Marion Fay: A Novel

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XIV.

  MR. GREENWOOD'S FEELINGS.

  On that Wednesday night Mr. Greenwood did not sleep much. It may bedoubted whether he once closed his eyes in slumber. He had indeedbeen saved from the performance of an act which now seemed to himto be so terrible that he could hardly believe that he had in truthcontemplated it; but yet he knew,--he knew that it for some hours hadbeen the purpose of his mind to do it! He struggled to make himselfbelieve that it had in truth been no more than a speculation, thatthere had been no formed purpose, that he had only amused himself byconsidering how he could do such a deed without detection, if thedeed were to be done. He had simply been thinking over the blundersof others, the blindness of men who had so bungled in their businessas to have left easy traces for the eyes and intelligence of theworld outside, and had been assuring himself how much better he couldmanage if the necessity of such an operation were to come upon him.That was all. No doubt he hated Lord Hampstead,--and had cause todo so. It was thus that he argued with himself. But his hatred hadsurely not carried him to the intention of murder!

  There could have been no question of real murder; for why should hehave troubled himself either with the danger or with the load whichit would certainly have imposed on his conscience? Much as he hatedLord Hampstead, it was no business of his. It was that Lady Macbethup-stairs, the mother of the darlings, who had really thought ofmurder. It was she who had spoken openly of her great desire thatLord Hampstead should cease to live. Had there been any real questionof murder it would have been for her to meditate, for her to think,for her to plot;--surely not for him! Certainly, certainly he hadcontemplated no such deed as that, with the object of obtainingfor the comfort of his old age the enjoyment of the living ofAppleslocombe! He told himself now that had he in truth committedsuch a crime, had he carried out the plot which had formed itself inhis brain only as a matter of speculation, though he might not havebeen detected, yet he would have been suspected; and suspicion wouldhave been as destructive to his hopes as detection. Of course allthat had been clear enough to him throughout his machinations; andtherefore how could he really have intended it? He had not intendedit. It had only been one of those castles in the air which theold build as well as the young,--which are no more than the "airyfabrics" of the brain!

  It was thus he struggled to drive from his mind and from his eyesthe phantom of the terrible deed. But that he did not succeed wasmade evident to himself by the hot clammy drops of sweat which cameout upon his brow, by his wakefulness throughout the livelong night,by the carefulness with which his ears watched for the sound of theyoung man's coming, as though it were necessary that he should bemade assured that the murder had in truth not been done. Before thathour had come he found himself to be shaking even in his bed; to bedrawing the clothes around him to dispel the icy cold, though thesweat still stood upon his brow; to be hiding his eyes under thebed-clothes in order that he might not see something which seemed tobe visible to him through the utmost darkness of the chamber. At anyrate he had done nothing! Let his thoughts have been what they might,he had soiled neither his hands nor his conscience. Though everythingthat he had ever done or ever thought were known, he was free fromall actual crime. She had talked of death and thought of murder. Hehad only echoed her words and her thoughts, meaning nothing,--asa man is bound to do to a woman. Why then could he not sleep? Whyshould he be hot and shiver with cold by turns? Why should horridphantoms perplex him in the dark? He was sure he had never meant it.What must be the agony of those who do mean, of those who do execute,if such punishment as this were awarded to one who had done nomore than build a horrid castle in the air? Did she sleep;--hewondered,--she who had certainly done more than build a castle in theair; she who had wished and longed, and had a reason for her wishingand her longing?

  At last he heard a footfall on the road, which passed but some fewyards distant from his window, a quick, cheery, almost runningfootfall, a step full of youth and life, sounding crisp on the hardfrozen ground; and he knew that the young man whom he hated hadcome. Though he had never thought of murdering him,--as he toldhimself,--yet he hated him. And then his thoughts, although inopposition to his own wishes,--which were intent upon sleep, if sleepwould only come to him,--ran away to the building of other castles.How would it have been now, now at this moment, if that plan, whichhe had never really intended to carry out, which had only been aspeculation, had been a true plan and been truly executed? How wouldit have been with them all now at Trafford Park? The Marchionesswould have been at any rate altogether satisfied;--but what comfortwould there have been in that to him? Lord Frederic would have beenthe heir to a grand title and to vast estates;--but how would he havebeen the better for that? The old lord who was lying there so sick inthe next room might probably have sunk into his grave with a brokenheart. The Marquis had of late been harsh to him; but there did cometo him an idea at the present moment that he had for thirty yearseaten the sick man's bread. And the young man would have been sentwithout a moment's notice to meet his final doom! Of what naturethat might have been, the wretched man lying there did not dare evento make a picture in his imagination. It was a matter which he hadsedulously and successfully dismissed from all his thoughts. It wasof the body lying out there in the cold, not of the journey whichthe winged soul might make, that he unwillingly drew a picture tohimself. He conceived how he himself, in the prosecution of the planwhich he had formed, would have been forced to have awakened thehouse, and to tell of the deed, and to assist in carrying the body towhat resting-place might have been found for it. There he would havehad to enact a part of which he had, a few hours since, told himselfthat he would be capable, but in attempting which he was now surethat he would have succumbed to the difficulties of the struggle. Whowould have broken the news to the father? Who would have attemptedto speak the first word of vain consolation? Who would have flown tothe lady's door up-stairs and have informed her that death was inthe house--and have given her to understand that the eldest of herdarlings was the heir? It would have been for him to do it all; forhim with a spirit weighed down to the ground by that terrible burdenwith which the doing of such a deed would have loaded it. He wouldcertainly have revealed himself in the struggle!

