"There now, my good woman, you have hugged the boy enough," said Mr. Woodyard; "you have kissed my hand, and the young man's; and the next thing is to put the child to bed, and keep him there for the next three days. I will see that he is taken care of; but mind you don't give him any of your neighbours' hens, or hares, or partridges; not because he or his stomach would care a straw whether they were stolen or not; but because he must not eat animal food, however it is come by."
"Mayn't I take him up to my own people?" asked the woman, with an anxious look.
"Why! you lawless baggage, would you kill the child?" exclaimed the surgeon, fiercely. "I tell you that he has been tossed by a bull, had a severe shock to his whole system, has got his shoulder dislocated, requires perfect quiet and careful attendance, cool food, and an equable temperature, to prevent inflammation; and you talk of taking him up to a set of jolly beggars, in rotten tents, to sleep upon the ground, drink gin, and be stuffed with stolen poultry. You must be mad to think of such a thing; or not his mother at all; which I have a notion is the case, for he's as white as you are dingy."
The woman looked at him gravely for a moment, and shook her head with a gesture of deep feeling, saying, as she laid her hand upon her heart, "It matters little what you think; I feel that I am his mother. But will the gentlefolks let him bide here?"
"Here come some of them, and they can answer for themselves," answered the surgeon, pointing to the cottage window, before which General Tracy and his eldest niece were passing, on their way to the door.
"Well, Doctor, what is the state of the case?" asked the old officer, as he came in; "how is the poor boy?"
"A dislocated shoulder and a good shake," replied the surgeon, abruptly; "only a proper punishment for a mite like that trying to frighten a bull from goring an obstinate old man, who will go through a field where an animal known to be vicious is roaming at large. I hope, with all my heart, that some of your bones are broken."
"Your hopes are vain, Doctor," said Walter Tracy: "all my bones are as sound as ever they were: only a little soreness of my back, where the cursed beast struck me."
"Ay, you will have lumbar abscess," said the surgeon; "and a good thing too. But the imp must be put to bed. Here is his yellow-faced mother wants to carry him off to her filthy tents, where he would be dead in three days."
"That must not be," said General Tracy. "So you are his mother, my good woman. I am glad you have come down, for I want to speak with you."
"Let the boy be put to bed first, before you begin gossiping," cried Mr. Woodyard; "you can say all you have to say after. Here, young man, take his things off; though there is not much to take. His trousers and shoes are all that is needful; for as to a shirt, there is none to dispose of."
"Well, what of that?" cried the gipsey woman, sharply. "I suppose you had not a shirt on when you were born."
"No, indeed," answered Mr. Woodyard, gravely. "What you say is very true. Naked we came into the world, and naked shall we go out of it; so that it does not much matter whether we have shirts on while we are here or not. Nevertheless, I will send him up something of the kind from our school in the village; for I have somehow a notion, perhaps erroneous, that he will be more comfortable when he has got some clean calico about him."
"I don't think it," replied his mother; "he never had such a thing in his life."
"Well, we'll try it, at all events," returned Mr. Woodyard. "But now let us have quiet, and obey orders."
The boy was accordingly undressed, and placed in the gardener's bed; and then, while the surgeon looked him all over, to ascertain that there was no other injury, General Tracy took the gipsey woman to the door of the cottage, and spoke to her for several minutes in a low tone. His words brought the tears into her eyes, and the nature of them may be derived from her reply.
"God bless you, gentleman," she said. "I dare say, to be rich, and well brought up, and sleep in houses, and all that, is very nice when one is accustomed to it, and better than our way of doing; but for my part I should not half like it for myself. It is very kind of you, however; and as to the boy, I suppose it is for his good. But I can't part with him altogether. I must see him when I like. And if after he has tried both, he likes our sort of life better than yours, he must come away with me."
"Let him give it a fair trial, though," said General Tracy. "He is a brave little fellow, with a heart like a lion. I look upon it that in reality he saved my life; for if the bull had not run at him, it would have gored me as I lay; and therefore I wish to do for him what I can. He shall have a fair education, if you leave him with me; and I will at once settle upon him what will put him above want. Of course, I never think of preventing you from seeing your own child; but you must promise me not to try to persuade him that your wandering life is better than that which he will have an opportunity of following. Deal fairly with the boy; let him judge for himself, and pursue his own inclinations."
"That I will promise," answered the woman, in a decided tone; "for what will make him happiest, will make me happiest."
"Then go at once and talk to his father about it," continued General Tracy; "let him promise the same thing, and all the rest will soon be settled."
"His father!" said the woman, with a sad and bitter laugh. "I wonder where I should find his father? No, no, gentleman, there is no one to be talked to about it but myself, Sally Stanley. He has never known what it is to have a father, and his mother has been all to him."
When, after a few more words, they went back into the cottage again, they found Emily Tracy sitting by the boy's bedside, and holding his hand in hers, with the little face turned sparkling up to her beautiful countenance, while with a smile at his eagerness she told him some childish story, to engage his attention during the time that Mr. Woodyard was employed in examining his spine. The gipsey woman gazed at the two for a moment in silence; then, creeping up to the young lady's side, she knelt down, and, with her favourite mode of expressing thankfulness, kissed her hand. "I am sorry I said what I did this morning," she whispered. "May God avert it!"
