When his lordship arrived at the rectory, he found the door standing
open, and the lower apartments of the house deserted. While he was
hesitating whether he should seek his way to the doctor’s apartment,
one of the domestics made her appearance, and his lordship very
earnestly inquired after the afflicted pastor. With deep and unaffected
feeling she replied, that her dear master was very, very ill, and with
increased emotion continued--
“Oh, my lord, if you will see him, perhaps he may know you--he may try
to speak.”
“Certainly I will see him. How long is it since he was taken?”
“Only two hours, my lord. He was quite well this afternoon at five
o’clock, and then he went into his study, where he always goes about
that time, and we heard nothing of him till about two hours since; his
bell rang, and I went, your lordship, to see what my master wanted, and
there I saw him sitting in his great chair quite speechless.”
The poor woman was overcome with her own emotion, and Lord Spoonbill
hastened to the room into which the patient had been removed. When he
entered the apartment, he saw by the light of one dim candle, and a
recently kindled fire, the figure of Dr Greendale sitting in an easy
chair, in a state of apparent insensibility, and on one side of him sat
Mrs Greendale, grasping his hand with convulsive eagerness, and looking
anxiously on his still and frozen features: how like and how unlike
what he was! On the other side Penelope was kneeling, holding him also
by the hand, and hiding her face, that its expression of deep feeling
might not needlessly distress her aunt. Gentle sobbings were heard,
and the hard breathings of the death-stricken man. His lordship stood
for a few seconds as if rivetted to the spot where his eye first caught
the sight of the melancholy group. Mrs Greendale first noticed the
presence of a stranger, and recognised his lordship, who then advanced
with slow and gentle step towards the sick man, and silently took the
hand of Mrs Greendale, whose tears then flowed afresh, as with louder
sobbings she exclaimed--
“Oh, my lord, what a sight is here! Those dear eyes have been fixed as
they are now for hours. He was a good man, my lord; such a heart! such
tenderness! Oh, he cannot, he cannot continue long! Oh, that I should
live to see this!”
As Mrs Greendale spoke, Penelope rose from her kneeling posture, and
turning round, then first saw that Lord Spoonbill was in the room. His
lordship intreated Mrs Greendale to compose herself, and then turning
again towards the sick man’s chair, he held out his hand to Penelope,
who resigned to his lordship the hand the dying man, which she had been
holding. Lord Spoonbill took the offered hand, and kneeling on one knee
pressed the hand to his lips, and looked with searching earnestness
to the face of the patient, as if endeavouring to rouse him into
consciousness and recollection. The eyes were fixed and motionless, and
their brightness was passing away. After a few moments there appeared
a convulsive movement of the lips, and there seemed to be a gleam of
consciousness in the eye, and the hand which Lord Spoonbill had been
holding was lifted up and placed on his lordship’s head, from whence
it fell in a moment, and the breathing, after one long sigh, died away
and was heard no more. At the instant of the change, Mrs Greendale
uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. Penelope,
as if unconscious of the distress of her aunt and the presence of Lord
Spoonbill, knelt gently down, and lifting up her hands and her eyes,
murmured a prayer, which relieved for a moment her bursting heart; for
tears came copiously to her aid, and her presence of mind was soon
restored, and she assisted the domestics in removing Mrs Greendale into
another apartment.
Lord Spoonbill then took his leave, and as he quitted the house of
mourning he felt as he had never felt before. He had seen life in
many of its varieties, but death had been to his eye and thoughts a
stranger. He had now witnessed such a scene as he never had before. His
mind was deeply and powerfully moved. But yesterday, and he had seen
Dr Greendale in the fullness of strength and the vigour of health, and
life was bright about him, and he was in its enjoyments and sympathies.
