_A village festival on a great occasion.--The woes of Mr. Peter
Veriquear._
Could the good reader who has patiently travelled with me so far, and
at length has reached the last milestone, as it were, upon our journey,
could he, I repeat, have been present at Kiddal Hall, some five or six
years later than the occurrence of the last described events, he would
have seen a joyous sight. Once more did the old house look gay. A grand
entertainment was given to all the surrounding residents, as well as the
private friends of the occupants. Various gay devices adorned the walls;
temporary bowers and archways trimmed with ribands and flowers, were
erected in the gardens; a flag waved gloriously from the topmost peak
of the building; tables were spread over the green open space, in the
middle of the village of Bramleigh; labour was laid aside, and every
soul seemed to rejoice over the occasion of this holiday. It was May
time. The pleasant farms seemed buried in the pink and white bloom of
the orchards; the lilacs drooped over garden-walls, borne down by the
weight of their own flowers; and the sunshine flecked with beautiful
patches of light the hollow green lanes, which, throughout that rural
district, formed a welcome substitute for the hard pavement and the
unpicturesque dwellings of a great city.
By a special act on the part of Mr. Lupton, it had some time before
been settled, that Colin and his wife should thenceforth take the family
name, as though no other had been borne by them. This had accordingly
been done; and therefore, I may now declare, that on this day (the happy
day here spoken of) was celebrated the birth of the first son of Colin
and Jane Lupton. Already had they been blessed with two girls, that now
had become by far the prettiest ornaments, the most beloved treasures,
of the house. But the birth of a son was, as usual in similar cases,
an event to be regarded with far greater interest, arising from
circumstances which it would be superfluous to explain. Proudly did
these two young and happy people walk amongst the tenantry, rejoicing in
the earnest good wishes which, were heard on every side, for their long
life and continued happiness: though in one sense, more proudly still
did the father of Colin himself look upon the generous homage thus paid
them, and in the silent thankfulness of his own breast contemplate the
rising and beautiful little family around him.
To add to the general joy of the friends assembled at the Hall, Mr.
Roger Calvert and Fanny Woodruff, after a courtship of unaccountable
duration, had selected that day also as their wedding-day; and now,
along with the father of the latter, and the whole family of the former,
(for it is needless almost to say, that a reconciliation between them
and Colin had long ago been effected,) joined at once in each other's
pleasure, and that of the inhabitants of Kiddal.
One incident alone, which is worthy of particular record, occurred
to cast a temporary sadness over this scene of festive rejoicing: an
incident which, though it began in mirth, concluded with a brief tale of
misfortune and endurance, which for some time afterwards caused Colin to
forget his own happiness, in contemplating the misfortune and helpless
poverty of one whom we may term an old acquaintance.
Somewhere about dusk in the evening, Colin walked forth into the
village, for the purpose of witnessing the enjoyment of others; and
amongst many other signs that all were happy and contented, he observed
a knot of country bumpkins gathered round something which had attracted
their attention in the middle of the highway, and that appeared to
afford them the highest degree of amusement, judging by the frequent and
loud peals of boisterous laughter which broke from the assembled crowd.
No sooner did the latter observe who approached, than they respectfully
fell back, in order to allow him a sight of the object they had
surrounded. Colin instantly perceived a man past the middle age, and,
apparently, worn down by trouble and poverty combined, with a pack on
his back, not unlike a travelling pedlar,--a stick in his hand to assist
him in his progress, and a small, shaggy, wiry-haired terrier, cringing
in alarm close at his heels.
The first sight of this odd figure was quite sufficient to assure
Colin that he beheld no other than poor Peter Veriquear himself! Colin
instantly ordered the people to stand back; and, to the amazement of
all the clod-hoppers around, hurriedly seized him by the hand, with the
exclamation--“Mr. Veriquear!--Or is it possible I can be mistaken?”
