HOW ONE SET OUT TO SEEK HIS FORTUNE
“You must have known at last, but I had not thought it would be so
soon,” Master Oldesworth went on. “’Twas folly ever to have kept it from
you.”
In a blind way Hugh had groped for a chair and sat down with his elbow
on the table and his forehead pressing hard upon his hand. His face was
toward the window and he was aware of the brightness flooding in through
it, but he could see clearly only his grandfather’s thin, clean-shaven
lips and searching eyes. “Tell me,” he found voice to say at last, “I
want to know all. My father—he has been alive all these years? You
knew?”
Master Oldesworth nodded.
“You deceived me?” Hugh’s voice rose shrill and uncontrollable. “You
knew you were deceiving me? You had no right, ’twas wickedness, ’twas—”
“It was your mother’s wish.”
The burst of angry words was choked in Hugh’s throat; with a little
shudder of the shoulders he dropped his head upon his folded arms. “Will
you tell me wherefore, sir?” he asked in a dull tone.
“Because of the never-dying folly of woman,” Master Oldesworth replied,
with a sudden fierce harshness of tone that made Hugh lift his head. He
felt that, if the revelation of the letter had not made every other
happening of that day commonplace, he would have been surprised at the
sudden lack of control that made his grandfather’s sallow cheeks flush
and his thin lips move. But in a moment Master Oldesworth was as calm of
demeanor as before and his voice was quite colorless when he resumed:
“Hear the truth at last, Hugh, and you, too, will have reason to curse
the folly of womankind. She, your mother, my best-beloved daughter, was
most wilful, even from a child. Though you have none of her look I have
noted in you something of her rash temper. Her own impulse and desire
must always be her guides, and well they guided her. For there came a
swashbuckling captain of horse out of Germany, with a brisk tongue and
an insolent bearing, for which that mad girl put all her love on him,
worthless hackster though he was.”
“’Tis my father whom you speak of so?” Hugh cried, with an involuntary
clinching of the hands.
“Your mother’s work again!” said Master Oldesworth with a flicker of a
smile, that was half sad and half contemptuous. “She fled away from her
father’s house to marry this swaggering rascal; she followed him into
Germany; and there she found true all her kinsmen had told her of his
worthlessness and wickedness. So she took her child and gladly came back
to us again.”
“She never uttered word of this to me,” Hugh maintained doggedly.
“I urged her to,” Master Oldesworth continued, “but, with the weakness
of her sex, before six months were out she had forgot his unworthiness
and baseness. She remembered only that she loved him and she blamed
herself that she had left him; indeed, she would have returned if she
had been assured he would receive her back. But I forbade her hold
communication with him while she dwelt beneath my roof, and he himself
did not care to seek her out, though she long looked for him. When he
did not come she was the more convinced the fault was hers, and, since
she had robbed her son of his father, as she phrased it, she would at
least give him a true and noble conception of that father to cherish.
Perhaps she held it compensation for the wrong she thought she had
worked Alan Gwyeth that she sketched him unto you a paragon of all
virtues. And partly for that he was dead to her, and partly for that she
would not have the shame of her flight, as she called her most happy
deliverance, be known to you, she gave him out to you as dead. ’Twas ill
done, but I suffered her to rule you as she would; I had ever a weak
fondness for her.”
With a sudden jarring noise Hugh thrust back his chair and stumbling to
the window stood so Master Oldesworth could not see his face. His poor
mother, his poor mother! Because he knew in his heart she had done ill
to him with her weak deceptions he loved her and pitied her all the
more, and his eyes smarted with repressed tears that he could not see
her nor tell her that it all mattered little, the agony this
disillusionment was costing him; he knew she had meant it kindly and he
thanked her for it.
He was still staring out between the elms at the sloping lawn, where, he
remembered as if it had happened years back, he had played that very
morning like a boy, when his grandfather’s dry tones reached him: “This
man would seem to have roistered through life without thought of her. Of
late I did not know myself whether he were dead or living, but it seems
he is sailing on the high waves of royal favor and has found himself
fitting comradeship among the profligates and traitors of King Charles’s
camp.”
Hugh swept his hand across his eyes and faced about squarely. His father
a profligate who had abandoned his mother! Who dared say it or believe
it? His mother’s face as she had looked before she died came back to
him. A true-hearted gentleman and a gallant soldier, like his
father,—like his father.
“And you never suspected anything of the truth ere this?” Master
Oldesworth pursued.
