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Chapter 81
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 hopeóand they had
parted only yesterdayóleft 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-armsó'
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 pigeonsósome of its old
inhabitants, doubtlessósailed 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,óof something that has been bright, and is but dull, cold, dreary dust,ówith
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,óa pleasure so keen that it overcame
his habitual indolence and command of feature, and displayed itself utterly free from all
restraint or reserve,óbefore 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 anguishóacute, poignant anguishóto 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
calmlyófar 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.óHow very picturesque this is!'óHe
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!óI beg your pardon, I really
beg your pardonó' '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 expectedóexcuse meóno, 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 knowóone 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.' ó'And shall again,' said Mr Haredale.
'Thank you,' returned the other. 'Shall we walk as we talk? The damp falls rather heavily.
Well,óas 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 otheró'reallyóyou 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 natureóin the very essence of his beingóis 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 workóthis 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 meóI have earned it, I thank Heavenóby 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, siróif you can discriminate sufficientlyóthat 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,óbut 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,óI 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 meóit must have been in a sort of inspirationó' 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 knaveótrapped into marriage
by such an uncle and by such a nieceóhe 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 deadóthe phantom of last night.