Fated to Be Free by Jean Ingelow (page 5)

Then, as Aunt Christie was observed to be struggling with a laugh that, however long repressed, was sure to break forth at last, Barbara led her to the top of the stairs, and loudly entreated her to mind she didn’t stumble, and to mind she did not touch the stair-rods, for the machine, she observed, was just ready.

“The jarth are all charged now, Cray,” said Johnnie, coming forward at last. “Mith Crampton, would you like to have the firtht turn of going down with them?”

“No, thank you,” said Miss Crampton almost suavely, and rising with something very like alacrity. Then, remembering that she had not even mentioned what she came for, “I wish to observe,” she said, “that I much disapprove of the noise I hear up in Parliament. I desire that it may not occur again. If it does, I shall detain the girls in the schoolroom. I am very much disturbed by it.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Crayshaw with an air of indolent surprise; and Miss Crampton thereupon retreated down-stairs, taking great care not to touch any metallic substance.

CHAPTER XIX.

MR. MORTIMER GOES THROUGH THE TURNPIKE.

“I hear thee speak of the happy land.”

Swan looked down as Miss Crampton and Miss Christie emerged into the garden.

“Most impertinent of Swan,” he heard the former say, to be arguing thus about political affairs in the presence of the children. And what Mr. Mortimer can be thinking of, inviting young Crayshaw to stay so much with them, I cannot imagine. We shall be having them turn republican next.”

“Turn republican!” repeated Miss Christie with infinite scorn; “there’s about as much chance of that as of his ever seeing his native country again, poor laddie; which is just no chance at all.”

Crayshaw at this moment inquired of Swan, who had mounted his ladder step by step as Miss Crampton went on, “Is the old girl gone in? And what was she talking of?”

“Well, sir, something about republican institootions.”

“Ah! and so you hate them like poison?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking I do. But I’ve been a-thinking,” continued Swan, taking the nails out of his lips and leaning in at the window, “I’ve been a-thinking as it ain’t noways fair, if all men is ekal–which you’re allers upholding–that you should say Swan, and I should say Mister Crayshaw.”

“No, it isn’t,” exclaimed Crayshaw, laughing; “let’s have it the other way. You shall say Crayshaw to me, and I’ll say Mr. Swan to you, sir.”

“Well, now, you allers contrive to get the better of me, you and Mr. Johnnie, you’re so sharp! But, anyhow, I could earn my own living before I was your age, and neither of you can. Then, there’s hardly a year as I don’t gain a prize.”

“I’m like a good clock,” said Crayshaw, “I neither gain nor lose. I can strike, too. But how did you find out, sir, that I never gained any prizes?”

“Don’t you, sir?”

“Never, sir–I never gained one in my life, sir. But I say, I wish you’d take these shavings down again.”

“No, I won’t,” answered Swan, “if I’m to be ‘sirred’ any more, and the young ladies made to laugh at me.”

“Let Swanny alone, Cray,” said Gladys. “Be as conservative as you like, Swan. Why shouldn’t you? It’s the only right thing.”

“Nothing can be very far wrong as Old Master thinks,” answered Swan. “He never interfered with my ways of doing my work either, no more than Mr. John does, and that’s a thing I vally; and he never but once wanted me to do what I grudged doing.”

“When was that?” asked Mr. Augustus John.

“Why, when he made me give up that there burial club,” answered Swan. “He said it was noways a moral institootion; and so I shouldn’t have even a decent burying to look forward to for me and my wife (my poor daughters being widows, and a great expense to me), if he hadn’t said he’d bury us himself if I’d give it up, and bury us respectably too, it stands to reason. Mr. John heard him.”

“Then, thath the thame thing ath if he’d thaid it himthelf,” observed Johnnie, answering the old man’s thought about a much older man.

“Did I say it wasn’t, sir? No, if ever there was a gentleman–it’s not a bit of use argufying that all men are ekal. I’m not ekal to either of them two.”

“In what respect?” asked Crayshaw.

“In what respect? Well, sir, this is how it is. I wouldn’t do anything mean nor dishonest; but as for them two, they couldn’t. I never had the education neither to be a gentleman, nor wished to. Not that I talk as these here folks do down here–I’d scorn it. I’m a Sunbury man myself, and come from the valley of the Thames, and talk plain English. But one of my boys, Joey,” continued Swan, “talking of wishes, he wished he’d had better teaching. He’s been very uppish for some time (all his own fault he hadn’t been more edicated); told his mother and me, afore he sailed for the West Indies, as he’d been trying hard for some time to turn gentleman. ‘I shall give myself all the airs that ever I can,’ he says, ‘when once I get out there.’ ‘Why, you young ass!’ says I, ‘for it’s agen my religion to call you a fool (let alone your mother wouldn’t like it), arn’t you awear that giving himself airs is exactly what no real gentleman ever does?’ ‘A good lot of things,’ says he, ‘father, goes to the making of a gentleman.’ ‘Ay, Joey,’ says I, ‘but ain’t a gentleman a man with good manners? Now a good-manner’d man is allers saying by his ways and looks to them that air beneath him, “You’re as good as I am!” and a bad-manner’d man is allers saying by his ways and looks to them that air above him, “I’m as good as you air!” There’s a good many folks,’ I says (not knowing I should repeat it to you this day, Mr. Crayshaw), ‘as will have it, that because we shall all ekally have to be judged in the next world, we must be all ekal in this. In some things I uphold we air, and in others I say we’re not. Now your real gentleman thinks most of them things that make men ekal, and t’other chap thinks most of what makes them unekal.'”

“Hear, hear!” said Johnnie. “And what did Joey thay to that, Thwan?”

“He didn’t say much,” answered Swan in his most pragmatical manner. “He knows well enough that when I’m argufying with my own children (as I’ve had the expense of bringing up), I expect to have the last word, and I have it. It’s dinner-time, Mr. Johnnie; will you pass me out my pipe? I don’t say but what I may take a whiff while the dinner’s dishing up.”

“It was very useful, Swan,” said Gladys. “No doubt it made Miss Crampton think that Cray smokes.”

“My word!” exclaimed Swan, “it was as good as a play to see him give himself those meek airs, and look so respectful.”

He went down, and the two little boys came up. They had been turned out of Parliament, and had spent the time of their exile in running to the town, and laying out some of their money in the purchase of a present for Crayshaw; they were subject to humble fits of enthusiasm for Crayshaw and Johnnie. They came in, and handed him a “Robinson Crusoe” with pictures in it.

Crayshaw accepted it graciously.

“You must write my name in it,” he observed, with exceeding mildness, “and mind you write it with a soft G.”

“Yes, of course,” said little Hugh, taking in, but hesitating how to obey.

“A hard G is quite wrong, and very indigestible too,” he continued, yet more mildly; “though people will persist that it’s a capital letter.”

The young people then began to congratulate themselves on their success as regarded Miss Crampton.

“She scarcely stayed five minutes, and she was so afraid of the machine, and so shocked at the whittling and the talk, and Cray’s whole appearance, that she will not come near us while he is here. After that, the stair-rods will protect us.”

“No,” said Crayshaw, “but it’s no stimulus to my genius to have to talk Yankee to such ignorant people. I might mix up North, South, and West as I liked, and you would be none the wiser. However, if she chances to hear me speak a week hence, she’ll believe that my accent has entirely peeled off. I thought I’d better provide against that probability. It was an invention worthy of a poet, which I am.”

“Que les poetes thoient pendus,” said Augustus John, with vigour and sincerity. “Ekthepting Homer and Tennython,” he added, as if willing to be just to all men.

“What for? they’ve done nothing to you.”

“Haven’t they! But for them I need not watht my life in making Latin vertheth. The fighting, though, in Homer and Tennython I like.”

In the meantime the four younger children were whispering together over a large paper parcel, that crackled a good deal.

“Which do you think is the grandest word?” said Bertram.

“I _fallacious_, Janie.”

“But you said you would put _umbrageous_,” observed Hugh, in a discontented tone.

“No, those words don’t mean _it_,” answered Janie. “I like _ambrosial_ best. Put ‘For our dear ambrosial Johnnie.'”

The parcel contained as many squibs and crackers as the seller thereof would trust with his young customers; also one rocket.

Johnnie’s little brothers and sisters having written these words, rose from the floor on which they had been seated, and with blushes and modest pride presented the parcel.

“For a birthday present,” they said, “and, Johnnie, you’re to let off every one of them your own self; and lots more are coming from the shop.”

“My wig!” exclaimed Johnnie, feigning intense surprise, though he had heard every word of the conference. “Let them all off mythelf, did you thay? Well, I do call that a motht egregiouth and tender lark.”

These epithets appeared to give rarity and splendour to his thanks. Janie pondered over them a little, but when Crayshaw added, “Quite parenthetical,” she gave it up. That was a word she could not hope to understand. When a difficulty is once confessed to be unconquerable, the mind can repose before it as before difficulties overcome, so says Whately. “If it had only been as hard a word as _chemical_” thought Janie, “I would have looked it out in the spelling-book; but this word is so very hard that perhaps nobody knows it but Cray.”

For the remainder of the week, though many revolutionary speeches were made in Parliament against the constituted schoolroom authorities, there was, on the whole, better behaviour and less noise.

