IN SUSPENSE.
Randolph Musgrave was extremely annoyed at the turn things had taken. On
the day of his father’s seizure indeed a kind of serene solemnity came
over him. He would not have been so indiscreet or indecorous as to admit
that he was glad of the “stroke” which might terminate the Squire’s
life; such an evil sentiment was far from him. Still if his dear father
was indeed in the providence of God to be taken away from this mortal
scene, there was a sad satisfaction in having it happen while he was
still at the Castle and ready to be of use. As the only male member of
the family, it was indeed very important that he should be there on such
a melancholy occasion. Mary would have enough on her hands with the
nursing and the strictly feminine duties, and he was the only one to
turn to, the only one who could do anything. He telegraphed to his wife
what the sad occasion was that detained him, and went to bed with a
comfortable sense that his visit had not been in vain. It was melancholy
to think that all might be over before the morning; but yet he could do
no good by staying up and wearing himself out. If it should so happen
that his own sad prognostications were correct, why then he had occasion
for all his strength, for he it would be who must do everything. And no
martyr could have contemplated the stake with more elevated resignation
and satisfaction than Randolph looked at the labours and troubles he
would have to take upon him. He lay down, solemnly going over them in
his mind--the details of the funeral, the reading of the will, the
taking possession of the estate. He resolved that he would take
possession in his brother’s name. No one knew where John was; he could
not be called at a moment’s notice like respectable men. Nor, indeed,
would it be kind to think of such a thing as bringing him here to the
endangerment of his life. No, he would take possession for his brother.
He would put his brother’s little son to school. The girl of course
would go with Mary, who for her part must, he supposed, have the house
on the way to Pennington, which was called the Dower-house, though he
did not think an unmarried sister had any real right to a place which
was intended for the widow of the previous Squire. But that might pass:
Mary had been accustomed to have everything her own way, and she should
have the Dower-house by grace at least, if not by right. He fell asleep
as he was arranging all these things with a great deal of serious
satisfaction. Of course it was sad: what is there in this vale of tears
that is not mixed with sadness? But it was not (he said to himself) as
if his father were a young man, or carried off in the midst of his work.
He was old, he had lived out the life of man, he had arrived at the time
when a man has a right to expect that his day is over, and must know
that in the course of nature he ought to give place to his successors.
And as things were to take such a serious turn, how well it was that he,
Randolph, should be on the spot to do everything! His satisfaction in
this was really the foremost feeling in his mind.
But all was not over in the morning, as Randolph had so certainly
anticipated. He got up in the same solemnized but resigned and serene
condition, and wondered a little to see how late it was. For indeed the
turn things had taken, though so serious, had been peace-inspiring,
removing anxiety from his mind, and he had slept later than usual in
consequence. And it was clear that as yet there had been “no change.”
Eastwood, who was late too, having stayed up late on the previous night
indulging the solemn excitement which was natural to this crisis, came
in with profound seriousness and an air as solemn as Randolph’s. “Just
the same, sir,” he said; “the doctor is with him now.” Randolph could
not help a slight sensation of disappointment. He had made up his mind
so distinctly what was to happen, and there are cases in which even good
news are out of place. It was with less resignation and more anxiety
that he hurried out to hear what the doctor said.
And he was much provoked and annoyed when a week later there was still
no progress made, and it became apparent that no such easy solution of
all difficulties as he had expected was to be looked for. The Squire was
in much the same state on the next Saturday and the next, and it was
apparent that the illness was to be a lingering and tedious one--the
kind of thing which wears out everybody round. When people are going to
die, what a pity that they should not do it speedily, relieving both
themselves and others! But nature, so often acting in a manner contrary
to all prognostications, was not to be hurried. To jog her gently on,
and relieve the sufferer authoritatively from his troubles, is not yet
permissible in England. On the contrary, medical science acts just the
other way, with questionable mercy, prolonging lives in which there is
nothing but suffering, and stimulating the worn-out machinery of the
frame to go on a little longer, to suffer a little more, with all that
wheezing and creaking of the rusty wheels which bears witness to the
unnaturalness of the process. This was what Randolph felt with much
restrained warmth of annoyance. It was unnatural; it was almost impious.
