Home > Authors Index > Jean Ingelow > Fated to Be Free: A Novel > This page
Fated to Be Free: A Novel, a novel by Jean Ingelow |
||
Chapter 30. A Chapter Of Troubles |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXX. A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES "She's daft to refuse the laird of Cockpen." Scotch Ballad.
"So you gave it to John, auntie," said Emily, when Miss Christie came back, "and told him I was going out, and he read the note?" "Yes," answered Miss Christie curtly. "Is he looking well?" asked Emily with a faint attempt at the tone of ordinary interest. "I should say not at all; it would be queer if he was." "Why, Aunt Christie?" Miss Christie Grant paused. Confidence had not been reposed in her; to have surprised Emily into it would have given her no pleasure; it would have left her always suspicious that her niece would have withheld it if she could; besides, this rumour might after all be untrue. She answered, "Because, for one thing, he has had great, at least considerable, losses." "Yes, I know," said Emily. "But he aye reposed great confidence in me, as a friend should." "Yes." "And so I would have asked him several questions if I had known how to express myself; but bonds and debentures, and, above all, preference stock, were aye great stumbling-blocks to my understanding. Men have a way of despising a woman's notions of business matters; so I contented myself with asking if it was true that he was arranging to take a partner, and whether he would have to make any pecuniary sacrifice in order to effect this? He said 'Yes;' but I've been just thinking he meant that in confidence." "You shouldn't tell it to me then." "And then he told me (I don't know whether that was in confidence or not), but----" "But what?" "But I don't want to have any reservations with my own niece's child, that was always my favourite, any more than I suppose ye would have any with me." Miss Christie here seemed to expect an answer, and waited long enough for Emily to make one, if she was so minded; but as Emily remained silent, she presently went on. "I made the observation that I had heard he meant to sell his late father's house; but lest he should think I attached too much importance to his losses, I just added that I knew his children were very well provided for under the will. He said 'Yes.'" "And that was all?" asked Emily, amused at the amount of John's confidence, and pleased to find that nothing but business had been talked or. "Yes, that was all--so far as I know there was nothing more to tell; so I just said before I came away that I was well aware my knowledge of banking was but slender, which was reason enough for my not offering any advice. Well, if anybody had told me ye could laugh because John Mortimer was less prosperous than formerly, I would not have believed it!" Emily made haste to look grave again. It was no secret at all that John Mortimer meant to take a partner; and as to his losses, she did not suppose they would affect his comfort much. Johnnie Mortimer, however, on hearing of them was roused to a sense of responsibility toward his father, and as a practical proof that he and his sisters were willing to do what they could, proposed to them that they should give up half their weekly allowance of pocket-money. The twins assented with filial fervour, and Johnnie explained their views to his father, proposing that his own pony should be sold, and the money flung into the gap. John was smoking a cigar in an arbour near the house when his heir unfolded to him these plans for retrenchment. He was surprised. The boy was so big, so clever with his lessons, and possessed so keen a sense of humour that sometimes the father forgot his actual age, and forgot that he was still simple in many respects, and more childlike than some other youths. He did not instantly answer nor laugh (for Johnnie was exceedingly sensitive to ridicule from him); but after a pause, as if for thought, he assured his son that he was not in any want of money, and that therefore these plans, he was happy to say, were not necessary. "As you are old enough now," he added, "to take an intelligent interest in my affairs, I shall occasionally talk to you about them." Johnnie, shoving his head hard against his father's shoulder, gave him an awkward hug. "You might depend on my never telling anybody," he said. "I am sure of that, my boy. Your dear grandfather, a few months before his death, gave his name to an enterprise which, in my opinion, did not promise well. A good deal of money has been lost by it." "Oh," said Johnnie, and again he reflected that, though not necessary, it would be only right and noble in him to give up his pony. "But I dare say you think that I and mine have always lived in the enjoyment of every comfort, and of some luxuries." "Oh, yes, father." "Then if I tell you that I intend to continue living exactly in my present style, and that I expect to be always entitled