Emily started, and gazed on her earnestly. She had not suffered the woman's angry words of the morning to weigh upon her mind in the least. She had regarded them merely as a burst of impotent rage, and never fancied that Sally Stanley had attached any importance to them herself. But what she now said had a totally different effect. Emily saw by her look and manner that the woman really believed in the dark prophecy she had uttered; and there is something in strong conviction which carries weight with it to others, as well as to those who feel it. Emily was troubled, and for an instant did not reply. At length she said, sweetly, "Never mind, my good woman. Forget it, as I shall do. But do not give way to anger again towards those who have no intention of offending you. I trust your little boy will soon be well; and I am sure my uncle will reward him for so bravely seeking to defend him at the risk of his own life."
"God bless you, and him too!" said the gipsey woman. "There is no fear of my boy. He will do well enough. I knew he would meet with some harm when he went out in the morning; but I knew too that it would not be death, and would end in his good. So I only warned him to be careful, and let him go."
All the woman's words were painful to Emily Tracy; for there is a germ of superstition in every heart; and, in spite of good sense and every effort of reason, a dull sort of apprehension sprang up in her bosom regarding the bitter announcement which had been made as to her future fate. Its very improbability--its want of all likelihood in her station and position, seemed but to render more strange the woman's evident belief that such an event as her marriage with a felon would actually take place. That the very idea should enter into her mind had something of the marvellous in it, and easily excited those feelings of wonder which are strongly akin to superstition.
Emily did not like to let her thoughts dwell upon the subject; and after telling her tale out to the boy, and making some arrangements with the housekeeper, who came down at the moment, so as to ensure that the little fellow should have the attendance of some woman, she thanked Chandos in graceful terms for the gallant assistance he had rendered in the morning, and proposed to her uncle that they should return home.
Emily remained grave and thoughtful, however, during the whole day, and Rose was also very much less gay than ordinary; so that when Mr. Tracy, who had been out all the morning on business, returned towards dinner time, he found the party who had left him a few hours before as cheerful as a mountain stream, more dull than perhaps he had ever seen it.
Before dinner but little time was given for narrative, and at dinner a guest was added to the party who has been mentioned incidentally once before. This was the young clergyman of Northferry, a man of about eight and twenty years of age, but who had been the incumbent of the parish only three or four months. Mr. Fleming was always a welcome visitor at Mr. Tracy's house, it must be said to all parties. It was not indeed because he was Honourable as well as Reverend; but because few men were better calculated to win regard as well as esteem. Handsome in person, there was a sort of harmony in his calling, his manners, and his appearance, which was wonderfully pleasing. Mild and engaging in demeanour, he was cheerful, though not perhaps gay; never checking mirth in others, though giving but moderate way to it himself. Yet his conversation, though quiet and calm, was so rich with the stores of thought, that it was brilliant without effort, and light even in its seriousness. Perhaps no man was ever so well fitted for the profession which he had chosen; but I must not be mistaken, I mean well fitted both as regarded his own destiny and that of others. In the first place he loved it, and in the next he estimated it justly. He was an aristocrat by family and by conviction; and he regarded an hierarchy in the church as the only means of maintaining order and discipline therein, of stimulating to high exertion every member, and checking every tendency to neglect or misconduct. He had not the slightest touch of the democratic tendencies usually attributed to what is called the low church, but yet he had neither pride with him nor ambition. He was perfectly contented with a small rectory of four hundred a-year, with a congregation generally poor, and no prospect either of display or advancement. His private fortune was sufficient, not large; but it was enough with his stipend to maintain him in the rank in which he was born, and he asked no more. Had a bishopric been offered to him, he would certainly have refused it. In the next place he had little vanity, and detested eloquent sermons. He sought to convince and instruct, and belaboured night and day to qualify himself for those tasks; but his language was as simple as his mind. If a figure would now and then find place, it was because it sprung naturally from a rich imagination, and was so clear, so forcible, so just, that, like the rest of his discourses, there was no mistaking in the least what he advanced. He never tried to enlist the fancy, and seldom to engage the feelings of his hearers on his side. The latter he regarded as engines, to be used only on great occasions, in order to carry convictions into active effect; and he spared them purposely, feeling that he had within the power of rousing them when it might be necessary, and could do so more surely by rousing them rarely. Then he was a charitable man in the enlarged, but not the licentious sense of the word. He had vast toleration for the opinions of others, though he was firm and steadfast in the support of his own. Thus anger at false views never even in the least degree came to diminish the efficacy of his support of just ones. He fearlessly stated, fearlessly defended his own principles, but never disputed, and was silent as soon as a quibble or a jest took the place of argument. There was moreover a truth, a sincerity, an uprightness in his whole dealings and his whole demeanour, which had a powerful influence upon all who knew him. To every man but the most vain it became a natural question--"If one so vigorous in mind, so learned, and so wise, is thus deeply impressed with the truth of opinions different to my own, is there not good cause for re-examining the grounds of those I entertain?" And thus his arguments obtained more fair consideration than vanity generally allows to the views of those who oppose us.