“Whether you are mistaken or not,” replied the individual thus
addressed, “is your own business and not mine. Just as it is my business
to say I am very glad to see my old assistant, Mr. Colin Clink.”
“But how,--under what strange circumstances have you come here, and in
this manner?” demanded Colin.
“That,” replied Peter, “you must be aware is my own concern and not
yours. Though perhaps,”--and he paused a moment,--“perhaps I ought to
make it my business to tell you all about it.”
“Certainly,” responded Colin, “for I can assure you, in your own
language, that I feel it to be my business to know. But come,” he
continued, and at the same time motioning as though to lead him
away,--“let me conduct you to better quarters than you will at present
find in the village, and where we can talk over in a more private manner
those things which I certainly feel somewhat anxious to hear.”
To this proposal Mr. Veriquear at once assented, with the remark that
as Mr. Clink made it his own business to take him to good quarters, it
could not possibly be any concern of his to object. And accordingly Mr.
Peter Veriquear and his dog accompanied Colin to Kiddal Hall, where the
first-named gentleman soon found himself seated at a plentiful table in
the great kitchen, while the companion of his travels was accommodated,
much to his satisfaction, with equally as abundant a meal provided for
him at the entrance to an empty kennel which stood in the court-yard.
When Peter had sufficiently satisfied himself after this fashion, he
attended the summons of the friend who assuredly in former times had
been indebted to him, and was conducted into a private room where Colin
had proposed to meet him alone.
“Ah, sir!” said Peter, as he took a chair and placed himself over
against Colin, “you will feel quite as much astonished to find me sunk
so low, as I am to see how high you have risen. Though to be sure,” he
continued hesitatingly, “it is your business to be astonished at me, as
it is mine to do the same by you.”
“Why, what can possibly have happened?” asked the other.
“Sad things!” replied Peter. “In the first place, I have lost
every one--there is not a single soul left--of all my family. Mrs.
Veriquear,--the little Veriquears that you used to take such pleasure
in drawing about in the coach,--all have been taken away from me. One of
those horrible fevers which it is the business of Providence sometimes
to send into the heart of a great city like that in which I lived, laid
them down almost all together on beds of sickness. They lay ill for some
time, during which the doctor made it his affair to physic them so much
that the stock of bottles in my warehouse was very materially increased.
At the same time the rag trade was torn to rags by competition; while
the 'rents' became bigger every year in proportion. One after another
the family dropped off; until really, grieved as I was, I could not help
thinking that the undertaker did nothing in the world else but make it
his business to go backwards and forwards from his own house to mine.”
Colin scarcely knew in what manner to reply to this statement, as it
would have raised a smile on the face of Pity herself; but by dint of
considerable efforts he contrived to look sufficiently grave, and bid
Mr. Veriquear proceed.
“The consequence of all this was that nearly everything I had saved to
keep my family alive, was spent in putting them into the ground. The
marrow, as I may say, of my bone of fortune was picked out, and my
poverty was left with scarcely a rag to cover her. However, I thought it
my best way to bottle up my complaints; and since Providence had made
it her business to visit me with afflictions, I would make it mine to
endure as patiently as I could.”
“A worthy resolution!” observed his auditor, “and very highly to your
credit.”
“However,” continued Peter, “after these misfortunes were over, my
old house seemed such a desert to me that I could not endure it.
Everywhere it appeared that I ought to meet one or other of them, and
yet I was always disappointed,--always alone! Used to having those
little people for ever about my feet,--to feed them at my table,--to
talk about them to my wife,--to think how I should dispose of them
as they grew up, and speculate on their luck in after-life,--and thus
suddenly to be deprived of them all,--to have all swept away,--not one
left,--not a solitary one! to be myself the only one where there had
been many,--I assure you, sir, that sometimes I felt terrified at my own
shadow as it chased along the wall by lamplight, and seemed to reproach
me with being the only creature left there alive. I could have fancied
myself like a solitary spider in a huge closet of a house without any
other tenant, and that has nothing to do but sit in the heart of its
own web, silently waiting and waiting for other living things besides
itself, which never come, until at length it withers imperceptibly, and
is found dead in its home by some visitor at last.”
