THE LAST OF THE HARMERS.
And so in spite of all human precautions and care, the property of the
old Roman Catholic family was not disposed of for the benefit and glory
of Mother Church; but passed into the hands of the Protestant and
apostate younger brother, under whose ownership and care it changed not
a little.
Not externally; there no great alteration was possible, unless the whole
place had been pulled down and rebuilt, but the thick trees which had
crowded it in, and made it dark and gloomy, were thinned out, so that
the air and light could come in upon it; bright flower-beds took the
place of the masses of shrubbery on the lawn in front, and as far as
could be done, the whole place was cleared and brightened. Inside, much
greater changes were made--there, indeed, the old house was completely
remodelled, new paper, new paint, new furniture and fittings of every
description. Modern windows were put in where practicable, that is,
wherever they could be inserted without violent incongruity with the
style of architecture; part of the house indeed--that part containing
the principal apartments--was entirely modernized, party walls were
pulled away, small rooms thrown into large ones, the ceilings and roofs
raised, bow windows thrown out, and a bright, cheerful air given to it.
In the chapel adjoining the house great alterations were made. Coloured
glass windows took the place of the plain ones formerly there; these had
been inserted after a visit of inspection paid by a party of Puritan
cavalry, who, not having succeeded in finding the man of Belial of whom
they were in search, consoled themselves under their disappointment by
the holy amusement of smashing the beautiful stained-glass windows, and
destroying the decoration and carvings of the little chapel. The seats
were now removed, and the shrines, hangings, pictures, and other emblems
of the Romish Church were taken down. The grand stone altar was
retained, and a large cross in black marble was placed over it, taking
the place of the wooden crucifix which had so long hung there. At the
foot of the steps leading up to the altar, and where they had so often
knelt in prayer, a beautiful monument of white marble was erected to the
dead brothers, on which the sun threw strange, solemn lights as it
streamed in through the coloured windows.
All these changes and alterations were carried on under the personal
care and inspection of Mr. Harmer, who, with his son, came down at once
to Canterbury, taking up their residence for the first two months at the
"Fountain," but spending most of their time over at the "Place." And
although when masons and decorators once take possession of a house they
generally contrive to make their stay nearly interminable, yet, money,
energy, and personal supervision will occasionally work wonders, and in
this case, in three months after taking possession--that is, by the end
of June--Mr. Harmer had the satisfaction of seeing the work completed,
and the little army of men engaged upon it fairly out of the house.
As soon as they had gone into residence, the neighbouring gentry called
almost in a body. To them it possessed the charm of a new discovery;
they knew the place existed, but all they had seen of it was the lodge
gate, and the twisted chimneys of the house as they rose among the trees
which shut it in from the view; that was all. They hardly knew what it
was like, even from tradition; neither their fathers or grandfathers had
ever called there; not that the religion of its owner had constituted
any serious objection to their so doing, but the Harmers led too
secluded and recluse a life to care about knowing any one. With only a
very few among the county families of their own creed had they any
visiting acquaintance whatever, and this was confined to an exchange of
formal calls, or of stately dinners once or so in the course of a year.
Their only intimate acquaintances were chosen among foreigners,
ecclesiastics or others, generally Italian, whom they had known during
their long absences on the Continent; of these there had been usually
one or two staying in the house when the family were at home; beyond
this they had no friends. But now all this was to change, and the
carriages of the neighbouring gentry dashed in quick succession up the
drive where once the green moss had grown undisturbed, and gay talk and
merry laughter were heard where formerly silence had reigned almost
unbroken.
The visits afforded great satisfaction to those who paid them. The
father and son were both much liked, and pronounced great acquisitions
to the county society.
These visits were shortly returned, and invitations to dinner speedily
followed. But not to dinner-parties alone was the festivity confined;
picnics were got up, balls given, and it was unanimously agreed for once
to overlook the fact that there was no lady head to Harmer Place, but
that mothers and daughters should accept Mr. Harmer's lavish hospitality
regardless of that fact. Indeed, the Harmers' accession to the property
gave rise to a series of feasting and festivity such as had not been
known in that part of the county for years previously.
Into all this Mr. Harmer entered with a fresh pleasure, and a frank
joyous spirit which charmed and attracted all. With the ladies he was an
especial favourite; to them his manners and address were so singularly
different to those of the men with whom they were accustomed to
associate, that they could not fail to be greatly impressed by it.
