FAMILY COUNCILS.
When the girls and Aunt Letty went to their chambers that night,
Herbert returned to his mother's own dressing-room, and there, seated
over the fire with her, discussed the matter of his father's sudden
attack. He had been again with his father, and Sir Thomas had seemed
glad to have him there; but now he had left him for the night.
"He will sleep now, mother," said the son; "he has taken laudanum."
"I fear he takes that too often now."
"It was good for him to have it to-night. He did not get too much,
for I dropped it for him." And then they sat silent for a few moments
together.
"Mother," said Herbert, "who can this man have been?"
"I have no knowledge--no idea--no guess even," said Lady Fitzgerald.
"It is that man's visit that has upset him."
"Oh, certainly. I think there is no doubt of that. I was waiting for
the man to go, and went in almost before he was out of the house."
"Well?"
"And I found your father quite prostrated."
"Not on the floor?"
"No, not exactly on the floor. He was still seated on his chair, but
his head was on the table, over his arms."
"I have often found him in that way, mother."
"But you never saw him looking as he looked this morning, Herbert.
When I went in he was speechless, and he remained so, I should say,
for some minutes."
"Was he senseless?"
"No; he knew me well enough, and grasped me by the hand; and when I
would have gone to the bell to ring for assistance, he would not let
me. I thought he would have gone into a fit when I attempted it."
"And what did you do?"
"I sat there by him, with his hand in mine, quite quietly. And then
he uttered a long, deep sigh, and--oh, Herbert!"
"Well, mother?"
"At last, he burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed and cried like a
child."
"Mother!"
"He did, so that it was piteous to see him. But it did him good, for
he was better after it. And all the time he never let go my hand, but
held it and kissed it. And then he took me by the waist, and kissed
me, oh, so often. And all the while his tears were running like the
tears of a girl." And Lady Fitzgerald, as she told the story, could
not herself refrain from weeping.
"And did he say anything afterwards about this man?"
"Yes; not at first, that is. Of course I asked him who he was as soon
as I thought he could bear the question. But he turned away, and
merely said that he was a stupid man about some old London business,
and that he should have gone to Prendergast. But when, after a while,
I pressed him, he said that the man's name was Mollett, and that he
had, or pretended to have, some claim upon the city property."
"A claim on the city property! Why, it's not seven hundred a year
altogether. If any Mollett could run away with it all, that loss
would not affect him like that."
"So I said, Herbert; not exactly in those words, but trying to
comfort him. He then put it off by declaring that it was the
consciousness of his inability to see any one on business which
affected him so grievously."
"It was that he said to me."
"And there may be something in that, Herbert."
"Yes; but then what should make him so weak, to begin with? If you
remember, mother, he was very well,--more like himself than usual
last night."
"Oh, I observed it. He seemed to like having Clara Desmond there."
"Didn't he, mother? I observed that too. But then Clara Desmond is
such a sweet creature." The mother looked at her son as he said this,
but the son did not notice the look. "I do wonder what the real truth
can be," he continued. "Do you think there is anything wrong about
the property in general? About this estate, here?"
"No, I don't think that," said the mother, sadly.
"What can it be then?" But Lady Fitzgerald sat there, and did not
answer the question. "I'll tell you what I will do, mother; I'll go
up to London, and see Prendergast, and consult him."
"Oh, no; you mustn't do that. I am wrong to tell you all this, for he
told me to talk to no one. But it would kill me if I didn't speak of
it to you."
"All the same, mother, I think it would be best to consult
Prendergast."
"Not yet, Herbert. I dare say Mr. Prendergast may be a very good sort
of man, but we none of us know him. And if, as is very probable, this
is only an affair of health, it would be wrong in you to go to a
stranger. It might look--"
"Look what, mother?"
"People might think--he, I mean--that you wanted to interfere."
"But who ought to interfere on his behalf if I don't?"
"Quite true, dearest; I understand what you mean, and know how good
you are. But perhaps Mr. Prendergast might not. He might think you
wanted--"
"Wanted what, mother? I don't understand you."
"Wanted to take the things out of your father's hands."
"Oh, mother!"
"He doesn't know you. And, what is more, I don't think he knows much
of your father. Don't go to him yet." And Herbert promised that he
would not.
"And you don't think that this man was ever here before?" he asked.
"Well, I rather think he was here once before; many years ago--soon
after you went to school."
"So long ago as that?"
"Yes; not that I remember him, or, indeed, ever knew of his coming
then, if he did come. But Jones says that she thinks she remembers
him."
"Did Jones see him now?"
"Yes; she was in the hall as he passed through on his way out. And it
so happened that she let him in and out too when he came before. That
is, if it is the same man."
