Kitabı oku: «Endymion», sayfa 10
CHAPTER XXVI
Nigel took a high degree and obtained first-class honours. He was ordained by the bishop of the diocese as soon after as possible. His companions, who looked up to him with every expectation of his eminence and influence, were disappointed, however, in the course of life on which he decided. It was different from that which he had led them to suppose it would be. They had counted on his becoming a resident light of the University, filling its highest offices, and ultimately reaching the loftiest stations in the Church. Instead of that he announced that he had resolved to become a curate to his father, and that he was about to bury himself in the solitude of Hurstley.
It was in the early summer following the death of Mrs. Ferrars that he settled there. He was frequently at the hall, and became intimate with Mr. Ferrars. Notwithstanding the difference of age, there was between them a sympathy of knowledge and thought. In spite of his decided mind, Nigel listened to Mr. Ferrars with deference, soliciting his judgment, and hanging, as it were, on his accents of wise experience and refined taste. So Nigel became a favourite with Mr. Ferrars; for there are few things more flattering than the graceful submission of an accomplished intellect, and, when accompanied by youth, the spell is sometimes fascinating.
The death of his wife seemed to have been a great blow to Mr. Ferrars. The expression of his careworn, yet still handsome, countenance became, if possible, more saddened. It was with difficulty that his daughter could induce him to take exercise, and he had lost altogether that seeming interest in their outer world which once at least he affected to feel. Myra, though ever content to be alone, had given up herself much to her father since his great sorrow; but she felt that her efforts to distract him from his broodings were not eminently successful, and she hailed with a feeling of relief the establishment of Nigel in the parish, and the consequent intimacy that arose between him and her father.
Nigel and Myra were necessarily under these circumstances thrown much together. As time advanced he passed his evenings generally at the hall, for he was a proficient in the only game which interested Mr. Ferrars, and that was chess. Reading and writing all day, Mr. Ferrars required some remission of attention, and his relaxation was chess. Before the games, and between the games, and during delightful tea-time, and for the happy quarter of an hour which ensued when the chief employment of the evening ceased, Nigel appealed much to Myra, and endeavoured to draw out her mind and feelings. He lent her books, and books that favoured, indirectly at least, his own peculiar views—volumes of divine poesy that had none of the twang of psalmody, tales of tender and sometimes wild and brilliant fancy, but ever full of symbolic truth.
Chess-playing requires complete abstraction, and Nigel, though he was a double first, occasionally lost a game from a lapse in that condensed attention that secures triumph. The fact is, he was too frequently thinking of something else besides the moves on the board, and his ear was engaged while his eye wandered, if Myra chanced to rise from her seat or make the slightest observation.
The woods were beginning to assume the first fair livery of autumn, when it is beautiful without decay. The lime and the larch had not yet dropped a golden leaf, and the burnished beeches flamed in the sun. Every now and then an occasional oak or elm rose, still as full of deep green foliage as if it were midsummer; while the dark verdure of the pines sprang up with effective contrast amid the gleaming and resplendent chestnuts.
There was a glade at Hurstley, bounded on each side with masses of yew, their dark green forms now studded with crimson berries. Myra was walking one morning in this glade when she met Nigel, who was on one of his daily pilgrimages, and he turned round and walked by her side.
“I am sure I cannot give you news of your brother,” he said, “but I have had a letter this morning from Endymion. He seems to take great interest in his debating club.”
“I am so glad he has become a member of it,” said Myra. “That kind Mr. Trenchard, whom I shall never see to thank him for all his goodness to Endymion, proposed him. It occupies his evenings twice a week, and then it gives him subjects to think of and read up in the interval.”
“Yes; it is a good thing,” said Nigel moodily; “and if he is destined for public life, which perhaps he may be, no contemptible discipline.”
“Dear boy!” said Myra, with a sigh. “I do not see what public life he is destined to, except slaving at a desk. But sometimes one has dreams.”
