RANDOLPH.
Randolph Musgrave was a squire-parson, a class which possesses the
features of two species without fully embodying either--which may be
finer than either, the two halves of the joint character tempering each
other--or may be a travesty of both, exaggerating their mutual defects.
He was of the latter rather than of the former development. His living
was small in one sense and large in another, the income being large, but
the people few and very much given up to dissent, a fact which soured
his character without moving him to exertion. He was not fond of
exertion in any case, and it was all but hopeless in this. But not less
was he daily and hourly irritated by the little Bethels and Salems, the
lively Methodists, the pragmatical Baptists, who led his people away.
They made him angry, for he was easily moved to anger, and they
increased that tendency to listen to gossip and be moved by small
matters which is one of the temptations of a rural life. He had become
accustomed to make much of petty wrongs, calling them insults and
crimes, and perhaps to be more disposed to petty vengeances than a man
who is placed in the position of an example to others ought to be; and
whereas he had always been disposed to consider himself a sacred person,
above the ordinary slights of fortune, this tendency had grown and
strengthened so, that every petty pin-prick was like a poisoned arrow to
him. By natural laws of reverberation he heard more evil of himself, had
more mishaps in the way of gossip, of receiving letters not intended for
him, and otherwise surprising the sentiments of his neighbours, than
almost any one else ever had--which had made him suspicious of his
neighbours in the highest degree, and ready to believe every small
offence a premeditated insult. This perhaps made him all the more ready
to believe that his sister had conceived a villanous plan against him
and his. He would not have done such a thing himself; but was not his
life full of such attempts made upon him by others? everybody almost
whom he encountered having one time or other conspired against his hopes
or happiness. But he had always found out the plots in time. It was true
that this villany might be John’s, of whom he would have believed
anything; and Mary herself might be the dupe: but most likely it was
Mary, who did not like him nor his wife, and who would no doubt be
capable of anything to banish him finally from Penninghame, and set up
there some creature of her own. This was the idea which had come into
his mind, when he heard accidentally of the arrival which had made so
much commotion in the north country. He had talked it over with his wife
till they both saw gunpowder plots and conspiracies incalculable in it.
“You had better go and see into it yourself,” Mrs. Randolph said. “I
will,” was the Rector’s energetic reply. “And believe nobody, believe
nothing but what you see with your own eyes.” “Never! I will put faith
in nobody,” Randolph had said. And it was in this frame of mind that he
had come here. He meant to believe nobody save when they warned him of
plots against himself: to trust nothing save that all the world was in a
league to work him harm. But for this determined pre-conclusion, he
might perhaps have been less certain of his sister’s enmity to himself,
and of the baseness of the deception she was practising; but he had no
doubt whatever on this matter now. And he meant to expose her
remorselessly. Why should he mince matters? His father was an old man
and might die at any moment, and this villany ought to be exposed at
once.
With these thoughts in his mind he went round to the great door. How
different was the grey north-country house from anything he was used to!
The thought of his snug parsonage embosomed in greenery, roses climbing
to the chimney-stacks, clustering about all the windows, soft velvet
lawns and strict inclosures keeping all sacred--made him shiver at sight
of the irregular building, the masses of ivy fostering damp, the open
approach, a common road free to everybody. If it ever was his, or rather
when it was his--for these supposititious children would soon be done
away with, and John, a man under the ban of the law, how could he ever
appear to claim his inheritance?--_when_ it was his, he would soon make
a difference. He would bring forward the boundaries of the Chase so as
to inclose the Castle. He would make the road into a stately avenue as
it once was and ought to be. What did it matter who objected? He would
do it; let the village burst with rage. The very idea of exasperating
the village and making it own his power, made the idea all the more
delightful. He would soon change all this; let it but get into his
hands. In the midst of these thoughts, however, Randolph met a somewhat
ludicrous rebuff from Eastwood, who opened the door suddenly and softly,
as was his fashion, as if he hoped to find the visitor out in something
improper. “Who shall I say, sir?” said Eastwood, deferentially. This
gave Randolph a sense of the most ludicrous discomfiture; for to be
asked what name is to be announced when you knock at the door of your
father’s house is a curious sensation. It was nobody’s fault unless it
might have been Randolph’s own, but the feeling was disagreeable. He
stood for a moment dumb, staring at the questioner--then striding inside
the door, pushed Eastwood out of his way. When he was within, however,
somewhat conciliated by the alarmed aspect of the butler, who did not
know whether to resist or what to do, he changed his mind.