"That's very odd."
"It did not happen here. We were at Tenby for a few weeks in the
summer."
"I remember; you went there with the girls just when I went back to
school."
"Jones was with us, and Richard. We had none other of our own
servants. And Jones says that the same man did come then; that he
stayed with your father for an hour or two; and that when he left,
your father was depressed--almost as he was yesterday. I well
remember that. I know that a man did come to him at Tenby; and--oh,
Herbert!"
"What is it, mother? Speak out at any rate to me."
"Since that man came to him at Tenby he has never been like what he
was before."
And then there was more questioning between them about Jones and her
remembrances. It must be explained that Jones was a very old and very
valued servant. She had originally been brought up as a child by Mrs.
Wainwright, in that Dorsetshire parsonage, and had since remained
firm to the fortunes of the young lady, whose maid she had become on
her first marriage. As her mistress had been promoted, so had Jones.
At first she had been Kitty to all the world, now she was Mrs. Jones
to the world at large, Jones to Sir Thomas and her mistress and
of late years to Herbert, and known by all manner of affectionate
sobriquets to the young ladies. Sometimes they would call her
Johnny, and sometimes the Duchess; but doubtless they and Mrs. Jones
thoroughly understood each other. By the whole establishment Mrs.
Jones was held in great respect, and by the younger portion in
extreme awe. Her breakfast and tea she had in a little sitting-room
by herself; but the solitude of this was too tremendous for her
to endure at dinner-time. At that meal she sat at the head of the
table in the servants' hall, though she never troubled herself to
carve anything except puddings and pies, for which she had a great
partiality, and of which she was supposed to be the most undoubted
and severe judge known of anywhere in that part of the country.
She was supposed by all her brother and sister servants to be a very
Croesus for wealth; and wondrous tales were told of the money she
had put by. But as she was certainly honest, and supposed to be very
generous to certain poor relations in Dorsetshire, some of these
stories were probably mythic. It was known, however, as a fact, that
two Castle Richmond butlers, one out-door steward, three neighbouring
farmers, and one wickedly ambitious coachman, had endeavoured to
tempt her to matrimony--in vain. "She didn't want none of them," she
told her mistress. "And, what was more, she wouldn't have none of
them." And therefore she remained Mrs. Jones, with brevet rank.
It seemed, from what Lady Fitzgerald said, that Mrs. Jones's manner
had been somewhat mysterious about this man, Mollett. She had
endeavoured to reassure and comfort her mistress, saying that nothing
would come of it as nothing had come of that other Tenby visit, and
giving it as her counsel that the ladies should allow the whole
matter to pass by without further notice. But at the same time Lady
Fitzgerald had remarked that her manner had been very serious when
she first said that she had seen the man before.
"Jones," Lady Fitzgerald had said to her, very earnestly, "if you
know more about this man than you are telling me, you are bound to
speak out, and let me know everything."
"Who--I, my lady? what could I know? Only he do look to me like the
same man, and so I thought it right to say to your ladyship."
Lady Fitzgerald had seen that there was nothing more to be gained by
cross-questioning, and so she had allowed the matter to drop. But she
was by no means satisfied that this servant whom she so trusted did
not know more than she had told. And then Mrs. Jones had been with
her in those dreadful Dorsetshire days, and an undefined fear began
to creep over her very soul.
"God bless you, my child!" said Lady Fitzgerald, as her son got up to
leave her. And then she embraced him with more warmth even than was
her wont. "All that we can do at present is to be gentle with him,
and not to encourage people around him to talk of his illness."
On the next morning Lady Fitzgerald did not come down to breakfast,
but sent her love to Clara, and begged her guest to excuse her on
account of headache. Sir Thomas rarely came in to breakfast, and
therefore his absence was not remarkable. His daughters, however,
went up to see him, as did also his sister; and they all declared
that he was very much better.
"It was some sudden attack, I suppose?" said Clara.
"Yes, very sudden; he has had the same before," said Herbert. "But
they do not at all affect his intellect or bodily powers. Depression
is, I suppose, the name that the doctors would call it."
And then at last it became noticeable by them that Lady Clara did not
use her left arm. "Oh, Clara!" said Emmeline, "I see now that you are
hurt. How selfish we have been! Oh dear, oh dear!" And both Emmeline
and Mary immediately surrounded her, examining her arm, and almost
carrying her to the sofa.
"I don't think it will be much," said Clara. "It's only a little
stiff."
"Oh, Herbert, what shall we do? Do look here; the inside of her arm
is quite black."
