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Fated to Be Free: A Novel, a novel by Jean Ingelow |
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Chapter 28. Melcombe |
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_ CHAPTER XXVIII. MELCOMBE
E.B. BROWNING.
Without sunshine, white in nature is always most solemn. Here stillness was added; not a bird was yet awake, not a leaf stirred. A faint bluish haze appeared to confuse the outlines of the trees, but as he lingered looking at them and at the house which he had now fully decided to take for his home, Mr. Melcombe saw this haze dissolve itself and retreat; there was light enough to make the paleness whiter, and to show the distinct brown trunk of each pear-tree, with the cushions of green moss at its roots. Formless whiteness and visible dusk had divided themselves into light and shade, then came a shaft of sunshine, the boughs laden with dewy blossom sparkled like snow, and in one instant the oppression of their solemnity was over, and they appeared to smile upon his approach to his home. He had done everything he could think of, and knew not how to devise anything further, and yet this secret, if there was one, would not come forward and look him in the face. He had searched the house in the first instance for letters and papers; there were some old letters, and old papers also, but not one that did not seem to be as clear in the innocence of its meaning as possible; there was even one that set at rest doubt and fear which he had hitherto entertained. He had found no closets in the wall, no locked chambers; he had met with no mysterious silences, mysterious looks, mysterious words. Then he had gone to meet the bereaved mother, that if she had anything to say in the way of warning to him, or repentance for herself, he might lay himself out to hear it; but no, he had found her generally not willing to talk, but all she did say showed tender reverence for the dead Melcombes, and passionate grief for her boy who had been taken, as she said, before he was old enough even to estimate at its due value the prosperous and happy career he had before him. He tried Laura. Laura, though sincerely sorry for poor little Peter's death, was very sentimental; told Valentine, to his surprise, that it was mainly on her account they had wintered on the Continent, and with downcast eyes and mysterious confusion that made him tremble, at first utterly declined to tell him the reason. When he found, therefore, that Mrs. Melcombe did not care at present to return to England, and was far better able than he was to arrange her journey when she did, he might have come home at once, but for this mystery of Laura's. And when, after cultivating his intimacy with her for nearly a month, he at last found out, beyond a doubt, that it related to a love affair which Amelia had not approved of, he felt as if everything he approached, concerning the matter of his father's letter, melted into nothingness at his touch. He acknowledged to himself that he should have been deeply disappointed if he had discovered anything to justify this letter; and when the full, low sunlight shone upon his large comfortable old house, glorified the blossoming orchard and set off the darkness of the ancient yews, he felt a touch of that sensation, which some people think is not fancy only. Everything about him seemed familiar. The old-fashioned quaintness was a part of himself. "The very first time I saw that clean, empty coach-house," he reflected, "I felt as if I had often played in it. I almost seemed to hear other boys shouting to me. Is it true that I never let off squibs and crackers in that yard?" He walked nearer. How cheerful it all looked, swept up with extra neatness, and made orderly for the new master's eyes! "By-the-bye," he thought, catching sight of a heavy old outhouse door, "there is the ghost story. Having examined all realities so far as I can, I will try my hand at things unreal--for even now, though I am very grateful to Providence for such a house and such an inheritance, once show me a good reason, and over it goes, as it should have done at first, if my father could have given me one. That door seems just the sort of thing for a ghost to pass through. I'll look at the book Laura told me of, and see which door it was." So the house being now open, and Mr. Melcombe observed by his servants (who alone were there to give him welcome), he entered, ordered breakfast, which was spread for him in the "great parlour," and having now got into the habit of making investigations, had no sooner finished his meal than he began to look at the notes he had made from what Mrs. Melcombe had told him of the ghost story. It was a story that she had not half finished when he recognised it--he had read it with all its particulars in a book, only with the names and localities disguised. "Oh, yes," she answered, when he said so. "It