“Once, months back, Aunt Delia told me a story somewhat like this,”
Hugh’s voice came low but so firm it surprised him, “but I held it only
some of her spitefulness and I did not believe it.”
Master Oldesworth looked up with a curious expression. “Do you believe
it now?” he asked.
“No,” Hugh answered honestly, then quickly added, “I crave your pardon,
sir, but I cannot believe it.”
“Have back this letter of yours,” Master Oldesworth said, rising, and as
Hugh came up to him he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You have a
loyal heart, Hugh Gwyeth,” he said dryly, “and ’tis no shame of yours
you have such a father.”
“I am not ashamed of him, sir,” Hugh replied stoutly.
“You are your mother over again,” said the old man, in a tone that held
something of vexation and something of amusement, yet more of kindliness
than he was accustomed to show his orphan grandson.
Hugh was in no mood to note this, however, but, delaying only to take
his precious letter, left the east parlor at a brisk step that verged
upon a run. Once in the open air, where he was freed from the restraint
of his grandfather’s presence, he leaped down the low terrace and,
hallooing at the top of his lungs, raced full speed across the lawn. But
when the shadow of the tall oaks on the border of the park fell upon him
the noisiness of his joy somewhat abated. He rambled on more slowly with
a happy under-consciousness of the dusky green of the old trees about
him and the shimmer of the stray sunbeams; he wondered that the dull,
familiar park seemed so joyous and beautiful a place.
Not till he had crossed the grassy roadway that led to the manor house,
and plunged into the thicker growth of trees, did he come again to the
power of framing connected thoughts. Little by little he let his pace
slacken, till at length he flung himself down in the shade of a beech
tree and pulling out Frank’s letter read the last sentences aloud. His
father was alive, an officer in the king’s army, at Nottingham, only the
width of two counties away. Hugh clasped his hands behind his head and
lying back gazed up unwinkingly at the cloudless blue sky; in his heart
there was no room for any feeling save that of pure happiness, of which
the bright day seemed a mere reflection. For he neither remembered nor
heeded the words his grandfather had spoken of Alan Gwyeth; he only knew
that a few score miles away the tall man with reddish hair and blue
eyes, who used to carry him upon his shoulder, was alive and waiting for
him.
The resolve formed in these hours of reflection he told to Lois Campion,
when, late in the afternoon, he crashed his way out to the edge of the
park with the briskness of one who has made up his mind. The girl was
playing at shuttlecock with Martha Oldesworth, but at sight of Hugh she
quickly laid aside her battledoor and came to him where he was lingering
for her beneath the oaks. “Where have you been?” she cried. “We missed
you at dinner, and Peregrine, who was honey-tongued as ever, said you
were sulking. But I knew ’twas some witchery in that letter.”
Hugh laughed excitedly. “Witchery? Ay, ’twas that indeed, Lois. Can you
believe it? My father is alive, at the king’s camp; and I have
determined to go to him.”
With that he made her sit down beside him and told her all, so
confidently and happily she dared not venture more than one objection:
“But ’tis a long way to Nottingham, Hugh.”
“I can walk it. Take no heed to the way, Lois, but think of the end.”
“When shall you go?” she asked, playing absently with some acorns she
had gathered in her hand.
“To-morrow night.”
“So soon?” The acorns fell neglected to the ground.
“Nay, ’tis delaying over-long. I would set out this very night, but I
suppose I should take some time for preparation.”
“And you must run from home by night?” she repeated sadly.
“Like Dick Whittington. I wonder if I have such good fortune as he.”
“How happy your father will be to see you!” Lois continued.
“’Twill be naught but happiness for us all,” Hugh ran on boisterously.
“Ah, must you go, Lois?”
“I must finish my game with Martha,” the girl answered steadily. Hugh
saw, however, that she did not go near Martha but walked away to the
house, and he was vexed because she did not care enough about his
departure to stay to talk with him.
It was well for Hugh the day was nearly spent, if his plans were to be
kept secret; for he longed to speak of them, and, now Lois would not
listen, there was no one in whom he could safely confide. Moreover, Sam
Oldesworth was so curious about the letter that it was a perilously
great temptation to hint to him just a little, especially when the two
boys were preparing for bed. Since the Millingtons had come to
Everscombe Sam and Hugh had been obliged to sleep together, an
arrangement never acceptable to the older boy and this night even
dangerous. Fortunately he realized his weakness enough to reply shortly
to all his companion’s eager questions, however gladly he would have
told something of his secret, till Sam at last grumbled himself to
sleep. But Hugh turned on his side and for hours lay staring into the
dark of the chamber, planning for his journey and sometimes wondering
where he would be in the blackness of the next night.
