Mr. Ascott was sitting half asleep in his solitary dining room, his
face rosy with wine, his heart warmed also, probably from the same
cause. Not that he was in the least "tipsy"--that low-word
applicable only to low people, and not men of property, who have a
right to enjoy all the good things of this life. He was scarcely even
"merry," merely "comfortable," in that cozy, benevolent state which
middle aged or elderly gentlemen are apt to fall into after a good
dinner and good wine, when they have no mental resources, and the
said good dinner and good wine constitutes their best notion of
felicity.
Yet wealth and comfort are not things to be despised. Hilary herself
was not insensible to the pleasantness of this warm, well-lit,
crimson-atmosphered apartment. She as well as her neighbors liked
pretty things about her, soft, harmonious colors to look at and wear,
well-cooked food to eat, cheerful rooms to live in. If she could have
had all these luxuries with those she loved to share them, no doubt
she would have been much happier. But yet she felt to the full that
solemn truth that "a man's life consisteth not in the abundance of
things that he possesses;" and though hers was outwardly so dark, so
full of poverty, anxiety, and pain, still she knew that inwardly it
owned many things, one thing especially, which no money could buy,
and without which fine houses, fine furniture, and fine
clothes--indeed, all the comforts and splendors of existence, would
be worse that valueless, actual torment. So as she looked around her
she felt not the slightest envy of her sister Selina.
Nor of honest Peter, who rose up from his arm-chair, pulling the
yellow silk handkerchief from his sleepy face, and, it must be
confessed, receiving his future connections very willingly, and even
kindly.
Now how was he to be told? How when she and Ascott sat over the wine
and desert he had ordered for them, listening to the rich man's
complaisant pomposities, were they to explain that they had come a
begging, asking him, as the climax to his liberalities, to advance a
few pounds in order to keep the young man whom he had for years
generously and sufficiently maintained out of prison? This, smooth it
over as one might, was, Hilary felt, the plain English of the matter,
and as minute after minute lengthened, and nothing was said of their
errand, she sat upon thorns.
But Ascott drank his wine and ate his walnuts quite composedly.
At last Hilary said, in a sort of desperation, "Mr. Ascott, I want to
speak to you."
"With pleasure, my dear young lady. Will you come to my study?--I
have a most elegantly furnished study, I assure you. And any affair
of yours--"
"Thank you, but it is not mine; it concerns my nephew here."
And then she braced up all her courage, and while Ascott busied
himself over his walnuts--he had the grace to look excessively
uncomfortable--she told, as briefly as possible, the bitter truth.
Mr. Ascott listened, apparently without surprise, and any how,
without comment. His self-important loquacity ceased, and his
condescending smile passed into a sharp, reticent, business look. He
knitted his shaggy brows, contracted that coarsely-hung, but resolute
mouth, in which lay the secret of his success in life, buttoned up
his coat, and stuck his hands behind him over his coat-tails. As he
stood there on his own hearth, with all his comfortable splendors
about him--a man who had made his own money, hardly and honestly, who
from the days when he was a poor errand-lad had had no one to trust
to but himself, yet had managed always to help himself, ay, and
others too--Hilary's stern sense of justice contrasted him with the
graceful young man who sat opposite to him, so much his inferior, and
so much his debtor. She owned that Peter Ascott had a right to look
both contemptuously and displeased.
"A very pretty story, but I almost expected it," said he.
And there he stopped. In his business capacity he was too acute a man
to be a man of many words, and his feelings, if they existed, were
kept to himself.
"It all comes to this, young man," he continued, after an
uncomfortable pause, in which Hilary could have counted every beat of
her heart, and even Ascott played with his wine glass in a nervous
kind of way--"you want money, and you think I'm sure to give it,
because it wouldn't be pleasant just now to have discreditable
stories going about concerning the future Mrs. Ascott's relatives.
You're quite right, it wouldn't. But I'm too old a bird to be caught
with chaff for all that. You must rise very early in the morning to
take me in."
Hilary started up in an agony of shame. "That's not fair, Mr. Ascott.
We do not take you in. Have we not told you the whole truth? I was
determined you should know it before we asked you for one farthing of
your money. If there were the smallest shadow of a chance for Ascott
in any other way, we never would have come to you at all. It is a
horrible, horrible humiliation!"