Two doctors, a professional nurse, and Mary, who was as good, all
labouring by every possible invention to keep mere life in their
patient. Was it right to do so? Providence had evidently willed to
release the old man, but science was forcing him to remain imprisoned in
the flesh. It was very hard upon the Squire, and upon Randolph too,
especially as the latter could not venture to express his real
sentiments on this matter, but was compelled to be glad of every little
sign of tenacity and vitality which the patient gave. If it had been
recovery indeed, he said to himself, there might have been some reason
for satisfaction; but as it was only holding by life, mere existing and
nothing more, what ground was there for thankfulness? It would be better
for the sufferer himself, better for everybody, that it should be over
soon. After this state of things had lasted for a fortnight, Randolph
could not bear it any longer. He sent for Mary from the sick room, and
gave her to understand that he must go.
“Had I expected he would last so long,” he said, “I should have gone
last week. Of course it does not matter for you who have nothing else to
do; but my work and my time are of importance. If anything were likely
to happen directly, of course I should think it my duty to stay; but, so
far as I can see, nothing is likely to happen,” said Randolph in an
aggrieved tone. Mary was too sad to laugh and too languid to be angry,
but there came a gleam of mingled resentment and amusement into her
eyes.
“It is not for us to wish that anything should happen,” she said.
“Wish? Did I talk of wishing? I stated a fact. And in the meantime my
parish is being neglected and my work waiting for me. I cannot hang on
here for ever. Of course,” Randolph added, “if anything should happen,
you have only to telegraph, and I will come.”
“I don’t see that it is necessary, Randolph. My father may rally, or he
may linger for months, the doctors say; and whatever happens--of course
you shall hear immediately; but so far as I am concerned, it does not
seem necessary to disturb your work and unsettle your parish----”
“That is ridiculous; of course I shall come the moment I am summoned. It
is quite essential that there should be some man to manage matters. And
the boy is all ready,” he added; “you had his outfit prepared before my
father’s attack came on. Let them pack up for him, and on Friday we
shall go.”
“The boy! How could I send him away now, when my father might recover
his consciousness, and want him?”
“My father want him? This is too much,” said Randolph--“my father, from
whom you concealed his very existence--who never cared for children at
any time. My _father_? What could he possibly want with the boy? He
should have gone a fortnight ago. I wrote to enter his name of course,
and the money is running on. I can’t afford to pay for nothing whatever
you may do, Mary. Let his things be packed up, and let him go with me.”
“I think your brother is right,” said the Vicar, who was present. “Nello
is doing no good with me. We have been so much disturbed with all that
has taken place; and Emily has been so poorly--you know how poorly she
has been--and one feels with one’s own children the time can always be
made up somehow. That is the worst of lessons at home,” said Mr. Pen,
with a sigh.
“But my father sent for him--wanted him; how can I send the child away!
Mr. Pen, you know, if Randolph does not, that he is the heir, and his
grandfather has a right to have him close at hand.”
“It is no use arguing with women,” said Randolph, white with rage. “I
don’t understand this nonsense about my father wanting him. I don’t
believe a word of it. But I tell you this, Mary, if he is the heir, I am
his uncle, his next friend; and I say, he sha’n’t lose his time here and
get ruined among a pack of women. He must go to school. Supposing even
that my father did want him (which is absolute absurdity; why, my father
pretends not to know of his existence!) would you put a selfish old
man’s fancy against the boy’s good?”
“Randolph! how do you dare, when he is so ill,” cried Mary, with
trembling lips, “to speak of my father so!”
“It is true enough anyhow,” said the undutiful son. “When he is so ill!
Why, that is the reason I can speak freely. One would not hurt his
feelings if he could ever know it. But he was always known to be
selfish. I did not think there was any doubt about that. The boy must
not be ruined for an old man’s whim, even if it is true.”
“It is dreadful to go against you,” said the Vicar, looking at her with
piteous eyes, beseeching her forgiveness; “but Randolph is in the right.
Nello is losing his time; he is doing no good; he ought to go to
school.”
“You too!” cried Mary. She could not but smile, though the tears were in
her eyes. And poor Mr. Pen’s dissent from her cost the good man so much.
He looked at her, his eyes too filling, with deprecating, beseeching,
wistful looks, as a dog does. When he thus took part so distinctly
against Mary, conscience, it was clear, must have been strong within Mr.