“Yes; we all have dreams,” said Nigel, with an air of abstraction.
“It is impossible to resist the fascination of a fine autumnal morn,” said Myra; “but give me the long days of summer and its rich leafy joys. I like to wander about, and dine at nine o’clock.”
“Delightful, doubtless, with a sympathising companion.”
“Endymion was such a charming companion,” said Myra.
“But he has left us,” said Nigel; “and you are alone.”
“I am alone,” said Myra; “but I am used to solitude, and I can think of him.”
“Would I were Endymion,” said Nigel, “to be thought of by you!”
Myra looked at him with something of a stare; but he continued—
“All seasons would be to me fascination, were I only by your side. Yes; I can no longer repress the irresistible confusion of my love. I am here, and I am here only, because I love you. I quitted Oxford and all its pride that I might have the occasional delight of being your companion. I was not presumptuous in my thoughts, and believed that would content me; but I can no longer resist the consummate spell, and I offer you my heart and my life.”
“I am amazed; I am a little overwhelmed,” said Myra. “Pardon me, dear Mr. Penruddock—dear Nigel—you speak of things of which I have not thought.”
“Think of them! I implore you to think of them, and now!”
“We are a fallen family,” said Myra, “perhaps a doomed one. We are not people to connect yourself with. You have witnessed some of our sorrows, and soothed them. I shall be ever grateful to you for the past. But I sometimes feel our cup is not yet full, and I have long resolved to bear my cross alone. But, irrespective of all other considerations, I can never leave my father.”
“I have spoken to your father,” said Nigel, “and he approved my suit.”
“While my father lives I shall not quit him,” said Myra; “but, let me not mislead you, I do not live for my father—I live for another.”
“For another?” inquired Nigel, with anxiety.
“For one you know. My life is devoted to Endymion. There is a mystic bond between us, originating, perhaps, in the circumstance of our birth; for we are twins. I never mean to embarrass him with a sister’s love, and perhaps hereafter may see less of him even than I see now; but I shall be in the world, whatever be my lot, high or low—the active, stirring world—working for him, thinking only of him. Yes; moulding events and circumstances in his favour;” and she spoke with fiery animation. “I have brought myself, by long meditation, to the conviction that a human being with a settled purpose must accomplish it, and that nothing can resist a will that will stake even existence for its fulfilment.”
CHAPTER XXVII
Endymion had returned to his labours, after the death of his mother, much dispirited. Though young and hopeful, his tender heart could not be insensible to the tragic end. There is anguish in the recollection that we have not adequately appreciated the affection of those whom we have loved and lost. It tortured him to feel that he had often accepted with carelessness or indifference the homage of a heart that had been to him ever faithful in its multiplied devotion. Then, though he was not of a melancholy and brooding nature, in this moment of bereavement he could not drive from his mind the consciousness that there had long been hanging over his home a dark lot, as it were, of progressive adversity. His family seemed always sinking, and he felt conscious how the sanguine spirit of his mother had sustained them in their trials. His father had already made him the depositary of his hopeless cares; and if anything happened to that father, old and worn out before his time, what would become of Myra?
Nigel, who in their great calamity seemed to have thought of everything, and to have done everything, had written to the chief of his office, and also to Mr. Trenchard, explaining the cause of the absence of Endymion from his duties. There were no explanations, therefore, necessary when he reappeared; no complaints, but only sympathy and general kindness. In Warwick Street there was unaffected sorrow; Sylvia wept and went into the prettiest mourning for her patroness, and Mr. Rodney wore a crape on his hat. “I never saw her,” said Imogene, “but I am told she was heavenly.”
Waldershare was very kind to Endymion, and used to take him to the House of Commons on interesting evenings, and, if he succeeded in getting Endymion a place under the gallery, would come and talk to him in the course of the night, and sometimes introduce him to the mysteries of Bellamy’s, where Endymion had the satisfaction of partaking of a steak in the presence of statesmen and senators.
