This from a dying man receive as certain:
When you are liberal of your loves and counsels
Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends
And give your hearts to, when they once perceive
The least rub in your fortunes, fall away
Like water from ye, never found again
But where they mean to sink ye.
SHAKSPEARE.
Oakley was left preparing to obey the summons of his uncle, Lord
Rockington, to pay him a first visit. It has been stated that he had
been educated with the idea of great expectations from this quarter,
but these were still uncertain, as Lord Rockington was only his
uncle on the mother’s side, and though he had no nearer relation,
the property was entirely in his own power. His character, too, was
remarkable for singularity, and his intentions had never been formally
announced.
The manner in which Oakley’s attendance had now for the first time been
required, was in itself strange: he had received a letter at Paris
desiring him immediately to proceed to London, where he would hear
further. Upon his arrival there, he found another letter, desiring
him to present himself at Rockington Castle by four o’clock in the
afternoon of a certain day, and on no account to fail in observing the
time prescribed. It was to fulfil this injunction that Oakley was now
about to pursue his journey.
Lord Rockington’s was a name that had once made considerable noise in
the political world. His military achievements had in youth, for a
time, even entitled his head to swing on signs at ale-house doors.
But his glories had been suddenly overcast--he had had his reverses,
which had caused a reaction of public opinion. Impeachment had been
threatened, but not persevered in. His name, however, was scratched
out of the Red Book, and his head painted over on the sign-posts.
Disgrace had driven him to seek his present retirement, and his former
reputation, as well as his more recent infamy, were speedily alike
forgotten in the quick succession which followed of greater events,
and perhaps greater men. Few ever inquired whether he was physically,
as well as politically dead. All know how soon the attention of the
world is turned, even from characters yet undeveloped, and events yet
unravelled; and here was a man whom the public voice had alternately
praised and vituperated, each in its highest degree. What more could be
made of him? Indeed, for many years, Lord Rockington’s name was never
mentioned, even in those circles where it had once been “familiar in
their mouths as household words,” save when now and then it was brought
on the _tapis_ incidentally at Lord Latimer’s, as that of a crabbed old
curmudgeon who spoilt sport on the 12th of August.
When Oakley arrived at the last stage on the main road, from whence
he was to turn off to his uncle’s, great indeed was the wonderment
expressed at his ordering horses for Rockington Castle; it could not
have caused more confusion in the whole stable-establishment, if he had
desired to be driven to the North Pole.
“Why, is not this Lord Rockington’s post town?” inquired Oakley of the
landlord.
“Yes, Sir, but it’s a matter of twenty miles off,” answered mine host,
“and as to letters, why for years that I have been post-master, there
has never come a single one for him, nor have I so much as seen the
like of his frank.”
After extracting from the tap-room a drunken ostler, who was reported
once to have driven Lord Rockington’s leaders when a lad, and appealing
in vain to his recollections on the subject of the road then, and
receiving only the uniform answer--“Na, he never gi’ed I a drop of owt
when I’s gitten them,” the stable conclave at length decided, that
after Bill had turned out of the main road, down Ruggedrut-lane, he
must inquire the way.
Accordingly, after Bill had at length succeeded in convincing his
puzzled posters that they were not going their regular stage to ----,
and had made the turning down Ruggedrut-lane, constant inquiry was
necessary, but not always easy, as after quitting the attractive
neighbourhood of the great road, population became thinner, and
straggling houses were seen but at considerable intervals. Sometimes
their questions were only answered by a stupid stare--at others, by
“Rockington Castle! Na, you munna gang there;” but whenever they
succeeded in obtaining a direct answer, the road evidently the most
overgrown, and apparently the least frequented, was the one pointed out
to them.
Profiting by this hint, when, from no symptoms remaining of
neighbouring habitation further verbal inquiries became impossible,
Oakley adopted the plan of always taking the turning over which he saw
written, “No road this way; trespassers will be punished;” construing,
under the peculiar circumstances of the case, this regular warning as a
direction-post to Rockington Castle, and the threat which followed into
an invitation to choose that path.
As he advanced, it was impossible that Oakley should not be struck
with astonishment at the extraordinary appearance of the whole face
of the country: that which had once been a well-cultivated estate was
now one vast wilderness. The hedges were unclipped; the more vigorous
plants, of which they were composed, had shot up into wild over-growth,
and now remained dotted about in irregular clumps, appearing like a
dwarfish forest wood. The ground, which had once been tilled to yield
its varied and successive produce, now offered, over all its wide
extent of surface, only the rank growth of uncropped herbage; and now
and then among the trees were seen at intervals the broken remnants of
apparently ruined buildings.
