“That’s one thing,” murmured Charles, with a great sigh. “I’m a heartbroken man, Harry.”
“That’s easy mended. Don’t prosecute, that’s all. Get out o’ the country when you’re well enough, and they must let her go, and maybe the lesson won’t do her no great harm.”
“I’m glad I have you to talk to,” murmured Charles, with another great sigh. “I can’t get it out of my head. You’ll help me, Harry?”
“All I can— ‘taint much.”
“And, Harry, there’s a thing that troubles me.” He paused, it seemed, exhausted.
“Don’t mind it now, you’re tirin’ yourself. Drink a glass o’ this.”
And he filled the glass from which he had been drinking his port.
“No, I hate wine,” he answered. “No, no, by-and-by, perhaps.”
“You know best,” he acquiesced. “I suppose I must drink it myself,” which necessity he complied with accordingly. “I heard the news, you know, and I’d a come sooner but I’m taking an action next ‘sizes on a warranty about the grey filly against that d —— d rogue, Farmer Lundy, and had to be off t’other side o’ Wyvern wi’ the lawyer. ‘Taint easy to hold your own wi’ the cheatin’ chaps that’s going now, I can tell ye.”
“I’m no good to talk now, Harry. You’ll find me better next time, only, Harry, mind, remember, I mayn’t be long for this world, and — I give you my honour — I swear, in the presence of God, who’ll judge me, I never was married to Bertha. It’s a lie. I knew she’d give me trouble some day; but it’s a lie. Alice is my wife. I never had a wife but Alice, by G — Almighty! That other’s a lie. Don’t you know it’s a lie, Harry?”
“Don’t be botherin’ yourself about that now,” said Harry, coldly, with rather a sullen countenance, looking askance through the open space in the window shutter to the distant horizon. “Long heads, my lad, and lawyers lear for the quips and cranks o’ law. What should I know?”
“Harry, I know you love me; you won’t let wrong be believed,” said Charles Fairfield, in a voice suddenly stronger than he had spoken in before.
“I won’t let wrong be believed,” he answered coolly, perhaps sulkily; and he looked at him steadily for a little with his mouth sullenly open.
“You know, Harry,” he pleaded, “there’s a little child coming: it would not do to wrong it. Oh! Harry, don’t you love your poor, only brother.”
Harry looked as if he was going to say something saucy, but instead of that, he broke into a short laugh.
“Upon my soul, Charlie, a fellow’d think you took me for an affidavit-man. When did I ever tell now’t but the truth? Sich rot! A chap like me, that’s faulted always for bein’ too blunt and plain-spoken, and as for likin’, I’d like to know what else brings me here. Of course I don’t say I love anyone, all out, as well as Harry Fairfield. You’re my brother, and I stand by you according; but as I said before, I love my shirt very well, but I like my skin better. Hey! And that’s all fair.”
“All fair, Harry — I’ll — I’ll talk no more now, Harry. I’ll lie down for a little, and we’ll meet again.”
Harry was again looking through the space of the open shutter, and he yawned. He was thinking of taking his leave.
In this “brown study” he was interrupted by a sound. It was like the beginning of a little laugh. He looked at Charlie, who had uttered it; his thin hand was extended toward the little table at the bedside, and his long arm in its shirtsleeve. His eyes were open, but his face was changed. Harry had seen death often enough to recognise it. With a dreadful start, he was on his feet, and had seized his brother by the shoulder.
“Charlie, man, — Charlie! look at me — my God!” and he seized the brandy bottle and poured ever so much into the open lips. It flowed over from the corners of the mouth, over cheek and chin; the throat swallowed not; the eyes stared their earnest stare, unchanging into immeasurable distance. Charles Fairfield was among the Fairfields of other times; hope and fear, the troubles and the dream, ended.
CHAPTER III.
HOME TO WYVERN.
When a sick man dies he leaves his bed and his physic. His best friend asks him not to stay, and sweetheart and kindred concur in putting him out of doors, to lie in a bed of clay, under the sky, come frost, or storm, or rain; a dumb outcast from fireside, tankard, and even the talk of others.