Pen. He had tried hard for her sake to overcome the habit of irregular
hours and desultory occupation which had grown upon him, and to give the
children their lessons steadily, at the same hours, day by day. But poor
Mr. Pen had not known how hard it would be to accomplish this. The idea
of being able to make up the failing lessons at any odd moment which
made the children at the Vicarage so uncertain in their hours, had soon
returned after the first bracing up of duty towards Lilias and Nello had
come to an end. And then Mrs. Pen had been ill, and could not bear the
noise of the children; and then the Squire had been ill, upsetting
everybody and everything; and then--the Vicar did not know what more to
say for himself. He had got out of the way of teaching, out of the habit
of exact hours, and Emily had been very poorly, and, on the whole,
Randolph was right, and the boy ought to go to school.
Several of these discussions, however, took place before Mary gave way.
The account Randolph had heard of the last scene in the library, before
the Squire had his “stroke,” had not been at all satisfactory to his
mind. He sincerely believed (though with an uneasy sense of something in
it that sounded like truth) that this story was a fabrication to suit a
purpose. But, on the other hand, his own intentions were very distinct.
The mere fact that such a story had been invented showed the meaning on
the other side. This boy was to be foisted into the place which, for
years, he had supposed himself to occupy. John not being possible, who
but Randolph could fill that place? Another heir was ridiculous, was
shameful, and a wrong to him. He would not suffer it. What right had
John, an outlaw and exile, to have a son, if it came to that? He would
not allow the child to stay here to be petted and pampered, and made to
believe himself the heir. For, in the end, Randolph had made up his mind
that the boy could not and should not be admitted to the advantages of
heirship without a very different kind of proof of identity from any
they possessed. And it would be ruin to the child to be allowed to fill
such a false position now. The mere idea of it filled him with
suppressed rage. He did not mean the boy any harm--not any real harm. On
the contrary, it would be a real advantage to him in any case to be bred
up frugally and industriously; and this he would insist upon, in spite
of every resistance. He would not leave the child here to have him
wormed into the old man’s affections, made a tool of by Mary in John’s
interests, and to his own detriment. He was determined to get rid of
Nello, whatever it cost him: not to do him harm, but to get him out of
the way. This idea began to possess him like a mania--to get rid of the
child who was more dangerous, a great deal more dangerous, than John
himself. And all the circumstances of the house favoured his removal at
this moment, when the Squire’s illness occupied everybody’s attention.
And then it was a great point to have enlisted on his side the reluctant
and abashed, yet conscientious support of Mr. Pen.
As for the children themselves, a subtle discomfort had stolen into
their life. The old gentleman’s illness, though it did not affect them,
affected the house. The severe and dangerous illness of an important
member of any household has always a confusing influence upon domestic
life. It changes the centre of existence, so that everything, which once
radiated from the cheerful hearth becomes absorbed in the sick-chamber,
making of it the temporary and fictitious centre of the dwelling. In
this changed orbit, all the stars of the household firmament shine, and
beyond it everything is left cold, and sunless, and neglected. Children
are always the first to feel this atmospheric change, which affects them
more than it does the watchers and nurses, whose time and minds are
absorbed in the new occupation. It was as if the sun had gone out of the
sky to the children at Penninghame. They were left free indeed, to go
and come as they liked, nobody attempting to hustle them out of the way,
to say, “Run, children, some one is coming.” All the world might go and
come, and it did not matter. Neither did it matter to them now where
they went, for every room was equally dreary and empty. Mary, who meant
home to them, and to whom they carried all their grievances and
pleasures, had disappeared from their view; and Miss Brown, who was
their directress in minor matters, had become invisible too, swallowed
up by that sick-room, which absorbed everything. It was no pleasure to
roam about the drawing-room, generally forbidden ground, and even
through and through the passages from the hall to the dining-room,
though they had so often longed to do it, when nobody was to be found
there, either to laugh with them, or to find fault. Even Eastwood was
swept up in the same whirlpool; and as for Mary, their domestic
divinity, all that was seen of her was when she passed from one room to
another, crossing the corridor, disappearing within the door of the
mysterious chamber, where doctors and nurses, and every sort of
medicine, and drinks, and appliances of all kinds, were being taken. How
could the old gentleman want so much? Twice over a new kind of bed was
taken into that strange gulf of a sick-room, and all so
silently--Eastwood standing on the stairs, deprecating with voice and
gesture, “No noise, no noise!” That was what everybody said. Mary would
smile at them when she met them, or wave her hand from the end of the
corridor, or over the stairs. Sometimes she would pause and stoop down
and kiss them, looking very pale and worn out. “No, dear, he is no
better,” she would say. Except for these encounters, and the accounts
which the servants gave them of their grandfather’s state,--how he was
lying, just breathing, knowing nobody, not able to speak,--accounts
which froze the children’s blood in their veins--they had no life at
all; only dull meals which they ate under this shadow, and dull hours in
which, having nothing to do, they huddled together, weary and lonely,
and with nothing before them but to go to bed. Out of doors it was not
much better. Mr. Pen had fallen into all the old disorder of his ways,
out of which he had made a strenuous effort to wake for their benefit.
