Wilfrid Cumbermede Part 58

The dinner was formal and dreary enough: the geniality of one of the heads of a household is seldom sufficient to give character to an entertainment.

'They tell me you are a buyer of books, Mr Alderforge,' said Mr Mellon to the clergyman of a neighbouring parish, as we sat over our wine.

'Quite a mistake,' returned Mr Alderforge. 'I am a reader of books.'

'That of course! But you buy them first--don't you?'

'Not always. I sometimes borrow them.'

'That I never do. If a book is worth borrowing, it is worth buying.'

'Perhaps--if you can afford it. But many books that book-buyers value I count worthless--for all their wide margins and uncut leaves.'

'Will you come-and have a look at Sir Giles's library?' I ventured to say.

'I never heard of a library at Moldwarp Hall, Sir Giles,' said Mr Mellon.

'I am given to understand there is a very valuable one,' said Mr Alderforge. 'I shall be glad to accompany you, sir,' he added, turning to me, '--if Sir Giles will allow us.'

'You cannot have a better guide than Mr c.u.mbermede,' said Sir Giles. 'I am indebted to him almost for the discovery--altogether for the restoration of the library.'

'a.s.sisted by Miss Brotherton and her friends, Sir Giles,' I said.

'A son of Mr c.u.mbermede of Lowdon Farm, I presume?' said Alderforge, bowing interrogatively.

'A nephew,' I answered.

'He was a most worthy man.--By the way, Sir Giles, your young friend here must be a distant connection of your own. I found in some book or other lately, I forget where at the moment, that there were c.u.mbermedes at one time in Moldwarp Hall.'

'Yes--about two hundred years ago, I believe. It pa.s.sed to our branch of the family some time during the troubles of the seventeenth century--I hardly know how--I am not much of an historian.'

I thought of my precious volume, and the name on the t.i.tle-page. That book might have been in the library of Moldwarp Hall. If so, how had it strayed into my possession--alone, yet more to me than all that was left behind?

We betook ourselves to the library. The visitors expressed themselves astonished at its extent, and the wealth which even a glance revealed--for I took care to guide their notice to its richest veins.

'When it is once arranged,' I said, 'I fancy there will be few private libraries to stand a comparison with it--I am thinking of old English literature, and old editions: there is not a single volume of the present century in it, so far as I know.'

I had had a few old sconces fixed here and there, but as yet there were no means of really lighting the rooms. Hence, when a great flash of lightning broke from a cloud that hung over the park right in front of the windows, it flooded them with a dazzling splendour. I went to find Charley, for the library was the best place to see the lightning from.

As I entered the drawing-room, a tremendous peal of thunder burst over the house, causing so much consternation amongst the ladies, that, for the sake of company, they all followed to the library. Clara seemed more frightened than any. Mary was perfectly calm. Charley was much excited. The storm grew in violence. We saw the lightning strike a tree which stood alone a few hundred yards from the house. When the next flash came, half of one side seemed torn away. The wind rose, first in fierce gusts, then into a tempest, and the rain poured in torrents.

'None of you can go home to-night, ladies,' said Sir Giles. 'You must make up your minds to stop where you are. Few horses would face such a storm as that.'

'It would be to tax your hospitality too grievously, Sir Giles,' said Mr Alderforge. 'I dare say it will clear up by-and-by, or at least moderate sufficiently to let us get home.'

'I don't think there's much chance of that,' returned Sir Giles. 'The barometer has been steadily falling for the last three days. My dear, you had better give your orders at once.'

'You had better stop, Charley,' I said.

'I won't if you go,' he returned.

Clara was beside.

'You must not think of going,' she said.

Whether she spoke to him or me I did not know, but as Charley made no answer--

'I cannot stop without being asked,' I said, 'and it is not likely that any one will take the trouble to ask me.'

The storm increased. At the request of the ladies, the gentlemen left the library and accompanied them to the drawing-room for tea. Our hostess asked Clara to sing, but she was too frightened to comply.

'You will sing, Mary, if Lady Brotherton asks you, I know,' said Mrs...o...b..rne.

'Do, my dear,' said Lady Brotherton; and Mary at once complied.

I had never heard her sing, and did not expect much. But although she had little execution, there was, I found, a wonderful charm both in her voice and the simplicity of her mode. I did not feel this at first, nor could I tell when the song began to lay hold upon me, but when it ceased, I found that I had been listening intently. I have often since tried to recall it, but as yet it has eluded all my efforts. I still cherish the hope that it may return some night in a dream, or in some waking moment of quiescent thought, when what we call the brain works as it were of itself, and the spirit allows it play.

The close was lost in a louder peal of thunder than had yet burst.

Charley and I went again to the library to look out on the night. It was dark as pitch, except when the lightning broke and revealed everything for one intense moment.

'I think sometimes,' said Charley, 'that death will be like one of those flashes, revealing everything in hideous fact--for just one-moment and no more.'

'How for one moment and no more, Charley?' I asked.

'Because the sight of the truth concerning itself must kill the soul, if there be one, with disgust at its own vileness, and the miserable contrast between its aspirations and attainments, its pretences and its efforts. At least, that would be the death fit for a life like mine--a death of disgust at itself. We claim immortality; we cringe and cower with the fear that immortality may _not_ be the destiny of man; and yet we--_I_--do things unworthy not merely of immortality, but unworthy of the b.u.t.terfly existence of a single day in such a world as this sometimes seems to be. Just think how I stabbed at my sister's faith this morning--careless of making her as miserable as myself! Because my father has put into her mind his fancies, and I hate them, I wound again the heart which they wound, and which cannot help their presence!'

'But the heart that can be sorry for an action is far above the action, just as her heart is better than the notions that haunt it.'

'Sometimes I hope so. But action determines character. And it is all such a muddle! I don't care much about what they call immortality. I doubt if it is worth the having. I would a thousand times rather have one day of conscious purity of heart and mind and soul and body, than an eternity of such life as I have now.--What am I saying?' he added, with a despairing laugh. 'It is a fool's comparison; for an eternity of the former would be bliss--one moment of the latter is misery.'

I could but admire and pity my poor friend both at once.

Miss Pease had entered unheard.

'Mr c.u.mbermede,' she said, 'I have been looking for you to show you your room. It is not the one I should like to have got for you, but Mrs Wilson says you have occupied it before, and I dare say you will find it comfortable enough.'

'Thank you, Miss Pease. I am sorry you should have taken the trouble. I can go home well enough. I am not afraid of a little rain.'

'A little rain!' said Charley, trying to speak lightly.

'Well, any amount of rain,' I said.

'But the lightning!' expostulated Miss Pease in a timid voice.

'I am something of a fatalist, Miss Pease,' I said. '"Every bullet has its billet," you know. Besides, if I had a choice, I think I would rather die by lightning than any other way.'

'Don't talk like that, Mr c.u.mbermede.--Oh! what a flash!'

'I was not speaking irreverently, I a.s.sure you,' I replied.--'I think I had better set out at once, for there seems no chance of its clearing.'