Immunis aram si tetigit manus,
Non sumptuosa blandior hostia,
Mollivit aversas Penates,
Farre pio et saliente mica.--HORAT.
It is the grey of the evening. Fairthorn is sauntering somewhat sullenly
along the banks of the lake. He has missed, the last three days, his
walk with Sophy--missed the pleasing excitement of talking at her, and of
the family in whose obsolete glories he considers her very interest an
obtrusive impertinence. He has missed, too, his more habitual and less
irritating conversation with Darrell. In short, altogether he is put
out, and he vents his spleen on the swans, who follow him along the wave
as he walks along the margin, intimating either their affection for
himself, or their anticipation of the bread-crumbs associated with his
image--by the amiable note, half snort and half grunt, to which change of
time or climate has reduced the vocal accomplishments of those classical
birds, so pathetically melodious in the age of Moschus and on the banks
of Cayster.
"Not a crumb, you unprincipled beggars," growled the musician. "You
imagine that mankind are to have no other thought but that of supplying
you with luxuries! And if you were asked, in a competitive examination,
to define ME, your benefactor, you would say: 'A thing very low in the
scale of creation, without wings or even feathers, but which Providence
endowed with a peculiar instinct for affording nutritious and palatable
additions to the ordinary aliment of Swans!' Ay, you may grunt; I wish I
had you--in a pie!"
Slowly, out through the gap between yon grey crag and the thorn-tree,
paces the doe, halting to drink just where the faint star of eve shoots
its gleam along the wave. The musician forgets the swans and quickens
his pace, expecting to meet the doe's wonted companion. He is not
disappointed. He comes on Guy Darrell where the twilight shadow falls
darkest between the grey crag and the thorn-tree.
"Dear Fellow Hermit," said Darrell, almost gaily, yet with more than
usual affection in his greeting and voice, "you find me just when I want
you. I am as one whose eyes have been strained by a violent conflict of
colours, and your quiet presence is like the relief of a return to green.
I have news for you, Fairthorn. You, who know more of my secrets than
any other man, shall be the first to learn a decision that must bind you
and me more together--but not in these scenes, Dick.
'Ibimus--ibimus!
--------------------Supremum
Carpere iter, comites, parati!'"
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Fairthorn. "My mind always misgives me
when I hear you quoting Horace. Some reflection about the certainty of
death, or other disagreeable subjects, is sure to follow!"
"Death! No, Dick--not now. Marriage-bells and joy, Dick! We shall have
a wedding!"
"What! You will marry at last! And it must be that beautiful Caroline
Lyndsay! It must--it must! You can never love another! You know it, my
dear, dear master. I shall see you, then, happy before I die."
"Tut, foolish old friend!" said Darrell, leaning his aria tenderly on
Fairthorn's shoulder, and walking on slowly towards the house. "How
often must I tell you that no Marriage-bells can ring for me!"
"But you have told me, too, that you went to Twickenham to steal a sight
of her again; and that it was the sight of her that made you resolve to
wed no one else. And when I have railed against her for fickleness, have
you not nearly frightened me out of my wits, as if no one might rail
against her but yourself? And now she is free--and did you not grant
that she would not refuse your hand, and would be true and faithful
henceforth? And yet you insist on being--granite."
"No, Dick, not granite; I wish I were."
"Granite and pride," persisted Dick, courageously. "If one chips a bit
off the granite, one only breaks one's spade against the pride."
"Pride--you too!" muttered Darrell, mournfully; then aloud: "No, it is
not pride now, whatever it might have been even yesterday. But I would
rather be racked by all the tortures that pious inquisitors ever invented
out of compassion for obstinate heretics, than condemn the woman I have
so fatally loved to a penance the misery of which she cannot foresee.