is very well known; it has always been considered one of the best authenticated stories of its kind on record, though it was not known beyond the family and the village for several years. Augustus Melcombe, you know, was the name of the dear grandmother's only brother, her father's heir; he was her father's only son, two daughters born between died in infancy. That poor young fellow died at sea, and just at the time (as is supposed) that he expired, his wraith appeared to the old woman, Becky Maddison, then a very young girl. I am sorry to say the old woman has made a gain of this story. People often used to come to hear it, and she certainly does not always tell it exactly the same. People's inquiries, I suppose, and suggestions, have induced her to add to it; but the version I am giving you is what she first told." Mrs. Melcombe mentioned the book in which Valentine would find it, and repeated from memory the impressive conclusion, "And this story of the young man's appearance to her had been repeatedly told by the girl before his family became alarmed at his protracted absence. It was during the long war, and the worst they feared was that he might have been taken prisoner; but more than three years after a member of the family met by accident, when some hundreds of miles away from home, a naval officer who had sailed in the ship to which this young lieutenant belonged, and heard from him, not without deep emotion, that at that very time and at that very hour the youth had died at sea." "There is only one mistake in that version," continued Mrs. Melcombe, "and that is, that we do not know the exact time when the young man died. Cuthbert Melcombe was not told the month even, only the year." "But surely that is a very important mistake," said Valentine. "Yes, for those to consider who believe in supernatural stones. It is certain, however, that the girl told this story within a day or two, and told it often, so that it was known in the village. It is certain also that he was at sea, and that he never came home. And it is undoubtedly true that Cuthbert, when in London, heard this account, for he wrote his mother home a description of the whole interview, with the officer's name and ship. I have seen the letter, and read it over several times. The year of the death at sea is mentioned, but not the day. Now the day of the ghost's appearance we cannot be wrong about; it was that before the night of the great gale which did such damage in these parts, that for years it could not be forgotten." "You have read the letter, you say?" "Yes; it was an important one, I suppose. But I fancy that it was not read by any one but the dear grandmother till after poor Cuthbert Melcombe's sad death, and then I think the family lawyer found it among her papers when she had to inherit the estate. He may have wanted evidence, perhaps, that Augustus Melcombe was dead." "Perhaps so," said Valentine. "It is just of the usual sort, I see, this story; a blue light hovering about the head. The ghost walked in his shroud, and she saw the seams in it." "Yes, and then it passed through the door without opening it," added Laura, who was present. "How dear grandmother disliked the woman! She showed a sort of fear, too, of that door, which made us sure she believed the story." "Very natural," said Mrs. Melcombe. sighing, "that she could not bear to have her misfortunes made a subject for idle talk and curiosity. I am sure I should feel keenly hurt if it was ever said that my poor innocent darling haunted the place." "Had anything been said against him in his lifetime?" Valentine next ventured to ask. "Had he done anything which was likely to put it into people's heads to say he might be uneasy in his grave?" "Oh no, nothing of the sort," said Laura. "And then old Becky is thought to have added circumstances to the story, so that it came from that cause to be discredited of late. It is almost forgotten now, and we never believed it at all; but it certainly is an odd coincidence that she should have told it of a man who never came back to contradict her, and who really did die, it appears, about that time." Valentine accordingly went in the course of a few days to find old Becky Maddison. The cottage was not far from the village. Only the daughter was below, and when Valentine had told his name and errand, she went up-stairs, perhaps to prepare her mother, to whom she presently conducted him. Valentine found her a poor bedridden creature, weak, frail, and querulous. She was in a clean and moderately comfortable bed, and when she saw him her puckered face and faded eyes began to look more intelligent and attentive, and she presently remarked on his likeness to his father. A chair was set for him, and sitting down, he showed a sovereign in his palm, and said, "I want to hear the ghost story; tell it me as it really was, and you shall have this." A shabby book was lying on the