Not till the law had completed its proceedings, and satisfied the public
mind as to the murder of Sir Philip Derval, were the remains of the
deceased consigned to the family mausoleum. The funeral was, as may be
supposed, strictly private, and when it was over, the excitement caused
by an event so tragical and singular subsided. New topics engaged the
public talk, and--in my presence, at least--the delicate consideration
due to one whose name had been so painfully mixed up in the dismal
story forbore a topic which I could not be expected to hear without
distressful emotion. Mrs. Ashleigh I saw frequently at my own house;
she honestly confessed that Lilian had not shown that grief at the
cancelling of our engagement which would alone justify Mrs. Ashleigh in
asking me again to see her daughter, and retract my conclusions against
our union. She said that Lilian was quiet, not uncheerful, never spoke
of me nor of Margrave, but seemed absent and pre-occupied as before,
taking pleasure in nothing that had been wont to please her; not in
music, nor books, nor that tranquil pastime which women call work, and
in which they find excuse to meditate, in idleness, their own fancies.
She rarely stirred out, even in the garden; when she did, her eyes
seemed to avoid the house in which Margrave had lodged, and her steps
the old favourite haunt by the Monks’ Well. She would remain silent for
long hours together, but the silence did not appear melancholy. For
the rest, her health was more than usually good. Still Mrs. Ashleigh
persisted in her belief that, sooner or later, Lilian would return to
her former self, her former sentiments for me; and she entreated me not,
as yet, to let the world know that our engagement was broken off. “For
if,” she said, with good sense, “if it should prove not to be broken
off, only suspended, and afterwards happily renewed, there will be two
stories to tell when no story be needed. Besides, I should dread the
effect on Lilian, if offensive gossips babbled to her on a matter that
would excite so much curiosity as the rupture of a union in which our
neighbours have taken so general an interest.”
I had no reason to refuse acquiescence in Mrs. Ashleigh’s request, but
I did not share in her hopes; I felt that the fair prospects of my life
were blasted; I could never love another, never wed another; I resigned
myself to a solitary hearth, rejoiced, at least, that Margrave had not
revisited at Mrs. Ashleigh’s,--had not, indeed, reappeared in the
town. He was still staying with Strahan, who told me that his guest
had ensconced himself in Forman’s old study, and amused himself with
reading--though not for long at a time--the curious old books and
manuscripts found in the library, or climbing trees like a schoolboy,
and familiarizing himself with the deer and the cattle, which would
group round him quite tame, and feed from his hand. Was this the
description of a criminal? But if Sir Philip’s assertion were really
true; if the criminal were man without soul; if without soul, man would
have no conscience, never be troubled by repentance, and the vague dread
of a future world,--why, then, should not the criminal be gay despite
his crimes, as the white bear gambols as friskly after his meal on
human flesh? These questions would haunt me, despite my determination to
accept as the right solution of all marvels the construction put on my
narrative by Julius Faber.
Days passed; I saw and heard nothing of Margrave. I began half to
hope that, in the desultory and rapid changes of mood and mind which
characterized his restless nature, he had forgotten my existence.
One morning I went out early on my rounds, when I met Straban
unexpectedly.
“I was in search of you,” he said, “for more than one person has told me
that you are looking ill and jaded. So you are! And the town now is hot
and unhealthy. You must come to Derval Court for a week or so. You can
ride into town every day to see your patients. Don’t refuse. Margrave,
who is still with me, sends all kind messages, and bade me say that he
entreats you to come to the house at which he also is a guest!”
I started. What had the Scin-Laeca required of me, and obtained to that
condition my promise? “If you are asked to the house at which I also
am a guest, you will come; you will meet and converse with me as
guest speaks to guest in the house of a host!” Was this one of the
coincidences which my reason was bound to accept as coincidences, and
nothing more? Tut, tut! Was I returning again to my “hallucinations”?
Granting that Faber and common-sense were in the right, what was this
Margrave? A man to whose friendship, acuteness, and energy I was under
the deepest obligations,--to whom I was indebted for active services
that had saved my life from a serious danger, acquitted my honour of a
horrible suspicion. “I thank you,” I said to Strahan, “I will come; not,
indeed, for a week, but, at all events, for a day or two.”
“That’s right; I will call for you in the carriage at six o’clock. You
will have done your day’s work by then?”
“Yes; I will so arrange.”
On our way to Derval Court that evening, Strahan talked much about
Margrave, of whom, nevertheless, he seemed to be growing weary.
“His high spirits are too much for one,” said he; “and then so
restless,--so incapable of sustained quiet conversation. And, clever
though he is, he can’t help me in the least about the new house I shall
build. He has no notion of construction. I don’t think he could build a
barn.”
“I thought you did not like to demolish the old house, and would content
yourself with pulling down the more ancient part of it?”
“True. At first it seemed a pity to destroy so handsome a mansion; but
you see, since poor Sir Philip’s manuscript, on which he set such store,
has been too mutilated, I fear, to allow me to effect his wish with
regard to it, I think I ought at least scrupulously to obey his other
whims. And, besides, I don’t know, there are odd noises about the old
house. I don’t believe in haunted houses; still there is something
dreary in strange sounds at the dead of night, even if made by rats, or
winds through decaying rafters. You, I remember at college, had a taste
for architecture, and can draw plans. I wish to follow out Sir Philip’s
design, but on a smaller scale, and with more attention to comfort.”
Thus he continued to run on, satisfied to find me a silent and attentive
listener. We arrived at the mansion an hour before sunset, the westering
light shining full against the many windows cased in mouldering
pilasters, and making the general dilapidation of the old place yet more
mournfully evident.
It was but a few minutes to the dinner-hour. I went up at once to the
room appropriated to me,--not the one I had before occupied. Strahan
had already got together a new establishment. I was glad to find in
the servant who attended me an old acquaintance. He had been in my own
employ when I first settled at L----, and left me to get married. He and
his wife were now both in Strahan’s service. He spoke warmly of his
new master and his contentment with his situation, while he unpacked my
carpet-bag and assisted me to change my dress. But the chief object of
his talk and his praise was Mr. Margrave.
“Such a bright young gentleman, like the first fine day in May!”
When I entered the drawing-room, Margrave and Strahan were both there.
The former was blithe and genial, as usual, in his welcome. At dinner,
and during the whole evening till we retired severally to our own rooms,
he was the principal talker,--recounting incidents of travel, always
very loosely strung together, jesting, good-humouredly enough, at
Strahan’s sudden hobby for building, then putting questions to me about
mutual acquaintances, but never waiting for an answer; and every now
and then, as if at random, startling us with some brilliant aphorism, or
some suggestion drawn from abstract science or unfamiliar erudition. The
whole effect was sparkling, but I could well understand that, if long
continued, it would become oppressive. The soul has need of pauses of
repose,--intervals of escape, not only from the flesh, but even from the
mind. A man of the loftiest intellect will experience times when
mere intellect not only fatigues him, but amidst its most original
conceptions, amidst its proudest triumphs, has a something trite and
commonplace compared with one of those vague intimations of a spiritual
destiny which are not within the ordinary domain of reason; and, gazing
abstractedly into space, will leave suspended some problem of severest
thought, or uncompleted some golden palace of imperial poetry, to
indulge in hazy reveries, that do not differ from those of an innocent,
quiet child! The soul has a long road to travel--from time through
eternity. It demands its halting hours of contemplation. Contemplation
is serene. But with such wants of an immortal immaterial spirit,
Margrave had no fellowship, no sympathy; and for myself, I need scarcely
add that the lines I have just traced I should not have written at the
date at which my narrative has now arrived.