In the morning, when he first woke and lay gazing at the familiar room,
it gave him a feeling of surprisingly keen regret to tell himself that
this was his last day at Everscombe. Perhaps it was the outward aspect
of the day that made him feel so depressed, for a slow, drizzling rain
was falling and the sky was thick with gray clouds.
All the morning Hugh avoided his cousins, and even Lois, against whom
the resentment of the previous afternoon still lasted, and prowled
restlessly about the house to pay farewell visits to the rooms that he
had known. Thus his Aunt Delia found him, loitering upon the garret
stairs, and sharply bade him go about his business, so Hugh, his
sensitive dignity a-quiver, drew back to his chamber, where he pretended
to choose equipments for his journey. In reality it was a simple matter;
he would wear his stuff jacket and breeches,—he owned no other suit of
clothes,—and his one pair of stout shoes. He did not trouble himself
about clean linen, but he took pains to see that his pistol was in
order; it was an old one that had belonged to Peregrine, before he
received a case of new ones in keeping with his position as cornet in
the Parliament’s army. Peregrine’s old riding boots had also fallen to
Hugh’s share; they were a trifle too big and were ill patched, but there
was something trooper-like about them that made him sorry when he
realized that he could not take them with him. He reluctantly dropped
them back into the wardrobe, and then, the sight of them reminding him
he had yet to bid farewell to his friends the horses, he spattered out
through the rain to the stables.
The stones of the stable yard were slippery and wet; at the trough in
the centre three horses, with their coats steaming, were drinking, while
the man at their heads, one of Tom Oldesworth’s newly levied troopers,
joked noisily with a little knot of his comrades. Inside the big dark
stable a great kicking and stamping of horses was rumblingly audible
above the loud talk of the men at work. Hugh loitered into the confusion
and, making his way through the main building, entered the quieter wing,
where were the old family horses with whom he had acquaintance. But when
he stepped through the connecting door he perceived that even here
others were before him; standing with hands behind him and legs somewhat
wide, as befitted a veteran horse-soldier, was Tom Oldesworth, a
close-shaven, firm-mouthed man of thirty, in talk with his lieutenant,
Roger Ingram. Near by stood Peregrine Oldesworth, a heavy-featured, dark
lad, who was bearing his part in the conversation quite like a man.
Whatever the matter was, they seemed too merry over it for any business
of the troop, so Hugh thought it no harm to saunter over to them.
“Looking for a commission, eh, Hugh?” Tom Oldesworth broke off his talk
to ask jestingly.
“Not under you, sir,” Hugh retorted, rather sharply.
Oldesworth laughed and patted his head. “Never mind, my Roundhead,” he
said cheerfully, as Hugh ducked out of his reach, “your turn’ll come
soon. No doubt Peregrine will get a ball through his brains ere the
winter be over, and then I promise you his place.”
“Then you think the war will last till winter?” questioned Ingram.
“Till winter? I tell you, Roger, we’re happy if we have a satisfactory
peace in the land two full years hence.”
“You’re out there, Captain. These gallants of the king’s will stand to
fight here no better than they stood against the Scots. They’ll be beat
to cover ere snow fall—”
“Pshaw!” replied Oldesworth, convincingly. “Look you here, Roger.”
Thereupon the two fell to discussing the king’s resources and those of
Parliament, and comparing the merits of commanders, and quoting the
opinions of leaders, till Hugh tired of it all and strolled away.
He passed slowly down the line of stalls, caressing the soft muzzles of
the kindly horses, and lingered a time to admire the big black charger
that belonged to Captain Oldesworth. In the next stall stood a
clean-limbed bay, which thrust out its head as if expecting notice; Hugh
hesitated, then began stroking the velvety nose, when Peregrine
swaggered up to him with a grand, “Don’t worry that horse of mine,
Hugh.”
“I was not worrying him,” Hugh answered hotly. “But you can be sure I’ll
never touch him again.” He turned and walked away toward the open door.
“Oh, you can touch him now and then,” Peregrine replied, as he followed
after him out into the courtyard, where the rain had somewhat abated.
