In the early morning there is an hour more like paradise than anything
else vouchsafed to our mortal senses as a symbol of the better world to
come. The evening is infinitely sweet, but it implies labour and rest
and consolation, which are ideas not entirely dissevered from pain; but
in the first glory of the morning there is an unearthly sweetness, a
lustre as of the pristine world, unsoiled, untried, unalloyed, a
heavenly life and calm. The sunshine comes upon us with a surprise, with
something of that exultant novelty which it must have had to Adam; the
drops of dew shine like little separate worlds; the birds, most innocent
of all the inhabitants of earth, have the soft-breathing universe to
themselves: all their sweet domestic intercourses, the prattle of the
little families, their trills of commentary touching everything that is
going on in earth and heaven get accomplished, as the level line of
sunshine penetrates from one glade to another, higher and higher,
touching as it passes every bough into life. Awakening and vitality are
in the very atmosphere which brings a new hope, a new day, a new world
of possibility and life. New heavens and a new earth thus present
themselves to mortal cognisance, for the most part quite unconscious of
them, every day.
If only we brought nothing with us from the old world that ended in the
night! But, alas, we bring everything--ourselves, that "heritage of
woe," our thoughts, our desires, baffled or eager, for other objects
than those which are in harmony with that new life and blessedness. When
the sun rose visibly into the blue, skimming the surface of Loch Houran,
and waking all the woods, there stood one spectator upon the old
battlements of the ruined castle who was altogether out of harmony with
the scene. Walter had not slept all night. He had not even gone through
the form of going to bed. He had come out as soon as there was a glimmer
of daylight, which, in October, is long of coming, to get what
refreshment was possible from the breath of the morning air, and thus
had assisted at the re-awakening of earth, and all the development of
the new-born day. From where he stood there lay before him a paradise of
sky and water, with everything repeated, embellished, made into an ideal
of twofold sweetness, brightness, and purity, in the broad mirror of the
lake. The autumn woods, the tracts of green field, or late yellow of the
unreaped corn, all showed like another fairy-land underneath, a country
still purer, more dazzling, and brilliant, more still and fresh, than
the morning land above. "The light that never was on sea or shore" shone
in those glorified and softly rippling woods, trending away into the
infinite to the point beyond which mortal vision cannot go. What haunts
and refuges of happy life might be there! what dreams of poetry beyond
the human! That lovely inversion of all things, that more than mortal
freshness and sweetness and liquid glow of light, confused the mind with
a kind of involuntary bliss, a vision of a place of escape, the never
attained country to which the soul, had it wings, might flee away and be
at rest.
But that soul had no wings which looked out from Walter's haggard
countenance, as he leant on the half-ruined wall. He gazed at the scene
before him like one who had no lot or part in it. Its peace and
brightness brought but into greater relief the restlessness of his own
soul, the gloom and blackness in his heart. He had been struggling all
night in a fierce internal controversy which, to his own consciousness,
was with another intelligence more powerful than his own, and yet might
have been with himself, with the better part that kept up within him a
protest for better things, with such representatives of conscience and
the higher affections as still existed within him. However it was, he
was exhausted with the struggle, his strength was worn out. That lull of
pain which does not mean any cure, or even any beginning of healing, but
is merely a sign that the power of the sufferer to endure has come to
its limit, gave him a kind of rest. But the rest itself was restless and
incapable of composure. He moved about like an uneasy spirit along the
broken line of the old battlements, pausing here and there to plunge his
eyes into the landscape, to take in the morning air with a long
inspiration. And so unlike was the mood of his mind to his usual
character and habits, that as he moved, Walter gave vent to a low
moaning, such as gives a kind of fictitious relief to the old and
suffering--an involuntary utterance which it was terrible to hear coming
with his breathing from a young man's lips, and in the midst of such a
scene. Was he talking to himself? Was he only moaning as a dumb creature
moans? By and by he half flung himself, in his weariness, into one of
the ruinous embrasures, and remained there, leaning his back against one
side of it. And then he said to himself, repeating the words over and
over again--"Neither God's nor Oona's. Neither Oona's nor God's."