Tall Charles Fairfield, of the blue eyes, was, in due course, robed in his strange white suit, boxed up and screwed down, with a plated inscription over his cold breast, recounting his Christian and surnames, and the tale of his years.
If from that serene slumber, he could have been called again, the loud and exceeding bitter cry, the wild farewell of his poor little Ally, would have wakened him; but her loving Ry, her hero, slept on, with the unearthly light on his face till the coffin-lid hid it, and in the morning the athlete passed downstairs on men’s shoulders, and was slid reverently into a hearse, and went away to old Wyvern churchyard.
At ten o’clock in the morning, Charlie Fairfield was on the ground. Was old Squire Harry there to meet his son, and follow his coffin to the aisle of the ancient little church, and thence to his place in the churchyard?
Not he.
“Serve him right,” said the Squire, when he heard it. “I’m d —— d if he’ll lie in our vault; let him go to Parson Maybell, yonder, under the trees; I’ll not have him.”
So Charles Fairfield is buried there under the drip of those melancholy old trees, close by the gentle vicar and his good and pretty wife, over whom the grass has grown long, and the leaves of twenty summers have bloomed and fallen, and whose forlorn and beautiful little child was to be his bride, and is now his widow.
Harry Fairfield was there, with the undertaker’s black cloak over his well-knit Fairfield shoulders. He nodded to this friend and that in the crowd, gruffly. His face was lowering with thought, his eyes cast down, and sometimes raised in an abstracted glare to the face of some unobserved bystander for a few moments. Conspicuous above other uncovered heads was his. The tall stature, and statuesque proportions of his race would have marked him without the black mantle for the kinsman of the dead Fairfield.
Up to Wyvern House, after the funeral was over, went Harry. The old man, his hat in his hand, was bareheaded, on the steps; as he approached he nodded to his last remaining son. Three were gone now. A faint sunlight glinted on his old features; a chill northern air stirred his white locks. A gloomy, but noble image of winter the gaunt old man presented.
“Well, that’s over; there’s the lad buried?”
“Just where you wished, sir, near Vicar Maybell’s grave, under the trees.”
The old Squire grunted an assent.
“The neighbours was there, I dare say?”
“Yes, sir, all — I think.”
“I shouldn’t wonder — they liked Charlie — they did. He’s buried up there alone — well, he deserved it. Was Dobbs there, from Craybourne? He was good to Dobbs. He gave that fellow twenty pun’ once, like a big fool, when Dobbs was druv to the wall, the time he lost his cattle; he was there?”
“Yes, I saw Dobbs there, sir, he was crying.”
“More fool Dobbs — more fool he,” said the Squire, and then came a short pause; “cryin’ was he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s a big fool — Dobbs is a fool.”
“A man cryin’ always looks a fool, the rum faces they makes when they’re blubbin’,” observed Harry. “Some o’ the Wykeford folk was there — Rodney was at his funeral.”
“Rodney? He didn’t like a bone in his skin. Rodney’s a bad dog. What brought Rodney to my son’s funeral?”
“He’s took up wi’ them preachin’ folk at Wykeford, I’m told, and he came down, I ‘spose, to show the swaddlers what a forgivin’, charitable chap he is. Before he put on his hat, he come over and put out his hand to me.”
“And ye took it! ye know ye took it.”
“Well, the folk was lookin’ on, and he took me so sho
rt,” said Harry.
“Charlie wouldn’t ‘a done that; he wouldn’t ‘a took his hand over your grave; but you’re not like us — never was; you were cut out for a lawyer, I think.”
“Well, the folk would ‘a talked, ye know, sir.”
“Talked, sir, would they?” retorted the Squire, with an angry leer, “I never cared the crack o’ a cart-whip what the folk talked — let ‘em talk, d— ‘em. And ye had no gloves, Dickon says, nor nothin’, buried like a dog ‘a most, up in a corner there.”
“Ye told me not to lay out a shillin’ sir,” said Harry.
“If I did I did, but angry folk don’t always mean all they says; no matter, we’re done wi’ it now — it’s over. He was worth ye all,” broke out the Squire passionately; “I could ‘a liked him, if he had ‘a liked me — if he had ‘a let me, but he didn’t, and — there it is.”