  But why should he allow his mind to be perplexed with such thoughts?No such deed had been done. There had been no murder. The young manwas there now in the house, light-hearted after his walk; full oflife and youthful energy. Why should he be troubled with such wakingdreams as these? Must it be so with him always, for the rest of hislife, only because he had considered how a thing might best be done?He heard a footstep in a distant passage, and a door closed, and thenagain all was silent. Was there not cause to him for joy in the youngman's presence? If his speculations had been wicked, was there nottime to turn for repentance,--for repentance, though there was solittle for which repentance were needed? Nevertheless the night wasto him so long, and the misery connected with the Trafford name sogreat, that he told himself that he would quit the place as soon aspossible. He would take whatever money were offered to him and go.How would it have been with him had he really done the deed, whenhe found himself unable to sleep in the house in which he would notquite admit to himself that he had even contemplated it?

  On the next morning his breakfast was brought to him in his ownroom, and he inquired from the servant after Lord Hampstead and hispurposes. The servant thought that his lordship meant to remain onthat day and the next. So he had heard Harris, the butler, say. Hislordship was to see his father at eleven o'clock that morning. Thehousehold bulletin respecting the Marquis had that morning beenrather more favourable than usual. The Marchioness had not yet beenseen. The doctor would probably be there by twelve. This was the newswhich Mr. Greenwood got from the servant who waited upon him. Couldhe not escape from the house during the period that the young lordwould be there, without seeing the young lord? The young lord washateful to him--more hateful than ever. He would, if possible, gethimself carried into Shrewsbury, and remain there on some
excuse ofvisiting a friend till the young lord should have returned to London.He could not tell himself why, but he felt that the sight of theyoung lord would be oppressive to him.

  But in this he was prevented by an intimation that was given to himearly in the day, before he had made preparations for his going, thatLord Hampstead wished to see him, and would wait upon him in hisown room. The Marquis had expressed himself grateful to his son forcoming, but did not wish to detain him at Trafford. "Of course it isvery dull for you, and I think I am better."

  "I am so glad of that;--but if you think that I am of any comfort toyou I shall be delighted to stay. I suppose Fanny would come down ifI remain here."

  Then the Marquis shook his head. Fanny, he thought, had betterbe away. "The Marchioness and Fanny would not be happy in thehouse together,--unless, indeed, she has given up that young man."Hampstead could not say that she had given up the young man. "I dohope she never sees him," said the Marquis. Then his son assured himthat the two had never met since Fanny had gone to Hendon Hall. Andhe was rash enough to assure his father that there would be no suchmeeting while his sister was his guest. At that moment George Rodenwas standing in the drawing-room at Hendon Hall with Lady Frances inhis arms.

  After that there arose a conversation between the father and son asto Mr. Greenwood. The Marquis was very desirous that the man who hadbecome so objectionable to him should quit the house. "The truth is,"said the Marquis, "that it is he who makes all the mischief betweenme and your stepmother. It is he that makes me ill. I have no comfortwhile he is here, making plots against me." If they two had onlyknown the plot which had been made! Hampstead thought it reasonablethat the man should be sent away, if only because his presence wasdisagreeable. Why should a man be kept in the house simply to produceannoyance? But there must be the question of compensation. He didnot think that L1000 was sufficient. Then the Marquis was unusuallydifficult of persuasion in regard to money. Hampstead thought thatan annuity of L300 a year should be settled on the poor clergyman.The Marquis would not hear of it. The man had not performed even theslight duties which had been required of him. The books had not evenbeen catalogued. To bribe a man, such as that, by L300 a year formaking himself disagreeable would be intolerable. The Marquis hadnever promised him anything. He ought to have saved his money. Atlast the father and son came to terms, and Hampstead sent to preparea meeting with the chaplain.

  Mr. Greenwood was standing in the middle of the room when LordHampstead entered it, rubbing his fat hands together. Hampstead sawno difference in the man since their last meeting, but there was adifference. Mr. Greenwood's manner was at first more submissive, asthough he were afraid of his visitor; but before the interview wasover he had recovered his audacity. "My father has wished me to seeyou," said Hampstead. Mr. Greenwood went on rubbing his hands, stillstanding in the middle of the room. "He seems to think it better thatyou should leave him."