As Oakley’s progress brought him under one of those, he was at a loss
to account for the present state of the dilapidated dwelling, which
seemed neither decayed by the mouldering hand of time, nor crushed by
the sudden wrath of the elements, nor yet stripped by the spoliation of
human hands. It had been rendered utterly uninhabitable; the covering
of the roof was scattered around; and beams and rafters, torn from
their resting-place, were confusedly leaning against the bared walls.
But in the lower rooms, the yet unbroken state of the casements showed
that no wanton mischief had been allowed to intrude upon its deserted
state since the hour of its demolition; and that this had not been
recent, appeared from the size of two goodly trees, the unchecked
growth of which obscured the whole front, and sent their topmost shoots
over the broken roof, but when saplings, had, it seemed, lent their
supple twigs to form an arbour over the heads of those who had last
reposed, where were still left the rotten remains of a worm-eaten
bench.
Oakley afterwards learnt, that upon Lord Rockington’s first seclusion,
the whole of his estate had been laid waste for the purpose merely of
stopping to its utmost limits his wanderings, without the chance of
his being offended with the sight of a fellow-creature. Extravagant as
this may seem, yet solitude was his mania; and though he paid fifteen
thousand a-year for it, yet, what is not paid by many to secure the
constant presence of the “human face divine?” and none ever sought
society with half the eagerness that he shunned it. The preposterous
extent too of this sacrifice to a ruling passion, was somewhat
diminished by his deriving thirty thousand a-year from other estates
which he never visited.
But though all this may account for the act on the mere ground
of self-indulgence, yet must deep disappointment, and consequent
misanthropy, have conspired to harden the heart that could without
a pang have given the order, and unmoved have beheld its execution;
for it was just one of those primitive, secluded spots, where, in
proportion as the social sympathies are undeveloped, attachment to the
soil is strongest; and the ejectment which left untenanted that one
deserted arbour which Oakley had passed, destroyed more endearing ties
and more cherished associations, than would have been disturbed by a
whole century of improvements in a crowded metropolis.
Now however, that time had hallowed the work, the effect it had
produced was wild and picturesque. The outline of the country was
bold and abruptly broken: it had always been one of those rugged
regions over which man seems to hold his control but by a feeble
tenure; and, in this instance, the moment of his abdication had been
quickly followed by the disappearance of any traces of his authority,
and Nature, in her wildest garb, had as speedily resumed undivided
dominion. Even quickset hedges, those badges of man’s superintending
presence, had thrown off the rectangular livery of art; and, scattered
about in irregular and tangled brakes, beneath the wide-spreading arms
of loftier trees, added to the wildness of the scene.
All this harmonized peculiarly with Oakley’s existing feelings, and
prepared his mind for the events which were to follow. After driving
through many miles of this depopulated desert, he arrived at the gate
of Rockington Castle. No softening symptoms of return to civilization
had marked his approach: it rose upon the sight like a mighty vessel
out of the bosom of the troubled waters, and stood in the midst of the
wide waste in solitary grandeur, the only work of man for miles around.
Rockington Castle was an edifice which really deserved its cognomen
of Castle, not assumed merely on the strength of latticed windows
or a flag-staff, but deriving its title from a period prior to the
Conquest, crowned as it then was with the identical turrets which still
overhung its eastern summit, and bearing about in different parts the
distinguishing marks of each succeeding century except the present;
for it had fortunately escaped the mongrel patch-work of modern
improvements. With the present day, it seemed to hold no connexion. The
shades of mailed knights and warriors of the olden time might have been
expected to hover about so congenial a spot, but that it should contain
a living modern master, seemed almost incredible.
Oakley’s postilion was obliged by main strength to force back the great
gate upon its rusty hinges, and he found himself in the grass-grown
court-yard at the moment that a deep-toned bell, the first symptom of
inhabitancy, struck the appointed hour for his arrival.
“My lord has just been asking for you,” said a veteran attendant who
met him at the door; “it is well you had not arrived too late--he is
sadly changed within these two days.” With this, he ushered him through
a suite of dilapidated rooms.
Oakley (to whom the idea of immediate danger had never suggested
itself, from the methodical manner in which his presence had been
desired) was not a little shocked at this declaration. The aged
attendant left him alone for a minute in a sort of picture-gallery,
whilst he proceeded to announce his arrival.