“But he’s too brave a beast for you youngsters to be meddling with all
the time. You’d spoil his temper.” Then, as Hugh still kept a sulky
silence, his cousin asked abruptly, “What’s amiss with you to-day?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve not been friendly of late. I believe you are jealous that I have
a commission.”
“I do not want your commission,” Hugh replied, and to show he spoke the
truth he forced a laugh and tried to say carelessly, as he might have
said a month before, “Tell you what I do want, though: a new flint for
my pistol. Will you not give me one, Peregrine?”
“Are you going to shoot Cavaliers?” the elder boy asked, as he halted to
fumble in his pockets.
“Maybe.”
Peregrine drew out three bits of flint, turned them in his hand, then
gave the least perfect to Hugh. “I took it from my new pistol this
morning,” he explained. “’Tis good enough for any service you’ll need of
it.”
Hugh bit his lip, but with a muttered word of thanks took the flint.
“I was furbishing up my weapons this morning,” Peregrine went on. “We go
on real service next week; we determined on it yesterday at the
conference.”
“I thought Uncle Tom said the troop would not be in fit condition to
serve for a fortnight.”
“Not all the troop. But Uncle Tom, and I, and Lieutenant Ingram, are to
take some thirty men that are in trim and go into Staffordshire to see
what can be done among the godly people thereabouts.”
“Good luck to you, Peregrine,” Hugh forced himself to say, then shook
off his companion and, passing from the stable yard, trudged away
through the wet grass, with the old jealous pang worrying him as
savagely as ever. But soon he told himself that his father would
probably give him a horse and good weapons too, and, being a colonel in
the king’s army, would very likely let him go to the wars with him,
perhaps even give him a commission; and, thinking still of his father,
by the time he returned to the house he had quite forgotten Peregrine.
The rain had nearly ceased; there seemed even a prospect of a clear
sunset, and with the lightening of the weather Hugh cast aside the heavy
feeling of half-regretful parting which had weighed on him all day and
grew impatient for darkness, when he could set out on his journey. But
the night came slowly, as any other night, with a rift of watery sunset
in the west and mottled yellow clouds, that fading gave place to the
long, gray twilight, which deepened imperceptibly.
Hugh started early to his room, which was in the east wing, so he went
by the staircase from the little hall. Halfway up, as he strode two
steps at a time, he almost stumbled over a slight figure that caught at
his arm. “Lois!” he cried.
The girl rose to her feet. “Why are you angry with me, Hugh?” she asked,
and though he could not see her face he knew by her voice she was almost
sobbing.
“Why did you run away from me yesterday?” he replied, feeling foolish
and without excuse.
“No matter. I have forgot. But I wanted to have speech with you.”
“You waited here to bid me farewell? ’Twas good of you, Lois,” Hugh
blurted out. “I am sorry I was so rough to you about yesterday.”
“Then we’ll part still friends?” Lois said eagerly. “And here is
something you are to take with you.”
“Your five shillings?” Hugh broke out, as she pressed the coins into his
hand. “Nay, Lois, I cannot.”
“You must; ’twill be a long journey, and you have little money, I know.
And I shall never have need of such a hoard. Prithee, take it, Hugh,
else I shall think you still are angry because I left you yesterday. But
truly, ’twas only that I could not bear the thought of your going.” She
was crying now in good earnest, and Hugh tried awkwardly to soothe her
and whisper her some comfort: he wished she were a boy and could go with
him, perhaps even now he could come back some time and fetch her; he
never would forget what a good friend she had been to him; and much more
he was saying, when Martha’s voice came from below in the dusk of the
hall: “Lois.”
“I must go,” the girl whispered. “Farewell, Hugh.”
“Farewell, Lois.”
“God keep you, dear, always.”
He heard her go slowly down the stairs and wished she had stayed with
him longer; he might have said more cheering things. Then he heard the
footsteps of the two girls die away in the hall, and he went on to his
room.
He had placed his pistol on a chair beneath his cloak and hat, and had
just lain down in his undergarments and stockings beneath the coverings,
when Sam came in full of conversation, which Hugh’s short replies
quickly silenced. But after the boy had lain down Hugh remembered that
this was the last night they would sleep together, and, repenting his
shortness, he said gently: “Good night, Sam.”
“What’s wrong with you?” asked his cousin, which made Hugh feel foolish
and answer curtly, “Nothing.”