Even General Tracy, who differed with him profoundly, always listened with respect, seldom indeed entered into discussion with him, and never disputed. Not that he altogether feared the combat, for such was not the case; nor that he was convinced entirely, for he still held out on many points; but because he was thoroughly impressed with a belief of his young friend's reasonable sincerity, and reverenced it. Besides, General Tracy was a gentleman; and no gentleman ever, without a worthy object, assails opinions which another is professionally bound to sustain.
Such was the guest then at Mr. Tracy's dinner table; and there, as soon as the first sharp edge of appetite was taken off, the adventures of the morning were once more spoken of, and General Tracy, in a strain half serious, half playful, recounted the dangers which he and his nieces had encountered. The young clergyman's eyes instantly sought the face of Emily Tracy with a look of anxiety. He did not look to Rose also, which was not altogether right perhaps; at all events, not altogether equitable, for both had run the same risk.
"Well," continued Walter Tracy, "Emily ran and Rose ran; but I thought it beyond the dignity of my profession to run before a single enemy, though he was defended by a horn-work--perhaps lumbago had to do with it as well as dignity, if the truth must be told. But our worthy friend soon applied a cataplasm to my lumbago more effectual than any of Sandy Woodyard's; for in two minutes I was sprawling. Master Bull then thought he might as well take room for a rush, and ran back five or six steps to gore me the more vigorously; when suddenly a new combatant appeared in the field, in the shape of a little urchin, not so high as my hip, who made at the enemy with all sorts of shrieks and screams, so that if the beast did not think it was the devil come to my rescue, I did. But the poor boy fared ill for his pains; for just as I was scrambling up, I saw something in the air, small and black, with a great many legs and arms flying about in all directions, just like a spider in a web between two cabbages; and down came the poor child, with a fall which I thought must have dashed his brains out."
"Good Heaven!" cried Mr. Tracy, "was he hurt? Was he not killed?"
"Hurt, he certainly was," answered his brother; "and killed most likely, both he and I would have been, but--as in the story of Camaralzaman, which some heathen of the present day has changed into Kummer al Zemaun, or some other horrible name, violating all the associations of our childhood, the true temple of Cybele to the heart--no sooner was one army disposed of than another appeared. Up ran a man with a stick in his hand, a stout, tall, powerful country fellow, in a fustian jacket; (Rose held down her head and smiled, without any one remarking her;) and, seizing our friend the bull by the tail, thrashed him for some five minutes in a most scientific manner. He must have been used to belabouring bulls all his life, like a Spanishmatador; for nothing but long practice would have made him so proficient in an art not very easy to exercise. Rose, my flower, what are you laughing at?"
"I think it was enough to make any one laugh," answered Rose, "to see how foolish the representative of our nation looked while he was receiving such a cudgelling. I was too frightened to laugh then, my dear uncle; but here, by the side of this table, I can enjoy the joke at my ease."
"It was no joke then, indeed," said General Tracy; "for it was a matter of life and death between the brave lad and the bull. He had no resource in the end, however, but to hamstring him, which he also did most scientifically; and I believe that more than one of us has to thank him for being here at this moment. It turned out that the man was your new gardener, Arthur; and we must really see what can be done for him. As to the gallant little gipsey boy, I have taken care of him myself, and will provide for him."
This last announcement roused curiosity, and brought on explanations, in the course of which a good deal of what has been already told was detailed, with several other particulars which have not seemed necessary to relate.
"And did the woman really seem doubtful as to whether she should accept your offer or not?" asked Mr. Tracy.
"Yes, she did," replied his brother. "And I am not quite sure that she was not in the right. It is a very moot point with me, brother Arthur, whether civilization tends to the happiness of the individual, whatever it may do for society in general. When I offered what I did, I thought, not that I was doing the boy a favour, for a man never does another a favour; but that I was showing my gratitude for his self-devotion and the real service he had rendered me, when I proposed to put him in a position which I myself from my prejudices valued; but when I came to consider the woman's doubts, I began to inquire, and to doubt also, whether he would be happier in the one state than the other."
"You proposed to give him a good education," said the young clergyman; "and if you did so, he would assuredly be happier; for he would be wiser and better."
"And yet, 'Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise,'" replied General Tracy.
"Ignorance of evil, granted," answered Fleming. "But could that be assured to him in the life he was likely to lead? Can it be assured to any man in any course? I think not."