One day, one little day, produced an awful change. The music of the
tongue was mute, the benevolence of the look had fled, the animation
of the intellect had vanished, and the beatings of the kind heart had
ceased. Then did the young lord call to mind many kind expressions
which the good man had used towards him. He thought of the day when he
went at the desire of the Earl his father, rather than by any prompting
of his own inclination, to call at the rectory and take leave of the
doctor, previously to setting out on his journey to Cambridge, when he
first entered the University. He recollected that on that occasion he
had been received in the doctor’s study, and the good man carefully
laid aside his books, and drew his chair round and conversed with him
most cheerfully and most wisely; and he remembered how very tenderly
he hinted at the possibility of juvenile follies, and how like a
friend and companion he endeavoured to guard his mind against the
fascinations of vice. He remembered also the fervent prayer which the
good man uttered at parting, and the words seemed to live again, and he
heard afresh the pious rector pray, “May God bless you, my dear young
friend, and keep you from the evil that is in the world, and make you
an ornament to that station which you are destined to fill.” Then came
to his mind the sad neglect of all the kind precepts which the holy man
had given him, and he felt that as yet the pastor’s prayer had not been
answered by the event. Now, had these feelings been followed by that
sobriety and steadiness of thought which should be the natural fruit
of such emotions, it had been well for him; but unfortunately he had
so much satisfaction in these emotions, and looked upon them as being
virtue, and not merely the means of virtue, so that they failed to
produce any lasting effect upon his mind, or to cause any change in his
conduct. He was proud of his remorse and pleased with his regrets, and
so the virtue which had its birth in a tear, evaporated when that tear
was dry.
Before Lord Spoonbill had left the rectory many minutes, he met the
medical gentleman on his way to the house. He stopped the physician and
told him that all was over.
With due solemnity, and professional solemnity is very solemn indeed,
the medical attendant of the Earl of Smatterton shook his head and
replied--
“Indeed! Aye, I thought I should find it so, from the account which the
messenger gave me. However, my lord, as I am thus far, I may as well
just look in. There is a possibility, perhaps, that even yet the use of
the lancet may not be too late.”
Lord Spoonbill did not oppose the physician’s wish, though he had no
expectation of any benefit to be derived from it. He therefore returned
and waited the report. The man of medicine soon rejoined his lordship,
and pronounced the patient beyond the reach of professional skill.
“The spirit, my lord, has left the body,” continued he, “according to
the vulgar expression.”
No man could more heartily enjoy the reprobation of vulgar phraseology
than could Lord Spoonbill, generally speaking; but at this moment he
was not disposed to be critical, and he answered the medical man rather
pettishly. He was not for his own part able so quickly to make the
transition from the grave to the gay as persons more accustomed to
such scenes. It is also not very uncommon for the imperfectly virtuous
to be exceedingly morose when under the impression of serious or
religious feelings. The physician was very much surprised at the manner
in which his lordship received the above-quoted speech; for it is a
great absurdity in these enlightened days to imagine that there is any
such thing as a soul. If there had been any such thing, the medical
gentlemen, who have very minutely dissected the human body, certainly
must have found it. But as they have not seen it, clearly it has no
existence, and that which we take for the soul is only a sort of a kind
of a something that is not a soul, but is only a word of four letters.
Many of the Newmarket students indeed had discovered this fact before
the dissectors had revealed it.
When the medical philosopher observed that Lord Spoonbill did not
express any approbation of the phraseology whereby a doubt of the
existence of a soul was intimated, he did not consider that the
disapprobation might be more from feeling than from opinion, and
therefore he proceeded to the discussion of the subject in a regular
and systematic method. His lordship was, however, not at all disposed
to listen to his arguments, and the two walked side by side in silence
to the castle.
When the Earl saw his medical oracle, he directed his inquiries first
to him--
“Doctor, you will be seated,” having been uttered with its usual
majesty of condescension, the Earl then proceeded to ask--
“And now, doctor, what report do you bring of our worthy rector?”
“Dr Greendale, my lord, is no more. Life was extinct before I could
reach him; and I am of opinion that nothing could have saved him.”
“Indeed! you don’t say so! It is a sad loss. The doctor was a most
excellent man. I had a very high opinion of him. I gave him the living
purely for his moral worth. He had nothing else to recommend him. I
always make it an invariable rule to distribute the church preferment
which is in my power, purely on the ground of merit. I am never
influenced by any political feeling.”
“Your lordship,” replied the physician, who understood his lordship’s
mind as well as his body, and perhaps better; “your lordship is
remarkable for the good judgment which you always exercise in these
matters, and indeed in everything else where the public good is
concerned. It would be well for the country if the distribution of
public and responsible offices were in such good hands. We should not
hear so much the language of dissatisfaction.”
“Doctor, you are disposed to compliment. But it is not very easy
to prevent the language of dissatisfaction. It is too common and
too indiscriminate. It is not proper that the common people should
acquire a habit of carping at all the acts of the government. The
multitude cannot understand these things. Now I have studied the
science of government with great and close attention, and I think I
do know something which even the ministers themselves do not rightly
understand. They are engaged in the dry details of office, and they
have been brought up in the trammels of prejudice. For my part I
have no prejudice. I do not take a detailed but comprehensive and
philosophical view of things.”