“You are in the precincts of public life,” said Waldershare; “and if you ever enter it, which I think you will,” he would add thoughtfully, “it will be interesting for you to remember that you have seen these characters, many of whom will then have passed away. Like the shades of a magic lantern,” he added, with something between a sigh and a smile. “One of my constituents sent me a homily this morning, the burthen of which was, I never thought of death. The idiot! I never think of anything else. It is my weakness. One should never think of death. One should think of life. That is real piety.”
This spring and summer were passed tranquilly by Endymion, but not unprofitably. He never went to any place of public amusement, and, cherishing his sorrow, declined those slight openings to social life which occasionally offered themselves even to him; but he attended his debating club with regularity, and, though silent, studied every subject which was brought before it. It interested him to compare their sayings and doings with those of the House of Commons, and he found advantage in the critical comparison. Though not in what is styled society, his mind did not rust from the want of intelligent companions. The clear perception, accurate knowledge, and unerring judgment of Trenchard, the fantastic cynicism of St. Barbe, and all the stores of the exuberant and imaginative Waldershare, were brought to bear on a young and plastic intelligence, gifted with a quick though not a too profound sensibility which soon ripened into tact, and which, after due discrimination, was tenacious of beneficial impressions.
In the autumn, Endymion returned home for a long visit and a happy one. He found Nigel settled at Hurstley, and almost domesticated at the hall; his father more cheerful than his sister’s earlier letters had led him to suppose; and she herself so delighted by the constant companionship of her brother that she seemed to have resumed all her original pride of life.
Nearly two years’ acquaintance, however limited, with the world, had already exercised a ripening influence over Endymion. Nigel soon perceived this, though, with a native tact which circumstances had developed, Endymion avoided obtruding his new conclusions upon his former instructor. But that deep and eager spirit, unwilling ever to let a votary escape, and absorbed intellectually by one vast idea, would not be baffled. Nigel had not renounced the early view of Endymion taking orders, and spoke of his London life as an incident which, with his youth, he might in time only look upon as an episode in his existence.
“I trust I shall ever be a devoted son of the Church,” said Endymion; “but I confess I feel no predisposition to take orders, even if I had the opportunity, which probably I never shall have. If I were to choose my career it would be public life. I am on the last step of the ladder, and I do not suppose that I can ever be anything but a drudge. But even that would interest me. It brings one in contact with those who are playing the great game. One at least fancies one comprehends something of the government of mankind. Mr. Waldershare takes me often to the House of Commons, and I must say, I am passionately fond of it.”
After Endymion’s return to London that scene occurred between Nigel and Myra, in the glade at Hurstley, which we have noticed in the preceding chapter. In the evening of that day Nigel did not pay his accustomed visit to the hall, and the father and the daughter were alone. Then it was, notwithstanding evident agitation, and even with some degree of solemnity, that Mr. Ferrars broke to his daughter that there was a subject on which he wished seriously to confer with her.
“Is it about Nigel?” she inquired with calmness.
“It is about Nigel.”
“I have seen him, and he has spoken to me.”
“And what have you replied?”
“What I fear will not be satisfactory to you, sir, but what is irrevocable.”
“Your union would give me life and hope,” said Mr. Ferrars; and then, as she remained silent, he continued after a pause: “For its happiness there seems every security. He is of good family, and with adequate means, and, I firmly believe, no inconsiderable future. His abilities are already recognised; his disposition is noble. As for his personal qualities, you are a better judge than I am; but, for my part, I never saw a countenance that more became the beauty and nobility of his character.”
“I think him very good-looking,” said Myra, “and there is no doubt he is clever, and he has shown himself, on more than one occasion, amiable.”
“Then what more can you require?” said Mr. Ferrars.
“I require nothing; I do not wish to marry.”
