Читать книгу Charles Peace, or The Adventures of a Notorious Burglar - Anonymous - Страница 51
ОглавлениеTHE CHILDLESS MAN—IN THE HANDS OF FATE.
The two sons of Lord Ethalwood were perfectly astounded when the news reached them of their sister’s elopement with Signor Montini.
They might and, indeed, ought to have taken her part; but they knew pretty well the hopelessness of any appeal to their father, who was not a man to give way when he had once made up his mind.
They had, indeed, seen so little of their sister, had been so estranged from her for so long a time, had left her so entirely to their father’s disposal that they did not hold themselves responsible for her actions.
Nevertheless, they found it difficult to comprehend how she could have so forgotten herself.
Lord Ethalwood made no loud complaints.
To all appearance he was as calm and impassible as of yore.
If any one attempted to condole with him he held up his hand in a deprecatory manner, which enforced silence.
His sorrow—his anger lay too deep for words.
He did not interrogate any of the household about his daughter’s mode of life, or make any inquiry about Montini.
Servants as a rule are loquacious enough with regard to the movements of their superiors. His gamekeepers could, and, indeed, would have told him of rambles in the woods of Broxbridge, of stolen meetings in the grounds, but their lord and master at once repressed them.
He forbade them ever to mention the names of either the Italian or their young mistress.
The men of course deemed it expedient to keep silent.
The housekeeper began to open her mind to his lordship.
“I do not desire, madam, to enter into the question, and therefore beg that for now and hereafter you will hold your peace. The past has passed away; let it be forgotten.”
The housekeeper made a curtsey and retired.
In a few days after this she received a notice from his lordship, who was then at his town residence, to quit his service.
He did not return till the notice had expired, and she had taken her departure.
She was sagacious enough to understand the cause of her dismissal.
His daughter’s lady maid and two other female servants were also discharged.
Upon Lord Ethalwood’s return to Broxbridge, he summoned his butler, Mr. Jakyl, to his presence. He was sitting alone in his library at this time, and before him rose, like so many ghosts, all the hopes he had centred in his beautiful daughter. He remembered her as a lovely laughing child—as a merry and artless girl. His brow was dark, and his eyes were red with weeping.
Despite his pride, his sternness, his terrible contempt and scorn, there was something pitiful in the proud man’s silent, solitary despair.
Never again was he destined to hear the gay young voice—never more to watch the beautiful face. She was worse, ten thousand times worse, than dead. If she had been snatched from him by the icy fingers of death, he could have loved her still—could have visited her grave—he could have spoken of her, but she was dishonoured and disgraced—she had brought scorn and contempt down upon the very name of Ethalwood.
“Ahem! did you ring, my lord?” said the butler, who had crept so quietly into the room that his master was not aware of his presence. It was a way he had—he was so very soft and gentle in his movements.
“Ah, it’s you, Jakyl.”
The butler bowed.
“Yes, I rang—let me see, what was it for? Ah, I remember. You know the handwriting of your late mistress?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“For the future I desire you to look carefully over all the letters addressed to me before I see them, and, should there be any in the handwriting of your late young mistress, destroy them.”
“Destroy them?”
“Yes, sirrah; burn them—that’s what I mean.”
“Yes, my lord,” returned the butler with another bow.
He was surprised, but was too discreet a man to let any expression of it be seen on his countenance, which was as inexpressive as that of a wax doll.
He withdrew from the apartment in the same noiseless way in which he had entered.
After this time Lord Ethalwood lived as if he had no daughter.
Mr. Jakyl was the only person who knew how many heart-broken letters came to Broxbridge Hall; he never referred again to the subject to any living creature. He knew very well the uncompromising nature of his master, and knew, moreover, that it was more than his place was worth to be outspoken on so painful a subject.
So time passed on, and the name of the young girl who had been his idol in days gone by was never even mentioned; all trace of her had disappeared, and she was as one dead, and to all appearance even the fact of her having had existence was entirely forgotten.
His two sons he took great pride in. He hoped and expected that they would do honour to his name.
Reginald, the eldest, was proud and haughty like his father. The younger one was soft and womanly; he had not by any means so robust a constitution as his brother, but he was a general favourite, being especially kind and considerate to all who came within his influence.
