It was such a morning as the old song describes:
"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky
Proclaim a hunting morning;"
and a troop of about a dozen gentlemen rode gaily out of the courtyard,
revelling in the enjoyment of expected pleasure. They were not
disappointed in regard to the hunt itself; but a fatal accident, which
occurred just at its close, threw a gloom over the day.
Reynard was making a last struggle for his life as the hunt galloped up
to the yawning fence over which they had to pass in order to be in at
the "death." There was an up-bank on the side next to the riders, and
on the other a gaping dyke, brimfull of water. The two foremost horses
took it gallantly, but the third jumped short, lost his footing, and
slipped back into the water. His rider, however, succeeded in throwing
himself off, and he clung to the side of the ditch, shouting at the
same time to those behind to give him room. Unfortunately, at that very
moment a horse appeared at the top of the bank, and, startled by the
shout just as he was rising for the spring, he swerved, reared, and
fell backwards from the bank, crushing his hapless rider under him.
The rider was Lord Barkley; and the gentlemen who immediately followed
him reined in their horses and sprang to the ground to assist him. They
had succeeded in getting the horse from over him, when they beheld his
son standing on the top of the bank with a horror-stricken expression
of countenance, and his clothes all saturated with water. Mr. Barkley
was one of the two first horsemen who had so gallantly taken the leap;
but the shout of the man who fell made him turn round in his saddle,
and he saw his father's horse swerve and fall!
A low cry escaped his lips as he glanced at the ditch to see if it were
possible to take it from the side upon which he found himself; but
even at such a moment he saw that it was almost impossible that any
horse could do it, and dismounting hurriedly, he threw himself into the
water, crossed, and scrambled up the bank, where, as we have seen, he
stood looking with horror on the scene before him. But it was only for
a moment that he stood there; the next, he was kneeling beside his
father, and supporting his head on his knee.
The only sign of life which Lord Barkley gave was to moan whenever they
attempted to move him, until one of the gentlemen brought some water
in his hat, and sprinkled it over him. He then opened his eyes, and
recognising his son, he pressed his hand, and murmured, "Good-bye, my
boy; it's all over with me, but be happy in your own way." The rest was
lost in indistinct sounds.
Mr. Barkley bent his head lower and lower, until his dark locks mingled
with his father's grey hair; and the gentlemen stood by silently, not
venturing to disturb the mourner even to ask what could be done.
A poor tenant, however, went up to him, and, touching him on the
shoulder, said with rough good nature, "Come now, Misther Barkley, be
a man, and don't take on so. Shure, maybe the good auld lord will come
too, afther all; and isn't it a quare thing for yer honours to be all
standing there and niver thinking what could be done to rekiver him.
Faix, and its close to B----town that we are, and what w'd ail a few
boys like meself to take a twist over to it and bring back a stretcher
or something of that soort for to carry his lordship? Shure, and your
honour's own docther lives there too; and couldn't we bring him along
wid us?"
"You are right, my good friend," answered Mr. Barkley, raising his
head; "I ought to have thought of that. Please, then, to go; but on
horseback; and ride at full speed."
When the doctor arrived, he tried to examine his poor old friend, in
order to see what injuries he had received; but every touch seemed to
give him such pain that the doctor desisted, and said, "We had better
get him placed on the stretcher and carried as gently as possible to my
house; then we can see better what is to be done."
When the poor sufferer had been carefully raised and laid on the
stretcher, the sad procession moved slowly on, Mr. Barkley and the
doctor walking by the side of the bier, which four stalwart countrymen
carried.
Before setting out, however, the former said in a broken voice to those
about him, "Gentlemen, I am most grateful to you for your kindness. I
cannot speak about it now, but I shall never forget it."
The same night--and little more than twelve hours after they all
started in "gallant array" from Barkley Castle--Lord Barkley's spirit
was at rest. From the first the doctor had seen that there was no hope
of recovery, but he was able to do much towards alleviating the dying
man's sufferings, who, although unable to speak, was evidently sensible
to the last, and he received the Church's sacraments with deep emotion.
