A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES.
"She's daft to refuse the laird of Cockpen."
_Scotch Ballad._
And now John Mortimer had again possession of his ring. Emily had sent
it, together with a little book that she had borrowed some time
previously, and the whole was so done up in stiff paper that Miss
Christie Grant supposed herself to be returning the book only.
"So you gave it to John, auntie," said Emily, when Miss Christie came
back, "and told him I was going out, and he read the note?"
"Yes," answered Miss Christie curtly.
"Is he looking well?" asked Emily with a faint attempt at the tone of
ordinary interest.
"I should say not at all; it would be queer if he was."
"Why, Aunt Christie?"
Miss Christie Grant paused. Confidence had not been reposed in her; to
have surprised Emily into it would have given her no pleasure; it would
have left her always suspicious that her niece would have withheld it if
she could; besides, this rumour might after all be untrue. She answered,
"Because, for one thing, he has had great, at least considerable,
losses."
"Yes, I know," said Emily.
"But he aye reposed great confidence in me, as a friend should."
"Yes."
"And so I would have asked him several questions if I had known how to
express myself; but bonds and debentures, and, above all, preference
stock, were aye great stumbling-blocks to my understanding. Men have a
way of despising a woman's notions of business matters; so I contented
myself with asking if it was true that he was arranging to take a
partner, and whether he would have to make any pecuniary sacrifice in
order to effect this? He said 'Yes;' but I've been just thinking he
meant that in confidence."
"You shouldn't tell it to me then."
"And then he told me (I don't know whether that was in confidence or
not), but----"
"But what?"
"But I don't want to have any reservations with my own niece's child,
that was always my favourite, any more than I suppose ye would have any
with me."
Miss Christie here seemed to expect an answer, and waited long enough
for Emily to make one, if she was so minded; but as Emily remained
silent, she presently went on.
"I made the observation that I had heard he meant to sell his late
father's house; but lest he should think I attached too much importance
to his losses, I just added that I knew his children were very well
provided for under the will. He said 'Yes.'"
"And that was all?" asked Emily, amused at the amount of John's
confidence, and pleased to find that nothing but business had been
talked or.
"Yes, that was all--so far as I know there was nothing more to tell; so
I just said before I came away that I was well aware my knowledge of
banking was but slender, which was reason enough for my not offering any
advice. Well, if anybody had told me ye could laugh because John
Mortimer was less prosperous than formerly, I would not have believed
it!"
Emily made haste to look grave again. It was no secret at all that John
Mortimer meant to take a partner; and as to his losses, she did not
suppose they would affect his comfort much.
Johnnie Mortimer, however, on hearing of them was roused to a sense of
responsibility toward his father, and as a practical proof that he and
his sisters were willing to do what they could, proposed to them that
they should give up half their weekly allowance of pocket-money. The
twins assented with filial fervour, and Johnnie explained their views to
his father, proposing that his own pony should be sold, and the money
flung into the gap.
John was smoking a cigar in an arbour near the house when his heir
unfolded to him these plans for retrenchment. He was surprised. The boy
was so big, so clever with his lessons, and possessed so keen a sense of
humour that sometimes the father forgot his actual age, and forgot that
he was still simple in many respects, and more childlike than some other
youths.
He did not instantly answer nor laugh (for Johnnie was exceedingly
sensitive to ridicule from him); but after a pause, as if for thought,
he assured his son that he was not in any want of money, and that
therefore these plans, he was happy to say, were not necessary. "As you
are old enough now," he added, "to take an intelligent interest in my
affairs, I shall occasionally talk to you about them."
Johnnie, shoving his head hard against his father's shoulder, gave him
an awkward hug. "You might depend on my never telling anybody," he said.
"I am sure of that, my boy. Your dear grandfather, a few months before
his death, gave his name to an enterprise which, in my opinion, did not
promise well. A good deal of money has been lost by it."
"Oh," said Johnnie, and again he reflected that, though not necessary,
it would be only right and noble in him to give up his pony.
"But I dare say you think that I and mine have always lived in the
enjoyment of every comfort, and of some luxuries."
"Oh, yes, father."
"Then if I tell you that I intend to continue living exactly in my
present style, and that I expect to be always entitled to do so, you
need perhaps hardly concern yourself to inquire how much I may hitherto
have lived within my income."
