Another month had passed, and the end of August had nearly
come, when Mr Haredale stood alone in the mail-coach office at Bristol. Although
but a few weeks had intervened since his conversation with Edward Chester and
his niece, in the locksmith's house, and he had made no change, in the mean
time, in his accustomed style of dress, his appearance was greatly altered. He
looked much older, and more care-worn. Agitation and anxiety of mind scatter
wrinkles and grey hairs with no unsparing hand; but deeper traces follow on the
silent uprooting of old habits, and severing of dear, familiar ties. The
affections may not be so easily wounded as the passions, but their hurts are
deeper, and more lasting. He was now a solitary man, and the heart within him
was dreary and lonesome.
He was not the less alone for having spent so many years in seclusion and
retirement. This was no better preparation than a round of social cheerfulness:
perhaps it even increased the keenness of his sensibility. He had been so
dependent upon her for companionship and love; she had come to be so much a part
and parcel of his existence; they had had so many cares and thoughts in common,
which no one else had shared; that losing her was beginning life anew, and being
required to summon up the hope and elasticity of youth, amid the doubts,
distrusts, and weakened energies of age.
The effort he had made to part from her with seeming cheerfulness and
hope--and they had parted only yesterday--left him the more depressed. With
these feelings, he was about to revisit London for the last time, and look once
more upon the walls of their old home, before turning his back upon it, for
ever.
The journey was a very different one, in those days, from what the present
generation find it; but it came to an end, as the longest journey will, and he
stood again in the streets of the metropolis. He lay at the inn where the coach
stopped, and resolved, before he went to bed, that he would make his arrival
known to no one; would spend but another night in London; and would spare
himself the pang of parting, even with the honest locksmith.
Such conditions of the mind as that to which he was a prey when he lay down
to rest, are favourable to the growth of disordered fancies, and uneasy visions.
He knew this, even in the horror with which he started from his first sleep, and
threw up the window to dispel it by the presence of some object, beyond the
room, which had not been, as it were, the witness of his dream. But it was not a
new terror of the night; it had been present to him before, in many shapes; it
had haunted him in bygone times, and visited his pillow again and again. If it
had been but an ugly object, a childish spectre, haunting his sleep, its return,
in its old form, might have awakened a momentary sensation of fear, which,
almost in the act of waking, would have passed away. This disquiet, however,
lingered about him, and would yield to nothing. When he closed his eyes again,
he felt it hovering near; as he slowly sunk into a slumber, he was conscious of
its gathering strength and purpose, and gradually assuming its recent shape;
when he sprang up from his bed, the same phantom vanished from his heated brain,
and left him filled with a dread against which reason and waking thought were
powerless.
The sun was up, before he could shake it off. He rose late, but not
refreshed, and remained within doors all that day. He had a fancy for paying his
last visit to the old spot in the evening, for he had been accustomed to walk
there at that season, and desired to see it under the aspect that was most
familiar to him. At such an hour as would afford him time to reach it a little
before sunset, he left the inn, and turned into the busy street.
He had not gone far, and was thoughtfully making his way among the noisy
crowd, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder, and, turning, recognised one of
the waiters from the inn, who begged his pardon, but he had left his sword
behind him.
'Why have you brought it to me?' he asked, stretching out his hand, and yet
not taking it from the man, but looking at him in a disturbed and agitated
manner.
The man was sorry to have disobliged him, and would carry it back again. The
gentleman had said that he was going a little way into the country, and that he
might not return until late. The roads were not very safe for single travellers
after dark; and, since the riots, gentlemen had been more careful than ever, not
to trust themselves unarmed in lonely places. 'We thought you were a stranger,
sir,' he added, 'and that you might believe our roads to be better than they
are; but perhaps you know them well, and carry fire-arms--'
He took the sword, and putting it up at his side, thanked the man, and
resumed his walk.
It was long remembered that he did this in a manner so strange, and with such
a trembling hand, that the messenger stood looking after his retreating figure,
doubtful whether he ought not to follow, and watch him. It was long remembered
that he had been heard pacing his bedroom in the dead of the night; that the
attendants had mentioned to each other in the morning, how fevered and how pale
he looked; and that when this man went back to the inn, he told a fellow-servant
that what he had observed in this short interview lay very heavy on his mind,
and that he feared the gentleman intended to destroy himself, and would never
come back alive.
With a half-consciousness that his manner had attracted the man's attention
(remembering the expression of his face when they parted), Mr Haredale quickened
his steps; and arriving at a stand of coaches, bargained with the driver of the
best to carry him so far on his road as the point where the footway struck
across the fields, and to await his return at a house of entertainment which was
within a stone's-throw of that place. Arriving there in due course, he alighted
and pursued his way on foot.
He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke rising from among
the trees, while a flock of pigeons--some of its old inhabitants,
doubtless--sailed gaily home to roost, between him and the unclouded sky. 'The
old house will brighten up now,' he said, as he looked towards it, 'and there
will be a merry fireside beneath its ivied roof. It is some comfort to know that
everything will not be blighted hereabouts. I shall be glad to have one picture
of life and cheerfulness to turn to, in my mind!'
