Felix Holt, the Radical

  CHAPTER XIV.

  This man's metallic; at a sudden blow His soul rings hard. I cannot lay my palm, Trembling with life, upon that jointed brass. I shudder at the cold unanswering touch; But if it press me in response, I'm bruised.

  The next morning, when the Debarrys, including the rector, who hadridden over to the Manor early, were still seated at breakfast,Christian came in with a letter, saying that it had been brought by aman employed at the chapel in Malthouse Yard, who had been ordered bythe minister to use all speed and care in the delivery.

  The letter was addressed to Sir Maximus.

  "Stay, Christian, it may possibly refer to the lost pocket-book," saidPhilip Debarry, who was beginning to feel rather sorry for his factotum,as a reaction from previous suspicions and indignation.

  Sir Maximus opened the letter and felt for his glasses, but then said,"Here, you read it, Phil: the man writes a hand like small print."

  Philip cast his eyes over it, and then read aloud in a tone ofsatisfaction:--

  SIR,--I send this letter to apprise you that I have now in my possession certain articles, which, last evening, at about half-past seven o'clock, were found lying on the grass at the western extremity of your park. The articles are =1=, a well-filled pocket-book, of brown leather, fastened with a black ribbon and with a seal of red wax; =2=, a small note-book, covered with gilded vellum, whereof the clasp was burst, and from out whereof had partly escaped a small chain, with seals and a locket attached, the locket bearing on the back a device, and round the face a female name.

  Whereof I request that you will further my effort to place these articles in the right hands, by ascertaining whether any person within your walls claims them as his property, and by sending that person to me (if such be found); for I will on no account let them pass from my care save into that of one who, declaring himself to be the owner, can state to me what is the impression on the seal, and what the device and name upon the locket.

  I am, sir, yours to command in all right dealing,

  Malthouse Yard. Oct. 3, 1832. RUFUS LYON.

  "Well done, old Lyon," said the rector; "I didn't think that anycomposition of his would ever give me so much pleasure."

  "What an old fox it is!" said Sir Maximus. "Why couldn't he send thethings to me at once along with the letter?"

  "No, no, Max; he uses a justifiable caution," said the rector, a refinedand rather severe likeness of his brother, with a ring of fearlessnessand decision in his voice which startled all flaccid men and unrulyboys. "What are you going to do, Phil?" he added, seeing his nephewrise.

  "To write, of course. Those other matters are yours, I suppose?" saidMr. Debarry, looking at Christian.

  "Yes, sir."

  "I shall send you with a letter to the preacher. You can describe yourown property. And the seal, uncle--was it your coat-of-arms?"

  "No, it was this head of Achilles. Here, I can take it off the ring, andyou can carry it, Christian. But don't lose that, for I've had it eversince eighteen hundred. I should like to send my compliments with it,"the rector went on, looking at his brother, "and beg that since he hasso much wise caution at command, he would exercise a little in morepublic matters, instead of making himself a firebrand in my parish, andteaching hucksters and tape-weavers that it's their business to dictateto statesmen."

  "How did Dissenters, and Methodists, and Quakers, and people of thatsort first come up, uncle?" said Miss Selina, a radiant girl oftwenty, who had given much time to the harp.

  "Dear me, Selina," said her elder sister, Harriet, whose forte wasgeneral knowledge, "don't you remember 'Woodstock'? They were inCromwell's time."

  "Oh! Holdenough, and those people? Yes; but they preached in thechurches; they had no chapels. Tell me, uncle Gus; I like to be wise,"said Selina, looking up at the face which was smiling down on her with asort of severe benignity. "Phil says I'm an ignorant puss."

  "The seeds of Nonconformity were sown at the Reformation, my dear, whensome obstinate man made scruples about surplices and the place of thecommunion-table, and other trifles of that sort. But the Quakers came upabout Cromwell's time, and the Methodists only in the last century. Thefirst Methodists were regular clergymen, the more's the pity."

  "But all those wrong things, why didn't government put them down?"

  "Ah, to be sure," fell in Sir Maximus, in a cordial tone ofcorroboration.

  "Because error is often strong, and government is often weak, my dear.Well, Phil, have you finished your letter?"

