When a man is dying, or just dead, it often seems, to those interested
in the matter, that he is taken off prematurely; that he leaves his life
incomplete; that his usefulness was not at an end; that he and those who
were bound to him would have been the better had he survived. Death
seems like a violence, a robbery, a wrong; and all the more wrongful a
robbery, because we are powerless to resist it or to punish it. The
mother who mourns her infant, the lover who looks on the dead face of
his mistress, the child who feels a dim horror at the unresponsive
coldness of the hand whose every touch was love, the friend who sees the
horizon of his own life darken and his pathway narrow at the grave of
his friend--to these it seems that an injury has been inflicted upon
them, the traces of which no compensation can remove.
And yet, as the mind moves forward through the succession of moods and
events that is called time, how speedily this wound of loss is healed!
Not those who nurse their grief the longest are always the ones who
loved most generously and whole-heartedly. Often there is more love of
self than love of the departed in those who refuse to be comforted.
By-and-by, as we journey on along the road of mortal existence, meeting
at every step fresh scenery and new thoughts and demands for action, and
knowing that for us there is no retreating, no pausing even; only, at
most, a profitless glance backward at scenes and occurrences whose sole
reality now is in the growth or decay which they have wrought in our
own souls; by-and-by we begin to discover that the dead have not been
left behind; that, in such measure as we truly loved them, in that
measure are they with us still, walking hand in hand with us, or shining
as guides of our forecasting thoughts, and strengthening our hearts in
dreams and secret musings. Death, which seemed so arbitrary and
reckless, is vindicated by our wiser and calmer judgment. The mortal
life that seemed cut short, is seen to have lasted out its fitting span;
more years would have been more evil and less good, more weariness and
less use. Suddenness is predicable only of material things; in the
processes and passions of the spirit there is at all times just
proportion and equable movement. It is outside the domain of accidents
and violence.
As regards Charles Grantley’s death, there was not, it may be surmised,
any wide necessity to preach resignation. His acquaintances were not
many; his friends few indeed. To the majority even of those who knew
him, his true name and antecedents were unknown. The mystery and
ambiguity which had attached to him were scarcely likely to increase his
popularity; and probably the only thing that could have drawn anything
like general attention to his end was the fact of its being a murder.
But murders and robberies were not so rare in the London environs then
as they are now; at all events they excited less remark; a highwayman
was still a difficulty to be reckoned with by belated travelers; and,
moreover, men’s minds had become more or less callous to the idea of
bloodshed and violence, after so many years of wars and outrage.
Accordingly, Mr. Grantley’s funeral was but thinly attended, comprising
few or none beyond the indispensable churchyard officials and the
immediate personages of the present history. From the number of the
latter, indeed, Sir Francis Bendibow must be subtracted. Another
funeral took place on the same day, in which he may be supposed to have
felt an even greater interest; and yet he was absent even from that. The
fact is, the unfortunate baronet’s mind had received a shock which
prevented him from clearly apprehending the full extent of the calamity
which had caused it. The notion that he and his son were enjoying a
holiday together, and were not to be disturbed, seemed the most
inveterate of his delusions, as it had been his first. Possibly it was
not so much positive mania in him as the uncontrollable shrinking of his
soul from the horror of the truth; analogous to the instinct which makes
us turn away our eyes from a too-revolting spectacle. Feeling that to
confront and realize the facts would overturn his reason, he abandoned
reason in the effort to preserve it. But all the while, in some remote
recess of his mind, veiled even from himself, must have lurked the fatal
knowledge which he strove to escape. It was there, like a relentless and
patient enemy, lying in wait for him, and sure to spring forth and
throttle him at last. Else wherefore was there that furtive gleam of
terror in the baronet’s sunken and heavy-lidded eyes? Why did he sigh so
deeply and so piteously? What was the reason of those long fits of
musings, during which his face worked so strangely, and his lips grew so
white and dry? Why did he so anxiously shun the sound of whatever might
imply the truth? No; if this were madness, it was the madness of
concealment, not of ignorance. Only a gleam of sanity could render him
truly insane.
