A few days afterwards, Charley Landale and his friend went to the Castle
by special invitation to see the old squire's books and antiquities, and
himself. "Don't stay talking to the girls; I would as soon keep the
Queen waiting for luncheon," said Charley, on the way down-stairs, "as
the old squire. He is an old Turk if ever there was one. They dare not
say their souls are their own. Even Mary--but of course you don't know
anything about Mary?"
"No. I suppose not; unless perhaps I may have met her in society," said
Murray, with a faltering in his voice which he could not quite steady.
It was not in him to say boldly that he knew nothing about Mary--Mary,
whom he remembered, from her floating hair to her dancing feet, a vision
of delight. Her name thrilled through him, though he had only a boy's
recollection of her to move him. Once, when he was just on the edge of
the ascent which had led to fortune, Mary had been at the Vicarage, when
he in his new clothes, the _protégé_ of the Vicar's friend, had been
there also, and they had shared the nursery tea together and made
friends. The children had all patronised Abel, but Mary had been kind.
She had taken a fancy to the common boy whom the young people at the
Vicarage considered beneath them, and that perhaps was why he remembered
her so tenderly; though by this time a little sentimental haze of fancy
and distance encircled that meeting, and Abel was of opinion that he had
entertained a boyish passion for the young lady who was so much his
superior. With the strangest tremor at his heart he went to meet her
now. He knew he should recognise her wherever he met with her--would not
she know him also? The sense of danger excited him. He had his nerves
strung for self-defence, not remembering what other uglier words might
apply perhaps to what he said--Lies! in strict fact it might be so; but
it is very seldom at Abel's age that one has boldness to characterise
the little fictions that may be necessary to give the world a true
impression of one's dignity boldly as lies: they are, perhaps,
inventions, little flights of the imagination; or he who tells them is
"led into them," not by premeditation, unconsciously, by accident; lies
are told by other people, seldom by ourselves. If they asked him
point-blank whether he was Abel Murray, why then, to be sure--but they
were not likely to ask that question in so many words, and for the rest
it should be as his stars ordained.
Roger Ridley met them at the gate, and led Murray to the library where
his father was. "Find your way to the drawing-room, Charley; no one
expects you or me to know anything," he said. "This is the way to my
father's sanctum," and he pushed back the curtains and opened the oak
door. The passages were panelled oak, dark, with a glistening of
reflection about, while heavy curtains were hung here and there to shut
out draughts and noise from the squire's sanctuary. Murray, who was used
to the serious luxury of old wainscot and pictures, followed him
silently, with less sense of the incongruity of the position than if
they had taken the other turn which led to Miss Ridley's
presence-chamber, the heart of the house. The squire in his library was
not necessarily more awe-inspiring than the head of a college. Yet when
he found himself in the old lofty room, clothed with books, Abel felt
that to himself no head of a college could be so alarming as this old
gentleman, whose keen eyes seemed to search through and through him,
with suspicion in them, or so at last it seemed to his guilty soul. He
remembered being brought there once before for some supposed offence to
endure the inspection of the squire's keen eyes. It seemed the very same
look which pierced him to the midriff now, and Mr Ridley's words were
not reassuring. "How do you do, Mr Murray?" he said; "I am very glad to
see you. Such visitors as you are rare in a country place. But God bless
me, your face is familiar! I think I must have seen you before?"
Abel's cheeks grew crimson again, but he answered bravely with a smile,
"I do not think I have ever had that honour; but we are always knocking
up against each other, the Americans say, in this little island."
At this gentle pleasantry the squire laughed, or pretended to laugh. "A
curious people the Americans," he said--"very odd people. I have had one
or two of them down here. This is the sort of thing they don't
understand. It's a sad puzzle to them; existing for so many centuries
and yet not much of a thing after all," said the squire, waving his
hands towards his surroundings. He kept a corner of his eye upon Abel to
watch how he responded to this challenge.
"No, not much of a thing," said Murray, looking round upon it with
veneration,--"only the most perfect old house in England. It may not be
a very great matter, as you say, but there is nothing else like it in
the world."
"Ah!" said the squire, rubbing his hands, "I perceive you know what you
are talking of. I have a few old books here to show you, which I think
will please you. We are not rich, but we have never been tempted, like
some people, to turn all our treasures into money. We have a few old
pictures still and old books to enrich the old walls. I wish my son was
more interested in them, but Roger cares for none of these things. He
has not my tastes. 'A primrose by the river's brim, a yellow primrose
was to him'--Well, well, Mr Murray, we are not all made alike. You are
one of the Scotch Murrays, I suppose?"
This question came in so suddenly that Abel, though he ought to have
been on his guard, was startled. "By origin, yes, no doubt," he said;
then added, with more self-command, "But I have been brought up by
a--friend. I know more about my adopted family than my own."
"Ah!" the squire said, with a momentary stare; then he opened a glass
case and plunged into the congenial occupation of showing his treasures.
