CHAPTER II. OUT INTO THE WORLD.
CHAPTER III. IN GAY LONDON TOWN.
CHAPTER IV. THE FOLLY.
CHAPTER V. WITH LORD CLAUD.
CHAPTER VI. BARNS ELMS.
CHAPTER VII. MASTER GALE'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER VIII. THE GREAT DUKE.
CHAPTER IX. FARE WELL TO HOME.
CHAPTER X. IN PERIL.
CHAPTER XI. THE PIOUS MONKS OF ST. BERNARD.
CHAPTER XII. BACK IN LONDON.
CHAPTER XIII. ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
CHAPTER XV. AWAY TO THE FOREST.
CHAPTER I. AN ONLY SON.
Good Squire Tufton of Gablehurst lay dying. He had been ailing for
many months, knowing his end to be near; and yet, as is so often
the case in lingering declines, death was long in coming, so that
those about him had grown used to the sight of the strong figure
wasted to a shadow, and the face shadowed by the wings of the
hovering messenger.
Some members of the household, indeed, had begun to cherish the
hope that the master might yet recover, and be seen amongst them
once more; but that hope was not shared by the patient himself, nor
by the two devoted women who nursed him with tender love.
His wife and daughter were always with him, relieving each other in
turn, and occasionally both yielding place to one of the many
faithful servants, who were all eager to do what they could for the
master they loved; but in his waking hours the squire seldom missed
the best-loved faces about him. Rachel and her mother seemed to
live their lives about his sick bed, soothing his weariness and
pain, and striving with patient resignation to school themselves to
submission to the will of God, who was about to take their loved
one from them.
And yet they had kept him with them longer than once seemed
possible. The bright days of summer were doubtless favourable to
the patient. When he could lie with open windows, breathing the
pure soft air from woodland and field, he seemed able to make a
stand against the grim enemy of human nature. But the summer was
now upon the wane; the golden sunshine was obscured by the first
driving rains of the approaching equinox; and it seemed to those
who watched at the sufferer's bedside that his life was ebbing away
as slowly and as steadily as the hours of sunshine in the
shortening day.
Today there was a look upon his face which caused Rachel many times
to turn anxious and beseeching eyes upon her mother, and yet what
she read in the expression of that worn and gentle countenance only
confirmed her own impressions.
The Squire lay very still and quiet, dozing as it seemed, whilst
the fire crackled cheerfully up the wide chimney, and the rain
dashed ceaselessly against the windows. He had not spoken for many
hours. There had come into Rachel's heart a terrible fear lest he
should never speak again. The shadow on his face looked so gray;
the features had taken so strange and pinched a look.
Rachel had seen death before in many humble homes, although it had,
so far, not touched any of her own nearest and dearest. She had
watched that creeping shadow before now, for her heart always went
out to the sick and the suffering, and her feet led her to the
homes of those who stood in need of tender sympathy and womanly
aid. But when the shadow gathered upon the face of her own loved
father, the pressure upon her heart seemed almost more than she
could bear. The tears stole down her cheeks, and her eyes sought
those of her mother with a glance of almost pitiful appeal.
The leech had stolen into the room, had stood beside the patient,
had shaken his head, and stolen away. He knew that his skill, such
as it was, could avail nothing now; it was but the question of a
few hours.
All day that stupor had continued. Rachel had feared they would
never hear his voice, or see the loving glance of his eyes again.
She had passed the time between a study of that wasted face, and an
eager and restless looking forth from the casement, as though in
search of something or somebody who came not.
Often she saw servants and messengers hastening this way and that,
exchanging words with each other, and starting off afresh; but the
one stalwart figure, for which she gazed with aching eyes, appeared
not, and often a sigh would break from her lips, whilst from time
to time a tear forced its way to her eyes.
Dusk was falling now. She could no longer see across the expanse of
park land which surrounded Gablehurst. She drew the curtains at
last with gentle hands, and piled up the logs upon the hearth.
There was a glint of something in her eyes not altogether accounted
for by the tears in them. It was a sparkle which bespoke wounded
sensibility--something approaching to anger.
"O brother, brother," she whispered, with dry lips, "how can you
treat him so? Have you a heart? How terrible a judgment you seem to
be seeking to draw down upon yourself! What will the end be like,
if this is the beginning?"
The flames leapt up with a sudden ruddy glow. The room had been
dark before; now it was suddenly flooded with a brilliant
palpitating light. As Rachel turned back to the bed, she saw that
her father's eyes had opened. The mists of weakness no longer
seemed to cloud his sight. He was looking round him with
comprehension and observation.