Be that as it may, it became known that the late events had compelled
Sir Francis to retire temporarily from society, and from the conduct of
his business; and much sympathy was expressed, on all sides, for the
unhappy gentleman; and grave speculations were indulged in as to the
probable future of the Bank, in case his retirement should be prolonged.
Not readily were to be found business aptitudes and experience
comparable to his. Moreover, the times were hard, just at present; and
although the Bank’s credit was now, as at all times, unexceptionable,
yet even the Bank was but a human institution, and all human
institutions partake of human perishableness. It was impossible to be
too prudent, when, as now, empires might change hands or vanish at any
moment. Finance is not a matter of sentiment; and though it is always
agreeable to have business relations with a man who is at once
aristocratic and charming, yet when the personage in question is
represented only through his clerks, such considerations are in
abeyance. Thus it happened that a good many clients of the famous Bank
of Bendibow Brothers withdrew their deposits and placed them elsewhere;
and the world went on.
Meanwhile the murderer of the old East Indian remained at large, the
police being unable to form any trustworthy idea as to who or where he
was. At the inquest, everybody who could be conceived to have any
connection with the case (including the baker who lent Miss Lockhart his
wagon, and the ostler of the “Plough and Harrow” who entertained Mr.
Thomas Bendibow on the last evening of his life) were strictly examined;
and though several of them proffered a vast deal of information, little
or none of it had much to do with the matter to be elucidated. The last
highwayman who had been known to infest the vicinity in which the murder
took place, had been captured and safely hanged some time before; and
this new aspirant for the slip-knot evidently meant to prolong his
career for a while longer. His present venture must have been a
disappointment to him; for it was shown that the deceased had not been
robbed (doubtless on account of the unexpected arrival of succor); and,
even had the succor not arrived, no robbery worthy of the name could
have taken place, inasmuch as the deceased had little or no money in
his pockets; nothing, in fact, but a packet of old letters, which were
of no interest to anybody, and to a highwayman least of all. The jury
returned a verdict of “met his death at the hands of some person or
persons unknown;” and the world went on.
But the seed of that flower of love that had been planted in the soil of
Charles Grantley’s grave took root, and grew, and blossomed; and it bade
fair to be as sweet and wholesome a flower as ever such seed produced.
Marion and Philip, looking into their future, could see nothing but
brightness there, all the brighter by contrast with the tender shadow of
sadness out of which they looked. Nothing but good, they believed, could
come from a union begun at such a time, and with such a consecration.
The influence of Grantley was with them, with almost the vividness, at
times, of a spiritual presence; and they insensibly spoke and acted on a
higher and purer plane than they would have done had he not lived and
died. If his mourners were few, few men have been more tenderly mourned;
and to Marion especially was his memory dear and reverend, by reason of
the cloud that had overhung so large a portion of his life. That cloud,
to her apprehension, had now become all illuminated with heavenly gold;
and she felt as little need to confirm her faith by an examination of
the packet left in her care, as to ask Philip for proof of her love for
him. Marion was enthusiastic and imperious in her faiths even more than
in her scepticisms. But, indeed, her whole nature was, for the time,
sweetened, subdued, and yet ardently developed. The strangeness and
harshness which had occasionally characterized her in the past, was now
no longer noticeable; her moods were equal, her heart happy and active.
It seemed as if nothing could obscure her serenity; and yet a woman in
her condition is peculiarly liable to tragic or chilling accidents. The
delicate and sensitive petals of the soul, expanding thus freely to the
unaccustomed air, are never so susceptible as now to blight and injury,
albeit it is from one source only that the harm can come. Let the lover
walk heedfully at this period of his career, nor even grasp his treasure
too firmly, lest unawares it vanish from his hand, or be transformed
into something hostile.
