CHAPTER VI.
When his lordship arrived at the rectory, he found the door standing open, and the lower apartments of the house deserted. While he was hesitating whether he should seek his way to the doctor’s apartment, one of the domestics made her appearance, and his lordship very earnestly inquired after the afflicted pastor. With deep and unaffected feeling she replied, that her dear master was very, very ill, and with increased emotion continued—
“Oh, my lord, if you will see him, perhaps he may know you—he may try to speak.”
“Certainly I will see him. How long is it since he was taken?”
“Only two hours, my lord. He was quite well this afternoon at five o’clock, and then he went into his study, where he always goes about that time, and we heard nothing of him till about two hours since; his bell rang, and I went, your lordship, to see what my master wanted, and there I saw him sitting in his great chair quite speechless.”
The poor woman was overcome with her own emotion, and Lord Spoonbill hastened to the room into which the patient had been removed. When he entered the apartment, he saw by the light of one dim candle, and a recently kindled fire, the figure of Dr Greendale sitting in an easy chair, in a state of apparent insensibility, and on one side of him sat Mrs Greendale, grasping his hand with convulsive eagerness, and looking anxiously on his still and frozen features: how like and how unlike what he was! On the other side Penelope was kneeling, holding him also by the hand, and hiding her face, that its expression of deep feeling might not needlessly distress her aunt. Gentle sobbings were heard, and the hard breathings of the death-stricken man. His lordship stood for a few seconds as if rivetted to the spot where his eye first caught the sight of the melancholy group. Mrs Greendale first noticed the presence of a stranger, and recognised his lordship, who then advanced with slow and gentle step towards the sick man, and silently took the hand of Mrs Greendale, whose tears then flowed afresh, as with louder sobbings she exclaimed—
“Oh, my lord, what a sight is here! Those dear eyes have been fixed as they are now for hours. He was a good man, my lord; such a heart! such tenderness! Oh, he cannot, he cannot continue long! Oh, that I should live to see this!”
As Mrs Greendale spoke, Penelope rose from her kneeling posture, and turning round, then first saw that Lord Spoonbill was in the room. His lordship intreated Mrs Greendale to compose herself, and then turning again towards the sick man’s chair, he held out his hand to Penelope, who resigned to his lordship the hand the dying man, which she had been holding. Lord Spoonbill took the offered hand, and kneeling on one knee pressed the hand to his lips, and looked with searching earnestness to the face of the patient, as if endeavouring to rouse him into consciousness and recollection. The eyes were fixed and motionless, and their brightness was passing away. After a few moments there appeared a convulsive movement of the lips, and there seemed to be a gleam of consciousness in the eye, and the hand which Lord Spoonbill had been holding was lifted up and placed on his lordship’s head, from whence it fell in a moment, and the breathing, after one long sigh, died away and was heard no more. At the instant of the change, Mrs Greendale uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless to the floor. Penelope, as if unconscious of the distress of her aunt and the presence of Lord Spoonbill, knelt gently down, and lifting up her hands and her eyes, murmured a prayer, which relieved for a moment her bursting heart; for tears came copiously to her aid, and her presence of mind was soon restored, and she assisted the domestics in removing Mrs Greendale into another apartment.
Lord Spoonbill then took his leave, and as he quitted the house of mourning he felt as he had never felt before. He had seen life in many of its varieties, but death had been to his eye and thoughts a stranger. He had now witnessed such a scene as he never had before. His mind was deeply and powerfully moved. But yesterday, and he had seen Dr Greendale in the fullness of strength and the vigour of health, and life was bright about him, and he was in its enjoyments and sympathies. One day, one little day, produced an awful change. The music of the tongue was mute, the benevolence of the look had fled, the animation of the intellect had vanished, and the beatings of the kind heart had ceased. Then did the young lord call to mind many kind expressions which the good man had used towards him. He thought of the day when he went at the desire of the Earl his father, rather than by any prompting of his own inclination, to call at the rectory and take leave of the doctor, previously to setting out on his journey to Cambridge, when he first entered the University. He recollected that on that occasion he had been received in the doctor’s study, and the good man carefully laid aside his books, and drew his chair round and conversed with him most cheerfully and most wisely; and he remembered how very tenderly he hinted at the possibility of juvenile follies, and how like a friend and companion he endeavoured to guard his mind against the fascinations of vice. He remembered also the fervent prayer which the good man uttered at parting, and the words seemed to live again, and he heard afresh the pious rector pray, “May God bless you, my dear young friend, and keep you from the evil that is in the world, and make you an ornament to that station which you are destined to fill.” Then came to his mind the sad neglect of all the kind precepts which the holy man had given him, and he felt that as yet the pastor’s prayer had not been answered by the event. Now, had these feelings been followed by that sobriety and steadiness of thought which should be the natural fruit of such emotions, it had been well for him; but unfortunately he had so much satisfaction in these emotions, and looked upon them as being virtue, and not merely the means of virtue, so that they failed to produce any lasting effect upon his mind, or to cause any change in his conduct. He was proud of his remorse and pleased with his regrets, and so the virtue which had its birth in a tear, evaporated when that tear was dry.