bed. "Her can tell it no better'n it's told here," said the daughter. Valentine took up the book. It was the same that he knew; the blue light and the shroud appeared in it. He put the money into her hand. "No," he said; "you shall have the money beforehand. Now, then, say what you really saw." Old Becky clutched the gold, and said, in a weak, whimpering tone, "'Tain't often I tell it--ain't told it sin' Christmas marnin', old Madam couldn't abide to hear on't." "Old Madam's gone," said Valentine seriously. "Ay, her be--her wer a saint, and sings in heaven now." "And I want to hear it." Thereupon the old woman roused herself a little, and with the voice and manner of one repeating a lesson, told Valentine word for word the trumpery tale in the book; how she had seen Mr. Melcombe early in the morning, as she went up to the house on washing-day, to help the servants. For "Madam," a widow already, had leave to live there till he should return. He was walking in his shroud among the cherry-trees, and he looked seriously at her. She passed, but turned instantly, and he had disappeared; he must have gone right through the crack of the door. Valentine was vexed, and yet relieved. Such a ridiculous tale could only be an invention; and yet, if she would have told it in different words, or have added anything, it might have led to some discovery--it might, at least, have shown how it came to pass that such a story had obtained credit. "That was it, was it?" he said, feigning content. "I should like to ask you another question; perhaps your daughter will not mind going down." With evident reluctance the daughter withdrew. Valentine shut the door, and came back to his place. Naturally enough, he cared nothing about the story; so he approached the only thing he did care about in the matter. "I want to ask you this one thing: a ghost, you say, appeared to you--well, what do you think it was for--what did it want--what did it mean?" Evident surprise on the part of his listener. "It must have come for something," Valentine added, when she remained silent. "Have you never considered what?" "Ay, sir, sure-ly. He came to let folks know he was gone." "And that was all, you think?" "What else could he come for?" she answered. "Nobody has ever said, then, that it came for anything else," thought Valentine. "The poor ghost is not accused of any crime, and there is no crime known of concerning the family or place that could be imputed to him." "You are sure you have nothing more to say to me?" "Ne'er a word, sir, this blessed marnin', but thank you kindly." Perhaps Valentine had never felt better pleased in his life than he did when he went down the narrow, dark stairs, after his interview with Becky Maddison. To find that without doubt she was either a fool or an impostor, was not what should have softened his heart and opened his purse for her; but he had feared to encounter her story far more than he had known himself till now that all fear was over. So when he got down to the daughter he was gracious, and generously gave her leave to come to the house for wine and any other comforts that the old woman might require. "And I shall come and see her from time to time," he added, as he went his way, for with the old woman's last word had snapped the chain that had barred the road to Melcombe. It was his. He should dispense its charity, pay its dues, and from henceforth, without fear or superstition, enjoy its revenues. About this time something occurred at John Mortimer's house, which made people hold up their hands, and exclaim, "What next?" It would be a difficult matter to tell that story correctly, considering how many had a hand in the telling of it, and that no two of them told it in the least degree alike; considering also that Mr. Mortimer, who certainly could have told the greater part of it, had (so far as was known) never told it at all. Everybody said he had knocked up Swan and Mrs. Swan at six o'clock one morning, and sent the former to call up Matthew the coachman, who also lived out of the house. "And that," said Swan, when he admitted the fact to after questioners, "Matthew never will forgive me for doing. He hates to get his orders through other folks, specially through me. He allus grudges me the respect as the family can't help feeling for me. Not but that he gets his share, but he counts nothing his if it's mine too. He'd like to pluck the very summer out of my almanack, and keep it in his own little back parlour." Everybody said, also, that Mrs. Swan had made the fire that morning in Mr. Mortimer's kitchen, and that Matthew had waited on him and his four daughters at breakfast, nobody else being in the house, gentle or simple. Gentle or simple. That was certainly true, for the governess had taken her departure two days previously. After this, everybody said that Matthew brought the carriage round, and Mr. Mortimer put in the girls, and got in himself, telling