  "Yes, I will read it to you," said Philip, turning and leaning over theback of his chair with the letter in his hand.

  There is a portrait of Mr. Philip Debarry still to be seen at TrebyManor, and a very fine bust of him at Rome, where he died fifteen yearslater, a convert to Catholicism. His face would have been plain but forthe exquisite setting of his hazel eyes, which fascinated even the dogsof the household. The other features, though slight and irregular, wereredeemed from triviality by the stamp of gravity and intellectualpreoccupation in his face and bearing. As he read aloud, his voice waswhat his uncle's might have been if it had been modulated by delicatehealth and a visitation of self-doubt.

  SIR,--In reply to the letter with which you have favored me this morning, I beg to state that the articles you describe were lost from the pocket of my servant, who is the bearer of this letter to you, and is the claimant of the vellum note-book and the gold chain. The large leathern pocket-book is my own property and the impression on the wax, a helmeted head of Achilles, was made by my uncle, the Reverend Augustus Debarry, who allows me to forward this seal to you in proof that I am not making a mistaken claim.

  I feel myself under deep obligation to you, sir, for the care and trouble you have taken in order to restore to its right owner a piece of property which happens to be of particular importance to me. And I shall consider myself doubly fortunate if at any time you can point out to me some method by which I may procure you as lively a satisfaction as I am now feeling, in that full and speedy relief from anxiety which I owe to your considerate conduct.

  I remain, sir, your obliged and faithful servant, PHILIP DEBARRY.

  "You know best, Phil, of course," said Sir Maximus, pushing his platefrom him, by way of interjection. "But it seems to me you exaggeratepreposterously every little service a man happens to do for you. Whyshould you make a general offer of that sort? How do you know what hewill be asking you to do? Stuff and nonsense! Tell Willis to send him afew head of game. You should think twice before you give a blank checkof that sort to one of these quibbling, meddlesome Radicals."

  "You are afraid of my committing myself to 'the bottomless perjury of anet cetera,'" said Philip, smiling, as he turned to fold his letter. "ButI think I am not doing any mischief; at all events I could not becontent to say less. And I have a notion that he would regard a presentof game just now as an insult. I should, in his place."

  "Yes, yes, you; but you don't make yourself a measure of Dissentingpreachers, I hope," said Sir Maximus, rather wrathfully. "What do yousay, Gus?"

  "Phil is right," said the rector, in an absolute tone. "I would not dealwith a Dissenter, or put profits into the pocket of a Radical which Imight put into the pocket of a good Churchman and a quiet subject. Butif the greatest scoundrel in the world made way for me, or picked my hatup, I would thank him. So would you, Max."

  "Pooh! I didn't mean that one shouldn't behave like a gentleman," saidSir Maximus, in some vexation. He had great pride in his son'ssuperiority even to himself; but he did not quite trust the dim visionopened by Phil's new words and new notions. He could only submit insilence while the letter was delivered to Christian, with the order tostart for Malthouse Yard immediately.

