A NEW VISITOR.
Notwithstanding her dislike to have it supposed that Mr. Pen was her
spiritual adviser, Mary did make a hurried visit to the Vicarage to ask
his advice. Not that she had much confidence in the good Vicar’s advice;
but to act in such a case, where experience fails you altogether,
entirely on your own judgment without even the comfort of “talking it
over,” is a hard thing to do. “Talking it over” is always an advantage.
The for and against of any argument are always clearer when they are put
into words and made audible, and thus acquire, as it were, though they
may be your own words, a separate existence. Thus Mary became her own
adviser when she consulted Mr. Pen, and there was no one else at hand
who could fulfil this office. They talked it over anxiously, Mr. Pen
being, as she knew he would be, entirely on Randolph’s side. To him it
appeared that it would be a great advantage for Nello to be taken to
school by his uncle. It would be “the right thing to do”--better than if
Mary did it--better than Mr. Pen himself could do it. Mary could not
find any arguments to meet this conventional certainty. She restrained
her distrust and fear, but she could not say anything against the fact
that it was kind of Randolph to propose this, and that it would be
injurious and unkind on her part to reject it. She went home dispirited
and cast down, but set to work at once with the practical preparations.
Saturday was the day on which Randolph had said he must go--and it was
already Thursday--and there was not a moment to lose. But it was not
till the Friday afternoon, the eve of separation, that Miss Musgrave
could screw her courage to the point of informing the children what lay
before them. The afternoon was half over, and the sun beginning to send
long rays aslant from the west. She came in from the village, where she
had gone in mere restlessness, feeling that this communication could be
delayed no longer; but she disliked it so much herself that the thought
of Nello’s consternation and the tears of Lilias was almost more than
their tender guardian could bear.
But when she came in sight of the old hall door, a group encountered her
which bewildered Mary. A young man on horseback had drawn up at the side
of the ascent, and with his hat off, and the sun shining upon his
curling hair and smiling countenance, was looking up and talking to
little Lilias, who leaned over the low wall, like a lady of romance
looking over her battlements. The sun gleamed full upon Lilias too,
lighting up her dark eyes and warmly-tinted cheek and the hair which
hung about her shoulders, and making a pretty picture. Her face was full
of earnest meaning, grave and eager and tremulous. Nello, at the hall
door, above this strange pair, contemplated them with a mixture of
jealousy and wonder. Mary had come upon them so suddenly that she could
hear the young man answering something to the eager demands of the
little girl. “But, you are sure, quite sure? Oh, are you certain, Mr.
Geoff?”
“Quite sure,” he was saying. “But you must think of me all the time,
Lily; you must think of nothing but me--promise me that, and I shall not
be afraid.”
“I promise!” cried Lilias, clasping her hands. Mary stood and listened
altogether confounded, and Nello, from above, bewildered and only half
satisfied, looked on. Who was the young man? It seemed to Miss Musgrave
that she had seen him before. And what was it that had changed Lilias
into this little princess, this small heroine? The heroic aspect,
however, gave way before Mary could interfere, and the child murmured
something softer, something less unlike the little girl with all whose
ways Mary was familiar.
“But I always think of you,” she said; “always! since _that_ day.”
“Do you, indeed, my little Lily? That makes me happy. You must always
keep up so good a custom.”
And the young man smiled, with eyes full of tenderness, and took the
child’s hand and held it in his own. Lilias was too young for any
comment or false interpretation, but what did it mean? The spectator
behind, besides, was too much astonished to move.
“Good-bye, my Lily; good-bye, Nello,” cried the young man, nodding his
head to the children. And then he put on his hat and rode round the
corner towards the door.
Lilias stood looking after him, like a little saint in an ecstasy. She
clasped her hands again, and looked up to the sky, her lips moving, and
tears glittering in her eyes.
“Oh, Nello, don’t you think God will help him?” she said, one tear
overbrimming suddenly, and rolling down her cheek. She started when
Mary, with tones a little sharpened by consternation, called her. Lilias
had no sense of shame in her innocent mind, but as there is no telling
in what light those curious beings called grown-up people might regard a
child’s actions, a little thrill of alarm went through her. What might
Mary say? What would she think when she knew that Mr. Geoff “had come to
set everything right about papa”? Lilias felt instinctively that Geoff’s
mission would not appear in exactly the same light to Mary as it did to
herself. She turned round with a sudden flush of surprise and agitation
on her face. It looked like the blush of a maturer sentiment to Mary.