Matthew to drive to Wigfield Hall, where Mr. Brandon, coming out to meet him with a look of surprise, he said, "Giles, we are early visitors;" and Mr. Brandon answered, "All the more welcome, John." Everybody said also that the four Miss Mortimers remained for several days with Mrs. Brandon, and very happy they seemed. But though people knew no more, they naturally said a good deal more--they always do. Some said that Mr. Mortimer, coming home unexpectedly after a journey in the middle of the night, found the kitchen chimney on fire, and some of the servants asleep on the floor, nothing like so sober as they should have been. Others said he found a dance going on in the servants' hall, and the cook waltzing with a policeman, several gentlemen of the same craft being present. Others, again, said that when he returned he found the house not only empty, but open; that he sat down and waited, in a lowering passion, till they all returned in two flys from some festivities at a public-house in Wigfield; and then, meeting them at the door, he retained the flys, and waving his hand, ordered them all off the premises; saw them very shortly depart, and locked the doors behind them. It was a comfort to be able to invent so many stories, and not necessary to make them tally, for no one could contradict them; certainly not any one of the four Miss Mortimers, for they had all been fast asleep the whole time. Mr. Mortimer held his peace; but while staying with Mr. and Mrs. Brandon till he could reconstruct his household, he was observed at first to be out of spirits, and vastly inclined to be out of temper. He did his very best to hide this, but he could not hide a sort of look half shame, half amusement, which would now and then steal round the corners of his mouth, as if it had come out of some hiding-place to take a survey of things in general. John Mortimer had perhaps rather prided himself on his penetration, his powers of good government, the order and respectability of his household, and other matters of that description. He had been taught in rather an ignominious fashion that he had overvalued himself in those particulars. He was always treated by strangers whom he employed with a great deal of respect and deference; but this was mainly owing to a somewhat commanding presence and a good deal of personal dignity. When the same people got used to him, perceived the _bonhomie_ of his character, his carelessness about money matters, and his easy household ways, they were sometimes known to take all the more advantage of him from having needlessly feared him at first. He said to Giles, "It is very evident now that I must marry. I owe it to the mother of my children, and in fact to them." Mrs. Brandon said this to Mrs. Walker when, the next day, these two ladies met, and were alone together, excepting for the presence of St. George Mortimer Brandon, which did not signify. "The house might have been robbed," she continued, "and the children burnt in their beds." "Giles told you this afterwards?" "Yes." Emily looked uncomfortable. "One never knows how men may discuss matters when they are alone. I hope, if John ever asked advice of Giles, he would not----" Here a pause. "He would not recommend any one in particular," said Dorothea, looking down on her baby's face. "Oh no, I am certain he would not think of such a thing. Besides, the idea that he had any one to suggest has, I know, never entered his head." This she said without looking at Emily, and in a matter-of-fact tone. If one had discovered anything, and the other was aware of it, she could still here at least feel perfectly safe. This sister of hers, even to her own husband, would never speak. "And that was all?" "No; Giles said he gave him various ludicrous particulars, and repeated, with such a sincere sigh, 'I must marry--it's a dire necessity!' that Giles laughed, and so did he." "Poor John!" said Emily, "there certainly was not much in his first marriage to tempt him into a second. And so I suppose Giles encouraged him, saying, as he often does, that he had never known any happiness worth mentioning till he married." "Yes, dear," said Dorothea, "and he answered, 'But you did not pitch yourself into matrimony like a man taking a header into a fathomless pool. You were in love, old fellow, and I am not. Why, I have not decided yet on the lady!' He cannot mean, therefore, to marry forthwith, Emily; besides, it must be the literal truth that he has not even half unconsciously a real preference for any one, or he could not have talked so openly to Giles. He does not even foresee any preference." "But I hope to help him to a preference very soon," she thought, and added aloud, "Dear, you will stay and dine with us?" Emily replied that she could not, she was to dine with a neighbour; and she shortly departed, in possession of the most imprudent speeches John had ever made (for he was usually most