He passed so near the Maypole, that he could see its smoke risingfrom among the trees, while a flock of pigeons--some of its oldinhabitants, doubtless--sailed gaily home to roost, between him andthe unclouded sky. "The old house will brighten up now," he said,as he looked towards it, "and there will be a merry firesidebeneath its ivied roof. It is some comfort to know that everythingwill not be blighted hereabouts. I shall be glad to have one picture of life and cheerfulness to turn to, in my mind!"
He resumed his walk, and bent his steps towards the Warren. It wasa clear, calm, silent evening, with hardly a breath of wind to stirthe leaves, or any sound to break the stillness of the time, butdrowsy sheep-bells tinkling in the distance, and, at intervals,the far-off lowing of cattle, or bark of village dogs. The skywas radiant with the softened glory of sunset; and on the earth,and in the air, a deep repose prevailed. At such an hour, hearrived at the deserted mansion which had been his home so long,and looked for the last time upon its blackened walls.
The ashes of the commonest fire are melancholy things, for in themthere is an image of death and ruin,--of something that has beenbright, and is but dull, cold, dreary dust,--with which our natureforces us to sympathise. How much more sad the crumbled embers ofa home: the casting down of that great altar, where the worst amongus sometimes perform the worship of the heart; and where the besthave offered up such sacrifices, and done such deeds of heroism,as, chronicled, would put the proudest temples of old Time, withall their vaunting annals, to the blush!
He roused himself from a long train of meditation, and walked slowly round the house. It was by this time almost dark.
He had nearly made the circuit of the building, when he uttered ahalf-suppressed exclamation, started, and stood still. Reclining,in an easy attitude, with his back against a tree, andcontemplating the ruin with an expression of pleasure,--a pleasureso keen that it overcame his habitual indolence and command offeature, and displayed itself utterly free from all restraint orreserve,--before him, on his own ground, and triumphing then, as hehad triumphed in every misfortune and disappointment of his life,stood the man whose presence, of all mankind, in any place, andleast of all in that, he could the least endure.
Although his blood so rose against this man, and his wrath sostirred within him, that he could have struck him dead, he put suchfierce constraint upon himself that he passed him without a word orlook. Yes, and he would have gone on, and not turned, though toresist the Devil who poured such hot temptation in his brain,required an effort scarcely to be achieved, if this man had nothimself summoned him to stop: and that, with an assumed compassionin his voice which drove him well-nigh mad, and in an instantrouted all the self-command it had been anguish--acute, poignantanguish--to sustain.
All consideration, reflection, mercy, forbearance; everything bywhich a goaded man can curb his rage and passion; fled from him ashe turned back. And yet he said, slowly and quite calmly--far morecalmly than he had ever spoken to him before:
"Why have you called to me?"
"To remark," said Sir John Chester with his wonted composure, "whatan odd chance it is, that we should meet here!"
"It IS a strange chance."
"Strange? The most remarkable and singular thing in the world. Inever ride in the evening; I have not done so for years. The whimseized me, quite unaccountably, in the middle of last night.--Howvery picturesque this is!"--He pointed, as he spoke, to thedismantled house, and raised his glass to his eye.
"You praise your own work very freely."
Sir John let fall his glass; inclined his face towards him with anair of the most courteous inquiry; and slightly shook his head as though he were remarking to himself, "I fear this animal is goingmad!"
"I say you praise your own work very freely," repeated MrHaredale.
"Work!" echoed Sir John, looking smilingly round. "Mine!--I begyour pardon, I really beg your pardon--"
"Why, you see," said Mr Haredale, "those walls. You see thosetottering gables. You see on every side where fire and smoke haveraged. You see the destruction that has been wanton here. Do younot?"
"My good friend," returned the knight, gently checking hisimpatience with his hand, "of course I do. I see everything youspeak of, when you stand aside, and do not interpose yourselfbetween the view and me. I am very sorry for you. If I had nothad the pleasure to meet you here, I think I should have written totell you so. But you don"t bear it as well as I had expected-excuseme--no, you don"t indeed."
He pulled out his snuff-box, and addressing him with the superior air of a man who, by reason of his higher nature, has a right toread a moral lesson to another, continued:
"For you are a philosopher, you know--one of that stern and rigidschool who are far above the weaknesses of mankind in general. Youare removed, a long way, from the frailties of the crowd. Youcontemplate them from a height, and rail at them with a mostimpressive bitterness. I have heard you."
--"And shall again," said Mr Haredale.
"Thank you," returned the other. "Shall we walk as we talk? Thedamp falls rather heavily. Well,--as you please. But I grieve tosay that I can spare you only a very few moments."
"I would," said Mr Haredale, "you had spared me none. I would,with all my soul, you had been in Paradise (if such a monstrouslie could be enacted), rather than here to-night."
"Nay," returned the other--"really--you do yourself injustice. Youare a rough companion, but I would not go so far to avoid you."
"Listen to me," said Mr Haredale. "Listen to me."
"While you rail?" inquired Sir John.
