“There are other reasons why the Musgraves do not take their proper place. I have hopes, sir,” said Randolph, “that under more favourable circumstances—if we, perhaps, were to draw more together—— ”
“What do you mean, sir?” said the Squire; “it was you who separated yourself from us, not us from you. You were too good, being a clergyman, as you said, to encounter the odium of our position. That’s enough, Randolph. It is not an agreeable subject. Let us dismiss it as it has been dismissed these fifteen years; and come—to Mary’s part of the house.”
“Then, am I to understand,” said Randolph, sharply, rising, yet holding back, “that your mind is changing as old age gains upon you, that you are going to accept the disgrace of the family? and that it is with your sanction that Mary is receiving—adopting—— ”
He stopped, overawed in spite of himself, by the old man’s look, who stood with his face fixed looking towards him, restraining with all his force the tremor of his nerves. The Squire had been subject all his life to sudden fits of passion, and had got the habit of subduing, by ignoring them, as all his family well knew. He made no reply, but the restrained fire in his eyes impressed even the dull imagination of his son, who was pertinacious rather than daring, and had no force in him to stand against passion. Mr. Musgrave turned round quickly, and took up his book, which lay on a table near.
“Mary sent you a copy of the Monograph?” he said; “but I don’t remember that you gave me your opinion of it. It has had a very flattering reception generally. I could not have expected so much interest in the public mind on a question of such exclusive family interest. But so it has been. I have kept all the notices, and the letters I have received on the subject. You shall see them by and by; and I think you will agree with me, that a more flattering reception could scarcely have been. All sorts of people have written to me. It appears,” said the Squire, with modest pride, “that I have really been able to throw some light upon a difficulty. After dinner, Randolph, if you are interested, you shall see my collection.”
“My time is short,” said Randolph, “and with so many more serious matters to discuss—— ”
“I know few things more serious than the history of the family honours,” said the Squire, “especially as you have a boy to inherit the old blazon; but we’ll go into all that this evening, as your stay is to be short. Better come and see Mary before dinner. She will want to know all about your home-concerns, and your wife. The house is unchanged, you will perceive,” the Squire continued, talking cheerfully as he led the way; and the sound of his voice, somewhat high-pitched and shrill with age, travelled far through the old passages. “I hope no sacrilegious hands will ever change the house. My heirs may add to it if they please, but it is a monument of antiquity, which ought never to be touched—except to mend it delicately as Mary mends her old lace. This way, Randolph; I believe you have forgotten the way.”
They were standing in an angle of the fine oak staircase, where the Squire waited till his son came up to him. At this moment a rush of small footsteps, and a whispering voice—“Run, Nello, Nello! he is coming,” was audible above. Randolph looked up quickly, with a look of intelligence, into the old man’s face. But the Squire did not move a muscle. His countenance was blank as that of a deaf man. If he had heard, he allowed no sign of hearing to be visible. “Come along,” he said, “it seems to me that my wind is better than yours even at my time of life,” with a half-sarcastic smile. Was he hard of hearing? a hypothesis rather agreeable to think of; or what was the meaning of it? Were these obnoxious children the pets of the house? but why should they run because he was coming. The hostile visitor was perplexed, and could not make it out. He followed into the drawing-room without a word, while the small footsteps were still audible. Mary was seated at a low table on which there was work, but she was not working. She rose to receive them with a certain formality; for except after dinner, when the Squire would sometimes come for a cup of tea, or when there were visitors in the house, she was generally alone in the low quaint drawing-room, which transported even the unimaginative Randolph back to childhood. The panelled walls, the spindle-legged furniture, the inlaid cabinets and tables, were all exactly as he remembered them. This touched him a little, though he had all the robustness against impression which fortifies a slow intelligence. “It seems like yesterday that I was here,” he said.
This, in her turn, touched Mary, whose excitement made her subject to the lightest flutter of emotion. She smiled at him with greater kindness than she had yet felt. “Yes,” she said. “I feel so sometimes, too, when I look round; but it tells less upon us who are here always. And so much has happened since then.”
“Ah, I suppose so: though you seem to vegetate pretty much in the old ways. Those children though, for instance,” said Randolph, with a laugh, “scurrying off in such haste as we came within hearing, that is not like the old ways. Are you ashamed of them, or afraid to have them here? I should not wonder, for my part.”