Before Lord Spoonbill had left the rectory many minutes, he met the medical gentleman on his way to the house. He stopped the physician and told him that all was over.
With due solemnity, and professional solemnity is very solemn indeed, the medical attendant of the Earl of Smatterton shook his head and replied—
“Indeed! Aye, I thought I should find it so, from the account which the messenger gave me. However, my lord, as I am thus far, I may as well just look in. There is a possibility, perhaps, that even yet the use of the lancet may not be too late.”
Lord Spoonbill did not oppose the physician’s wish, though he had no expectation of any benefit to be derived from it. He therefore returned and waited the report. The man of medicine soon rejoined his lordship, and pronounced the patient beyond the reach of professional skill.
“The spirit, my lord, has left the body,” continued he, “according to the vulgar expression.”
No man could more heartily enjoy the reprobation of vulgar phraseology than could Lord Spoonbill, generally speaking; but at this moment he was not disposed to be critical, and he answered the medical man rather pettishly. He was not for his own part able so quickly to make the transition from the grave to the gay as persons more accustomed to such scenes. It is also not very uncommon for the imperfectly virtuous to be exceedingly morose when under the impression of serious or religious feelings. The physician was very much surprised at the manner in which his lordship received the above-quoted speech; for it is a great absurdity in these enlightened days to imagine that there is any such thing as a soul. If there had been any such thing, the medical gentlemen, who have very minutely dissected the human body, certainly must have found it. But as they have not seen it, clearly it has no existence, and that which we take for the soul is only a sort of a kind of a something that is not a soul, but is only a word of four letters. Many of the Newmarket students indeed had discovered this fact before the dissectors had revealed it.
When the medical philosopher observed that Lord Spoonbill did not express any approbation of the phraseology whereby a doubt of the existence of a soul was intimated, he did not consider that the disapprobation might be more from feeling than from opinion, and therefore he proceeded to the discussion of the subject in a regular and systematic method. His lordship was, however, not at all disposed to listen to his arguments, and the two walked side by side in silence to the castle.
When the Earl saw his medical oracle, he directed his inquiries first to him—
“Doctor, you will be seated,” having been uttered with its usual majesty of condescension, the Earl then proceeded to ask—
“And now, doctor, what report do you bring of our worthy rector?”
“Dr Greendale, my lord, is no more. Life was extinct before I could reach him; and I am of opinion that nothing could have saved him.”
“Indeed! you don’t say so! It is a sad loss. The doctor was a most excellent man. I had a very high opinion of him. I gave him the living purely for his moral worth. He had nothing else to recommend him. I always make it an invariable rule to distribute the church preferment which is in my power, purely on the ground of merit. I am never influenced by any political feeling.”
“Your lordship,” replied the physician, who understood his lordship’s mind as well as his body, and perhaps better; “your lordship is remarkable for the good judgment which you always exercise in these matters, and indeed in everything else where the public good is concerned. It would be well for the country if the distribution of public and responsible offices were in such good hands. We should not hear so much the language of dissatisfaction.”
“Doctor, you are disposed to compliment. But it is not very easy to prevent the language of dissatisfaction. It is too common and too indiscriminate. It is not proper that the common people should acquire a habit of carping at all the acts of the government. The multitude cannot understand these things. Now I have studied the science of government with great and close attention, and I think I do know something which even the ministers themselves do not rightly understand. They are engaged in the dry details of office, and they have been brought up in the trammels of prejudice. For my part I have no prejudice. I do not take a detailed but comprehensive and philosophical view of things.”