“At twelve years old!” she said to herself! And unconsciously there
glanced through her mind a recollection of the first Lily--the child’s
mother--she who had been the beginning of all the trouble. Was it in the
blood?
“Who is that gentleman?” Mary asked, with much disturbance of mind.
“Lilias! I could not have expected this of you.”
Lilias followed into the hall, very still and pale, feeling herself a
culprit, though she did not know why. Her hands dropped straight by her
side, after the manner of a creature accused; and she looked up to Mary
with eyes full of vague alarm, into which the tears were ready to come
at a moment’s notice.
“I have not done anything wrong?” she said, turning her assertion into a
faltering question. “It was Mr. Geoff.”
“Mr. Geoff!--who is Mr. Geoff?”
“He is--very kind--oh, very kind, Mary; he is--some one who knows about
papa: he is--the gentleman who once came with two beautiful horses in a
carriage (oh, don’t you remember, Nello?) to see _you_.”
“Yes,” said Nello, with ready testimony; “he said I should ride upon
them. They were two bay horses, in one of those high-up funny carriages,
not like Mary’s carriage. I wonder if I might ride upon his horse now?”
“To see _me_?” Mary was entirely bewildered. “And what do you mean about
your father?” she said. “Knows about papa! Lilias! come here; I am not
angry. What does he know about papa?”
Lilias came up slowly to her side, half unwilling to communicate her own
knowledge on this point. For Mary had not told her the secret, she
remembered suddenly. But the confusion of Lilias was interrupted by
something more startling and agitating. Eastwood came into the hall,
with a certain importance and solemnity. “If you please, ma’am,” he
said, “my Lord Stanton has just come in, and I’ve shown him into the
library--to my master. I thought you would like to know.”
“Lord Stanton--to my father, Eastwood? my father ought not to be
troubled with strangers. Lord Stanton!--to be sure it was that boy.
Quick, say that I shall be glad to see him up-stairs.”
“If you please, ma’am, his lordship asked for my master; and my
master--he said, ‘Yes, certainly.’ He was quite smiling like, and
cheerful. He said, ‘Yes; certainly, Eastwood.’ So, what was I to do? I
showed his lordship in--and there they are now--as friendly--as
friendly, if I may venture to make a comparison: His lordship,” said
Eastwood, prudently pausing before he committed himself to metaphor,
“is, if I may make bold to say so, one of the nicest young gentleman!”
Mary had risen hastily to interrupt this dangerous interview, which
alarmed her. She stood, paying no attention to Eastwood while the man
was talking, feeling herself crowded and pressed on all hands by a
multitude of thoughts. The hum of them was in her ears, like the sound
of a throng of people. Should she go to the library, whatever her father
might think of the interruption? Should she stop this meeting at all
hazards? or should she let it go on, and that come which would? All was
confusion around her, her heart beating loudly in her ears, and a
hundred suggestions sounding through that stormy throbbing. But when
Eastwood’s commonplace voice, to which she had been paying no heed,
stopped, Mary’s thoughts came to a stop also. She grew faint, and the
light seemed to vanish from her eyes.
The Squire had been sitting alone all day. He had seemed to all the
servants (the most accurate of observers in such a case) more feeble
than usual. His daughter, agitated and full of trouble about other
things, had not remarked any change. But Eastwood had shaken his head
down-stairs, and had said that he did not like the looks of master. He
had never been so gentle before. Whatever you said to him he smiled,
which was not at all the Squire’s way. And though he had a book before
him, Eastwood had remarked that he did not read. He would cast his eyes
upon his book when any one went in, but it was always the same page.
Eastwood had made a great many pretences of business, in order to see
how his master was--pretences which the Squire in his usual health would
have put a stop to summarily, but which to-day he either did not observe
at all, or received smilingly. In this way Eastwood had remarked a great
many things which filled him with dismay; for he liked his old master,
and the place suited him to perfection. He noticed the helpless sort of
way in which Mr. Musgrave sat; his knees feebly leaning against each
other, his fingers falling in a heap upon the arm of his chair, his
eyelids half covering his eyes. It was half the instinct of obedience,
and half a benevolent desire to rouse his master, which made Eastwood
introduce the visitor into the library without consulting Miss Musgrave.
Judging by his own feelings, the man felt that nothing was so likely to
stimulate and rouse up the Squire as a visit from a lord. There were not
too many of them about; visitors of any kind, indeed, were not over
plentiful at Penninghame; and a nice, cheerful, affable young lordship
was a thing to do anybody good.
