CHAPTER XII
ALTON GRANGE
A dreary old place was Alton Grange, and one which would have had asobering, not to say saddening, effect, even on the most mercurialtemperament. To one naturally of a melancholy turn of mind, its aspectwas positively dispiriting. Outside the house the grounds wereovergrown with plantations and shrubberies, unthinned, and luxuriatinginto a wilderness that was not devoid of beauty, but it was a beauty ofa sombre and uncomfortable character. Every tree and shrub of thedarkest hues, seemed to shut out the sunlight from Alton Grange. Hugecedars overshadowed the slope behind the house; hollies, junipers, andyew hedges kept the garden in perpetual night. Old-fashioned terraces,that should have been kept in perfect repair, were sliding into decaywith mouldering walls and unpropped banks, whilst a broken stonesun-dial, where sun never shone, served but to attract attention to thegeneral dilapidation around.
It was not the old family place of the Egertons. That was in a northerncounty, and had been sold by my father in his days of wild extravagance,long ago; but he had succeeded to it in right of his mother, at a timewhen he had resolved, if possible, to save some remnant from the wreckof his property, and, when in England, he had resided here ever since.To me it was home, and dearly I loved it, with all its dulness and allits decay. The inside corresponded with the exterior. Dark passages,black wainscotings, everywhere the absence of light; small as were thewindows, they were overhung with creepers, and the walls were coveredwith ivy; damp in winter, darkness in summer, were the distinguishingqualities of the old house. Of furniture there was but a scanty supply,and that of the most old-fashioned description: high-backed chairs ofcarved oak, black leathern _fauteuils_, chimney-pieces that the tallesthousemaid could never reach to dust, would have impressed on a strangerideas of anything but comfort, whilst the decorations were confined totwo or three hideous old pictures, representing impossible sufferings ofcertain fabulous martyrs; and one or two sketches of my father's, whichhad arrived at sufficient maturity to leave the painting-room, and adornthe every-day life of the establishment.
The last-named apartment was cheerful enough: it was necessarilysupplied with a sufficiency of daylight, and as my father made it hisown peculiar den, and spent the greater part of his life in it, therewere present many smaller comforts and luxuries which might have beensought elsewhere in the house in vain. But no room was ever comfortableyet without a woman. Men have no idea of order without formality, orabundance without untidiness. My father had accumulated in his ownparticular retreat a heterogeneous mass of articles which should havehad their proper places appointed, and had no business mixed up with hiscolours, and easel, and brushes. Sticks, whips, cloaks, umbrellas,cigar-boxes, swords, and fire-arms were mingled with lay-figures,models, studies, and draperies, in a manner that would have driven anorderly person out of his senses; but my father never troubled his headabout these matters, and when he came in from a walk or ride, wouldfling his hat down in one corner of the room, the end of his cigar inanother, his cloak or whip in a third, and begin painting again with anavidity that seemed to grow fiercer from the enforced abstinence of afew hours in taking necessary exercise. My poor father! I often thinkif he had devoted less attention to his art, and more to the commonevery-day business of life, which no one may neglect with impunity, howmuch better he would have succeeded, both as a painter and a man.
He was hard at work when I came home from school. I knew well where tofind him, and hurried at once to the painting-room. He was seated athis easel, but as I entered he drew a screen across the canvas, and sohid his work from my inquiring gaze. I never knew him do so before; onthe contrary, it had always seemed his greatest desire to instil intohis son some of his own love for the art; but I had hardly time to thinkof this ere I was in his arms, looking up once more in the kind face, onwhich I never in my whole life remembered to have seen a harshexpression. He was altered, though, and thinner than when I had seenhim last, and his hair was now quite grey, so that the contrast with hisflashing dark eye--brighter it seemed to me than ever--was almostunearthly. His hands, too, were wasted, and whiter than they used to be,and the whole figure, which I remembered once a tower of strength, wasnow sunk and fallen in, particularly about the chest and shoulders.When he stood up, it struck me, also, that he was shorter than he usedto be, and my heart tightened for a moment at the thought that, he mightbe even now embarking on that long journey from which there is noreturn. I remembered him such a tall, handsome, stalwart man, and nowhe seemed so shrunk and emaciated, and quite to totter and lean on mefor support.