After that, John took his three elder children on the Continent, keeping the boy with him till Harrow School opened again, and remaining behind with the girls till the first week in November. During this time he by no means troubled himself about the domestic happiness that he felt he had missed, though he looked forward with fresh interest to the time when his intelligent little daughters would be companions for him, and began, half unconsciously, to idealise the character of his late wife, as if her death had cost him a true companion–as if, in fact, it had not made him much nobler and far happier.

He was not sorry, when he returned home, to find Valentine eager to get away for a little while, for it had been agreed that the old man should not be left by both of them. Valentine was improved; his comfortable and independent position in his uncle’s house, where his presence was so evidently regarded as an advantage, had made him more satisfied with himself; and absence from Dorothea had enabled him to take an interest in other women.

He went away in high spirits and capital health, and John subsided into his usual habits, his children continuing to grow about him. He was still a head taller than his eldest son, but this did not promise to be long the case. And his eldest girls were so clever, and so forward with their education, that he was increasingly anxious to propitiate Miss Crampton. It was very difficult to hold the balance even; he scarcely knew how to keep her at a distance, and yet to mark his sense of her value.

“I am going to see the Brandons to-morrow,” he remarked to Miss Christie one day, just before the Christmas holidays.

“Then I wish ye would take little Nancy with ye,” observed the good lady, “for Dorothea was here yesterday. Emily is come to stay with them, and she drove her over. Emily wished to see the child, and when she found her gone out for her walk she was disappointed.”

“What did she want with her?” asked John.

“Well, I should have thought it might occur to ye that the sweet lamb had perhaps some sacred reason for feeling attracted towards the smallest creatures she could conveniently get at.”

“Let the nestling bird be dressed up, then,” said John. “I will drive her over with me to lunch this morning. Poor Emily! she will feel seeing the child.”

“Not at all. She has been here twice to see the two little ones. At first she would only watch them over the blinds, and drop a few tears; but soon she felt the comfort of them, and when she had got a kiss or two, she went away more contented.”

Accordingly John drove his smallest daughter over to Wigfield House, setting her down rosy and smiling from her wraps, and sending her to the ladies, while he went up to Brandon’s peculiar domain to talk over some business with him.

They went down into the morning-room together, and Emily rose to meet John. It was the first time he had seen her in her mourning-dress and with the cap that did not seem at all to belong to her.

Emily was a graceful young woman. Her face, of a fine oval shape, was devoid of ruddy hues; yet it was more white than pale; the clear dark grey eyes shining with health, and the mouth being red and beautiful. The hair was dark, abundant, and devoid of gloss, and she had the advantage of a graceful and cordial manner, and a very charming smile.

There were tears on her eyelashes when she spoke to John, and he knew that his little cherub of a child must have caused them. She presently went back to her place, taking little Anastasia on her knee; while Dorothea, sitting on the sofa close to them, and facing the child, occupied and pleased herself with the little creature, and encouraged her to talk.

Of English children this was a lovely specimen, and surely there are none lovelier in the world. Dorothea listened to her pretty tongue, and mused over her with a silent rapture. Her hair fell about her face like flakes of floss-silk, loose, and yellow as Indian corn; and her rosy cheeks were deeply dimpled. She was the only one of the Mortimers who was small for her years. She liked being nursed and petted, and while Dorothea smoothed out the fingers of her tiny gloves, the little fat hands, so soft and warm, occupied themselves with the contents of her work-box.

She was relating how Grand had invited them all to spend the day. “Papa brought the message, and they all wanted to go; and so–” she was saying, when John caught the sound of her little voice–“and so papa said, ‘What! not one of you going to stay with your poor old father?'”–these words, evidently authentic, she repeated with the deepest pathos–“and so,” she went on, “I said, ‘I will.'” Then, after a pause for reflection, “That was kind of me, wasn’t it?”

A few caresses followed.

Then catching sight of Emily’s brooch, in which was a portrait of her child, little Nancy put the wide tulle cap-strings aside, and looked at it earnestly.

“I know who that is,” she said, after bestowing a kiss on the baby’s face.

“Do you, my sweet? who is it, then?”

“It’s Freddy; he’s gone to the happy land. It’s full of little boys and girls. Grand’s going soon,” she added, with great cheerfulness. “Did you know? Grand says he hopes he shall go soon.”

“How did Emily look?” asked Miss Christie, when John came home.

“Better than usual, I think,” said John carelessly. “There’s no bitterness in her sorrow, poor thing! She laughed several times at Nancy’s childish talk.”

“She looks a great deal too young and attractive to live alone,” said Miss Christie pointedly.

“Well,” answered John, “she need not do that long. There are several fellows about here, who, unless they are greater fools than I take them for, will find her, as a well-endowed young widow, quite as attractive as they did when she was an almost portionless girl.”

“But in the meantime?” said Miss Christie.

“If you are going to say anything that I shall hate to hear,” answered John, half-laughing, “don’t keep me lingering long. If you mean to leave me, say so at once, and put me out of my misery.”

“Well, well,” said Miss Christie, looking at him with some pleasure, and more admiration, “I’ve been torn in pieces for several weeks past, thinking it over. Never shall I have my own way again in any man’s house, or woman’s either, as I have had it here. And the use of the carriage and the top of the pew,” she continued, speaking; to herself as much as to him; “and the keys; and I always _knew_ I was welcome, which is more than being told so. And I thank ye, John Mortimer, for it all, I do indeed; but if my niece’s daughter is wanting me, what can I do but go to her?”

“It was very base of Emily not to say a word about it,” said John, smiling with as much grimness as utter want of practice, together with the natural cast of his countenance, would admit of.

Miss Christie looked up, and saw with secret joy the face she admired above all others coloured with a sudden flush of most unfeigned vexation. John gave the footstool before him a little shove of impatience, and it rolled over quite unknown to him, and lighted on Miss Christie’s corns.

She scarcely felt the pain. It was sweet to be of so much importance. Two people contending for one lonely, homely old woman.

“Say the word,” she presently said, “and I won’t leave ye.”

“No,” answered John, “you ought to go to Emily. I had better say instead that I am very sensible of the kindness you have done me in staying so long.”

“But ye won’t be driven to do anything rash?” she answered, observing that he was still a little chafed, and willing to pass the matter off lightly.

“Such as taking to myself the lady up-stairs!” exclaimed John. “No, but I must part with her; if one of you goes, the other must.”

This was absolutely the first time the matter had even been hinted at between them, and yet Miss Christie’s whole conduct was arranged with reference to it, and John always fully counted on her protective presence.

“Ay, but if I might give myself the liberty of a very old friend,” she answered, straightway taking the ell because he had given her an inch, “there is something I would like to say to ye.”

“What would you like to say?”

“Well, I would like to say that if a man is so more than commonly a fine man, that it’s just a pleasure to set one’s eyes on him, and if he’s well endowed with this world’s gear, it’s a strange thing if there is no excellent, desirable, and altogether sweet young woman ready, and even sighing, for him.”

“Humph!” said John.

“I don’t say there is,” proceeded Miss Christie; “far be it from me.”

“I hate red hair,” answered the attractive widower.

“It’s just like a golden oriole. It isn’t red at all,” replied Miss Christie dogmatically.

“_I_ call it red,” said John Mortimer.

“The painters consider it the finest colour possible,” continued the absent lady’s champion.

“Then let them paint her,” said John; “but–I shall not marry her; besides,” he chose to say, “I know if I asked her she would not have me: therefore, as I don’t mean to ask her, I shall not be such an unmannerly dog as to discuss her, further than to say that I do not wish to marry a woman who takes such a deep and sincere interest in herself.”

“Why, don’t we all do that? I am sure _I_ do.”

“You naturally feel that you are the most important and interesting of all God’s creatures _to yourself_. You do not therefore think that you must be so to _me_. Our little lives, my dear lady, should not turn round upon themselves, and as it were make a centre of their own axis. The better lives revolve round some external centre; everything depends on that centre, and how much or how many we carry round with us besides ourselves. Now, my father’s centre is and always has been Almighty God–our Father and his. His soul is as it were drawn to God and lost, as a centre to itself in that great central soul. He looks at everything–I speak it reverently–from God’s high point of view.”

“Ay, but she’s a good woman,” said Miss Christie, trying to adopt his religious tone, and as usual not knowing how. “Always going about among the poor. I don’t suppose,” she continued with enthusiasm–“I don’t suppose there’s a single thing they can do in their houses that she doesn’t interfere with.” Then observing his amusement, “Ye don’t know what’s good for ye,” she added, half laughing, but a little afraid she was going too far.

“If ever I am so driven wild by the governesses that I put my neck, as a heart-broken father, under the yoke, in order to get somebody into the house who can govern as you have done,” said John, “it will be entirely your doing, your fault for leaving me.”

“Well, well,” said Miss Christie, laughing, “I must abide ye’re present reproaches, but I feel that I need dread no future ones, for if ye should go and do it, ye’ll be too much a gentleman to say anything to me afterwards.”

“You are quite mistaken,” exclaimed John, laughing, “that one consolation I propose to reserve to myself, or if I should not think it right to speak, mark my words, the more cheerful I look the more sure you may be that I am a miserable man.”

Some days after this the stately Miss Crampton departed for her Christmas holidays, a letter following her, containing a dismissal (worded with studied politeness) and a cheque for such an amount of money as went far to console her.

“Mr. Mortimer was about to send the little boys to school, and meant also to make other changes in his household. Mr. Mortimer need hardly add, that should Miss Crampton think of taking another situation, he should do himself the pleasure to speak as highly of her qualifications as she could desire.”

