“I met him again at dinner. He is very little changed, except that he is much more sunburnt. He has got a look, too, of command and melancholy. I am sure he has suffered, and suffering, they say, makes people better. He talked very little during dinner, and rather justified Sir Harry’s description. Sir Harry talked about the farm he intends for him — they are to look at it tomorrow together. Mr. Blount seems to have got a load off his mind.
“The farm is not so far away as I had imagined — it is only at the other side of the lake, about five hundred acres at Clusted, which came to Sir Harry, Mr. Blount says, through the Mardykes family. I wonder whether there is a house upon it — if so, he will probably live at the other side of the lake, and his arrival will have made very little difference to us. So much the better, perhaps.
“I saw him and Sir Harry, at about eight o’clock this morning, set out together in the big boat, with two men, to cross the lake.
“Farming is, I believe, a very absorbing pursuit. He won’t feel his solitude much; and Mr. Blount says he will have to go to fairs and markets. It is altogether a grazing farm.”
The reader will perceive that I am still quoting my diary.
“To-day, old Miss Goulding, of Wrybiggins, the old lady whom the gossips of Golden Friars once assigned to Sir Harry as a wife, called with a niece who is with her on a visit, so I suppose they had heard of Mr. Marston’s arrival, and came to see what kind of person he is. I’m rather glad they were disappointed. I ordered luncheon for them, and I saw them look toward the door every time it opened, expecting, I am sure, to see Mr. Marston. I maliciously postponed telling them, until the very last moment, that he was at the other side of the mere, as they call the lake, although I suffered for my cruelty, for they dawdled on here almost interminably.
“Sir Harry and Mr. Marston did not return till tea-time, when it was quite dark; they had dined at a farmhouse at the other side. Sir Harry seems, I think a little more friendly with him. They talked, it is true, of nothing but farming and live stock; and Mr. Blount joined. I took, therefore, in solitude, to my piano, and, when I was tired of that, to my novel.
“A very dull evening — the dullest, I think, I’ve passed since we came to Dorracleugh. I daresay Mr. Marston will make a very good farmer. I hope very much there may be a suitable residence found for him at the other side of the lake.”
Next my diary contains the following entry:
“Mr. Marston off again at eight o’clock to his farm. Mr. Blount and I took a sail to-day, with Sir Harry’s leave, in the small boat. He tells me that there is no necessity for Mr. Marston’s going every day to the farm — that Sir Harry has promised him a third of whatever the farm, under his management, makes. He seems very anxious to please Sir Harry. I can’t conceive what can have made me so nervous about the arrival of this very humdrum squire, whose sole object appears to be the prosperity of his colony of cows and sheep.
“Sunday. — Of course to-day he has taken a holiday, but he has not given us the benefit of it. He chose to walk all day, instead of going to church with us to Golden Friars. It is not far from Haworth. So he prefers a march of four and twenty miles to the fatigue of our society!”
On the Tuesday following I find, by the same record, Sir Harry went to visit his estate of Tarlton, about forty miles from Golden Friars, to remain away for three or four days. That day I find also Mr. Marston was, as usual, at his farm at Clusted, and did not come home till about nine o’clock.
I went to my room immediately after his arrival, so that he had an uninterrupted tête-à-tête with Mr. Blount.
Next day he went away at his usual early hour, and returned not so late. I made an excuse of having some letters to write, and left the two gentlemen to themselves a good deal earlier than the night before.
“Mr. Marston certainly is very little in my way; I have not spoken twenty words to him since his arrival. I begin to think him extremely impertinent.”
The foregoing is a very brief note of the day, considering how diffuse and particular I often was when we were more alone. I make up for it on the following day. The text runs thus:
“Mr. Marston has come off his high horse, and broken silence at last. It was blowing furiously in the morning, and I suppose, however melancholy he may be, he has no intention of drowning himself. At all events, there has been no crossing the mere this morning.