Herbert, gently touching her hand, did examine the arm, and declared
his opinion that she had received a dreadfully violent blow. Emmeline
proposed to send for a doctor to pronounce whether or no it were
broken. Mary said that she didn't think it was broken, but that she
was sure the patient ought not to be moved that day, or probably for
a week. Aunt Letty, in the mean time, prescribed a cold-water bandage
with great authority, and bounced out of the room to fetch the
necessary linen and basin of water.
"It's nothing at all," continued Clara. "And indeed I shall go home
to-day; indeed I shall."
"It might be very bad for your arm that you should be moved," said
Herbert.
"And your staying here will not be the least trouble to us. We shall
all be so happy to have you; shall we not, Mary?"
"Of course we shall; and so will mamma."
"I am so sorry to be here now," said Clara, "when I know you are all
in such trouble about Sir Thomas. But as for going, I shall go as
soon as ever you can make it convenient to send me. Indeed I shall."
And so the matter was discussed between them, Aunt Letty in the mean
time binding up the bruised arm with cold-water appliances.
Lady Clara was quite firm about going, and, therefore, at about
twelve she was sent. I should say taken, for Emmeline insisted on
going with her in the carriage. Herbert would have gone also, but he
felt that he ought not to leave Castle Richmond that day, on account
of his father. But he would certainly ride over, he said, and learn
how her arm was the next morning.
"And about Clady, you know," said Clara.
"I will go on to Clady also. I did send a man there yesterday to see
about the flue. It's the flue that's wrong, I know."
"Oh, thank you; I am so much obliged to you," said Clara. And then
the carriage drove off, and Herbert returned into the morning
sitting-room with his sister Mary.
"I'll tell you what it is, Master Herbert," said Mary.
"Well--what is it?"
"You are going to fall in love with her young ladyship."
"Am I? Is that all you know about it? And who are you going to fall
in love with pray?"
"Oh! his young lordship, perhaps; only he ought to be about ten years
older, so that I'm afraid that wouldn't do. But Clara is just the age
for you. It really seems as though it were all prepared ready to your
hand."
"You girls always do think that those things are ready prepared;"
and so saying, Herbert walked off with great manly dignity to some
retreat among his own books and papers, there to meditate whether
this thing were in truth prepared for him. It certainly was the fact
that the house did seem very blank to him now that Clara was gone;
and that he looked forward with impatience to the visit which it was
so necessary that he should make on the following day to Clady.
The house at Castle Richmond was very silent and quiet that day. When
Emmeline came back, she and her sister remained together. Nothing had
been said to them about Mollett's visit, and they had no other idea
than that this lowness of spirits on their father's part, to which
they had gradually become accustomed, had become worse and more
dangerous to his health than ever.
Aunt Letty talked much about it to Herbert, to Lady Fitzgerald,
to Jones, and to her brother, and was quite certain that she had
penetrated to the depth of the whole matter. That nasty city
property, she said, which had come with her grandmother, had always
given the family more trouble than it was worth. Indeed, her
grandmother had been a very troublesome woman altogether; and no
wonder, for though she was a Protestant herself, she had had Papist
relations in Lancashire. She distinctly remembered to have heard that
there was some flaw in the title of that property, and she knew that
it was very hard to get some of the tenants to pay any rent. That she
had always heard. She was quite sure that this man was some person
laying a claim to it, and threatening to prosecute his claim at law.
It was a thousand pities that her brother should allow such a trifle
as this,--for after all it was but a trifle, to fret his spirits and
worry him in this way. But it was the wretched state of his health:
were he once himself again, all such annoyances as that would pass
him by like the wind.
It must be acknowledged that Aunt Letty's memory in this respect was
not exactly correct; for, as it happened, Sir Thomas held his little
property in the city of London by as firm a tenure as the laws and
customs of his country could give him; and seeing that his income
thence arising came from ground rents near the river, on which
property stood worth some hundreds of thousands, it was not very
probable that his tenants should be in arrear. But what she said had
some effect upon Herbert. He was not quite sure whether this might
not be the cause of his father's grief; and if the story did not have
much effect upon Lady Fitzgerald, at any rate it did as well as any
other to exercise the ingenuity and affection of Aunt Letty.
Sir Thomas passed the whole of that day in his own room; but during a
great portion of the day either his wife, or sister, or son was with
him. They endeavoured not to leave him alone with his own thoughts,
feeling conscious that something preyed upon his mind, though
ignorant as to what that something might be.
He was quite aware of the nature of their thoughts; perfectly
conscious of the judgment they had formed respecting him. He knew
that he was subjecting himself, in the eyes not only of his own
family but of all those around him, to suspicions which must be
injurious to him, and yet he could not shake off the feeling that
depressed him.