Herbert Harmer had seen little or nothing of women, for--with the
exception only of his wife, who had always been a great invalid, and
whom he had nursed for years with almost devotional care and
kindness--he had been thrown in contact with very few English women, and
he regarded the whole sex with an almost chivalrous devotion and respect
which in a man of his age was very strange and touching. Although a very
well-read man--for in his distant home he had kept himself well supplied
with the current English literature, and with scientific works of every
description--he knew very little of real life. Of commanding intellect,
had he been placed in different circumstances where his mind could have
had fair scope for its exercise, Herbert Harmer would have made a
conspicuous figure for himself; as it was, although all found in him a
charming companion and a sympathizer in their various tastes, few would
have suspected how great were the stores of knowledge which the
simple-hearted childlike man had stored up in all those years of
solitary reading.
It was this general sympathy for the tastes of others, together with the
reverence for the sex, which led him to treat the young girl of
seventeen with a deference not inferior to that which he would have
exhibited for her white-haired grandmother, which made him so
universally liked by women; and had Herbert Harmer, although a man of
forty-seven, and looking older than he was, wished to marry again, he
might have nearly taken his choice among the fair young Kentish maidens
who surrounded him.
Women, especially young women, appreciate a character such as this far
better than men can do. Their purity of heart recognizes instinctively
its goodness and childlike wisdom; and very many would own to themselves
that, without entertaining any passionate love for him, they could yet
entrust their happiness to such a one with a confidence far more serene
and implicit than that which they would experience in the case of a
younger man.
Perhaps a thought as to the possibility of Mr. Harmer marrying again may
have entered into the calculations of some of the matrons with grown-up
families, and who would not have unwillingly have seen one of their
daughters holding sway as mistress at Harmer Place. But if so, it was
not for long; for Mr. Harmer, upon one occasion--when the possibility of
such an event as a new mistress for his house being forthcoming when the
alterations were completed, was laughingly suggested--resented the idea
in quite a serious manner. From this it was quite evident that the
future mistress of Harmer Place, whomsoever she might be, would enter it
as the wife of Gerald rather than of Herbert Harmer.
Gerald was by no means so great a favourite as his father; nor, although
he earnestly desired to be popular, could he altogether succeed in his
object. He could not overcome the listless manner which his long
residence in India had rendered part of his nature; he could not acquire
an interest in all the chit-chat and gossip of country society, or
manifest more than a most languid interest in the agricultural
conversations and disquisitions which formed the large staple of the
country gentleman's talk. Of the price of corn he knew nothing. Malt and
hops were mysteries, into which, beyond drinking the resulting compound,
he had no desire to penetrate. And yet he was a sensible, good-hearted
young fellow enough. His misfortune was that he had not strength of mind
to adapt himself to the life and people he was thrown among.
Mr. Harmer was extremely anxious that his son should marry early and
well; not well in a worldly point of view, but to some true woman, to
whom he could look up, and who would in time correct the faults of his
character. Those faults his father saw and understood; and he feared
much that his weak and facile disposition would render him liable to
fall into serious errors and faults, and would be not unlikely to lead
him to be entrapped into some hasty marriage, the evil consequences of
which might be incalculable to him. Mr. Harmer therefore watched with
anxiety to see to which, among the various young girls of the
neighbourhood, Gerald was most attracted, and at first he gave his
father some little trouble. New to female society, it possessed an
infinite charm to him; but he seemed to admire too generally to devote
himself to any one in particular, and although he at once commenced a
series of active flirtations, he appeared quite unable to single out any
one for especial preference. _Les absents ont toujours tort_; and the
converse of the proverb seemed to him to be equally true--the present
are always right. Whosoever might chance to be in his society would
assuredly, for the time being, appear to approach the nearest to
perfection. Gerald Harmer was certainly a much greater favourite with
the girls than he was with their fathers and brothers. That languid,
indolent way of his, as if he rather thought that it was the duty of
other people to devote themselves to his amusement, and which made the
men vote him a puppy, was to them quite new and very amusing. Girls,
too, rather like occasionally reversing positions, and bestowing homage
instead of receiving it; and so the lively country girls enjoyed these
languid flirtations with Gerald, and entered into them with great
spirit, laughing in their sleeves, perhaps, at him while they did so,
and not being in the least likely to become the victims of any very
ardent passion.
