Bank of England note enclosed. There was only a line or two, just saying
he had not been able to return it before, but that he hoped he was at
length getting on: and that if he did get on, he should be sure to write
again later. It was signed F. W. That was all. Neither his name was
mentioned, nor mine, nor any address."
"Where did it come from?"
"London, I think."
"From London! Nonsense, Edna!"
"The post-mark was London. You are welcome to see the letter. I have
brought it with me."
Drawing the letter from her pocket under cover of her mantle, I took it
to the porch. True enough; the letter had undoubtedly been posted in
London. Calling Tod, we talked a little, and then told Edna that we both
thought she ought to disclose this to Mr. Westerbrook.
"I think so too," she said, "but I should not like to tell him
myself--though his manner to me lately has been very kind. Will you tell
him, Johnny? I will lend you the letter to show him. He will be sure to
want to see it."
"And he will have to know about the gold, Edna. The loan of that night."
"Yes; it cannot be helped. I have thought it all over, and I see that
there's no help for its being known now. The letter alludes to it, you
perceive."
After that the advertisements were resumed. Mr. Westerbrook put some
solicitor in London to work, and they were inserted in every known
paper. Also in some of the American and Australian papers. Inquiries
were made after Fred in London. But nothing came of it. As to old
Westerbrook, he seemed to grow better, as if the suspense had stirred
him up.
The months went on. Neither Fred nor news of him turned up. That he was
vegetating somewhere beyond the pale of civilization, or else was at
length really dead, appeared to be conclusive.
* * * * *
July. And we boys at home again for the holidays. The first news told us
was, that Mr. Westerbrook and his bailiff had parted company. Gisby had
said farewell to the N. D. Farm.
In the satisfaction of finding himself sole master, which he had not
been for many a year, and to celebrate Gisby's departure, Mr.
Westerbrook gave a syllabub feast, inviting to it old and young, grown
people and children. Syllabub feasts were tolerably common with us.
It was an intensely hot day; the lawn was dotted with guests; most of
them gathered in groups under the trees in the shade. Old Westerbrook,
the Squire and Mrs. Todhetley, Parson and Mrs. Holland and Mr. Brandon
were together under the great horse-chestnut tree. Edna Blake, of
course, had the trouble of the parson's children, and I was talking to
her. Little tables with bowls of syllabub on them and cakes and fruit
stood about. By-and-by, at sunset or so, we were to go in to a high tea.
It was getting on for two years since the night of Fred Westerbrook's
departure; and Edna was looking five times two years older. Worn and
patient were the lines of her face. She was dressed rather poorly, as
usual. She had never dressed much otherwise: but since that unlucky
night her clothes had been made to last as I should think nobody else's
clothes ever lasted. Whether that ten pounds had absorbed all her funds
(as it most likely had), or whether Edna had been saving up for that
visionary, possible voyage to America and the home with Fred that was to
follow it, I knew not, but one never saw her in new things now. To-day
she wore a muslin that once had had rose-red spots on it, but repeated
washings had diluted them to a pale pink; and the pink ribbons on her
hat had faded too. Not but that, in spite of all, she looked a lady.
"Have you a headache, Edna?"
"Just a little," she answered, putting her hand to her head. "Charley
and Tom would race about as we came along, and I had to run after them.
To be much under a blazing sun often gives me a headache now."
I wondered to myself why the parson and his wife could not have ordered
Charley and Tom to be still. Fathers and mothers never think their
children can tire people.
"I want some more syllabub, Edna," cried Charley, just then.
"And me too," put in little Miles Stirling.
She got up patiently; ladled some of the stuff into two of the
custard-cups, and gave one to each of the children, folding her
handkerchief under little Stirling's chin to guard his velvet dress.
They stood at the table, two eager little cormorants, taking it in with
their tea-spoons.
At that moment, the gate behind us opened, and a gentleman came in.
We turned round to see who was arriving so late. A stranger. Some
good-looking fellow, with auburn hair, a beard that shone like soft
silk in the sun, and a bronzed face. To judge by his movements, he was
struck with surprise at sight of the gay company, and stood in evident
hesitation.
"Oh, Johnny!"
The low, half-terrified exclamation came from Edna. I turned to her. Her
eyes were strained on the stranger; her face had turned white as death.
He saw us then, and came towards us. We were the nearest to him.
"Do you know me, Edna?"