“But, my daughter, my dearest daughter,” said Mr. Ferrars, “bear with the anxiety of a parent who is at least devoted to you. Our separation would be my last and severest sorrow, and I have had many; but there is no necessity to consider that case, for Nigel is content, is more than content, to live as your husband under this roof.”
“So he told me.”
“And that removed one objection that you might naturally feel?”
“I certainly should never leave you, sir,” said Myra, “and I told Nigel so; but that contingency had nothing to do with my decision. I declined his offer, because I have no wish to marry.”
“Women are born to be married,” said Mr. Ferrars.
“And yet I believe most marriages are unhappy,” said Myra.
“Oh! if your objection to marry Nigel arises from an abstract objection to marriage itself,” said Mr. Ferrars, “it is a subject which we might talk over calmly, and perhaps remove your prejudices.”
“I have no objection against marriage,” rejoined Myra. “It is likely enough that I may marry some day, and probably make an unhappy marriage; but that is not the question before us. It is whether I should marry Nigel. That cannot be, my dear father, and he knows it. I have assured him so in a manner which cannot be mistaken.”
“We are a doomed family!” exclaimed the unhappy Mr. Ferrars, clasping his hands.
“So I have long felt,” said Myra. “I can bear our lot; but I want no strangers to be introduced to share its bitterness, and soothe us with their sympathy.”
“You speak like a girl,” said Mr. Ferrars, “and a headstrong girl, which you always have been. You know not what you are talking about. It is a matter of life or death. Your decorous marriage would have saved us from absolute ruin.”
“Alone, I can meet absolute ruin,” said Myra. “I have long contemplated such a contingency, and am prepared for it. My marriage with Nigel could hardly save you, sir, from such a visitation, if it be impending. But I trust in that respect, if in no other, you have used a little of the language of exaggeration. I have never received, and I have never presumed to seek, any knowledge of your affairs; but I have assumed, that for your life, somehow or other, you would be permitted to exist without disgrace. If I survive you, I have neither care nor fear.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
In the following spring a vexatious incident occurred in Warwick Street. The highly-considered county member, who was the yearly tenant of Mr. Rodney’s first floor, and had been always a valuable patron, suddenly died. An adjourned debate, a tough beefsteak, a select committee still harder, and an influenza caught at three o’clock in the morning in an imprudent but irresistible walk home with a confidential Lord of the Treasury, had combined very sensibly to affect the income of Mr. Rodney. At first he was sanguine that such a desirable dwelling would soon find a suitable inhabitant, especially as Mr. Waldershare assured him that he would mention the matter to all his friends. But time rolled on, and the rooms were still vacant; and the fastidious Rodneys, who at first would only listen to a yearly tenant, began to reduce their expectations. Matters had arrived at such a pass in May, that, for the first time in their experience, they actually condescended to hoist an announcement of furnished apartments.
In this state of affairs a cab rattled up to the house one morning, out of which a young gentleman jumped briskly, and, knocking at the door, asked, of the servant who opened it, whether he might see the apartments. He was a young man, apparently not more than one or two and twenty, of a graceful figure, somewhat above the middle height, fair, with a countenance not absolutely regular, but calm and high-bred. His dress was in the best taste, but to a practised eye had something of a foreign cut, and he wore a slight moustache.
“The rooms will suit me,” he said, “and I have no doubt the price you ask for them is a just one;” and he bowed with high-bred courtesy to Sylvia, who was now in attendance on him, and who stood with her pretty hands in the pretty pockets of her pretty apron.
“I am glad to hear that,” said Sylvia. “We have never let them before, except to a yearly tenant.”
“And if we suit each other,” said the gentleman, “I should have no great objection to becoming such.”
“In these matters,” said Sylvia, after a little hesitation, “we give and receive references. Mr. Rodney is well known in this neighbourhood and in Westminster generally; but I dare say,” she adroitly added, “he has many acquaintances known to you, sir.”
“Not very likely,” replied the young gentleman; “for I am a foreigner, and only arrived in England this morning;” though he spoke English without the slightest accent.