“He has appeared, for the first time since his arrival, at breakfast. Sir Harry’s absence seems to have removed a great constraint. He talked very agreeably, and seemed totally to have forgotten the subject of farming; he told us a great deal of his semi-military life in Spain, which was very amusing. I know he made me laugh heartily. Old Mr. Blount laughed also. Our breakfast was a very pleasant meal. Mr. Blount was himself in Spain for more than a year when he was young, and got up and gave us a representation of his host, an eccentric fan-maker, walking with his toes pointed and his chest thrown out, and speaking sonorous Spanish with pompous gesture. I had no idea he had so much fun in him. The goodnatured old man seemed quite elated at our applause and very real laughter.
“Mr. Marston suddenly looked across the lake, and recollected his farm.
“‘How suddenly that storm went down!’ he said. ‘I can’t say I’m glad of it, for I suppose I must make my usual trip, and visit my four-footed friends over the way.’
“‘No,’ said Mr. Blount; ‘let them shift for themselves to-day; I’ll take it on myself. There’s no necessity for you going every day as you do.’
“‘But how will it be received by the authorities? Will my uncle think it an omission? I should not like him to suppose that, under any temptation, I had forgotten my understanding with him.’
“He glanced at me. Whether he thought me the temptation, or only wished to include me in the question, I don’t know.
“‘Oh! no,’ said Mr. Blount; ‘stay at home for this once — I’ll explain it all; and we can go out and have a sail, if the day continues as fine as it promises.’
“Mr. Marston hesitated; he looked at me as if for an opinion, but I said nothing.
“‘Well,’ he said, ‘I can’t resist. I’ll take your advice, Mr. Blount, and make this a holiday.’
“I think Mr. Marston very much improved in some respects. His manners and conversation are not less spirited, but gentler; and he is so very agreeable! I think he has led an unhappy life, and no doubt was often very much in the wrong. But I have remarked that we condemn people not in proportion to their moral guilt, but in proportion to the inconvenience their faults inflict on us. I wonder very much what those stories were which caused Mr. Carmel and Laura Grey to speak of him so bitterly and sternly? They were both so good that things which other people would have thought lightly enough of, would seem to them enormous. I dare say it is all about debt, or very likely play; and people who have possibly lost money by his extravagance have been exaggerating matters, and telling stories their own way. He seems very much sobered now, at all events. One can’t help pitying him.
“He went down to the jetty before luncheon. I found afterwards that it was to get cloaks and rugs arranged for me.
“He lunched with us, and we were all very talkative. He certainly will prevent our all falling asleep in this drowsy place. We had such a pleasant sail. I gave him the tiller; but his duties as helmsman did not prevent his talking. We could hear one another very well, in spite of the breeze, which was rather more than Sir Harry would have quite approved of.
“Mr. Marston had many opportunities to-day of talking to me without any risk of being overheard. He did not, however, say a single word in his old vein. I am very glad of this; it would be provoking to lose his conversation, which is amusing, and, I confess, a great resource in this solitude.
“He is always on the watch to find if I want anything, and gets or does it instantly. I wish his farm was at this side of the lake. I dare say when Sir Harry comes back we shall see as little as ever of him. It will end by his being drowned in that dangerous lake
. It seems odd that Sir Harry, who is so tender of my life and Mr. Blount’s, should have apparently no feeling whatever about his. But it is their affair. I’m not likely to be consulted; so I need not trouble my head about it.
“I write in my room, the day now over, and dear old Rebecca Torkill is fussing about from table to wardrobe, and from wardrobe to drawers, pottering, and fidgeting, and whispering to herself. She has just told me that Mrs. Shackleton, the housekeeper here at Dorracleugh, talked to her a good deal this evening about Mr. Marston. She gives a very good account of him. When he went to school, and to Oxford, she saw him only at intervals, but he was a manly, goodnatured boy she said, ‘and never, that she knew, any harm in him, only a bit wild, like other young men at such places.’ I write, as nearly as I can, Rebecca’s words.
