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BARREN HONOUR:
A NOVEL.
BY GEORGE A. LAWRENCE
BY THE AUTHOR OF "GUY LIVINGSTON," "THE SWORD AND GOWN," &c., &c.
NEW YORK:
DICK & FITZGERALD, PUBLISHERS.
No. 18 ANN STREET.
CHAPTER I.
NEW AND OLD.
A very central place is Newmanham, both by local and commercial
position--a big, black, busy town, waxing bigger and blacker and busier
day by day. For more than a century that Queen of Trade has worn her
iron crown right worthily; her pulse beats, now, sonorously with the
clang of a myriad of steam-hammers; her veins swell almost to bursting
with the ceaseless currents of molten metals; and her breath goes up to
heaven, heavy and vaporous with the blasts of many furnaces.
Whenever I pass that way, as a born Briton, an unit of a great
mercantile nation, I feel or suppose myself to feel, a certain amount of
pride and satisfaction in witnessing so many evidences of my country's
wealth and prosperity; they are very palpable indeed, those evidences,
and not one of the senses will be inclined to dispute their existence.
If I chance to have an exiled Neapolitan prince, or a deposed
grand-duke, or any other potentate in difficulties, staying with me
(which, of course, happens constantly), I make a point of beguiling the
illustrious foreigner into the dingy labyrinth of Newmanham, from which
he escapes not till he has done justice to every one of its marvels.
Nevertheless, as an individual whose only relations with commerce
consist in always wanting to buy more things than one can possibly
afford, and in never, by any chance, having anything to sell, except now
and then a horse or two, more or less "screwed," or a parcel of ideas,
more or less trivial--as such an one, I say, I am free to confess, that
my first and abiding emotion, after being ten minutes in that great
emporium, is a desolate sense of having no earthly business there, and
of being very much in everybody's way--a sentiment which the natives
seem perfectly to fathom and coincide with.
It is not that they make themselves in any wise disagreeable, or cast
you forth with contumely from their hive. The operative element does not
greet the stranger with the "'eave of a arf-brick," after the genial
custom of the mining districts; neither is he put to confusion by a
broad stare, breaking up into a broader grin, as sometimes occurs in our
polite sea-port towns. A quick careless glance, as if the gazer had no
time even for curiosity, is the worst ordeal you will have to encounter
in passing a group of the inhabitants, whether at work, or by a rare
chance, resting from their labours. There are "roughs" to be found there
more dangerous, they say, than in most places: but these do not show
much in daylight or frequented thoroughfares. They have their own
haunts, and when the sun arises they lie down in their dens. In deed,
the upper Ten Thousand--the great manufacturers and iron-founders or
their representatives--will treat you with no small kindness,
especially if you have letters of introduction: they will show you over
their vast works and endless factories, adapting their conversation
always to your limited capacity, becoming affably explanatory or blandly
statistical, as the occasion demands, only indulging in a mild and
discreet triumph, as they point out some unutterably hideous combination
of steel and iron peculiar to their own establishment, which produces
results as unexpected as a conjuring trick. Even so have we seen Mr.
Ambrose Arcturus, the stout and intrepid voyager, beguile a Sabbath
afternoon in exhibiting to a friend's child--to the officer of the day
from the contiguous barracks--to a fair country cousin--or some other
equally innocent and inquisitive creature--the treasures of the
Zoological Society, not a few of which are the captives of his own bow
and spear; lingering, perhaps fondly, for a moment, opposite a gigantic
bivalve or mollusca which he is reported to have vanquished in single
combat.
But, in spite of all this hospitality, the consciousness of being in a
false position, of taking up people's time where time is money--in fact,
of being rather a nuisance than otherwise--cannot easily be shaken off:
the eye grows weary with seeking a resting-place where everything
illustrates perpetual motion, and the brain dizzy with the everlasting
tremor and whir of wheels. It is a positive relief when we find
ourselves starting on one of the lines that radiate from Newmanham to
every point of the compass, like the feelers of a cuttle-fish, always
dragging in "raw material" to the voracious centre: it is an absolute
luxury, an hour afterwards, to sweep on through the great grazing
grounds again, and to see forty acres of sound, undulating pasture
stretching away up to the black "bullfinch" that cuts the skyline.
You may easily guess what the political tone of such a borough must be:
Liberalism of the most enlightened description flourishes there
unchecked and unrivalled; for no Conservative candidate has yet been
found so self-sacrificing as to solicit the suffrages of Newmanham. Were
such an one to present himself, it is scarcely probable that the free
and independent electors would content themselves with such playful
missiles as graveolent eggs or decomposed cabbage-stalks: they would be
more likely to revive, for his especial benefit, that almost obsolete
_argumentum a lapide_ which has silenced, if it did not convince, many
obstinate enthusiasts--who, nevertheless, were not far from the truth,
after all. In no other town of England are Mr. Bright's harangues
received with such favour and sincere sympathy. When the santon-fit is
on that meek Man of Peace, and carries him away in a flood of furious
diatribe against "those who sit in high places and grind the faces of
the poor," it is curious to remark how willingly and completely his
audience surrender themselves to the influence of the hour. You may see
the ground-swell of passion swaying and surging through the mass of
operatives that pack the body of the hall, till every gaunt grimed face
becomes picturesque in its savage energy: you have only to look round to
be aware that education, and property, and outward respectability, are
no safeguards against the contagion: it is spreading fast now through
that phalanx of decent broad-clothed burghers on the platform,
and--listen--their voices chime in with ominous alacrity in the cheer
that rewards a peroration that in old days would have brought the
speaker to the pillory.