Johnnie, who, quite unknown to himself, had just sustained the loss of
many thousands hitherto placed to his name, replied with supreme
indifference that he hoped he was not such a muff as to care about money
that his father did not care about himself, and did not want. Whereupon
John proceeded,--
"It is my wish, and in the course of a few years I hope that I shall be
able, to retire."
"Oh," said Johnnie again, and he surprised his father to the point of
making him refrain from any further communication, by adding, "And then
you'll have plenty of time to rummage among those old Turanian verbs and
things. But, father?"
"Yes, my boy."
John looked down into the clear eyes of the great, awkward, swarthy
fellow, expecting the question, "Will this make much difference to my
future prospects?" But, no, what he said was, "I should like to have a
_go_ at them too. And you said you would teach me Sanscrit, if ever you
had leisure."
"So I did," said John, "and so I will."
To his own mind these buried roots, counted by the world so dry, proved,
as it were, appetising and attractive food. How, then, should he be
otherwise than pleased that his son should take delight in the thought
of helping him to rake them up, and arguing with him over "the ninth
meaning of a particle?" "The boy will learn to love money quite soon
enough," he thought.
Johnnie then went his way. It was Saturday afternoon; he told his
sisters that "it was all right," and thereupon resolving no longer to
deny themselves the innocent pleasures of life, they sent little Bertram
into the town for eighteenpennyworth of "rock."
"Where's the change?" he inquired, with the magisterial dignity
belonging to his race, when his little brother came home.
Bertram replied with all humility that he had only, been tossing up the
fourpenny piece a few times for fun, when it fell into the ditch. He
couldn't help it; he was very sorry.
"_Soufflez_ the fourpenny piece," said Johnnie in a burst of reckless
extravagance; "I forgive you this once. Produce the stuff."
He felt a lordly contempt for money just then; perhaps it was wrong, but
prosperity was spoiling him. He was to retain his pony, and this amiable
beast was dear to him.
In the meantime Valentine, established at Melcombe, had been enjoying
the sweetness of a no less real prosperity.
From that moment, when the ghost story had melted into mist, he had
flung aside all those uneasy doubts which had disturbed his first weeks
of possession.
He soon surrounded himself with the luxury that was so congenial to him.
All the neighbourhood called on him, and his naturally sociable temper,
amiable, domestic ways, and good position enabled him, with hardly any
effort, to be always among a posse of people who suited him perfectly.
There were more ladies than young men in the neighbourhood. Valentine
was intimate with half-a-dozen of the former before he had been among
them three weeks. He experienced the delights of feminine flattery, a
thing almost new to him. Who so likely to receive it? He was eligible,
he was handsome, and he was always in a good humour, for the place and
the life pleased him, and all things smiled.
In a round of country gaieties, in which picnics and archery parties
bore a far larger proportion than any young man would have cared for who
was less devoted to the other sex, Valentine passed much of his time,
laughing and making laugh wherever he went. His jokes were bandied about
from house to house, till he felt the drawback in passing for a wit. He
was expected to be always funny.
But a little real fun goes a long way in a dull neighbourhood, and he
had learned just so much caution from his early escapade as to be
willing to hail any view concerning himself that might be a corrective
of the more true and likely one that he loved to flirt.
He was quite determined, as he thought, not to get into another scrape,
and perhaps a very decided intention to make, in the end, an
advantageous marriage, may have grown out of the fancy that his romance
in life was over.
If he thought so, it was in no very consistent fashion, for he was
always the slave (for the day) of the prettiest girl in every party he
went to.
It was on a Saturday that John Mortimer received his son's proposal for
retrenchment; on the Wednesday succeeding it Valentine, sitting at
breakfast at Melcombe, opened the following letter, and was amused by
the old-fashioned formality of its opening sentence:--
"Wigfield, June 15th, 18--.
"My dear Nephew,--It is not often that I take up my pen to address you,
for I know there is little need, as my niece Emily writes weekly.
Frequently have I wondered what she could find to write for; indeed, it
was not the way in my youth for people to waste so much time saying
little or nothing--which is not my case at the present time, for your
sister being gone on the Continent, it devolves upon me, that is not
used to long statements, to let ye know, what ye will be very sorry to
hear. I only hope it may be no worse before it is over.