Then there was a long silence in the dark chamber, till at length Sam
was breathing deep and evenly. He was well asleep, Hugh assured himself,
so, slipping quietly from the bed, he quickly drew on his outer clothes,
put on cloak and hat, and tucked the pistol in his belt. He was just
taking his shoes in his hand, when Sam stirred and asked drowsily: “What
are you doing now?”
“I saw Martha’s battledoor out o’ doors,” Hugh mumbled. “I must fetch it
or the dew will spoil it.”
Sam gave a sleepy sigh, then buried his head in the pillow again, and
Hugh, waiting for no more, stole out of the room into the darkness of
the corridor that was so thick it seemed tangible. He scuffed cautiously
to the stairs and with his hand on the railing groped his way down. As
he went he grew more accustomed to the blackness, and so, treading
carefully, came without stumbling or noise to the outer door. He worked
back the bolt, cautiously and slowly, and with a nervous start at each
faint creak, till at last he could push the door open far enough to slip
through. The grass felt cold beneath his stockinged feet; the night wind
came damp and chilly against his face. With a shiver that was not all
from cold he drew the door to, more quickly than he had thought, for the
metal work jarred harshly.
With a feeling that the whole household must be aroused he ran
noiselessly across the terrace, and, pausing only to draw on his shoes,
struck briskly through the wet grass toward the park. At its outskirts
he halted and, glancing back, took a last look at Everscombe, black and
silent under the stars. Only in one window, that of his grandfather’s
chamber in the main building, was a candle burning, and the thought of
the habitable room in which it shone made the night seem darker and
lonelier. Hugh looked quickly away, and calling up his resolution
plunged in among the trees.
He had meant to go through to the highway by a footpath, but the woods
were blacker than he had thought for; again and again he missed the
track, till at last, finding himself on the beaten roadway from the
manor house, he decided the quicker course was to follow it. He had
covered perhaps half the distance and was trudging along with his head
bent to look to his footsteps, when from the thicket just before him
came a voice: “Stand, there!”
Hugh stopped where he was, half frightened for the instant, then half
inclined to run, when an erect figure stepping from beneath a
neighboring tree barred his path. By the long cloak and the staff on
which the man leaned Hugh guessed it was his grandfather, even before
Master Oldesworth spoke again: “So you are leaving us, Hugh Gwyeth?”
“Yes, sir,” Hugh replied defiantly.
“So I had judged. You are bound for the near park gate?”
Hugh nodded.
“You must bear with my company that far.”
So side by side they passed down the dark roadway, till presently the
trees thinned and the starlight reached them. Then Hugh glanced up at
his companion’s face but found it fixed in so stern an expression that
he did not care to look again.
“You are going to your father?” Master Oldesworth queried after a time.
“Yes, sir,” Hugh replied. The defiance had gone from his tone now.
At length the dimly seen roadway ran between two huge dark pillars, half
hidden by the trees; it was the park gate, Hugh saw, and beyond was the
king’s highway. Involuntarily he slackened his pace, and his grandfather
halted too, and stood by one of the pillars, resting both hands upon the
top of his staff. “Then you have the grace to hesitate a moment,” the
old man spoke, “before you leave those who have sheltered you?”
Hugh dared not trust his voice to reply, and after a moment Master
Oldesworth continued slowly: “It is your mother over again. We reared
her and cared for her, and she left us for Alan Gwyeth; and you—Have you
not had a home here?”
“Yes, sir,” Hugh answered meekly. He knew well that the grievances which
were so true when he told them to Lois would be nothing in his
grandfather’s sight.
“And what has this father for whom you leave us done for you?” Master
Oldesworth pursued. “You cannot answer? He broke your mother’s heart and
deserted you—”
“He is my father,” Hugh replied.
“Go to him, then, as your mother did before you. But mark you this, Hugh
Gwyeth: I received her back when Alan Gwyeth wearied of her, but I shall
never receive you back. Go now, and you go for all time.”
“I shall never ask you to take me back.” Hugh tried to speak stoutly,
but his voice faltered in an ignoble manner.
“Now consider well,” his grandfather continued. “When you pass the gate
it will be to me as if you had never lived. Be not rash, Hugh,” he went
on more gently. “Come back with me to the house; this folly of yours
shall never be known, and I shall look to your welfare as I always have.
But if you choose to go to that place of perdition, the king’s camp, and
to that evil man, Alan Gwyeth, I forget you are my daughter’s son. Now
make your choice between that man and me.”