CHAPTER XVIII.
"Banished I am if but from thee:
Yet now farewell."
Shakspeare.
After a miserable night, the morning ray dawned upon that melancholy chamber, containing the remains of the young De Brooke.
The father's heart, though torn with grief for the loss of his only son, still melted with compassion for the mother, as, faint and exhausted from suffering, she continued weeping over her lifeless child. The bereavement they had mutually experienced was attended by that overwhelming emotion too recent to admit of consolation. Sad and silent, they sat in mournful expectation of that final scene, the interment of their son. Alas! the dreaded hour arrived; and oh! to paint the anguish of that disconsolate couple, whilst taking a last look of their Little Aubrey, at that cherished object in whom so many fond hopes had centred, now borne away from their sight for ever! A deep swoon a second time entranced the senses of the hopeless mother.
But not to enter too minutely into the melancholy detail, the first days of mourning passed over, those afflicting moments to which, at length, succeeded the calm of resignation, and these sorrowing parents began to feel a solace as sharers in one common calamity, derived from sympathy and religion. The ingenuous look and artless smile that used to respond to theirs, would never delight them more; their child had fled beyond their mortal ken; but it had fled to those bright realms where its youthful spirit, in acquiring strength, would develope into saintly energy, and its form assume the seraphic lustre of the angel. Rapt in such tender, and as it were hallowed reflections, correspondent to the purity, the sweet innocence of their child, its exemption from, and perfect unconsciousness of sin, at the time of its dissolution, gave to the bereaved parents ideas above all sublunary things.
In vain endeavouring to chase the tear, Robert had accompanied the bier, and marked the spot where his master's eldest child, the youthful Aubrey, lay interred. He then retraced his way homeward; and, as time helped to allay the sorrowful recollections in which he had indulged, now that he had the satisfaction of seeing his master on his legs again, as he called his recovery, and felt himself relieved from the consequent cares attendant on his late illness, he renewed his inquiries respecting the Baronet.
But every attempt proving vain, he found he had entered upon a labyrinth of perplexities; led here and there by erroneous directions, the end of his pursuit appeared unattainable; and yet to relinquish it, seemed in a manner to forswear himself, having vowed to his master that he would come to the bottom of that nefarious business or perish! In truth he would rather have perished than not to have had it in his power to restore the money. With a temper so ardent, without proportionate education to moderate its impulses, he became the prey of an inward disquietude, not more on his master's than his own personal account.
In the range his fancy took, it appeared to him, keenly susceptible as was his nature, under the adverse circumstances of his master, that he might be considered as an encumbrance, and as a tax upon him; more particularly, as they lived alone, without their children, his services might be dispensed with. This idea once suggested, and by degrees refined upon, was a source to him of continual and still greater dejection, even made manifest in his conduct. Often withdrawing to give way to his secret cogitations, his services were not performed with such alacrity and punctuality as formerly, which, though without losing him the confidence of the De Brookes, they could not fail to remark, and they were pained to think that perhaps whilst devoting an unwilling attendance he wished to quit them; the thought of his doing so, and that without adequate compensation, being still more grating to them, and certainly a circumstance, as they imagined, in itself calculated to cancel all sense of obligation on his side.
Hopeless as seemed the term of their miseries, ever struggling with mortifications and trials, nothing remained but to live within the bounds of the most rigid self-denial and œconomy. De Brooke felt for Robert the truest affection, but under the circumstances above stated, he came to the decision of parting with him, and of paying off his wages from time to time as they could best afford the means. It was a decision which cost him dear, to lose him who, in his opinion, possessed a soul worthy the breast of a king; him who had ever shown himself above all selfish interests, whose heart glowed with every generous sympathy, whose presence had gladdened his children, who had nursed them from their cradles, and particularly so that young plant, which had bloomed a short-lived fragrance, and then sunk beneath the pestilential blast assailing them in their prison; him to whom he might be even indebted for his own present existence; him who, when his every function was suspended, re-animated him by his living warmth, till the heart resumed its throb, the lungs their office! Alas! to be reduced to such a dreadful alternative, and say to him, that best of earthly friends, unconnected by the ties of blood, "Robert, you must be gone!"—him whom he regarded as a brother, to speak to him in a language so harsh, so ungrateful!