Aunt Christie gone, Miss Crampton gone also! What a happy state of things for the young Mortimers! If Crayshaw had been with them, there is no saying what they might have done; but Johnnie, by his father’s orders, had brought a youth of seventeen to spend three weeks with him, and the young fellow turned out to be such a dandy, and so much better pleased to be with the girls than with Johnnie scouring the country and skating, that John for the first time began to perceive the coming on of a fresh source of trouble in his house. Gladys and Barbara were nearly fourteen years old, but looked older; they were tall, slender girls, black-haired and grey-eyed, as their mother had been, very simple, full of energy, and in mind and disposition their father’s own daughters. Johnnie groaned over his unpromising companion, Edward Conyngham by name; but he was the son of an old friend, and John did what he could to make the boys companionable, while the girls, though they laughed at young Conyngham, were on the whole more amused with his compliments than their father liked. But it was not till one day, going up into Parliament, and finding some verses pinned on a curtain, that he began to feel what it was to have no lady to superintend his daughters.

“What are they?” Gladys said. “Why, papa, Cray sent them; they are supposed to have been written by Conyngham.”

“What does he know about Conyngham?”

“Oh, I told him when I last wrote.”

“When you last wrote,” repeated John, in a cogitative tone.

“Yes; I write about once a fortnight, of course, when Barbara writes to Johnnie.”

“Did Miss Crampton superintend the letters?” was John’s next inquiry.

“Oh no, father, we always wrote them up here.”

“I wonder whether Janie would have allowed this,” thought John. “I suppose as they are so young it cannot signify.”

“Cray sent them because we told him how Conyngham walked after Gladys wherever she went. That boy is such a goose, father; you never heard such stuff as he talks when you are away.”

John was silent.

“Johnnie and Cray are disgusted with his rubbish,” continued Barbara, “pretending to make love and all that.”

“Yes,” said John; “it is very ridiculous. Boys like Conyngham and Crayshaw ought to know better.” Nothing, he felt, could be so likely to make the schoolroom distasteful to his daughters as this early admiration. Still he was consoled by the view they took of it.

“Cray does know better, of course,” said Gladys carelessly.

“Still, he was extremely angry with Conyngham, for being so fond of Gladys,” remarked Barbara; “because you know she is _his_ friend. He would never hear about his puppy, that old Patience Smith takes care of for sixpence a week, or his rabbits that we have here, or his hawk that lives at Wigfield, unless Gladys wrote; Mr. Brandon never writes to him.”

“Now shall I put a stop to this, or shall I let it be?” thought John; and he proceeded to read Crayshaw’s effusion.

TO G.M. IN HER BRONZE BOOTS

As in the novel skippers say,
“Shiver my timbers!” and “Belay!” While a few dukes so handy there
Respectfully make love or swear;

As in the poem some great ass
For ever pipes to his dear lass; And as in life tea crowns the cup
And muffins sop much butter up;

So, naturally, while I walk
With you, I feel a swell–and stalk– Consecutively muttering “Oh,
I’m quite a man, I feel I grow.”

But loudliest thumps this heart to-day, While in the mud you pick your way,
(You fawn, you flower, you star, you gem,) In your new boots with heels to them.

Your Eldest Slave.

“I don’t consider these verses a bit more _consecutive_ than Conyngham’s talk,” said John, laughing.

“Well, father, then he shouldn’t say such things! He said Mr. Brandon walked with an infallible stride, and that you were the most consecutive of any one he had ever met with.”

“But, my dear little girl, Crayshaw would not have known that unless you had told him; do you think that was the right thing to do by a guest?”

Gladys blushed. “But, father,” said Barbara, “I suppose Cray may come now; Conyngham goes to-morrow. Cray never feels so well as when he is here.”

“I had no intention of inviting him this Christmas,” answered John.

“Well,” said Gladys, “it doesn’t make much difference; he and Johnnie can be together just the same nearly all day, because his brother and Mrs. Crayshaw are going to stay with the Brandons, and Cray is to come too.”

John felt as if the fates were against him.

“And his brother was so horribly vexed when he found that he hardly got on at school at all.”

“That’s enough to vex any man. Cray should spend less time in writing these verses of his.”

“Yes, he wrote us word that his brother said so, and was extremely cross and unpleasant, when he replied that this was genius, and must not be repressed.”

John, after this, rode into the town, and as he stopped his horse to pay the turnpike, he was observed by the turnpike-keeper’s wife to be looking gloomy and abstracted; indeed, the gate was no sooner shut behind him than he sighed, and said with a certain bitterness, “I shouldn’t wonder if, in two or three years time, I am driven to put my neck under the yoke after all.”

“No, we can’t come,” said little Hugh, when a few days after this Emily and Dorothea drove over and invited the children to spend the day, “we couldn’t come on any account, because something very grand is going to happen.”

“Did you know,” asked Anastasia, “that Johnnie had got into the _shell_?”

“No, my sweet,” said Emily, consoling her empty arms for their loss, and appeasing her heart with a kiss.

“And father always said that some day he should come home to early dinner,” continued Hugh, “and show the great magic lantern up in Parliament. Then Swan’s grandchildren and the coachman’s little girls are coming; and every one is to have a present. It will be such fun.”

“The shell,” observed Bertram, “means a sort of a class between the other classes. Father’s so glad Johnnie has got into the shell.”

“She is glad too,” said Anastasia. “You’re glad, Mrs. Nemily.”

“Yes, I am glad,” answered Emily, a tear that had gathered under her dark eyelashes falling, and making her eyes look brighter, and her smile more sweet.

Emily was not of a temperament that is ever depressed. She had her times of sorrow and tears; but she could often smile, and still oftener laugh.

CHAPTER XX.

THE RIVER.

“Now there was a great calm at that time in the river; wherefore Mr. Standfast, when he was about half way in, he stood awhile, and talked to his companions that had waited upon him thither; and he said,…’I have formerly lived by hearsay and faith; but now I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with Him in whose company I delight myself. I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of; and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there have I coveted to set my foot too.'”–_Pilgrim’s Progress._

And now the Christmas holiday being more than half over, Mr. Augustus Mortimer desired that his grandson might come and spend a few days with him, for Valentine had told him how enchanted John was with the boy’s progress, but that he was mortified almost past bearing by his lisp. Grand therefore resolved that something should be done; and Crayshaw having now arrived, and spending the greater part of every day with his allies the young Mortimers, was easily included in the invitation. If anybody wants a school-boy, he is generally most welcome to him. Grand sent a flattering message to the effect that he should be much disappointed if Cray did not appear that day at his dinner table. Cray accordingly did appear, and after dinner the old man began to put before his grandson the advantage it would be to him if he could cure himself, of his lisp.

“I never lithp, Grand,” answered the boy, “when I talk thlowly, and–No, I mean when I talk s-lowly and take pains.”

“Then why don’t you always talk slowly and take pains, to please your father, to please me, and to improve yourself?”

Johnnie groaned.

“This is very little more than an idle childish habit,” continued Grand.

“We used to think it would do him good to have his tongue slit,” said Crayshaw, “but there’s no need. When I torment him and chaff him, he never does it.”

“I hope there _is_ no need,” said Grand, a little uncertain whether this remedy was proposed in joke or earnest. “Valentine has been reminding me that he used to lisp horribly when a child, but he entirely cured himself before he was your age.”

Johnnie, in school-boy fashion, made a face at Valentine when the old man was not looking. It expressed good-humoured defiance and derision, but the only effect it produced was on himself, for it disturbed for the moment the great likeness to his grandfather that grew on him every day. John had clear features, thick light hair, and deep blue eyes. His son was dark, with bushy eyebrows, large stern features, and a high narrow head, like old Grand.

It was quite dark, and the depth of winter, but the thermometer was many degrees above freezing-point, and a warm south wind was blowing. Grand rose and rang the bell. “Are the stable lanterns lighted?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you two boys come with me.”

The boys, wondering and nothing loth, followed to the stable, and the brown eyes of two large ponies looked mildly into theirs.

“Trot them out,” said Grand to the groom, “and let the young gentlemen have a good look at them.”

Not a word did either of the boys say. An event of huge importance appeared to loom in the horizon of each: he cogitated over its probable conditions.

“I got a saddle for each of them,” said Grand. “Valentine chose them, Johnnie. There now, we had better come in again.” And when they were seated in the dining-room as before, and there was still silence, he went on, “You two, as I understand, are both in the same house at Harrow?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And it is agreed that Johnnie could cure himself of his lisp if he chose, and if you would continually remind him of it?”

“Oh yes, certainly it is.”

“Very well, if the thing is managed by next Easter, I’ll give each of you one of those ponies; and,” continued Grand cunningly, “you may have the use of them during the remainder of these holidays, provided you both promise, upon your honour, to begin the cure directly. If Johnnie has not left off lisping at Easter, I shall have the ponies sold.”

“I’ll lead him such a life that he shall wish he’d never been born; I will indeed,” exclaimed Crayshaw fervently.

“Well,” said Johnnie, “never wath a better time. _Allez le_, or, in other wordth, go it.”

“And every two or three days you shall bring him to me,” continued Grand, “that I may hear him read and speak.”

The next morning, before John went into the town, he was greeted by the two boys on their ponies, and came out to admire and hear the conditions.

“We mayn’t have them at school,” said Johnnie, bringing out the last word with laudable distinctness, “but Grand will let them live in hith–in his–stables.”

