mine. I tried to
escape from him. I am not going to Europe. I am on my way
to Charleston, where Lucy lives, and when I get there I shall
mail this letter to you. Every word I write will be the truth,
and you must believe it, and teach Roger to believe it, too; for
I have not sinned as you suppose, and Roger need not blush
for his mother, except that she deserted him —”

“Thank Heaven!” dropped from Roger's quivering lips, as
the suspected evil which, as he grew older, he began to fear and
shrink from, was thus swept away.

He had no doubts, no misgivings now, and his tears fell like

rain upon poor Jessie's letter, which he kissed again and again,
just as he would have kissed the dear face of the writer had it
been there beside him.

“Mother, mother!” he sobbed, “I believe you; oh, mother,
if you could have lived!”

Then he went back to the letter, the whole of which it is not
our design to give at present. It embraced the history of Jessie's
life from the days of her early girlhood up to that night
when she left her husband's home, and closed with the words:

“I do not ask you to take me back. I know that can never
be; but I want you to think as kindly of me as you can, and
when you feel that you have fully forgiven me, show this letter
to Roger, if he is old enough to understand it. Tell him to forgive
me, and give him this lock of his mother's hair. Heaven
bless and keep my little boy, and grant that he may be a comfort
to you and grow up a good and noble man.”

The lock of hair, which was enclosed in a separate bit of
paper, had dropped upon the carpet, where Roger found it, his
heart swelling in his throat as he opened the paper and held
upon his finger the coil of golden hair. It was very long, and
curled still with a persistency which Mrs. Walter Scott, with all
her papers, could never hope to attain; but the softness and
brightness were gone, and it clung to Roger's finger, a streaked,
faded tress, but inexpressibly dear to him for the sake of her
who sued so piteously for his own and his father's forgiveness.

“When you feel that you have fully forgiven me, show this
letter to Roger, if he is old enough to understand it.”

Roger read this sentence over again, and drew therefrom this
inference. The letter had never been shown to him, therefore
the writer had not been forgiven by the dead man, whose face,
even in the coffin, wore the stern, inflexible look which Roger
always remembered to have seen upon it. 'Squire Irving had
been very reserved, and very unforgiving too. He could not
easily forget an injury to himself, and that he had not forgiven
Jessie's sin was proved by the fact that he had never given
the letter to his son, who, for a moment, felt himself growing

hard and indignant toward one who could hold out against the
sweet, piteous pleadings in that letter from poor, unfortunate
Jessie.

“But I forgive you, mother; I believe you innocent. I
bless and revere your memory, my poor, poor, lost mother!”
Roger sobbed, as he kissed the faded curl and kissed the sea-stained
letter.

He knew now how it came to be mailed in New York,
and shuddered as he read again the postscript, written by a
stranger, who said that a few hours after Jessie's letter was finished,
a fire had broken out and spread so rapidly that all communication
with the life-boats was cut off, and escape seemed
impossible; that in the moment of peril Jessie had come to him
with the letter, which she asked him to take, and if he escaped
alive, to send to Millbank with the news of her death. She
also wished him to add that, so far as he was concerned, what
she had written was true; which he accordingly did, as he could
“not do otherwise than obey the commands of one so lovely as
Mrs. Irving.”

“Curse him; curse that man!” Roger said, between his
teeth, as he read the unfeeling lines; and then, in fancy, he saw
the dreadful scene: the burning ship, the fearful agony of the
doomed passengers, while amid it all his mother's golden hair,
and white, beautiful face appeared, as she stood before her betrayer,
and charged him to send her dying message to Millbank
if he escaped and she did not.

It was an hour from the time Roger entered the room before
he went out, and in that hour he seemed to himself to have
grown older by years than he was before he knew so much of
his mother and had read her benediction.

“She was pure and good, let others believe as they may, and
I will honor her memory and try to be what I know she would
like to have me,” he said to Hester when he met her alone,
and she asked him what he had learned of his mother.

Hester had read the letter when she found it. It was not in
her nature to refrain, and she, too, had fully exonerated Jessie

and cursed the man who had followed her, even to her husband's
side, with his alluring words. But she would rather that
Roger should not know of the liberty she had taken, and so
she said nothing of having read the letter first, especially as
he did not offer to show it to her. There was a clause in what
the bad man had written which might be construed into a doubt
of some portions of Jessie's story, and Roger understood it;
and, while it only deepened his hatred of the man, instead of
shaking his confidence in his mother, he resolved that no eye
but his own should ever see the whole of that letter. But he
showed Hester the curl of hair, and asked if it was like his
mother's; and then, drawing her into the library, questioned
her minutely with regard to the past. And Hester told him all
she thought best of his mother's life at Millbank; — of the scene
in the bridal chamber, when she wept so piteously and said, “I
did not want to come here;” — of the deep sadness in her
beautiful face, which nothing could efface; — of her utter indifference
to the homage paid her by the people of Belvidere, or
the costly presents heaped upon her by her husband.

“She was always kind and attentive to him,” Hester said;
“but she kept out of his way as much as possible, and I've
seen her shiver and turn white about the mouth if he just laid
his hand on her in a kind of lovin' way, you know, as old men
will have toward their young wives. When she was expectin'
you, it was a study to see her sittin' for hours and hours in her
own room, lookin' straight into the fire, with her hands clinched
in her lap, and her eyes so sad and cryin' like —”

“Didn't mother want me born?” Roger asked with quivering
lips; and Hester answered, —

“At first I don't think she did. She was a young girlish
thing; but, after you came, all that passed, and she just lived
for you till that unlucky trip to Saratoga, when she was never
like herself again.”

“You were with her, Hester. Did you see him?”

“I was there only a few days, and you was took sick. The
air or something didn't agree with you, and I fetched you home.

Your father was more anxious for me to do that than she was.
No, I didn't see him to know him. Your mother drew a crowd
around her and he might have been in it, but I never seen him.”

There was a call for Roger, and, hiding his mother's letter in
a private drawer of the writing-desk, he went out to meet the
gentlemen who were to take charge of his father's funeral.