"Poor honest fellow!" exclaimed De Brooke aloud, as he finished his soliloquy; "never shall I have it in my power to reward you, Robert."
Having imposed upon himself the task of cleaning the passage outside the door, Robert, upon hearing himself named, entered to know his master's pleasure. De Brooke hesitated ere he made reply; but in the next instant, seizing an occasion which presented itself unsought for.
"No, my good friend," said he, "I did not call; but since you are here, I will speak to you confidentially, and which it behoves me to do, seeing that you yourself are concerned in what I was meditating upon; had you not broken in upon me I might still have delayed this communication."
After making a brief recapitulation of his pecuniary embarrassments, he then proceeded to the more immediate subject, causing him so much pain to reveal.
Transfixed and mute, his eyes cast downward, Robert attentively listened; at length gathering strength to disburden his feelings, as if the thought of parting had never before crossed him, he exclaimed, "Leab you, my good massa! is it come to dis? and must me leab you den? me dat tought to hab ended my days wit you, and would hab laid down my life to hab preserved yours! oh, dat me should hab lived to hab seen dis day!"
These few pathetic phrases, as they dropped from the lips of Robert, pierced De Brooke to the soul, insomuch, that upon attempting to speak, his utterance failed him, and his words expired ere they were pronounced. Upon witnessing this strong emotion, of which he knew he was the cause, Robert, in a wild agony clasping his hands and looking upwards towards Heaven, invoked its blessing on his master, and was about rushing from the apartment, when De Brooke, recovering his articulation, called after him to return: he did so.
"My honest fellow," said De Brooke, endeavouring to command himself, "why precipitate yourself away from me? why such haste? I have something more to tell you; I cannot immediately; my memory has been impaired of late; wait awhile longer."
De Brooke paused to ruminate concerning the wages due to Robert. At last, in the fulness of awakened energy, starting from his seat, a sudden recollection seized him.
"I hope I may not be deceived," exclaimed he, lifting himself upon a chair; and raising his head above a beam, projecting just over the head of his bedstead, leaving a space between that and the ceiling, his hand laid hold of a book; he opened it, and to his inexpressible joy found what he then perfectly well recollected to have deposited there for safety, being destined for the purpose to which he was then applying it; the remnant of what he had lost by the robbery he had sustained.
The several bank notes amounted to thirty pounds: reserving but a few for his pressing necessities, he put the remainder into the hands of Robert, saying, "'Tis but a trifle, and but ill acquits me of the debt I owe you;" giving him at the same time a written certificate, extolling his invaluable qualities. "Go now, my worthy friend," said he, "and seek your fortune with a master who may be better enabled to recompense your merits than I can."
No sooner had De Brooke finished speaking, than Robert, who had stood absorbed in thought, approached the table, and laying the money on it, "No", said he, "me will hab none of dis; of wat use is dis to Robert? Do not be angry, massa, if me refuse to take wat you may please to call de wages of my servitude, and as such my due. It was from my heart me served massa; it was my lub to him and for my pleasure; let dem who serve for interest, it is for dem to seek deir hire. Mine was free service, and seeks for noting; na recompense but wat comes from de heart. Let dose who lub demselves more dan deir massas accept the lucre for which dey sold deir labour, 'Tis not mine dat selfish feeling."
Though deeply affected, De Brooke attempted to expostulate, with an air that nevertheless carried with it decision. Whilst the honest African, the big tear rolling from his large dark eye, exclaimed, "Do not force it upon me, do not oblige me to take it; let me feel dat I have acted as a freeman and not as a slave. Oh massa!" rejoined he, "me hab enough from my savings, out of all your former bounty, to carry me whider I am going, far, far away; even so far as de land me was brought from, when lilly negro boy, by de American Captain who parted from me to your moder."
"And why, Robert, why leave the country?"
"It is wat I always meant to do," replied he, "if I should eber quit your service. But me will always tink of massa; me will remember de day we hab passed togeder, when we were bote of us boys."
"And I too," said De Brooke, viewing him at once with admiration and regret.
"I have my views in going, massa," added Robert.
"Call me no longer master," said De Brooke, "my friend, my equal, fit associate for a prince; happy could I have retained you with me till death had closed these eyes; adversity, sad adversity forbids."