to do so, you need perhaps hardly concern yourself to inquire how much I may hitherto have lived within my income." Johnnie, who, quite unknown to himself, had just sustained the loss of many thousands hitherto placed to his name, replied with supreme indifference that he hoped he was not such a muff as to care about money that his father did not care about himself, and did not want. Whereupon John proceeded,-- "It is my wish, and in the course of a few years I hope that I shall be able, to retire." "Oh," said Johnnie again, and he surprised his father to the point of making him refrain from any further communication, by adding, "And then you'll have plenty of time to rummage among those old Turanian verbs and things. But, father?" "Yes, my boy." John looked down into the clear eyes of the great, awkward, swarthy fellow, expecting the question, "Will this make much difference to my future prospects?" But, no, what he said was, "I should like to have a _go_ at them too. And you said you would teach me Sanscrit, if ever you had leisure." "So I did," said John, "and so I will." To his own mind these buried roots, counted by the world so dry, proved, as it were, appetising and attractive food. How, then, should he be otherwise than pleased that his son should take delight in the thought of helping him to rake them up, and arguing with him over "the ninth meaning of a particle?" "The boy will learn to love money quite soon enough," he thought. Johnnie then went his way. It was Saturday afternoon; he told his sisters that "it was all right," and thereupon resolving no longer to deny themselves the innocent pleasures of life, they sent little Bertram into the town for eighteenpennyworth of "rock." "Where's the change?" he inquired, with the magisterial dignity belonging to his race, when his little brother came home. Bertram replied with all humility that he had only, been tossing up the fourpenny piece a few times for fun, when it fell into the ditch. He couldn't help it; he was very sorry. "_Soufflez_ the fourpenny piece," said Johnnie in a burst of reckless extravagance; "I forgive you this once. Produce the stuff." He felt a lordly contempt for money just then; perhaps it was wrong, but prosperity was spoiling him. He was to retain his pony, and this amiable beast was dear to him. In the meantime Valentine, established at Melcombe, had been enjoying the sweetness of a no less real prosperity. From that moment, when the ghost story had melted into mist, he had flung aside all those uneasy doubts which had disturbed his first weeks of possession. He soon surrounded himself with the luxury that was so congenial to him. All the neighbourhood called on him, and his naturally sociable temper, amiable, domestic ways, and good position enabled him, with hardly any effort, to be always among a posse of people who suited him perfectly. There were more ladies than young men in the neighbourhood. Valentine was intimate with half-a-dozen of the former before he had been among them three weeks. He experienced the delights of feminine flattery, a thing almost new to him. Who so likely to receive it? He was eligible, he was handsome, and he was always in a good humour, for the place and the life pleased him, and all things smiled. In a round of country gaieties, in which picnics and archery parties bore a far larger proportion than any young man would have cared for who was less devoted to the other sex, Valentine passed much of his time, laughing and making laugh wherever he went. His jokes were bandied about from house to house, till he felt the drawback in passing for a wit. He was expected to be always funny. But a little real fun goes a long way in a dull neighbourhood, and he had learned just so much caution from his early escapade as to be willing to hail any view concerning himself that might be a corrective of the more true and likely one that he loved to flirt. He was quite determined, as he thought, not to get into another scrape, and perhaps a very decided intention to make, in the end, an advantageous marriage, may have grown out of the fancy that his romance in life was over. If he thought so, it was in no very consistent fashion, for he was always the slave (for the day) of the prettiest girl in every party he went to. It was on a Saturday that John Mortimer received his son's proposal for retrenchment; on the Wednesday succeeding it Valentine, sitting at breakfast at Melcombe, opened the following letter, and was amused by the old-fashioned formality of its opening sentence:--
