Lost Sir Massingberd: A Romance of Real Life. v. 2/2
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CHAPTER XVII.
THE FAIRY'S WAND.
There are but few of us, I fear, who can say: "Though I should diesuddenly, and at the most unlooked-for time, there will be nothing leftbehind me which I would have destroyed, even though I had had theopportunity." Of course there are none who can boast that they are atpeace with all mankind; that they leave nothing unrepented of orunatoned for; that their human affairs and social relations are exactlywhere they would have wished them to be. But independent of thesematters, neglected by the very best of us, how eagerly must many a mandesire, between the warning and swift stroke of death, that he had hadbut a little time--a little strength to set, not, indeed, his house inorder, but his desk and his note-book. What a cruel shock have many afamily received, after they have lost the Head whom they have worshippedso many years, by discovering, where they looked for no such thing,_after his death_, that he had all along (as will be thought) been evensuch a one--_not_ as themselves, but worse--as they whom they had beentaught by his own self to look upon with contempt, or at least withpity; as they who, by contrast with himself, were persons base and vile.Is there no letter, reader, ragged and time-worn, perhaps, but stilllegible, lying among that heap of correspondence you intend to winnowsome day--which it will be better to burn _now_? Is there nohalf-forgotten gift, meant for your own eyes alone, when they werebrighter than at present, which it would be well to make an end of thisvery day? Can you say: "Even though I do not return home to night, orever again, but am smashed by a railway locomotive, or driven over by a'bus, or poisoned in a cab, yet there will be nothing of mine, nothingwhen my friends take stock of my personal effects, of which I need beashamed." If so, thou art a good man indeed--or one of exceedingprudence. Above all things, my friends, be good, for that is best; butif not, at least be prudent. Let your memories be sullied with no stain,at all events in the thoughts of those you leave at home. The actions ofthe unjust blossom in their dust into flowers compared with which thedeadly nightshade is as the violet or the rose. The satirist tells usthat in a week, a month, a year at most, the memory of a dead man dieseven from the hearts of those he held most dear. This is not true; butthe satirist would have been severer yet, and have spoken truth as well,had he said that the memory of a dead man, so far as his vice andwickedness are concerned, dies not at all among his kin. It is spoken ofin whispers by the purest, and renders them less pure; it is made lightof by the vicious, but only to excuse their wrongful acts by a worseexample. "Wild as I may be, I am not so wild as the governor was in hisday," is a terrible legacy of comfort to leave behind one to one's son.
It is possible that even Sir Massingberd Heath may at some far-back timehave deemed it necessary to lay to his soul some flattering unction ofthis kind. There were Sir Wentworth and Sir Nicholas, and many a Heathto extenuate his acts, if bad example might do it. But the time came tohim, and very early in life, when he had no longer this slenderjustification, since he had outdone his worse progenitor in vice andfolly. Mr. Clint had known, Mr. Long had guessed--we all of us hadsuspected more or less that the lost baronet's life had been evil beyondthat of an ordinary man; but the dumb revelations which were madeconcerning it in the necessary examination of his papers, were simplyshocking. After destroying these, the next approach to cleansingFairburn Hall was to discharge all the indoor domestics. Mr. RichardGilmore resented this conduct towards a faithful servant of the family,as he styled himself, very bitterly; but he departed with the rest,laden, there is little doubt with a very considerable plunder. Presentlythe upholsterers came down from town with a great following ofworkpeople, and a caravan of waggons, bearing costly furniture; then ahost of servants, selected with as much care as was possible, replacedthe exiles; and when all was ready within and without--the waste placesof the grounds being reclaimed, and put upon the same footing with thosewhich hitherto had alone been "kept up"--Sir Marmaduke Heath and hiswife themselves took possession of Fairburn Hall.
Art had already done much to change that sombre house into a comfortableas well as splendid mansion; but the presence of its new mistress didmore than all to rescue it from the long tyranny of decay and gloom.Beneath her smile, the shadows of the past could take no shape, butvanished, thin and pale. She would allow them nowhere resting-place.Where they had been wont to gather thickest to her husband's eyes, shequelled them by her radiant presence, day and night. The Oak Parlourand its adjoining bedroom; she formed into a double boudoir for her ownsweet self; and straightway all bat-winged, harpy-headed memories, thebrood of evil deeds, flew from it as the skirts of Night before thedawn, and in their place an angel-throng came fluttering in, and made ittheir abode. No stage-fairy, wand in hand, ever effectedtransformation-scene more charming and complete. One fear, and onealone, now agitated Marmaduke's heart, for the safety of his pricelesswife in her approaching trial. He would have gladly cancelled nature'sgracious promise, and lived childless all his days, rather than any riskshould befall Lucy. His friends, his servants, and the villagers,brimful of hope that there should be an heir to Fairburn, flowed over inearnest congratulations; but for his part, he felt apprehensive only.His heart experienced no yearning for the child who might endanger themother.
In accordance with her plan of ignoring all that had gone before ofshame and sorrow, and regenerating evil places with a baptism of joy,Lady Heath had chosen the state chamber itself as her sleepingapartment, and there in due time she safely brought forth a son. Uponhis knees, Marmaduke thanked Heaven for the blessing which was thusvouchsafed to him, but above all, in that it had brought with it nocurse. Verily had the house of mourning become the house of feasting,and the chamber of sorrow the chamber of mirth.
The unconscious father had been sitting by the library fire,endeavouring vainly to distract his mind from what was occurringupstairs, and turning his eyes restlessly ever and anon towards thedoor, when the voice of Dr. Sitwell suddenly broke the silence.
"Sir Marmaduke, I congratulate you; you have a son and heir."
"And my wife?" cried the husband impatiently.
"She is as well as can possibly be expected, I do assure you."
"You are very welcome," exclaimed the young baronet; "and would havebeen so, although you had chosen to burst your way in with a torpedo.But I confess you startled me a good deal."
"I am afraid I did," returned the doctor, in a voice like a stream ofmilk and honey, "although it was not my intention to do so. But the factis, I did not come in by the door at all. Her ladyship desired that Ishould bring you the good news by way of Jacob's Ladder; and I may add,that you may come back with me that way and see her yourself for justone quarter of a minute."
So even Jacob's Ladder was made a pleasant thoroughfare to Marmaduke,and dearer from that hour than all staircases of wood or stone.