NO SURRENDER.
Sir Peregrine Orme had gone up to London, had had his interview with
Mr. Round, and had failed. He had then returned home, and hardly a
word on the subject had been spoken between him and Mrs. Orme. Indeed
little or nothing was now said between them as to Lady Mason or the
trial. What was the use of speaking on a subject that was in every
way the cause of so much misery? He had made up his mind that it was
no longer possible for him to take any active step in the matter. He
had become bail for her appearance in court, and that was the last
trifling act of friendship which he could show her. How was it any
longer possible that he could befriend her? He could not speak up
on her behalf with eager voice, and strong indignation against her
enemies, as had formerly been his practice. He could give her no
counsel. His counsel would have taught her to abandon the property
in the first instance, let the result be what it might. He had made
his little effort in that direction by seeing the attorney, and his
little effort had been useless. It was quite clear to him that there
was nothing further for him to do;--nothing further for him, who
but a week or two since was so actively putting himself forward and
letting the world know that he was Lady Mason's champion.
Would he have to go into court as a witness? His mind was troubled
much in his endeavour to answer that question. He had been her
great friend. For years he had been her nearest neighbour. His
daughter-in-law still clung to her. She had lived at his house. She
had been chosen to be his wife. Who could speak to her character, if
he could not do so? And yet, what could he say, if so called on? Mr.
Furnival, Mr. Chaffanbrass--all those who would have the selection
of the witnesses, believing themselves in their client's innocence,
as no doubt they did, would of course imagine that he believed in it
also. Could he tell them that it would not be in his power to utter a
single word in her favour?
In these days Mrs. Orme went daily to the Farm. Indeed, she never
missed a day from that on which Lady Mason left The Cleeve up to the
time of the trial. It seemed to Sir Peregrine that his daughter's
affection for this woman had grown with the knowledge of her guilt;
but, as I have said before, no discussion on the matter now took
place between them. Mrs. Orme would generally take some opportunity
of saying that she had been at Orley Farm; but that was all.
Sir Peregrine during this time never left the house once, except for
morning service on Sundays. He hung his hat up on its accustomed peg
when he returned from that ill-omened visit to Mr. Round, and did not
move it for days, ay, for weeks,--except on Sunday mornings. At first
his groom would come to him, suggesting to him that he should ride,
and the woodman would speak to him about the young coppices; but
after a few days they gave up their efforts. His grandson also strove
to take him out, speaking to him more earnestly than the servants
would do, but it was of no avail. Peregrine, indeed, gave up the
attempt sooner, for to him his grandfather did in some sort confess
his own weakness. "I have had a blow," said he; "Peregrine, I have
had a blow. I am too old to bear up against it;--too old and too
weak." Peregrine knew that he alluded in some way to that proposed
marriage, but he was quite in the dark as to the manner in which his
grandfather had been affected by it.
"People think nothing of that now, sir," said he, groping in the dark
as he strove to administer consolation.
"People will think of it;--and I think of it. But never mind, my boy.
I have lived my life, and am contented with it. I have lived my life,
and have great joy that such as you are left behind to take my place.
If I had really injured you I should have broken my heart--have
broken my heart."
Peregrine of course assured him that let what would come to him the
pride which he had in his grandfather would always support him. "I
don't know anybody else that I could be so proud of," said Peregrine;
"for nobody else that I see thinks so much about other people. And I
always was, even when I didn't seem to think much about it;--always."
Poor Peregrine! Circumstances had somewhat altered him since that
day, now not more than six months ago, in which he had pledged
himself to abandon the delights of Cowcross Street. As long as there
was a hope for him with Madeline Staveley all this might be very
well. He preferred Madeline to Cowcross Street with all its delights.
But when there should be no longer any hope--and indeed, as things
went now, there was but little ground for hoping--what then? Might it
not be that his trial had come on him too early in life, and that he
would solace himself in his disappointment, if not with Carroty Bob,
with companionships and pursuits which would be as objectionable, and
perhaps more expensive?