Mr. Barkley--or rather now Lord Barkley--was so stunned by the manner
and suddenness of his father's death, that he could scarcely realise
the fact that he who, a few hours ago, rode by his side in the full
enjoyment of health and spirits, was now a corpse; and the only words
which he spoke for long after death had taken place were, "Thank God,
'twas not in anger that I spoke to him last!"
Next day the body was removed to Barkley Castle, and there laid out in
state until the funeral, which was fixed for the fourth day after death.
Lord Barkley begged his brother-in-law, Mr. Penton, to arrange
everything without appealing to him, as he felt too confused to be able
to think.
Mr. Penton consequently acted on his own judgment as to whom he ought
to invite for the funeral, and above all others he thought it right to
ask Mr. Molyneux (the present lord's future father-in-law), although he
thought it most unlikely that he would come. But on the contrary, he
received a telegram to say that Mr. Molyneux would arrive at Barkley
Castle the evening before the funeral.
When this was told to Lord Barkley he appeared to be much agitated; and
in answer to his sister's eager question as to whether her husband had
done wrong in inviting Mr. Molyneux, he said, "No, Maria; I am sure
that George only did what ought to have been done, although I would
rather not see Mr. Molyneux just yet."
The late lord's dying words to his son, "be happy in your own way,"
made a deep impression upon him, for it was an acknowledgment at the
last moment that his father regretted having urged him to sacrifice
happiness for wealth, and that he did not wish the sacrifice to be
completed. Thus during the solemn hours that he watched beside the dead
he could not help being struck by the greatness of the revelations
which approaching death makes, even to a man who has toiled all his
life for wealth, and was ready to give up everything in order to obtain
it. And now, too, as he viewed his own conduct with the strong light of
eternity shining upon it, he saw all its weakness and want of truth.
He had acted treacherously both to the girl whom he loved and to the
one to whom he was affianced, and with shame and sorrow he felt that
however unhappy his life might be henceforth he must blame himself as
the _chief_ cause of it.
Remorse and unhappiness, thus added to the natural grief which he felt
for a parent who had loved him well though not wisely, made him look
so haggard and worn as he stood with blanched cheeks and trembling
lips, looking upon the closing of the vault over his father, that Mr.
Molyneux went up to him and tried to lead him away. "Come, Edmund,"
said he, "let your second father help to console you for the loss which
you have just sustained. My daughter's husband will be nearly as dear
to me as a child of my own. Only treat me as a father, and you will
find that I am such to you by affection though not by nature."
For the sake of his manhood Lord Barkley struggled hard to repress the
tears which rose to his eyes as Mr. Molyneux spoke, and brushing them
hastily away, he said sadly and humbly, "Mr. Molyneux, I am unworthy of
your goodness,--I have deceived you all. You must let me make a full
confession to you to-morrow morning, when I shall be more composed than
I am now. You can never again think well of me after you have heard
it, but it is the only reparation in my power to make, and you shall
at least know me for what I am, before anything irrevocable has been
done."
Mr. Molyneux started, and was on the point of demanding an explanation
at once, but as he looked at Lord Barkley walking beside him with
drooping head, and wrapped in the mourner's garb of deep woe, he
refrained through respect for unaffected grief, and determined to wait
as patiently as he could until the time named.
Mr. Penton acted as his brother-in-law's deputy in doing the honours of
the house, as Lord Barkley retired to his own room immediately after
the funeral and remained there all day. The next morning, however,
about eleven, he sent to Mr. Molyneux to say that if it suited his
convenience he would be glad to see him in the library.
He repaired thither at once, and as he entered Lord Barkley said, "Mr.
Molyneux, I do not offer you my hand until you have heard all that I am
going to tell you, as perhaps you would not wish to shake hands with
me, were you aware of what my conduct has been. You shall hear in as
few words as possible how miserable and dishonourable a part weakness
and habitual self-indulgence may lead a naturally honourable man to
act. The shock of my poor father's sudden death, and the sad time for
reflection which has followed it, have made me feel how shamefully I
have behaved towards you and your daughter, and that at least I ought
to tell you what have been and are my feelings towards her. May I count
upon your forbearance to listen to me without interruption?"