"Perhaps not," answered Walter Tracy; "but yet I have many doubts, my young friend, whether the amount of evils of any kind is greater or less (to the individual) in a civilized or uncivilized state of society. These gipsies, were it not their misfortune to be placed amongst nations in a different condition to themselves, would be one of the happiest races on the face of the earth. Nomadic from their very origin, they would wander about hither and thither, feeding their sheep, or their cattle, or their horses, and pilfering a little. I dare say, from their neighbours, if they had any; but where the rights of property are very ill defined, a little pilfering is not very evil in its consequences; and with a thin population there is no opportunity of carrying it on to a great extent. Besides, I believe, that almost all the bad qualities of the gipsey proceed from his position. His hand is against every man's, because every man's hand is against him. He is a wanderer amongst settled tribes; a stern adherer to his ancient forms, amongst a people whose only constancy is that of a cat to the house in which it is kittened; a despiser of the civilization which, as he has constant proof before his eyes, does not make those who are blessed (or cursed) with it a bit more wise, merry, or virtuous than himself. It is very natural, therefore, that he should despise the institutions and dislike the men, amongst whom he is so located only for a short time. For my part, I only think it wonderful, that these good people do not commit more crimes than they do; and that our purses and our lives are not taken, instead of our poultry, and the lives of our ducks and geese. I begin almost to think it a sin and a shame to withdraw that bold boy from his freedom amongst hedges and ditches, to poke him into a dull, fusty school; and to cut him off from those blessings, of which he has learned the value and tasted the enjoyment."
Mr. Fleming smiled. "If the mother were really doubtful," he said, "it would be very easy for you, my dear Sir, to remedy the error you regret. But I cannot help thinking, that for the sake of the jest, you are taking a much narrower view of such questions than your mind would otherwise lead you to. You seem, General, to consider the individual as only born for the individual. But let me ask you, Is he not placed here for much more than that? I would not push my notion, on the subject to any of the extreme lengths which some of the gentlemen who have called themselves philosophers have done. I do not look upon man merely as a part of a great machine, one of the wheels or pulleys, or cogs, of the instrument called society, and that he is bound to regulate all his thoughts, feelings, and actions by one precise rule, for the benefit of the country in which he lives, or even for the more extended fellowship called society. There is a certain degree of individual liberty, surely, due to all men; and, to a certain point, they have a right to consult their own happiness, even by indulging their whims and caprices, provided they are not detrimental to others. The Spartan code and the Prussian system to me both equally tending to take from man many of his highest qualities and rights; but still, to a certain degree, man is bound to his fellow-man, as well as to God. I say,as well as to God, because I know that there are some persons who may not see that the one duty is a consequence of the other. But I fear I am preaching out of the pulpit," he continued, with a laugh; "and I must be forgiven as for an infirmity. The habit of preaching, I fear, is a very encroaching one, which, with the authority that the calling of teacher gives, renders many of us somewhat domineering in society."
"No one can say that of you," answered Walter Tracy, "But I must defend myself. I was certainly speaking of the boy's individual happiness, not of his duty to society."
"Can the two be separated?" asked Horace Fleming, in a thoughtful tone. "I have always myself considered that the greatest amount of happiness on earth, is only to be obtained by the performance of all duties. I should be sorry to part with that conviction."
"I doubt not it is just," answered General Tracy gravely; "and I would not seek to take it from you even if I did; for it is a pleasant one, and a most useful one. But I will only remark in passing, that the most difficult of all points in ethics, is to define what duties are. So many of those things that we call duties are but conventional opinions, that I fear a rigid scrutator of the world's code of obligations would soon strip moral philosophy very bare. As to society itself, its rules are very much like the common law of England; a code of maxims accumulated during centuries, by different races, and under different circumstances, often contradictory, often absurd, continually cruel, frequently unjust and iniquitous in practice, even when theoretically right, and yet cried up by those who gain by them as the perfection of human wisdom, to which all men must submit their acts, and most men do submit their reason. Of one thing I am very certain, that the aims and objects of society at present, the tendencies which it encourages, and the rewards which it holds out, are all opposed most strongly not only to that end which it professes to seek, but to that religion the excellence of which you are not one to deny--nor I either, be it remarked. Its tendencies, I contend, are anything but 'to produce the greatest amount of good to the greatest number,' which philosophers declare to be its object; its result is anything but to produce 'peace and goodwill amongst men,' which is the grand purpose of the Christian religion."
Mr. Fleming was silent; for he felt that, though he differed in some degree, there was a certain amount of truth in the assertion. But Mr. Tracy exclaimed, "I do not understand you, Walter. In what respect does society so terribly fail?"
"In a thousand," answered General Tracy, abruptly.
"But an instance, but an instance," said his brother.
"Look around," replied the other; "do you not see, wherever you turn, even in this very land of ours, which is not the worst country in the world, that wealth gives undue power? that it is not the man who labours in any trade who gains the reward of industry? that the produce of labour is not fairly divided between the labourer and the wealthy man who employs him? that the laws which regulate that division are framed by the wealthy? and that an inordinate authority has fallen into the hands of riches, which keeps the poor man from his rights, drowns his voice in the senate, frustrates his efforts in the market, defeats his resistance to oppression, whether it take a lawful or unlawful form?"
"Pooh, pooh, Walter," replied Mr. Tracy; "this is all an affair of legislation and political economy, and has nothing to do with society."
