'I am truly glad for Hew's sake, and for Mary's sake, that he has gone—gone ere it was too late!' thought Sir Piers, as he sat in his easy-chair in the library that afternoon, when nothing remained of Cecil Falconer at Eaglescraig but an aching pain in Mary's heart, and in the avenue the ruts of the wheels that had borne him away.
His recent conversation with Hew about the dread of a mésalliance made the old baronet's mind revert—as it too often did, bitterly and unavailingly—to another mésalliance in his family, which nearly brought ruin—for such in the vanity of his soul he deemed disgrace—upon the Montgomeries of Eaglescraig, who had for ages been a power in the bailiwick of Cunninghame.
'It seems a pity that we should disturb the stagnant waters of that Dead Lake which men call the Past,' says Miss Braddon; but Sir Piers was rather prone to do so; and now, as he sat gazing into the red, clear, burning embers, they seemed to take divers shapes and forms, quaint and curious pictures, of which, in reality, he saw little, for his thoughts were treading upon each other fast, and in his dreamy yet steadfast gaze there was a fixed, a far-off look—a look in Shadowland.
A childless old man, he was thinking of what was now, and all that might have been, but for his own stubborn will and pride of heart.
Some five-and-twenty years before this time, he had a son who had been the pride of that heart, and valued all the more as being the only child of a young and beautiful wife, after whose death he had never married again, but sought relief from thought amid the wars of British India.
From his infancy young Piers had been petted in every way, and was in some respects the spoiled child of the household. He grew up a bright and handsome lad, full of intelligence and enthusiasm for music and painting; but to dabble in these, even as an amateur, Sir Piers deemed unworthy of his family, so in due time he had his son gazetted to the Cameronians, then in garrison at Gibraltar.
During the unhealthy season, which lasts there from July to November, when the east winds come surcharged with moisture, young Piers was seized with fever, and obtaining leave of absence, went to travel in Italy, and his letters that came from thence to Eaglescraig, detailing his adventures and journeys up Calabrian mountains and through defiles in the Abruzzi, all indicative of returning health and strength, filled the heart of his father with joy, as his son, the heir of his house and name, was the veritable apple of his eye.
His letters from Rome teemed with his enthusiasm about the objects of history, the ruins of the past, and his ecstasies over the treasures of the innumerable studii of painting and sculpture; and then came much about a painter whose acquaintance he had made at the Academy of San Luca, and whose daughter was one of the most beautiful girls and accomplished musicians in that city of pilgrimage to all lovers of art.
After this Sir Piers grew painfully and suspiciously conscious of the fact that his son's correspondence became irregular, his epistles constrained and brief, while more than one incidental reference to the artist's handsome daughter caused alarm in the parental heart, all the more as young Piers had said that her father, 'though a man of humble origin, was an emperor among artists.'
'Piers,' said the baronet to his confidential friend and local factotum, John Balderstone, 'refers to this girl oftener than I quite relish or like; and his letters are vague and odd as—if—as if—he had something to conceal. I wish he were back to his regiment at Gibraltar.'
'Young men will be young men,' replied the other; 'the girl may have picked up some pretty tricks of foreign manners, and thus interested him.'
'There are four months of his leave to run; surely he will not spend them all among these painter-fellows in Rome?' said the baronet, grimly.
For one moment, however, an idea of what was really the case never entered the haughty mind of Sir Piers Montgomerie. He only feared an entanglement—as a subaltern, he had often been in such scrapes himself—but nothing more!
And now a month elapsed without any letter from Rome, and genuine anxiety filled the mind of Sir Piers, whom a temporary illness confined at Eaglescraig, and prevented from coming swoop down upon his son in the Eternal City, and seeing how 'matters were' for himself.
At that very time there arrived at a country hotel, within a few miles of Eaglescraig, a young married pair, with a valet and a little French soubrette. Both were singularly handsome—the lady, indeed, was a very beautiful girl with minute and delicate features, dark eyes and rich brown hair; and in her husband, whose face and figure were alike striking, but for the ample beard he now wore, the people of the hotel would have had little trouble in recognising young Piers Montgomerie, for he it was, with his bride, the penniless daughter of 'the emperor among artists!'
He was one who could scarcely fail to make himself agreeable to all women, as he excelled in that half-flirting manner which some young men can cultivate with skill; and borne away by a great love for the girl on one hand, and dreading his father's opposition on the other, he had married her clandestinely, and had now brought her with him to Scotland, trusting that her beauty, sweetness, grace and virtue would open the heart of his father to them both, and pardon the fact of his having had, as he would have phrased it, a 'stolen march made upon him.'
The homeward journey had been but a portion of their honeymoon tour, and safe in her young husband's love, the girl seemed to see only a brilliant and happy, if somewhat vague, future. Aware of his father's temper, spirit, and infatuated pride of family, young Piers was not without some genuine anxiety as to the result, when the issue of his rashness seemed so close at hand.