Sylvia looked a little perplexed; but he continued: “It is quite just that you should be assured to whom you are letting your lodgings. The only reference I can give you is to my banker, but he is almost too great a man for such matters. Perhaps,” he added, pulling out a case from his breast pocket, and taking out of it a note, which he handed to Sylvia, “this may assure you that your rent will be paid.”
Sylvia took a rapid glance at the hundred-pound-note, and twisting it into her little pocket with apparent sangfroid, though she held it with a tight grasp, murmured that it was quite unnecessary, and then offered to give her new lodger an acknowledgment of it.
“That is really unnecessary,” he replied. “Your appearance commands from me that entire confidence which on your part you very properly refuse to a stranger and a foreigner like myself.”
“What a charming young man!” thought Sylvia, pressing with emotion her hundred-pound-note.
“Now,” continued the young gentleman, “I will return to the station to release my servant, who is a prisoner there with my luggage. Be pleased to make him at home. I shall myself not return probably till the evening; and in the meantime,” he added, giving Sylvia his card, “you will admit anything that arrives here addressed to Colonel Albert.”
The settlement of Colonel Albert in Warwick Street was an event of no slight importance. It superseded for a time all other topics of conversation, and was discussed at length in the evenings, especially with Mr. Vigo. Who was he? And in what service was he colonel? Mr. Rodney, like a man of the world, assumed that all necessary information would in time be obtained from the colonel’s servant; but even men of the world sometimes miscalculate. The servant, who was a Belgian, had only been engaged by the colonel at Brussels a few days before his departure for England, and absolutely knew nothing of his master, except that he was a gentleman with plenty of money and sufficient luggage. Sylvia, who was the only person who had seen the colonel, was strongly in his favour. Mr. Rodney looked doubtful, and avoided any definite opinion until he had had the advantage of an interview with his new lodger. But this was not easy to obtain. Colonel Albert had no wish to see the master of the house, and, if he ever had that desire, his servant would accordingly communicate it in the proper quarter. At present he was satisfied with all the arrangements, and wished neither to make nor to receive remarks. The habits of the new lodger were somewhat of a recluse. He was generally engaged in his rooms the whole day, and seldom left them till the evening, and nobody, as yet, had called upon him. Under these circumstances, Imogene was instructed to open the matter to Mr. Waldershare when she presided over his breakfast-table; and that gentleman said he would make inquiries about the colonel at the Travellers’ Club, where Waldershare passed a great deal of his time. “If he be anybody,” said Mr. Waldershare, “he is sure in time to be known there, for he will be introduced as a visitor.” At present, however, it turned out that the “Travellers’” knew nothing of Colonel Albert; and time went on, and Colonel Albert was not introduced as a visitor there.
After a little while there was a change in the habits of the colonel. One morning, about noon, a groom, extremely well appointed, and having under his charge a couple of steeds of breed and beauty, called at Warwick Street, and the colonel rode out, and was long absent, and after that, every day, and generally at the same hour, mounted his horse. Mr. Rodney was never wearied of catching a glimpse of his distinguished lodger over the blinds of the ground-floor room, and of admiring the colonel’s commanding presence in his saddle, distinguished as his seat was alike by its grace and vigour.
In the course of a little time, another incident connected with the colonel occurred which attracted notice and excited interest. Towards the evening a brougham, marked, but quietly, with a foreign coronet, stopped frequently at Mr. Rodney’s house, and a visitor to the colonel appeared in the form of a middle-aged gentleman who never gave his name, and evaded, it seemed with practised dexterity, every effort, however adroit, to obtain it. The valet was tried on this head also, and replied with simplicity that he did not know the gentleman’s name, but he was always called the Baron.
In the middle of June a packet arrived one day by the coach, from the rector of Hurstley, addressed to Endymion, announcing his father’s dangerous illness, and requesting him instantly to repair home. Myra was too much occupied to write even a line.