Roger, who knew them all by heart, after a time went quietly away,
leaving the stranger alone with his father. What a strange sensation it
was! and how clear and distinct was the recollection of standing in this
same room a dozen years before, his head drooping, his heart beating as
loudly as now. If the squire should turn upon him, and charge him with
his real origin--if he should demand to know on what pretext the son of
Elizabeth Murray, of Overbeck, had found his way among the Ridleys, what
could the intruder say? But Mr Ridley asked no such questions, made no
uncomfortable suggestions. On the contrary, he took down all the
treasures of which he was most proud, and the illuminated MS. which (he
said) the British Museum had bid for, to show to the only person, with
an air of knowing anything about it, who had visited him for years.
Abel, for his part, did not much believe in that story about the British
Museum. But he examined the treasures with understanding, and said all
that could be said in praise of them, and to the glory of the family who
possessed them, listening even patiently to the squire's account of his
grandfather, who was a collector, though with so much buzzing in his
ears, and curious bewilderment of suppressed feeling, that he scarcely
could follow the story. Abel had been in greater houses than this, and
had talked familiarly to men more notable than Squire Ridley; but he
could not forget the abashed boy, whom he seemed to see standing there,
in his rough country clothes, listening to the squire's objurgations
with a beating heart. He could not forget him. He was two people, not
one, in that haunted place. "You little rascal, if I hear anything of
the kind again I'll have you soundly whipped to show you what your duty
is"--was that what the squire was saying?--or was it this, "My
grandfather came just in time to make a good bargain with the superior
of the convent: the poor monk had ceased to care for what was once the
glory of their house," &c. Instead of sobbing audibly, with his fists
rammed into his eyes, was it an ingratiating smile and look of
deferential attention which Abel was turning upon the rural potentate?
"How lucky that some one was there who knew the value," he said. Was it
a dream? There was something unusual in the very sound of his own voice.
"Bless me! there is the luncheon bell. I must not detain you longer,"
said the squire. "I fear I have bored you already; and my daughter will
upbraid me for keeping you all the morning over my toys, as she calls
them. Ah, well! I suppose we old people can't expect the young ones to
take after us or adopt our tastes. You have given me a very pleasant
morning, Mr Murray. I don't know when I have enjoyed a couple of hours
so much. It is not every one who has the good taste to admire, but there
are still fewer who understand as you do. It has been, I assure you, a
real pleasure."
"You are very good to say so--after having given me such true
enjoyment," said Abel, confused, and feeling ready to stumble on the
stairs, as at his previous interview, and to hear, "That way, you little
wretch. John, look after this boy, and see him off the premises." He
could have laughed as he felt himself ushered with ceremonious
politeness by the squire himself towards the drawing-room, where the
very John, who had then dismissed him with a kick, was standing now,
grown somewhat elderly and imperative, to remind Miss Ridley that the
bell had rung five minutes since. Abel could have laughed, but not
because he was amused. The sight of John sent a chill and then a rush of
hot blood over him. He thought John looked at him keenly. But, indeed,
this was a mere illusion of conscience. John only glanced with
disapproval at the strange gentleman who had kept his master too late
for lunch.
And then Miss Ridley rose up, stately and fair, to receive him. Miss
Ridley! was that the little Mary who had been so kind to him in the
Vicarage at the nursery tea? He faltered, he felt, as he spoke to her,
and made her the same kind of lumpish bow as little Abel made when they
all laughed at him, all except Mary. But even in those days, when
everything in the new life was strange to him, Abel had not been so
dazzled by the little lady as he was now. Then she took his part; now
she beamed down serenely upon him, like the moon out of the sky. Perhaps
it was Miss Ridley's fault to be too stately; but when a girl is five
feet ten in height, how can she help being stately?--it is so much the
worse for her if she is not so. She had beautiful hair in great
quantity, blue eyes, a Saxon beauty, in all the milk and roses peculiar
to that complexion. Her features, perhaps, would not bear so close an
inspection; but her smile was as bright as a sunny morning, and warmed
and lighted up everything. "A daughter of the gods divinely tall, and
most divinely fair." It was his arm she took to go down-stairs. He was
the stranger, and a stranger of distinction, much more important than
young Charley Landale, whom they had all known from his cradle. And John
standing by said nothing. John did not interfere. He did not break in
upon the talk of the gentlefolks, to say, in his gruff voice, "Please,
squire, that's little Abel Murray down from the fells. I know him well.
He's as stubborn as a brute beast, but his mother's a decent woman."
None of these things happened or were said. Abel was permitted, on the
contrary, to walk majestically down-stairs, as if he had been the best
man in the county, with Mary Ridley's white hand upon his coat sleeve.
"I hope you have not been tired out with papa's treasures," she said.
"You must forgive him, it is not often he has such a chance. We are one
more ignorant that the other, my brother and I."
"That I cannot give my faith to as I should to anything else you might
say," said Abel, with a little warmth which went beyond the calm of
good-breeding. He had got his conversation chiefly from books, and was a
little more formal in his talk than is common in this free and easy
period. Miss Ridley was greatly surprised, but half amused too.