reticent), and she could not guess of course that one of his assertions time had already falsified. He _had_ decided on the lady. While the notion that he must marry had slumbered, his thought that Emily should be his wife had slumbered also; but that morning, driving towards Wigfield, he had stopped at his own house to give some orders, and then had gone up into "Parliament" to fetch out some small possessions that his twin daughters wanted. There, standing for a moment to look about him, his eyes had fallen on his throne, and instantly the image of Emily had recurred to him, and her attitude as she held his little child. To give a step-mother to his children had always been a painful thought. They might be snubbed, misrepresented to him, uncherished, unloved. But Emily! there was the tender grace of motherhood in her every action towards a little child; her yearning sense of loss found its best appeasement in the pretty exactions and artless dependence of small young creatures. No; Emily might spoil step-children if she had them, but she could not be unkind. His cold opinion became a moderately pleased conviction. This was so much the right thing, that once contemplated, it became the only thing. He recalled her image again, as he looked at the empty throne, and he did not leave the room till he had fully decided to set her on it. When John went back to dinner, he soon managed to introduce her name, and found those about him very willing to talk of her. It seemed so natural in that house. John recalled some of the anecdotes of her joyous girlhood for Dorothea's benefit; they laughed over them together. They all talked a good deal that evening of Emily, but this made no difference to John's intention; it was fully formed already. So the next morning, having quite recovered his spirits, and almost forgotten what he had said three days before to his host, he remarked to himself, just as he finished dressing, "She has been a widow now rather more than a year. The sooner I do it, the better." He sat down to cogitate. It was not yet breakfast time. "Well," he said, "she is a sweet creature. What would I have, I wonder!" He took a little red morocco case from his pocket-book, and opened it. "My father was exceedingly fond of her," he next said, "and nothing would have pleased him better." His father had inherited a very fine diamond ring from his old cousin, and had been in the habit of wearing it. John, who never decked himself in jewellery of any sort, had lately taken this ring to London, and left it with his jeweller, to be altered so as to fit a lady's finger. He intended it for his future wife. It had just been sent back to him. Some people say, "There are no fools like old fools." It might be said with equal truth, there are no follies like the follies of a wise man. "I cannot possibly play the part of a lover," said Mr. Mortimer, and his face actually changed its hue slightly when he spoke. "How shall I manage to give it to her!" He looked at the splendid gem, glittering and sparkling. "And I hate insincerity," he continued. Then, having taken out the ring, he inspected it as if he wished it could help him, turning it round on the tip of his middle finger. "Trust her? I should think so! Like her? Of course I do. I'll settle on her anything Giles pleases, but I must act like a gentleman, and not pretend to any romantic feelings." A pause. "It's rather an odd thing," he further reflected, "that so many women as have all but asked me--so many as have actually let other women ask me for them--so many as I know I might now have almost at a week's notice, I should have taken it into my head that I must have this one, who doesn't care for me a straw. She'll laugh at me, very likely--she'll take me, though!" Another pause. "No, I won't have any one else, I'm determined. I'll agree to anything she demands." Here a sunbeam, and the diamonds darted forth to meet one another. The flash made him wink. "If she'll only undertake to reign and rule, and bring up the children--for she'll do it well, and love them too--I'm a very domestic fellow, I shall be fond of her. Yes, I know she'll soon wind me round her little finger." Here, remembering the sweetness of liberty, he sighed. "I'll lay the matter before her this morning. I shall not forget the respect due to her and to myself." He half laughed. "She'll soon know well enough what I'm come for; and if I stick fast, she will probably help me!" He shut up the ring. "She never has had the least touch of romance in her nature, and _she knows_ that _I know_ she didn't love her first husband a bit." He then looked at himself, or rather at his coat, in a long glass--it fitted to perfection. "If this crash had not brought me to the point, I might have waited till somebody else won her. There goes the breakfast bell. Well, I think I am decidedly glad on the whole." _ |
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