"My dear Nephew,--It is not often that I take up my pen to address you, for I know there is little need, as my niece Emily writes weekly. Frequently have I wondered what she could find to write for; indeed, it was not the way in my youth for people to waste so much time saying little or nothing--which is not my case at the present time, for your sister being gone on the Continent, it devolves upon me, that is not used to long statements, to let ye know, what ye will be very sorry to hear. I only hope it may be no worse before it is over. "Matthew, the coachman, came running over to me on Monday morning last, and said would I come to the house, for the servants did not know what to be at, and told me that Johnnie, who had been to go back to Harrow by the eleven o'clock train, had got leave to drive the pheaton to the Junction with the four girls in it, and Bertram, who, by ill luck--of I may use such a word (meaning no irreverence)--of this dispensation of Providence, had not gone back to Mr. Tikey's that morning. So far as I can make out, he thought he should be late, and so he turned those two spirited young horses down that steep sandy lane by the wood, to cut off a corner; and whether the woodman's children ran out and frightened them, or whether he was shouting and whooping himself, poor laddie--for I heard something of both--but Barbara was just sobbing her heart away when she told it, and he aye raised the echoes wherever he went; but the horses set off, running away, tearing down that rough road. Johnnie shouted to them all to sit still, and so they did, though they were almost jolted out; and if they had been let alone, there might have been no accident; but two men sprung out of a hedge and tried to stop them, and they turned on to the common, and sped away like the wind towards home, till they came to the sand bank by the small inn, the Loving Cup, and there they upset the carriage, and when the two men got up to it Johnnie and all of them were tossed out, and the carriage was almost kicked to pieces by the horse that was not down. "This is a long tale, Valentine, and I seem to have hardly begun it. I must take another sheet of paper. When I got to the house, you never saw such a scene. Johnnie had been brought in quite stunned, and his face greatly bruised. There were two doctors already with them. Bertram had got a broken arm; he was calling out, poor little fellow, and Nancy was severely hurt, but I was grieved to see her so quiet. Gladys seemed at first to be only bruised and limping; but she and Barbara were faint and sick with fright. Janie was not present; she had been carried into the inn; but I may as well tell ye that in her case no bones were broken, poor lamb. She is doing very well, and in a day or two is to be brought home. "It was a very affecting scene, as ye may suppose, and my first words were, 'Who is to tell this to Mr. Mortimer?' They said your brother has already gone to fetch him and prepare him. Well, I knew everything that was in the house, and where it was kept; so I'm thankful to think I was of use, and could help the new governess and the strange servants. "Dorothea and Mrs. Henfrey soon came in, and by the time John arrived all the invalids had been carried up-stairs, and Johnnie had begun to show signs of consciousness. "John was as white as chalk. He was rather strange at first; he said in a commanding, peremptory way, that he wouldn't be spoken to; he wouldn't hear a word; he was not ready. Everybody stood round, till Dorothea disobeyed him; she said, 'They are all living, dear Mr. Mortimer;' and then Giles got him to sit down, and they gave him some water to drink. "He then noticed Dr. Limpsy, who had come down, and asked if any of them were in danger, and the doctor said yes--one. So he said he prayed God it was not his eldest son: he could bear anything but that. And yet when the doctor said he had every hope that Johnnie would do well, but he had great fears for the little Anastasia, he burst into tears, poor man, and said that of all his children she would be the hardest to spare. But I need not tell ye we did not remind him of the inconsistency, and were glad to think he was not to lose the one he set his heart most upon. And after that he was perfectly himself and more composed than anybody, which is a wonder, for such a catalogue of broken bones and sprains and contusions as came to light as the doctors examined further, was enough to disturb anybody's courage. Giles sat up with Johnnie all night; indeed nobody went to bed. John was by Nancy, and in the morning they spoke hopefully of her. Johnnie's first words were about his father; he couldn't bear his father near him, because now and then he was surprised into shouting out with pain, and he wouldn't have John distressed with his noise. He was nothing like so well as we had hoped this morning; but still the doctors say there is no danger. He got a kick from the horse when he was down, and he thinks he fainted with the pain. When John came down to get a little breakfast he was very much cheered to have a better account than he had expected of Nancy, and he made the remark that ye would be sorry to hear of this; so I said I would write, which I am doing, sitting beside little Bertram, who is asleep.--I am "Your mother's affectionate aunt, and always affectionately yours, "CHRISTIAN GRANT."