It might be that Peter Ascott had a soft place in his heart, or that
this time, just before his marriage, was the one crisis which
sometimes occurs in a hard man's life, when, if the right touch
comes, he becomes malleable ever after; but he looked kindly at the
poor girl, and said, in quite a gentle way, "Don't vex yourself, my
dear. I shall give the young fellow what he wants: nobody ever called
Peter Ascott stingy. But he has cost me enough already: he must shift
for himself now. Hand me over that check-book, Ascott; but remember
this is the last you'll ever see of my money."
He wrote the memorandum of the check inside the page, then tore off
the check itself, and proceeded to write the words "Twenty pounds,"
date it, and sign it, lingering over the signature, as if he had a
certain pride in the honest name "Peter Ascott," and was well aware
of its monetary value on Change and elsewhere.
"There, Miss Halary, I flatter myself that's not a bad signature, nor
would be easily forged. One can not be too careful over-- What's
that? a letter, John?"
By his extreme eagerness, almost snatching it from his footman's
hands, it was one of importance. He made some sort of rough apology,
drew the writing materials to him, wrote one or two business-looking
letters, and made out one or two more checks.
"Here's yours Ascott; take it, and let me have done with it," said
he, throwing it across the table folded up. "Can't waste time on such
small transactions. Ma'am, excuse me, but five thousand pounds
depends on my getting these letters written and sent off within a
quarter of an hour."
Hilary bent her head, and sat watching the pen scratch, and the clock
tick on the mantle-piece; thinking if this really was to be the last
of his godfather's allowance, what on earth would become of Ascott?
For Ascott himself, he said not a word. Not even when, the letters
dispatched, Mr. Ascott rose, and administering a short, sharp homily,
tacitly dismissed his visitors: Whether this silence was sullenness,
cowardice, or shame, Hilary could not guess.
She quitted the house with a sense of grinding humiliation almost
intolerable. But still the worst was over; the money had been begged
and given--there was no fear of a prison. And spite of every thing,
Hilary felt a certain relief that this was the last time Ascott would
be indebted to his godfather. Perhaps this total cessation of
extraneous help might force the young man upon his own resources,
compel his easy temperament into active energy, and bring out in him
those dormant qualities that his aunts still fondly hoped existed in
him.
"Don't be down-hearted, Ascott," she said: "we will manage to get on
somehow till you bear of a practice, and then you must work--work
like a 'brick,' as you call it. You will, I know."
He answered nothing.
"I won't let you give in, my boy," she went on, kindly. "Who would
ever dream of giving in at your age, with health and strength, a good
education, and no encumbrances whatever--not even aunts! for we will
not stand in your way, be sure of that. If you can not settle here,
you shall try to get out abroad, as you have sometimes wished, as an
army surgeon or a ship's doctor; you say these appointments are easy
enough to be had. Why not try? Any thing; we will consent to any
thing, if only we can see your life busy and useful and happy."
Thus she talked, feeling far more tenderly to him in his forlorn
despondency than when they had quitted the house two hours before.
But Ascott took not the slightest notice. A strange fit of sullenness
or depression seemed to have come over him, which, when they reached
home and met Aunt Johanna's silently-questioning face, changed into
devil-may-care indifference.
"Oh yes, aunt, we've done it; we've got the money, and now I may go
to the dogs as soon as I like."
"No," said Aunt Hilary, "it is nothing of the sort: it is only that
Ascott must now depend upon himself, and not upon his godfather. Take
courage," she added, and went up to him and kissed him on the
forehead; "we'll never let our boy go to the dogs! and as for this
disappointment, or any disappointment, why it's just like a cold
bath, it takes away your breath for the time, and then you rise up
out of it brisker and fresher than ever."
But Ascott shook his head with a fierce denial. "Why should that old
fellow be as rich as Croesus and I as poor as a rat? Why should I be
put into the world to enjoy myself, and can't? Why was I made like
what I am, and then punished for it? Whose fault is it?"
Ay, whose? The eternal, unsolvable problem rose up before Hilary's
imagination. The ghastly spectre of that everlasting doubt, which
haunts even the firmest faith sometimes--and which all the nonsense
written about that mystery which,
"Binding nature fate to fate,
Leaves free the human will,"
only makes darker than before--oppressed her for the time being with
an inexpressible dread.
Ay, why was it that the boy was what he was? From his inherited
nature, his temperament, or his circumstances? What, or more awful
question still, who was to blame?