He was his father’s pet, for he never thwarted his parent in any of his whims and fancies; indeed it might be said that he was obedient and yielding to a fault.
Lord Ethalwood could not conceal from himself that this young man had a hectic flush at times, and showed decided symptoms of weakness, or it might be of early decay, and he was seriously concerned when the family physician informed him that his second son required the greatest possible care.
His lordship trembled at the thought of losing one who was so endeared to him, and he could not bear him out of his sight; he was therefore his constant companion, either at Broxbridge or his town residence.
Reginald took great delight in athletic sports, was a member of a yachting club, was a daring rider, and attended most meets in the county and elsewhere.
His father did not much concern himself about him, leaving him to do pretty much as he liked; for he used to say, with a smile, that Reginald was strong enough for anything, and was well able to take care of himself.
Judge of his horror, however, when, one afternoon, he received the sad intelligence that his son, Reginald, had been thrown from his horse while following the hounds in a distant part of the country; and that when picked up the young man was found to be dead. His neck was broken, and he never moved after the fall.
This blow fell with a deadening weight upon the miserable and despairing father.
He could not at first realise it, and it was not until he saw the body of his dead son that he could be brought to believe in the irreparable loss he had sustained.
There were people who at this time, and indeed afterwards, said that he was justly punished for his indomitable pride; and many averred that he had brought most of the troubles on himself.
Such is the charitable construction some people put upon the misfortunes of others.
But the cup of his sorrow was not yet full.
No. 13.
THE LAST LOOK AT JOHN BRISTOW.
A terrible change came over the unhappy and ill-fated nobleman about this time. Long years of toil could not have aged him as his sorrow did. His hair grew white, his face became livid, his eyes lost their wonted fire; and albeit he bore himself bravely under the deep affliction which had fallen upon him, it was easy to see that he was no longer the same man. A shadow had fallen upon him and his, and he was constrained to suffer in silence.
Reginald was interred in the family vault. A noble scion of the house of Ethalwood was gathered to his fathers with all the pomp and ceremony usually accorded to the illustrious dead.
His only remaining son, Herbert, was now his father’s chief, and indeed it might be said only, care. He had no other prop for his declining years, no other to look to as the direct inheritor of his title and estates.
His anxiety about his son, Herbert, was almost pitiful to witness; he was for ever by his side, watching with a jealous care.
It was pretty generally understood by all that the young man was acutely sensible of the loss he had sustained by the death of his brother, Reginald, to say nothing of the mystery in which the fate of his sister was enveloped.
He durst not make any inquiries about her, and even if he had he would have been none the wiser, seeing that nobody knew aught about her. He therefore mourned the loss of each in silence.
He was, physically as well as mentally, incapable of bearing any great affliction, and it is likely enough that the untoward events which had taken place in a measure tended to hasten his decline.
Nothing, however, could have saved him, so his medical attendant declared, for he was suffering from the worst form of consumption.
This fact, however, was kept from his father for as long a time as possible.
Lord Ethalwood hoped against hope. He could not, and would not, up to the very last, believe that his only remaining son was slowly but surely passing away.
“Remember, Herbert, you are the last of the Ethalwoods, my son, the last of our name. Our race all depends upon you. It behoves you, therefore, to take great care of yourself. Live, live, for my sake.”
Then he would sit down and watch the thin features of the young man with the deepest anxiety.
Whether he believed in the possibility of his recovery, or whether he clung to hope as a last refuge, it is not possible to say.
It was perfectly evident to all the inmates of Broxbridge Hall that their young master was daily becoming weaker and weaker, and the end most of them guessed, and even hinted at.
There were many who said the father’s excessive care helped to kill him.
Observations of this nature are cruel enough under any circumstances. In this case they were most unjustifiable and unpardonable.
Busybodies who came to the house declared that the young man had too many doctors, too many nurses, and had taken too many remedies. Those who knew best, however, were perfectly aware that his death was inevitable.
The fiat had gone forth, and no medical skill could arrest the approach of death—Herbert sank to his last sleep in his father’s arms. Lord Ethalwood was left alone in the world.