John was very well contented to let the experiment alone; and a few days after this, his younger children, going over with a message to Johnnie, reported progress to him in the evening as he sat at dinner.

“Johnnie and Cray were gone into the town on their grand new ponies, almost as big as horses; they came galloping home while we were there,” said Janie.

“And, father, they are going to show up their exercises, or something that they’ve done, to Grand tomorrow; you’ll hear them,” observed Hugh.

“But poor Cray was so ill on Saturday,” said the little girl, “that he couldn’t do nothing but lie in bed and write his poetry.”

“But they got on very well,” observed Bertram philosophically. “They had up the stable-boy with a great squirt; he had to keep staring at Cray while Johnnie read aloud, and every time Cray winked he was to squirt Johnnie. Cray didn’t have any dinner or any tea, and his face was so red.”

“Poor fellow!”

“Yes,” said the youngest boy, “and he wrote some verses about Johnnie, and said they were for him to read aloud to grandfather. But what do you think? Johnnie said he wouldn’t! That doesn’t sound very kind, does it?”

Johnnie’s resolution, however, was not particularly remarkable; the verses, compounded during an attack of asthma, running as follows:–

AUGUSTUS JOHN CONFESSES TO LOSS OF APPETITE.

I cannot eat rice pudding now,
Jam roll, boiled beef, and such; From Stilton cheese this heart I vow
Turns coldly as from Dutch.

For crab, a shell-fish erst loved well, I do not care at all,
Though I myself am in the shell
And fellow-feelings call.

I mourn not over tasks unsaid–
This child is not a flat–
My purse is empty as my head,
But no–it isn’t that;

I cannot eat. And why? To shrink
From truth is like a sinner,
I’ll speak or burst; it is, I think, That I’ve just had my dinner.

Crayshaw was very zealous in the discharge of his promise; the ponies took a great deal of exercise; and old Grand, before the boys were dismissed to school, saw very decided and satisfactory progress on the part of his grandson, while the ponies were committed to his charge with a fervour that was almost pathetic. It was hard to part from them; but men are tyrannical; they will not permit boys to have horses at a public school; the boys therefore returned to their work, and the ponies were relieved from theirs, and entered on a course of life which is commonly called eating their heads off.

John in the meanwhile tried in vain to supply the loss of the stately and erudite Miss Crampton. He wanted two ladies, and wished that neither should be young. One must be able to teach his children and keep them in order; the other must superintend the expenditure and see to the comforts of his whole household, order his children’s dress, and look after their health.

Either he was not fortunate in his applicants, or he was difficult to please, for he had not suited himself with either lady when a new source of occupation and anxiety sprung up, and everything else was set aside on account of it; for all on a sudden it was perceived one afternoon that Mr. Augustus Mortimer was not at all well.

It was after bank hours, but he was dozing in his private sitting-room at the bank, and his young nephew, Mr. Mortimer, was watching him.

Valentine had caused his card to be printed “Mr. Mortimer:” he did not intend because he was landless, and but for his uncle’s bounty almost penniless, to forego the little portion of dignity which belonged to him.

The carriage stood at the door, and the horses now and then stamped in the lightly-falling snow, and were sometimes driven a little way down the street and back again to warm them.

At his usual time John had gone home, and then his father, while waiting for the carriage, had dropped asleep.

Though Valentine had wakened him more than once, and told him the men and horses were waiting, he had not shown any willingness to move.

“There’s plenty of time; I must have this sleep out first,” he said.

Then, when for the third time Valentine woke him, he roused himself. “I think I can say it now,” he observed. “I could not go home, you know, Val, till it was said.”

“Till what was said, uncle?”

“I forget,” was the answer. “You must help me.”

Valentine suggested various things which had been discussed that day; but they did not help him, and he sank into thought.

“I hope I was not going to make any mistake,” he shortly said, and Valentine began to suppose he really had something particular to say. “I think my dear brother and I decided for ever to hold our peace,” he next murmured, after a long pause.

Valentine was silent. The allusion to his father made him remember how completely all the more active and eventful part of their lives had gone by for these two old men before he came into the world.

“What were you and John talking of just before he left?” said the old man, after a puzzled pause.

“Nothing of the least consequence,” answered Valentine, feeling that he had forgotten what he might have meant to say. “John would be uneasy if he knew you were here still. Shall we go home?”

“Not yet. If I mentioned this, you would never tell it to my John. There is no need that my John should ever have a hint of it. You will promise not to tell him?”

“No, my dear uncle, indeed I could not think of such a thing,” said Valentine, now a little uneasy. If his uncle really had something important to say, this was a strange request, and if he had not, his thoughts must be wandering.

“Well,” said Grand, in a dull, quiet voice, as of one satisfied and persuaded, “perhaps it is no duty of mine, then, to mention it. But what was it that you and John were talking of just before he went away?”

“You and John were going to send your cards, to inquire after Mrs. A’Court, because she is ill. I asked if mine might go too, and as it was handed across you took notice of what was on it, and said it pleased you; do you remember? But John laughed about it.”

“Yes; and what did you answer, Val?”

“I said that if everybody had his rights, that ought not to have been my name at all. You ought to have been Mr. Mortimer now, and I Mr. Melcombe.”

“I thought it was that,” answered Grand, cogitating. “Yes, it was never intended that you should touch a shilling of that property.”

“I know that, uncle,” said Valentine. “My father always told me he had no expectations from his mother. It was unlucky for me, that’s all. I don’t mean to say,” he continued, “that it has been any particular disappointment, because I was always brought up to suppose I should have nothing; but as I grow older I often think it seems rather a shame I should be cut out; and as my father was, I am sure, one of the most amiable of men, it is very odd that he never contrived to make it up with the old lady.”

“He never had any quarrel with her,” answered old Augustus. “He was always her favourite son.”

Valentine looked at him with surprise. He appeared to be oppressed with the lassitude of sleep, and yet to be struggling to keep his eyes open and to say something. But he only managed to repeat his last words. “I’ve told John all that I wish him to know,” he next said, and then succumbed and was asleep again.

“The favourite son, and natural heir!” thought Valentine. “No quarrel, and yet not inherit a shilling! That is queer, to say the least of it. I’ll go up to London and have another look at that will. And he has told John something or other. Unless his thoughts are all abroad then, he must have been alluding to two perfectly different things.”

Valentine now went to the carriage and fetched in the footman, hoping that at sight of him his uncle might be persuaded to come home; but this was done with so much difficulty that, when at last it was accomplished, Valentine sent the carriage on to fetch John, and sat anxiously watching till he came, and a medical man with him.

Sleep and weakness, but no pain, and no disquietude. It was so at the end of a week; it was so at the end of a fortnight, and then it became evident that his sight was failing; he was not always aware whether or not he was alone; he often prayed aloud also, but sometimes supposed himself to be recovering.

“Where is Valentine?” he said one afternoon, when John, having left him to get some rest, Valentine had taken his place. “Are we alone?” he asked, when Valentine had spoken to him. “What time is it?”

“About four o’clock, uncle; getting dusk, and snow falls.”

“Yes, I heard you mention snow when the nurse went down to her tea. I am often aware of John’s presence when I cannot show it. Tell him so.”

“Yes, I will.”

“He is a dear good son to me.”

“Yes.”

“He ought not to make a sorrow of my removal. It disturbs me sometimes to perceive that he does. He knows where my will is, and all my papers. I have never concealed anything from him; I had never any cause.”

“No, indeed, uncle.”

“Till now,” proceeded old Augustus. Valentine looked attentively in the failing light at the majestic wreck of the tall, fine old man. He made out that the eyes were closed, and that the face had its usual immobile, untroubled expression, and the last words startled him. “I have thought it best,” he continued, “not to leave you anything in my will.”

“No,” said Valentine, “because you gave me that two thousand pounds during your lifetime.”

“Yes, my dear; my memory does not fail me. John will not be cursed with one guinea of ill-gotten wealth. Valentine!”

“Yes, uncle, yes; I am here; I am not going away.”

“You have the key of my cabinet, in the library. Go and fetch me a parcel that is in the drawer inside.”

“Let me ring, then, first for some one to come; for you must not be left alone.”

“Leave me, I say, and do as I tell you.”

Valentine, vexed, but not able to decline, ran down in breathless haste, found the packet of that peculiar sort and size usually called a banker’s parcel, locked the cabinet, and returned to the old man’s bed.

“Are we alone?” he asked, when Valentine had made his presence known to him. “Let me feel that parcel. Ah, your father was very dear to me. I owe everything to him–everything.”

Valentine, who was not easy as to what would come next, replied like an honourable man, “So you said, uncle, when you generously gave me that two thousand pounds.”

“Ill-gotten wealth,” old Augustus murmured, “never prospers; it is a curse to its possessor. My son, my John, will have none of it. Valentine!”

“Yes.”

“What do you think was the worst-earned money that human fingers ever handled?”

The question so put suggested but one answer.

“_That_ thirty pieces of silver,” said Valentine.

“Ah!” replied Augustus with a sigh. “Well, thank God, none of us can match that crime. But murders have been done, and murderers have profited by the spoil! When those pieces of silver were lying on the floor of the temple, after the murderer was dead, to whom do you think they belonged?”

Valentine was excessively startled; the voice seemed higher and thinner than usual, but the conversation had begun so sensibly, and the wrinkled hand kept such firm hold still of the parcel, that it surprised him to feel, as he now did, that his dear old uncle was wandering, and he answered nothing.