I knew him then: knew his voice. Ay, and himself also, now that I saw
him distinctly. Edna did not faint; though she was white enough for it:
she only put her hands together as one does in prayer, a joyous
thankfulness dawning in her eyes.
"Frederick?"
"Yes, my darling. How strange that you should be the first to greet me!
And _you_, Johnny, old fellow! You _have_ grown!"
His two hands lay for a time in mine and Edna's. No one had observed him
yet: we were at the end of the lawn, well under the trees.
"More syllabub, Edna!" shrieked out that greedy young Charley.
"And me want more, too," added little Miles; "me not had enough."
Edna drew her hand away to go to the table, a happy light shining
through her tears. Fred put his arm within mine, and we went across the
grass together.
The first to see him was Mr. Brandon. He took in the situation at once,
and in a degree prepared Mr. Westerbrook. "Here's some bronzed young man
coming up, Westerbrook," said he. "Looks like a traveller. I should not
be surprised if it is your nephew; or perhaps one who brings news of
him."
Old Westerbrook fell back in his chair, as Fred stood there with his two
hands stretched out to him. Then he sprang up, burst into tears, and
clasped Fred in his arms. Of all commotions! Mr. Brandon walked away out
of it into the sun, putting his yellow silk handkerchief on his head.
The Squire stared as if he had never seen a bronzed man before; Tod
came leaping up, and the best part of the company after him.
"Edna, Edna!" called out Mr. Westerbrook, sitting back in his chair
again, and holding Fred tightly. "Edna, I want you instantly."
She advanced modestly, blushing roses, her hat held in her hand by its
faded strings. Mr. Westerbrook looked at her through his tears.
"Here he is, my dear--do you see?--come back to us at last. We must both
welcome him. The homestead is yours from this day, Fred; I will have
only just a corner in it. I am too old now for a busy life: you must be
the acting master. And, Edna, my child, you will come here to be his
helpmeet in it, and to take care of me in my declining years--my dear
little daughter! Thank God for all things!"
Fred gave us just a brief summary of the past. Getting over to America
without much difficulty, he had sought there for some remunerative work,
and sought in vain. One of those panics that the Americans go in for had
recently occurred in the States, and numbers of men were unable to get
employment. After sundry adventures, and some semi-starvation, he at
length made his way to the West Indies. A cousin of his late mother was,
he knew, settled somewhere within the regions of British Guiana. He
found him in Berbice, a small merchant of New Amsterdam. To him Fred
told his whole story; and the old cousin gave him a berth in his
counting-house. Office-work was new to Fred; but he did his best; and
with the first proceeds of his pay he enclosed the ten pounds to Edna;
the house forwarding the letter to their agents in London, to be posted
there. Some months later, he chanced to see the advertisement for him in
an English newspaper. As soon as he was able, he came off to answer it
in person; and--here he was.
"All's well that ends well," remarked Mr. Brandon, in his dry way.
"And don't you go fraternizing with poachers again, Mr. Fred!" cried out
the Squire. "See what it brought you to the last time."
"No, Squire; never again," answered Fred, pushing back his auburn hair
(very long again), with a smile. "This one time has been quite enough."
"But you cannot have Edna, you know," said Mrs. Holland to him, with a
disturbed face. "The Parsonage could not possibly get on without her."
"I am afraid the Parsonage will have to try, Mrs. Holland."
"I shall be obliged to keep my bed; that will be the end of it," said
Mrs. Holland, gloomily. "Nobody _can_ manage the children but Edna. When
she is otherwise occupied, their noise is frightful: ten times more
distracting than the worst toothache."
Fred said nothing further; she was looking so ruefully woebegone.
Putting his arm into mine, he turned into a shady walk.
"Will you be my groomsman at the wedding, Johnny? But for you, my good
friend, I don't know that I should have been saved to see this day."
"Nay, Fred, I think it was the key of the church that saved you. I will
be your groomsman if you really and truly prefer to pitch upon me,
rather than on some one older and better."
"Yes, you are right," he answered, lifting his hat, and glancing
upwards. "It was the key of the church--under God."
XVII.
SEEN IN THE MOONLIGHT.
"I tell you it is," repeated Tod. "One cannot mistake Temple, even at a
distance."
"But this man looks so much older than he. And he has whiskers. Temple
had none."
"And has not Temple grown older, do you suppose; and don't whiskers
sprout and grow? You are always a muff, Johnny. That is Slingsby
Temple."