That same cheer, once heard, is not easily forgotten: there is not the
faintest echo of anything joyous, or kindly, or hopeful, in its accent;
one feels that it issues from the depths of hearts that are more than
dissatisfied--through lips parched with a fiery longing and thirst for
something never yet attained. For what? God help them! _they_ could not
tell you--if they dared. Go to an agricultural dinner (farmers are the
most discontented race alive, you know), mark the tumult among the
yeomen when the health of the county favorite has been given, or rather
intimated, for they knew what the speaker would say, and before he could
finish, the storm of great, healthy voices broke in. Those two
acclamations differ from each other more strikingly than does the full
round shout of a Highland regiment "doubling" to charge, from the
hoarse, cracked "hour-ra" of a squadron of Don Cossacks.
With these dispositions, you may conceive that, albeit Newmanham rather
covets land as an investment (they make very fair and not unkindly
seigneur, those _Novi homines_), she cherishes little love or respect
for the landed interest, its representatives, and traditions. Yet, when
a brother magnate from Tarenton or New Byrsa comes to visit one of these
mighty burghers, to what object of interest does the host invariably
first direct the attention of his honored guest? Deferring to another
day the inspection of his own factory, and of all other town wonders, he
orders round the gorgeous barouche, with the high-stepping greys,
overlaid with as much precious metal as the Beautiful Gate, and takes
the stranger fifteen miles away, to view the demesne which, through the
vicissitudes of six centuries, has been the abiding-place of the
Vavasours of Dene.
The house is not so ancient, nor does it stand on the site of the old
Castle. All that would burn of _that_ crumbled down in a whirlwind of
flame, one black winter's night during the Wars of the Roses. There had
long been a feud between the Vavasours and a neighboring family nearly
as powerful and overbearing. Sir Hugh Mauleverer was a shrewd, provident
man, and cool even in his desperation. When he saw signs of the tide
turning against Lancaster, he determined to settle one score, at least,
before he went to the wall. So, on New-Year's eve, when the drinking was
deep, and they kept careless watch at Dene Castle, the Lancastrians came
down in force, and made their way almost into the banqueting hall
unopposed. Then there was a struggle--short, but very sharp. The
retainers of the Vavasour, though taken by surprise, were all fully
armed, and, partly from fidelity, partly because they feared their stern
master more than any power of heaven or hell, partly because they had no
other chance, fought like mad wild cats. However, three to one are heavy
odds. All his four sons had gone down before him, and not a dozen men
were left at his back, when Simon Vavasour struck his last blow. It was
a good, honest, bitter blow, well meant and well delivered, for it went
through steel and bone so deep into Hugh Mauleverer's brain that his
slayer could not draw out the blade; the grey old wolf never stirred a
finger after that to help himself, and never uttered a sound, except one
low, savage laugh as they hewed him in pieces on his own hearth-stone.
When the slaughter was over, the sack, of course, began, but the young
Mauleverer, though heated by the fight, and somewhat discomposed by his
father's death, could not forget the courtesy and charity on which he
rather prided himself. So, when every living thing that had down on its
lip was put out of pain, he would not suffer the women and children to
be outraged or tortured, magnanimously dismissing them to wander where
they would into the wild weather, with the flames of Dene Castle to
light them on their way. Most of them perished before daybreak; but one
child, a grandson of the baron's, was saved at the price of its mother's
life. She stripped herself of nearly her last garment to cover the heir
of her house, and kissed him once as she gave him to the strongest of
the women to carry, and then lay down wearily in the snow-drift to die.
When Walter Vavasour came to manhood, the House of York was firm on the
throne, and another manor or two rewarded his family for what it had
suffered in their cause. He commenced building on the site of the
present mansion; but it was reserved for his grandson (who married one
of the greatest heiresses at the court of Henry VIII.) to complete the
stately edifice as it now stands, at the cost of all his wife's fortune,
and a good part of his own.