"Where is Tom?"
It was the question they had been expecting all day. It was in
anticipation of this that messengers had been scouring the
neighbourhood in search of that young ne'er-do-well, Tom Tufton,
the good Squire's unworthy son.
And yet, unworthy as he was--idle, reckless, dissipated, a source
of pain and anxiety to father, mother, and sister--young Tom was
beloved by the people in and about his home, albeit they all shook
their heads over his follies and wildness, and wondered with bated
breath what would befall Gablehurst when the young master should be
lord of all.
"Where is Tom?" asked the Squire, in a firmer voice than they had
thought to hear again.
"Dear father, we have sent for him," answered Rachel soothingly;
"he will be here anon."
"I would speak with Tom," said the Squire. "There are things I
needs must say to him ere I close my eyes for ever. Perchance I
have already delayed too long. Yet I have waited and waited, hoping
for signs of seriousness in one so soon to lose a parent. But
seriousness and Tom have no dealings together, it would seem. God
forgive us if it be any lack on our part that has made our son the
wild young blade that he seems like to be!"
A little sob broke from the mother's lips. It was the bitterest
thought of all to the parents; and yet they could not see wherein
they had erred. They had striven to bring up the boy well. He had
had the same training as his father before him. There had been no
lack of firmness, and no lack of love, but the result, as at
present seen, was terrible to the father and mother.
The squire heard the stifled sound of grief, and put out his hand
to clasp that of his wife.
"Remember he is the child of many prayers," he said. "We must
believe that those prayers will be answered. We must have faith in
God."
"I will try--I will try," answered the poor mother; "but oh, my
husband, how shall I hope to cope with that wild spirit when you
are gone?"
It was a hard question to answer, for the Squire himself had found
his son more than a match for him many a time. It was true that he
had done all that man can do to protect wife and daughter from the
reckless extravagance of an ungoverned nature; but he knew well
that Tom was not one to see himself tamely set aside. There were
difficulties ahead for these two women, and the future of his son
lay like a load upon his spirit.
"I would speak with Tom," he said, after a brief pause, during
which Rachel administered a draught of the cordial which did most
to support the failing strength of the dying man. Just at this
moment the lamp of life seemed to be glowing with fresh strength.
It was but the last flicker before extinction, and the wife knew
it, but Rachel experienced a glow of hope that perhaps it might
mean a temporary improvement.
"I will go and see if he has come," she said. "Perchance they have
found and brought him by now."
She glided from the room, just giving one backward glance in so
doing, when the expression on her mother's face brought a quick
spasm of pain to her heart. There was a strange conflict of feeling
going on within her, as she trod the corridor with swift steps, and
passed rapidly down into the hall beneath.
This hall was a great square place, with a glowing fire
illuminating it, the dancing shadows falling grotesquely upon the
pictured Tuftons that lined the walls, and upon the weapons which
hung, together with trophies of game, between them. In the centre
of the hall was an oak table, heavily carved about the legs, and at
this table stood a tall, broad-shouldered young man, clad in the
stout leathern breeches and full coat of the period, tossing off a
steaming tankard of some spirituous liquor, although the flush on
his face, and the slightly unsteady way in which he held the
vessel, seemed to indicate that he stood in no further need of
strong drink.
Rachel came swiftly down the staircase, her footfall making
scarcely any sound upon the shallow polished steps.
"Tom!" she exclaimed, in a voice full of repressed feeling, "how
can you delay drinking here, when your father upstairs is dying,
and is asking for you?"
"Dying, quotha!" returned the young man, with a foolish laugh;
"methinks I have heard that tale somewhat too often to be scared by
it now, sweet sister!" and he patted her shoulder with a gesture
from which she instinctively recoiled.
"Tom, have you no heart? He will not last the night through. Got
you not our messages, sent hours ago? How can you show yourself so
careless--so cruel? But tarry no longer now you are here. He has
asked for you twice. Take care lest you dally too long!"
Something in Rachel's face and in her manner of speaking seemed to
make an impression upon the young roisterer. Tom was not drunk,
although he had been spending the day with comrades who seasoned
every sentence with an oath, and flavoured every pastime with
strong drink. A man with a weaker head might have been overcome by
the libations in which he had indulged, but Tom was a seasoned
vessel by that time, and he could stand a good deal.
He was in a noisy and reckless mood, but he had the command of his
faculties. He saw that his sister was speaking with conviction, and
he prepared to do her bidding.
At the same time, Tom was not seriously alarmed about his father.