He resumed his walk, and bent his steps towards the Warren. It was a clear,
calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stir the leaves, or any
sound to break the stillness of the time, but drowsy sheep-bells tinkling in the
distance, and, at intervals, the far-off lowing of cattle, or bark of village
dogs. The sky was radiant with the softened glory of sunset; and on the earth,
and in the air, a deep repose prevailed. At such an hour, he arrived at the
deserted mansion which had been his home so long, and looked for the last time
upon its blackened walls.
The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in them there is
an image of death and ruin,--of something that has been bright, and is but dull,
cold, dreary dust,--with which our nature forces us to sympathise. How much more
sad the crumbled embers of a home: the casting down of that great altar, where
the worst among us sometimes perform the worship of the heart; and where the
best have offered up such sacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism, as,
chronicled, would put the proudest temples of old Time, with all their vaunting
annals, to the blush!
He roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked slowly round
the house. It was by this time almost dark.
He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered a
half-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining, in an easy
attitude, with his back against a tree, and contemplating the ruin with an
expression of pleasure,--a pleasure so keen that it overcame his habitual
indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly free from all
restraint or reserve,--before him, on his own ground, and triumphing then, as he
had triumphed in every misfortune and disappointment of his life, stood the man
whose presence, of all mankind, in any place, and least of all in that, he could
the least endure.
Although his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath so stirred within
him, that he could have struck him dead, he put such fierce constraint upon
himself that he passed him without a word or look. Yes, and he would have gone
on, and not turned, though to resist the Devil who poured such hot temptation in
his brain, required an effort scarcely to be achieved, if this man had not
himself summoned him to stop: and that, with an assumed compassion in his voice
which drove him well-nigh mad, and in an instant routed all the self-command it
had been anguish--acute, poignant anguish--to sustain.
All consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance; everything by which a
goaded man can curb his rage and passion; fled from him as he turned back. And
yet he said, slowly and quite calmly--far more calmly than he had ever spoken to
him before:
'Why have you called to me?'
'To remark,' said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, 'what an odd
chance it is, that we should meet here!'
'It IS a strange chance.'
'Strange? The most remarkable and singular thing in the world. I never ride
in the evening; I have not done so for years. The whim seized me, quite
unaccountably, in the middle of last night.--How very picturesque this is!'--He
pointed, as he spoke, to the dismantled house, and raised his glass to his eye.
'You praise your own work very freely.'
Sir John let fall his glass; inclined his face towards him with an air of the
most courteous inquiry; and slightly shook his head as though he were remarking
to himself, 'I fear this animal is going mad!'
'I say you praise your own work very freely,' repeated Mr Haredale.
'Work!' echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. 'Mine!--I beg your pardon,
I really beg your pardon--'
'Why, you see,' said Mr Haredale, 'those walls. You see those tottering
gables. You see on every side where fire and smoke have raged. You see the
destruction that has been wanton here. Do you not?'
'My good friend,' returned the knight, gently checking his impatience with
his hand, 'of course I do. I see everything you speak of, when you stand aside,
and do not interpose yourself between the view and me. I am very sorry for you.
If I had not had the pleasure to meet you here, I think I should have written to
tell you so. But you don't bear it as well as I had expected-- excuse me--no,
you don't indeed.'
He pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing him with the superior air of a
man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a right to read a moral lesson to
another, continued:
'For you are a philosopher, you know--one of that stern and rigid school who
are far above the weaknesses of mankind in general. You are removed, a long way,
from the frailties of the crowd. You contemplate them from a height, and rail at
them with a most impressive bitterness. I have heard you.'
--'And shall again,' said Mr Haredale.
'Thank you,' returned the other. 'Shall we walk as we talk? The damp falls
rather heavily. Well,--as you please. But I grieve to say that I can spare you
only a very few moments.'
'I would,' said Mr Haredale, 'you had spared me none. I would, with all my
soul, you had been in Paradise (if such a monstrous lie could be enacted),
rather than here to-night.'
'Nay,' returned the other--'really--you do yourself injustice. You are a
rough companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you.'
'Listen to me,' said Mr Haredale. 'Listen to me.'
'While you rail?' inquired Sir John.
'While I deliver your infamy. You urged and stimulated to do your work a fit
agent, but one who in his nature--in the very essence of his being--is a
traitor, and who has been false to you (despite the sympathy you two should have
together) as he has been to all others. With hints, and looks, and crafty words,
which told again are nothing, you set on Gashford to this work--this work before
us now. With these same hints, and looks, and crafty words, which told again are
nothing, you urged him on to gratify the deadly hate he owes me--I have earned
it, I thank Heaven--by the abduction and dishonour of my niece. You did. I see
denial in your looks,' he cried, abruptly pointing in his face, and stepping
back, 'and denial is a lie!'
He had his hand upon his sword; but the knight, with a contemptuous smile,
replied to him as coldly as before.