But at last he did resolve to make an attempt at doing so. For some
time in the evening he was altogether alone, and he then strove to
force his mind to work upon the matter which occupied it,--to arrange
his ideas, and bring himself into a state in which he could make a
resolution. For hours he had sat,--not thinking upon this subject,
for thought is an exertion which requires a combination of ideas and
results in the deducing of conclusions from premises; and no such
effort as that had he hitherto made,--but endeavouring to think while
he allowed the matter of his grief to lie ever before his mind's eye.
He had said to himself over and over again, that it behoved him to
make some great effort to shake off this incubus that depressed him;
but yet no such effort had hitherto been even attempted. Now at last
he arose and shook himself, and promised to himself that he would be
a man. It might be that the misfortune under which he groaned was
heavy, but let one's sorrow be what it may, there is always a better
and a worse way of meeting it. Let what trouble may fall on a man's
shoulders, a man may always bear it manfully. And are not troubles
when so borne half cured? It is the flinching from pain which makes
pain so painful.
This truth came home to him as he sat there that day, thinking what
he should do, endeavouring to think in what way he might best turn
himself. But there was this that was especially grievous to him,
that he had no friend whom he might consult in this matter. It was
a sorrow, the cause of which he could not explain to his own family,
and in all other troubles he had sought assistance and looked
for counsel there and there only. He had had one best, steadiest,
dearest, truest counsellor, and now it had come to pass that things
were so placed that in this great trouble he could not go to her.
And now a friend was so necessary to him! He felt that he was not fit
to judge how he himself should act in this terrible emergency; that
it was absolutely necessary for him that he should allow himself to
be guided by some one else. But to whom should he appeal?
"He is a cold man," said he to himself, as one name did occur to him,
"very cold, almost unfeeling; but he is honest and just." And then
again he sat and thought. "Yes, he is honest and just; and what
should I want better than honesty and justice?" And then, shuddering
as he resolved, he did resolve that he would send for this honest and
just man. He would send for him; or, perhaps better still, go to him.
At any rate, he would tell him the whole truth of his grief, and then
act as the cold, just man should bid him.
But he need not do this yet--not quite yet. So at least he said to
himself, falsely. If a man decide with a fixed decision that his
tooth should come out, or his leg be cut off, let the tooth come out
or the leg be cut off on the earliest possible opportunity. It is the
flinching from such pain that is so grievously painful.
But it was something to have brought his mind to bear with a fixed
purpose upon these things, and to have resolved upon what he would
do, though he still lacked strength to put his resolution immediately
to the proof.
Then, later in the evening, his son came and sat with him, and he
was able in some sort to declare that the worst of that evil day had
passed from him. "I shall breakfast with you all to-morrow," he said,
and as he spoke a faint smile passed across his face.
"Oh! I hope you will," said Herbert; "we shall be so delighted: but,
father, do not exert yourself too soon."
"It will do me good, I think."
"I am sure it will, if the fatigue be not too much."
"The truth is, Herbert, I have allowed this feeling to grow upon me
till I have become weak under it. I know that I ought to make an
exertion to throw it off, and it is possible that I may succeed."
Herbert muttered some few hopeful words, but he found it very
difficult to know what he ought to say. That his father had some
secret he was quite sure; and it is hard to talk to a man about his
secret, without knowing what that secret is.
"I have allowed myself to fall into a weak state," continued Sir
Thomas, speaking slowly, "while by proper exertion I might have
avoided it."
"You have been very ill, father," said Herbert.
"Yes, I have been ill, very ill, certainly. But I do not know that
any doctor could have helped me."
"Father--"
"No, Herbert; do not ask me questions; do not inquire; at any rate,
not at present. I will endeavour--now at least I will endeavour--to
do my duty. But do not urge me by questions, or appear to notice me
if I am infirm."
"But, father,--if we could comfort you?"
"Ah! if you could. But, never mind, I will endeavour to shake off
this depression. And, Herbert, comfort your mother; do not let her
think much of all this, if it can be helped."
"But how can it be helped?"
"And tell her this: there is a matter that troubles my mind."
"Is it about the property, father?"
"No--yes; it certainly is about the property in one sense."
"Then do not heed it; we shall none of us heed it. Who has so good a
right to say so as I?"
"Bless you, my darling boy! But, Herbert, such things must be
heeded--more or less, you know: but you may tell your mother this,
and perhaps it may comfort her. I have made up my mind to go to
London and to see Prendergast; I will explain the whole of this thing
to him, and as he bids me so will I act."
This was thought to be satisfactory to a certain extent both by the
mother and son. They would have been better pleased had he opened
his heart to them and told them everything; but that it was clear he
could not bring himself to do. This Mr. Prendergast they had heard
was a good man; and in his present state it was better that he should
seek counsel of any man than allow his sorrow to feed upon himself
alone.