“I don’t want to startle my father,” he said; “say Mr. Randolph Musgrave
has arrived.”
“I beg your pardon humbly, sir,” cried Eastwood.
“No, no, it was not your fault.” Randolph replied. It was not the
servant’s fault; but it was _their_ fault who had made his home a place
of disgrace, and no longer a fit home for him.
The Squire was seated among his books, feeling the drowsy influence of
the afternoon. He had no Monograph to support his soul, and no better
occupation than to rummage dully through the records of antiquity,
cheered up and enlivened if he found something to reply to in _Notes and
Queries_, but otherwise living a heavy kind of half-animate life. When
the critiques and the letters about that Monograph had ended, what a
blank there was! and no other work was at hand to make up, or to tempt
him to further exertions. The corner of land that he desired to attain
had been bought, and had given him pleasure; but after a while his eyes
were satisfied with the contemplation, and his mind almost satisfied
with the calculation, of so many additional acres added to the property.
The sweetness of it lay in the thought that the property was growing,
that there was sufficient elasticity in the family income to make the
acquisition of even a little bit of land possible. The Squire thought
this was the fruit of his own self-denial, and it gave him that glow of
conscious virtue which was once supposed to be the appropriate and
unfailing reward of good actions, till conscious virtue went out of
fashion. This was sweet; and it was sweet to go and look at the new
fields which restored the old boundary of the Penninghame estate in that
direction; but such gratifications cease to be sustaining to life after
a time. And Mr. Musgrave was dull sitting among his books; the sounds
were in his ears which he was always hearing now--the far-off ring of
voices that made him sensible of those inmates in his house whom he
never noticed, who were to him as if they did not exist. When the mind
is not very closely occupied, sounds thus heard in the house come
strangely across the quiescent spirit of the solitary. Voices beloved
are as music, are as sunshine, conveying a sense of happiness and soft
exhilaration. Hearing them far off, though beyond the reach of hearing,
so to speak, does not the very distant sound, the tone of love in them,
make work sweet and the air warm, softening everything round the
recluse? But these were not voices beloved. The old man listened to
them--or rather, not permitting himself to listen, _heard_ them acutely
through the mist of a separation which he did not choose to overcome.
They were like something from another world, voices in the air,
inarticulate, mysterious, known yet unknown. He turned the leaves idly
when these strange suggestions came to him in his solitude; he had
nothing to do with them, and yet so much. This was how he was sitting,
dully wistful, in that stillness of age which when it is not glad must
be sad, and hearing almost, as if he were already a ghost out of his
grave, the strange yet familiar stir in the unseen stairs and passages,
the movements of the kindly house----
“Mr. Randolph Musgrave!” The Squire was very much startled by the name.
He rose hastily, and stood leaning upon his writing-table to see who it
was that followed Eastwood into the room after a minute’s interval. It
seemed scarcely possible to him that it could be his son. “Randolph!” he
said. The children’s voices had made him think, in spite of himself, of
the time--was it centuries ago?--when there were two small things
running about those old passages continually, and a beautiful young
mother smiling upon them--and him. This had softened his heart, though
by means which he would not have acknowledged. He looked out eagerly
with a sensation of pleasure and relief for his son. He would (perhaps)
take Randolph’s advice, perhaps get some enlightenment from him. But the
shock set his nerves off, and made him tremulous, though it was a shock
of pleasure; and it hurt his pride so to be seen trembling, that he held
himself up strained and rigid against his table. “Randolph! you are a
stranger indeed,” he said, and his countenance lighted up with a cloudy
and tremulous smile.