'You will take notice, sir--if you can discriminate sufficiently-- that I
have taken the trouble to deny nothing. Your discernment is hardly fine enough
for the perusal of faces, not of a kind as coarse as your speech; nor has it
ever been, that I remember; or, in one face that I could name, you would have
read indifference, not to say disgust, somewhat sooner than you did. I speak of
a long time ago,--but you understand me.'
'Disguise it as you will, you mean denial. Denial explicit or reserved,
expressed or left to be inferred, is still a lie. You say you don't deny. Do you
admit?'
'You yourself,' returned Sir John, suffering the current of his speech to
flow as smoothly as if it had been stemmed by no one word of interruption,
'publicly proclaimed the character of the gentleman in question (I think it was
in Westminster Hall) in terms which relieve me from the necessity of making any
further allusion to him. You may have been warranted; you may not have been; I
can't say. Assuming the gentleman to be what you described, and to have made to
you or any other person any statements that may have happened to suggest
themselves to him, for the sake of his own security, or for the sake of money,
or for his own amusement, or for any other consideration,--I have nothing to say
of him, except that his extremely degrading situation appears to me to be shared
with his employers. You are so very plain yourself, that you will excuse a
little freedom in me, I am sure.'
'Attend to me again, Sir John but once,' cried Mr Haredale; 'in your every
look, and word, and gesture, you tell me this was not your act. I tell you that
it was, and that you tampered with the man I speak of, and with your wretched
son (whom God forgive!) to do this deed. You talk of degradation and character.
You told me once that you had purchased the absence of the poor idiot and his
mother, when (as I have discovered since, and then suspected) you had gone to
tempt them, and had found them flown. To you I traced the insinuation that I
alone reaped any harvest from my brother's death; and all the foul attacks and
whispered calumnies that followed in its train. In every action of my life, from
that first hope which you converted into grief and desolation, you have stood,
like an adverse fate, between me and peace. In all, you have ever been the same
cold-blooded, hollow, false, unworthy villain. For the second time, and for the
last, I cast these charges in your teeth, and spurn you from me as I would a
faithless dog!'
With that he raised his arm, and struck him on the breast so that he
staggered. Sir John, the instant he recovered, drew his sword, threw away the
scabbard and his hat, and running on his adversary made a desperate lunge at his
heart, which, but that his guard was quick and true, would have stretched him
dead upon the grass.
In the act of striking him, the torrent of his opponent's rage had reached a
stop. He parried his rapid thrusts, without returning them, and called to him,
with a frantic kind of terror in his face, to keep back.
'Not to-night! not to-night!' he cried. 'In God's name, not tonight!'
Seeing that he lowered his weapon, and that he would not thrust in turn, Sir
John lowered his.
'Not to-night!' his adversary cried. 'Be warned in time!'
'You told me--it must have been in a sort of inspiration--' said Sir John,
quite deliberately, though now he dropped his mask, and showed his hatred in his
face, 'that this was the last time. Be assured it is! Did you believe our last
meeting was forgotten? Did you believe that your every word and look was not to
be accounted for, and was not well remembered? Do you believe that I have waited
your time, or you mine? What kind of man is he who entered, with all his
sickening cant of honesty and truth, into a bond with me to prevent a marriage
he affected to dislike, and when I had redeemed my part to the spirit and the
letter, skulked from his, and brought the match about in his own time, to rid
himself of a burden he had grown tired of, and cast a spurious lustre on his
house?'
'I have acted,' cried Mr Haredale, 'with honour and in good faith. I do so
now. Do not force me to renew this duel to-night!'
'You said my "wretched" son, I think?' said Sir John, with a smile. 'Poor
fool! The dupe of such a shallow knave--trapped into marriage by such an uncle
and by such a niece--he well deserves your pity. But he is no longer a son of
mine: you are welcome to the prize your craft has made, sir.'
'Once more,' cried his opponent, wildly stamping on the ground, 'although you
tear me from my better angel, I implore you not to come within the reach of my
sword to-night. Oh! why were you here at all! Why have we met! To-morrow would
have cast us far apart for ever!'
'That being the case,' returned Sir John, without the least emotion, 'it is
very fortunate we have met to-night. Haredale, I have always despised you, as
you know, but I have given you credit for a species of brute courage. For the
honour of my judgment, which I had thought a good one, I am sorry to find you a
coward.'
Not another word was spoken on either side. They crossed swords, though it
was now quite dusk, and attacked each other fiercely. They were well matched,
and each was thoroughly skilled in the management of his weapon.
After a few seconds they grew hotter and more furious, and pressing on each
other inflicted and received several slight wounds. It was directly after
receiving one of these in his arm, that Mr Haredale, making a keener thrust as
he felt the warm blood spirting out, plunged his sword through his opponent's
body to the hilt.
Their eyes met, and were on each other as he drew it out. He put his arm
about the dying man, who repulsed him, feebly, and dropped upon the turf.
Raising himself upon his hands, he gazed at him for an instant, with scorn and
hatred in his look; but, seeming to remember, even then, that this expression
would distort his features after death, he tried to smile, and, faintly moving
his right hand, as if to hide his bloody linen in his vest, fell back dead--the
phantom of last night.
|