When the shooting season commenced, however, a great change came over
him, for he threw himself into the sport with an ardour that astonished
his father. At last he really seemed to have found something worth
caring for, and in a short time, by his devotion for field sports, he
rose many degrees in the estimation of the young squires, who agreed
that Gerald Harmer had turned out a capital fellow after all, in spite
of his airs and nonsense. It is probable that he sank in the sisters'
estimation as he rose in the brothers', for he now no longer cared for
female society, and spent the whole of his time either in shooting over
his own or other estates, with parties of their young owners, or
sometimes alone, with no other companion than Long William, the
keeper--or else in hunting, to which also he took with great ardour. His
sporting tastes rapidly developed; dogs, horses, and guns occupied his
whole thoughts; and few would have recognized in the figure in
shooting-jacket and gaiters, returning splashed to the head, after a
hard day's work, the indolent lounger who had considered it almost too
great a trouble to think for himself. His father observed this change
with pleasure, as he had noticed with pain his son's increasing
listlessness, although he was personally a loser by it; for Gerald had
been hitherto his constant companion in his walks over his estate, and
his visits of kindness at his labourers' cottages, which, under his
care, assumed a very different and far more comfortable aspect than that
which they had worn under the old _regime_. Still, he felt that it might
do him much good; he thought it natural that the young man should be
fond of sport, and should seek the companionship of men of his own age;
and though he missed the former familiar intercourse with his son, he
assented with a little sigh of regret to the new state of things, and
told himself that it was much better so, and was very right and proper.
Even of an evening it was seldom now that Gerald accompanied his father
to the houses of the neighbouring gentry, always pleading fatigue, or
some other excuse, for not doing so. On these occasions, when his father
had started alone, he would be sure to find some pretext, some forgotten
order, or question which must be asked, as a reason for strolling down
in the course of the evening to smoke a pipe with his inseparable ally,
Long William, the keeper.
Of this his father of course knew nothing; but the people of the village
soon noticed these visits, and shook their heads when they saw the young
squire go in at the cottage door, for William's character stood by no
means high, and such companionship could do no good. Sometimes, too,
Long William would not have returned from his duties when Gerald
sauntered down, and then the task of entertaining him till his return
would fall on William's pretty sister, Madge, who kept house for her
brother. Altogether it would have been far better for Gerald to have
accompanied his father, than to spend the evening sitting there smoking,
and occasionally drinking; not truly that he was fond of drink for its
own sake, but as he felt obliged to send Long William out for a bottle
of spirits, he felt equally bound to keep him in countenance while he
drank it.
So things went on into the spring, and then the shooting and hunting
being over, Gerald, to his father's great annoyance, subsided into his
former listless state; indeed, into a much worse condition than he was
in before. He no longer was Mr. Harmer's companion in his rambles over
the estate; he took no interest in his plans for the improvement of the
houses of their poorer neighbours; he had no pleasure in society, which
before he had so enjoyed; indeed, so entirely without aim or object did
his life seem to have become, that Mr. Harmer felt that some change was
absolutely necessary for him, and proposed to him that he should go for
a few months' ramble on the Continent.
This proposition Gerald embraced with eagerness, and in a few days
started on his tour.
Mr. Harmer had at first thought of accompanying him, but finally decided
against doing so, as he judged it better that Gerald should have to
think and act entirely for himself; for being forced to do this, and to
make new acquaintances and friends--which in travelling he could only do
by exerting himself to be agreeable--he would be far more likely to
shake off his listless apathy, than if he had some one ever with him, to
arrange matters, and take all necessity of thought or exertion off his
hands.
And so Gerald went alone, and, as far as could be gleaned from his
letters, he certainly seemed improving. At first he wrote without much
interest in what he saw, but gradually the tone of his letters became
more healthy, and when he reached Switzerland, he wrote in quite
enthusiastic terms. He had joined a party who intended to stay there two
or three months, and thoroughly wander over the various lakes and
valleys of that lovely country. He enjoyed the life immensely, was
becoming a first-rate mountaineer, and altogether he appeared to have
entirely recovered his life and spirits.