(“Strange that he was never seen here before in my time,” said Eastwood
as he withdrew. “I’ve seen a many queer things in families, but never
nothing more queer than this--two sons as never have been seen in the
house, and children as the Squire won’t give in he owns them. I thought
he’d have walked right straight over little master Saturday last as if
no one was there. But I don’t like the looks of _’im_. When he’s master
here I march, and that I can tell you--pretty fast, Missis Cook.”
“Mr. Randolph? He’ll never be master here, thank God for it,” said Cook
with pious fervour, “or more than you will go.”)
“Yes,” said Randolph, walking in, “I have been a stranger, but how can
we help that! It is life that separates us. We must all run our own
course. I hope you are well, sir. You look well--for your time of life.”
It is not a pleasant thing to be told that you look well for your time
of life--unless indeed you are ninety, and the time of life is itself a
matter of pride. The Squire knew he was old, and that soon he must
resign his place to others; but he did not care for such a distinct
intimation that others thought so too.
“I am very well,” he said, curtly. “You are so completely a stranger,
Randolph, that I cannot make the usual remarks on your personal
appearance. You deny me the opportunity of judging if you look ill or
well.”
“Ah,” said Randolph, “that is just what I said. We must all run our own
course. My duties are at the other end of England, and I cannot be
always running back and forward; but I hope to stay a few days now if
you will have me. Relations should see each other now and then. I have
just had a glimpse of Mary in the old hall as usual. She did not know me
at first, nor, I daresay, if I had not seen her there, should I have
known her”--
“Mary is little changed,” said the Squire.
“So you think, sir, seeing her every day; but there is a great change
from what she was ten years ago. She was still a young woman then, and
handsome. I am afraid even family partiality cannot call her anything
but an old maid now.”
Mr. Musgrave did not make any reply. He was not a particularly
affectionate father, but Mary was part of himself, and it did not please
him to hear her spoken of so.
“And, by the bye,” said Randolph, “how did such a thing happen I wonder?
for she _was_ handsome;--handsome and well-born, and with a little
money. It is very odd she never has married. Was there anything to
account for it? or is it mere ill-luck?”
“Ill-luck to whom?” said the Squire. “Do you think perhaps your sister
never had the chance, as people say? You may dismiss that idea from your
mind. She has had enough of chances. I don’t know any reason; but there
must have been one, I suppose. Either that nobody came whom she cared
for, or--I really cannot form any other idea,” he concluded, sharply. It
was certain that he would not have Mary discussed.
“I meant no harm,” said Randolph. “She has got the old hall very nicely
done up. It is not a place I would myself care to keep up, if the Castle
were in my hands; but she has made it very nice. I found her there
with--among her favourite studies,” he added, after a momentary pause.
It was too early to begin direct upon the chapter of the children, he
felt. The Squire did not show any sign of special understanding. He
nodded his head in assent.
“She was always fond of the hall,” he said. “I used to think she suited
it. And now that she is--past her youth, as you say----”
“Well into middle age I say, sir, like other people; which is a more
serious affair for a woman than for a man; but I suppose all hopes are
over now. She is not likely to marry at her time of life.” This was the
second time he had mentioned the time of life. And the Squire did not
like it; he answered curtly----
“No, I don’t think it likely that Mary will marry. But yourself,
Randolph, how are things going with you? You have not come so far merely
to calculate your sister’s chances. Your wife is well, I hope; and your
boy?”
“Quite well. You are right in thinking, sir, that I did not come without
an object. We are all getting on in life. I thought it only proper that
there should be some understanding among us as to family
affairs--something decided in the case of any emergency. We are all
mortal----”
“And I the most mortal of all, you will say, at my ‘time of life,’
Randolph,” said the Squire, with a smile, which was far from genial. “I
daresay you are quite right, perfectly right. I am an old man, and
nobody can tell what an hour may bring forth.”