“Not to the priests,” continued Augustus, and as a pause followed, Valentine felt impelled to reply.

“No,” he said, “they belonged to his family, no doubt, if they had chosen to pick them up.”

“Ah, that is what I suppose. If his father, poor wretch, or perhaps his miserable mother, had gone into the temple that day, it would have been a strange sight, surely, to see her gather them up.”

“Yes,” said Valentine faintly. The shadow of something too remote to make its substance visible appeared to fall over him then, causing him a vague wonder and awe, and revulsion of feeling. He knew not whether this old man was taking leave of sober daylight reason, or whether some fresh sense of the worthlessness of earthly wealth, more especially ill-gotten wealth, had come to him from a sudden remembrance of this silver–or—-

He tried gently to lead his thoughts away from what seemed to be troubling him, for his head turned restlessly on the pillow.

“You have no need to think of that,” he said kindly and quietly, “for as you have just been saying, John will inherit nothing but well-earned property.”

“John does not know of this,” said Augustus. “I have drawn it out for years by degrees, as he supposed, for household expenses. It is all in Bank of England notes. Every month that I lived it would have become more and more.”

Uncommonly circumstantial this!

“It contains seventeen hundred pounds; take it in your hand, and hear me.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“You cannot live on a very small income. You have evidently very little notion of the value of money. You and John may not agree. It may not suit him to have you with him; on the other hand–on the other hand–what was I saying?”

“That it might not suit John to have me with him.”

“Yes, yes; but, on the other hand (where is it gone), on the other hand, it might excite his curiosity, his surprise, if I left you more in my will. Now what am I doing this for? What is it? Daniel’s son? Yes.”

“Dear uncle, try to collect your thoughts; there is something you want me to do with this money, try to tell me what it is.”

“Have you got it in your hand?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Keep it then, and use it for your own purposes.”

“Thank you. Are you sure that is what you meant? Is that all?”

“Is that all? No. I said you were not to tell John.”

“Will you tell him yourself then?” asked Valentine. “I do not think he would mind my having it.”

By way of answer to this, the old man actually laughed. Valentine had thought he was long past that, but it was a joyful laugh, and almost exultant.

“Mind,” he said, “my John! No; you attend to my desire, and to all I have said. Also it is agreed between me and my son that if ever you two part company, he is to give you a thousand pounds. I tell you this that you may not suppose it has anything to do with the money in that parcel. Your father was everything to me,” he continued, his voice getting fainter, and his speech more confused, as he went on, “and–and I never expected to see him again in this world. And so you have come over to see me, Daniel? Give me your hand. Come over to see me, and there are no lights! God has been very good to me, brother, and I begin to think He will call me into his presence soon.”

Valentine started up, and it was really more in order to carry out the old man’s desires, so solemnly expressed, than from any joy of possession, that he put the parcel into his pocket before he rang for the nurse and went to fetch John.

He had borne a part in the last-sustained conversation the old man ever held, and that day month, in just such a snow-storm as had fallen about his much-loved brother, his stately white head was laid in the grave.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DEAD FATHER ENTREATS.

“_Prospero._ I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one.”

_The Tempest._

Valentine rose early the morning after the funeral; John Mortimer had left him alone in the house, and gone home to his children.

John had regarded the impending death of his father more as a loss and a misfortune than is common. He and the old man, besides being constant companions, had been very intimate friends, and the rending of the tie between them was very keenly felt by the son.

Nothing, perhaps, differs more than the amount of affection felt by different people; there is no gauge for it–language cannot convey it. Yet instinctive perception shows us where it is great. Some feel little, and show all that little becomingly; others feel much, and reveal scarcely anything; but, on the whole, men are not deceived, each gets the degree of help and sympathy that was due to him.

Valentine had been very thoughtful for John; the invitations and orders connected with a large funeral had been mainly arranged by him.

Afterwards, he had been present at the reading of the will, and had been made to feel that the seventeen hundred pounds in that parcel which he had not yet opened could signify nothing to a son who was to enter on such a rich inheritance as it set forth and specified.

Still he wished his uncle had not kept the giving of it a secret, and, while he was dressing, the details of that last conversation, the falling snow, the failing light, and the high, thin voice, changed, and yet so much more impressive for the change, recurred to his thoughts more freshly than ever, perhaps because before he went down he meant to open the parcel, which accordingly he did.

Bank of England notes were in it, and not a line of writing on the white paper that enfolded them. He turned it over, and then mechanically began to count and add up the amount. Seventeen hundred pounds, neither more nor less, and most assuredly his own. With the two thousand pounds he already possessed, this sum would, independently of any exertions of his own, bring him in nearly two hundred a-year. In case of failing health this would be enough to live on modestly, either in England or on the Continent.

He leaned his chin on his hand, and, with a dull contentment looked at these thin, crisp papers. He had cared for his old uncle very much, and been exceedingly comfortable with him, and now that he was forbidden to mention his last gift, he began to feel (though this had fretted him at first) that it would make him more independent of John.

But why should the old father have disliked to excite his son’s surprise and curiosity? Why, indeed, when he had laughed at the notion of John’s being capable of minding his doing as he pleased.

Valentine pondered over this as he locked up his property. It was not yet eight o’clock, and as he put out the candle he had lighted to count his notes by (for the March morning was dark), he heard wheels, and, on going down, met John in the hall. He had come in before the breakfast-hour, as had often been his custom when he meant to breakfast with his father.

John’s countenance showed a certain agitation. Valentine observing it, gave him a quiet, matter-of-fact greeting, and talked of the weather. A thaw had come on, and the snow was melting rapidly. For the moment John seemed unable to answer, but when they got into the dining-room, he said–

“I overtook St. George’s groom. He had been to my house, he said, thinking you were there. Your brother sent a message, rather an urgent one, and this note to you. He wants you, it seems.”

“Wants me, wants ME!” exclaimed Valentine. “What for?”

John shrugged his shoulders.

“Is he ill?” continued Valentine.

“The man did not say so.”

Valentine read the note. It merely repeated that his brother wanted him. What an extraordinary piece of thoughtlessness this seemed! Brandon might have perceived that Valentine would be much needed by John that day.

“You told me yesterday,” said Valentine, “that there were various things you should like me to do for you in the house to-day, and over at the town too. So I shall send him word that I cannot go”

“I think you had better go,” said John.

Valentine was sure that John would have been glad of his company. It would be easier for a man with his peculiarly keen feelings not to have to face all his clerks alone the first time after his father’s death.

“You must go,” he repeated, however. “St. George would never have thought of sending for you unless for some urgent reason. If you take my dog-cart you will be in time for the breakfast there, which is at nine. The horse is not taken out.”

Valentine still hesitating, John added–

“But, I may as well say now that my father’s removal need make no difference in our being together. As far as I am concerned, I am very well pleased with our present arrangement. I find in you an aptitude for business affairs that I could by no means have anticipated. So if St. George wants to consult you about some new plan for you (which I hardly think can be the case), you had better hear what I have to say before you turn yourself out.”

Valentine thanked him cordially. Emily had pointedly said to him, during his uncle’s last illness, that in the event of any change, she should be pleased if he would come and live with her. He had made no answer, because he had not thought John would wish the connection between them to continue. But now everything was easy. His dear old uncle had left him a riding-horse, and some books. He had only to move these to Emily’s house, and so without trouble enter another home.

It was not yet nine o’clock when Valentine entered the dining-room in his brother’s house.

The gloom was over, the sun had burst forth, lumps of snow, shining in the dazzle of early sunlight, were falling with a dull thud from the trees, while every smaller particle dislodged by a waft of air, dropped with a flash as of a diamond.

First Mrs. Henfrey came in and looked surprised to see Valentine; wondered he had left John; had never seen a man so overcome at his father’s funeral. Then Giles came in with some purple and some orange crocuses, which he laid upon his wife’s plate. He said nothing about his note, but went and fetched Dorothea, who was also evidently surprised to see Valentine.

How lovely and interesting she looked in his eyes that morning, so serene herself, and an object of such watchful solicitude both to her husband and his old step-sister!

“Any man may feel interested in her now,” thought Valentine, excusing himself to himself for the glow of admiring tenderness that filled his heart. “Sweet thing! Oh! what a fool I have been!”

There was little conversation; the ladies were in mourning, and merely asked a few questions as to the arrangements of the late relative’s affairs. Brandon sat at the head of the table, and his wife at his right hand. There was something very cordial in his manner, but such an evident turning away from any mention of having sent for him, that Valentine, perceiving the matter to be private, followed his lead, and when breakfast was over went with him up-stairs to his long room; at the top of the house, his library and workshop.

“Now, then,” he exclaimed, when at last the door was shut and they were alone, “I suppose I may speak? What can it be, old fellow, that induced you to send for me at a time so peculiarly inconvenient to John?”

“It was partly something that I read in a newspaper,” answered Giles, “and also–also a letter. A letter that was left in my care by your father.”

“Oh! then you were to give it to me after my uncle’s death, were you?”

For all answer Giles said, “There it is,” and Valentine, following his eyes, saw a sealed parcel, not unlike in shape and size to the one he had already opened that morning. It was lying on a small, opened desk. “Take your time, my dear fellow,” said Giles, “and read it carefully. I shall come up again soon, and tell you how it came into my possession.”

Thereupon he left the room, and Valentine, very much surprised, advanced to the table.

