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.
"You know it," said Valentine.
"Yes," John answered gravely, "of course."
"Oh! what next, what next?" thought Valentine, and he spent two or three
minutes in such a tumult of keen expectation and eager excitement, that
he could hear every beat of his heart quite plainly, and then--
"It is a very great upset of all my plans," John said, still with more
gravity than usual. "I had fully intended--indeed, I had hoped, old
fellow, that you and I would be partners some day."
"Oh, John," exclaimed Valentine, a sudden revulsion of feeling almost
overcoming him now he found that his fears as to what John might be
thinking of were groundless. "Oh, John, I wish we could! It might be a
great deal better for me. And so you really did mean it? You are more
like a brother than anything else. I hate the thought of that
ill-starred house; I think I'll stop here with you."
"Nonsense," said John, just as composedly and as gravely as ever; "what
do you mean, you foolish lad?" But he appreciated the affection
Valentine had expressed for him, and kindly put his hand on his young
relative's shoulder.
Valentine had never found it so hard to understand himself as at that
moment. His course was free, Giles could not speak, and John knew
nothing; yet either the firm clasp of a man's hand on his shoulder
roused him to the fact that he cared for this man so much that he could
be happier under his orders than free and his own master, or else his
father's words gathered force by mere withdrawal of opposition.
For a moment he almost wished John did know; he wanted to be fortified
in his desire to remain with him; and yet--No! he could not tell him;
that would be taking his fate out of his own hands for ever.
"You think then I must--take it up; in short, go and live in it?" he
said at length.
"Think!" exclaimed John, with energy and vehemence; "why, who could
possibly think otherwise?"
"I've always been accustomed to go in and out amongst a posse of my own
relations."
"Your own relations must come to you then," answered John pleasantly,
"I, for one. Why, Melcombe's only fifty or sixty miles off, man!"
"It seems to me now that I'm very sorry for that poor little fellow's
death," Valentine went on.
"Nobody could have behaved better during his lifetime than you have
done," John said. "Why, Val," he exclaimed, looking down, "you astonish
me!"
Valentine was vainly struggling with tears. John went and bolted the
door; then got some wine, and brought him a glass.
"As calm as possible during my father's death and funeral," he thought,
"and now half choking himself, forsooth, because his fortune's made, and
he must leave his relations. I trust and hope, with all my heart, that
Dorothea is not at the bottom of this! I supposed his nerves to be
strong enough for anything."
Valentine was deadly pale. He put up a shaking hand for the glass, and
as he drank the wine, and felt the blood creeping warmly about his limbs
again, he thought "John knows nothing whatever. No wonder he is
astonished, he little thinks what a leap in the dark it is."
And so the die was cast.
A few days after this Gladys and Barbara received letters; the first ran
as follows:--
"My dear young Friends,--Owe you three-and-sixpence for Blob's biscuits,
do I? Don't you know that it is not polite to remind people of their
debts? When you would have been paid that money I cannot think, if it
were not for a circumstance detailed below. I have just been reading
that the finest minds always possess a keen sense of humour, so if you
find nothing to laugh at in this, it will prove that there is nothing
particular in you. Did I ever think there was? Well, why _will_ you ask
such awkward questions?--Off!
THE NOBLE TUCK-MAN.
Americus as he did wend
With A.J. Mortimer, his chum,
The two were greeted by a friend,
"And how are you, boys, Hi, Ho, Hum?"
He spread a note so crisp, so neat
(Ho and Hi, and tender Hum),
"If you of this a fifth can eat
I'll give you the remainder. Come!"
To the tuck-shop three repair
(Ho and Hum, and pensive Hi),
One looks on to see all's fair
Two call out for hot mince pie.
Thirteen tarts, a few Bath buns
(Hi and Hum, and gorgeous Ho),
Lobster cakes (the butter'd ones),
All at once they cry "No go."
Than doth tuck-man smile. "Them there
(Ho and Hi, and futile Hum)
Jellies three and sixpence air,
Use of spoons an equal sum."
Three are rich. Sweet task 'tis o'er,
"Tuckman, you're a brick," they cry,
Wildly then shake hands all four
(Hum and Ho, the end is Hi).
"N.B.--He spoke as good English as we did, and we did not shake hands
with him. Such is poetic license. I may have exaggerated a little, as to
the number of things we ate. I repeat, I _may_ have done. You will never
be able to appreciate me till you have learned to make allowance for
such little eccentricities of genius.
"Yours, with sentiments that would do anybody credit,
"Gifford Crayshaw."