So the Squire walked on a little hastily, which was his way when he chose to be alone, down the steps with gaunt, stumbling gait, and slowly away into the tall woods close by, and in that ancestral shadow disappeared.
Future — present — past. The future — mist, a tint, and shadow. The cloud on which fear and hope project their airy phantoms, living in imagination, and peopled by romance — a dream of dreams. The present only we possess man’s momentary dominion, plastic under his hand as the clay under the potter’s — always a moment of the present in our absolute power — always that fleeting, plastic moment speeding into the past — immutable, eternal. The metal flows molten by, and then chills and fixes for ever. So with the life of man — so with the spirit of man. Work while it is called day. The moment fixes the retrospect, and death the character, for ever. The heart knoweth its own bitterness. The proud man looks on the past he has made. The hammer of Thor can’t break it; the fire that is not quenched can’t melt it. His thoughtless handiwork will be the same for ever.
Old Squire Harry did not talk any more about Charlie. About a month after this he sent to Craybourne to say that Dobbs must come up to Wyvern. Dobbs’ heart failed him when he heard it. Everyone was afraid of old Squire Harry, for in his anger he regarded neither his own interest nor other men’s safety.
“Ho, Dobbs! you’re not fit for Craybourne, the farm’s too much for you, and I’ve nothing else to gi’e ye.” Dobbs’ heart quailed at these words. “You’re a fool, Dobbs — you’re a fool — you’re not equal to it, man. I wonder you didn’t complain o’ your rent. It’s too much — too high by half. I told Cresswell to let you off every rent day a good penn’orth, for future, and don’t you talk about it to no one, ‘twould stop that.” He laid his hand on Dobbs’ shoulder, and looked not unkindly in his face.
And then he turned and walked away, and Dobbs knew that his audience was over.
And the old Squire was growing older, and grass and weeds were growing apace over handsome Charlie Fairfield’s grave in Wyvern. But the old man never sent to Carwell Grange, nor asked questions about Alice. That wound was not healed, as death heals some.
Harry came, but Alice was ill, and could not see him. Lady Wyndale came, and her she saw, and that goodnatured kinswoman made her promise that she would come and live with her so soon as she was well enough to leave the Grange.
And Alice lay still in her bed, as the doctor commanded, and her heart seemed breaking. The summer would return, but Ry would never come again. The years would come and pass — how were they to be got over? And, oh! the poor little thing that was coming! — what a sad welcome! It would break her heart to look at it. “Oh, Ry, Ry, Ry, my darling!”
So the morning broke and evening closed, and her great eyes were wet with tears— “the rain it raineth every day.”
CHAPTER IV.
A TWILIGHT VISIT.
In the evening Tom had looked in at his usual hour, and was recruiting himself with his big mug of beer and lump of bread and cheese at the kitchen table, and now the keen edge of appetite removed, he was talking agreeably. This was what he called his supper. The flush of sunset on the sky was fading into twilight, and Tom was chatting with old Mildred Tarnley.
“Who’d think it was only three weeks since the funeral?” said Tom— “three weeks tomorrow.”
“Ay, tomorrow. ’Twas a Thursday, I mind, by the little boy comin’ from Gryce’s mill, for the laundress’s money, by noon. Two months ago, to look at him, you’d a’ said there was forty years’ life in him; but death keeps no calendar, they say. I wonder Harry Fairfield isn’t here oftener. Though she might not talk wi’ him nor see him, the sound o’ his voice in the house would do her good — his own brother, you know.”
“Dead men, ’tis an old sayin’, is kin to none,” said Tom. “They goes their own gate, and so does the livin’.”
“There’s that woman in jail. What’s to be done wi’ her, and who’s to talk wi’ the lawyer folk?” said Mildred.
“Ill luck came wi’ her to Carwell,” said Tom. “Pity he ever set eyes on her; but chances will be, and how can cat help it if maid be a fool? I don’t know nothin o’ that business, but in this world nout for nout is the most of our wages, and I take it folks knows what they are about, more or less.”
Mildred Tarnley sniffed at this oracular speech, and turned up her nose, and went over to the dresser and arranged some matters there.