On three or four occasions his grandfather asked him how things
were going at Noningsby, striving to interest himself in something
as to which the outlook was not altogether dismal, and by degrees
learned,--not exactly all the truth--but as much of the truth as
Peregrine knew.
"Do as she tells you," said the grandfather, referring to Lady
Staveley's last words.
"I suppose I must," said Peregrine, sadly. "There's nothing else for
it. But if there's anything that I hate in this world, it's waiting."
"You are both very young," said his grandfather.
"Yes; we are what people call young, I suppose. But I don't
understand all that. Why isn't a fellow to be happy when he's young
as well as when he's old?"
Sir Peregrine did not answer him, but no doubt thought that he might
alter his opinion in a few years. There is great doubt as to what may
be the most enviable time of life with a man. I am inclined to think
that it is at that period when his children have all been born but
have not yet began to go astray or to vex him with disappointment;
when his own pecuniary prospects are settled, and he knows pretty
well what his tether will allow him; when the appetite is still good
and the digestive organs at their full power; when he has ceased to
care as to the length of his girdle, and before the doctor warns
him against solid breakfasts and port wine after dinner; when his
affectations are over and his infirmities have not yet come upon him;
while he can still walk his ten miles, and feel some little pride in
being able to do so; while he has still nerve to ride his horse to
hounds, and can look with some scorn on the ignorance of younger men
who have hardly yet learned that noble art. As regards men, this,
I think, is the happiest time of life; but who shall answer the
question as regards women? In this respect their lot is more liable
to disappointment. With the choicest flowers that blow the sweetest
aroma of their perfection lasts but for a moment. The hour that sees
them at their fullest glory sees also the beginning of their fall.
On one morning before the trial Sir Peregrine rang his bell and
requested that Mr. Peregrine might be asked to come to him. Mr.
Peregrine was out at the moment, and did not make his appearance much
before dark, but the baronet had fully resolved upon having this
interview, and ordered that the dinner should be put back for half
an hour. "Tell Mrs. Orme, with my compliments," he said, "that if it
does not put her to inconvenience we will not dine till seven." It
put Mrs. Orme to no inconvenience; but I am inclined to agree with
the cook, who remarked that the compliments ought to have been sent
to her.
"Sit down, Peregrine," he said, when his grandson entered his room
with his thick boots and muddy gaiters. "I have been thinking of
something."
"I and Samson have been cutting down trees all day," said Peregrine.
"You've no conception how the water lies down in the bottom there;
and there's a fall every yard down to the river. It's a sin not to
drain it."
"Any sins of that kind, my boy, shall lie on your own head for the
future. I will wash my hands of them."
"Then I'll go to work at once," said Peregrine, not quite
understanding his grandfather.
"You must go to work on more than that, Peregrine." And then the old
man paused. "You must not think that I am doing this because I am
unhappy for the hour, or that I shall repent it when the moment has
gone by."
"Doing what?" asked Peregrine.
"I have thought much of it, and I know that I am right. I cannot get
out as I used to do, and do not care to meet people about business."
"I never knew you more clear-headed in my life, sir."
"Well, perhaps not. We'll say nothing about that. What I intend to do
is this;--to give up the property into your hands at Lady-day. You
shall be master of The Cleeve from that time forth."
"Sir?"
"The truth is, you desire employment, and I don't. The property is
small, and therefore wants the more looking after. I have never had
a regular land steward, but have seen to that myself. If you'll take
my advice you'll do the same. There is no better employment for a
gentleman. So now, my boy, you may go to work and drain wherever you
like. About that Crutchley bottom I have no doubt you're right. I
don't know why it has been neglected." These last words the baronet
uttered in a weak, melancholy tone, asking, as it were, forgiveness
for his fault; whereas he had spoken out the purport of his great
resolution with a clear, strong voice, as though the saying of the
words pleased him well.