The reading of Mr. Grantley’s will was, for various reasons, postponed
until about a week after his funeral. Merton Fillmore, who had charge of
it, had sent a communication to the Marquise Desmoines to be present on
the occasion; but she, after some delay, finally let it be known that
she declined the invitation, observing that she had but the slightest
acquaintance with the gentleman who called himself Grant, or Grantley,
and that it was impossible to suppose that she could have any interest
in the disposition of his property; from which it may be inferred that
she had made up her mind to ignore, ostensively if not also from
conviction, his pretensions to relationship with her. Upon receiving her
letter, Fillmore stroked his chin with a slight, ambiguous smile, and
forthwith took measures to convene the meeting at Mrs. Lockhart’s house
on the following morning, at twelve o’clock.
Now, it so happened that Philip had, the evening previous, received a
note from his publisher in the city, requesting his presence at the
office betimes the next day. For Philip’s labors during the last few
months had resulted in the production of a poem, more ambitious in
design and larger in scope than anything he had heretofore attempted.
His earlier writings, indeed, had been chiefly lyrical in character, and
had been rather indicative of poetical moods and temperament in the
author than of those unmistakable gifts of seeing, feeling, and creating
that belong to poets by divine right. He had made good his claims to be
ranked among the aristocracy of genius--possibly among those whose
place is near the throne; but he had as yet put forward no serious
pretensions to wear the royal crown on his own brows. The present work,
which bore the title of Iduna, seems to have been a semi-mystical
composition, cast in a more or less dramatic form, and aiming to portray
the conflict which is to some extent going on in every human heart,
between the love that consults and indulges selfish interests or
impulses, and that nobler and purer love which strikes through the
mortal and temporary symbol to the divine and eternal reality. To
illustrate this theme, Philip had imagined a wild, sea-beaten kingdom,
situated somewhere in the unexplored ocean of time; a rocky vision of a
royal castle, and living there a warrior-king, grim, whose beard drifts
like the snow blown from a mountain-top across the sky. To him was born
Iduna, glorious in beauty, untamable in spirit, dowered from her infancy
with mysterious and half-supernatural gifts. For once, when little more
than a baby, she had wandered alone from the castle, and down to the
misty reaches of the wave-beaten shore. What happened to her there was
never known; but round her neck was hung a broad necklace, wrought with
more than human skill of workmanship, of unknown shells and precious
stones and links of virgin gold. The necklace was endowed with
talismanic attributes, conferring on the grim king’s daughter miraculous
powers and the lustre of a goddess; and it was whispered among the
people that it was the gift of some mighty spirit of the sea, some ocean
demi-god, who had met the little princess on the shore, and who, if she
remained true to the sublimity of her fate, would one day claim her for
his bride. But woe to her should the magic necklace be lost or yielded
up! At these foolish fancies the grim king laughed and tossed his beard;
but, as Iduna grew in stature and in the splendor of her beauty, men
said that for such as she no merely human destiny was meet; and when, at
certain seasons, the sea thundered more resoundingly along the coast,
and the wreaths of foam were swept by the fierce breeze past the castle
battlements, Iduna would mount her horse and ride forth, as if she heard
the voice of her god-like lover calling to her in the gale, and saw his
form moving towards her over the tumultuous crests of the ocean billows;
though to other eyes than hers he would appear but as a pillar of
gleaming mist, a stately phantom of the storm, half seen, half imagined.
At these superstitions the grim king frowned, and swore by his beard
that the girl should learn--and that ere long--the sufficient worth of a
mortal bridegroom.