"Neber mind it, massa," replied Robert: "yes, I shall always call and tink of you as my massa, my goot massa, since it formed my happiness to serb you and dear missus; but I hab my views in going." Hope, in its bright exultation, chased the tear from his swarthy but honest countenance. "Yes," added he, "me hab my views, and may de goot Fader above prosper dem!"
"May he bless and prosper all your worthy, noble, laudable endeavours," warmly ejaculated De Brooke.
He turned; but Robert, who had burst at the close of his last sentence from the room, was no longer to be seen. He recalled him, but he answered not, he was already beyond hearing; De Brooke sighed deeply, and mournfully paced his narrow chamber, giving vent to that aching void of which the heart is so sensible, when it has bid a long and last adieu to a well-tried, confidential, and beloved friend!
As soon as his convalescence permitted, he had been informed by Mrs. De Brooke of the step she had taken in addressing his father. She had shown him a copy of her letter; various and mixed feelings had accompanied him on the perusal of it: in the sentiments she had expressed, he had beheld a reflection of herself; the dignity, or rather that lofty independence of thought, usually attending upon an unerring soul, united with those softer shades, justly delineating her refined, susceptible, and feminine character. Though he could not blame his wife for having written it, under the pressure of such heavy calamities, he would have been better pleased had she not done so.
Amongst the many afflictive billows pouring on De Brooke in his "sea of troubles," was one arising from the total neglect he experienced from his sister, Mrs. Arden. Whatever cause for displeasure he had given to his father, he never supposed it could have been resented by his sister, she to whom he had been endeared in childhood, had harmonized with and united, as young branches germinating from one stock;—in the proud ostentatious union she had formed, if in disposing of herself to a wealthy suitor it might be so considered; that those tender ties, those kinder feelings, should be torn asunder, was an enigma not to be solved. How perplexing and harassing to think of by one like De Brooke, whose heart was so utterly opposed to such a conduct!
Giving herself wholly to the splendid felicities, reigning in the world of fashion, was it possible she could enter those scenes of gaiety and dissipation, arrayed with pomp, glittering with the gems bestowed by her opulent husband, without casting one thought upon a brother, one tender recollection of him, the playmate of her infancy, then groaning under the iron rod of misery and oppression!—time, in its course rolling on, without one interior dictate operating to induce her to hold out the hand of succour, and soften, in some measure, the rigours of his prison! "Impossible! but that she is deceived, she is kept in ignorance as to the extent of my sorrows!" ejaculated De Brooke; "she knows of them but in part; strict to the prohibitions given her, faithful also to the duties imposed upon her as a wife and daughter, such naturally supersede in her judgment considerations of compassion regarding myself."
Lingering out his days in confinement, so hopeless of release was De Brooke, that sometimes the thought was suggested to him of selling his colonelcy, of making a compromise with his creditors, and of retiring with the overplus to some distant and cheap country, where he could have at least the enjoyment of liberty, "fly as a bird to its mountain", range unmolested the expansive soil, behold its verdant prospects, canopied by the æthereal arch of Heaven; unknown, unpitied, and forsaken by all but his faithful partner and two surviving children.
In this melancholy mood, time past, till suddenly recollecting himself, his eye ran quickly upon the dial of his watch, suspended over the chimney. The expected hour for the return of his wife had passed. What new misery might await him! the mere suggestion was sufficient to rend his soul. Immoveable he stood contemplating the minute-hand, when sounds of footsteps approaching along the gallery met his ear; he rushed towards the door, and burst it open; 'twas his wife! his beloved Angelina who entered, to cheer and gladden him by her presence. She had been to see her old friends the Philimores, and also her daughters; they were happy, and in the full enjoyment of health; it is true they had been sensibly grieved at the idea of never more beholding their brother, but this was beginning to dissipate, the joy of seeing their mother predominating over their other feelings.
Mrs. De Brooke also recounted that from what she had gathered from Mrs. Herbert, some messenger from his father had inquired at her house. Though unable to give him any satisfactory information, yet upon perceiving the curiosity of her husband, she added to her relation that she could not suppose any hostility was meant; on the contrary, the person addressing himself to Mrs. Herbert, as she said, seemed uncommonly struck by the children, whom Mrs. Herbert, in the exultation she felt upon the occasion, pointed out to him as the grand-daughters of his master; upon which, smiling and bowing, he passed many very warm encomiums upon them, and which, in all probability, would be repeated to Sir Aubrey: "therefore," continued she, "we may at least infer a good report will be made to him of our daughters."
