Guy Livingstone Part 31

The ceaseless complacent chuckle of the idiot, and his fearful grimaces when he could not make the threads match, had the effect on my chest of a nightmare. Very slowly and silently we walked home through the darkness.

CHAPTER x.x.xV.

"Be the day weary or never so long, At length it ringeth to even song."

There is little to chronicle in the events of the next few years.

Livingstone resided almost entirely at Kerton. He rode as hard, and distinguished himself in all other field-sports as much as ever. But even in these, his favorite pursuits, he had lost the intense faculty of enjoyment which once seemed a part of his powerful organization.

Do you remember that scene in the Nekuia, where the Eidolon of Achilles comes slowly through the twilight to meet his old brother in arms? Not only are his form and features altered after so ghastly a fas.h.i.+on that even the wanderer, wave-worn and travel-stained, looks brilliant by comparison, but all his feelings are utterly and strangely changed.

Listen! He asks after the father from whom he parted when quite a child; after the son, whom he never saw; but not one word of his fair first-love--not one of her who was the pa.s.sion of his manhood, whom he bucklered once against ten thousand. He had rather hear of Peleus and Neoptolemus than of Deidamia or Briseis. Of Polyxena, be sure that he remembers nothing but that he was holding her hand when her brother slew him. Will he ever forgive her that? Not if she could have made amends by the sacrifice of ten lives instead of that one which she gave, willingly, on Sigaeum. Has ambition any hold on him either? Only to breathe the fresh clear air above instead of that murky, heavy atmosphere, he would resign the empire of the dead, and be a drudge to the veriest boor. Yet once, if we remember right, he chafed fiercely enough at a word of authority uttered by the King of Men. One of his old tastes clings to him still--a very simple one. He has forgotten the savor of Sciote and Chian wine; but--were it only for the sake of the carouses they have had together--Odysseus will not grudge him another draught out of the black trench. It is so long since be tasted blood!

Guy was no more like his former self than the shadow was like the substance of Pelides. He was not languid, but simply apathetic and indifferent, so that one could not help being constantly struck by the contrast between his moral and physical state: the latter was still the perfection of muscular power.

He was every thing that was kind to his mother, and to Isabel Forrester too, who spent much of her time at Kerton, and whose health was very delicate. If Lady Catharine could only have seen him more cheerful, she would have been _too_ happy. It was her great delight to try and spoil him, as she used to do when he was a child--trying to suit his tastes to the minutest shade. For instance, Guy was always finding in his own rooms some new ornament or addition to their comfort. Indifferent as he was to every thing, it was good in him that he never failed to remark these instantly. You would not have thought a cold, haughty face could light up so brilliantly as his mother's always did when he thanked her.

Poor lady! Those last few years were her summer of St. Martin--not the less pleasant because winter was gathering already on the crests of the whitening hills.

There were a good many guests in the house at times, almost invariably men, but none of the wild revels of the old days, very little hard drinking, and no play to speak of.

One thing was remarkable--the great eagerness Guy displayed to keep the party together at night. He would engage us in arguments, and employ all sorts of ingenious devices to prevent us from going to bed, so that it became very trying to a weak const.i.tution. I observed this to him one night when the rest had gone.

The slight flush left by the excitement of conversation was vanis.h.i.+ng rapidly from his cheeks, and a gray tinge was creeping over them like that which we see on a sick man very near his end.

"It is too bad to keep you up, and too selfish," he said; "but I find the nights so long!"

I left him without another word; but I lay long awake, haunted by that haggard face and dreary eyes. I wish I did not see them so often still in my dreams.

There were changes in other houses besides Kerton Manor, and a vacancy in the most luxurious set of chambers in the Albany.

Duns, and rheumatic gout, and satiety had proved too much at last for the patience of Sir Henry Fallowfield; so one night he preached his farewell sermon in the smoking-room of the ----, in which he was especially severe and witty on the absurdity and bad taste of a man condescending to suicide under any circ.u.mstances. The next morning they found him with--"that across his throat that you had scarcely cared to see." The hand whose tremor used to make him so savage when he was lifting a gla.s.s to his lips, had been strong and steady enough when it shattered the Golden Bowl and cut the Silver Cord asunder.

Whether he was looking death in the face while he uttered those last cynicisms, and calculated on heightening the stage effect of the morrow, or whether a paroxysm of pain drove him mad, as it had done better men, who can tell? I think and hope the latter was the case, but--I doubt.

Though Sir Henry Fallowfield had never read Aristotle, he had studied, all his life, the principles of the peripeteia.

G.o.dfrey Parndon no longer ruled over the Pytchley. He had backed his own opinions and other men's bills once or twice too often, and had retired temporarily into private life till he could get "his second wind." The new M.F.H. was his complete contrast--pale-faced, low-voiced, mild-eyed, and melancholy as a lotus-eater--one of the cla.s.s of "weak-minded but gentlemanly young men" that Tom Cradock used to ask his friends to recommend to him as pupils. The farmers missed sadly G.o.dfrey's bluff face and stalwart figure at the cover-side, while the "bruisers" from Leamington, and the "railers" from town, hearing no longer his great voice, good-naturedly imperative, adjuring them to "hold hard, and not to spoil their own sport," rode over the hounds rejoicing.

Flora Bellasys was married.

It was just the match I thought she would make. Sir Marmaduke Dorrillon's possessions were vast enough to satisfy any ambition, and his years put love out of the question.

His friends had been as prophetic in their warnings as January's were, but even, they never guessed what he would have to endure at the hands of that cruel May. He tried very hard not to be jealous, but he could not help being sensitive; and so, day by day, she inflicted on him the _peine forte et dure_, "laying on him as much as he could bear, and more." It was sad to see how the kind old man withered and pined away; yet he never complained, and quarreled mortally with his best friend for daring to compa.s.sionate him.