Lord Erradeen had arrived at that lowest depth of self-estimation, which
means despair. His own life had been forced upon him, represented before
his eyes he could not tell how. He had seen its motives disentangled,
its course traced, all its wastes laid bare, with a distinctness against
which he could offer no appeal. He could deny nothing; it was true; this
was what he had done, with a repetition of folly, of selfishness, of
baseness, for which he could offer no sort of excuse, which confounded
and abased him. He had known it all, it is true, before; time after time
he had pulled himself up and looked at the last scrap of his life, and
pronounced it indefensible; then had pushed it from him and gone on
again, escaping with all the haste he could from contemplation of the
phenomena which were inexplicable, and which he did not desire to
attempt to explain even to himself. He had said truly to Miss Milnathort
that to know you are wrong is not always equivalent to being on the way
to mend it. He had always known he was wrong; he had never been
deficient in moral disapproval of others like himself, or even of
himself, when in one of the pauses of his career he was brought face to
face with that individual. But he had been able to put a sort of
accidental gloss upon his own worst actions. He had not intended them;
there had been no motive whatever in what he did; he had done so and so
by chance--by indolence, because it happened to be put before him to do
it; but he had meant nothing by it. Out of this subterfuge he had been
driven during the mental conflict of the night. And there was this
peculiarity in his state, that he was not thus enlightened and convinced
by the exertions of any reformatory influence, by any prophet bidding
him repent. Conviction came from entirely the other side, and with a
motive altogether different. "Who are you," his antagonist said, or
seemed to say, "to take refuge with a pure woman, you who have never
been pure? Who are you to lay claim to be God's, after ignoring God's
existence altogether; or to be your own master, who have never ruled or
guided yourself, but have been the slave of every folly, a feather
blown on the wind, a straw carried away by the stream?"
All these accusations had been made as plain to him as the daylight. He
had not been allowed to escape; the course of his life had been traced
so clearly, that he could not protest, or object, or contradict; he was
convinced--the most terrible position in which a man can be. Whether any
man, thoroughly persuaded of his own moral wretchedness and debasement
ever does escape despair, is a question full of difficulty. The
prodigal's sense that in his father's house every servant has enough and
to spare while he perishes of hunger is a different matter. "Father, I
have sinned, I am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of
thy hired servants." There are still possibilities to a soul in such a
position. But one who is driven from stronghold to stronghold, until at
length he is forced to allow that there is no inducement which has not
been tried and failed with him, that he has no claim to the succour of
God or man, or woman, that he has turned his back upon all, neglected
all, wronged every power in heaven and earth that could help, what is he
to do? He may be forgiven; but forgiveness, in the entire abasement of
that discovery, is not what he wants. He wants a renovation for which
there seems no means left; he wants, in the old language--that language
which we are said to have outgrown--to be born again: and that is
impossible--impossible! What is there in heaven or earth that will
prevent him from doing all over again what he has done before, the
moment his circumstances permit it? So long as he is what he
is--nothing: and how shall he be made other than what he is?
"Ye must be born again." Ah, what preacher can know that as he does? But
how--but how? Neither God's nor Oona's--and who, then, was to help him?
He had caught at the woman in his despair; he had not even so much as
thought of God till the last moment, and then had flown like a coward to
a fetish, meaning nothing but to escape. Why should God bend down from
those spotless heavens to acknowledge the wretched runaway's clutch at
his divine garments in the extremity of mortal terror? Would Oona have
given him that hand of hers, had she known how his was stained? And
would God attend to that coward's appeal made only when everything else
failed?
The young man sat in the corner of the embrasure pressing himself
against the rough stone-work for support. Despair had possession of his
soul. What had he to do with the best and highest things, with freedom
and love? After all, why should he be his own master, why claim the
right to judge for himself? If he had this freedom fully, what would he
do with it? Throw it away next day in exchange for some nothing, some
pleasure that palled in the tasting. Pleasure! There was no pleasure,
but only make-beliefs and deceptions. The old fellow was right, he began
to say to himself, with a certain bitter humour. Had he exercised no
coercion over the race, had the Methvens been left to their own devices,
how much of them would have remained now? Instead of a peerage and great
estates they would have died out in a ditch or in a sponging-house
generations ago. Their lands would have gone bit by bit: their name
would have disappeared--all as he said. And supposing now that Walter
was left entirely free to do as he pleased, what reason had he to
believe that he would not squander everything he could squander, and
bring down the posterity of the race into the dust? That is what he
would have done if left to himself. He would have resisted all claims of
prudence or duty. He would have followed, he knew it, the caprice of the
moment, just as he had done now. If no former Methvens had ruined the
family it was in himself to do it. All these thoughts were in favour of
the submission which seemed to him now almost the only thing before him.