"Matthew, the coachman, came running over to me on Monday morning last,
and said would I come to the house, for the servants did not know what
to be at, and told me that Johnnie, who had been to go back to Harrow by
the eleven o'clock train, had got leave to drive the pheaton to the
Junction with the four girls in it, and Bertram, who, by ill luck--of I
may use such a word (meaning no irreverence)--of this dispensation of
Providence, had not gone back to Mr. Tikey's that morning. So far as I
can make out, he thought he should be late, and so he turned those two
spirited young horses down that steep sandy lane by the wood, to cut off
a corner; and whether the woodman's children ran out and frightened
them, or whether he was shouting and whooping himself, poor laddie--for
I heard something of both--but Barbara was just sobbing her heart away
when she told it, and he aye raised the echoes wherever he went; but the
horses set off, running away, tearing down that rough road. Johnnie
shouted to them all to sit still, and so they did, though they were
almost jolted out; and if they had been let alone, there might have been
no accident; but two men sprung out of a hedge and tried to stop them,
and they turned on to the common, and sped away like the wind towards
home, till they came to the sand bank by the small inn, the Loving Cup,
and there they upset the carriage, and when the two men got up to it
Johnnie and all of them were tossed out, and the carriage was almost
kicked to pieces by the horse that was not down.
"This is a long tale, Valentine, and I seem to have hardly begun it. I
must take another sheet of paper. When I got to the house, you never saw
such a scene. Johnnie had been brought in quite stunned, and his face
greatly bruised. There were two doctors already with them. Bertram had
got a broken arm; he was calling out, poor little fellow, and Nancy was
severely hurt, but I was grieved to see her so quiet. Gladys seemed at
first to be only bruised and limping; but she and Barbara were faint and
sick with fright. Janie was not present; she had been carried into the
inn; but I may as well tell ye that in her case no bones were broken,
poor lamb. She is doing very well, and in a day or two is to be brought
home.
"It was a very affecting scene, as ye may suppose, and my first words
were, 'Who is to tell this to Mr. Mortimer?' They said your brother has
already gone to fetch him and prepare him. Well, I knew everything that
was in the house, and where it was kept; so I'm thankful to think I was
of use, and could help the new governess and the strange servants.
"Dorothea and Mrs. Henfrey soon came in, and by the time John arrived
all the invalids had been carried up-stairs, and Johnnie had begun to
show signs of consciousness.
"John was as white as chalk. He was rather strange at first; he said in
a commanding, peremptory way, that he wouldn't be spoken to; he wouldn't
hear a word; he was not ready. Everybody stood round, till Dorothea
disobeyed him; she said, 'They are all living, dear Mr. Mortimer;' and
then Giles got him to sit down, and they gave him some water to drink.
"He then noticed Dr. Limpsy, who had come down, and asked if any of them
were in danger, and the doctor said yes--one. So he said he prayed God
it was not his eldest son: he could bear anything but that. And yet when
the doctor said he had every hope that Johnnie would do well, but he had
great fears for the little Anastasia, he burst into tears, poor man, and
said that of all his children she would be the hardest to spare. But I
need not tell ye we did not remind him of the inconsistency, and were
glad to think he was not to lose the one he set his heart most upon. And
after that he was perfectly himself and more composed than anybody,
which is a wonder, for such a catalogue of broken bones and sprains and
contusions as came to light as the doctors examined further, was enough
to disturb anybody's courage. Giles sat up with Johnnie all night;
indeed nobody went to bed. John was by Nancy, and in the morning they
spoke hopefully of her. Johnnie's first words were about his father; he
couldn't bear his father near him, because now and then he was surprised
into shouting out with pain, and he wouldn't have John distressed with
his noise. He was nothing like so well as we had hoped this morning; but
still the doctors say there is no danger. He got a kick from the horse
when he was down, and he thinks he fainted with the pain. When John came
down to get a little breakfast he was very much cheered to have a better
account than he had expected of Nancy, and he made the remark that ye
would be sorry to hear of this; so I said I would write, which I am
doing, sitting beside little Bertram, who is asleep.--I am
"Your mother's affectionate aunt, and always affectionately yours,
"CHRISTIAN GRANT."
Valentine read the letter, and thought that if it had not been for two
or three picnic parties that he had on hand, he would have gone down to
his old home, to see whether he could be of use to John Mortimer. He
wrote to him, and resolved to wait a day or two; but he heard nothing
till after the succeeding Sunday; then a telegram came from Emily:--"Two
of John's children are extremely ill. I think your presence might be
useful."