And Geoff went in, full of the mission he had taken in hand. It was a
bold thing to do, after all he had heard of the inexorable old Squire
who had shut his heart to his son, and would hear nothing of him, as
everybody said. But it seemed to Geoff, in the rash generosity of his
youth, that if he, who was the representative of the injured family,
were to interfere, the other must be convinced--must yield, at least,
to reason, and consent to consider the subject. But he did not expect a
very warm reception, and went in with a beating heart.
Mr. Musgrave had risen up to receive him; he had not failed in any of
his faculties. He could still hear as well as he did twenty years
before, and Lord Stanton’s name was unusual enough to call his attention
for the moment. He had raised himself from his chair, and stood leaning
forward, supporting himself with both hands upon the writing-table
before him. This had been a favourite attitude, when he had no occasion
for support; but now the feeble hands leaned heavily with all the weight
of his frame upon them. He said the name that had been announced to him
with a wavering of suspicion in his tone, “Lord Stanton!” then pointed
with a tremulous sweep of his hand to a seat, and himself dropped back
into his chair. He was not the stern old chief whom Geoff expected to
find in arms against every suggestion of mercy, but a feeble old man,
smiling faintly, with a kind of veiled intelligence in his eyes. He
murmured something about “an unusual pleasure,” which Geoff could not
make out.
“I have come to you, sir, about important business. I hope you will not
think I am taking too much upon myself. I thought, as I was--the chief
person on one side, and you on the other, that you might allow me to
speak?”
Geoff was as nervous as a child; his colour went and came. It awed him,
he could scarcely tell why, to see the feebleness of the old figure, the
dreary, abstracted look in the old face.
“Surely--surely,” said the old man. “Why should you not speak to me? Our
family is perhaps better known; but yours, Mr.--I mean, my Lord Stanton,
yours is--”
He half forgot what he was saying, getting slower and slower, and now
stopped all at once. Then, after a moment, rousing himself, resumed,
with a wave of his hand, “Surely--you must say--what you have to say.”
This was worse for Geoff than if he had forbidden him altogether. What
could he do to rouse interest in the old man’s breast?
“I want to speak, sir,” he said, faltering, “of your son.”
“My son?--ah! yes, Randolph is here. He is too old for me--too old--not
like a son. What does it matter who is your father when it comes to that
age?”
“It was not Randolph, sir. I did not know him; but it is your other
son--your eldest son, I mean--John.”
“Eh?” The old man roused up a little. “John--that was my little brother;
we called him Johnny--a delightful boy. There is just such another in
the house now, I believe. I think he is in the house.”
“Oh, sir!” said Geoff, “I want to speak to you--to plead with you for
some one who is not in the house--for your son John--John who has been
so long away. You know--don’t you know whom I mean?--your eldest son,
Mr. Musgrave--_John_, who left us and left everything so many years
ago.”
A wavering light came over the old man’s face. He opened his eyes wide
and gazed at Geoff, who, for his part, was too much troubled and alarmed
to know what to do.
“Eh!” he said again, with a curious blank stare, “my--what? Son? but not
Randolph. No more about sons, they are a trouble and a sorrow. To tell
the truth I am drowsy rather. I suppose--I have not been very well. Have
you seen the little boy?”
“The little boy?--your grandson, sir?”
“Eh! you call him that! He is just such another as little Johnny, my
little brother, who was eighteen months younger than I. You were saying
something else, my--my--friend! But to tell the truth, this is all I am
good for now. The elders would like to push us from the scene; but the
little ones,” said the Squire, with a curious sudden break of laughter,
which sounded full of tears, “the little ones--are fond of old people;
that is all I am good for nowadays--to play with the little boy----”
“Oh, sir!” said Geoff in his eagerness, “it is something very different
that is expected of you. To save the little boy’s father--your son--to
bring him back with honour. It is honour, not shame, that he deserves. I
who am a stranger, who am the brother of the man who was killed, I have
come to entreat you to do John Musgrave justice. You know how he has
been treated. You know, to our disgrace, not his, that there is still a
sentence against him. It is John Musgrave--John Musgrave we ought to
think of. Listen to me--oh, listen to me! Your son--”
The old man rose to his feet, and stood wavering, gazing with troubled
wide-open eyes, full of the dismal perplexity of an intelligence which
feels itself giving way. “John Musgrave!” he said, with pale lips which
trembled and dropped apart; and a thrill and trembling came over his
whole frame. Geoff sprang up and came towards him in alarm to support
him, but the Squire waved him away with both his tremulous hands, and
gave a bewildered look round him as if for some other prop. Suddenly he
caught sight of the little carved oak cupboard against the wall. “Ah!”
he said, with an exclamation of relief. This was what he wanted. He
turned and made a feeble step towards it, opened it, and took from it
the cordial which he used in great emergencies, and to which he turned
vaguely in this utter overthrowal of all his forces now. But then ensued
a piteous spectacle; all his strength was not sufficient to pour it out.