The Squire's long illness had bred in him a sort of disbelief in
any fatal termination. He had made up his mind that women and
doctors were all fools together, and frightened themselves for
nothing. He had resolved against letting himself be scared by their
long faces and doleful prognostications, and had gone on in his
wonted courses with reckless bravado. He was not altogether an
undutiful son. He had some affection for both father and mother.
But his affection was not strong enough to keep him from following
out his own wishes. He had long been a sort of leader amongst the
young men of the place and neighbourhood, and he enjoyed the
reputation he held of being a daring young blade, not far inferior
in prowess and recklessness to those young bloods about town,
reports of whose doings sometimes reached the wilds of Essex,
stirring up Tom Tufton's ambition to follow in their wake.
He always declared that he meant no harm, and did no harm, to any.
The natives of the place were certainly proud of him, even if they
sometimes fell to rating and crying shame upon him. He knew his
popularity; he knew that he had a fine figure and a handsome face;
he knew that he had the sort of address which carried him through
his scrapes and adventures with flying colours. He found the world
a pleasant place, and saw no reason why he should not enjoy himself
in his own way whilst he was young. Some day he would marry and
sober down, and live as his fathers had done before him; but,
meantime, he meant to have his fling.
There were other Tuftons who had done the like before him, as his
father knew to his cost. Several times had the estate been sadly
impoverished by the demands made upon it by some of the wild
younger brothers, who had bequeathed (as it seemed) their
characteristics to this young scion, Tom. The Squire himself had
been living with great economy, that he might pay off a mortgage
which had been contracted by his own father, in order to save the
honour of the family, which had been imperilled by the extravagance
of his brother.
Tom never troubled himself about these things. He cared little how
his father scraped and saved, if he had but money in his pockets
sufficient for the needs of the day. Extravagance in money was less
Tom's foible than recklessness in his exploits, and a daring
disregard of authority. No doubt he would have made away with money
had he possessed it; but as everybody knew that he did not possess
a long purse, and that the Squire would not be likely to pay his
son's debts of honour, he was saved from the temptation of plunging
deeply into debt. People did not care to trust him too far.
So, as he climbed the shallow stairs three at once, he told himself
that his father had no need to speak severely to him. He had only
been as other young men, and had not got into serious debt or
trouble. Tom had almost persuaded himself, in fact, that he had
been on the whole a very estimable sort of youth, and he entered
the sick room with something of a swaggering air, as much as to say
that he had no cause for shame.
But at the sight which greeted his eyes, as they met those of the
sick man, a sobering change came over him. He had seen death
sometimes, and the sight of it had always painfully affected him.
He hated to be brought up short, as it were, and forced to see the
serious, the solemn, the awe inspiring in life. He wanted to live
in the present; he did not want to be forced to face the inevitable
future.
"Tom," said his father's voice, in weak but distinct accents, "you
have come, and it is well. I have things to say to you which may
not longer be delayed. Take that chair beside me. I would see your
face once again."
Tom would far rather have lingered in the shadows of the
background; but his mother had risen and motioned him to take her
place. He sat down rather awkwardly; and mother and daughter,
without leaving the room, retired to the background, and sat
together upon a distant settle, holding each other by the hand.
"Tom," said the dying man, "I have sent for you because there are
things which I would rather you should hear from my lips than learn
from others after my death."
"Oh, you will not die yet, father; you will be better soon," said
Tom uneasily, letting his glance wander restlessly round the room
to avoid the searching gaze of those luminous eyes.
"Life and death are in God's hands, boy; and I think my summons has
come. Tom, have you been counting upon being master here when I am
gone?"
"I don't know that I ever thought much about it," answered Tom,
rather taken aback; "but I suppose I come after you."
"Yes, Tom, you come after me; but not immediately. I have so
settled my affairs that your mother remains here and administers
the estate until you are five and twenty--that will be three years
hence. By that time the burdens will be cleared away--and I fear
you would never clear them off were you in power. By that time it
will be possible for you to come and live here (I trust a wiser and
a better man), whilst the estate can bear the charge upon it of a
sufficient income to be paid to your mother and sister to live in
comfort at Little Gables, which has been willed absolutely to your
mother and to Rachel after her. At present the estate could not
bear that drain--unless only to get into fresh difficulties; but
three more years will put things right. During those three years,
Tom, you will not be master of Gablehurst. You will have no more
power than you have had in my lifetime. But I hope and trust you
will be a dutiful son to your mother, and will cause her no
heart-breaking anxieties, and oppose no vexatious obstacles to her
management of the estate."
