CHAPTER XII.
It was such a morning as the old song describes:
"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky
Proclaim a hunting morning;"
and a troop of about a dozen gentlemen rode gaily out of the courtyard, revelling in the enjoyment of expected pleasure. They were not disappointed in regard to the hunt itself; but a fatal accident, which occurred just at its close, threw a gloom over the day.
Reynard was making a last struggle for his life as the hunt galloped up to the yawning fence over which they had to pass in order to be in at the "death." There was an up-bank on the side next to the riders, and on the other a gaping dyke, brimfull of water. The two foremost horses took it gallantly, but the third jumped short, lost his footing, and slipped back into the water. His rider, however, succeeded in throwing himself off, and he clung to the side of the ditch, shouting at the same time to those behind to give him room. Unfortunately, at that very moment a horse appeared at the top of the bank, and, startled by the shout just as he was rising for the spring, he swerved, reared, and fell backwards from the bank, crushing his hapless rider under him.
The rider was Lord Barkley; and the gentlemen who immediately followed him reined in their horses and sprang to the ground to assist him. They had succeeded in getting the horse from over him, when they beheld his son standing on the top of the bank with a horror-stricken expression of countenance, and his clothes all saturated with water. Mr. Barkley was one of the two first horsemen who had so gallantly taken the leap; but the shout of the man who fell made him turn round in his saddle, and he saw his father's horse swerve and fall!
A low cry escaped his lips as he glanced at the ditch to see if it were possible to take it from the side upon which he found himself; but even at such a moment he saw that it was almost impossible that any horse could do it, and dismounting hurriedly, he threw himself into the water, crossed, and scrambled up the bank, where, as we have seen, he stood looking with horror on the scene before him. But it was only for a moment that he stood there; the next, he was kneeling beside his father, and supporting his head on his knee.
The only sign of life which Lord Barkley gave was to moan whenever they attempted to move him, until one of the gentlemen brought some water in his hat, and sprinkled it over him. He then opened his eyes, and recognising his son, he pressed his hand, and murmured, "Good-bye, my boy; it's all over with me, but be happy in your own way." The rest was lost in indistinct sounds.
Mr. Barkley bent his head lower and lower, until his dark locks mingled with his father's grey hair; and the gentlemen stood by silently, not venturing to disturb the mourner even to ask what could be done.
A poor tenant, however, went up to him, and, touching him on the shoulder, said with rough good nature, "Come now, Misther Barkley, be a man, and don't take on so. Shure, maybe the good auld lord will come too, afther all; and isn't it a quare thing for yer honours to be all standing there and niver thinking what could be done to rekiver him. Faix, and its close to B——town that we are, and what w'd ail a few boys like meself to take a twist over to it and bring back a stretcher or something of that soort for to carry his lordship? Shure, and your honour's own docther lives there too; and couldn't we bring him along wid us?"
"You are right, my good friend," answered Mr. Barkley, raising his head; "I ought to have thought of that. Please, then, to go; but on horseback; and ride at full speed."
When the doctor arrived, he tried to examine his poor old friend, in order to see what injuries he had received; but every touch seemed to give him such pain that the doctor desisted, and said, "We had better get him placed on the stretcher and carried as gently as possible to my house; then we can see better what is to be done."
When the poor sufferer had been carefully raised and laid on the stretcher, the sad procession moved slowly on, Mr. Barkley and the doctor walking by the side of the bier, which four stalwart countrymen carried.
Before setting out, however, the former said in a broken voice to those about him, "Gentlemen, I am most grateful to you for your kindness. I cannot speak about it now, but I shall never forget it."
The same night—and little more than twelve hours after they all started in "gallant array" from Barkley Castle—Lord Barkley's spirit was at rest. From the first the doctor had seen that there was no hope of recovery, but he was able to do much towards alleviating the dying man's sufferings, who, although unable to speak, was evidently sensible to the last, and he received the Church's sacraments with deep emotion.