“The subject of the quarrel with Sir Harry Rokestone, Mrs. Shackleton says, was simply that Mr. Marston positively refused to marry some one whom his uncle had selected for a niece-in-law. That is exactly the kind of disobedience that old people are sometimes most severe upon. She told Rebecca to be very careful not to say a word of it to the other servants, as it was a great secret.
“After all there may be two sides to this case, as to others, and Mr. Marston’s chief mutiny may have been of that kind which writers of romance and tragedy elevate into heroism.
“He certainly is very much improved.”
Here my diary for that day left Mr. Marston, and turned to half-a-dozen trifles, treated, I must admit, with much comparative brevity.
CHAPTER LIV.
DANGEROUS GROUND.
Old Mr. Blount was a religious man. Sir Harry, whose ideas upon such subjects I never could exactly divine, went to church every Sunday; but he scoffed at bishops, and neither loved nor trusted clergymen. He had, however, family prayers every morning, at which Mr. Blount officiated, with evident happiness and peace in the light of his simple countenance.
No radiance of this happy light was reflected on the face of Sir Harry Rokestone, who sat by the mantelpiece, in one of the old oak arm chairs, a colossal image of solitude, stern and melancholy, and never, it seemed to me, so much alone as at those moments which seem to draw other mortals nearer. I fancied that some associations connected with such simple gatherings long ago, perhaps, recalled mamma to his thoughts. He seemed to sit in a stern and melancholy reverie, and he would often come over to me, when the prayer was ended, and, looking at me with great affection, ask gently:
“Well, my little lass, do they try to make you happy here? Is there anything you think of that you’d like me to get down from Lunnon? You must think. I’d like to be doing little things for you; think, and tell me this evening.” And at such times he would turn on me a look of full-hearted affection, and smoothe my hair caressingly with his old hand.
Sometimes he would say: “You like this place, you tell me; but the winters here, I’m thinking, will be too hard for you.”
“But I like a good, cold, frosty winter,” I would answer him. “There is nothing I think so pleasant.”
“Ay, but maybe ye’ll be getting a cough or something.”
“No, I assure you I’m one of the few persons on earth who never take cold,” I urged, for I really wished to spend the winter at Golden Friars.
“Well, pretty lass, ye shall do as you like best, but you mustn’t fall sick; if you do, what’s to become o’ the auld man?”
You must allow me here to help myself with my diary once more. I am about to quote from what I find there, dated the following Sunday:
“We went to Golden Friars to church as usual; and Mr. Marston, instead of performing his devotions twelve miles away, came with us.
“After the service was ended, Sir Harry, who had a call to make, took leave of us. The day was so fine that we were tempted to walk home instead of driving.
“We chose the path by the lake, and sent the carriage on to Dorracleugh.
“Mr. Blount chooses to talk over the sermon, and I am sure thinks it profane to mention secular subjects on Sunday. I think this a mistake; and I confess I was not sorry when good Mr. Blount stopped and told us he was going into Shenstone’s cottage. I felt that a respite of five minutes from the echoes of the good vicar’s sermon would be pleasant. But when he went on to say that he was going in to read some of the Bible and talk a little with the consumptive little boy, placing me under Mr. Marston’s escort for the rest of the walk, which was about a mile, I experienced a new alarm. I had no wish that Mr. Marston should return to his old heroics.
“I did not well know what to say or do, Mr. Blount’s goodbye came so suddenly. My making a difficulty about walking home with Mr. Marston would to him, who knew nothing of what had passed at Malory, have appeared an unaccountable affectation of prudery. I asked Mr. Blount whether he intended staying any time. He answered, ‘Half an hour at least; and if the poor boy wishes it, I shall stay an hour,’ he added.
“Mr. Marston, who, I am sure, perfectly understood me, did not say a word. I had only to make the best of an uncomfortable situation, and, very nervous, I nodded and smiled my farewell to Mr. Blount, and set out on my homeward march with Mr. Marston.
“I need not have been in such a panic — it was very soon perfectly plain that Mr. Marston did not intend treating me to any heroics.