  Meanwhile, in that somewhat dim locality the possible claimant of thenote-book and the chain was thought of and expected with
palpitatingagitation. Mr. Lyon was seated in his study, looking haggard and alreadyaged from a sleepless night. He was so afraid lest his emotion shoulddeprive him of the presence of mind necessary to the due attention toparticulars in the coming interview, that he continued to occupy hissight and touch with the objects which had stirred the depths, not onlyof memory, but of dread. Once again he unlocked a small box which stoodbeside his desk, and took from it a little oval locket, and comparedthis with one which hung with the seals on the stray gold chain. Therewas the same device in enamel on the back of both: clasped handssurrounded with blue flowers. Both had round the face a name in golditalics on a blue ground: the name on the locket taken from the drawerwas _Maurice_; the name on the locket which hung with the seals was_Annette_, and within the circle of this name there was a lover's knotof light brown hair, which matched a curl that lay in the box. The hairin the locket which bore the name of Maurice was of a very dark brown,and before returning it to the drawer Mr. Lyon noted the color andquality of this hair more carefully than ever. Then he recurred to thenote-book: undoubtedly there had been something, probably a third name,beyond the names _Maurice Christian_, which had themselves been rubbedand slightly smeared as if by accident; and from the very firstexamination in the vestry, Mr. Lyon could not prevent himself fromtransferring the mental image of the third name in faint lines to therubbed leather. The leaves of the note-book seemed to have been recentlyinserted; they were of fresh white paper, and only bore someabbreviations in pencil with a notation of small sums. Nothing could begathered from the comparison of the writing in the book with that of theyellow letters which lay in the box; the smeared name had been carefullyprinted, and so bore no resemblance to the signature of those letters;and the pencil abbreviations and figures had been made too hurriedly tobear any decisive witness. "I will ask him to write--to write adescription of the locket," had been one of Mr. Lyon's thoughts; but hefaltered in that intention. His power of fulfilling it must depend onwhat he saw in this visitor, of whose coming he had a horrible dread, atthe very time he was writing to demand it. In that demand he was obeyingthe voice of his rigid conscience, which had never left him perfectly atrest under his one act of deception--the concealment from Esther that hewas not her natural father, the assertion of a false claim upon her."Let my path be henceforth simple," he had said to himself in theanguish of that night; "let me seek to know what is, and if possible todeclare it." If he was really going to find himself face to face withthe man who had been Annette's husband, and who was Esther's father--ifthat wandering of his from the light had brought the punishment of ablind sacrilege as the issue of a conscious transgression,--he prayedthat he might be able to accept all consequences of pain to himself. Buthe saw other possibilities concerning the claimant of the book andchain. His ignorance and suspicions as to the history and character ofAnnette's husband made it credible that he had laid a plan forconvincing her of his death as a means of freeing himself from aburdensome tie; but it seemed equally probable that he was really dead,and that these articles of property had been a bequest, or a payment, oreven a sale, to their present owner. Indeed, in all these years there wasno knowing into how many hands such pretty trifles might have passed.And the claimant might, after all, have no connection with the Debarrys;he might not come on this day or the next. There might be more time leftfor reflection and prayer.

  All these possibilities, which would remove the pressing need fordifficult action, Mr. Lyon represented to himself, but he had noeffective belief in them; his belief went with his strongest feeling,and in these moments his strongest feeling was dead. He trembled underthe weight that seemed already added to his own sin; he felt himselfalready confronted by Annette's husband and Esther's father. Perhaps thefather was a gentleman on a visit to the Debarrys. There was nohindering the pang with which the old man said to himself--

  "The child will not be sorry to leave this poor home, and I shall beguilty in her sight."

  He was walking about among the rows of books when there came a loud rapat the outer door. The rap shook him so that he sank into his chair,feeling almost powerless. Lyddy presented herself.

  "Here's ever such a fine man from the Manor wants to see you, sir. Dearheart, dear heart! shall I tell him you're too bad to see him?"

  "Show him up," said Mr. Lyon, making an effort to rally. When Christianappeared, the minister half rose, leaning on an arm of his chair, andsaid, "Be seated, sir," seeing nothing but that a tall man was entering.

  "I've brought you a letter from Mr. Debarry," said Christian, in anoff-hand manner. The rusty little man, in his dismal chamber, seemed tothe Ulysses of the steward's room a pitiable sort of human curiosity, towhom a man of the world would speak rather loudly, in accommodation toan eccentricity which was likely to be accompanied with deafness. Onecannot be eminent in everything; and if Mr. Christian had dispersed hisfaculties in study that would have enabled him to share unconventionalpoints of view, he might have worn a mistaken kind of boot, and beenless competent to win at _ecarte_, or at betting, or in any othercontest suitable to a person of figure.

  As he seated himself, Mr. Lyon opened the letter, and held it close tohis eyes, so that his face was hidden. But at the word "servant" hecould not avoid starting, and looking off the letter toward the bearer.Christian, knowing what was in the letter, conjectured that the old manwas amazed to learn that so distinguished-looking a personage was aservant; he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, balanced hiscane on his fingers, and began a whispering whistle. The ministerchecked himself, finished the reading of the letter, and then slowly andnervously put on his spectacles to survey this man, between whose fateand his own there might be a terrible collision. The word "servant" hadbeen a fresh caution to him. He must do nothing rashly. Esther's lot wasdeeply concerned.

  "Here is the seal mentioned in the letter," said Christian.