“That is true at every age,” said Randolph, with professional
seriousness. “The idea ought to be familiar to the youngest among us. In
the midst of life we are in death. I recommend everybody over whom I
have the least influence to settle their affairs, so that they may not
leave a nest of domestic contentions behind them. It is only less
important than needful spiritual preparation, which of course should be
our first care.”
“Just so,” said Mr. Musgrave. “I presume you don’t mean to bring me to
book on that point?”
“Certainly not, sir--unless there is any special point upon which I
could be of use; but you are as well able to judge as I am, and have
access to all the authorities,” said Randolph with dignity. “Besides,
there is your own clergyman at hand, who is no doubt quite equal to the
duties of his position. It is old Pennithorne, is it not?” he added,
with a momentary lapse into a more familiar tone. “But there is no
question of that. In such matters a man of your experience, sir, ought
to be able to instruct the best of us.”
“The bench of bishops even,” said the Squire, “sometimes I think I
could--at my time of life. But that is not the question, as you say.”
“No indeed--not to say that my best advice in every way is at your
service, sir; but I thought very likely it would be an ease to your mind
to see me, to give me any instructions or directions--in short, to feel
that your nearest representative understood your wishes, whatever might
happen.”
Now Randolph was evidently his father’s representative, John being out
of the question; and that John was absolutely out of the question, not
only from external circumstances, but from the strong prejudice and
prepossession against him in his father’s mind, was certain. Yet the
Squire resented this assumption as much as if John had been his
dearly-beloved son and apparent heir.
“Thanks,” he said, “I feel your care for my comfort--but after all, you
are not my direct representative.”
“Sir!” cried Randolph reddening, “need I remind you of the disabilities,
the privation of all natural rights----”
“You need not remind me of anything,” said Mr. Musgrave, getting up
hurriedly. “I don’t care to discuss that question--or anything else of
the kind. Suppose we go and join Mary, who must be in the drawing-room,
I suppose? It is she, after all, who is really my representative,
knowing everything about my affairs.”
“She--is a woman,” said Randolph, with a tone of contempt.
“That is undeniable--but women are not considered exactly as they used
to be in such matters.”
“I hope, sir,” said the clergyman, with dignity, “that neither my sister
nor you add your influence to the foolish movement about women’s
rights.”
“Do you mean that Mary does not want a vote?” said the Squire. “No, I
don’t suppose it has occurred to her. We add our influence to very few
public movements, Randolph, bad or good. The Musgraves are not what they
once were in the county; the leading part we once took is taken by
others who are richer than we are. Progress is not the thing for old
families, for progress means money.”
“There are other reasons why the Musgraves do not take their proper
place. I have hopes, sir,” said Randolph, “that under more favourable
circumstances--if we, perhaps, were to draw more together----”
“What do you mean, sir?” said the Squire; “it was you who separated
yourself from us, not us from you. You were too good, being a clergyman,
as you said, to encounter the odium of our position. That’s enough,
Randolph. It is not an agreeable subject. Let us dismiss it as it has
been dismissed these fifteen years; and come--to Mary’s part of the
house.”
“Then, am I to understand,” said Randolph, sharply, rising, yet holding
back, “that your mind is changing as old age gains upon you, that you
are going to accept the disgrace of the family? and that it is with your
sanction that Mary is receiving--adopting----”
He stopped, overawed in spite of himself, by the old man’s look, who
stood with his face fixed looking towards him, restraining with all his
force the tremor of his nerves. The Squire had been subject all his life
to sudden fits of passion, and had got the habit of subduing, by
ignoring them, as all his family well knew. He made no reply, but the
restrained fire in his eyes impressed even the dull imagination of his
son, who was pertinacious rather than daring, and had no force in him to
stand against passion. Mr. Musgrave turned round quickly, and took up
his book, which lay on a table near.
