"LET IT BE PETER'S GODCHILD."
I have said that I am approaching the conclusion of this my story, and
so in truth I am, so far as the readers thereof are concerned in it.
They will soon be put in possession of its secret, and close this
volume, not altogether without regret, as I hope. But for me, and those
who played their parts in this drama of mystery, months and years went
by without the least clue to its solution. Fairburn Hall remained
without a master, although not untenanted. The same servants occupied it
as before, and expected, although with less and less of certainty, that
the Squire would presently return and claim his own again. The
principal rooms, as was stated, had been locked up and sealed ever since
his disappearance, and the very neighbourhood of their doors had begun
to be avoided after dark. Noises were affirmed to have been heard in
them, both canine and human--doubtless the ghostly talk held between
Grimjaw and Sir Massingberd, who had now no longer any reason for
silence concerning that evil deed in which they had been concerned
together so long ago. The baronet's voice was also heard in the Park and
Chase, especially upon windy nights, cursing and threatening in a very
vehement and life-like manner, so that his preserves were almost as well
protected by the terror of his absence as they had been by that of his
presence. Reckless, indeed, must have been the poacher who wired hares
or slaughtered pheasants in the Home Spinney, where the dread Sir
Massingberd must have met with his end, or been spirited away, no man
knew how or whither. Had it not been for this superstitious awe, Oliver
Bradford would have found it difficult to guard his master's game, for
the old keeper, crippled with age and rheumatism, could no longer watch
o' nights himself, nor could he easily induce his subordinates to do so,
unless in pairs. They, too, had little liking to be alone in the Home
Spinney after dusk, nor near the Wolsey Oak, which of late years had had
certain portentous tenants in the shape of the two ravens, which were
for ever flying to and fro between it and their lodging in the church
tower. The old ancestral saying--
"Ill for Heaths when raven's croak
Bodeful comes from Wolsey's Oak"--
was remembered and repeated by the old folks of Fairburn to the rising
generation with many a solemn head-shake and significant pursing of the
lips. Yet, oddly enough, the general opinion, even of these ancient
gossips, was, that Sir Massingberd was yet alive. The misfortune
prophesied by the ravens was held to concern the family, or, in other
words, young Marmaduke, rather than his uncle. If the behaviour of these
intelligent birds proclaimed that the Squire was dead, they deserved
rather to be held as doves of good tidings than what they were. No; Sir
Massingberd was alive, and would turn up some day or other, wickeder
than ever. His return was as confidently looked for by many of his
vassals, as that of Barbarossa was wont to be.
This was not, of course, the case with reasonable persons, like Mr.
Long, and, I may add, myself. When a twelvemonth had elapsed since his
disappearance, we both entreated Marmaduke to come down to Fairburn, and
take possession of what might fairly be considered his own. Mr. Gerard
and Mr. Clint were equally anxious that he should do this, but all
persuasion was unavailing. The most that could be extracted from him was
the promise that, when he came of age, a year and a half hence, he would
do as we pleased. It seemed to us, indeed, the height of improbability
that his uncle should still be in the land of the living; it seemed so
to the money-lenders, who showed themselves anxious to accommodate the
young man with enormous loans at a very trifling rate of interest; but
to the heir himself it by no means appeared so certain. There was
something characteristic, he thought, of his terrible uncle in this
mysterious withdrawal from human ken, with the fiendish object of
throwing everything out of gear for years, and thus striking terror by
his sudden reappearance. If he did reappear and found another--and that
one his hated nephew--in the enjoyment of his property, how diabolical
would be his wrath! There was often quite a sublimity of passion evinced
by the old baronet upon very slight occasions; but all such displays,
compared to what would happen in the case supposed, would have been but
as a cavalry inspection at the Curragh to the Balaklava charge. Such
were the thoughts, I am convinced, which actuated Marmaduke, although he
did not express them. He confined himself to stating that he did not
consider he had a right to take possession of Fairburn until the time he
mentioned had elapsed (nor, indeed, was he legally entitled to do so for
seven years), and I doubt if he would have given even that promise, had
he not felt sure that some revelation would be made in the meantime.