The packet was not directed to any person, but outside it was written in Brandon’s clear hand, “Read by me on the 3rd of July, 18–, and sealed up the following morning. G.B.”

Valentine sat down before it, broke his brother’s seal, and took out a large letter, the seal of which (his father’s) had already been broken. It was addressed, in his father’s handwriting, “Giles Brandon, Esq., Wigfield House.”

We are never so well inclined to believe in a stroke of good fortune as when one has just been dealt to us. Valentine was almost sure he was going to read of something that would prove to be to his advantage. His uncle had behaved so strangely in providing him with his last bounty, that it was difficult for him not to connect this letter with that gift. Something might have been made over to his father on his behalf, and, with this thought in his mind, he unfolded the sheet of foolscap and read as follows:–

“My much-loved Son,–You will see by the date of this letter that my dearest boy Valentine is between seventeen and eighteen years of age when I write it. I perceive a possible peril for him, and my brother being old, there is no one to whom I can so naturally appeal on his behalf as to you.

“I have had great anxiety about you lately, but now you are happily restored to me from the sea, and I know that I may fully trust both to your love and your discretion.

“Some men, my dear Giles, are happy enough to have nothing to hide. I am not of that number; but I bless God that I can say, if I conceal aught, it is not a work of my own doing, nor is it kept secret for my own sake.

“It is now seven weeks since I laid in the grave the body of my aged mother. She left her great-grandson, Peter Melcombe, the only son of my nephew Peter Melcombe, whose father was my fourth brother, her sole heir.

“I do not think it wise to conceal from you that I, being her eldest surviving son, desired of her, that she would not–I mean, that I forbad my mother to leave her property to me.

“It is not for me to judge her. I have never done so; for in her case I know not what I could have done, but I write this in the full confidence that both of you will respect my wishes; and that you, Giles, will never divulge my secret, even to Valentine, unless what I fear should come to pass, and render this necessary.

“If Peter Melcombe, now a child, should live to marry, and an heir should be born to him, then throw this letter into the fire, and let it be to you as if it had never been written. If he even lives to come of age, at which time he can make a will and leave his property where he pleases, you may destroy it.

“I do not feel afraid that the child will die, it is scarcely to be supposed that he will. I pray God that it may not be so; but in case he should–in case this child should be taken away during his minority, I being already gone–then my grandfather’s will is so worded that my son Valentine, my only son, will be his heir.

“Let Valentine know in such a case that I, his dead father, who delighted in him, would rather have seen him die in his cradle, than live by that land and inherit that gold. I have been poor, but I have never turned to anything at Melcombe with one thought that it could mend my case; and as I have renounced it for myself, I would fain renounce it for my heirs for ever. Nothing is so unlikely as that this property should ever fall to my son, but if it should, I trust to his love and duty to let it be, and I trust to you, Giles, to make this easy for him, either to get him away while he is yet young, to lead a fresh and manly life in some one of our colonies, or to find some career at home for him which shall provide him with a competence, that if such a temptation should come in his way, he may not find it too hard to stand against.

“And may the blessing of God light upon you for this (for I know you will do it), more than for all the other acts of dutiful affection you have ever shown me.

“When I desire you to keep this a secret (as I hope always), I make no exception in favour of any person whatever.

“This letter is written with much thought and full deliberation, and signed by him who ever feels as a loving father towards you.

“Daniel Mortimer.”

Valentine had opened the letter with a preconceived notion as to its contents, and this, together with excessive surprise, made him fail for the moment to perceive one main point that it might have told him.

When Brandon just as he finished reading came back, he found Valentine seated before the letter amazed and pale.

“What does it mean?” he exclaimed, when the two had looked searchingly at one another. “What on earth can it mean?”

“I have no idea,” said Giles.

“But you have had it for years,” continued Valentine, very much agitated. “Surely you have tried to find out what it means. Have you made no inquiries?”

“Yes. I have been to Melcombe. I could discover nothing at all. No,” in answer to another look, “neither then, or at any other time.”

“But you are older than I am, so much older, had you never any suspicion of anything at all? Did nothing ever occur before I was old enough to notice things which roused in you any suspicions?”

“Suspicions of what?”

“Of disgrace, I suppose. Of crime perhaps I mean; but I don’t know what I mean. Do you think John knows of this?”

“No. I am sure he does not. But don’t agitate yourself,” he went on, observing that Valentine’s hand trembled. “Remember, that whatever this secret was that your father kept buried in his breast, it has never been found out, that is evident, and therefore it is most unlikely now that it ever should be. In my opinion, and it is the only one I have fully formed about the matter, this crime or this disgrace–I quote your own words–must have taken place between sixty and seventy years ago, and your father expressly declares that he had nothing to do with it.”

“But if the old woman had,” began Valentine vehemently, and paused.

“How can that be?” answered Giles. “He says, ‘I know not in her case what I could have done,’ and that he has never judged her.”

Valentine heaved up a mighty sigh, excitement made his pulses beat and his hands tremble.

“What made you think,” he said, “that it was so long ago? I am so surprised that I cannot think coherently.”

“To tell you why I think so, is to tell you something more that I believe you don’t know.”

“Well,” said the poor fellow, sighing restlessly, “out with it, Giles.”

“Your father began life by running away from home.”

“Oh, I know that.”

“You do?”

“Yes, my dear father told it to me some weeks before he died, but I did not like it, I wished to dismiss it from my thoughts.”

“Indeed! but will you try to remember now, how he told it to you and what he said.”

“It was very simple. Though now I come to think of it, with this new light thrown upon it–Yes; he did put it very oddly, very strangely, so that I did not like the affair, or to think of it. He said that as there was now some intercourse between us and Melcombe, a place that he had not gone near for so very many years, it was almost certain, that, sooner or later, I should hear something concerning himself that would surprise me. It was singular that I had not heard it already. I did not like to hear him talk in his usual pious way of such an occurrence; for though of course we know that all things _are_ overruled for good to those who love God—-“

“Well?” said Brandon, when he paused to ponder.

“Well,” repeated Valentine, “for all that, and though he referred to that very text, I did not like to hear him say that he blessed God he had been led to do it; and that, if ever I heard of it, I was to remember that he thought of it with gratitude.”

Saying this, he turned over the pages again. “But there is nothing of that here,” he said, “how did you discover it?”

“I was told of it at Melcombe,” said Brandon, hesitating.

“By whom?”

“It seemed to be familiarly known there.” He glanced at the _Times_ which was laid on the table just beyond the desk at which Valentine sat. “It was little Peter Melcombe,” he said gravely, “who mentioned it to me.”

“What! the poor little heir!” exclaimed Valentine, rather contemptuously. “I would not be in his shoes for a good deal! But Giles–but Giles–you have shown me the letter!”

He started up.

“Yes, there it is,” said Giles, glancing again at the _Times_, for he perceived instantly that Valentine for the first time had remembered on what contingency he was to be told of this matter.

There it was indeed! The crisis of his fate in a few sorrowful words had come before him.

“At Corfu, on the 28th of February, to the inexpressible grief of his mother, Peter, only child of the late Peter Melcombe, Esq., and great-grandson and heir of the late Mrs. Melcombe, of Melcombe. In the twelfth year of his age.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Valentine, in an awestruck whisper. “Then it has come to this, after all?”

He sat silent so long, that his brother had full time once more to consider this subject in all its bearings, to perceive that Valentine was trying to discover some reasonable cause for what his father had done, and then to see his countenance gradually clear and his now flashing eyes lose their troubled expression.

“I know you have respected my poor father’s confidence,” he said at last.

“Yes, I have.”

“And you never heard anything from him by word of mouth that seemed afterwards to connect itself with this affair?”

“Yes, I did,” Brandon answered, “he said to me just before my last voyage, that he had written an important letter, told me where it was, and desired me to observe that his faculties were quite unimpaired long after the writing of it.”

“I do not think they could have been,” Valentine put in, and he continued his questions. “You think that you have never, never heard him say anything, at any time which at all puzzled or startled you, and which you remembered after this?”

“No, I never did. He never surprised me, or excited any suspicion at any time about anything, till I had broken the seal of that letter.”

“And after all,” Valentine said, turning the pages, “how little there is in it, how little it tells me!”

“Hardly anything, but there is a great deal, there is everything in his having been impelled to write it.”

“Well, poor man” (Giles was rather struck by this epithet), “if secrecy was his object, he has made that at least impossible. I must soon know all, whatever it is. And more than that, if I act as he wishes, in fact, as he commands, all the world will set itself to investigate the reason.”

“Yes, I am afraid so,” Brandon answered, “I have often thought of that.”

Valentine went on. “I always knew, felt rather, that he must have had a tremendous quarrel with his elder brother. He never would mention him if he could help it, and showed an ill-disguised unforgiving sort of–almost dread, I was going to say, of him, as if he had been fearfully bullied by him in his boyhood and could not forget it; but,” he continued, still pondering, “it surely is carrying both anger and superstition a little too far, to think that when he is in his grave it will do his son any harm to inherit the land of the brother he quarrelled with.”

“Yes,” said Giles, “when one considers how most of the land of this country was first acquired, how many crimes lie heavy on its various conquerors, and how many more have been perpetrated in its transmission from one possessor to another;” then he paused, and Valentine took up his words.

“It seems incredible that he should have thought an old quarrel (however bitter) between two boys ought, more than half a century afterwards, to deprive the son of one of them from taking his lawful inheritance.”