He never was ready for them when they went with their lessons. “I will
hear you to-morrow,” he would say, looking at them with painful
humility, feeling the grave countenance of Lilias more terrible than
that of any judge; and when to-morrow came, there were always a hundred
excuses. “Go on to the next page and learn the next lesson. I have had
such a press of work--and Mrs. Pennithorne is so poorly,” the poor man
would say. All this shook the pillars of the earth to Lilias and Nello.
They were shaken out of everything they knew, and left to blunder out
their life as best they could, without any guide.
And this was hardest upon the one who understood it least. Lilias, whose
mind was open to everything, and who sat looking out as from a door,
making observations, keenly interested in all that went on, and at the
same time with a reserve of imagination to fall back upon, was fully
occupied at least if nothing more. Every day she watched for “Mr. Geoff”
with news of her father. The suspense was too visionary to crush her
with that sickening depression which affects elder minds. All had a
softening vagueness and confusion to the child. She hoped and hoped, and
cried with imaginative misery, then dried her eyes and hoped again. She
thought everything would come right if Mr. Geoff would only bring papa;
and Mr. Geoff’s ability sooner or later to find and bring papa she never
doubted. It was dreadful to have to wait so long--so long; but still
every morning, any morning he might come. This hope in her mind absorbed
Lilias, and made her silent, indisposed for play. At other times she
would talk eagerly, demanding her brother’s interest and response to
things he did not understand. Children can go on a long time without
understanding, each carrying on his or her monologue, two separate
streams, which, flowing tranquilly together, feel like something mutual,
and answer all the ends of intercourse; and in this way neither of them
was aware how far apart they were. But Nello was dull; he had so little
to do. He had no pony, he could not play cricket as Johnny Pen did with
the village boys. He was small, even for his age, and he had not been
educated in the art of knocking about as English boys are. He was even a
little timid of the water and the boats, in which other boys might have
found solace. Half of his time he wandered about, listless, not knowing
what to make of himself.
This was the condition of mind in which Randolph met him on one of
these lingering afternoons. The child had strayed out all by himself; he
was standing by the water-side at his old amusement, but not enjoying it
this time. “What are you doing?” said his uncle, calling out to him as
he approached. Randolph was not a favourite with the children; but it
was half an amusement to see any one coming near, and to have to answer
a question. He said “Nothing,” with a sigh; not a single skip could he
get out of those dull slates. The water would not carry them; they would
not go; they went to the bottom with a prosaic splash and thud. How
different from that day with the old gentleman, when they flew as if
they had been alive! Perhaps this new comer might have luck, and do as
well as the old gentleman. “Will you have a try?” he said; “here is a
good one--it ought to be a good one; but I can’t make them go to-day.”
“I--have a try?” Randolph was startled by the suggestion. But he was
anxious to conciliate the little fellow whom he wanted so much to get
rid of. And it was only for once. He took suspiciously (for he was
always suspicious) the stone Nello held out to him, and looked at it as
if it might be poison--or it might be an attempt on his dignity got up
by somebody. When he had satisfied himself that it was a common piece of
slate, he took courage, and, with a smile that sat very awkwardly upon
his face, threw it, but with the most complete unsuccess.
“Ah! you are not good, like the old gentleman; his skipped seven times!
He was so clever at it! I wish he was not ill,” said Nello, checking an
incipient yawn. It was, perhaps, the first time any one had uttered such
a wish. It had been taken for granted, even by his daughter, that the
Squire’s illness was the most natural thing in the world.
“Did he really come and play with you? But old men are no better than
children,” said Randolph. “I suppose he had nothing else to do.”
“It is very nice to have somebody to play with when you have nothing
else to do,” said Nello, reflectively. “And he was clever. You--you
don’t know even how to throw; you throw like a girl--like this. But this
is how the old gentleman did,” cried Nello, suiting the action to the
word, “and so do I.”