We had gone by rail to Whitney Hall, and were walking up from the
station. The Squire sent us to ask after Sir John's gout. It was a
broiling hot day in the middle of summer. On the lawn before the house,
with some of the Whitneys, stood a stranger; a little man, young, dark,
and upright.
Tod was right, and I was wrong. It was Slingsby Temple. But I thought
him much altered: older-looking than his years, which numbered close
upon twenty-five, and more sedate and haughty than ever. We had neither
seen nor heard of him since quitting Oxford.
"Oh, he's regularly in for it this time," said Bill Whitney, in answer
to inquiries about his father, as they shook hands with us. "He has
hardly ever had such a bout; can only lie in bed and groan. Temple,
don't you remember Todhetley and Johnny Ludlow?"
"Yes, I do," answered Temple, holding out his hand to me first, and
passing by Tod to do it. But that was Slingsby Temple's way. I was of no
account, and therefore it did not touch his pride to notice me.
"I am glad to see you again," he said to Tod, cordially enough, as he
turned to him; which was quite a gracious acknowledgment for Temple.
But it surprised us to see him there. The Whitneys had no acquaintance
with the Temples; neither had he and Bill been special friends at
college. Whitney explained it after luncheon, when we were sitting
outside the windows in the shade, and Temple was pacing the shrubbery
with Helen.
"I fancy it's a gone case," said Bill, nodding towards them.
"Oh, William, you should not say it," struck in Anna, in tones of
remonstrance, and with her pretty blush. "It is not sure--and not right
to Mr. Temple."
"Not say it to Tod and Johnny! Rubbish! Why, they are like ourselves,
Anna. I say I think it is going to be a case."
"Helen with another beau!" cried free Tod. "How has it all come about?"
"The mother and Helen have been staying at Malvern, you know," said
Whitney. "Temple turned up at the same hotel, the Foley Arms, and they
struck up an intimacy. I went over for the last week, and was surprised
to see how thick he was with them. The mother, who is more unsuspicious
than a goose, told Temple, in her hospitable way, when they were saying
good-bye, that she should be glad to see him if ever he found himself in
these benighted parts: and I'll be shot if at the end of five days he
was not here! If Helen's not the magnet, I don't know what else it can
be."
"He appears to like her; but it may be only a temporary fancy that will
pass away; it ought not to be talked about," reiterated Anna. "It may
come to nothing."
"It may, or may not," persisted Bill.
"Will she consent to have him?" I asked.
"She'd be simple if she didn't," said Bill. "Temple would be a jolly
fine match for any girl. Good in all ways. His property is large, and he
himself is as sober and steady as any parson. Always has been."
I was not thinking of Temple's eligibility--that was undeniable; but
of Helen's inclinations. Some time before she had gone in for a love
affair, which would not do at any price, caused some stir at the Hall,
and came to signal grief: though I have not time to tell of it here.
Whitney caught the drift of my thoughts.
"_That's_ over and done with, Johnny. She'd never let its recollection
spoil other prospects. You may trust Helen Whitney for that. She is as
shallow-hearted as----"
"For shame, William!" remonstrated Anna.
"It's true," said he. "I didn't say _you_ were. Helen would have twenty
sweethearts to your one, and think nothing of it."
Tod looked at Anna, and laughed gently. Her cheeks turned the colour of
the rose she was holding.
"What's this about a boating tour?" he inquired of Whitney. It had been
alluded to at lunch-time.
"Temple's going in for one with some more fellows," was the reply. "He
has asked me to join them. We mean to do some of the larger rivers; take
our tent, and encamp on the bank at night."
"What a jolly spree!" cried Tod, his face flushing with delight. "How I
should like it!"
"I wish to goodness you were coming. But Temple has made up his party.
It is his affair, you know. He talks of staying out a month."
"One get's no chance in this slow place," cried Tod, fiercely. "I'll
emigrate, I think, and go tiger-hunting. Is it a secret, this boating
affair?"
"A secret! No."
"What made you kick me under the table, then, when I would have asked
particulars at luncheon?"
"Because the mother was present. She has taken all sorts of queer
notions into her head--mothers always have them--that the boat will be
found bottom upwards some day, and we under it. Failing that, we are to
catch colds and fevers and agues from the night encampments. So we say
as little about it as possible before her."
"I see," nodded Tod. "Look here, Bill, I should like to get up a boating
party myself; it sounds glorious. How do you set about it?--and where
can you get a boat?"