“Yes,” Brandon said. “He was no fool; he could not have thought so, and therefore it could not have been that, or anything like it. Nor could he have felt that he was in any sense answerable for the poor man’s death, for I have ascertained that there had been no communication between the two branches of the family for several years before he laid violent hands on himself.”

Valentine sighed restlessly. “The whole thing is perfectly unreasonable,” he said; “in fact, it would be impossible to do as he desires, even if I were ever so willing.”

“Impossible?” exclaimed Brandon.

“Yes, the estate is already mine; how is it possible for me not to take it? I must prove the will, the old will, the law would see to that, for there will be legacy duty to pay. Even if I chose to fling the income into the pond, I must save out enough to satisfy the tax-gatherers. You seem to take for granted that I will and can calmly and secretly let the estate be. But have you thought out the details at all? Have you formed any theory as to how this is to be done?”

He spoke with some impatience and irritation, it vexed him to perceive that his brother had fully counted on the dead father’s letter being obeyed. Brandon had nothing to say.

“Besides,” continued Valentine, “where is this sort of thing to stop? If I die to-morrow, John is my heir. Is he to let it alone? Could he?”

“I don’t know,” answered Brandon. “He has not the same temptation to take it that you have.”

“Temptation!” repeated Valentine.

Brandon did not retract or explain the word.

“And does he know any reason, I wonder, why he should renounce it?” continued Valentine, but as he spoke his hand, which he had put out to take the _Times_, paused on its way, and his eyes involuntarily opened a little wider. Something, it seemed, had struck him, and he was recalling it and puzzling it out. Two or three lilies thrown under a lilac tree by John’s father had come back to report themselves, nothing more recent or more startling than that, for he was still thinking of the elder brother. “And he must have hated him to the full as much as my poor father did,” was his thought. “That garden had been shut up for his sake many, many years. Wait a minute, if that man got the estate wrongfully, I’ll have nothing to do with it after all. Nonsense! Why do I slander the dead in my thoughts? as if I had not read that will many times–he inherited after the old woman’s sickly brother, who died at sea.” After this his thoughts wandered into all sorts of vague and intricate paths that led to no certain goal; he was not even certain at last that there was anything real to puzzle about. His father might have been under some delusion after all.

At last his wandering eyes met Brandon’s.

“Well!” he exclaimed, as if suddenly waking up.

“How composedly he takes it, and yet how amazed he is!” thought Brandon. “Well,” he replied, by way of answer.

“I shall ask you, Giles, as you have kept this matter absolutely secret so long, to keep it secret still; at any rate for awhile, from every person whatever.”

“I think you have a right to expect that of me, I will.”

“Poor little fellow! died at Corfu then. The news is all over Wigfield by this time, no doubt. John knows it of course, now.” Again he paused, and this time it was his uncle’s last conversation that recurred to his memory. It was most unwelcome. Brandon could see that he looked more than disturbed; he was also angry; and yet after awhile, both these feelings melted away, he was like a man who had walked up to a cobweb, that stretched itself before his face, but when he had put up his hand and cleared it off, where was it?

He remembered how the vague talk of a dying old man had startled him.

The manner of the gift and the odd feeling he had suffered at the time, as if it might be somehow connected with the words said, appeared to rise up to be looked at. But one can hardly look straight at a thing of that sort without making it change its aspect. Sensations and impressions are subject to us; they may be reasoned down. His reason was stronger than his fear had been, and made it look foolish. He brought back the words, they were disjointed, they accused no one, they could not be put together. So he covered that recollection over, and threw it aside. He did not consciously hide it from himself, but he did know in his own mind that he should not relate it to his brother.

“Well, you have done your part,” he said at length; “and now I must see about doing mine.”

“No one could feel more keenly than I do, how hard this is upon you,” said Brandon; but Valentine detected a tone of relief in his voice, as if he took the words to mean a submission to the father’s wish, and as if he was glad. “My poor father might have placed some confidence in me, instead of treating me like a child,” he said bitterly; “why on earth could he not tell me all.”

“Why, my dear fellow,” exclaimed Brandon; “surely if you were to renounce the property, it would have been hard upon you and John to be shamed or tortured by any knowledge of the crime and disgrace that it came with.”

“That it came with!” repeated Valentine; “you take that for granted, then? You have got further than I have.”

“I think, of course, that the crime was committed, or the disgrace incurred, for the sake of the property.”

“Well,” said Valentine, “I am much more uncertain about the whole thing than you seem to be. I shall make it my duty to investigate the matter. I must find out everything; perhaps it will be only too easy; according to what I find I shall act. One generation has no right so to dominate over another as to keep it always in childlike bondage to a command for which no reason is given. If, when I know, I consider that my dear father was right, I shall of my own free-will sell the land, and divest myself of the proceeds. If that he was wrong, I shall go and live fearlessly and freely in that house, and on that land which, in the course of providence, has come to me.”

“Reasonable and cool,” thought Brandon. “Have I any right to say more? He will do just what he says. No one was ever more free from superstition; and he is of age, as he reminds me.”

“Very well,” he then said aloud; “you have a right to do as you please. Still, I must remind you of your father’s distinct assertion, that in this case he has set you an example. He would not have the land.”

“Does he mean,” said Valentine, confused between his surprise at the letter, his own recollections, and his secret wishes–“Does he, can he mean, that his old mother positively asked him to be her heir, and he refused?”

“I cannot tell; how is the will worded?”

“My great-grandfather left his estate to his only son, and if _he_ died childless, to his eldest grandson; both these were mere boys at the time, and if neither lived to marry, then the old man left his estate to his only daughter. That was my grandmother, you know, and she had it for many years.”

“And she had power to will it away, as is evident.”

“Yes, she might leave it to any one of her sons, or his representative; but she was not to divide it into shares. And in case of the branch she favoured dying out, the estate was to revert to his heir-at-law–the old man’s heir-at-law, you know, his nearest of kin. That would have been my father, if he had lived a year or two longer, he was the second son. It is a most complicated and voluminous will.”

Brandon asked one more question. “But its provisions come to an end with you, is it not so? It is not entailed, and you can do with it exactly as you please.”

Valentine’s countenance fell a little when his brother said this; he perceived that he chanced to be more free than most heirs, he had more freedom than he cared for.

“Yes,” he replied, “that is so.”

CHAPTER XXII.

SOPHISTRY.

“‘As he has not trusted me, he will never know how I should scorn to be a thief,’ quoth the school boy yesterday, when his master’s orchard gate was locked; but, ‘It’s all his own fault,’ quoth the same boy to-day while he was stealing his master’s plums, ‘why did he leave the gate ajar?'”

“Val,” said Brandon, “I do hope you will give yourself time to consider this thing in all its bearings before you decide. I am afraid if you make a mistake, it will prove a momentous one.”

He spoke with a certain feeling of restraint, his advice had not been asked; and the two brothers began to perceive by this time that it was hard to keep up an air of easy familiarity when neither felt really at ease. Each was thinking of the lovely young wife down-stairs. One felt that he could hardly preach to the man whose folly had been his own opportunity, the other felt that nothing would be more sweet than to let her see that, after all, she had married a man not half so rich nor in so good a position as her first love, for so he chose to consider himself. How utter, how thorough an escape this would be also from the least fear of further dependence on Giles! And, as to his having made a fool of himself, and having been well laughed at for his pains, he was perfectly aware that as Melcombe of Melcombe, and with those personal advantages that he by no means undervalued, nobody would choose to remember that story against him, and he might marry almost wherever he pleased.

As he turned in his chair to think, he caught a glimpse of his old uncle’s house, just a corner through some trees, of his own bedroom window there, the place where that parcel was.

He knew that, think as long as he would, Giles would not interrupt. “Yes, that parcel! Well, I’m independent, anyhow,” he considered exultingly; and the further thought came into his mind, “I am well enough off. What if I were to give this up and stay with John? I know he is surprised and pleased to find me so useful. I shall be more so; the work suits me, and brings out all I have in me; I like it. Then I always liked being with Emily, and I should soon be master in that house. Bother the estate! I felt at first that I could not possibly fling it by, but really–really I believe that in a few years, when John goes into Parliament, he’ll make me his partner. It’s very perplexing; yes, I’ll think it well over, as Giles says. I’ll do as I please; and I’ve a great mind to let that doomed old den alone after all.”

Though he expressed his mind in these undignified words, it was not without manly earnestness that he turned back to his brother, and said seriously, “Giles, I do assure you that I will decide nothing till I have given the whole thing my very best attention. In the meantime, of course, whatever you hear, you will say nothing. I shall certainly not go to Melcombe for a few days, I’ve got so attached to John, somehow, that I cannot think of leaving him in the lurch just now when he is out of spirits, and likes to have me with him.”

Thereupon the brothers parted, Valentine going downstairs, and Brandon sitting still in his room, a smile dawning on his face, and a laugh following.

“Leaving John in the lurch!” he repeated. “What would my lord John think if he could hear that; but I have noticed for some time that they like one another. What a notion Val has suddenly formed of his own importance! There was really something like dignity in his leave-taking. He does not intend that I should interfere, as is evident. And I am not certain that if he asked for my advice I should know what to say. I was very clear in my own mind that when he consulted me I should say, ‘Follow your father’s desire.’ I am still clear that I would do so myself in such a case; but I am not asked for my opinion. I think he will renounce the inheritance, on reflection; if he does, I shall be truly glad that it was not at all by my advice, or to please me. But if he does not? Well, I shall not wish to make the thing out any worse than it is. I always thought that letter weak as a command, but strong as a warning. It would be, to say the least of it, a dutiful and filial action to respect that warning. A warning not to perpetuate some wrong, for instance; but what wrong? I saw a miniature of Daniel Mortimer the elder, smiling, handsome, and fair-haired. It not only reminded me strongly of my step-father, but of the whole race, John, Valentine, John’s children, and all. Therefore, I am sure there need be ‘no scandal about Queen Elizabeth’ Mortimer, and its discovery on the part of her son.”