There are more dangerous follies than a building mania; and perhaps it
would have been well for Fulke Vavasour if he had ruined himself more
utterly in its indulgence. Poverty might have kept him out of worse
scrapes. If he resembled his portrait, his personal beauty must have
been very remarkable, though of a character more often found in Southern
Europe than in England. The Saxon and Norman races rarely produce those
long, dark, languid eyes, and smooth, pale cheeks, contrasted with
scarlet lips, and black masses of silky hair. Fair form and face were
fatal endowments in those hot-blooded days, when lovers set no bounds to
their ambition, and _une caprice de grande dame_ would have its way in
spite of--or by means of--poison, cord, and steel. All sorts of vague
rumors were current as to the real cause which brought the last Lord
Vavasour to the scaffold. The truth can never be known; for, on the same
night that he was arrested, a cavalier (whom no one recognized) came to
the Dene; he showed the Baron's signet ring, and required to be left
alone in his private chamber. The day was breaking when the stranger
rode away; and an hour afterwards a pursuivant was in possession of the
house, making, as is the fashion of his kind, minute perquisitions, when
there was nothing left to search for. Doubtless all clue to the mystery
was destroyed or removed before he came. But it may well be, that, if
Fulke Vavasour was innocent of the plot for which he died, he was not
guiltless of a darker one, with which statecraft had nothing to do. It
is certain that his widow--a most excellent and pious young woman, one
of the earliest Protestant converts, and a great friend of The
Bishops--made little moan over the husband whom she had long wearied
with her fondness; she never indeed mentioned his name, except from
necessity, and then with a groan of reprobation. They endure neglect
like angels, and cruelty like martyrs; but what _devote_ ever forgot or
forgave an infidelity?
Let it be understood, that I quote this fact of the widow's scant regret
just for what it is worth--a piece of presumptive evidence bearing upon
a particular case, and in no wise illustrating a general principle. I am
not prepared to allow, that a fair gauge of any deceased person's moral
worth is invariably the depth or duration of the affliction manifested
by his nearest and dearest.
The barony of course became extinct with the attainted traitor; but the
broad lands remained; for the Tiger, in a fit of ultra-leonine
generosity, not only disdained himself to fatten on his victim, but even
kept off the jackals. Perhaps, the contracting heart of the unhappy
jealous old tyrant was touched by some dim recollection of early
chivalrous days, when he took no royal road to win the favor of woman or
fortune, but met his rivals frankly and fairly, and either beat them on
their merits, or yielded the prize.
The sins of the unlucky reprobate were not visited on his children. The
estate gradually shook off the burden he had laid upon it, and during
the four succeeding generations the prosperity of the Vavasours rather
waxed than waned. Like the rest of the Cavaliers, they had to bear their
share of trouble about the time of the Commonwealth; but they were too
powerful to be forgotten when the king came to his own again. Indeed,
there was a good deal of vitality about the family, though individually
its members came curiously often to violent or untimely ends; and the
domain had descended in unbroken male succession to its present owner
with scarcely diminished acreage. Yet, from a period far beyond the
memory of man, there had been no stint or stay in the lavish expense and
stately hospitality which had always been maintained at Dene. Twice in
the last hundred years the offer had been made of reversing the
attainder, and reviving the ancient barony, and each time, from whim or
some wiser motive, rejected. No minister had yet been found cool enough
to proffer a baronetcy to those princes of the Squire-archy.
It is not worth while describing the house minutely. It was a huge,
irregular mass of building, in the Tudor style, with rather an unusual
amount of ornamental stonework; well placed near the centre of a very
extensive park, and on the verge of an abrupt declivity. The most
remarkable features in it were the great hall--fifty feet square, going
right up to the vaulted roof, and girdled by two tiers of
elaborately-carved galleries in black oak--and the garden-front. The
architect had availed himself right well of the advantages of the
ground, which (as I have said) sloped steeply down, almost from the
windows; so that you looked out upon a succession of terraces--each
framed in its setting of curiously-wrought balustrades--connected by
broad flights of steps leading down to a quaint stone bridge spanning a
clear, shallow stream. Beyond this lay the Plaisance, with its
smooth-shaven grass, studded with islets of evergreens, and endless
winding walks through shady shrubberies, issuing from which, after
crossing a deep sunk-fence, you found yourself again among the great
oaks and elms of the deer-park. If there had been no other attraction at
Dene, the trees would have been worth going miles to see; indeed, the
stanch adherents of the Vavasours always brought the timber forward, as
a complete and crushing refutation of any blasphemer who should presume
to hint that the family ever had been, or could be, embarrassed. The
stables were of comparatively modern date, and quite perfect in their
way; they harmonized with the style of the main building, though this
was not of much importance, for the belt of firs around them was so
dense, that a stranger was only made aware of their existence by a
slender spire of delicate stonework shooting over the tree-tops, the
pinnacle of a fountain in the centre of the court. The best point of
view was from the farther end of the Plaisance.
Looking back from thence, you saw a picture hardly to be matched even
amongst the "stately homes of England," and to which the Continent could
show no parallel, if you traversed it from Madrid to Moscow. The grand
old house, rising, grey and solemn, over the long sloping estrade of
bright flowers, reminded one of some aged Eastern king reclining on his
divan of purple, and silver, and pearl. No wonder that Dene was a
favorite resort of the _haute bourgeoisie_ of Newmanham on Mondays, when
the public was admitted to the gardens, the state apartments, and the
picture gallery; indeed, on any other day it was easy to gain admission
if the Squire was at home, for Hubert Vavasour, from his youth upwards,
had always been incapable of refusing anybody anything in reason. If "my
lady" happened to be mistress of the position, success was not quite
such a certainty.
I think we have done our duty by the mansion; it is almost time to say
something about its inmates.