Mr. Barkley—or rather now Lord Barkley—was so stunned by the manner and suddenness of his father's death, that he could scarcely realise the fact that he who, a few hours ago, rode by his side in the full enjoyment of health and spirits, was now a corpse; and the only words which he spoke for long after death had taken place were, "Thank God, 'twas not in anger that I spoke to him last!"
Next day the body was removed to Barkley Castle, and there laid out in state until the funeral, which was fixed for the fourth day after death.
Lord Barkley begged his brother-in-law, Mr. Penton, to arrange everything without appealing to him, as he felt too confused to be able to think.
Mr. Penton consequently acted on his own judgment as to whom he ought to invite for the funeral, and above all others he thought it right to ask Mr. Molyneux (the present lord's future father-in-law), although he thought it most unlikely that he would come. But on the contrary, he received a telegram to say that Mr. Molyneux would arrive at Barkley Castle the evening before the funeral.
When this was told to Lord Barkley he appeared to be much agitated; and in answer to his sister's eager question as to whether her husband had done wrong in inviting Mr. Molyneux, he said, "No, Maria; I am sure that George only did what ought to have been done, although I would rather not see Mr. Molyneux just yet."
The late lord's dying words to his son, "be happy in your own way," made a deep impression upon him, for it was an acknowledgment at the last moment that his father regretted having urged him to sacrifice happiness for wealth, and that he did not wish the sacrifice to be completed. Thus during the solemn hours that he watched beside the dead he could not help being struck by the greatness of the revelations which approaching death makes, even to a man who has toiled all his life for wealth, and was ready to give up everything in order to obtain it. And now, too, as he viewed his own conduct with the strong light of eternity shining upon it, he saw all its weakness and want of truth. He had acted treacherously both to the girl whom he loved and to the one to whom he was affianced, and with shame and sorrow he felt that however unhappy his life might be henceforth he must blame himself as the chief cause of it.
Remorse and unhappiness, thus added to the natural grief which he felt for a parent who had loved him well though not wisely, made him look so haggard and worn as he stood with blanched cheeks and trembling lips, looking upon the closing of the vault over his father, that Mr. Molyneux went up to him and tried to lead him away. "Come, Edmund," said he, "let your second father help to console you for the loss which you have just sustained. My daughter's husband will be nearly as dear to me as a child of my own. Only treat me as a father, and you will find that I am such to you by affection though not by nature."
For the sake of his manhood Lord Barkley struggled hard to repress the tears which rose to his eyes as Mr. Molyneux spoke, and brushing them hastily away, he said sadly and humbly, "Mr. Molyneux, I am unworthy of your goodness,—I have deceived you all. You must let me make a full confession to you to-morrow morning, when I shall be more composed than I am now. You can never again think well of me after you have heard it, but it is the only reparation in my power to make, and you shall at least know me for what I am, before anything irrevocable has been done."
Mr. Molyneux started, and was on the point of demanding an explanation at once, but as he looked at Lord Barkley walking beside him with drooping head, and wrapped in the mourner's garb of deep woe, he refrained through respect for unaffected grief, and determined to wait as patiently as he could until the time named.
Mr. Penton acted as his brother-in-law's deputy in doing the honours of the house, as Lord Barkley retired to his own room immediately after the funeral and remained there all day. The next morning, however, about eleven, he sent to Mr. Molyneux to say that if it suited his convenience he would be glad to see him in the library.
He repaired thither at once, and as he entered Lord Barkley said, "Mr. Molyneux, I do not offer you my hand until you have heard all that I am going to tell you, as perhaps you would not wish to shake hands with me, were you aware of what my conduct has been. You shall hear in as few words as possible how miserable and dishonourable a part weakness and habitual self-indulgence may lead a naturally honourable man to act. The shock of my poor father's sudden death, and the sad time for reflection which has followed it, have made me feel how shamefully I have behaved towards you and your daughter, and that at least I ought to tell you what have been and are my feelings towards her. May I count upon your forbearance to listen to me without interruption?"