Meanwhile, Valentine, instead of driving straight back to Wigfield, stopped short at his sister Emily’s new house, intending to tell her simply of the death of little Peter Melcombe, and notice how she took it. O that the letter had been left to him instead of to Giles! How difficult it was, moreover, to believe that Giles had possessed it so long, and yet that its contents were dead to every one else that breathed! If Giles had not shown him by his manner what he ought to do, he thought he might have felt better inclined to do it. Certain it is that being now alone, he thought of his fathers desire with more respect.

Emily had been settled about a month in her new house, and Miss Christie Grant was with her. There was a pretty drawing-room, with bow windows at the back of it. Emily had put there her Indian cabinets, and many other beautiful things brought from the east, besides decorating it with delicate ferns, and bulbs in flower. She was slightly inclined to be lavish so far as she could afford it; but her Scotch blood kept her just on the right side of prudence, and so gave more grace to her undoubted generosity.

This house, which had been chosen by Mrs. Henfrey, was less than a quarter of a mile from John Mortimer’s, and was approached by the same sandy lane. In front, on the opposite side of this lane, the house was sheltered by a great cliff, crowned with fir trees, and enriched with wild plants and swallows’ caves; and behind, at the end of her garden ran the same wide brook which made a boundary for John Mortimer’s ground.

This circumstance was a great advantage to the little Mortimers, who with familiar friendship made themselves at once at home all over Mrs. Nemily’s premises, and forthwith set little boats and ships afloat on the brook in the happy certainty that sooner or later they would come down to their rightful owners.

Valentine entered the drawing-room, and a glance as he stooped to kiss his sister served to assure him that she knew nothing of the great news.

She put her two hands upon his shoulders, and her sweet eyes looked into his. A slightly shamefaced expression struck her. “Does the dear boy think he is in love again?” she thought; “who is it, I wonder?” The look became almost sheepish; and she, rather surprised, said to him, “Well, Val, you see the house is ready.”

“Yes,” he answered, looking round him with a sigh.

Emily felt that he might well look grave and sad; it was no common friend that he had lost. “How is John?” she asked.

“Why, he was very dull; very dull indeed, when I left him this morning; and natural enough he should be.”

“Yes, most natural.”

Then he said, after a little more conversation on their recent loss, “Emily, I came to tell you something very important–to me at least,” here the shamefaced look came back. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed, as a flash of amazement leaped out of her eyes; “nothing of that sort.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she answered, not able to forbear smiling; “but sit down then, you great, long-legged fellow, you put me out of conceit with this room; you make the ceiling look too low.”

“Oh, do I?” said Valentine, and he sat down in a comfortable chair, and thought he could have been very happy with Emily, and did not know how to begin to tell her.

“I must say I admire your taste, Emily,” he then said, looking about him, and shirking the great subject.

Emily was a little surprised at his holding off in this way, so she in her turn took the opportunity to say something fresh; something that she thought he might as well hear.

“And so John’s dull, is he? Poor John! Do you know, Val, the last time I saw him he was very cross.”

“Indeed! why was he cross?”

“It was about a month ago. He laughed, but I know he was cross. St. George and I went over at his breakfast-time to get the key of this house, which had been left with him; and, while I ran up-stairs to see the children, he told St. George how, drawing up his blind to shave that morning, he had seen you chasing Barbara and Miss Green (that little temporary governess of theirs) about the garden. Barbara threw some snowballs at you, but you caught her and kissed her.”

“She is a kind of cousin,” Valentine murmured; “besides, she is a mere child.”

“But she is a very tall child,” said Emily. “She is within two inches as tall as I am. Miss Green is certainly no child.”

Valentine did not wish to enter on that side of the question. “I’m sure I don’t know how one can find out when to leave off kissing one’s cousins,” he observed.

“Oh! I can give you an easy rule for that,” said Emily; “leave off the moment you begin to care to do it: they will probably help you by beginning, just about the same time, to think they have bestowed kisses enough.”

“It all arose out of my kindness,” said Valentine. “John had already begun to be anxious about the dear old man, so I went over that morning before breakfast, and sent him up a message. His father was decidedly better; and as he had to take a journey that day, I thought he should know it as soon as possible. But Emily—-“

“Yes, dear boy?”

“I really did come to say something important.” And instantly as he spoke he felt what a tragical circumstance this was for some one else, and that such would be Emily’s first thought and view of it.

“What is it?” she exclaimed, now a little startled.

Valentine had turned rather pale. He tasted the bitter ingredients in this cup of prosperity more plainly now; and he wished that letter was at the bottom of the sea. “Why–why it is something you will be very sorry for, too,” he said, his voice faltering. “It’s poor little Peter Melcombe.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Emily, with an awestruck shudder. “There! I said so.”

“WHAT did you say?” cried Valentine, so much struck by her words that he recovered his self-possession instantly.

“Poor, poor woman,” she went on, the ready tears falling on her cheeks; “and he was her only child!”

“But what do you mean, Emily?” continued Valentine, startled and suspicious. “_What_ did you say?”

“Oh!” she answered, “nothing that I had any particular reason for saying. I felt that it might be a great risk to take that delicate boy to Italy again, where he had been ill before, and I told John I wished we could prevent it. I could not forget that his death would be a fine thing for my brother, and I felt a sort of fear that this would be the end of it.”

Valentine was relieved. She evidently knew nothing, and he could listen calmly while she went on.

“My mere sense of the danger made it a necessity for me to act. I suppose you will be surprised when I tell you”–here two more tears fell–“that I wrote to Mrs. Melcombe. I knew she was determined to go on the Continent, and I said if she liked to leave her boy behind, I would take charge of him. It was the day before dear Fred was taken ill.”

“And she declined!” said Valentine. “Well, it was very kind of you, very good of you, and just like you. Let us hope poor Mrs. Melcombe does not remember it now.”

“Yes, she declined; said her boy had an excellent constitution. Where did the poor little fellow die?”

“At Corfu.”

Emily wept for sympathy with the mother, and Valentine sat still opposite to her, and was glad of the silence; it pleased him to think of this that Emily had done, till all on a sudden some familiar words out of the Bible flashed into his mind, strange, quaint words, and it seemed much more as if somebody kept repeating them in his presence than as if he had turned them over himself to the surface, from among the mass of scraps that were lying littered about in the chambers of his memory. “The words of Jonadab the son of Rechab, that he commanded his sons.”

“May I see the letter?” asked Emily.

“There was no letter; we saw it in the _Times_,” said Valentine; and again the mental repetition began. “The son of Rechab, that he commanded HIS sons, are performed; for unto this day—-“

Emily had dried her eyes now. “Well, Val dear,” she said, and hesitated.

“Oh, I wish she would give me time to get once straight through to the end, and have done with it,” thought Valentine. “‘The words of Jonadab the son of Rechab, that he commanded _his_ sons, are—-‘ (yes, only the point of it is that they’re not–not yet, at any rate) the words of Jonadab.”

Here Emily spoke again. “Well, Val, nobody ever came into an estate more naturally and rightly than you do, for, however well you may have behaved about it, and nobody could have behaved better, you must have felt that as the old lady chose to leave all to one son, that should not have been the youngest. I hope you will be happy; and I know you will make a kind, good landlord. It seems quite providential that you should have spent so much time in learning all about land and farming. I have always felt that all which was best and nicest in you would come out, if you could have prosperity, and we now see that it was intended for you.”

Cordial, delightful words to Valentine; they almost made him forget this letter that she had never heard of.

“Oh, if you please, ma’am,” exclaimed a female servant, bursting into the room, “Mr. Brandon’s love to you. He has sent the pony-carriage, and he wants you to come back in it directly.”

Something in the instant attention paid to this message, and the alacrity with which Emily ran up-stairs, as if perfectly ready, and expectant of it, showed Valentine that it did not concern his inheritance, but also what and whom it probably did concern, and he sauntered into the little hall to wait for Emily, put her into the carriage and fold the rug round her, while he observed without much surprise that she had for the moment quite forgotten his special affairs, and was anxious and rather urgent to be off.

Then he drove into Wigfield, considering in his own mind that if John did not know anything concerning the command in this strange letter, he and he only was the person who ought to be told and consulted about it.

It rained now, and when he entered the bank and paused to take off his wet coat, he saw on every face as it was lifted up that his news was known, and his heart beat so fast as he knocked at John’s door that he had hardly strength to obey the hearty “Come in.”

Two minutes would decide what John knew, and whether he also had a message to give him from the dead. John was standing with his back to the fire, grave and lost in thought. Valentine came in, and sat down on one side of the grate, putting his feet on the fender to warm them. When he had done this, he longed to change his attitude, for John neither moved nor spoke, and he could not see his face. His own agitation made him feel that he was watched, and that he could not seem ill at ease, and must not be the first to move; but at last when the silence and immobility of John became intolerable to him, he suddenly pushed back his chair, and looked up. John then turned his head slightly, and their eyes met.