Peter's feelings had now made him too eloquent even for himself, and
certain hard tears which appeared to be looking about for, and puzzled
to find a furrow to run in, scrambled oddly down his cheeks.
“The place,” he continued, “made me nervous. Sometimes I fancied I heard
the voices of my children crying above stairs, or below, or laughing in
the yard. I have even been foolish enough, weak enough, to make it my
business to go up or down sometimes to see. The little chairs and stools
were there, or, perhaps, the playthings I had once chidden them for
breaking. How I then regretted it! Could I have had them back again,
they might have pulled my very house to pieces, but I should have been a
happy man! If you have children, sir, may you never lose them as I have
done!”
Colin could not but feel Mr. Veriquear's words, while he requested him
to conclude his narrative.
“At last,” added Peter, “I made it my business to dispose of my
business, and sell all off I had. And though it was a good deal to look
at, it produced me little money. However, as I could no longer endure
the place, I made the best of the case I could, and resolved to travel
back to the place where I originally came from, and pass the rest of my
life there, without any other attempt to make my fortune.”
“And, pray, Mr. Veriquear,” asked his entertainer, “in what part of the
country may that be?”
“I was born,” answered Peter, “in one of the Orkney Islands, and am now
going back on foot, as you see me; only as I supposed very possibly I
might find you here, or, at least, hear something of you, I came partly
out of my way in order to do so; and, in fact, I was making inquiries of
those clowns at the very time that you made it your business to come up
to me.”
Mr. Colin Lupton certainly felt more on hearing this story than he
expressed in words to the relater of it. But by his actions its effect
upon him may be judged, as he insisted on poor Peter being well lodged
for the night, and before his departure on the following day, made him
such a present as, most probably, would entitle him to be considered a
man of some small substance in the little Orkney Island, towards which
he shortly afterwards finally steered his course.
Having now brought the fortunes of most of the principal characters who
have figured in these pages to a close, it only remains for me to relate
some few stray scraps of information upon subjects on which the reader
may not now feel fully satisfied.
It will, perhaps, be remembered, that the last time we parted with
Doctor Rowel,--that infamous agent in as infamous a description of
practice as ever man carried on and escaped the gallows,--we left him in
a state of high mental excitement, bound in his carriage and conveyed
by his friends to the house of his brother, on the borders of Sherwood
forest. To reduce that excitement, or even to prevent its eventually
increasing to a state of violent and confirmed madness, all medicine,
restraint, or care, was found unavailing; and, eventually, he was
confined for life in a public institution for the reception of demented
individuals. There he raved almost continually about an imaginary
skeleton, in an imaginary box, which he supposed to be placed close to
his bedside. He declared it lied for having told such tales of him; and
often gave utterance to certain unintelligible jargon, wherein the names
of Woodruff, of his sister Frances, and of his niece, were mingled in
curious confusion. Sometimes he would roll on the ground, and cry out,
as though some powerful hand was on his throat, and a weight upon his
breast--telling, almost, that the fearful struggle between his former
prisoner and himself, yet retained doubtful hold upon his mind, and yet
occasionally punished him over again, more severely perhaps than even at
the period of its actual occurrence. Altogether he continued to exhibit
to the very last a picture of misery and horror, not easily, even if it
were needful, to be described.
With respect to Mrs. Luptons early friend, Miss Mary Shirley, her entire
devotion to that unfortunate lady, through a long period of years, the
tenderness with which she had comforted her in her afflictions, and
the constancy with which she had maintained the spirits of that unhappy
wife, endeared her to all who in the least were acquainted with her
merits. For a while she took upon herself, at Mrs. Jane's earnest
entreaty, and in conjunction with herself, the management of Colin's
little family.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Colin Clink, Volume III (of III), by Charles Hooton