"All laws spring from the state of society in which they are formed, brother," replied Walter Tracy; "and political economy is but the theory of certain dealings between man and man. But that society must be a fearful and iniquitous conspiracy where a few are rolling in riches, living in luxury, and rioting in idle wantonness, upon the produce of other men's labour who are suffering all the ills of extreme poverty, if not actually perishing for want. It is a gross and terrible anomaly, brother Arthur, to see the great mass of a people nearly destitute; to see many even dying of starvation; to see the honest and the industrious man unable, by the devotion of his whole time, and the exertion of all his energies, to obtain sufficient food for his family;--and yet to see enormous wealth, which, if the fruits of labour were fairly divided, would feed whole provinces of artizans, accumulating in the hands of a few men supported entirely by the labour of others. It is, I say, a gross and terrible anomaly; and it will bring its curse sooner or later."
"But you surely would not advocate an agrarian law," said Mr. Fleming. "That chimera has been slain a thousand times."
"Far from it!" exclaimed the old officer. "I would touch none of what are called the rights of property; but I would drive to the winds that most absurd of all false pretences, invented by the rich for the purpose of oppressing the poor; namely, that it is wrong and dangerous to interfere between master and workman. I contend, that instead of wrong and dangerous, it is right and safe; it is just and necessary. It is right to defend the weak against the strong; it is safe to ensure that despair does not give overwhelming vigour to the weak. But the question is not, what I would do. I was asked for an instance of the evils of the society in which we live. I have given you one, Arthur; but if that does not suit you, I could give a thousand others. I could show how that society, of which you are so fond, is wicked and iniquitous in every different direction, towards the rich as well as the poor; how it encourages vice and depresses virtue; how it leagues with crime and scouts honesty. I could point to the same course pursued towards man, and more especially towards woman."
"Let us run away, dear uncle," cried Rose, "before we are brought upon the carpet. I am of an excessively rebellious disposition, as you well know; and I am afraid if I hear any more of such doctrines, I shall revolt against the powers that be."
"The revolt of the roses!" cried her uncle, laughing; and very glad to change the subject, though it was a hobby. "Heaven forbid such a catastrophe amongst the flowers! But who would you revolt against, my Rose? Against the gardener, eh?" and he looked shrewdly from her to Emily, who smiled also. Rose coloured more than the occasion seemed to warrant; but Mr. Tracy, who was not in the secret of the gipsey's prophecy, joined in with high praises of his new gardener's science and taste.
"He is a stout, good-looking, courageous fellow, as ever lived," said General Tracy. "Pray, where did you pick him up, Arthur? He is not from this part of the country, I should imagine, by his tone and manners; for we are not the most polished, either in demeanour or language."
"He came to apply this morning," answered Mr. Tracy; "and brought high testimonials both of skill and character, from Roberts, the steward of Sir Harry Winslow, who is dead, you know. I suppose he has served over at Elmsly Park, though I never thought of inquiring; for I was so much pleased with him, in every respect, that I engaged him at once."
"Upon my word, things are going on very favourably, Rose," whispered General Tracy to his niece, in good-humoured malice. "Few sons-in-law are received with such prepossessions." But he suddenly perceived that Rose's fair face bore a look of much distress, and stopped at once in his career of raillery, though not without some surprise.
A pause ensued, only interrupted by Mr. Tracy drinking wine with the young clergyman, and a few quiet words between Fleming and Emily; and then Rose Tracy asked, with a sort of effort, "How long has Sir Harry Winslow been dead, papa?"
"I only heard of it yesterday," replied Mr. Tracy. "The funeral is to take place the day after to-morrow, I hear."
"He was a very singular man, was he not?" inquired the young lady.
"Very," answered her father, laconically; "and by no means a good one. I knew little of him, never having met him but twice, and then on county business. But his haughtiness was insufferable, and his manners like ice."
"Perhaps," said Mr. Fleming, "he knew that he was not liked or respected. For I have often remarked that men who have placed themselves in a position which prevents others from desiring their society, affect to reject that which they cannot obtain."
"The fox and the grapes," said Emily, with a smile.
"As old as Æsop!" remarked her uncle; and there the conversation on that head dropped. Soon after, the dinner came to an end, and the whole party returned to the drawing-room. Mr. Fleming asked Emily to sing, and seemed delighted with the sound of her voice. General Tracy sat beside Rose and teazed her; but not about the gardener any more. And Rose, after having been very thoughtful for some time, suddenly resumed all her good spirits, sung with her sister, laughed with her uncle, played a game at chess with her father, and was beat with perfect good humour. But on the following morning when General Tracy asked her, before breakfast, to go down with him to the cottage to see the gipsey boy, she at first made some objection. They were alone. "My dear Rose," said her uncle, "this is nonsense. You do not suppose for one moment, that though I might joke you on that silly woman's prophecy, I could think it would have the least effect upon your mind."
"Oh dear, no!" answered Rose, "I am not so foolish as that, dear uncle; and if it will give you any pleasure, I will go. But the gardener has nothing to do with it," she added with a gay smile; "for I happen to know he is not there, and does not take possession for some days. My maid told me so this morning, without my asking any questions; so your wicked smile has no point:" and away they went to the cottage.
