"LET IT BE PETER'S GODCHILD."
I have said that I am approaching the conclusion of this my story, and so in truth I am, so far as the readers thereof are concerned in it. They will soon be put in possession of its secret, and close this volume, not altogether without regret, as I hope. But for me, and those who played their parts in this drama of mystery, months and years went by without the least clue to its solution. Fairburn Hall remained without a master, although not untenanted. The same servants occupied it as before, and expected, although with less and less of certainty, that the Squire would presently return and claim his own again. The principal rooms, as was stated, had been locked up and sealed ever since his disappearance, and the very neighbourhood of their doors had begun to be avoided after dark. Noises were affirmed to have been heard in them, both canine and human—doubtless the ghostly talk held between Grimjaw and Sir Massingberd, who had now no longer any reason for silence concerning that evil deed in which they had been concerned together so long ago. The baronet's voice was also heard in the Park and Chase, especially upon windy nights, cursing and threatening in a very vehement and life-like manner, so that his preserves were almost as well protected by the terror of his absence as they had been by that of his presence. Reckless, indeed, must have been the poacher who wired hares or slaughtered pheasants in the Home Spinney, where the dread Sir Massingberd must have met with his end, or been spirited away, no man knew how or whither. Had it not been for this superstitious awe, Oliver Bradford would have found it difficult to guard his master's game, for the old keeper, crippled with age and rheumatism, could no longer watch o' nights himself, nor could he easily induce his subordinates to do so, unless in pairs. They, too, had little liking to be alone in the Home Spinney after dusk, nor near the Wolsey Oak, which of late years had had certain portentous tenants in the shape of the two ravens, which were for ever flying to and fro between it and their lodging in the church tower. The old ancestral saying—
"Ill for Heaths when raven's croak
Bodeful comes from Wolsey's Oak"—
was remembered and repeated by the old folks of Fairburn to the rising generation with many a solemn head-shake and significant pursing of the lips. Yet, oddly enough, the general opinion, even of these ancient gossips, was, that Sir Massingberd was yet alive. The misfortune prophesied by the ravens was held to concern the family, or, in other words, young Marmaduke, rather than his uncle. If the behaviour of these intelligent birds proclaimed that the Squire was dead, they deserved rather to be held as doves of good tidings than what they were. No; Sir Massingberd was alive, and would turn up some day or other, wickeder than ever. His return was as confidently looked for by many of his vassals, as that of Barbarossa was wont to be.
This was not, of course, the case with reasonable persons, like Mr. Long, and, I may add, myself. When a twelvemonth had elapsed since his disappearance, we both entreated Marmaduke to come down to Fairburn, and take possession of what might fairly be considered his own. Mr. Gerard and Mr. Clint were equally anxious that he should do this, but all persuasion was unavailing. The most that could be extracted from him was the promise that, when he came of age, a year and a half hence, he would do as we pleased. It seemed to us, indeed, the height of improbability that his uncle should still be in the land of the living; it seemed so to the money-lenders, who showed themselves anxious to accommodate the young man with enormous loans at a very trifling rate of interest; but to the heir himself it by no means appeared so certain. There was something characteristic, he thought, of his terrible uncle in this mysterious withdrawal from human ken, with the fiendish object of throwing everything out of gear for years, and thus striking terror by his sudden reappearance. If he did reappear and found another—and that one his hated nephew—in the enjoyment of his property, how diabolical would be his wrath! There was often quite a sublimity of passion evinced by the old baronet upon very slight occasions; but all such displays, compared to what would happen in the case supposed, would have been but as a cavalry inspection at the Curragh to the Balaklava charge. Such were the thoughts, I am convinced, which actuated Marmaduke, although he did not express them. He confined himself to stating that he did not consider he had a right to take possession of Fairburn until the time he mentioned had elapsed (nor, indeed, was he legally entitled to do so for seven years), and I doubt if he would have given even that promise, had he not felt sure that some revelation would be made in the meantime.
But no such revelation was made, and the day of Marmaduke Heath's majority came round at last. Whether he would even then have put his purpose of coming down to Fairburn into effect, had it depended solely upon himself, I cannot say, but he had by that time other interests to consult beside his own. Marmaduke Heath and Lucy Gerard were man and wife; nor, if you had sought all England through, would you have chanced upon a nobler-looking couple. At that period, although it was not so afterwards, the dependence, the reliance, the looking up for comfort and for counsel, so natural and so endearing in wedded life, were upon the wrong side—upon Marmaduke's, not Lucy's. All that was done in respect to his affairs was done by her; he only thought about doing them, and resisted their being done until the very last, when, all other means having failed, her sweet voice was called in by the councillors for his good, and always succeeded. In one matter only had Marmaduke refused even to listen to her—he had insisted upon raising a very large sum upon his now excellent expectations, and settling it upon her before his marriage. In vain he had been assured that such a settlement was unnecessary, and the interest he would have to pay for the money borrowed, absolutely thrown away. The young man had his way in this; and on the day after the execution of the deed in question they were married. I had determined within myself not to be present at that wedding, in spite of a very pressing invitation, and although Mr. Long himself attended it.
"What, not go to see Marmaduke married?" cried my tutor, when I told him of this intention. I call him still by that name, although he was at this time merely my host, with whom I was stopping during one of my Oxford vacations. "Why, Meredith, you astonish me beyond measure. I am sure that neither of them will think I have rightly married them, unless you are there to be bridegroom's man. Why, Lucy Gerard loves you, Peter, almost as much as she does Marmaduke himself; while Mr. Gerard, between you and me, would, I think, have preferred——" Then I broke down all of a sudden, and laid my face between my hands upon the table, and sobbed like a child.
"Peter, Peter, my dear boy," exclaimed the Rector, laying his fingers—ah, so pitifully—upon my head; "I had not dreamed of this. Poor lad, poor lad, God comfort you and strengthen you; I feel for you as though you were my very own son. What blind worms must we have been not to have seen this before; or, rather, how bravely must you have hidden it from us all! She doesn't know it, does she? I trust not. Then let her never know it, Peter. I do not speak of others, for your feelings deserve to be considered as much, and more, dear lad. But, oh, think of hers. What bitterness will mingle with her cup of happiness upon that day, when she feels that you are absent from such a cause—for she will guess the cause at once, Peter."
"I will be ill," groaned I. "Heaven knows that I shall feel ill enough, and that shall be my excuse."
"And do you think Marmaduke would marry, knowing that his best friend lies ill and alone here? He would never do that. They would feel, I hope, too, that if it were so, I should not have left you. No, Peter; you have been very strong hitherto—be strong unto the end. Let her never know that you have suffered and are suffering now for her sweet sake."