"Temple knows," said Bill, "I don't. Let us go and ask him."
They went across the grass, leaving me alone with Anna. She and I were
the best of friends, as the reader may remember, and exchanged many a
little confidence with one another that the world knew nothing of.
"Should you like it for Helen?" I asked, indicating her sister and
Slingsby Temple.
"Yes, I think I should," she answered. "But William had no warrant for
speaking as he did. Mr. Temple will only be here a few days longer: when
he leaves, we may never see him again."
"But he is evidently taken with Helen. He shows that he is. And when a
man of Slingsby Temple's disposition allows himself to betray anything
of the kind, rely upon it he means something."
"Did you like him at Oxford, Johnny?"
"Well--I did and did not," was my hesitating answer. "He was reserved,
close, proud, and unsociable; and no man displaying those qualities can
be very much liked. On the other hand, he was exemplary in conduct,
deserving respect from all, and receiving it."
"I think he is religious," said Anna, her voice taking a lower tone.
"Yes, I always thought him that. I fancy their mother brought them up to
be so. But Temple is the last man in the world to display it."
"What with papa's taking up two rooms to himself now he has the gout,
and all of us being at home, mamma was a little at fault what chamber
to give Mr. Temple. There was no time for much arrangement, for he came
without notice; so she just turned Harry out of his room, which used to
be poor John's, you know, and put Mr. Temple there. That night Harry
chanced to go up to bed later than the rest of us. He forgot his room
had been changed, and went straight into his own. Mr. Temple was
kneeling down in prayer, and a Bible lay open on the table. Mamma says
it is not all young men who say their prayers and read their Bible
nowadays."
"Not by a good many, Anna. Yes, Temple is good, and I hope Helen will
get him. She will have position, too, as his wife, and a large income."
"He comes into his estate this year, he told us; in September. He will
be five-and-twenty then. But, Johnny, I don't like one thing: William
says there was a report at Oxford that the Temples never live to be even
middle-aged men."
"Some of them have died young, I believe. But, Anna, that's no reason
why they all should."
"And--there's a superstition attaching to the family, is there not?"
continued Anna. "A ghost that appears; or something of that sort?"
I hardly knew what to answer. How vividly the words brought back poor
Fred Temple's communication to me on the subject, and his subsequent
death.
"You don't speak," said she. "Won't you tell me what it is?"
"It is this, Anna: but I dare say it's all nonsense--all fancy. When one
of the Temples is going to die, the spirit of the head of the family who
last died is said to appear and beckon to him; a warning that his own
death is near. Down in their neighbourhood people call it the Temple
superstition."
"I don't quite understand," cried Anna, looking earnestly at me. "_Who_
is it that is said to appear?"
"I'll give you an instance. When the late Mr. Temple, Slingsby's father,
was walking home from shooting with his gamekeeper one September day, he
thought he saw his father in the wood at a little distance: that is, his
father's spirit, for he had been dead some years. It scared him very
much at the moment, as the keeper testified. Well, Anna, in a day or two
he, Mr. Temple, was dead--killed by an accident."
"I am glad I am not a Temple; I should be always fearing I might see the
sight," observed Anna, a sad, thoughtful look on her gentle face.
"Oh no, you wouldn't, Anna. The Temples themselves don't think of it,
and don't believe in it. Slingsby does not, at any rate. His brother
Fred told me at Oxford that no one must presume to allude to it in
Slingsby's presence."
"Fred? He died at Oxford, did he not?"
"Yes, he died there, poor fellow. Thrown from his horse. I saw it
happen, Anna."
But I said nothing to her of that curious scene to which I had been
a witness a night or two before the accident--when poor Fred, to
Slingsby's intense indignation, fancied he saw his father on the college
staircase; fancied his father beckoned to him. It was not a thing to
talk of. After that time Slingsby had seemed to regard me with rather a
special favour; I wondered whether it was because I had _not_ talked of
it.
The afternoon passed. We went up to see Sir John in his gouty room, and
then said good-bye to them all, including Temple, and started for home
again. Tod was surly and cross. He had come out in a temper and he was
going back in one.
Tod liked his own way. No one in the world resented interference more
than he: and just now he and the Squire were at war. Some twelve months
before, Tod had dropped into a five-hundred-pound legacy from a distant
relative. It was now ready to be paid to him. The Squire wished it paid
over to himself, that he might take care of it; Tod wanted to be grand,
and open a banking account of his own. For the past two days the
argument had held out on both sides, and this morning Tod had lost his
temper. Lost it was again now, but on another score.