A fine, tall, broad-fronted house, massy in architecture, and placed upon a commanding height, in a beautiful park, had all the window-shutters closed along the principal façade, though a number of people going in and coming out showed that it was not empty. There was no attempt at decoration to be seen in the building. All was plain, solid, and severe. Some dark pines on either hand harmonized with the sternness of the mansion; and the brown oaks and beeches behind carried off the lines to the wavy hills above. Everything was neat and in good order around; the trees carefully confined to their exact proportions near the house, the lawns close mowed, the gravel walks free from the least intrusive weed. The gardens, with their long lines of green and hot houses, showed care and expense; and from a distance one would have supposed that the whole open ground of the park had been lately subject to the scythe, so smooth and trim did everything look.
Within was death.
In the state drawing-room, with crimson curtains sweeping down, and panelling of white and gold, upon a rich Axminster carpet, and surrounded by furniture of the most gorgeous kind, stood the dull trestles, bearing the moral of all--the coffin and the pall: splendour and ostentation and luxury without; death and foulness and corruption within. It was a still homily.
The library adjoining was crowded with gentlemen in black--they called it mourning--and they were eating and drinking cake and wine. Why should they not?--They would have done the same at a wedding. A little beautiful spaniel stood upon his hind legs to one of the mourners for a bit of cake. It was thrown to him; the dog caught it, and themournerslaughed. It was all very well.
Suddenly, however, they put on graver faces. Heaven! what a machine of falsehood is the face! The tongue may lie now and then--the face lies every minute. There was a little bustle at the door, and several of those near made way, speaking a few words to a young gentleman who entered, clothed, like the rest, in black, but with mourning written on his face. Where have we seen that face before? Is it Chandos? Surely it is. But yet how different is the air and manner; with what grave, sad dignity he passes on towards the spot at the other side of the room where Roberts, the steward, is standing, unconscious of his entrance! And who is that who stops him now, and shakes hands with him warmly, yet with a timid, half-averted eye--that pale young man with the waving fair hair around his forehead? Hark! Chandos answers him. "Well, quite well, Faber, I thank you. I have not been far distant; but I must speak to Roberts for a moment, and then," he added, slowly and solemnly, "I must go into the next room."
"You had better not, Sir," said Mr. Faber, the late Sir Harry Winslow's secretary, speaking in a low, imploring tone; "indeed you had better not."
"Do not be afraid, Faber," replied Chandos, "I have more command over myself now. I was too impetuous then. I was rash and hasty. Now I am calm; and nothing on earth would provoke me again to say one angry word. I shall ever be glad to hear of you, Faber; and you must write to me. Address your letters to the care of Roberts; he will be able to forward them."
He was then moving on; but the young man detained him by the hand, saying, in a whisper, "Oh, think better of it, Chandos. Be reconciled to him."
"That may be whenever he seeks reconciliation," answered Chandos; "but it will make no difference in my purposes. I will never be his dependent, Faber; for I know well what it is to be so."
Thus saying, he turned away, and spoke a few words to the steward; after which, with a slow but steady step, he walked towards the door leading to the great drawing-room, opened it, and passed through. Many an eye watched him till the door was closed; and then the funeral guests murmured together, talking over his character and history. In the meantime he advanced through the drawing-room, and stood by the coffin of his father. Then slowly inclining his head to two men who stood at the opposite door, he bade them leave him for a moment. They instantly obeyed; and Chandos knelt down and prayed, with one hand resting on the pall. In a minute or two he heard a step coming, and rose; but did not quit the room, remaining by the side of the coffin, with his tall head bowed down, and a tear in his eyes. The next instant the opposite door opened quickly and sharply, and a man of two or three and thirty entered, bearing a strong family likeness to him who already stood there, but shorter, stouter, and less graceful. Though the features were like those of Chandos, yet there was a great difference of expression--the fierce, keen, eager eye, with its small, contracted pupil, the firm set teeth, and the curl at the corner of the mouth, all gave a look of bitterness and irritability from which the face of the other was quite free.
The moment the new comer's eyes rested on Chandos, the habitual expression grew more intense, deepening into malevolence, and he exclaimed, "You here, Sir!"
"Yes, I am, Sir William Winslow," answered the younger man. "You did not surely expect me to be absent from my father's funeral!"
"One never knows what to expect from you or of you," replied his brother. "I doubt not, you have really come for the purpose of insulting me again."
"Far from it," replied Chandos, calmly. "I came to pay the last duty to my parent; to insult no one. It is but for a few hours that we shall be together, Sir William: let us for that time forget everything but that we are the sons of the same father and mother; and by the side of this coffin lay aside, at least for the time, all feelings of animosity."
"Very well for you to talk of forgetting," answered Sir William Winslow, bitterly. "I do not forget so easily, Sir. The sons of the same father and mother!--Well, it is so, and strange, too."
"Hush! hush!" cried Chandos, waving his hand with an indignant look; and, not knowing what would be uttered next, he turned quickly away, and left the room.