Much more to the same purpose did his lordship condescend to utter in the hearing and for the instruction of the medical philosopher. The sum and substance of the harangue was to inculcate that truly philosophical view of government which recommends that the multitude should leave the work of opposition to the old aristocracy of the country, and only now and then, as that aristocracy may dictate, present petitions to parliament to countenance and support the measures proposed by his majesty’s opposition. The man of medicine was convinced of the truth and justice of every sentiment which the Earl of Smatterton was pleased in the profundity of his wisdom to advance: for though his lordship was in opposition he did not like to be opposed: and who does? His lordship then offered some refreshment to his medical friend, and the subject of the decease of the rector was renewed.
“I am very much afraid,” said his lordship, “that the poor widow is not left in very comfortable circumstances. But I will see that something shall be done for her.”
After his lordship had received from the physician his meed of praise for his liberality of intention towards the destitute widow, he proceeded to speak of his own good intentions:
“I am very sorry that I did not see poor Greendale before his death. I had no idea he was in such immediate danger. I certainly should have gone down to the rectory in person, late as it was, had I been aware that the good man was so near his end. However, I did all I could; I sent for the best advice that was to be had.”
This was a very considerate and proper speech. Thus did the Earl of Smatterton liberally repay the compliments which he had received from his medical friend and adviser. It should also be remarked, that the expression which his lordship has used more than once is rather a singularity. He dwelt very much upon the lateness of the hour. Now it was notorious, that in London there was scarcely a single house where night was turned into day and day into night so entirely as in Lord Smatterton’s: but in the country his lordship set a most excellent example of early hours. For, as he very wisely observed, agricultural pursuits require daylight; the poor people in the country cannot bear the expense of candles, and therefore it is highly proper to set them the example of early hours. This was certainly very considerate of his lordship; and for this considerateness he was duly praised by his physician. It is truly astonishing that anybody should ever be censorious, for there is much more to be got by praising than by blaming one’s fellow-creatures.
The physician took a handsome fee and a polite leave; and Colonel Crop just at that moment entered the saloon, having finished his evening’s entertainment at Neverden Hall. To him also was communicated the intelligence of the sudden decease of the worthy rector of Smatterton. And as soon as he heard the information, he said:
“Poor man, I am sorry for him: has he left a family?”
He had not left a family, or, if he had, Colonel Crop would have been very sorry for them too. The hour of rest was arrived, and more than arrived. But Lord Spoonbill enjoyed not the sweets of repose. His mind was torn by conflicting thoughts, and harassed by bitter reflections and self-reproaches. He thought of the mean transaction of the morning and the solemn scene of the evening. For awhile he had a fancy that the principle of virtue was the ascendant feeling of his soul, and he thought that he would not pursue the scheme which he had commenced. He looked at the letter which he had intercepted, and had some faint notions that he should cause it to reach its destination. At all events, he would not be so mean as to open the letter; that was an offence of which he had never been guilty. He consigned the letter to the flames. He thought of Dr Greendale, and he was all virtue and penitence. He thought of Penelope, and considered that it would be a pity for so amiable, and intelligent, and affectionate a creature to be sacrificed to such a dull, plodding, commercial man as Robert Darnley. At length, wearied by a multitude of thoughts, he fell asleep. But ever and anon his rest was broken by painful and frightful dreams. He was grasping the hand of a lovely and interesting one, and was using the language of passion and persuasion, and he looked up to catch the smile of beauty and the languishing look of love—and there were before him the glassy eye, and the quivering lip, and the ghastly looks of death. He felt upon his head the hand of blessing, and then there rung in his ears the horrid language of execration. He saw the mild and venerable form of the pious friend of his early youth, and he heard from his lips the sentiments of devotion and the promises of hope; and then the face was distorted by pain, and the voice was all the harshness of reproach and the keenness of condemnation. Gradually this agitation of the spirits subsided, and the wearied frame sunk into calmer rest; and when the day-light shone into his apartment, and the morning sun awakened the song of the birds, the darkness and gloom of the night were forgotten, and the mind of the young patrician recovered its wonted insensibility and apathy to all that is good and generous. The emotions of the past night were ridiculed, and thus the character received an additional impetus to that which is bad.