"You are grown, my boy," said he, looking fondly at me; "you are gettingquite a man now, Vere; it will be sadly dull for you at the Grange: butyou must stay with your old father for a time--it will not be forlong--not for long," he repeated, and his eye turned to the screenedcanvas, and a glance shot from it that I could hardly bear to see--sodespairing, yet so longing--so wild, and yet so fond. I had never seenhim look thus before, and it frightened me.
Our quiet meal in the old oak parlour--our saunter after dinner throughthe dark walks and shrubberies--all was so like the olden time, that Ifelt quite a boy again. My father lighted up for a time into his formergood spirits and amusing sallies, but I remarked that after every flashhe sank into a deeper dejection, and I fancied the tears were in hiseyes as he wished me good-night at the door of the painting-room. Ilittle thought when I went to bed that it was now his habit to sitbrooding there till the early dawn of morning, when he would retire forthree or four hours to his rest.
So the time passed away tranquilly and dully enough at Alton Grange. Myfather was ever absorbed in his painting, but studied now with the doorlocked, and even I was only admitted at stated times, when themysterious canvas was invariably screened. My curiosity, nay more, myinterest, was intensely excited; I longed, yet feared, to know what wasthe subject of this hidden picture; twenty times was I on the point ofasking my father, but something in his manner gave me to understand thatit was a prohibited subject, and I forbore. There was that in hisbearing which at once checked curiosity on a subject he was unwilling toreveal, and few men would have dared to question my father where he didnot himself choose to bestow his confidence.
I read much in the old library; I took long walks once more by myself; Igot back to my dreams of Launcelot and Guenever, and knights and dames,and "deeds of high emprize." More than ever I experienced the vaguelonging for something hitherto unknown, that had unconsciously beengrowing with my growth, and strengthening with my strength,--therestless craving of which I scarcely guessed the nature, but whichweighed upon my nervous, sensitive temperament till it affected my verybrain. Had I but known then the lesson that was to be branded on myheart in letters of fire,--could I but have foreseen the day when Ishould gnaw my fetters, and yet not wish to be free,--when all that wasgood, and noble, and kindly in my nature should turn to bitterself-contempt, and hopeless, helpless apathy,--when love, fiercer thanhatred, should scorch and sting the coward that had not strength norcourage to bear his burden upright like a man,--had I but known allthis, I had better have tied a millstone round my neck, and slept twentyfeet deep below the mere at Beverley, than pawned away hope, and life,and energy, and manhood, for a glance of her dark eyes, a touch of hersoft hand, from the heiress of Beverley Manor.
Yes, Alton Grange was distant but a short walk from Beverley. Many atime I found myself roaming through the old trees at the end of thepark, looking wistfully at the angles and turrets of the beautiful ManorHouse, and debating within myself whether I ought or ought not to calland renew an acquaintance with the family that had treated me so kindlyafter the scrape brought on by Bold's insubordination. That favouritewas now a mature and experienced retriever, grave, imperturbable, and ofextraordinary sagacity. Poor Bold! he was the handsomest and mostpowerful dog I ever saw, with a solemn expression of countenance thatdenoted as much intellect as was ever apparent on the face of a humanbeing. W
e were vastly proud of Bold's beauty at the Grange, and myfather had painted him a dozen times, in the performance of every feat,possible or impossible, that it comes within the province of a retrieverto attempt. Bold was now my constant companion; he knew the way toBeverley as well as to his own lair in my bed-room, where he slept. Dayafter day he and I took the same road; day after day my courage failedme at the last moment, and we turned back without making the intendedvisit. At last, one morning, while I strolled as usual among the oldtrees at one extremity of the park, I caught sight of a white dressrounding the corner of the house, and entering the front door. I feltsure it could only belong to one, and with an effort that quitesurprised even myself, I resolved to master my absurd timidity, and walkboldly up to call.