It cannot be denied that Tom was taken aback at this. He had
naturally supposed that he would succeed to his father's position
as squire of Gablehurst without let or hindrance; and it was a
decided blow to him to feel that he was still to occupy a
subordinate position, squire only in name. It was all very well
when his father lived--that was right and natural enough--but to
see his mother ruling, and himself submitting to her rule!--that
was a thing he had not bargained for. He felt as though he would be
the laughing-stock of all his friends.
The father saw the look upon his face, and it pained him.
"You do not like the arrangement, Tom; and yet I know it is the
best which can be made."
"Oh yes, in a way. I see what you mean. I don't understand scraping
and paring myself; yet, of course, it will be best to get the
mortgage paid off once and for all. I can see that well enough. But
I confess it will be poor fun living at Gablehurst as a little boy
tied to his mother's apron strings. I would rather go away
altogether, and see the world for myself."
"Well, Tom," answered the father in the same low, even tones, "your
mother and I have sometimes asked ourselves seriously whether you
might not do better away from home; whether it might not be the
best thing we could do for you to sever you from your present
companions, and see if you could not find better ones elsewhere."
"I have no fault to find with my friends," said Tom quickly.
"No, my son, I fear not. But we have much to complain of."
"I don't see what!" cried young Tom rather hotly.
"That is the worst of it. Did you see greater harm, our anxieties
would be less. But what are we to think of these cruel sports in
which you indulge, these scenes of vice and drunkenness where you
are constantly found? Even the Sabbath is not sacred to you. What
is this story we hear of you--that no girl may even go to church
without paying 'Tom Tufton's toll' at the lych gate?"
Tom broke into a sudden laugh.
"They like that toll well enough, father, I can tell you; else they
could go round the other way. Why, you yourself salute the farmers'
little wenches on the cheek sometimes--I have seen you do it; and
why not I the older ones?"
The Squire looked at his son with mournful intensity of gaze.
"Tom, Tom, I think sometimes that thou dost err more from
thoughtlessness than from wickedness; but, my son, thoughtlessness,
if carried to excess, may become wickedness, and may breed vice. I
verily believe that in half thy pranks thou dost mean no great
harm; but thou art growing to man's estate, Tom. It is time that
thou didst put away childish things. What is pardoned to youth, may
not so easily be pardoned to manhood. Have a care, Tom, have a
care! Oh, my son, remember that the day will come when thou too
must lie face to face with death, even as I do tonight. Let not the
record upon which thou wilt then look be one of vice and
profligacy. It needs must be that in such a moment our lives seem
deeply stained by sin; but strive so to live that thou mayest at
least be able to say, 'I have striven to do my duty--the Lord
pardon all my imperfections!' For, Tom, if thou dost persevere in
careless and evil courses, it may be that the power to ask the
Lord's forgiveness may pass from thee; and if it comes to such a
pass, may the Lord have mercy upon thy wretched soul!"
The dying man stopped short, a spasm of suffering passing over his
face. The thought had been a terrible one to him. Yet he had been
bred up in the somewhat stern Puritan tenets, and it was not in his
creed to speak so much of the everlasting mercy as the everlasting
judgment.
Tom put the cup of cordial to his father's lips, himself somewhat
sobered by the words heard and the visions called up. He was
neither callous nor hard-hearted; and his father was dying. In that
moment he really longed to turn over a new leaf, and cut adrift
from former temptations.
"Then, father, let me go," he said; "let me try afresh in a new
place. I could not do it here perhaps; but I think I could
elsewhere."
"If that be so, my son, then thou hadst better go," said the dying
man. "I would that thou couldst have remained to be the stay and
support of thy mother; but if not, then it may be thou wilt be
better elsewhere. I have thought often of this. I and thy mother
have talked it over many times. I have even made provision for it,
as she will tell thee and show thee. But, Tom, if thou go hence,
linger not in London, where, I fear me, thou wouldst soon be ruined
body and soul. There be stirring things passing in the great world
beyond the seas. Take ship, and go and see some of these things.
Linger not in idleness in the haunts of vice. The world is a bigger
place than thou canst know. Go forth and see it, and learn and find
thy manhood's strength."
Tom's eyes glistened at the thought. It had never occurred to him
as possible to leave his native place. Now it suddenly seemed as
though a new life were opening out before him.
"Where shall I go, father?" he asked.
The Squire was silent for a while. He had exhausted himself by the
energy with which he had spoken hitherto. When next he opened his
lips his words came more slowly and languidly.
"If I were in your place, boy, I should go forth and see what is
doing at the seat of war. I love not war for its own sake. It is a
cruel and terrible thing. Yet there be times when it becomes a
righteous thing; and methinks England is doing right to ally
herself with the foes of France to crush the tyranny of that proud
nation, whose king would fain be monarch of all Europe if he could.