But as Hilary's thoughts went deeper down the question answered
itself--at least as far as it ever can be answered in this narrow,
finite stage of being. Whose will--we dare not say whose blame--is it
that evil must inevitably generate evil? that the smallest
wrong-doing in any human being rouses a chain of results which may
fatally involve other human beings in an almost incalculable circle
of misery? The wages of sin is death. Were it not so sin would cease
to be sin, and holiness, holiness. If He, the All-holy, who for some
inscrutable purpose saw fit to allow the existence of evil, allowed
any other law than this, in either the spiritual or material world,
would He not be denying Himself, counteracting the necessities of His
own righteous essence, to which evil is so antagonistic, that we can
not doubt it must be in the end cast into total annihilation--into
the allegorical lake of fire and brimstone, which is the "second
death?" Nay, do they not in reality deny Him and His holiness almost
as much as Atheists do, who preach that the one great salvation which
He has sent into the world is a salvation from punishment--a keeping
out of hell and getting into heaven--instead of a salvation from sin,
from the power and love of sin, through the love of God in Christ?
I tell these thoughts, because like lighting they passed through
Hilary's mind, as sometimes a whole chain of thoughts do, link after
link, and because they helped her to answer her nephew quietly and
briefly, for she saw he was in no state of mind to be argued with.
"I can not explain, Ascott, why it is that any of us are what we are,
and why things happen to us as they do; it is a question we none of
us understand, and in this world never shall. But if we know what we
ought to be, and how we may make the best of every thing, good or
bad, that happens to us, surely that is enough without perplexing
ourselves about any thing more."
Ascott smiled, half contemptuously, half carelessly: he was not a
young fellow likely to perplex himself long or deeply about these
sort of things.
"Any how, I've got £20 in my pocket, so I can't starve for a day or
two. Let's see; where is it to be cashed? Hillo! who would have
thought the old fellow would have been so stupid? Look there, Aunt
Hilary!"
She was so unfamiliar with checks for £20, poor little woman! that
she did not at first recognize the omission of the figures "£20" at
the left-hand corner. Otherwise the check was correct.
"Ho, ho!" laughed Ascott, exceedingly amused, so easily was the
current of his mind changed. "It must have been the £5000 pending
that muddled the 'cute old fellow's brains. I wonder whether he will
remember it afterward, and come posting up to see that I've taken no
ill-advantage of his blunder; changed this 'Twenty' into 'Seventy.' I
easily could, and put the figures £70 here. What a good joke!"
"Had ye not better go to him at once, and have the matter put right?"
"Rubbish! I can put it right myself. It makes no difference who fills
up a check, so that it is signed all correct. A deal you women know
of business!"
But still Hilary, with a certain womanish uneasiness about money
matters, and an anxiety to have the thing settled beyond doubt, urged
him to go.
"Very well; just as you like. I do believe you are afraid of my
turning forger."
He buttoned his coat with a half sulky, half defiant air, left his
supper untasted, and disappeared.
It was midnight before he returned. His aunts were still sitting up,
imagining all sorts of horrors, in an anxiety too great for words;
but when Hilary ran to the door, with the natural "Oh, Ascott, where
have you been?" he pushed her aside with a gesture that was almost
fierce in its repulsion.
"Where have I been? taking a walk round the Park; that's all. Can't I
come and go as I like, without being pestered by women? I'm horribly
tired. Let me alone--do!"
They did let him alone. Deeply wounded, Aunt Johanna took no further
notice of him than to set his chair a little closer to the fire, and
Aunt Hilary slipped down stairs for more coals. There she found
Elizabeth, who they thought had long since gone to bed, sitting on
the stairs, very sleepy, but watching still.
"Is he come in?" she asked; "because there are more bailiffs after
him. I'm sure of it; I saw them."
This, then, might account for his keeping out of the way till after
twelve o'clock, and also for his wild, haggard look. Hilary put aside
her vague dread of some new misfortune; assured Elizabeth that all
was right; he had got wherewithal to pay every body on Monday
morning, and would be safe till then. All debtors were safe on
Sunday.
"Go to bed now--there's a good girl; it is hard that you should be
troubled with our troubles."
Elizabeth looked up with those fond gray eyes of hers. She was but a
servant, and yet looks like these engraved themselves ineffaceably on
her mistress's heart, imparting the comfort that all pure love gives
from any one human being to another.
And love has its wonderful rights and rewards. Perhaps Elizabeth, who
thought herself nothing at all to her mistress, would have marveled
to know how much closer her mistress felt to this poor, honest,
loving girl, whose truth she believed in, and on whose faithfulness
she implicitly depended, than toward her own flesh and blood, who sat
there moodily over the hearth; deeply pitied, sedulously cared for,
but as for being confided in relied on, in great matters or small,
his own concerns or theirs--the thing was impossible.