I have not the slightest recollection of my ringing the door-bell, norof the usual process by which a gentleman is admitted into adrawing-room; the rush of blood to my head almost blinded me, but Iconclude that instinct took the place of reason, and that I demeanedmyself in no such incoherent manner as to excite the attention of theservants, for I found myself in the beautiful drawing-room, which Iremembered I had thought such a scene of fairyland years before, andseated, hat in hand, opposite Miss Beverley.
She must have thought me the stupidest morning visitor that everobtained entrance into a country-house; indeed, had it not been for thegood-natured efforts of an elderly lady with a hooked nose, who had beenher governess, and was now a sort of companion, Miss Beverley would havehad all the conversation to herself; and I am constrained to admit thatonce or twice I caught an expression of surprise on her calm sweet face,that could only have been called up by the very inconsequent answers ofwhich I was guilty in my nervous abstraction. I was so taken up inwatching and admiring her, that I could think of nothing else. She wasso quiet and self-possessed, so gentle and ladylike, so cool andwell-dressed. I can remember the way in which her hair was parted andarranged to this day. She seemed to me a being of a superior order,something that never could by any possibility belong to the same sphereas myself. She was more like the picture of Queen Dido than ever, butthe queen, happy and fancy free, with kindly eyes and unruffled brow;not the deceived, broken-hearted woman on her self-selected death-bed.I am not going to describe her--perhaps she was not beautiful toothers--perhaps I should have wished the rest of the world to think herpositively hideous--perhaps she was _then_ not so transcendentlybeautiful even to me; nay, as I looked, I could pick faults in herfeatures and colouring. I had served a long enough apprenticeship to myfather to be able to criticise like an artist, and I could see here atint that might be deepened, there a plait that might be betterarranged--I do not mean to say she was perfect--I do not mean to saythat she was a goddess or an angel; but I do mean to say that if everthere was a face on earth which to me presented the ideal of all that issweetest and most lovable in woman, that face was Constance Beverley's.
And yet I was not in love with her; no, I felt something exalting,something exhilarating in her presence--she seemed to fill the void inmy life, which had long been so wearisome, but I was not in love withher--certainly not then. I felt less shy than usual, I even felt as ifI too had some claim to social distinction, and could play my part aswell as the rest on the shifting stage. She had the happy knack ofmaking others feel in good spirits and at their ease in her society. Iwas not insensible to the spell, and when Sir Harry came in, and askedkindly after his old friend, and promised to come over soon and pay myfather a visit, I answered frankly and at once; I could see even thethoughtless Baronet was struck with the change in my manner, indeed hesaid as much.
"You must come over and stay with us, Mr. Egerton," was his hospitableinvitation; "or if your father is so poorly you cannot leave him, lookin here any day about luncheon-time. I am much from home myself, butyou will always find Constance and Miss Minim. Tell your father I willride over and see him to-morrow. I only came back yesterday. Howyou're grown, my lad, and improved--isn't he, Constance?"
I would have given worlds to have heard Constance's answer, but sheturned the subject with an inquiry after Bold (who was at that instantwaiting patiently for his master on the door-step), and it was time totake leave, so I bowed myself out, with a faithful promise, that I wasnot likely to forget, of calling again soon.
"So she has not forgotten Bold," I said to myself, at least twentytimes, in my homeward walk; and I think, fond as I had always been of mydog, I liked him that day better than ever.
"Father," I said, as I sat that evening after dinner, during which mealI felt conscious that I had been more lively, and, to use an expressiveterm, "better company," than usual; "I must write to London for a newcoat, that black one is quite worn out."
"Very well, Vere," answered my father, abstractedly; "tell them to makeit large enough--you grow fast, my boy."
"Do you think I am grown, father? Indeed, I am not so very little of myage now; and do you know, I was the strongest boy at Everdon, and couldlift a heavier weight than Manners the usher; but, father"--and here Ihesitated and stammered, till reassured by the kind smile on his dearold face,--"I don't mind asking you, and I _do_ so wish to know--am I so_very, very_--ugly?" I brought out the hated word with an effort--myfather burst out laughing.
"What an odd question--why do you wish to know, Vere?" he asked. I madeno reply, but felt I was blushing painfully. My father looked wistfullyat me, while an expression as of pain contracted his wan features; andhere the conversation dropped.