"Oh, he runs," said Sir William Winslow, whose face was flushed, and his brow knit. "But he shall hear more of my mind before he goes. He said before them all that he would never consent to be dependent on one who was a tyrant in everything--to my servants--even to my dogs. Was that not an insult?--I will make him eat those words as soon as the funeral is over, or he shall learn that I can and will exercise the power my father left me to the uttermost. It was the wisest thing he ever did to enable me to tame this proud spirit. Oh, I will bring it down!--Sons of the same father and mother! On my life, if it were not for the likeness, I should think he was a changeling. But he is like--very like; and like my mother, too. It is from her that he takes that obstinate spirit which he thinks so fine, and calls resolution."
As he thus thought, his eyes fell upon the coffin; and he felt a little ashamed. There is a still, calm power in the presence of the dead which rebukes wrath; and Sir William Winslow looked down upon the pall, and thought of what was beneath with feelings that he did not like to indulge, but could not altogether conquer. He was spared a struggle with them, however; for a minute had hardly passed after Chandos had left him, when a servant came in, and advanced to whisper a word in his master's ear.
"Well, I am ready," replied Sir William, "quite ready. Where are all the carriages? I do not see them."
"They have been taken into the back court," said the man.
"Well, then, I am quite ready," repeated the baronet, and retired, but not by the door which led to the room where the guests were assembled.
Half an hour passed in the gloomy preparations for the funeral march. The callous assistants of the undertaker went about their task with the usual studied gravity of aspect, and, at heart, the cold indifference of habit to all the fearful realities which lay hid under the pageantry which their own hands had prepared out of plumes and tinsel, and velvet and silk. Then came the display of hearse and mutes and plume-bearers, and the long line of carriages following with the mourners, who were only in the mercenary point better than the hired mourners of more ancient days. And the people of the village came out to stare at the fine sight; and amongst the young, some vague indefinite notion of there being something solemn and awful under all that decoration might prevail; but with the great multitude it was but a stage-procession.
None thought of what it is to lay the flesh of man amongst the worms, when the spirit has winged its flight away where no man knoweth.
To one person, indeed, amongst those who were carried along after the corpse, the whole was full of awe. He knew that his father had lived as if the world were all: he knew not if he had died in the hope of another; and the lessons early implanted in his heart by a mother's voice, made that consideration a terrible one for him. Then, too, the gaping crowd was painful to him. And oh, what he felt when the little village boys ran along laughing and pointing by the side of the funeral train!
They reached the gates of the churchyard, which was wide and well tenanted; and there the coffin had to be taken out, and Chandos stood side by side with his brother. Neither spoke to, neither looked at, the other. It was a terrible thing to behold that want of sympathy between two so nearly allied at the funeral of a father; but the eye that most marked it, saw that the one was full of deep and sorrowful thoughts, the other of fierce and angry passions.
The moment after, rose upon the air, pronounced by the powerful voice of the village curate, those words of bright but awful hope, "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord, he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die." That solemn and impressive service, the most beautiful and appropriate, the most elevating, yet the most subduing that ever was composed--the burial office of the English church--proceeded; and Chandos Winslow lost himself completely in the ideas that it awakened. But little manifested were many of those ideas, it is true; but they were only on that account the more absorbing; and when the words, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life," sounded in his ears, a shudder passed over him as he asked himself--"Had he such a hope?"
Most different were the feelings of the man who stood by his side. The customs of the world, the habits of good society put a restraint upon him; but, with a strange perversion of the true meaning of the words he heard, and a false application of them to his own circumstances, he fancied that he was virtuous and religious when he refrained, even there, from venting his anger in any shape upon its object; and heard the sentences of the Psalmist, as a. sort of laudation of his own forbearance. When the clergyman read aloud: "I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle, while the ungodly is in my sight," he fancied himself a second David, and reserved his wrath for the time to come.
At length all was over; the dull shovelsfull of earth rattled upon the coffin; the last "Amen" was said; and the mourners took their way back towards the carriages, leaving the sexton to finish his work. But when Sir William Winslow had entered the coach with two other gentlemen, and the servant was about to shut the door, he put down his head, and asked in a low but fierce voice, "Where is my brother? Where is Mr. Chandos Winslow?"
"He went away, Sir William, a minute ago," replied the servant. "He took the other way on foot."
Sir William Winslow cast himself back in the seat, and set his teeth hard; but he did not utter a word to any one, till he reached Elmsly Park. His demeanour, however, was courteous to those few persons who were on sufficiently intimate terms to remain for a few minutes after his return; and to one of them he even said a few words upon the absence of his "strange brother." His was the tone of an injured man; but the gentleman to whom he spoke was not without plain, straightforward good sense; and his only reply was, "Some allowance must be made, Sir William, for your brother's modification at finding that your father has left him nothing of all his large fortune; not even the portion which fell to his mother, on the death of her uncle."
"Not, Sir, when my father desired me in his will to provide for him properly," said Sir William Winslow.
"Why, I don't know," answered the other in a careless tone. "No man likes to be dependent, or to owe to favour that which he thinks he might claim of right. I have heard, too, that you and Mr. Winslow have not been on good terms for the last four or five years; but nobody can judge of such matters but the parties concerned. I must take my leave, however; for I see my carriage, and I have far to go."
Sir William Winslow made a stiff how, and the other departed.
