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