They could not even ask him--they dared not, in such a strange mood
was he--the simple question, Had he seen Mr. Ascott, and had Mr.
Ascott been annoyed about the check? It would not have been referred
to at all had not Hilary, in holding his coat to dry, taken his
pocket book out of the breast pocket, when he snatched at it angrily.
"What are you meddling with my things for? Do you want to get at the
check, and be peering at it to see if it's all right? But you can't;
I've paid it away. Perhaps you'd like to know who to? Then you
shan't. I'll not be accountable to you for all my proceedings. I'll
not be treated like a baby. You'd better mind what you are about,
Aunt Hilary."
Never, in all his childish naughtiness, or boyish impertinence, had
Ascott spoken to her in such a tone. She regarded him at first with
simple astonishment, then hot indignation, which spurred her on to
stand up for her dignity, and not submit to be insulted by her own
nephew. But then came back upon her her own doctrine, taught by her
own experience, that character and conduct alone constitutes real
dignity or authority. She had, in point of fact, no authority over
him; no one can have, not even parents, over a young man of his age,
except that personal influence which is the strongest sway of all.
She said only, with a quietness that surprised herself--"You mistake,
Ascott; I have no wish to interfere with you whatever; you are your
own master, and must take your own course. I only expect from you the
ordinary respect that a gentleman shows to a lady. You must be very
tired and ill, or you would not have forgotten that."
"I didn't; or, if I did, I beg your pardon," said he, half subdued.
"When are you going to bed?"
"Directly. Shall I light your candle also?"
"Oh no; not for the world; I couldn't sleep a wink. I'd go mad if I
went to bed. I think I'll turn out and have a cigar."
His whole manner was so strange that his Aunt Johanna, who had sat
aloof, terribly grieved, but afraid to interfere, was moved to rise
up and go over to him.
"Ascott, my dear, you are looking quite ill. Be advised by your old
auntie. Go to bed at once, and forget every thing till morning."
"I wish I could; I wish I could. Oh, Auntie, Auntie!"
He caught hold of her hand, which she had laid upon his head, looked
up a minute into her kind, fond face, and burst into a flood of
boyish tears.
Evidently his troubles had been too much for him; he was in a state
of great excitement. For some minutes his sobs were almost
hysterical: then by a struggle he recovered him-self, seemed
exceedingly annoyed and ashamed, took up his candle, bade them a
hurried goodnight, and went to bed.
That is, he went to his room; but they heard him moving about
overhead for a long while after: nor were they surprised that he
refused to rise next morning, but lay most of the time with his door
locked, until late in the afternoon, when he went out for a long
walk, and did not return till supper, which he ate almost in silence.
Then, after going up to his room, and coming down again, complaining
bitterly how very cold it was, he crept in to the fireside with a
book in his hand, of which Hilary noticed he scarcely read a line.
His aunts said nothing to him; they had determined not: they felt
that further interference would be not only useless but dangerous.
"He will come to himself by-and by; his moods, good or bad, never
last long, you know," said Hilary, somewhat bitterly. "But, in the
mean time, I think we had better just do as he says--let him alone."
And in that sad, hopeless state they passed the last hours of that
dreary Sunday--afraid either to comfort him or reason with him;
afraid, above all, to blame him lest it might drive him altogether
astray. That he was in a state of great misery, halt sullen, half
defiant, they saw, and were scarcely surprised at it; it was very
hard not to be able to open their loving hearts to him, as those of
one family should always do, making every trouble a common care, and
every joy a universal blessing. But in his present state of mind--the
sudden obstinacy of a weak nature conscious of its weakness, and
dreading control--it seemed impossible either to break upon his
silence or to force his confidence.
They might have been right in this, or wrong; afterward Hilary
thought the latter. Many a time she wished and wished, with a bitter
regret, that instead of the quiet "Good night, Ascott!" and the one
rather cold kiss on his forehead, she had flung her arms round his
neck, and insisted on his telling out his whole mind to her, his
nearest kinswoman, who had been half aunt and half sister to him all
his life. But it was not done: she parted from him, as she did Sunday
after Sunday, with a sore sick feeling of how much he might be to
her, to them all, and how little he really was.
If this silence of hers was a mistake--one of those mistakes which
sensitive people sometimes make--it was, like all similar errors,
only too sorrowfully remembered and atoned for.