  Mr. Lyon drew the pocket-book from his desk, and after comparing theseal with the impression, said, "It is right, sir: I deliver thepocket-book to you."

  He held it out with the seal, and Christian rose to take them, sayingcarelessly, "The other things--the chain and the little book--are mine."

  "Your name then is----"

  "Maurice Christian."

  A spasm shot through Mr. Lyon. It had seemed possible that he might hearanother name, and be freed from the worse half of his anxiety. His nextwords were not wisely chosen, but escaped him impulsively.

  "And you have no other name?"

  "What do you mean?" said Christian, sharply.

  "Be so good as to reseat yourself."

  Christian did not comply. "I'm rather in a hurry, sir," he said,recovering his coolness. "If it suits you to restore to me those smallarticles of mine, I shall be glad; but I would rather leave them behindthan be detained." He had reflected that the minister was simply apunctilious old bore. The question meant nothing else. But Mr. Lyon hadwrought himself up to the task of finding out, then and there, ifpossible, whether or not this were Annette's husband. How could he layhimself and his sin before God if he wilfully declined to learn thetruth? "Nay, sir, I will not detain you unreasonably," he said, in afirmer tone than before. "How long have these articles been yourproperty?"

  "Oh, for more than twenty years," said Christian, carelessly.

  He was not altogether easy under the minister's persistence, but forthat very reason he showed no more impatience.

  "You have been in France and in Germany?"

  "I have been in most countries on the continent."

  "Be so good as to write me your name," said Mr. Lyon, dipping a pen inink, and holding it out with a piece of paper.

  Christian was much surprised, but not now greatly alarmed. In his rapidconjectures as to the explanation of the minister's curiosity, he hadalighted on one which might carry advantage rather than inconvenience.But he was not going to commit himself.

  "Before I oblige you there, sir," he said, laying down the pen, andlooking straight at Mr. Lyon, "I must know exactly the reasons
you havefor putting these questions to me. You are a stranger to me--anexcellent person, I dare say--but I have no concern about you fartherthan to get from you those small articles. Do you still doubt that theyare mine? You wished, I think, that I should tell you what the locket islike. It has a pair of hands and blue flowers on one side and the nameAnnette round the hair on the other side. That is all I have to say. Ifyou wish for anything more from me, you will be good enough to tell mewhy you wish it. Now then, sir, what is your concern with me?"

  The cool stare, the hard challenging voice, with which these words wereuttered, made them fall like the beating cutting chill of heavy hail onMr. Lyon. He sank back in his chair in utter irresolution andhelplessness. How was it possible to lay bare the sad and sacred past inanswer to such a call as this? The dread with which he had thought ofthis man's coming, the strongly-confirmed suspicion that he was reallyAnnette's husband, intensified the antipathy created by his gestures andglances. The sensitive little minister knew instinctively that wordswhich would cost him efforts as painful as the obedient footsteps of awounded bleeding hound that wills a foreseen throe, would fall on thisman as the pressure of tender fingers falls on a brazen glove. AndEsther--if this man was her father, every additional word might help tobring down irrevocable, perhaps cruel consequences on her. A thick mistseemed to have fallen where Mr. Lyon was looking for the track of duty:the difficult question, how far he was to care for consequences inseeking and avowing the truth, seemed anew obscured. All these things,like the vision of a coming calamity, were compressed into a moment ofconsciousness. Nothing could be done to-day; everything must bedeferred. He answered Christian in a low apologetic tone.

  "It is true, sir; you have told me all I can demand. I have nosufficient reason for detaining your property further."

  He handed the note-book and chain to Christian, who had been observinghim narrowly, and now said, in a tone of indifference, as he pocketedthe articles--

  "Very good, sir. I wish you a good-morning."

  "Good-morning," said Mr. Lyon, feeling, while the door closed behind hisguest, that mixture of uneasiness and relief which all procrastinationof difficulty produces in minds capable of strong forecast. The workwas still to be done. He had still before him the task of learningeverything that could be learned about this man's relation to himselfand Esther.

  Christian, as he made his way back along Malthouse Lane, was thinking,"This old fellow has got some secret in his head. It's not likely he canknow anything about me: it must be about Bycliffe. But Bycliffe was agentleman: how should he ever have had anything to do with such a seedyold ranter as that?"