He made one or two despairing efforts, then put the bottle and glass
down upon the table with a low cry, and sank back into his chair. He
looked at Geoff with the very anguish of feebleness in his eyes. “Ah!”
he faltered, “it is true--they are right. I am old--old--and good for
nothing. Let them push me away, and take my place.” A few sobs, bitter
and terrible, came with the words, and two or three tears dropped down
the old man’s grey-pale cheeks. The depth of mortal humiliation was in
this last cry.
Geoff almost wept too in the profound pity of his generous young
soul--it went to his very heart. “Let me help you,” he cried, pouring
out the cordial with anxious care. It was all the Squire could do to put
it to his lips. He laid one of his trembling hands upon Geoff’s shoulder
as he gave back the glass, and whispered to him hoarsely, “Not
Randolph,” he said; “don’t let Randolph come. Bring me--do you
know?--the little boy.”
“Yes, sir, yes,” cried Geoff; “I understand.”
The old Squire still held him with a hand which was heavy as lead upon
his arm, “God bless you, my lad,” he said. He did not know who Geoff
was; but trusted to him as in utter prostration we trust to any hand
held out to us. And a little temporary ease came with the potion. He
smiled feebly once more, laid back his head, and closed his eyes. “My
little Johnny!” he said; and his hands fell as Eastwood had described
them, the fingers crumbled together all in a heap, upon the arms of his
chair.
Geoff rushed out of the room with a beating heart, feeling himself all
at once thrust into a position of importance in this unknown house. He
had never seen death or its approach, and in his inexperience did not
know how difficult it was to shuffle off the coils of mortality. He
thought the old man was dying. Accordingly, he rushed up the slope to
the old hall like a whirlwind, where Mary and the children were. “Come,
come,” he cried; “he is ill, very ill!” and snatching Nello’s reluctant
hand, ran back, dragging the child with him, who resisted with all his
might. “Come, your grandfather wants you,” cried Geoff. Mary followed,
alarmed, and wondering, and--scarcely knowing where she went in her
agitation--found herself, behind the young man and the boy, at the door
of that sacred library which the children had never entered, and where
their very existence was ignored. Her father was lying back in his great
chair; Eastwood, whom Geoff had hastily summoned, standing behind. The
old man’s heavy eyes were watching the door, his old limbs huddled
together in the chair, like something inanimate thrown down in a heap,
and lying as it fell. At sight of this awful figure, little Nello gave a
loud cry of childish terror, and turning round, would have fled but for
Geoff, who stood behind him. At the sound of the child’s voice, the old
man roused himself feebly; he moved his arms--extending them in
intention at least--and his lips with inaudible words. “Go to him, go to
him!” cried Geoff in an imperative whisper. Little Nello was not without
courage, though he was afraid. Finding the way of escape blocked up, he
turned round again, stood irresolute for a moment, and then advanced
with the strength of desperation. The old man, with a last effort, put
out his arms, and drew the child between his knees. “My little Johnny!”
he said, with an only half-articulate outbreak of crying and strange
laughter. Then his arms fell powerless; his head drooped on his breast.
Nello broke out wildly into crying; but stood fascinated between the
feeble knees.
Was he dead? Geoff thought so in his simplicity as he led the child
away, and left Mary and the servants, whom he had summoned, in this
death-chamber. He led Nello back to the hall, and sat down beside the
children and talked to them in low tones. His mind was full of awe and
solemn feeling; his own youth, and strength, and happiness seeming a
kind of insult to the old and dying. He went back after a while very
grave and humble, to ask how it was, and what he could do. But the
Squire was not dead. He was stricken by that _avant-courier_ of the
great king, who kills the mind before the body dies. It was “a stroke,”
Eastwood said, in all the awe, yet importance, of so tragic an event. He
had seen it coming for weeks before, he said.