De Brooke would gladly have been of her opinion, but knowing his father's character, he turned away, replying with but a deep and heavy sigh. Having by his successive afflictions been accustomed to view things under the hues of a darkened imagination, even this, that might at any other period have appeared unimportant, was then calculated to strike a degree of sadness on his mind.
In her endeavours to withdraw her husband from his griefs, Mrs. De Brooke poured into his ear the most consolatory reflections; however, upon finding they were unattended to, she rose and went to the window, in order to conceal the unbidden tear which, in spite of her, dropped upon her cheek. Scarcely was it chased, than those ponderous portals meeting her view, so long barred against her husband, she then saw thrown open to admit a stranger; who, coming forward in a straight direction in front of where she stood, a sudden impulse seized her that his visit was to their chamber on business to De Brooke.
The person of the stranger was tall and gaunt, his gait firm, his attire neat. In following his motions from her elevated station above the court he trod, she could not ascertain precisely whether he had entered the door of the staircase leading to the story they inhabited. She feared to indulge hope; nevertheless, an irresistible emotion ominous of good throbbed at her heart, and to which she was about to give utterance: having already apprised her husband she suspected the stranger was to him, a sudden paleness overspread his countenance, his mind still haunted by some recollection of the brutal intrusion of his creditors, supposed to have been at the instigation of his father.
Footsteps now approached, a knock was heard without; De Brooke hastily demanded who was there. The reply was in a voice unknown to him. Giving his name, he begged admittance, adding that his business was important, and that it would be inconvenient to call again. His suspicions diminishing, De Brooke obeyed, whilst his unconscious wife, ignorant as to any cause that could give rise to agitation, as the door opened, the object who had previously engaged her scrutiny stood before her.
His deportment was by no means such as to keep alive the favourable impression she had felt upon first seeing him. Unprepossessing, cold, and distant, he accepted De Brooke's offered chair. With a downcast eye he surveyed the scanty chamber, then raising it upon De Brooke, with a look that seemed to denote he was unaccustomed and equally disinclined to free communication, he entered concisely upon the business which had brought him.
"I am come," said he, "as the confidential lawyer of Sir Aubrey De Brooke, who desires an immediate statement laid before him of your debts."
Expectation and curiosity succeeded to that deep anxiety before visible on the brow of De Brooke, who would have spoken, but the stranger interrupted him.
"From family and prudential motives," said he drily, "Sir Aubrey has conceived the intention of appropriating a certain sum for the liquidation of your debts, provided it will come within its compass, and that you prepare immediately upon your liberation to leave the kingdom; such being the conditions only upon which Sir Aubrey means to interfere."
"Prepare to leave the kingdom!" echoed De Brooke; "to what banishment does he intend sending me?" Impatient for a direct reply, the stranger added, he supposed it did not require much time to satisfy his demand; and asked whether he had by him a list, as desired by Sir Aubrey, that without further delay he might proceed to execute his commands.
A kind Providence might be acting in his favour, thought De Brooke: at all events, liberation, if it could be effected upon any terms, was infinitely preferable to lingering out his days in prison. He rose, therefore, and put a paper containing the information required into the hands of the unfeeling stranger, who, without further speech or ceremony, depositing it safe in a pocket-case, coldly bowed, and withdrew.
The lawyer being gone, De Brooke interchanged with his wife those thoughts and reflections which such an unlooked for circumstance, involving his release, naturally produced. It was evident to perceive, the intentions of Sir Aubrey had for their object his removal from the kingdom; an event which could no otherwise take place than by his enjoining upon himself the sacrifice he meditated. Whatever the motive which dictated this compromise with his creditors on the part of his father, it was one of the greatest services it was possible at that moment of time to confer upon him, and which, previous to the last few hours, had appeared to him a circumstance as devoutly to be wished as it was utterly hopeless of fulfilment. On the other hand, this kindness, in the discharge of his debts, came attended by conditions, in themselves apparently so cold and heartless, when considered as coming from a father, that even his rescue from those ignoble bonds that had held him so long a prisoner, seemed exchanged for others of more galling obligation; the contumacy and pride of Sir Aubrey so far governing the deed, as in stifling the warm feelings of gratitude, would scarcely leave any other than those arising from the contrast of his own littleness with his father's greatness.