"I could not hear of such a thing as that," said his grandson, after
a short pause.
"But you have heard it, Perry, and you may be quite sure that I
should not have named it had I not fully resolved upon it. I have
been thinking of it for days, and have quite made up my mind. You
won't turn me out of the house, I know."
"All the same, I will not hear of it," said the young man, stoutly.
"Peregrine!"
"I know very well what it all means, sir, and I am not at all
astonished. You have wished to do something out of sheer goodness of
heart, and you have been balked."
"We will not talk about that, Peregrine."
"But I must say a few words about it. All that has made you unhappy,
and--and--and--" He wanted to explain that his grandfather was
ashamed of his baffled attempt, and for that reason was cowed and
down at heart at the present moment; but that in the three or four
months when this trial would be over and the wonder passed away, all
that would be forgotten, and he would be again as well as ever. But
Peregrine, though he understood all this, was hardly able to express
himself.
"My boy," said the old man, "I know very well what you mean. What
you say is partly true, and partly not quite true. Some day, perhaps,
when we are sitting here together over the fire, I shall be better
able to talk over all this; but not now, Perry. God has been very
good to me, and given me so much that I will not repine at this
sorrow. I have lived my life, and am content."
"Oh yes, of course all that's true enough. And if God should choose
that you should--die, you know, or I either, some people would be
sorry, but we shouldn't complain ourselves. But what I say is this:
you should never give up as long as you live. There's a sort of
feeling about it which I can't explain. One should always say to
oneself, No surrender." And Peregrine, as he spoke, stood up from his
chair, thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets, and shook his head.
[Illustration: "No Surrender."]
Sir Peregrine smiled as he answered him. "But Perry, my boy, we can't
always say that. When the heart and the spirit and the body have all
surrendered, why should the voice tell a foolish falsehood?"
"But it shouldn't be a falsehood," said Peregrine. "Nobody should
ever knock under of his own accord."
"You are quite right there, my boy; you are quite right there. Stick
to that yourself. But, remember, that you are not to knock under to
any of your enemies. The worst that you will meet with are folly, and
vice, and extravagance."
"That's of course," said Peregrine, by no means wishing on the
present occasion to bring under discussion his future contests with
any such enemies as those now named by his grandfather.
"And now, suppose you dress for dinner," said the baronet. "I've got
ahead of you there you see. What I've told you to-day I have already
told your mother."
"I'm sure she doesn't think you right."
"If she thinks me wrong, she is too kind and well-behaved to
say so,--which is more than I can say for her son. Your mother,
Perry, never told me that I was wrong yet, though she has had many
occasions;--too many, too many. But, come, go and dress for dinner."
"You are wrong in this, sir, if ever you were wrong in your life,"
said Peregrine, leaving the room. His grandfather did not answer him
again, but followed him out of the door, and walked briskly across
the hall into the drawing-room.
"There's Peregrine been lecturing me about draining," he said to his
daughter-in-law, striving to speak in a half-bantering tone of voice,
as though things were going well with him.
"Lecturing you!" said Mrs. Orme.
"And he's right, too. There's nothing like it. He'll make a better
farmer, I take it, than Lucius Mason. You'll live to see him know the
value of an acre of land as well as any man in the county. It's the
very thing that he's fit for. He'll do better with the property than
ever I did."
There was something beautiful in the effort which the old man was
making when watched by the eyes of one who knew him as well as did
his daughter-in-law. She knew him, and understood all the workings of
his mind, and the deep sorrow of his heart. In very truth, the star
of his life was going out darkly under a cloud; but he was battling
against his sorrow and shame--not that he might be rid of them
himself, but that others might not have to share them. That doctrine
of "No surrender" was strong within his bosom, and he understood
the motto in a finer sense than that in which his grandson had used
it. He would not tell them that his heart was broken,--not if he
could help it. He would not display his wound if it might be in his
power to hide it. He would not confess that lands, and houses, and
seignorial functions were no longer of value in his eyes. As far as
might be possible he would bear his own load till that and the memory
of his last folly might be hidden together in the grave.