He thought of Miss Milnathort and her anxiety for him, and laughed to
himself bitterly at her childish hope. Two that should be one, and that
should be set on everything that was good. What a simpleton she was! He
set on everything that was good! he was incapable of anything that was
good. And Oona--could there be a greater folly than to think that Oona,
when she knew, would pick him up out of this ruin, and give him a new
starting-ground? He laughed at the thought aloud. Oona! Was not her very
name the token of purity, the sign of maidenhood and innocence. And to
believe that she would mingle herself in his being which was unclean
and false from its very beginning! He laughed at his own folly to think
so. In ignorance she had been more kind than ever woman was. She had
asked no questions, she had given him her hand, she had stood by him. In
ignorance: _but when she knew_! He said to himself that he was not cad
enough to let her go on in this ignorance. He would have to tell her
what he had been, what he would be again if left to circumstances and
his own guidance. He would not deceive her; he was not cad enough for
that. And when he had told her, and had given up for ever all hope of
really making a stand against the tyrant of his race, or carrying out
his theories of happiness, what would remain? What would remain?
Subjection--misery--
"No," said a voice close by him, "something else--something very good in
its way, and with which the greater majority of mankind are quite
content, and may be very happy. The second best."
Walter had started at the sound of this voice. He left his seat with
nervous haste; and yet he had no longer any sense of panic. He had a
certain doleful curiosity to see the man, whom he had only seen in
twilight rooms or by artificial light, in the open air and sunshine.
Perhaps this strange personage divined his thoughts, for he came forward
with a slight smile. There was nothing in his appearance to alarm the
most timid. He was, as Miss Milnathort had called him, a grand
gentleman. He had the air of one accustomed to command, with that ease
of bearing which only comes to those largely experienced in the world.
The path along the ruinous battlements was one that craved wary walking,
but he traversed it with the boldest step without a moment's hesitation
or doubt. He made a little salutation with his hand as he approached.
"You were laughing," he said. "You are taking, I hope, a less highflown
view of the circumstances altogether. The absolute does not exist in
this world. We must all be content with advantages which are
comparative. I always regret," he continued, "resorting to heroic
measures. To have to do with some one who will hear and see reason, is a
great relief. I follow the course of your thoughts with interest. They
are all perfectly just; and the conclusion is one which most wise men
have arrived at. Men in general are fools. As a rule you are incapable
of guiding yourselves; but only the wise among you know it."
"I have no pretension to be wise."
"You are modest--all at once. So long as you are reasonable that will
do. Adapt your life now to a new plan. The ideal is beyond your reach.
By no fault of circumstances, but by your own, you have forfeited a
great deal that is very captivating to the mind of youth, but very empty
if you had it all to-morrow. You must now rearrange your conceptions and
find yourself very well off with the second best."
There was something in his very tone which sent the blood coursing
through Walter's veins, and seemed to swell to bursting the great
currents of life. He cried out--
"You have driven me to despair. You have cut off from me every hope. And
now you exhort me to find myself very well off, to adapt my life to a
new plan. Is that all you know?"
His companion smiled. "You would like me better to repeat to you again
that you have no ground to stand upon, and are as unworthy as one can be
at your age. All that is very true. But one aspect of the matter is not
all. In the mean time you will have to live and get on somehow. Suicide
of course is always open to you, but you are not the sort of man for
that; besides, it is begging the question, and solves no problem. No,
you must live--on the second level. Your ideal has always been
impossible, for you have never had heart or will to keep up to it. Why
you should have had this fit of fantastic wilfulness now, and really
believed that by means of vague aspirations you were to get the better
of me and all your antecedents, I cannot tell. You must now find out
practically how you are to live."
Walter had reached the lowest depths of despair a little while ago. He
had consented that it was all true, that there was no further escape for
him; but now again a passionate contradiction surged up within him. "I
will not," he said, vehemently, "I will not--take your way."
"I think you will--for why? there is no other half so good. You will be
very comfortable, and you will have done a great thing for your house.
By-and-by you will settle into a conviction that what you have done is
the best thing you could have done. It is one of the privileges of
mankind. And I promise you that I will not molest you. Your coming here
will be little more than a formula. You will agree with me: why then
should there be any controversy between us? Maturity and wealth and
well-being will bring you to think with me that a settled advantage like
that of one's race is far beyond all evanescent good of the fancy. You
will become respectable and happy--yes, quite happy enough--as happy as
men have any right to be."
There was a half-tone of mockery, as if the speaker scorned the picture
he drew; and at every word the resistance which had been almost stilled
in Walter's mind rose up more warmly. "Are you happy yourself," he said,
suddenly, "that you recommend this to me?"