The second letter, which was also addressed to both sisters, was from
Johnnie, and ran as follows:--
"Now look here, you two fellows are not to expect me to spend all my
spare time in writing to you. Where do you think I am now? Why, at
Brighton.
"Val's a brick. Yesterday was our _Exeat_, and he came down to Harrow,
called for me and Cray, and brought us here to the Old Ship Hotel. We
two chose the dinner, and in twenty minutes that dinner was gone like a
dream. Val and Cray made the unlucky waiter laugh till he dropped the
butter-boat. The waiter was a proud man--I never saw a prouder. He had
made up his mind that nothing should make him laugh, but at last we had
him. Beware of pride, my friends.
"Then we went to the Aquarium. My wig! I never saw anything so
extraordinary. It ought to be called the Aquaria, for there are dozens
of them. They are like large rooms full of water, and you go and look in
at the fish through the windows. No, they're more like caves than rooms,
they have rocks for walls. Talk of the ancient Greeks! I'll never wish
to be one of those fogies again! I've seen turtles now under water,
sitting opposite to one another, bowing and looking each in his fellow's
face, just like two cats on a rug. Why the world's full of things that
_they_ knew nothing about.
"But I had no notion that fish were such fools, some of them, at least.
There were some conger eels seven feet long, and when we stared at them
they went and stuck their little heads into crevices in the rocks. I
should like to have reasoned with them, for they evidently thought they
were hidden, while, in fact, they were wriggling upside down, full in
view. Well, so then we went to see the octopus. One was just like a pink
satin bag, covered with large ivory buttons, but that was only because
it was inside out. While I was watching it I rather started, for I saw
in a corner of the den close to me an enormous sort of bloated sea
toadstool (as I thought), but it had eyes, it was covered with warts, it
seemed very faint, and it heaved and panted. By that time a
conglomeration like a mass of writhing serpents was letting itself down
the side of the den, and when it got to the bottom it shot out a head,
made itself into the exact shape of an owl without wings, and began to
fly about the place. That made three.
"An old woman who was looking at them too, called out then, 'Oh, you
brute, I hate you,' and Val said to her, 'My good lady, allow me to
suggest that it is not hatred you feel, but envy. Envy is a very bad
passion, and it is our duty to try and restrain it.' 'Sir,' said the
old lady, rather fiercely. 'No, we must not give way to envy,' Val
persisted, 'though, indeed, what are we in comparison with creatures who
can turn themselves inside out as soon as look at you, fly without
wings, and walk up a precipice by means of one pearl button?' 'If the
police were after you, it might be handy to turn yourself inside out,
I'll allow,' she answered, in a very loud, angry voice, 'so as they
should not know you; but I wouldn't, if I could, I'll assure you, young
man, no, that I wouldn't, not for all the pearl buttons in the world.'
"Well, I never wrote such a long letter in my life, it must count for
three, mind. We had a great deal more fun after that, but Val and I got
away, because a little crowd collected. Cray stayed behind, pretending
he did not belong to us, and he heard a man say, 'Perhaps the
gentleman's a parson; that sort always think they ought to be
_moralising_ about something or other.' And he found out by their talk
that the old lady was a clearstarcher, so when she was alone again we
went back. Val said he should be some time at Brighton, and he gave her
his address and offered her his washing. She asked for his name, too,
and he replied--you know how grave Val is--'Well, ma'am, I'm sorry to
say I cannot oblige you with my name, because I don't know it. All I am
sure about is, that it begins with an M; but I've written up to London,
and I shall know for a certainty the week after next.' So she winked at
me, and tapped herself on the forehead. Val is very much vexed because
he came up to London about the will, and the lawyers say he cannot--or
somebody else, I don't know which--cannot administer it unless he takes
the name of Melcombe. So what he said was quite true, and afterwards we
heard the old lady telling her friends that he was demented, but he
seemed very harmless and good.
"It's an extraordinary thing, isn't it, that Val has turned out to be
rich. Please thank father for writing and telling me about it all. Val
doesn't seem to care, and he hates changing his name. He was quite
crusty when we congratulated him.
"Give my love to the kids, and tell them if they don't weed my garden
they will catch it when I come home.
"I remain, your deservedly revered brother,
"A.J.M."
A postscript followed, from Crayshaw:--
"What this fellow says is quite right, our letters are worth three of
yours. You never once mentioned my guinea-pigs in your last, and we
don't care whether there is a baby at Wigfield or not. Pretty, is he? I
know better, they are all ugly. Fanny Crayshaw has just got another. I
detest babies; but George thinks (indeed many parents do) that the
youngest infant is just as much a human being as he is himself, even
when it is squalling, in fact more so."