Emily had come home then. Valentine set forth at once, and reached John Mortimer's house in the afternoon. A doctor's carriage stood at the door; a strange lady--evidently a nurse--passed through the hall; people were quietly moving about, but they seemed too anxious, and too much occupied to observe him. At last Emily came down. "Is Johnnie worse?" asked Valentine. "Yes; but I wanted you to help us with John. Oh, such a disaster! On the third night after the accident, just before I arrived--for Dorothea had sent for me--every one in the house was greatly tired; but Johnnie and Anastasia were both thought better; so much better that the doctors said if there was no change during the night, they should consider dear little Nancy quite out of danger. Giles and Dorothea had gone home. The nurse sent for was not come. John knew how fatigued the whole household was, and all who were sitting up. He had not been able to take any sleep himself, and he was restlessly pacing up and down in the garden, watching and listening under the open windows. It was very hot. "He fancied about three o'clock that there had been a long silence in Anastasia's room. She was to have nourishment frequently. He stole up-stairs, found the person with her asleep from fatigue, gave the child some jelly himself, and then finding her medicine, as he supposed, ready poured out in the wine-glass, he gave it to her, and discovered almost instantly a mistake. The sad imprudence had been committed of pouring the lotion for the child's temples into a wine-glass, to save the trouble of ringing for a saucer. The child was almost out of danger before that terrible night; but when I came home there was scarcely a hope of her life, and her father was almost distracted. I mean that, though he seems perfectly calm, never loses his self-control, he is very often not able to command his attention so as to answer when they speak to him, and he cannot rest a moment. He spent the whole of last night wandering up and down the garden, leaning on St. George's arm. He cannot eat nor occupy himself, and the doctors begin to be uneasy about him. Oh, it is such a misfortune! "And Johnnie is very ill," continued Emily, tears glittering on her eyelashes; "but John seems to take it all with perfect composure. Everything else is swallowed up in his distress of mind for what he has unfortunately done. If the child dies, I really think he will not get over it." Some one called Emily, and she passed up-stairs again. Valentine turned and saw John near him; he came forward, but attempted no greeting. "I thought I might be of use, John," he said, as if they had seen one another but the day before. "Is there anything I can do for you over at the town?" Valentine was a little daunted at first at the sight of him; his face was so white and he showed so plainly the oppression that weighed down his soul by the look in his eyes; they were a little raised, and seemed as if they could not rest on anything near at hand. Valentine repeated his words, and was relieved when John roused himself, and expressed surprise and pleasure at seeing him. He sent Valentine to one of his clerks for some papers to be signed, gave him other directions, and was evidently the better for his presence. It was not without many strange sensations that Valentine found himself again in that room where he had spent such happy hours, and which was so connected with his recollections of his old uncle. The plunge he had taken into the sweet waters of prosperity and praise had made him oblivious of some things that now came before his thoughts again with startling distinctness; but on the whole he felt pleasure in going back to the life that he had elected to leave, and was very glad to forget John's face in doing what he could to help him. When he returned to the house John had commenced his restless walk again. Swan was walking beside him, and he was slightly leaning his hand on the old man's shoulder, as if to steady himself. Valentine drew near. "And you are sure he said nothing more?" John was saying in the low inward tone of fatigue and exhaustion. "No, sir. 'Tell Mr. Mortimer,' says he, 'that his son is considerable better,' and he told Mrs. Walker--I heard him say it--that the blessed little one was no worse, not a morsel worse." Valentine paused and heard John speak again in that peculiar tone--"I have no hope, Swan." "I wouldn't give up, sir, if I was you: allers hold on to hope, sir." "I cannot stand the strain much longer," he continued, as if he had not listened, "but sometimes--my thoughts are often confused--but sometimes I feel some slight relief in prayer." "Ay, sir," answered Swan, "the Scripture says, 'Knock, and it shall be opened to you,' and I've allers thought it was mighty easier for one that begs to go and knock there than anywhere else, for in that house the Master opens the door himself." _ |
||