"And stupid as well as ignorant," she said. "Do you think it would be
wrong to pretend to be interested? I was brought up in the way of deadly
sincerity; but I sometimes think now that it is hard upon papa."
"You must have learned to pretend very skilfully, if you pretend to
be--what you said," said Abel, venturing at the same time to look the
compliment, which he thus dared to utter. Miss Ridley was more and more
amused; but he added, "To me it is all enjoyment. This beautiful old
house, and Mr Ridley's kindness, and----"
What had he been about to say? Mary decided that this young man, who was
so grateful for her father's kindness, and so delighted with everything,
including herself, was the Oxford recluse in person, who is to be heard
of now and then--that grave young owl, whose perch among the cloisters
has kept him unacquainted with ordinary mortals and affairs. And there
was a certain truth in this supposition. Abel, even in places where he
was at ease, never had the ease common to his generation. He was
constantly conscious that there was no real affinity between him and
those about him; and though he might perhaps hardly have recognised his
family had he seen them, they were perpetually apparent to him when he
was in "society," pursuing him with thoughts of the effect which would
be produced by their sudden appearance anywhere. He had a kind of
inkling all the time that, if he had the courage to acknowledge and
speak of them, this painful consciousness would disappear; but he knew
he had not the courage. He talked to Mary all the time of luncheon in
the same exalted tone, she replying little, but by degrees finding that
air of deference not disagreeable. Miss Ridley was not clever, and her
betrothed husband was aware of the fact, and did not perhaps conceal it
so carefully as he might have done. But there is nobody who is not
pleased, in the long run, by having great qualities imputed to him. It
is the finest form of flattery. Abel took it for granted that this
country lady in her remote corner of the world knew everything that was
moving the general mind of the country, and spoke to her of books, and
pictures, and society, and politics. A member of a special society, even
if he is less distinguished than Abel was, has means of glimpsing
general society of a much higher order than his own. He had met all
kinds of people, whose names are spread to all the winds. Miss Ridley
felt as if she had made an excursion into the world, while she sat at
the head of the table and ate her chicken. It pleased her to hear of
statesmen and poets, and so many notable persons. She asked about their
looks, and their ways of living; and she thought Mr Murray very
interesting, though his manners were perhaps, a little, those of the old
world.
After lunch the squire himself exhibited the chapel, which was falling
somewhat out of repair and the younger people went out to see that part
of the Castle that was in ruins. The ruined front included a tower,
which Abel remembered well it had been one of the feats of his boyhood
to climb. But the Ridleys shook their heads when he asked if they could
go up.
"Not for the world," said Mary, turning pale; but though Roger agreed
with her at first, he changed his mind the next moment.
"I don't see why we should not," he said. "All the little ragamuffins in
the neighbourhood used to do it when I was a boy. Have you a steady
head, Murray? Are you used to climbing?"
"Don't, Roger!" said his sister; "papa will not like it. Oh, don't!"
"Why shouldn't I? Charley can stay and take care of you."
"That I will," said young Landale; "while you break your necks we will
run on to the village, and see that the doctor is handy. That will be
the most friendly thing to do."
"Mr Murray, pray don't go," said Mary. "I am so much afraid it is
dangerous; and Roger is so venturesome."
"Be sure you groan as loud as ever you can," said flippant Charley, "so
that we may know where to find you when you fall."
"Come along," said Roger. As for Abel, he had no sort of nervous
feeling; he knew exactly how to climb, and which were the dangerous
places. When they came to one of these, Roger, who preceded him, called
him to follow upon an arch of crumbling masonry, which looked sure
enough from below. "When we get over this we are in safety," he said;
"so take care, cross it gingerly, as I am responsible for you."
"Not that way," cried Abel. "Stop, stop, not there! That will not bear
your weight. Ridley!" he shouted in growing excitement, "stop! I tell
you this is the way."
"Come on!" cried Roger, gaily. Then there was a sound of sliding, and a
cloud of dust and a cry. The cry was from Mary outside, looking on with
fear and trembling, and seeing her brother disappear. She gave a wild
shriek, such as half enervated and half inspired Abel, who had sprung
with the instinct of the moment to the spot which he knew to be
trustworthy, and standing there, supported by an angle of the wall, had
already caught Roger before he could fall far. But the crushing impetus
with which Roger fell against him, and the fright and the excitement
together, were too much for Abel, already suffering from the long strain
of suppressed feeling. He laughed loud and wildly,--a laugh that seemed
to the terrified spectators below to have the scream of madness in it.
"I told you this was the way," he cried, laughing, but panting for
breath.
Mary Ridley ran screaming towards the house, then came back again as
John and the other servants rushed out. She ran back to the half-ruined
staircase by which the path began, wringing her hands in despair. Abel's
laughter was still pealing out unrestrained, making the whole incident
horrible.
"Oh, make him stop! make him stop!" she cried, putting her hands to her
ears. "Roger is killed, and the other has gone mad! Oh, make him stop,
make him stop!"