'If your father is so proud as you say, Piers,' said the young wife—still a bride—as she nestled her sweet face in his neck, and his arm went caressingly round her, 'and if he will not forgive the mésalliance you have made with poor me——'
'Well, my darling, what then?'
'You may repent it,' said she, her dark eyes filling with tears, and her voice trembling with anxiety.
'Never, my own little wife—never! and by this time to-morrow I hope to see you taking your place at his table, as the future mistress of Eaglescraig; though long may the time be ere you are so, for my father is a dear old fellow—twice my age, at all events!'
The girl sighed softly, and hoped that all might be as they wished it.
'Welcome back, my boy!' exclaimed Sir Piers next day, when his son appeared (but alone) at Eaglescraig; 'why have you been so long in writing me? Why do you come thus suddenly? and where is your baggage? But how well you are looking; and, by Jove, you have a beard like a Brahmin!'
'I have a long story to tell you, sir, about all my adventures: one in particular, that may take some time to tell——'
'Then keep it till after dinner: let us have it with the Chateau Margaux,' said Sir Piers, laughing; and being timidly willing to delay till the last moment the revelation that was inevitable, his son—even with the sweet face of her who, at that moment, was alone in his memory—was glad of the little reprieve.
Anxious to make a good impression, he made a more than usually careful toilette in his own old and familiar room; but when he took his seat at table, the presence of Tunley and the servants, and also of John Balderstone, who had dropped in on business, and whom the baronet had pressed to remain, precluded all reference to his secret for a time, till the cloth was removed, the dessert laid, the decanters ranged in rank-entire before the host, and Tunley was told he might withdraw till rung for.
'And now for your story, Piers,' said the elder Montgomerie: 'the claret stands with you.'
'I must first drink to you, and congratulate you on your promotion,' replied his son.
'Yes, I am full colonel now, Piers, and may fairly hope to be a lieutenant-general some of these days. But now for the story,' he repeated uneasily; 'I suppose John Balderstone may hear it?'
'Of course, sir,' said Piers, coughing nervously, and twice draining his large green claret-glass to gain time, while he felt that his colour came and went, and his father's keen eyes were fixed upon him with equal scrutiny and affection.
Young Piers glanced at the stately table, with its massive plate, glittering crystal, rich wines and luxuriant fruit, and thinking with joy of her who would be the presiding goddess there to-morrow, told his narrative in a manly and honest manner, yet not without some trepidation of tone, while his father sat bolt upright in his chair, staring at him with a face expressive of rage, incredulity, and absolute grief, as if he felt that his only son and heir had gone mad. Worthy John Balderstone also looked scared and bewildered.
'And now, sir,' continued the son, despite the terrible frown that deepened on his father's face, 'I have told you all, except my darling's name.'
'Her name be——! what is her name to me? Zounds, sir! I don't want to hear it—the daughter of a beggarly painter—an adventuress—to become in time Lady Montgomerie of Eaglescraig! No, sir, no; damme, I'll break the entail; I'll—I'll——'
Sir Piers for a few moments was literally choking with rage.
'That my wife is poor and nameless, according to your mode of thinking, father, is no fault of hers; her beauty is great, her goodness and accomplishments are rarely surpassed, and surely you will forgive us, we love each other so?' urged young Piers; and as he spoke his heart was in his voice, and his very soul seemed welling out of his fine dark eyes.
'May the moment that I forgive you and her be my last on earth!' thundered Sir Piers, smiting the table with his clenched hand; 'forgive you—not if I lived for a thousand years! Away—away! quit my sight and never let me see your face again!'
And literally he began to tutor himself to hate his son as much as he had idolised him before.
The latter rose from his chair; his handsome face seemed as if petrified—turned to stone, and with the colour of stone, his nether lip began to quiver painfully, for he too had a heart of fiery pride.
Sir Piers rang the bell so furiously that he nearly rent the wires.
'What are you about to do, sir?' asked his son.
'I am about to expel you from this house for ever!' replied Sir Piers. 'Order the waggonette which brought Mr. Montgomerie from his hotel round from the stables instantly,' he added to the astonished Tunley, whom the fierce summons—the bell was vibrating still—had brought up like a genius of the lamp; 'never again is he to set foot in the house which he has disgraced!'
In vain did worthy John Balderstone attempt to act the peace-maker; he was silenced by an imperious wave of the hand.
'This vile adventuress, for I am sure she is such, shall not quite gain her ends. I shall break the entail, if I can!' exclaimed Sir Piers, with growing exasperation; 'by the God that hears me, I will!'
'Father, see her once—only once—ere you judge of her so cruelly! And, oh! let us not part thus! One day you may repent it,' urged his son piteously, and yet not without some anger in his heart.
'Repent it? never!' replied his father, with a wild and bitter laugh. 'Now then, Tunley, is that waggonette at the door?'