"Slingsby Temple might as well have invited me to join the boating lot!"
he broke out to me, as we drew near home. "He knows I am an old hand at
it."
"But if his party is made up, Tod? Whitney said it was."
"Rubbish, Johnny. Made up! They could as well make room for another. And
much good some of them are, I dare say! I can't remember that Slingsby
ever took an oar in his hand at Oxford. All he went in for was
star-gazing--and chapels--and lectures. And look at Bill Whitney! He
hates rowing."
"Did you tell Temple you would like to join them?"
"He could see it. I didn't say in so many words, Will you have me? Of
all things, I should enjoy a boating tour! It would be the most jolly
thing on earth."
That night, after we got in, the subject of the money grievance cropped
up again. The Squire was smoking his long churchwarden pipe at the open
window; Mrs. Todhetley sat by the centre table and the lamp, hemming a
strip of muslin. Tod, open as the day on all subjects, abused Temple's
"churlishness" for not inviting him to make one of the boating party,
and declared he would organize one of his own, which he could readily
do, now he was not tied for money. That remark set the Squire on.
"Ay, that's just where it would be, Joe," said he. "Let you keep the
money in your own fingers, and we should soon see what it would end in."
"What would it end in?" demanded Tod.
"Ducks and drakes."
Tod tossed his head. "You think I am a child still, I believe, father."
"You are no better, where the spending of money's concerned," said the
Squire, taking a long whiff. "Few young men are. Their fathers know
that, and keep it from them as long as they can. And that's why so
many are not let come into possession of their estates before they are
five-and-twenty. This young Temple, it seems, does not come into his;
Johnny, here, does not."
"I should like to know what more harm it would do for the money to lie
in my name in the Old Bank than if it lay in yours?" argued Tod. "Should
I be drawing cheques on purpose to get rid of it? That's what you seem
to suppose, father."
"You'd be drawing them to spend," said the pater.
"No, I shouldn't. It's my own money, after all. Being my own, I should
take good care of it."
Old Thomas came in with some glasses, and the argument dropped. Tod
began again as we were going upstairs together.
"You see, Johnny," he said, stepping inside my room on his way, and
shutting the door for fear of eavesdroppers, "there's that hundred
pounds I owe Brandon. The old fellow has been very good, never so much
as hinting that he remembers it, and I shall pay him back the first
thing. To do this, I must have absolute possession of the money. A fine
bobbery the pater would make if he got to know of it. Besides, a man
come to my age likes to have a banking account--if he can. Good-night,
lad."
Tod carried his point. He turned so restive and obstinate over it as
to surprise and vex the Squire, who of course knew nothing about the
long-standing debt to Mr. Brandon. The Squire had no legal power to keep
the money, if Tod insisted upon having it. And he did insist. The Squire
put it down to boyish folly, self-assumption; and groaned and grumbled
all the way to Worcester, when Tod was taking the five-hundred-pound
cheque, paid to him free of duty, to the Old Bank.
"We shall have youngsters in their teens wanting to open a banking
account next!" said the pater to Mr. Isaac, as Tod was writing his
signature in the book. "The world's coming to something."
"I dare say young Mr. Todhetley will be prudent, and not squander it,"
observed Mr. Isaac, with one of his pleasant smiles.
"Oh, will he, though! You'll see. Look here," went on the Squire,
tapping the banker on the arm, "couldn't you, if he draws too large a
cheque at any time, refuse to cash it?"
"I fear we could not do that," laughed Mr. Isaac. "So long as he does
not overdraw his account, we are bound to honour his cheques."
"And if you do overdraw it, Joe, I hope the bank will prosecute you!--I
would, I know," was the Squire's last threat, as we left the bank and
turned towards the Cross, Tod with a cheque-book in his pocket.
But Mr. Brandon could not be paid then. On going over to his house a day
or two afterwards, we found him from home. The housekeeper thought he
was on his way to one of the "water-cure establishments" in Yorkshire,
she said, but he had not yet written to give his address.
"So it must wait," remarked Tod to me, as we went home. "I'm not sorry.
How the bank would have stared at having to pay a hundred pounds down on
the nail! Conclude, no doubt, that I was going to the deuce headlong."
* * * * *
"By Jove!" cried Tod, taking a leap in the air.