It was strange that Myra did not write, were it only a line. It was so
unlike her. How often this occurred to Endymion during his wearisome and
anxious travel! When the coach reached Hurstley, he found Mr. Penruddock
waiting for him. Before he could inquire after his father, that
gentleman said, “Myra is at the rectory; you are to come on there.”
“And my father?”----
“Matters are critical,” said Mr. Penruddock, as it were avoiding a
direct answer, and hastening his pace.
It was literally not a five minutes’ walk from the village inn to the
rectory, and they walked in silence. The rector took Endymion at once
into his study; for we can hardly call it a library, though some shelves
of books were there, and many stuffed birds.
The rector closed the door with care, and looked distressed; and,
beckoning to Endymion to be seated, he said, while still standing and
half turning away his head, “My dear boy, prepare yourself for the
worst.”
“Ah! he is gone then! my dear, dear father!” and Endymion burst into
passionate tears, and leant on the table, his face hid in his hands.
The rector walked up and down the room with an agitated countenance. He
could not deny, it would seem, the inference of Endymion; and yet he did
not proffer those consolations which might be urged, and which it became
one in his capacity peculiarly to urge.
“I must see Myra,” said Endymion eagerly, looking up with a wild air and
streaming eyes.
“Not yet,” said the rector; “she is much disturbed. Your poor father is
no more; it is too true; but,” and here the rector hesitated, “he did
not die happily.”
“What do you mean?” said Endymion.
“Your poor father had much to try him,” said the rector. “His life,
since he was amongst us here, was a life, for him, of adversity--perhaps
of great adversity--yet he bore up against it with a Christian spirit;
he never repined. There was much that was noble and exalted in his
character. But he never overcame the loss of your dear mother. He was
never himself afterwards. He was not always master of himself. I could
bear witness to that,” said the rector, talking, as it were, to himself.
“Yes; I could conscientiously give evidence to that effect”----
“What effect?” asked Endymion, with a painful scrutiny.
“I could show,” said the rector, speaking slowly, and in a low voice,
“and others could show, that he was not master of himself when he
committed the rash act.”
“O Mr. Penruddock!” exclaimed Endymion, starting from his chair, and
seizing the rector by the arm. “What is all this?”
“That a great sorrow has come upon you, and your sister, and all of us,”
said Mr. Penruddock; “and you, and she, and all of us must bow before
the Divine will in trembling, though in hope. Your father’s death was
not natural.”
Such was the end of William Pitt Ferrars, on whom nature, opportunity,
and culture appeared to have showered every advantage. His abilities
were considerable, his ambition greater. Though intensely worldly, he
was not devoid of affections. He found refuge in suicide, as many do,
from want of imagination. The present was too hard for him, and his
future was only a chaotic nebula.
Endymion did not see his sister that evening. She was not made aware
of his arrival, and was alone with Mrs. Penruddock, who never left her
night or day. The rector took charge of her brother, and had a sofa-bed
made for him in the kind man’s room. He was never to be alone. Never
the whole night did Endymion close his eyes; and he was almost as much
agitated about the impending interview with Myra, as about the dark
event of terror that had been disclosed to him.
Yet that dreaded interview must take place; and, about noon, the rector
told him that Myra was in the drawing-room alone, and would receive him.
He tottered as he crossed the hall; grief and physical exhaustion had
unmanned him; his eyes were streaming with tears; he paused for a moment
with his hand upon the door; he dreaded the anguish of her countenance.
She advanced and embraced him with tenderness; her face was grave, and
not a tear even glistened.
“I have been living in a tragedy for years,” said Myra, in a low, hollow
voice; “and the catastrophe has now arrived.”
“Oh, my dear father!” exclaimed Endymion; and he burst into a renewed
paroxysm of grief.
“Yes; he was dear to us, and we were dear to him,” said Myra; “but the
curtain has fallen. We have to exert ourselves. Energy and self-control
were never more necessary to two human beings than to us. Here are his
keys; his papers must be examined by no one but ourselves. There is a
terrible ceremony taking place, or impending. When it is all over, we
must visit the hall at least once more.”
The whole neighbourhood was full of sorrow for the event, and of
sympathy for those bereft. It was universally agreed that Mr. Ferrars
had never recovered the death of his wife; had never been the same man
after it; had become distrait, absent, wandering in his mind, and the
victim of an invincible melancholy. Several instances were given of his
inability to manage his affairs. The jury, with Farmer Thornberry for
foreman, hesitated not in giving a becoming verdict. In those days
information travelled slowly. There were no railroads then, and no
telegraphs, and not many clubs. A week elapsed before the sad occurrence
was chronicled in a provincial paper, and another week before the report
was reproduced in London, and then in an obscure corner of the journal,
and in small print. Everything gets about at last, and the world began
to stare and talk; but it passed unnoticed to the sufferers, except by
a letter from Zenobia, received at Hurstley after Myra had departed from
her kind friends. Zenobia was shocked, nay, overwhelmed, by what she had
heard; wanted to know if she could be of use; offered to do anything;
begged Myra to come and stay with her in St. James’ Square; and assured
her that, if that were not convenient, when her mourning was over
Zenobia would present her at court, just the same as if she were her own
daughter.
When the fatal keys were used, and the papers of Mr. Ferrars examined,
it turned out worse than even Myra, in her darkest prescience, had
anticipated. Her father had died absolutely penniless. As executor of
his father, the funds settled on his wife had remained under his sole
control, and they had entirely disappeared. There was a letter addressed
to Myra on this subject. She read it with a pale face, said nothing,
and without showing it to Endymion, destroyed it. There was to be an
immediate sale of their effects at the hall. It was calculated that the
expenses of the funeral and all the country bills might be defrayed by
its proceeds.
“And there will be enough left for me,” said Myra. “I only want ten
pounds; for I have ascertained that there is no part of England where
ten pounds will not take me.”
Endymion sighed and nearly wept when she said these things. “No,” he
would add; “we must never part.”
“That would ensure our common ruin,” said Myra. “No; I will never
embarrass you with a sister. You can only just subsist; for you could
not well live in a garret, except at the Rodneys’. I see my way,” said
Myra; “I have long meditated over this--I can draw, I can sing, I can
speak many tongues: I ought to be able to get food and clothing; I may
get something more. And I shall always be content; for I shall always be
thinking of you. However humble even my lot, if my will is concentrated
on one purpose, it must ultimately effect it. That is my creed,” she
said, “and I hold it fervently. I will stay with these dear people for
a little while. They are not exactly the family on which I ought to
trespass. But never mind. You will be a great man some day, Endymion,
and you will remember the good Penruddocks.”