There would have been much for a genealogist, and somewhat for a
connoisseur to study in the gallery, which seemed devoted alone to
commemorate the martial representatives of the family. There were seen
warriors of every age, from the first rudiments of the art of painting,
when coats of mail were sketched with a pencil as hard and as stiff
as the substance it depicted. After them appeared a valuable specimen
or two of the matchless time of Vandyke; then came a profusion of the
flowing periwigs and shining breast-plates of the vain and frivolous
age which followed, and which owes its immortality to the colouring of
Lely and of Kneller.
One alone was to be seen of a more recent date, which rivetted the
attention of Oakley: it was a full-length portrait of his uncle on
horseback--he was represented in the prime of manhood, at the moment
of victory. As a work of art it had few recommendations, but as a
portrait it was perfect; for it conveyed the expression so often
experienced, without knowing the person pourtrayed, of an indisputable
likeness. It was an admirable head, surviving even the almost
overpowering profusion of daubed canvas with which it was surrounded.
True, the horse was wooden, and the landscape woolly. The retiring
foe was rather shadowy, and the smoke somewhat substantial, but the
countenance atoned for all defects: it was the living man himself, and
every muscle told a tale of triumphant pride, and gratified love of
glory; and as this must all have been drawn from life at a subsequent
period, it was evident that the character of the man had been one in
which the habitual indulgence of these feelings had long outlived the
moment of their excitement.
Oakley was still gazing intently upon this all but speaking portrait,
with a feeling that it was impossible not to acknowledge the
superiority that it seemed to claim, and to partake of the enthusiasm
that it exhibited, when he was summoned into the presence of the
original. The sudden shock of the contrast was appalling. He might
have even been prepared to see a person from age and disease wasted in
frame, and worn in feature, but not to behold a countenance which had
long lost every trace of the action--of that mind which had given life
to the picture--nor to find that a piece of colored canvas could appear
animated by that commanding soul, which no longer inspired the living
form where it still lingered.
Lord Rockington had been remarkable for the height of his person, and
the stateliness of his deportment; and his emaciated figure now seemed
to recover a momentary elasticity, as he half attempted to rise to
receive his nephew. A stranger-smile for an instant hovered about his
lips--how unlike the conscious curl of proud superiority which marked
the mouth of the portrait! A confused and unsettled stare had succeeded
to the piercing glance of the fiery eye which had fixed Oakley in that
picture, with which he could not help comparing the unhappy object
before him.
Lord Rockington addressed his nephew courteously. “Punctuality, I see,
has become a practice as well as precept in the world. It is twenty
years since I last made an appointment, and I had my own reasons for
wishing this not to be broken.”
He paused from the exhaustion which followed this first effort, and
which seemed so excessive as to confirm the prediction with which he
resumed.
“Mr. Oakley, you have faithfully obeyed the summons of a dying man.”
Oakley expressed, in reply, an earnest hope that in this he might be
deceived.
“Words, worthless words,” interrupted Lord Rockington, evidently
irritated. “After so long a holiday, must my insulted ear again echo
back empty professions before its failing sense is for ever delivered
from the sickening sounds of human hypocrisy and falsehood. I am a
stranger to you, odious by name, loathsome in person; I have given you
no cause to hope my life. You are my heir. Have I given you none to
wish my death?”
Oakley would have endeavoured to soothe him, and to check these wayward
ebullitions of a distempered mind; but Lord Rockington, assuming more
composure, motioned him to silence.
“I have much to tell and little time to tell it in. You doubt my
accuracy in predicting the impending dissolution of this care-worn
frame. Dispute with the pedant as to his knowledge of that author
whom he has spent a life in expounding. Teach the carrier’s drudge his
daily course; but doubt me not in that which has long been my only
study. For twenty long years life has been a burden; I have sighed
to yield, yet still have been doomed to bear it. To foresee some end
to this lingering torment has been my only care. Many a time have I
mocked myself with false hopes, and the first welcome symptoms of
disease have yielded to an unfortunately strong constitution. At last
I am rewarded; I have watched from their first doubtful appearance
the certain seeds of decay. I have studied all that science has ever
recorded, or experience taught of its symptoms, its gradual progress,
and final consummation. And this is the day, almost the hour, I have
fondly anticipated.”
Another protracted pause, from increasing weakness, succeeded,
uninterrupted by Oakley, whose attention was absorbed by the singular
declaration he had just heard. The stillness of this mutual silence was
broken by the successive tones of various time-pieces which Oakley for
the first time observed were placed in different parts of the house. It
would have puzzled him to account for the presence of these generally
unheeded warnings of the monotony of the life they witnessed, but that
from what he had just been told, it seemed to be Lord Rockington’s
occupation, to mark with studied accuracy the creeping pace of time,
that he might foretell with certainty when its finger pointed to his
own last hours. Roused, by these much-noted sounds, to a consciousness
that time was not to be lost, Lord Rockington resumed.