She would accept me?--certainly! Why! Because she thinks she owes me
reparation--because she pities me. And my heart tells me that I might
become cruel, and mean, and vindictive, if I were to live day by day with
one who created in me, while my life was at noon, a love never known in
its morn, and to feel that that love's sole return was the pity
vouchsafed to the nightfall of my age. No; if she pitied, but did not
love me, when, eighteen years ago, we parted under yonder beech-tree, I
should be a dotard to dream that woman's pity mellows into love as our
locks become grey, and Youth turns our vows into ridicule. It is not
pride that speaks here; it is rather humility, Dick. But we must not now
talk of old age and bygones. Youth and marriage-bells, Dick! Know that,
I have been for hours pondering how to reconcile with my old-fashioned
notions dear Lionel's happiness. We must think of the living as well as
the dead, Dick. I have solved the problem. I am happy, and so shall the
young folks be."
"You don't mean to say that you will consent to--"
"Yes, to Lionel's marriage with that beautiful girl, whose parentage we
never will ask. Great men are their own ancestors; why not sometimes
fair women? Enough--I consent! I shall of course secure to my kinsman
and his bride an ample fortune. Lionel will have time for his honeymoon
before he departs for the wars. He will fight with good heart now, Dick.
Young folks of the present day cannot bear up against sorrow, as they
were trained to do in mine. And that amiable lady who has so much pity
for me has, of course, still more pity for a charming young couple for
whose marriage she schemed, in order to give me a home, Dick. And rather
than she should pine and fall ill, and--no matter; all shall be settled
as it should be for the happiness of the living. But something else must
be settled; we must think of the dead as well as the living; and this
name of Darrell shall be buried with me in the grave beside my father's.
Lionel Haughton will keep to his own name. Live the Haughtons! Perish,
but with no blot on their shield--perish the Darrells! Why, what is
that? Tears, Dick? Pooh!--be a man! And I want all your strength; for
you, too, must have a share in the sacrifice. What follows is not the
dictate of pride, if I can read myself aright. No; it is the final
completion and surrender of the object on which so much of my life has
been wasted--but a surrender that satisfies my crotchets of honour. At
all events, if it be pride in disguise, it will demand no victim in
others; you and I may have a sharp pang--we must bear it, Dick."
"What on earth is coming now?" said Dick, dolefully.
"The due to the dead, Richara Fairthorn. This nook of fair England, in
which I learned from the dead to love honour--this poor domain of Fawley-
shall go in bequest to the College at which I was reared."
"Sir!"
"It will serve for a fellowship or two to honest, bravehearted young
scholars. It will be thus, while English institutions may last, devoted
to Learning and Honour. It may sustain for mankind some ambition more
generous than mine, it appears, ever was--settled thus, not in mine, but
my dear father's name, like the Darrell Museum. These are my dues to the
dead, Dick! And the old house thus becomes useless. The new house was
ever a folly. They must go down, both, as soon as the young folks are
married;--not a stone stand on stone! The ploughshare shall pass over
their sites! And this task I order you to see done. I have not
strength. You will then hasten to join me at Sorrento, that corner of
earth on which Horace wished to breathe his last sigh.
'Ille to mecum locus et beatae
Postulant arces--ibi--tu '"
"Don't, sir, don't. Horace again! It is too much." Fairthorn was
choking; but as if the idea presented to him was really too monstrous for
belief, he clutched at Darrell with so uncertain and vehement a hand that
he almost caught him by the throat, and sobbed out, "You must be joking."
"Seriously and solemnly, Richara Fairthorn," said Darrell, gently
disentangling the fingers that threatened him with strangulation,
"seriously and solemnly I have uttered to you my deliberate purpose. I
implore you, in the name of onr life-long friendship, to face this pain
as I do--resolutely, cheerfully. I implore you to execute to the letter
the instructions I shall leave with you on quitting England, which I
shall do the day Lionnel is married; and then, dear old friend, calm
days, clear consciences:--In climes where whole races have passed away
--proud cities themselves sunk in graves--where our petty grief for a
squirearch's lost house we shall both grow ashamed to indulge--there we
will moralise, rail against vain dreams and idle pride, cultivate vines
and orange trees, with Horace--nay, nay, Dick--with the FLUTE!"