But no such revelation _was_ made, and the day of Marmaduke Heath's
majority came round at last. Whether he would even then have put his
purpose of coming down to Fairburn into effect, had it depended solely
upon himself, I cannot say, but he had by that time other interests to
consult beside his own. Marmaduke Heath and Lucy Gerard were man and
wife; nor, if you had sought all England through, would you have chanced
upon a nobler-looking couple. At that period, although it was not so
afterwards, the dependence, the reliance, the looking up for comfort and
for counsel, so natural and so endearing in wedded life, were upon the
wrong side--upon Marmaduke's, not Lucy's. All that was done in respect
to his affairs was done by her; he only thought about doing them, and
resisted their being done until the very last, when, all other means
having failed, her sweet voice was called in by the councillors for his
good, and always succeeded. In one matter only had Marmaduke refused
even to listen to her--he had insisted upon raising a very large sum
upon his now excellent expectations, and settling it upon her before his
marriage. In vain he had been assured that such a settlement was
unnecessary, and the interest he would have to pay for the money
borrowed, absolutely thrown away. The young man had his way in this; and
on the day after the execution of the deed in question they were
married. I had determined within myself not to be present at that
wedding, in spite of a very pressing invitation, and although Mr. Long
himself attended it.
"What, not go to see Marmaduke married?" cried my tutor, when I told him
of this intention. I call him still by that name, although he was at
this time merely my host, with whom I was stopping during one of my
Oxford vacations. "Why, Meredith, you astonish me beyond measure. I am
sure that neither of them will think I have rightly married them, unless
you are there to be bridegroom's man. Why, Lucy Gerard loves you, Peter,
almost as much as she does Marmaduke himself; while Mr. Gerard, between
you and me, would, I think, have preferred----" Then I broke down all of
a sudden, and laid my face between my hands upon the table, and sobbed
like a child.
"Peter, Peter, my dear boy," exclaimed the Rector, laying his
fingers--ah, so pitifully--upon my head; "I had not dreamed of this.
Poor lad, poor lad, God comfort you and strengthen you; I feel for you
as though you were my very own son. What blind worms must we have been
not to have seen this before; or, rather, how bravely must you have
hidden it from us all! She doesn't know it, does she? I trust not. Then
let her never know it, Peter. I do not speak of others, for your
feelings deserve to be considered as much, and more, dear lad. But, oh,
think of hers. What bitterness will mingle with her cup of happiness
upon that day, when she feels that you are absent from such a cause--for
she will guess the cause at once, Peter."
"I will be ill," groaned I. "Heaven knows that I shall feel ill enough,
and that shall be my excuse."
"And do you think Marmaduke would marry, knowing that his best friend
lies ill and alone here? He would never do that. They would feel, I
hope, too, that if it were so, I should not have left you. No, Peter;
you have been very strong hitherto--be strong unto the end. Let her
never know that you have suffered and are suffering now for her sweet
sake."
"I will do what you think is best, dear old friend," said I; "but please
to leave me by myself a little just now."
And he did so; and I battled with my own heart and subdued it, and when
Marmaduke and Lucy were married I was present.
"My dear Peter, your hand is as cold as a stone!" exclaimed the
bridegroom, when he wished me "Good-bye" that day. But Lucy said
nothing, save "Good-bye, Peter;" and even to that I could not reply.
They were very happy, those two, as indeed they deserved to be. Whatever
was wanting at that time in him, her good sense supplied; while in her,
neither then nor afterwards, was there anything wanting. She had
sympathized as much as lay in her power in the tastes and opinions of
her father; she had had a bringing-up which, in these days, would have
at least resulted in what is called a strong-minded woman, rather as
opposed to a gentle one. This could scarcely, indeed, have been the case
with Lucy, but her marriage with Marmaduke made it impossible. Her mind
had heretofore been, as it were, all orchard, bringing forth fine and
vigorous fruit; a portion of it now became a garden, producing flowers
dainty and rare. Her teacher being also her lover, it was no wonder that
her progress was rapid; and it is probable that the young student had
never found his studies so sweet as when communicating them to such a
pupil. From her father, she had learned philosophy; from her husband,
how to appreciate all that was beautiful in Nature and touching in
Song. As for her politics, Marmaduke was infinitely more solicitous to
imbue her with correct views respecting the poets, which, perhaps, was
fortunate enough. She would never have admitted, even to please him,
that her beloved, father was wrong, or even extreme in his views of
government; and, in truth, those opinions of hers--so enthusiastic, so
trustful, and founded upon the mistake of believing all her
fellow-creatures as guileless as herself--gave her conversation, an
added charm. To hear her talk of wrongs and rights, with heightened
colour and earnest eyes--no matter how elevated the rank of the person
addressed, nor how nearly connected with the very executive of whose
acts she was complaining--was enough to make a bishop exchange his mitre
for a white hat, and adopt the Thirty-nine Articles recommended by Mr.