“It was not merely to exhibit myself a common-place memento of
mortality that I summoned you here. I will you heir to my feelings,
as I have done to my fortunes; I would bequeath you, not merely that
wealth with which I have been wretched, but that experience with which
you may be happy. I would have you despise the world as I do now, not
yield its easy victim as I once did. I would leave as the best legacy
this world can contain, the consciousness that flattery is but the
cloak of envy--confidence but a premium for treachery--that riches are
but the means of purchasing disappointment--and that fame is the mark
set up by fools to be the sport of knaves.”
There was enough of constitutional distrust in the nature of Oakley,
as has been already stated, to make him a deeply-interested, almost an
assenting auditor of the misanthropic dogmas of his dying uncle.
“I would for this,” continued Lord Rockington, “dedicate my last
moments to recording the events and actions which marked the first
part of a long life and the reflections which have accumulated from
them in the latter portion of it; but all this must I crowd into a
score of sentences, and half as many minutes. My task is harder too,
because from long disuse words now refuse to follow at the beck of
thought. I had always enjoyed the substantial favours of fortune: for
a time I had strutted in the tinsel trappings of fame. I had fought
for my country, and conquered. I was the people’s idol; courted,
caressed, and rewarded--it was the heaven of an hour. At this time a
distant and disturbed colony required control; I was selected, from the
difficulty of the task, and at once incurred the greatest curse that
can befall the native of a free state--responsibility for the exercise
of arbitrary powers. I know not now whether my acts were right or
wrong: success did not sanction them. One reverse succeeded another,
exaggerated accounts of which were sent to England. Distance magnified
my delinquencies, and delayed my defence.
“The reaction of public opinion was overwhelming: I became the object
of universal odium. The most subservient of my creatures, who had
participated in my every action, sought to save themselves at my
expense; and when I thought I had been confiding in faithful followers,
I found I had been harbouring pseudo-patriot spies. I was openly
accused of cruelty, indirectly taunted with cowardice; and even the
most improbable suspicion of peculation was widely circulated and
readily believed. I hastened to England to clear my character--every
ear was shut against my discredited defence, every door was closed
against my disgraced person.
“I sought the minister whose verbally expressed intentions I had
fulfilled, but as my powers had been discretionary, I had no written
instructions to plead. I was freezingly received. He remembered
nothing of the past, and for the future referred me to the issue of
a threatened motion in parliament. On that anxiously-expected night,
skulking in an obscure corner, I saw my accuser arrive. I had last
beheld him presiding at a public-dinner given in honour of my victory.
He was quickly surrounded by troops of eager friends giving assurances
of success, which his confident look confirmed. He was loudly called
on by name to commence, when amidst much confusion, the minister
interposed, and stated that he had something to communicate which might
render further proceedings unnecessary. Breathless attention succeeded.
He then announced that it had pleased his Majesty to dismiss Lord
Rockington from all his situations and appointments.
“The inhuman yell of delight, which under the technical appellation of
universal cheering, burst from all sides at this declaration, fell
upon my ear like the cry of blood-hounds fastening upon their victim.
Instinctively I sought to escape the sound by flight, and yet it seemed
to linger in the distance. ’Twas the last greeting of my fellow-men.
Twenty years have since elapsed--I hear them still!”
Lord Rockington became violently agitated, as if to exclude these
imaginary sounds; he raised to his ears his withered hands--his wild
and haggard eyes seemed for a moment to start beneath their pressure,
then became fixed--the universal shudder with which he had concluded
the sentence was succeeded by strong convulsions, and he remained for
some time senseless.
Oakley summoned the ancient attendant whom he had before seen, and who
was the only one allowed to approach his master, and demanded whether
medical aid could not be procured; but the old man shook his head, and
said he dared not so offend his dying Lord.
After a time, Lord Rockington seemed by a strong effort to recover
his speech; he raised himself upright, then bending towards Oakley,
collected his remaining strength, and thus addressed him--
“Let those, who would scoff at the steadiness of my misanthropy,
triumph in the idea that once again before I die I have sought the
relief of kindred feelings, that in my last moments I have secured the
congenial presence of one whose sincerity even I cannot doubt--Yes,
I have found one who shall rejoice in my release, as I do myself. My
expectant heir shall as eagerly count my ebbing pulse. His ready hand
shall in sympathising pleasure return the convulsive grasp of death.”
These were the last words Lord Rockington spoke. He had seized
Oakley’s hand as he uttered them. He then sunk senseless on the sofa,
and in a few hours this strange being was no more.