“Mary sent you a copy of the Monograph?” he said; “but I don’t remember
that you gave me your opinion of it. It has had a very flattering
reception generally. I could not have expected so much interest in the
public mind on a question of such exclusive family interest. But so it
has been. I have kept all the notices, and the letters I have received
on the subject. You shall see them by and by; and I think you will agree
with me, that a more flattering reception could scarcely have been. All
sorts of people have written to me. It appears,” said the Squire, with
modest pride, “that I have really been able to throw some light upon a
difficulty. After dinner, Randolph, if you are interested, you shall see
my collection.”
“My time is short,” said Randolph, “and with so many more serious
matters to discuss----”
“I know few things more serious than the history of the family honours,”
said the Squire, “especially as you have a boy to inherit the old
blazon; but we’ll go into all that this evening, as your stay is to be
short. Better come and see Mary before dinner. She will want to know all
about your home-concerns, and your wife. The house is unchanged, you
will perceive,” the Squire continued, talking cheerfully as he led the
way; and the sound of his voice, somewhat high-pitched and shrill with
age, travelled far through the old passages. “I hope no sacrilegious
hands will ever change the house. My heirs may add to it if they please,
but it is a monument of antiquity, which ought never to be
touched--except to mend it delicately as Mary mends her old lace. This
way, Randolph; I believe you have forgotten the way.”
They were standing in an angle of the fine oak staircase, where the
Squire waited till his son came up to him. At this moment a rush of
small footsteps, and a whispering voice--“Run, Nello, Nello! he is
coming,” was audible above. Randolph looked up quickly, with a look of
intelligence, into the old man’s face. But the Squire did not move a
muscle. His countenance was blank as that of a deaf man. If he had
heard, he allowed no sign of hearing to be visible. “Come along,” he
said, “it seems to me that my wind is better than yours even at my time
of life,” with a half-sarcastic smile. Was he hard of hearing? a
hypothesis rather agreeable to think of; or what was the meaning of it?
Were these obnoxious children the pets of the house? but why should they
run because he was coming. The hostile visitor was perplexed, and could
not make it out. He followed into the drawing-room without a word, while
the small footsteps were still audible. Mary was seated at a low table
on which there was work, but she was not working. She rose to receive
them with a certain formality; for except after dinner, when the Squire
would sometimes come for a cup of tea, or when there were visitors in
the house, she was generally alone in the low quaint drawing-room, which
transported even the unimaginative Randolph back to childhood. The
panelled walls, the spindle-legged furniture, the inlaid cabinets and
tables, were all exactly as he remembered them. This touched him a
little, though he had all the robustness against impression which
fortifies a slow intelligence. “It seems like yesterday that I was
here,” he said.
This, in her turn, touched Mary, whose excitement made her subject to
the lightest flutter of emotion. She smiled at him with greater kindness
than she had yet felt. “Yes,” she said. “I feel so sometimes, too, when
I look round; but it tells less upon us who are here always. And so much
has happened since then.”
“Ah, I suppose so: though you seem to vegetate pretty much in the old
ways. Those children though, for instance,” said Randolph, with a laugh,
“scurrying off in such haste as we came within hearing, that is not like
the old ways. Are you ashamed of them, or afraid to have them here? I
should not wonder, for my part.”
The tears sprang to Mary’s eyes. She did not say anything in the sudden
shock, but looked at Randolph piteously with a silent reproach. It was
the first time since the day of their arrival that any public mention
had been made of the children in her father’s presence. And there was a
pause which seemed to her full of fate.
“You must not look at me so,” said her brother. “I gave you fair
warning. My father is not to be given up to your plots without a
remonstrance at least. I believe it is a conspiracy, sir, from beginning
to end. Do you intend our old family, with all the honours you are so
proud of, to drop into disgrace? With the shadow of crime on it,” cried
Randolph, warming into excitement; then, with a dull perception of
something still more telling, his father’s weak point, “and the bar
sinister of vice?” he said.