Chapter 35

That night was spent in travelling, and without any sleep. Neville saw the day break in melancholy guise, struggling with the clouds, with which a southeast wind veiled the sky. Nature looked bleak and desolate, even though she was still dressed in her summer garments. It was only the latter end of August, but so changeable is our climate, that the bright festive days which he had lately enjoyed in Sussex were already followed by chill and dreary precursors of the year’s decline. Gerard reached Dromore at about noon. He learned that his father had arrived during the night—he had slept a few hours, but was already gone out; it appeared that he had ridden over to a neighbour, Mr. Ashley; for he had inquired if he were in the county, and had, with his groom, both on horseback, taken the road that led toward his house.

Neville hastily took some refreshment, while he ordered a horse to be saddled. His heart led him to seek and view a spot which he had once before visited, and which seemed accurately described in Falkner’s narrative. He left behind him the woods of Dromore, and the foldings of the green hills in which it was situated—he descended towards the barren, dreary shore—the roar of ocean soon met his ear, and he reached the waste sands that border that melancholy coast—he saw the line of sand-hills, which formed a sort of bulwark against the tide—he reached at length a rapid, yet shallow stream, which was but about twenty yards wide, flowing over a rough bottom of pebbles; the eye easily reached its utmost depth, it could not be more than two feet. Could that be the murderous, furious estuary in which his mother had been borne away? he looked across—there stood the hut—there the moss-grown, leafless oak, and gathered round it was a crowd of men. His father, and two or three other gentlemen on horseback, were stationed near—while some labourers were throwing up the sand beneath the withered trunk. When we have long thought of and grieved over an incident—if any outward object bring the image of our thoughts bodily before us, it is strange what an accession of emotion stirs the depths of the heart. For many hours Neville’s mind had dwelt upon the scene in all its parts—the wild waste sea, dark and purple beneath the lowering clouds—the dreary extent of beach—the far, stupendous mountains, thrown up in sublime, irregular grandeur, with cloud-capped peaks, and vast gulfs between—a sort of Cyclopean screen to the noble landscape, which they encompassed with their wide majestic extent—his reflections had selected the smaller objects—the river, the hut, the monumental tree; and it seemed as if actual vision could not bring it home more truly; but when he actually beheld these objects, and the very motive of his coming was revealed, as it were, by the occupation of the men at work, his young heart, unhardened by many sufferings, sickened, the tears rushed into his eyes, and the words—”Oh my mother!” burst, from his lips. It was a spasm of uncontrollable pain—an instant afterward he had mastered it, and guiding his horse through the ford, with tranquil mien, though pale and sad, he took his station abreast with his father. Sir Boyvill turned as he rode up; he manifested no surprise, but he looked thankful, and even triumphant, Gerard thought; and the young man himself, as he contemplated the glazed eyes and attenuated form of his parent, which spoke of the weight of years, despite his still upright carriage, and the stern expression of his face, felt that his right place was at his side, to render the support of his youthful strength and active faculties. The men went on with their work in silence, nor did any speak; the sand was thrown up in heaps, the horses pawed the ground impatiently, and the hollow murmurs of the neighbouring breakers filled every pause with sound, but no voice spoke; or if one of the labourers had a direction to give, it was done in whispers. At length some harder substance opposed their progress, and they worked more cautiously. Mingled with sand they threw out pieces of dark substance like cloth or silk, and at length got out of the wide long trench they had been opening. With one consent, though in silence, every one gathered nearer, and looked in—they saw a human skeleton. The action of the elements, which the sands had not been able to impede, had destroyed every vestige of a human frame, except those discoloured bones, and long tresses of dark hair, which were wound around the scull. A universal yet suppressed groan burst from all. Gerard felt inclined to leap into the grave, but the thought of the many eyes all gazing acted as a check; and a second instinctive feeling of pious reverence induced him to unfasten his large black horseman’s cloak, and to cast it over the opening. Sir Boyvill then broke the silence: “You have done well, my son: let no man lift that covering, or in any way disturb the remains beneath. Do you know, my friends, who lies there? Do you remember the night when Mrs. Neville was carried off? The country was raised, but we sought for her in vain. On that night she was murdered, and was buried here.”