'Yes, sir,' replied the butler, again appearing, and very much scared.
'Go!' said Sir Piers to his son; 'as God is our judge, here for ever ends all between us!'
He turned and left the room by one door, while his son quitted it by another, and from that moment the father and son met no more. The latter's allowance was cut off; he got into debt, sold his commission, and with his young wife eventually disappeared. Mr. Balderstone was supposed to be cognisant of his movements for a time under a false name; however, the general never inquired, and after a year or so all traces of him were lost.
Proud of his ancient race, incapable personally of a dishonourable thought or guilty plan, his son's rash marriage, without his consent, and with an obscure girl, filled his heart with a species of black fury, and gave his face a look of repellent pride that was long its settled expression.
The fate of Piers became a kind of mystery—hidden; though it is the fate of things in this world that, as a general rule, nothing is hid for ever.
There came a night which the general never forgot! It was the night of an event which he related only to John Balderstone and one or two others, confidential friends, who were now no longer in the land of the living.
On the night referred to, the lonely general, then creeping up the vale of years, was seated in the library, lingering over his last glass of grog, and gazing, as we last left him, into the glowing embers; his thoughts wandered away from present things to the past in spite of himself. He reviewed the things of old—forgotten sayings and doings in camp and quarters, in the field and the Indian jungle; the faces and the voices of the distant and the dead came back to him, and among them, more powerfully than usual, the face and voice of his lost son, Piers.
There was no sound in the room but the steady and monotonous ticking of a great antique clock on the black marble mantel-piece, and the snoring of a Highland stag-hound stretched upon a deerskin before the fire, unless we add that the night wind moaned shudderingly through a coppice of red-stemmed Scottish firs, and the beech-trees swayed drearily in the passing blast.
A sudden sense of some one being near him—something intangible, too—came over him; he seemed to hear a sigh, and brave though he was, his heart felt as if dying within him, and the hair of his head stood up, or a prickly sensation pervaded all his scalp.
Beside his chair a kind of shadow seemed to form itself, and become, with each pulsation of his pulses, more distinct in outline, till the face and form of his son were before him—the former wasted and pallid, his eyes full of sorrow and reproach. His hands seemed unusually white, wan, and the articulations of the fingers were painfully distinct, as those of one who had been wasted by fever, toil, and want.
A thousand maddening and terrifying thoughts seemed to whirl through the general's brain. He strove to start from his chair, but remained in it as if spellbound; he strove to cry aloud, but his voice failed him, or the faint sound he did utter seemed unnatural, and filled him with greater fear.
For a moment or two the upbraiding spirit, if spirit it was, or a creation of his own fevered fancy, stood before him, and then slowly melted away.
Sir Piers started to his feet.
'I have been dreaming,' he said, with a kind of gasping sigh. 'A plague on such dreams and fancies!'
But something seemed to tell him it was not a dream, and not a fancy, and he remembered that in the pale and wasted hands of the figure were a sheaf of small brushes such as artists use, and a mahl-stick. Had Piers in his dire necessity betaken himself to art to gain a livelihood?
He sat for some time waiting and watching, in a state of awe, terror, and intense anxiety, for the appearance to return, but it came no more; but from that moment an assurance stole into his heart that his son must be dead—that he perhaps died at that particular moment: and then he began to think, and think, and think again, how hard and pitiless he had been; and his handsome face grew older and more lined, and wrinkles seemed to come where none were formed as yet. He might have said with Balder:
'I have lived in the past,
As by a deathbed, with unwonted love,
And much forgiveness as we bring to those
Who can offend no more.'
So time passed on, and old age came upon him—a childless old age.
His son was gone—he had no doubt of that! He had no nephew, no cousin, or cousin's son, to succeed him in the lands that had been in his family since the wars of Bruce and Wallace—yea, since Norwegian Haco's banner fell on the field of Largs; and he began to fear that his title would become extinct, when, in the 'Landed Gentry of Grat Britain and Ireland,' he found that Sir Bernard Burke had assigned a place to a certain Mr. Hew Montgomerie, then broiling in the Indian Civil Service, proving that he was the nearest living relative of the line of Eaglescraig.
His lawyers speedily communicated with that amiable personage, whom we have already introduced to the reader, and thus it is that he came to be resident at Eaglescraig as heir of entail, and to the baronetcy.
The poor old general strove his hardest to like Hew, who also strove sedulously, and pretty skilfully, to keep his many bad qualities secret from him; but often when Sir Piers was in his thoughtful or sad moods, he would ask Mary to sing to him certain old songs that were associated in some way with the long-lost Piers, and as her soft voice went to the old man's heart, and her pretty hands strayed over the piano-keys, she 'soothed him to peace,' as Mrs. Garth was wont to say, 'as the harp of David had soothed King Saul with the holy spell of sweet music;' but it was a spell that always sent the thoughts of Sir Piers to wander in Shadow-land.