He was so courteous, and gentle, and chivalrous; so conscious of his own disadvantage in age; so generous in trusting her, and in hoping against hope; so considerate in antic.i.p.ating all her wishes and whims, that it might have moved even Flora to pity. But her great disappointment had strangely altered and imbittered her character. She was _quite_ merciless now, and never seemed really amused unless she was doing harm to some one.

It was not that her manner had become harsh or repellent, or even more sarcastic; she wag to the full as fascinating as ever; but she was cool and calculating in her caprices. She took pains to make the momentary pleasure as exquisite as possible, that the after suffering might be more terrible; just like that ingenious Borderer who fed his enemy with all pungent and highly-seasoned dishes, and then left him to die of thirst.

Yet all the while her own feelings must have been scarcely enviable.

They say that great enchantresses, from Medea and Circe downward, have generally been unhappy in their loves. Either they could not raise the spirit, or it proved unmanageable; either their affection was not returned, or its object was unfaithful at last. In the single case where they put their science and their philtres aside, and were womanly, and natural, and sincere; where, to gain or to keep their treasure, they would gladly have broken their wand, they failed utterly, and found they were only half omnipotent. The justice was retributive, but it was very complete. Be sure, with those pa.s.sionate natures, the honey of a thousand triumphs never deadened the sting of the one discomfiture.

Suitors flocking from every sh.o.r.e and island of the aegean never made Sappho forget, for one hour, that stubborn impa.s.sible Phaon. No wonder such are cruel and unjust to their subjects in after days. Poor innocent aegeus very often has to do penance for the infidelity of Jason.

I have little more to tell, and that is of the sort that is best told briefly.

The hounds met one morning not far from Kerton. A three-days' frost had broken up; but it was not out of the ground yet, making the "take-off"

slippery, and the north side of the fences dangerously hard. Livingstone rode the Axeine that day. The chestnut was still his favorite, and the crack hunter of three counties, though he had never lost his habit of pulling.

It was a large, straggling cover that we drew, but the fox went away very soon. From the lower end of the wood a great pasture sloped down, at the bottom of which was a flight of post-and-rails--very high, new, and strong, with a deep cutting on the farther side. At one end of this was an open gate, through which the whole field pa.s.sed.

The hounds were just settling to the scent, when I happened to turn my head, and saw Livingstone coming down at the rails. He had got a bad start, and saw that, by taking them straight in his line, he would gain greatly on the pack, which was turning toward him.

As the Axeine tore down the hill at furious speed, pulling double, it was evident that neither he nor his rider had the remotest idea of refusing.

It was the last fence that either of them ever charged. As the chestnut rose to the leap, his hind legs slipped; he chested the rail, which would not break, and turned quite over, crus.h.i.+ng Guy beneath him.

I had seen the latter fall a hundred times without feeling the presentiment that seemed to _tighten_ round my heart as I galloped up to the spot. Many others must have felt the same, for they let the hounds go away without another glance, and some were before me there.

The Axeine lay stone dead, with his neck broken, the huge carca.s.s pressing on the legs of his rider. Guy was quite senseless; his face of a dull, ghastly white; there was a deep cut on his forehead; but we all felt we did not see the worst. With great trouble we drew him from under the dead horse. Still we could discover no broken bones or further external injury. We dashed water over him. In a few minutes he opened his eyes, and seemed to recognize every one directly, for he looked up into the frightened face of the first whip, who was supporting him, and said,

"You always told me I went too fast at timber, Jack."

I was sure, then, he was desperately injured, his voice was so weak and changed.

"Where are you hurt, Guy?" some one asked. I could not speak myself.

"I don't know," he said, looking down in a strange, bewildered way. "My head and arm pain me; but I feel nothing _below the waist_."

His lower limbs were not much twisted or distorted, but they bore a horribly inert, dead appearance. There was not even a muscular quiver in them.

I saw the Squire of Brainswick turn his head away with a shudder and a groan (he loved Guy as his own son), and I heard him mutter, "The _spine_!"

It was so, and Livingstone soon knew it himself. He sighed once, drearily; but not a man there could have commanded his voice as he did when he said,

"You must carry me home, heavy as I am. My walking days are ended."

We made the best litter we could of poles and branches; and I remember, as we bore him past the carca.s.s of the Axeine, he made us stop for an instant, and dropping his hand on the stiff, distorted neck, stroked it softly,

"Good-by, old horse," he said. "It was no fault of yours. How well you always carried me!" He never spoke again till we reached Kerton Manor.

Isabel Forrester was fortunately out, but Lady Catharine met us on the hall steps. She did not shriek or faint when she saw the horror, which had haunted her for years, fulfilled there to the uttermost. She knelt by her son when we laid him down, and wiped off a spot or two of blood from his forehead, and then kept his hand in hers, kissing it often. We had sent on before to warn the village doctor, and he visited Guy alone in his room.

Powell had been a surgeon's mate in his youth, and was serving under Collingwood at Trafalgar when his s.h.i.+p stood first into action, and, like a sovereign of the old days, led the van of the battle. There was no shape of shattered and maimed humanity with which he had not been familiar, and my last hope died away when I saw him come forth, trembling all over, his rugged features convulsed with grief.

"I saw him born," the old man sobbed out. "I never thought to see him die--and die _so_!"

Guy had received a mortal injury in the spine, though how long he might linger none could tell.

There broke from Lady Catharine's white lips one terrible heart-broken cry--"If G.o.d would only take me first!" Then her self-control returned, and she went into her son's room, outwardly quite calm.