"Now send Roberts to me," said the heir of immense wealth, as soon as every one of his own rank was gone, speaking of his father's steward and law-agent, as if he had been a horse-boy in his stable. But the footman to whom he spoke informed him that Mr. Roberts was not in the house. Sir William Winslow fretted himself for half-an-hour, when at length it was announced that the steward had arrived. He entered with his usual calm, deliberate air; and was advancing towards the table at which the baronet sat, when the latter addressed him sharply, saying, "I told you, Mr. Roberts, that I should require to speak with you immediately after the funeral."
"I have come, Sir William," replied the other, calmly, "as soon as important business, which could not be delayed, would permit me; and I had hoped to be here by the time most convenient to you. I did not know that the gentlemen who returned with you would go so soon."
"You have kept me half-an-hour waiting, Sir," replied Sir William; "and I do not like to be kept waiting."
"I am sorry that it so occurred," answered the steward. "May I ask your commands?"
"In the first place, I wish to know, where is my brother Chandos?" said the baronet, "I saw him speaking to you in the churchyard."
"He did, Sir," replied Roberts, "and he has since been at my house. But where he now is I cannot tell you."
"Oh, he has been arranging all his affairs with you, I suppose," said Sir William Winslow, with a sneer; "and, I suppose, hearing from you of my father being supposed to have made another will."
"No, Sir William," replied the steward, perfectly undisturbed. "He did arrange some affairs with me; gave me power to receive the dividend upon the small sum in the funds, left him by Mrs. Grant, amounting to one hundred and sixty-two pounds ten, per annum; and directed me what to do with the books and furniture, left him by your father. But I did not judge it expedient to tell him at present, that I know Sir Harry did once make another will; because, as you say he burnt it afterwards, I imagined such information might only increase his disappointment, or excite hopes never likely to be realized."
"You did right," answered the baronet. "I saw my father burn it with my own eyes; and I desire that you will not mention the subject to him at all. It is my intention to let him bite at the bridle a little; and then, when his spirit is tamed, do for him what my father wished me to do. Have you any means of communicating with him?"
But Mr. Roberts was a methodical man; and he answered things in order. "In regard to mentioning the subject of the later will, Sir William," he said, "I will take advice. I am placed in a peculiar position, Sir: as your agent, I have a duty to perform to you; but as an honest man, I have also duties to perform. I know that a will five years posterior to that which has been opened, was duly executed by your father. I think you are mistaken in supposing it was burnt by him, and--."
"By him!" cried the baronet, catching at his words, "do you mean to insinuate that I burnt it?"
"Far from it, Sir William," was the reply of the steward. "I am sure you are quite incapable of such an act; and if I had just cause to believe such a thing, either you or I would not be here now. But, as I have said, my position is a peculiar one: and I would rather leave the decision of how I ought to act to others."
"You have heard my orders, Sir; and you are aware of what must be the consequence of your hesitating to obey them," rejoined the baronet, nodding his head significantly.
"Perfectly, Sir William," answered Mr. Roberts; "and that is a subject on which I wish to speak. When I gave up practice as an attorney, and undertook the office of steward or agent to your late father, I would only consent to do so under an indenture which insured me three months clear notice of the termination of my engagement with him and his heirs, &c.; during which three months I was to continue in the full exercises of all the functions specified in the document of which I beg leave to hand you a copy. This I did require for the safety of myself and of those parties with whom I might enter into engagements regarding the letting of various farms, and other matters which a new agent might think fit to overset, unless I had the power of completing legally any contracts to which your father might have consented, though in an informal manner. Your father assented, and had, I believe, no cause to regret having done so; as, without distressing the tenantry, the rental has been raised twenty-seven per cent, within the last fifteen years. Your father was pleased, Sir William, to treat me in a different manner from that which you have thought fit to use within the last week; and I therefore must beg leave to give you notice, that at the termination of three months I shall cease to be your agent. The indenture requires a written notice on either part; and therefore I shall have the honour of enclosing one this afternoon."
Sir William Winslow had listened, in silent astonishment, to his steward's words, and the first feeling was undoubtedly rage; but Mr. Roberts was sufficiently long-winded to allow reflection to come in, though not entirely to let anger go out. The baronet walked to the window, and looked out into the park. Had Mr. Roberts been in the park, he would have seen the muscles of his face working with passion; but when Sir William, after a silence of two or three minutes, turned round again, the expression was calm, though very grave.
"Do not send in the notice," he said; "take another week to consider of it, Roberts. I have had a good deal to irritate me, a good deal to excite me. I am, I know, a passionate and irritable man; but--. There, let us say no more of it at present, Roberts. We will both think better of many things."
It is wonderful how often men imagine that by acknowledging they are irritable, they justify all that irritation prompts. It affords to the male part of the sex the same universal excuse that nervousness does to so many women. I am quite sure that many a lady who finds her way into Doctors' Commons, fancies she broke the seventh commandment from pure nervousness.
Mr. Roberts was not at all satisfied that Sir William Winslow's irritability would ever take a less unpleasant form; but nevertheless, without reply, he bowed and withdrew.