Of this earthly love; of the loss of the magic necklace, and with it the
protection of the sea-god; of Iduna’s imprisonment in the castle; of her
final recovery of her talisman by the self-sacrificing agency of the
mortal lover whose happiness depended upon withholding it from her; and
of her escape from the castle: no more than a hint can be given. Seaward
she rode, and the storm came up to meet her. But the tidings of her
flight came to the king, and he mounted his war-horse and thundered with
all his knights in pursuit. Wilder grew the storm; the heavens were
darkened, and seemed to stoop to the earth; strange sounds, as of the
fierce mutterings and laughter of viewless spirits, filled the air. Yet
still the grim king rode on, and, filled with grisly forebodings, his
knights pressed after him in silence. Then the blast shrieked madly in
their ears; the earth rocked and shuddered; ghastly lights flickered
along the blackness of the sky; and the sea, gathering itself together
in a thunder-smitten battlement of toppling surges, swept forward on the
land. Yet, ere it engulfed them forever, they saw by the glimmer of
phantom fires, the form of Iduna flying far before them, her black hair
floating backward on the hurricane, and the magic necklace flashing
round her neck. And even as the waters smote them, a god-like apparition
seemed to emerge resplendent and serene from the midmost heart of the
tempest; toward him Iduna stretched her arms, and was folded to his
breast.
When the sun rose again, castle and kingdom, knights and king had
vanished, and the gray sea rolled its murmuring billows fathoms
overhead. But tradition tells that in the night, after the princess had
gone forth, the lover who had liberated her to his own dear cost mounted
to the topmost turret and gazed seaward, and as the destroying wave came
towering toward him through the roar and terror of the darkness, he saw,
riding with it on its awful crest, two beings of superhuman beauty and
grandeur. As they drew near him, he bowed his head, trembling; but his
heart seemed to hear a voice that was like Iduna’s murmuring his name,
and her soft fingers touched his cheek. He seemed to be gathered up out
of himself, and to move beside her; the tempest was still; they were
together and alone, and the morning broke.
Such, in bare prose, is the outline of the poem to the making of which
Philip had brought his best talents and energies, and on the merits of
which he had been fain to stake his fame. Being done, however, and in
the printers’ hands, he had lost heart about it; felt that it was cold
and inadequate, and regretted that he had not been wise enough to have
kept it for ten years, and then destroyed it. Accordingly his
publisher’s summons, coming as it did within a fortnight of the time the
book appeared, failed to kindle in him any pleasurable anticipations;
and on his way to the city he pretty well made up his mind to abandon
poetry as a profession, and take to something else. It was all very well
to amuse one’s self with such vanities while one is a boy, but now that
he was about to take to himself a wife, Philip felt that he ought to
adopt some more remunerative calling. He presented himself at the
office, with a very grave face, about ten o’clock.
The publisher bowed, and begged Mr. Lancaster to be seated. “I should
have had the honor to wait upon you at your own residence, sir,” he
said, “but as it was desirable to have your signature to some receipts,
and for other business reasons, I took the liberty--er--well! Now, Mr.
Lancaster, I don’t know what your expectations were; it was only natural
that they should have been great; so were mine; but, to tell you the
truth ... however, judge for yourself.” And he handed him a paper, on
which was a brief statement of accounts. “We have been on the market
only ten days last Wednesday,” added the publisher, “and I call the
results thus far fair--fair! Sir, they deserved to be; but I doubt not
we shall do better yet.”
“What is this about?” inquired Philip, who had been staring at the
paper. “What does this entry of eleven hundred and fifty pounds mean?”
“Your profits on the percentage as agreed upon,” answered the publisher.
“We published at ten and sixpence, you know.”
“Oh ... I see!” said Philip, quietly. His heart heaved, and he knew not
whether he were more likely to burst into a storm of tears or a shout of
laughter. “That seems to me very good indeed,” he compelled himself to
add. “Didn’t expect the half of it.”
“Genius like yours, sir, may expect anything--and get it!” said the
publisher sententiously. “There is no poet before you, Mr. Lancaster,
to-day--not one! Do you care to take the check with you now, or....”
“I suppose I may as well,” said Philip.
Some transactions were gone through with; Philip never remembered what
they were. At last he found himself, as if by magic, at the door of the
house in Hammersmith, with eleven hundred and fifty pounds in his
pocket. He threw open the door of the sitting-room and strode in.
He had forgotten all about the reading of the will. There was Mr.
Fillmore, with the document in his hand, just reading out the words--“I
give and bequeath to Marion Lockhart”--and there was Marion, with a
startled and troubled look in her eyes.