CHAPTER II.
"O world, thou wast the forest to this hart,
* * * * *
Dost thou here lie?"--/Julius Caesar/.
AS Lumley leapt from his horse at his uncle's door, the disorder and
bustle of those demesnes, in which the severe eye of the master usually
preserved a repose and silence as complete as if the affairs of life
were carried on by clockwork, struck upon him sensibly. Upon the trim
lawn the old women employed in cleaning and weeding the walks were all
assembled in a cluster, shaking their heads ominously in concert, and
carrying on their comments in a confused whisper. In the hall, the
housemaid (and it was the first housemaid whom Lumley had ever seen in
that house, so invisibly were the wheels of the domestic machine carried
on) was leaning on her broom, "swallowing with open mouth a footman's
news." It was as if, with the first slackening of the rigid rein, human
nature broke loose from the conventual stillness in which it had ever
paced its peaceful path in that formal mansion.
"How is he?"
"My lord is better, sir; he has spoken, I believe."
At this moment a young face, swollen and red with weeping, looked down
from the stairs; and presently Evelyn rushed breathlessly into the hall.
"Oh, come up--come up--cousin Lumley; he cannot, cannot die in your
presence; you always seem so full of life! He cannot die; you do not
think he will die? Oh, take me with you, they won't let me go to him!"
"Hush, my dear little girl, hush; follow me lightly--that is right."
Lumley reached the door, tapped gently--entered; and the child also
stole in unobserved or at least unprevented. Lumley drew aside the
curtains; the new lord was lying on his bed, with his head propped by
pillows, his eyes wide open, with a glassy, but not insensible stare,
and his countenance fearfully changed.
Lady Vargrave was kneeling on the other side of the bed, one hand
clasped in her husband's, the other bathing his temples, and her tears
falling, without sob or sound, fast and copiously down her pale fair
cheeks.
Two doctors were conferring in the recess of the window; an apothecary
was mixing drugs at a table; and two of the oldest female servants of
the house were standing near the physicians, trying to overhear what was
said.
"My dear, dear uncle, how are you?" asked Lumley.
"Ah, you are come, then," said the dying man, in a feeble yet distinct
voice; "that is well--I have much to say to you."
"But not now--not now--you are not strong enough," said the wife,
imploringly.
The doctors moved to the bedside. Lord Vargrave waved his hand, and
raised his head.
"Gentlemen," said he, "I feel as if death were hastening upon me; I have
much need, while my senses remain, to confer with my nephew. Is the
present a fitting time?--if I delay, are you sure that I shall have
another?"
The doctors looked at each other.
"My lord," said one, "it may perhaps settle and relieve your mind to
converse with your nephew; afterwards you may more easily compose
yourself to sleep."
"Take this cordial, then," said the other doctor.
The sick man obeyed. One of the physicians approached Lumley, and
beckoned him aside.
"Shall we send for his lordship's lawyer?" whispered the leech.
"I am his heir-at-law," thought Lumley. "Why, /no/, my dear sir--no, I
think not, unless he expresses a desire to see him; doubtless my poor
uncle has already settled his worldly affairs. What is his state?"
The doctor shook his head. "I will speak to you, sir, after you have
left his lordship."
"What is the matter there?" cried the patient, sharply and querulously.
"Clear the room--I would be alone with my nephew."
The doctors disappeared; the old women reluctantly followed; when,
suddenly, the little Evelyn sprang forward and threw herself on the
breast of the dying man, sobbing as if her heart would break.
"My poor child!--my sweet child--my own, own darling!" gasped out Lord
Vargrave, folding his weak arms round her; "bless you--bless you! and
God will bless you. My wife," he added, with a voice far more tender
than Lumley had ever before heard him address to Lady Vargrave, "if
these be the last words I utter to you, let them express all the
gratitude I feel for you, for duties never more piously discharged: you
did not love me, it is true; and in health and pride that knowledge
often made me unjust to you. I have been severe--you have had much to
bear--forgive me."
"Oh! do not talk thus; you have been nobler, kinder than my deserts.
How much I owe you--how little I have done in return!"
"I cannot bear this; leave me, my dear, leave me. I may live yet--I
hope I may--I do not want to die. The cup may pass from me.
Go--go--and you, my child."
"Ah, let /me/ stay."
Lord Vargrave kissed the little creature, as she clung to his neck, with
passionate affection, and then, placing her in her mother's arms, fell
back exhausted on his pillow. Lumley, with handkerchief to his eyes,
opened the door to Lady Vargrave, who sobbed bitterly, and carefully
closing it, resumed his station by his uncle.
When Lumley Ferrers left the room, his countenance was gloomy and
excited rather than sad. He hurried to the room which he usually
occupied, and remained there for some hours while his uncle slept--a
long and sound sleep. But the mother and the stepchild (now restored to
the sick-room) did not desert their watch.
It wanted about an hour to midnight, when the senior physician sought
the nephew.
"Your uncle asks for you, Mr. Ferrers; and I think it right to say that
his last moments approach. We have done all that can be done."
"Is he fully aware of his danger?"
"He is; and has spent the last two hours in prayer--it is a Christian's
death-bed, sir."
"Humph!" said Ferrers, as he followed the physician. The room was
darkened--a single lamp, carefully shaded, burned on a table, on which
lay the Book of Life in Death: and with awe and grief on their faces,
the mother and the child were kneeling beside the bed.
"Come here, Lumley," faltered forth the fast-dying man.
"There are none here but you three--nearest and dearest to me?--That is
well. Lumley, then, you know all--my wife, he knows all. My child,
give your hand to your cousin--so you are now plighted. When you grow
up, Evelyn, you will know that it is my last wish and prayer that you
should be the wife of Lumley Ferrers. In giving you this angel, Lumley,
I atone to you for all seeming injustice. And to you, my child, I
secure the rank and honours to which I have painfully climbed, and which
I am forbidden to enjoy. Be kind to her, Lumley--you have a good and
frank heart--let it be her shelter--she has never known a harsh word.
God bless you all, and God forgive me--pray for me. Lumley, to-morrow
you will be Lord Vargrave, and by and by" (here a ghastly, but exultant
smile flitted over the speaker's countenance), "you will be my
Lady--Lady Vargrave. Lady--so--so--Lady Var--"
The words died on his trembling lips; he turned round, and, though he
continued to breathe for more than an hour, Lord Vargrave never uttered
another syllable.