I know not whether men untrained to arms may enlist themselves in
the ranks of the great Duke of Marlborough, whose genius is winning
renown for England's sons. But were I young, methinks I would go
forth and see some of the great things that are doing in the world;
and it might well be that a fine grown young fellow, with stalwart
limbs, a firm seat on a horse, and a knowledge of sword play and
the use of firearms, might even find a place in the ranks of the
great general. Whether or not, he would see life as he had never
seen it before, and learn lessons which might make a man of him all
his life."
The prospect was attractive and exciting for Tom, who loved a fight
as he loved nothing else, and who had a very exalted idea of his
own prowess and skill in arms. He could wrestle and throw better
than any antagonist he had ever met, and was no novice with pistol
or sword. He had the good opinion of his powers which naturally
came to one who had seldom or never found his match in his native
place; and already in imagination he saw himself riding at the head
of a troop of soldiers, and winning laurels on all sides by his
bravery and address.
The Squire's voice had sunk into the silence of exhaustion. He had
closed his eyes, and only opened them again after a long interval.
Their glance met that of young Tom, and the father seemed to read
something of what was passing in his mind.
"Tom, lad," he said feebly, reaching forth his hand and trying to
grasp the great horny fist of his son, "strive to be humble. Think
not too well of thyself. Seek counsel from God in all things. Be
not wise in thine own eyes. If thou art self willed, vain, and
headstrong, grief and pain will be thy lot. Seek first the kingdom
of heaven and its righteousness--"
But here the voice failed; and Tom, his quick nature touched and
sobered, rose hastily, and, with a muttered promise of quick
return, threw himself out of the room, as though afraid to trust
himself there longer. He was such a stranger to keen emotion, that
he fled from before it with a sense of dread.
The wife came back to her husband's bedside. He looked into her
face and said, faintly:
"The lad hath yet a warm heart."
"I have always felt that," she answered quickly. "But oh, my
husband, why send him forth to the perils of war?"
"In the hope that the stern discipline of a soldier's life may fit
him for the duties which will be his at home. The lad needs above
all things to learn to obey. Till he has mastered the lesson of
submission, he can never be fit to hold the reins of government.
That lesson he will learn most quickly in the life of the camp.
There he will be no great man, but an overgrown boy to be taught
and drilled. Young Tom needs to find his own level. That is what he
never will do at home. He has lorded it over the neighbourhood too
long already."
"But if he leaves us and goes forth into the world, who will care
for his immortal soul?" asked the mother, with tears in her eyes.
"Has he listened to our words of admonition and warning at home?"
asked the Squire, with a strange look in his glazing eyes. "Nay,
wife, I feel as I lie here dying, that the life of the soul is
something we poor frail human creatures must not try too much to
touch. The Spirit of God will work in His own time. We may pray and
weep and plead before God for an erring son, and we believe our
prayers will be answered; but it will be in His time, not in our
own. And time and place are no barriers with Him. He will do for
Tom, I will not doubt it, what we have failed to do with all our
pains and care."
The mother wept silently--for the husband whose life was ebbing
away; for the son over whose heart she seemed to have so little
control; for herself, soon to be left alone in the world, with only
her daughter for her prop and stay. She was not a weak or helpless
creature. She had been in her husband's confidence, and had been
his helpmeet throughout their married life. She was well able to
carry on single-handed the course of action he had pursued through
his long rule at Gablehurst; yet not the less for this did she feel
the desolation of her approaching widowhood; and it seemed an
additional sorrow (although she recognized its necessity) that Tom
was also to be taken from her.
A mother's love for her only son is a very sacred and compelling
thing. Tom had not been a comfort or support to his parents; he was
likely, if he remained, to be a source of endless trouble to his
mother during her reign at the old house; yet none the less did it
seem to her a heart-breaking thing to have to part from him.
The light about them grew more dim as the fire burned with a steady
glow instead of with dancing flames. Rachel had lighted a lamp, yet
it did little to illumine the great room. The sick man lay as
though asleep.
Presently the mother spoke in a whisper to her daughter.
"Fetch Tom," she said.
Rachel knew what that meant, and her heart beat to suffocation. She
crept from the room, and returned with her brother, and they stood
side by side at one side of the bed, whilst their mother knelt at
the other.
Once the dying man opened his eyes, and looked from one to another
of those about him, though whether he saw them they did not know.
Then his eyes closed, he gave a sigh, and turned upon his pillows.
The Squire of Gablehurst had passed to his last account.