“Do you know nothing but these baby-games? I suppose you never played
cricket?” said Randolph, with, though he was a man, a pleasurable sense
of being thus able to humiliate the little creature beside him. Nello
coloured to the roots of his hair.
“I do not like cricket. Must every one like the same things? It is too
hot; and one cannot play by oneself,” the boy added with a sigh.
“You ought not to play by yourself, it is not good for you. Have you no
one to play with, little boy?”
“Nobody,” said Nello, with emphasis; “not one person. There is Lily; but
what does it matter about a girl? And sometimes Johnny Pen comes. He is
not much good; he likes the green best, and all the village boys. Then
they say I am too little;--and I don’t know them,” the boy added with a
gleam of moisture in his eyes. The village boys had not been kind to
Nello; they had laughed at him for a little foreigner, and made remarks
about his hair, which was cut straight across his forehead. “I don’t
want to know them.” This was said with vehemence; for Nello was sore at
the want of appreciation which had been shown him. They did not care for
_him_, but they made a great deal of Johnny Pen!
“You should go to school; that is where all boys should go. A boy should
not be brought up like a little girl; he should learn to use his hands,
and his fists even. Now, what should you do if there was a fight?”
“A fight?” Nello grew pale and then grew red. “If it was--some one else,
I would walk away; but if it was me--if any one touched me, I should
kill him!” cried the child, setting his little white teeth.
Randolph ought professionally to have improved the occasion; but he only
laughed--that insulting laugh which is offensive to everybody, and
specially exasperates a child. “How could you kill him? That is easier
said than done, my boy.”
“I would get a gun, or a sword; but first,” said Nello, calming down, “I
would tell him to go away, because I should not _wish_ to kill him. I
have seen people fighting with guns and swords--have you?”
Here Randolph, being obliged to own himself inferior, fell back upon
what was right, as he ought to have done before.
“Fighting is very wrong,” he said. “It is dreadful to think of people
cutting each other to pieces, like wild beasts; but it is not so bad if
you defend yourself with your fists. Only foreigners fight with swords;
it is thoroughly un-English. You should never fight; but you would have
to defend yourself if you were at school.”
Nello looked at his uncle with an agreeable sense of superiority. “But I
have seen _real_ fighting,” he said; “not like children. I saw them
fighting the Austrians--that was not wrong. Papa said so. It was to get
back their houses and their country. I was little then, and I was
frightened. But they won!” cried the boy, with a gleam in his dark eyes.
What a little savage he was! Randolph was startled by the sudden
reference to “papa,” and this made him more warm and eager in his turn.
“Whoever has trained you to be a partisan has done very wrong,” he said.
“What do you know about it? But look here, my little man. I am going
away on Friday, and you are to come with me. It will be a great deal
better for you than growing up like a little girl here. You are exactly
like a little girl now, with your long hair and your name which is a
girl’s name. You would be Jack if you were at school. I want to make a
man of you. You will never be anything but a little lady if you don’t go
to school. Come; you have only to put on a frock like your sister.
Nelly! Why, that’s a girl’s name! You should be Jack if you were at
school.”
“I am not a girl!” cried Nello. His face grew crimson, and he darted his
little brown fist--not so feebly as his size promised--in his uncle’s
face. Randolph took a step backwards in his surprise. “I hate you!”
cried the child. “You shall never, never come here when I am a man. When
the old gentleman is dead, and papa is dead, and everything is mine, I
will shut up all the doors, I will turn out the dogs, and you shall
never come here. I know now it is true what Lily says--you are the bad
uncle that killed the babes in the wood. But when I am a big man and
grown up, you shall never come here!”
“So!” said Randolph, furious but politic; “it is all to be yours? I did
not know that. The castle, and the woods, and everything? How do you
know it will be yours?”
“Oh! everybody knows that,” said Nello, recovering his composure as
lightly as he had lost it; “Martuccia and every one. But first the old
gentleman must be dead, and, I think, papa. I am not so sure about papa.
And do you think they would teach me cricket at school, and to fight? I
don’t really care for cricket, not really. But Johnny Pen and the rest,
they think so much of it. I should like to knock down all their wickets,
and get all the runs; that would teach them! and lick them after!” said
the bloodthirsty Nello, with gleaming eyes.