“Age has its penalties as well as its blessings, sir,” said Leslie, “and amongst these is to outlive those dear to us!” There was a painful significance to his own desolate condition that made these words doubly impressive.
Repton made no reply, but pulled the bell strongly; and the loud, deep sounds rung out clearly through the silent house. After a brief interval a small window above the door was opened, and a man with a blunderbuss in his hand sternly demanded their business.
“Oh, I ax pardon, sir,” said he, as suddenly correcting himself. “I thought it was that man that 's come to take the place,—'the Jew,' they call him,—and Mr. Magennis said I was n't to let him in, or one belonging to him.”
“No, Barney, we are not his friends,” said Dr. Leslie; “this is Mr. Repton.”
“Sure I know the Counsellor well, sir,” said Barney. “I 'll be down in a minute and open the door.”
“I must go to work at once,” said Repton, in a low and somewhat broken voice, “or this place will be too much for me. Every step I go is calling up old times and old scenes. I had thought my heart was of sterner stuff. Isn't this the way to the library? No, not that way,—that was poor Martin's own breakfast-room!” He spoke hurriedly, like one who wished to suppress emotion by very activity of thought.
While the man who conducted them opened the window-shutters and the windows, Repton and his companion sat down without speaking. At last he withdrew, and Repton, rising, said,—“Some of the happiest hours of my life were passed in this same room. I used to come up here after the fatigues of circuit, and, throwing myself into one of those easy-chairs, dream away for a day or two, gazing out on that bold mountain yonder, above the trees, and wondering how those fellows who never relaxed, in this wise, could sustain the wear and tear of life; for that junketing to Harrow-gate, that rattling, noisy steamboating up the Rhine, that Cockney heroism of Swiss travel, is my aversion. The calm forenoon for thought, the pleasant dinner-table for genial enjoyment afterwards,—these are true recreations. And what evenings we have had here! But I must not dwell on these.” And now he threw upon the table a mass of papers and letters, amongst which he sought out one, from which he took a small key. “Dr. Leslie,” said he, “you might have been assured that I have not called upon you to meet me to-day without a sufficient reason. I know that, from certain causes, of which I am not well informed, you were not on terms of much intimacy with my poor friend here. This is not a time to think of these things; you, I am well assured, will never remember them.”
Leslie made a motion of assent; and the other went on, his voice gradually gaining in strength and fulness, and his whole manner by degrees assuming the characteristic of the lawyer.
“To the few questions to which I will ask your answers, now, I have to request all your attention. They are of great importance; they may, very probably, be re-asked of you under more solemn circumstances; and I have to bespeak, not alone all your accuracy for the replies, but that you may be able, if asked, to state the manner and even the words in which I now address you.—You have been the incumbent of this parish for a length of time,—what number of years?”
“Sixty-three. I was appointed to the vicarage on my ordination, and never held any other charge.”