Hone.
"Judge Jeffreys himself could never have had the heart to condemn my
Lucy for a rebel," Mr. Harvey Gerard was wont to say; "although," he
would add, with a cynical twinkle in his eye, "I would not trust my Lord
Ellenborough."
Mr. Long and myself were both in Harley Street upon the day when
Marmaduke came of age; and after dinner, Mr. Clint made a little speech,
not without connivance, I think, beforehand with others of the party. He
observed, that gratifying as was the occasion in question in all
respects, it was most satisfactory to himself, as concluding the period
which Marmaduke had assigned as the limit of his abstaining from taking
his rightful position in the world. He ventured to say this much upon
his own part, as having been connected with the Heath family for a
lengthened period; but he would also say for others--what he knew they
would be backward to say for themselves--that his young friend owed it
to them also not to delay the matter any longer.
Marmaduke's face expressed more painful agitation than I had seen it
wear for months. "I suppose you are right, Mr. Clint," he returned;
"and, at all events, I will be as good as my word, which I passed to
Mrs. Heath," and he looked at his wife, as though he would have appealed
to her to release him from that promise.
"Of course, I am right, sir," returned the lawyer quickly; "but you are
wrong and very uncivil not to give your wife her proper title. Lady
Heath, I beg to drink your very good health; Sir Marmaduke, here's to
your better manners;" and the lawyer emptied his glass, and filled it up
again, in case any other excuse should arise for the drinking of good
liquor.
"Lady Heath's health; her husband's better manners," echoed laughingly
round the table.
Marmaduke nerved himself by a strong effort, and replied to this toast
with feeling and eloquence. He promised to accede to the request made by
Mr. Clint, and to that end would return with us to Fairburn on the next
day but one to make his arrangements personally for coming to reside at
the Hall. As for his not having assumed the title, he protested, amidst
merriment, that he had not hitherto done so, solely out of deference to
the feelings of his father-in-law, whom he had once heard describe a
baronet as a something only not quite so bad as a lord.
We were all delighted not only with the intentions Marmaduke thus
expressed, but with the cheerfulness and gaiety of his manner in
speaking of them; and when the rest had retired for the night, and my
old friend and I were in my room having that last chat by the midnight
fire which is perhaps the zenith of human converse, as the curtain
lecture is undoubtedly the nadir, I could not help congratulating him on
his change of spirits. "That you are a happy man, I know," said I; "you
would be ungrateful indeed if you were otherwise. But I cannot say how
pleased I am to find that the good Genius, who has so blessed you in
other respects, has exorcised this phantom fear of yours; that you no
longer dread that childish bugbear, Sir Massingberd."
"Hush!" cried he, looking involuntarily over his shoulder; "do not
mention that name, Peter. I would gladly give up house and land this
moment, never to go back to Fairburn; I have a presentiment that evil
will come of it. She would absolve me from my promise even now--Heaven
bless her, as it must do, for she is of the angels!--but that there
will be another soon whose interests must be looked to as well as our
own. You will be godfather, dear Peter, will you not? Lucy and I both
wish it. 'Let it be Peter's godchild, Marmaduke,' she said to me only
yesterday, although I should not divulge these secrets to an old
bachelor like you."
Of course, I promised readily enough, but long after he had bidden me
good-night, I sat over the paling embers, thinking, thinking; and when
every coal was charred, and the black bars cold that held them, I sat
thinking still. My hopes, for a few fleeting hours, long ago, had been
as bright and warm as they, and were now as dark--and dead.