Mr. Molyneux assented, and Lord Barkley then shortly but fully detailed to him all that had passed from the time he had seen Marie—without naming her of course—up to the night when he proposed to Miss Molyneux, adding, "Now, Mr. Molyneux, that you have heard all, I have only to say I am quite ready to fulfil my engagement. I think I could promise to be a good and kind though not a loving husband to your daughter. I would take care never to look again upon the face of her whom I love, and endeavour to efface her image from my heart. What more can I do under the circumstances? And I think that at least it was truer to tell you all this than to continue to deceive you. I believe, too, from what I know of Miss Molyneux's character, that she would be quite satisfied with the sincere respect and affection which I feel for her. I should be the only sufferer, and fully do I acknowledge that I deserve any punishment which may be inflicted upon me. Even you cannot blame me more bitterly than I have blamed myself, and there is no humiliation or expiation that you could impose upon me which I would not willingly accept. In the name, then, of your old friend—my poor father—who through too indulgent affection helped to make me what I am, I ask you to try not to think too harshly of me. Do not even in your own mind brand me as one utterly devoid of honour and principle, but say what you wish me to do."
Mr. Molyneux was one of the kindest, not to say most soft-hearted men that ever lived, and Lord Barkley's air of deep suffering and self-abasement touched him even in the midst of his anger and indignation. He thought of his own dead son, who would now be just about the same age as the poor culprit before him, and pushing away his chair he walked up and down the room muttering to himself.
No one knew more thoroughly his daughter's cold, proud character than he did, or so mourned over it; and his grief for his passionate, affectionate boy had been redoubled and perpetuated by the feeling that he could find no real comfort in his remaining child.
The more he looked at Lord Barkley, the more did the memory of his own Edmund knock at his heart and intercede for indulgence towards the errors of a loving nature, which weakness and over indulgence had led astray; and knowing his daughter's character as he did, he felt that it would be punishing him too severely to ask him to fulfil his engagement with her whilst his young heart yearned for one who was evidently not a statue. Nevertheless he could not but feel indignant at the manner in which his daughter had been treated, and at last he said, sternly—
"Lord Barkley, you were right when you said that your conduct had merited for you the misery of being married to one woman whilst you loved another, and if I believed that the breaking off of this marriage would cause my daughter a moment's deep pain, I should not hesitate to require you to fulfil your engagement; but she is not one who would allow herself to love any man until after he was her husband, and I know that I have only to tell her that from your own showing you were unworthy of her, and her self-respect will enable her to bear the separation without much regret. I will not, therefore, take upon myself to inflict upon you the fate which you deserve. You may, then, consider yourself released from the engagement, and I shall never say more than is necessary as to why this marriage was broken off; but you cannot object to my letting it be understood that it was your own conduct which caused it, and henceforth let us be as strangers to each other. For the sake of my dear lost boy, whose schoolfellow you were, rather than for that of the hardly true friend who urged you to treat us as you have done, have I been thus lenient to you, and I do not think that you could have asked more."
"I have asked more! God knows I had no right to expect such indulgence as you have shown me," answered Lord Barkley, raising his head, and Mr. Molyneux saw that his face was marked by traces of tears such as a man rarely sheds. After a moment's pause Lord Barkley resumed—
"Your reproaches I could have borne better than such forbearance,—it is indeed heaping coals of fire upon my head. I dare not hope that you will ever take my hand in friendship again, but whilst I live no son of your own could look upon you with deeper feelings of gratitude and respect than I do. Good-bye, and perhaps the spirit of your own lost son will plead for his weak, erring companion as it did to-day, and at last win back for him one ray of the old kindly feeling of former days."
Lord Barkley looked so dejected and humbled that Mr. Molyneux had not the heart to leave him thus coldly, and turning hastily round from the door, which he had almost reached, he grasped his hand, saying, "Good-bye, boy; I dare say you'll make as good a man as any of us after all."
He gave the hand which he held a cordial shake and then hastened out of the room.