Mr. Harmer remained quietly at home, passing his time between his books,
the management of his estates, and the pleasures of social intercourse
with his neighbours; and few days passed without his riding out into the
country, or into Canterbury, for a visit to some among them.
Everywhere he continued to gain golden opinions, and became so popular
that he was requested to allow himself to be put in nomination as member
for that division of the county at the next election. This offer,
although very gratifying, Mr. Harmer declined. He was very happy and
contented with his present mode of life, and had not the least wish to
take upon himself the care and responsibility of a seat in Parliament.
In autumn, soon after the shooting began, Gerald returned, looking
sunburnt and healthy; full of life and of his adventures and travels,
and, seemingly, permanently cured of his listless, indolent ways. His
father was much pleased with the change, and was now quite satisfied
with him; and yet at times he fancied--but it might be only fancy--that
in the pauses of conversation he would fall into short reveries of
something unpleasant; a quick, gloomy, anxious look seemed to pass
across his face, and although it would be instantly dispelled, still Mr.
Harmer could not help thinking that he had something on his mind. But if
it was so, he said no word to his father; and Herbert Harmer, even had
he been sure that such a secret had existed, which he was far from
being, was of too delicate a disposition to make the least advance
towards a confidence which his son did not seek to repose in him.
At last the hunting season began again, to which Gerald had been looking
forward eagerly, as he preferred it even to shooting, perhaps because it
was a much greater change, as the meets were seldom held near
Canterbury, and he would have to send his hunter on the night before,
and drive over perhaps fifteen or twenty miles in the morning. However,
it happened that one of the first meets of the season was appointed to
take place near Canterbury, about three miles out on the old Dover Road,
and Gerald started off, after an early breakfast, in unusually high
spirits.
Mr. Harmer, late in the afternoon, was in his library, which was in the
front of the house, and the windows of which commanded a view down the
drive.
He had been reading, but the fast-closing shades of a wintry
afternoon--it was the 12th of November, had rendered that difficult, and
he had laid down his book and walked to the window, to look out at the
still trees and the quiet hush of the thickening twilight.
Suddenly there came on his ear a low confused sound, as of many people
moving and speaking; and then a horse's footsteps came fast up the
drive.
He strained his eyes for the first sight of the rider, as he came round
the turn of the drive into sight.
It was not Gerald--it was one of his most intimate friends.
What could it be? He threw open the window and listened again; between
the strokes of the horses' feet in the still evening air, he could hear
the confused sound of voices and the trampling of feet coming nearer.
What could it be? A nameless terror blanched his cheek, a dim vision of
the truth flashed across him. In an instant he was at the hall-door,
which he opened and went out on to the steps. The horseman had alighted,
and now stood looking pale and anxious at the door. When it opened, and
he saw Mr. Harmer himself, he shrank back as a man might, who, knowing
that he had something very painful to go through, is suddenly confronted
with it before he had quite nerved himself to undergo it. Recovering
himself, however, although his usually hearty, jovial face was blanched
white, he prepared to speak. Herbert Harmer waved him back, he could
tell him nothing that could be new to him now. He had seen his face, and
hope had died with the look, and the father stood listening with
suspended breath to the irregular trampling now rapidly approaching up
the avenue.
"Is he dead?" he asked with his eyes, for no sound came from the lips.
"Not dead--but----" The eyes closed for a moment in answer that they
understood--not dead, but dying; and then he stood rigid and immovable,
his eyes open but seeing nothing, his whole senses merged in the effort
of hearing.
The gentleman who had brought the news, seeing that at present he could
do nothing there, quietly entered the house and ordered the affrighted
servants instantly to get a bed-room ready, with hot water, sponges, and
everything that could be required.
Mr. Harmer moved not till he saw appear round the turn of the drive the
head of a sad procession: carried on the shoulders of six men, on a door
hastily taken from a cottage for the purpose, was something in red
covered with a cloak; riding by the side were several horsemen in
scarlet, most of whom, on seeing Mr. Harmer standing on the steps,
reined back their horses and returned into the village, there to wait
for news. Not that they expected any news, save one; for the man in
green riding by the head of the little procession was the doctor. He was
on the field at the time of the accident, he had already examined the
injured man, had shaken his head sadly over him, and the word had gone
round--no hope.