“‘I don’t know any one in the world I have a much higher opinion of than Mr. Blount,’ he said; ‘but I do think it a great mercy to get away from him a little on Sundays; I can’t talk to him in his own way, and I turn simply into a Trappist — I become, I mean, perfectly dumb.’
“I agreed, but said that I had such a regard for Mr. Blount that I could not bring myself to vex him.
“‘That is my rule also,’ he said, ‘only I carry it a little further, ever since I received my education,’ he smiled, darkly; ‘that is, since I begun to suffer, about three years ago, I have learned to practise it with all my friends. You would not believe what constraint I often place upon myself to avoid saying that which is in my heart and next my lips, but which I fear — I fear with too good reason — might not be liked by others. There was a time, I daresay, when Hamlet blurted out everything that came into his mind, before he learned in the school of sorrow to say, “But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue.”’
“He looked very expressively, and I thought I knew perfectly what he meant, and that if by any blunder I happened to say a foolish thing, I might find myself, before I knew where I was, in the midst of a conversation as wild as that of the wood of Plas Ylwd.
“In reply to this I said, not very adroitly:
“And what a beautiful play Hamlet is! I have been trying to copy Retsch’s outline, but I have made such a failure. The faces are so fine and forcible, and the expression of the hands is so wonderful, and my hands are so tame and clumsy; I can do nothing but the ghost, and that is because he is the only absurd figure in the series.”
“‘Yes,’ he acquiesced, ‘like a thing in an opera bouffe.’
“I could perceive very plainly that my rather precipitate and incoherent excursion into Retsch’s outlines, into which he had followed me with the best grace he could, had wounded him. It was equally plain, however, that he was in good faith practising the rule he had just now mentioned, and was by no means the insolent and overbearing suitor he had shown himself in that scene, now removed alike by time and distance, in which I had before seen him.
“No one could be more submissive than he to my distinct decision that there was to be no more such wild talk.
“For the rest of our walk he talked upon totally indifferent subjects. Certainly, of the two, I had been the most put out by his momentary ascent to a more tragic level. I wonder now whether I did not possibly suspect a great deal more than was intended. If so, what a fool I must have appeared! Is there anything so ridiculous as a demonstration of resistance where no attack is meditated? I began to feel so confused and ashamed that I hardly took the trouble to follow what he said. As we approached Dorracleugh, I began to feel
more like myself. After a little silence he said what I am going to set down; I have gone over it again and again in my mind; I know I have added nothing, and I really think I write very nearly exactly as he spoke it.
“‘When I had that strange escape with my life from the Conway Castle,’ he said, ‘no man on earth was more willing and less fit to die than I. I don’t suppose there was a more miserable man in England. I had disappointed my uncle by doing what seemed a very foolish thing. I could not tell him my motive — no one knew it — the secret was not mine — everything combined to embarrass and crush me. I had the hardest thing on earth to endure — unmerited condemnation was my portion. Some good people, whom, notwithstanding, I have learned to respect, spoke of me to my face as if I had committed a murder. My uncle understands me now, but he has not yet forgiven me. When I was at Malory, I was in a mood to shoot myself through the head; I was desperate, I was bitter, I was furious. Every unlucky thing that could happen did happen there. The very people who had judged me most cruelly turned up; and among them one who forced a quarrel on me, and compelled that miserable duel in which I wished at the time I had been killed.’
“I listened to all this with more interest than I allowed him to see, as we walked on together side by side, I looking down on the path before us, and saying nothing.
“‘If it were not for one or two feelings left me, I should not know myself for the shipwrecked man who thanked his young hostess at Malory for her invaluable hospitality,’ he said; ‘there are some things one never forgets. I often think of Malory — I have thought of it in all kinds of distant, out-of-the-way, savage places; it rises before me as I saw it last. My life has all gone wrong. While hope remains, we can bear anything — but my last hope seems pretty near its setting — and, when it is out, I hope, seeing I cross and return in all weathers, there is drowning enough in that lake to give a poor fool, at least, a cool head and a quiet heart.’
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 648