The stranger paused a little. "The word is a trivial one. I have many
gratifications," he said.
"I don't know what your gratifications can be. Is it worth your while to
live through the ages as you say--you, so powerful as you are, with so
many great faculties--in a miserable old ruin, to exercise this
terrorism upon unoffending men?"
Then Walter's companion laughed aloud. "To live for ages in a miserable
old ruin!" he said. "That does not seem a very attractive lot indeed.
But set your mind at rest, my kind descendant; I live in a miserable
ruin no more than you do. My affairs are everywhere. I have the weakness
of a man for my own--perhaps in other regions as well--but that is
nothing to you."
"It is everything to me. Give me some explanation of you. If, as you
say, you have lived for centuries impossibly, how have you done it? Have
you ever come to a blank wall like me--have you ever been abandoned by
every hope? or," cried the young man, "am I your superior in this
horrible experience? No man could stand as I do--given up to despair:
and yet go on living like you."
"It depends upon your point of view. When you have taken my advice (as
you will do presently) and have come down from your pinnacle and
accepted what is the ordinary lot of mankind, you will find no longer
any difficulty in living--as long as is possible; you will not wish to
shorten your life by a day."
"And what is the ordinary lot of mankind?" cried Walter, feeling himself
once more beaten down, humiliated, irritated by an ascendancy which he
could not resist.
"I have told you--the second best. In your case a wife with a great deal
of wealth, and many other qualities, who will jar upon your imagination
(an imagination which has hitherto entertained itself so nobly!) and
exasperate your temper perhaps, and leave your being what you call
incomplete: but who will give you a great acquisition of importance and
set you at peace with me. That alone will tell for much in your comfort;
and gradually your mind will be brought into conformity. You will
consider subjects in general as I do, from a point of view which will
not be individual. You will not balance the interests of the few
miserable people who choose to think their comfort impaired, but will
act largely for the continued benefit of your heirs and your property.
You will avail yourself of my perceptions, which are more extended than
your own, and gradually become the greatest landowner, the greatest
personage of your district; able to acquire the highest honours if you
please, to wield the greatest influence. Come, you have found the other
position untenable according to your own confession. Accept the
practicable. I do not hurry you. Examine for yourself into the issues of
your ideal--now that we have become friends and understand each other so
thoroughly--"
"I am no friend of yours. I understand no one, not even myself."
"You are my son," said the other with a laugh. "You are of my nature; as
you grow older you will resemble me more and more. You will speak to
your sons as I speak to you. You will point out these duties to them, as
I do to you."
"In everything you say," cried Walter, "I perceive that you acknowledge
a better way. Your plans are the second best--you say so. Is it worth
living so long only to know that you are embracing mediocrity after
all, that you have nothing to rise to? and yet you acknowledge it," he
said.
The stranger looked at him with a curious gaze. He who had never shown
the smallest emotion before grew slightly paler at this question: but he
laughed before he replied.
"You are acute," he said. "You can hit the blot. But the question in
hand is not my character, but your practical career."
The sound of an oar here broke the extreme silence. The morning had
fully come, the night coach from "the south" had arrived at the inn, and
Duncan with the postbag was coming along the still water, which cut like
a transparent curd before him, and joined again in eddying reflections
behind. Duncan bent his back to his oars unconscious of any mystery; his
postbag, bringing news of all the world, lay in front of him. He and his
boat in every detail of outline and colour swam suspended in the light,
in reflection, and swept double over the shining surface. How
extraordinary was the contrast between his open-air placidity, his fresh
morning countenance, the air of the hills about him, and the haggard
countenance of his master, looking upon this country fellow with an envy
which was as foolish as it was genuine. Duncan did not know anything
about the ideal. And yet in his way he followed his conscience,
sometimes with pain and trouble, and at the cost of many a struggle--or
else neglected its warnings, and took his own way as his master had
done. Walter did not take this into consideration, but looked down upon
his boatsman's ruddy, honest countenance and square frame, stretching
contentedly to his oars and thinking of nothing, with envy. Would it
have been better to be born like that to daily labour and an unawakened
intelligence? He turned round to say something, but his visitor had
gone. There was not a shadow upon the walls, not the sound of a step.
Lord Erradeen had no longer the faintest movement of fear, but in its
place a certain impatience and irritability as if this practical joke
might be played upon him too often. And presently into the clear air
rang the voice of Symington.
"For God's sake, my lord, take care! that is just where the poor lady
was killed thirty years ago."