His horse, a young hunter which he had only purchased a few days before,
had struck the top bar in leaping a gate, and had come down headlong on
its rider, fearfully crushing and mangling him. They carried him up to
his room and laid him on the bed; his father walking beside speechless
and tearless. The only question he asked was, "Will he ever recover his
consciousness?"
The doctor replied, "He may at the last."
The last did not come till next morning, when, just as the grey light
was breaking, he opened his eyes. For some time they wandered confusedly
about the room, as if endeavouring to comprehend what had happened; then
he tried to move, and a slight groan of pain broke from him, and by the
change in his expression it was evident he remembered all. His eyes met
those of his father, and fixed there with a look of deep affection, then
a sudden recollection of pain seemed to occur to him, and he closed his
eyes again and lay for sometime quite still.
The doctor who had his finger on his wrist motioned to the father that
the end was fast approaching. Again the eyes opened and he was evidently
rallying his strength to speak. The doctor withdrew a few paces, and the
father placed his ear to the dying man's mouth. The lips moved, but all
that the hearer could catch was--"Dear father--kind to Madge--my
sake--God forgive;" then the lips ceased moving, and the spirit was gone
for ever.
Ten days had passed since then, Gerald Harmer had been laid in the quiet
graveyard of the village church, and his father was sitting thoughtful
and alone in his library. A knock at the door, and Mr. Brandon, the
rector of the place, was announced, and by Mr. Harmer's manner as he
rose to meet him, it was evident that he was an expected visitor.
"I am much obliged to you for calling so speedily," he said, after they
had seated themselves. "I have a question which weighs much upon my
mind, and which is to me an inexpressibly painful one. Yet it is one
which I must ask, and you are the only person of whom I can ask it. I
may be mistaken altogether. I may be agitating myself under some
wretched misconception; God grant it may be so; and yet I must arrive at
the truth. Do you know any young person in the village by the name of
Madge? how old is she, who are her parents, and what character does she
bear?"
The clergyman's face became very serious as Mr. Harmer addressed him,
and the latter saw at once by his unmistakable start of surprise, and by
the look of distress which came across his face, that he not only knew
such a person, but that he was very well aware why the question was
asked.
Mr. Harmer laid his face in his hands and groaned; this was almost
harder to bear than his son's death. It was some time before he looked
up again. When he did so, the clergyman said in a tone of deep feeling
and commiseration--
"It is a truly sad affair, my dear sir; indeed, I question if you yet
know how sad. The name of the young girl of whom you ask was Madge
Needham; she lived with her brother, one of your keepers. I hardly know
how to tell you what has occurred. She had been for some time in
delicate health, and was standing at the door of her cottage when she
saw a little crowd coming down the village street. She carelessly asked
a lad who was running past what it was, and was told that they were
carrying home your unfortunate son who had been killed out hunting. The
boy ran on; she said nothing, but closed the door of the cottage. The
shock had struck home. That night a little child was born into the
world, who before morning had lost both father and mother."
Mr. Brandon ceased, his voice faltered as he spoke, and the tears fell
from his eyes. Mr. Harmer hid his face in his hands, and sobbed
unrestrainedly; he was inexpressibly shocked and grieved. At last he
said--
"Is the child alive?"
"Yes; a young married woman in the village who had just lost a baby of
her own has taken it for the present. She consulted me about it only
this morning, and I told her that in a short time when I could approach
the subject with you, I would do so, although I did not expect that the
opportunity would have occurred so soon. Still, I thought it right,
painful as it must be to you, that you should know the truth. I believe
from what I have heard that there can be no question as to the paternity
of the infant, as I heard, late in the spring, rumours of your son being
frequently down at the cottage. But it did not reach my ears until after
he had gone abroad, consequently I could do nothing in the matter but
hope for the best, and trust that rumour was mistaken."
After another short silence, Mr. Harmer said--
"Mr. Brandon, I am very much indebted to you for what you have already
done in the matter; will you further oblige me by acting for me in it?
If the woman who has now charge of the child is a respectable and proper
person, and is willing to continue the care of it, so much the better.
If not, will you seek some one who will do so? Make any arrangements in
the way of money you may think fit. By the way, the east lodge, which is
the one farthest from the village, is at present unoccupied; let them
move in there. I will give orders that it shall be made comfortable.
Will you see to this for me? So much for the present; we can make other
arrangements afterwards."