Mr. Molyneux assented, and Lord Barkley then shortly but fully detailed
to him all that had passed from the time he had seen Marie--without
naming her of course--up to the night when he proposed to Miss
Molyneux, adding, "Now, Mr. Molyneux, that you have heard all, I have
only to say I am quite ready to fulfil my engagement. I think I could
promise to be a good and kind though not a loving husband to your
daughter. I would take care never to look again upon the face of her
whom I love, and endeavour to efface her image from my heart. What more
can I do under the circumstances? And I think that at least it was
truer to tell you all this than to continue to deceive you. I believe,
too, from what I know of Miss Molyneux's character, that she would be
quite satisfied with the sincere respect and affection which I feel for
her. I should be the only sufferer, and fully do I acknowledge that I
deserve any punishment which may be inflicted upon me. Even you cannot
blame me more bitterly than I have blamed myself, and there is no
humiliation or expiation that you could impose upon me which I would
not willingly accept. In the name, then, of your old friend--my poor
father--who through too indulgent affection helped to make me what I
am, I ask you to try not to think too harshly of me. Do not even in
your own mind brand me as one utterly devoid of honour and principle,
but say what you wish me to do."
Mr. Molyneux was one of the kindest, not to say most soft-hearted
men that ever lived, and Lord Barkley's air of deep suffering and
self-abasement touched him even in the midst of his anger and
indignation. He thought of his own dead son, who would now be just
about the same age as the poor culprit before him, and pushing away his
chair he walked up and down the room muttering to himself.
No one knew more thoroughly his daughter's cold, proud character than
he did, or so mourned over it; and his grief for his passionate,
affectionate boy had been redoubled and perpetuated by the feeling that
he could find no real comfort in his remaining child.
The more he looked at Lord Barkley, the more did the memory of his
own Edmund knock at his heart and intercede for indulgence towards
the errors of a loving nature, which weakness and over indulgence had
led astray; and knowing his daughter's character as he did, he felt
that it would be punishing him too severely to ask him to fulfil his
engagement with her whilst his young heart yearned for one who was
evidently _not_ a statue. Nevertheless he could not but feel indignant
at the manner in which his daughter had been treated, and at last he
said, sternly--
"Lord Barkley, you were right when you said that your conduct had
merited for you the misery of being married to one woman whilst you
loved another, and if I believed that the breaking off of this marriage
would cause my daughter a moment's deep pain, I should not hesitate to
require you to fulfil your engagement; but she is not one who would
allow herself to _love_ any man until after he was her husband, and
I know that I have only to tell her that from your own showing you
were unworthy of her, and her self-respect will enable her to bear the
separation without much regret. I will not, therefore, take upon myself
to inflict upon you the fate which you deserve. You may, then, consider
yourself released from the engagement, and I shall never say more than
is necessary as to why this marriage was broken off; but you cannot
object to my letting it be understood that it was your own conduct
which caused it, and henceforth let us be as strangers to each other.
For the sake of my dear lost boy, whose schoolfellow you were, rather
than for that of the hardly true friend who urged you to treat us as
you have done, have I been thus lenient to you, and I do not think that
you could have asked more."
"_I_ have asked more! God knows I had no right to expect such
indulgence as you have shown me," answered Lord Barkley, raising his
head, and Mr. Molyneux saw that his face was marked by traces of
tears such as a man rarely sheds. After a moment's pause Lord Barkley
resumed--
"Your reproaches I could have borne better than such forbearance,--it
is indeed heaping coals of fire upon my head. I dare not hope that you
will ever take my hand in friendship again, but whilst I live no son
of your own could look upon you with deeper feelings of gratitude and
respect than I do. Good-bye, and perhaps the spirit of your own lost
son will plead for his weak, erring companion as it did to-day, and at
last win back for him one ray of the old kindly feeling of former days."
Lord Barkley looked so dejected and humbled that Mr. Molyneux had not
the heart to leave him thus coldly, and turning hastily round from
the door, which he had almost reached, he grasped his hand, saying,
"Good-bye, boy; I dare say you'll make as good a man as any of us
after all."
He gave the hand which he held a cordial shake and then hastened out of
the room.