Emily had come home then.
Valentine set forth at once, and reached John Mortimer's house in the
afternoon. A doctor's carriage stood at the door; a strange
lady--evidently a nurse--passed through the hall; people were quietly
moving about, but they seemed too anxious, and too much occupied to
observe him.
At last Emily came down.
"Is Johnnie worse?" asked Valentine.
"Yes; but I wanted you to help us with John. Oh, such a disaster! On the
third night after the accident, just before I arrived--for Dorothea had
sent for me--every one in the house was greatly tired; but Johnnie and
Anastasia were both thought better; so much better that the doctors said
if there was no change during the night, they should consider dear
little Nancy quite out of danger. Giles and Dorothea had gone home. The
nurse sent for was not come. John knew how fatigued the whole household
was, and all who were sitting up. He had not been able to take any sleep
himself, and he was restlessly pacing up and down in the garden,
watching and listening under the open windows. It was very hot.
"He fancied about three o'clock that there had been a long silence in
Anastasia's room. She was to have nourishment frequently. He stole
up-stairs, found the person with her asleep from fatigue, gave the child
some jelly himself, and then finding her medicine, as he supposed, ready
poured out in the wine-glass, he gave it to her, and discovered almost
instantly a mistake. The sad imprudence had been committed of pouring
the lotion for the child's temples into a wine-glass, to save the
trouble of ringing for a saucer. The child was almost out of danger
before that terrible night; but when I came home there was scarcely a
hope of her life, and her father was almost distracted. I mean that,
though he seems perfectly calm, never loses his self-control, he is very
often not able to command his attention so as to answer when they speak
to him, and he cannot rest a moment. He spent the whole of last night
wandering up and down the garden, leaning on St. George's arm. He cannot
eat nor occupy himself, and the doctors begin to be uneasy about him.
Oh, it is such a misfortune!
"And Johnnie is very ill," continued Emily, tears glittering on her
eyelashes; "but John seems to take it all with perfect composure.
Everything else is swallowed up in his distress of mind for what he has
unfortunately done. If the child dies, I really think he will not get
over it."
Some one called Emily, and she passed up-stairs again. Valentine turned
and saw John near him; he came forward, but attempted no greeting. "I
thought I might be of use, John," he said, as if they had seen one
another but the day before. "Is there anything I can do for you over at
the town?"
Valentine was a little daunted at first at the sight of him; his face
was so white and he showed so plainly the oppression that weighed down
his soul by the look in his eyes; they were a little raised, and seemed
as if they could not rest on anything near at hand.
Valentine repeated his words, and was relieved when John roused himself,
and expressed surprise and pleasure at seeing him. He sent Valentine to
one of his clerks for some papers to be signed, gave him other
directions, and was evidently the better for his presence.
It was not without many strange sensations that Valentine found himself
again in that room where he had spent such happy hours, and which was so
connected with his recollections of his old uncle. The plunge he had
taken into the sweet waters of prosperity and praise had made him
oblivious of some things that now came before his thoughts again with
startling distinctness; but on the whole he felt pleasure in going back
to the life that he had elected to leave, and was very glad to forget
John's face in doing what he could to help him.
When he returned to the house John had commenced his restless walk
again. Swan was walking beside him, and he was slightly leaning his hand
on the old man's shoulder, as if to steady himself.
Valentine drew near.
"And you are sure he said nothing more?" John was saying in the low
inward tone of fatigue and exhaustion.
"No, sir. 'Tell Mr. Mortimer,' says he, 'that his son is considerable
better,' and he told Mrs. Walker--I heard him say it--that the blessed
little one was no worse, not a morsel worse."
Valentine paused and heard John speak again in that peculiar tone--"I
have no hope, Swan."
"I wouldn't give up, sir, if I was you: allers hold on to hope, sir."
"I cannot stand the strain much longer," he continued, as if he had not
listened, "but sometimes--my thoughts are often confused--but sometimes
I feel some slight relief in prayer."
"Ay, sir," answered Swan, "the Scripture says, 'Knock, and it shall be
opened to you,' and I've allers thought it was mighty easier for one
that begs to go and knock there than anywhere else, for in that house
the Master opens the door himself."