And so it was carried out. Mrs. Green, the woman who had first taken
care of the child, with her husband, a steady working carpenter, moved
into the east lodge. They had no other children, and soon took to the
little orphan, and loved her as their own. To them, indeed, the adoption
of the child proved of great benefit. The lodge was made comfortable; a
piece of ground was added to it, and put in order for a garden; a
handsome yearly sum was paid; and the husband had steady work upon the
estate.
Long William, the keeper, had a sufficient sum of money given him, to
enable him to emigrate to Australia.
Upon the death of his son, Mr. Harmer went abroad for three or four
years, and then returned again to the old place. The shock which he had
undergone had aged him much, and at fifty-one he looked as old as many
men of sixty. He still kept up the acquaintance of his former friends;
but although fond of quiet social intercourse, he ceased altogether to
enter into general society, and devoted himself entirely to study and
scientific pursuits.
It was a little before Mr. Harmer's return, that Dr. Ashleigh
established himself at Canterbury, having purchased a practice there.
They met accidentally at a friend's house, and soon became very intimate
with each other. They were mutually attracted by the similarity of their
tastes and pursuits, and by each other's intellectual superiority and
goodness of heart. They were indeed kindred spirits, and their society
became a source of the greatest mutual pleasure and gratification.
Whenever Dr. Ashleigh could find time from his professional pursuits, he
would drive over to pass a few hours of scientific research and
experiment with his friend; and if anything should occur to prevent the
visit being paid for a few days, Mr. Harmer would, in turn, come over
for an evening to the doctor's, at Canterbury.
In the mean time little Sophy Needham was growing up. She was not a
pretty child, but had an intelligent face, with large thoughtful grey
eyes.
It was some time after his return from abroad before Mr. Harmer trusted
himself to ride out at the east gate. At last, one day--it was the
anniversary of his son's death--he did so, and stopping there, fastened
up his horse, and went in to see the child, then exactly four years old.
At first she was inclined to be distant and shy; but when once she had
recovered sufficiently to fix her large grey inquiring eyes upon him,
she went to him readily, and in five minutes they were fast friends; for
indeed he was one of those men whom children instinctively feel to be
good, and take to as if by intuition.
After this he would frequently go down to see her, and take her little
presents of toys and dolls. Until she was ten years old she went to the
village school, and then he sent her to London to a good school, to be
educated as he said, for a governess. When she came home for the
holidays, he would frequently have her up for a day to the house, and
would interest himself greatly in her talk and growing knowledge.
It was some little time after his return from abroad that Mr. Harmer
received a letter from his sisters, who had since they left been
travelling and living abroad, saying, that if he were still of the same
mind, and would repeat his invitation, they would be glad to come and
stay with him for a time, as they longed to see the old place where they
had lived so long. Although much surprised, Mr. Harmer willingly
assented, and his two sisters soon afterwards arrived. Their visit, at
first intended only to last for a few weeks, lengthened into months;
then they went away for a time, but soon returned, and took up their
abode there permanently.
Whatever their motives may have been originally in returning to the
place, they unquestionably became very much attached to their brother,
and were far happier than they had ever before been during their lives:
they pursued their religious exercises, he his scientific pursuits,
without interference from each other, and as the genial intercourse and
kindness of their brother brightened their days, so did their affection
and interest soothe his. Their presence was a relief to the previous
silence and monotony of the house, and their management took all
household cares off his hands.
On one subject alone had any disagreement arisen, and that was the
presence of Sophy; but here their brother at once so decidedly, and even
sternly, stated that his wishes on that point were to be considered as
law, and that no interference with them would be for a moment tolerated,
that they were obliged at once to acquiesce, although they still, as
much as they dare, kept up by their manner a protest against her
presence.
Sophy now, during her holidays, stopped entirely at the house, occupying
a position something between that of visitor and humble companion. The
girl accepted her lot with rare tact for one of her age. She felt her
anomalous position, for she had, at Mr. Harmer's wish, been made
acquainted with her history, as he was sure that, sooner or later, she
was certain to be informed of it. She was of a quiet, retiring manner,
self-contained, and thoughtful, and manifested a quiet deference for the
Miss Harmers--with which, however much they might have wished it, they
could have found no fault--and a warm, though subdued, affection for Mr.
Harmer.
And thus matters stood when this story began.