“The days is shortening apace. My old eyes can scarce see over here without a candle,” she said, returning. “But there’s a many a thing to be settled in this house, I’m thinkin’.”
Tom nodded an acquiescence, and stood up and stretched himself, and looked up to the darkening sky.
“The crows is home in Carwell Wood; ‘twill be time to be turning keys and drawing of bolts,” said Tom. “Ay, many a thing’ll want settlin’, I doubt, down here, and who’s to do it?”
“Ay, who’s to do it?” repeated Mildred. “I tell ye, Tom, there’s many a thing — too many a thing — more than ye wot of — enough to bring him out o’ his grave, Tom — as I’ve heered stories, many a one, wi’ less reason.”
As she ceased, a clink of a horseshoe was heard in the little yard without, and a tall figure leading a horse, as Charles Fairfield used often to do, on his late returns to his home, looked in at the window — in that uncertain twilight, in stature, attitude, and, as well as she could see, in face, so much resembling the deceased master of Carwell Grange, that Mrs. Tarnley gasped, —
“My good Lord! Who’s that?”
Something of the same momentary alarm puzzled Tom, who frowned wildly at it, with his fists clenched beside him.
It was Harry Fairfield, who exhibited, as sometimes happens in certain lights and moments, a family resemblance, which had never struck those most familiar with his appearance.
“Lawk, it’s Mr. Harry; run out, Tom, and take his nag, will ye?”
Out went Tom, and in came Harry Fairfield. He looked about him. He did not smile facetiously and nod, and take old Mildred’s dubious hand, as he was wont, and crack a joke, not always very welcome or very pleasant, to the tune of
“Nobody coming to marry me — Nobody coming to woo.”
On the contrary, he looked as if he saw nothing there but walls and twilight, and as heavy laden with gloomy thoughts as the troubled ghost she had imagined.
“How is Miss Ally? how is your mistress?” at last he inquired abruptly. “Only middling?”
“Ailing, sir,” answered Mildred, dryly.
“Tell her I’m here, will ye? and has something to tell her and talk over, and will make it as short as I can. Tell her I’d a come earlier, but couldn’t, for the sessions at Wykeford, and dined wi’ a neighbour in the town; and say I mayn’t be able to come for a good while again. Is she up?”
“No, sir, the doctor keeps her still to her bed.”
“Well, old Dulcey Crane’s there; ain’t she?”
“Ay, sir, and Lilly Dogger, too. Little good the slut’s to me these days.”
Harry was trying to read his watch at the darkened window.
“Te
ll her all that — quick, for time flies,” said Harry.
Harry Fairfield remained in the kitchen while old Mildred did his message, and she speedily returned to say that Alice was sitting up by the fire, and would see him.
Up the dim stairs went Harry. He had not been up there since the day he saw the undertakers at Charlie’s coffin, and had his last peep at his darkening face. Up he strode with his hand on the banister, and old Mildred gliding before him like a shadow. She knocked at the door. It was not that of the room which they had occupied, where poor Charles Fairfield had died, but the adjoining one, hurriedly arranged, with such extemporized comforts as the primitive people of the household could manage — homely enough, but not desolate, it looked.
Opening the door, she said— “Here’s Master Harry, ma’am, a-comin’ to see you.”
Harry was already in the room. There were candles lighted on a little table near the bed, although the shutters were still open, and the faint twilight mingling with the light of the candles made a sort of purple halo. Alice was sitting in a great chair by the fire in her dressing-gown, pale, and looking very ill. She did not speak; she extended her hand.
“Came to see you, Ally. Troublesome world; but you must look up a bit, you know. Troubles are but trials, they say, and can’t last for ever; so don’t you be frettin’ yourself out o’ the world, lass, and makin’ more food for worms.”
And with this consolation he shook her hand.
“I would have seen you, Harry, when you called before — it was very kind of you — but I could not. I am better now, thank God. I can’t believe it still, sometimes,” and her eyes filled with tears —
“Well, well, well,” said Harry, “where’s the good o’ cryin’; cryin’ won’t bring him back, you know. There, there. And I want to say a word to you about that woman that’s in jail, you know. ’Tis right you should know everything. He should a told you more about that, don’t you see, else ye might put your foot in it.”
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 507