  "I don't know why he should think it better;--but, of course, I willgo if he bids me." Mr. Greenwood had quite made up his mind that itwould be better for him also that he should go.

  "There will be no good in going into that. I think we might as wellsit down, Mr. Greenwood." They did sit down, the chaplain as usualperching himself on the edge of a chair. "You have been here a greatmany years."

  "A great many, Lord Hampstead;--nearly all my life;--before you wereborn, Lord Hampstead." Then, as he sat gazing, there came before hiseyes the phantom of Lord Hampstead being carried into the house asa corpse while he himself was struggling beneath a portion of theweight.

  "Just so; and though the Marquis cannot admit that there is any claimupon him--"

  "No claim, Lord Hampstead!"

  "Certainly no claim. Yet he is quite willing to do something inacknowledgment of the long connection. His lordship thinks that anannuity of L200 a year--." Mr. Greenwood shook his head, as though hewould say that that certainly would not satisfy him. Hampstead hadbeen eager to secure the full L300 for the wretched, useless man,but the Marquis had declared that he would not burden the estatewith a charge so unnecessarily large. "I say," continued Hampstead,frowning, "that his lordship has desired me to say that you shallreceive during your life an annuity of L200." It certainly was thefact that Lord Hampstead could frown when he was displeased, and thatat such moments he would assume a look of aristocratic impatiencewhich was at variance with his professed political theories. Mr.Greenwood again shook his head. "I do not think that I need sayanything farther," continued the young lord. "That is my father'sdecision. He presumes that you would prefer the annuity to theimmediate payment of a thousand pounds." Here the shaking of thehead became more violent. "I have only in addition to ask you whenit will suit you to leave Trafford Park." Lord Hampstead, when hehad left his father, had determined to use his blandest manner incommunicating these tidings to the chaplain. But Mr. Greenwood wasodious to him. The way in which the man stood on the floor and rubbedhis hands together, and sat on the edge of his chair, and shook hishead without speaking a word, were disgusting to him. If the man haddeclared boldly his own view of what was due to him, Hampstead wouldhave endeavoured to be gracious to him. As it was he was anything butgracious, as he asked the chaplain to name the day on which he wouldbe prepared to leave the house.

  "You mean to say that I am to be--turned out."

  "It is some months since you were told that my father no longerrequired your services."

  "I am to be turned out,--like a dog,--after thirty years!"

  "I cannot contradict you when you say so, but I must ask you to namea day. It is not as though the suggestion were now made to you forthe first time." Mr. Greenwood got up from the edge of the chair, andagain stood in the middle of the room. Lord Hampstead felt himselfconstrained also to stand. "Have you any answer to make to me?"

  "No; I have not," said the chaplain.

  "You mean that you have not fixed upon a day?"

  "I shan't go with L200 a year," said the chaplain. "It'sunreasonable; it's brutal!"

  "Brutal!" shouted Lord Hampstead.

  "I shan't stir till I've seen the Marquis himself. It's out ofthe question that he should turn me out in this way. How am I tolive upon L200 a year? I always understood that I was to haveAppleslocombe."

  "No such promise was ever made to you," said Lord Hampstead, veryangrily. "No hint of such a thing has ever been made except byyourself."

  "I always understood it," said Mr. Greenwood. "And I shall not leavethis till I've had an opportunity of discussing the matter with theMarquis himself. I don't think the Marquis would ever have treated mein this way,--only for you, Lord Hampstead."

  This was intolerable. What was he to do with the abominable man?It would be very disagreeable, the task of turning him out whilethe Marquis was still so ill, and yet it was not to be endured thatsuch a man should be allowed to hold his position in the house inopposition to the will of the owner. It was, he felt, beneath him todefend himself against the charge made--or even to defend his father."If you will not name a day, I must," said the young lord. The manremained immovable on his seat except that he continued to rub hishands. "As I can get no answer I shall have to instruct Mr. Robertsthat you cannot be allowed to remain here after the last day of themonth. If you have any feeling left to you you will not impose uponus so unpleasant a duty while my father is ill." With this he leftthe room, while Mr. Greenwood was still standing and rubbing hishands.

  Two hundred pounds a year! He had better go and take it. He was quiteaware of that. But how was he to live upon L200,--he who had beenbedded and boarded all his life at the expense of another man, andhad also spent L300? But at the moment this was not the thoughtuppermost in his mind. Would it not have been better that he shouldhave carried out that project of his? Only that he had been merciful,this young lord would not have been able to scorn him and ill-treathim as he had done. There were no phantoms now. Now he thought thathe could have carried his share of the corpse into the house withoutflinching.