But he knew that he was no longer fit for a man's work, and that
it would be well that he should abandon it. He had made a terrible
mistake. In his old age he had gambled for a large stake, and had
lost it all. He had ventured to love;--to increase the small number
of those who were nearest and dearest to him, to add one to those
whom he regarded as best and purest,--and he had been terribly
deceived. He had for many years almost worshipped the one lady who
had sat at his table, and now in his old age he had asked her to
share her place of honour with another. What that other was need not
now be told. And the world knew that this woman was to have been his
wife! He had boasted loudly that he would give her that place and
those rights. He had ventured his all upon her innocence and her
purity. He had ventured his all,--and he had lost.
I do not say that on this account there was any need that he should
be stricken to the ground,--that it behoved him as a man of high
feeling to be broken-hearted. He would have been a greater man had
he possessed the power to bear up against all this, and to go forth
to the world bearing his burden bravely on his shoulders. But Sir
Peregrine Orme was not a great man, and possessed few or none of the
elements of greatness. He was a man of a singularly pure mind, and
endowed with a strong feeling of chivalry. It had been everything to
him to be spoken of by the world as a man free from reproach,--who
had lived with clean hands and with clean people around him. All
manner of delinquencies he could forgive in his dependents which did
not tell of absolute baseness; but it would have half killed him had
he ever learned that those he loved had become false or fraudulent.
When his grandson had come to trouble about the rats, he had acted,
not over-cleverly, a certain amount of paternal anger; but had
Peregrine broken his promise to him, no acting would have been
necessary. It may therefore be imagined what were now his feelings as
to Lady Mason.
Her he could forgive for deceiving him. He had told his
daughter-in-law that he would forgive her; and it was a thing done.
But he could not forgive himself in that he had been deceived. He
could not forgive himself for having mingled with the sweet current
of his Edith's life the foul waters of that criminal tragedy. He
could not now bid her desert Lady Mason: for was it not true that the
woman's wickedness was known to them two, through her resolve not to
injure those who had befriended her? But all this made the matter
worse rather than better to him. It is all very well to say, "No
surrender;" but when the load placed upon the back is too heavy to be
borne, the back must break or bend beneath it.
His load was too heavy to be borne, and therefore he said to himself
that he would put it down. He would not again see Lord Alston and
the old friends of former days. He would attend no more at the
magistrates' bench, but would send his grandson out into his place.
For the few days that remained to him in this world, he might be well
contented to abandon the turmoils and troubles of life. "It will not
be for long," he said to himself over and over again. And then he
would sit in his arm-chair for hours, intending to turn his mind
to such solemn thoughts as might befit a dying man. But, as he sat
there, he would still think of Lady Mason. He would remember her as
she had leaned against his breast on that day that he kissed her; and
then he would remember her as she was when she spoke those horrid
words to him--"Yes; I did it; at night, when I was alone." And this
was the woman whom he had loved! This was the woman whom he still
loved,--if all the truth might be confessed.
His grandson, though he read much of his grandfather's mind, had
failed to read it all. He did not know how often Sir Peregrine
repeated to himself those words, "No Surrender," or how gallantly
he strove to live up to them. Lands and money and seats of honour
he would surrender, as a man surrenders his tools when he has done
his work; but his tone of feeling and his principle he would not
surrender, though the maintenance of them should crush him with their
weight. The woman had been very vile, desperately false, wicked
beyond belief, with premeditated villany, for years and years;--and
this was the woman whom he had wished to make the bosom companion of
his latter days!
"Samson is happy now, I suppose, that he has got the axe in his
hand," he said to his grandson.
"Pretty well for that, sir, I think."
"That man will cut down every tree about the place, if you'll let
him." And in that way he strove to talk about the affairs of the
property.