Much more to the same purpose did his lordship condescend to utter in
the hearing and for the instruction of the medical philosopher. The sum
and substance of the harangue was to inculcate that truly philosophical
view of government which recommends that the multitude should leave
the work of opposition to the old aristocracy of the country, and only
now and then, as that aristocracy may dictate, present petitions to
parliament to countenance and support the measures proposed by his
majesty’s opposition. The man of medicine was convinced of the truth
and justice of every sentiment which the Earl of Smatterton was
pleased in the profundity of his wisdom to advance: for though his
lordship was in opposition he did not like to be opposed: and who does?
His lordship then offered some refreshment to his medical friend, and
the subject of the decease of the rector was renewed.
“I am very much afraid,” said his lordship, “that the poor widow is not
left in very comfortable circumstances. But I will see that something
shall be done for her.”
After his lordship had received from the physician his meed of praise
for his liberality of intention towards the destitute widow, he
proceeded to speak of his own good intentions:
“I am very sorry that I did not see poor Greendale before his death. I
had no idea he was in such immediate danger. I certainly should have
gone down to the rectory in person, late as it was, had I been aware
that the good man was so near his end. However, I did all I could; I
sent for the best advice that was to be had.”
This was a very considerate and proper speech. Thus did the Earl of
Smatterton liberally repay the compliments which he had received from
his medical friend and adviser. It should also be remarked, that the
expression which his lordship has used more than once is rather a
singularity. He dwelt very much upon the lateness of the hour. Now it
was notorious, that in London there was scarcely a single house where
night was turned into day and day into night so entirely as in Lord
Smatterton’s: but in the country his lordship set a most excellent
example of early hours. For, as he very wisely observed, agricultural
pursuits require daylight; the poor people in the country cannot bear
the expense of candles, and therefore it is highly proper to set
them the example of early hours. This was certainly very considerate
of his lordship; and for this considerateness he was duly praised
by his physician. It is truly astonishing that anybody should ever
be censorious, for there is much more to be got by praising than by
blaming one’s fellow-creatures.
The physician took a handsome fee and a polite leave; and Colonel Crop
just at that moment entered the saloon, having finished his evening’s
entertainment at Neverden Hall. To him also was communicated the
intelligence of the sudden decease of the worthy rector of Smatterton.
And as soon as he heard the information, he said:
“Poor man, I am sorry for him: has he left a family?”
He had not left a family, or, if he had, Colonel Crop would have been
very sorry for them too. The hour of rest was arrived, and more than
arrived. But Lord Spoonbill enjoyed not the sweets of repose. His mind
was torn by conflicting thoughts, and harassed by bitter reflections
and self-reproaches. He thought of the mean transaction of the morning
and the solemn scene of the evening. For awhile he had a fancy that
the principle of virtue was the ascendant feeling of his soul, and he
thought that he would not pursue the scheme which he had commenced.
He looked at the letter which he had intercepted, and had some faint
notions that he should cause it to reach its destination. At all
events, he would not be so mean as to open the letter; that was an
offence of which he had never been guilty. He consigned the letter
to the flames. He thought of Dr Greendale, and he was all virtue and
penitence. He thought of Penelope, and considered that it would be a
pity for so amiable, and intelligent, and affectionate a creature to be
sacrificed to such a dull, plodding, commercial man as Robert Darnley.
At length, wearied by a multitude of thoughts, he fell asleep. But ever
and anon his rest was broken by painful and frightful dreams. He was
grasping the hand of a lovely and interesting one, and was using the
language of passion and persuasion, and he looked up to catch the smile
of beauty and the languishing look of love--and there were before him
the glassy eye, and the quivering lip, and the ghastly looks of death.
He felt upon his head the hand of blessing, and then there rung in his
ears the horrid language of execration. He saw the mild and venerable
form of the pious friend of his early youth, and he heard from his lips
the sentiments of devotion and the promises of hope; and then the face
was distorted by pain, and the voice was all the harshness of reproach
and the keenness of condemnation. Gradually this agitation of the
spirits subsided, and the wearied frame sunk into calmer rest; and when
the day-light shone into his apartment, and the morning sun awakened
the song of the birds, the darkness and gloom of the night were
forgotten, and the mind of the young patrician recovered its wonted
insensibility and apathy to all that is good and generous. The emotions
of the past night were ridiculed, and thus the character received an
additional impetus to that which is bad.