MY FATHER.
Forth sped Laura Grey's letter to mamma. She was then at Roydon; papa
was with her. The Easter recess had just sent down some distinguished
visitors, who were glad to clear their heads for a few days of the hum
of the Houses and the smell of the river; and my father, although not in
the House, ran down with them. Little Nelly had been his pet, as I was
mamma's.
There was an awkwardness in post-office arrangements between the two
places then, and letters had to make a considerable circuit. There was a
delay of three clear days between the despatch of the letter and the
reply.
I must say a word about papa. He was about the most agreeable and
careless man on earth. There are men whom no fortune could keep out of
debt. A man of that sort seems to me not to have any defined want or
enjoyment, but the horizon of his necessities expands in proportion as
he rises in fortune, and always exceeds the ring-fence of his estate.
What its periphery may be, or his own real wants, signifies very little.
His permanent necessity is always to exceed his revenue.
I don't think my father's feelings were very deep. He was a good-natured
husband, but, I am afraid, not a good one. I loved him better than I
loved mamma. Children are always captivated by gaiety and indulgence. I
was not of an age to judge of higher things, and I never missed the
article of religion, of which, I believe, he had none. Although he lived
so much in society that he might almost be said to have no domestic life
whatever, no man could be simpler, less suspicious, or more easily
imposed upon.
The answer to Miss Grey's letter was the arrival of my father. He was in
passionate grief, and in a state of high excitement. He ran upstairs,
without waiting to take off his hat; but at the door of our darling's
room he hesitated. I did not know he had arrived till I heard him, some
minutes later, walking up and down the room, sobbing. Though he was
selfish, he was affectionate. No one liked to go in to disturb him. She
lay by this time in her coffin. The tint of clay darkened her pretty
features. The angelic beauty that belongs to death is transitory beyond
all others. I would not look at her again, to obscure its glory. She lay
now in her shroud, a forlorn sunken image of decay.
When he came out he talked wildly and bitterly. His darling had been
murdered, he said, by neglect. He upbraided us all round, including
Rebecca Torkill, for our cruel carelessness. He blamed the doctor. He
had no right, in a country where there was but one physician, to go so
far away as fourteen miles, and to stay away so long. He denounced even
his treatment. He ought to have bled her. It was, every one knew, the
proper way of treating such a case.
Than Laura Grey, no one could have been more scrupulously careful. She
could not have prevented, even if she had suspected the possibility of
such a thing, her stealing out of bed now and then to look at her sick
sparrow. All this injustice was, however, but the raving of his grief.
In poor little Nelly's room my father's affectionate nature was
convulsed with sorrow. When he came down I cried with him for a long
time. I think this affliction has drawn us nearer. He was more tender to
me than I ever remembered him before.
At last the ghastly wait and suspense were ended. I saw no more strange
faces in the lobbies; and the strange voices on the stairs and footsteps
in the room, and the muffled sounds that made me feel faint, were heard
no more. The funeral was over, and pretty Nelly was gone for ever and
ever, and I would come in and go out and read my books, and take my
walks alone; and the flowers, and the long summer evenings, and the song
of birds would come again, and the leaves make their soft shadow in the
nooks where we used to sit together in the wood, but gentle little Nelly
would never come again.
During these terrible days, Laura Grey was a sister to me, both in
affection and in sorrow. Oh, Laura, can I ever forget your tender,
patient sympathy? How often my thoughts recall your loved face as I lay
my head upon my lonely pillow, and my blessings follow you over the wide
sea to your far-off home!
Papa took a long solitary ride that day through the warren, and away by
Penruthyn Priory, and did not return till dark.
When he did, he sent for me. I found him in the room which, in the
old-fashioned style, was called the oak parlour. A log-fire--we were
well supplied from the woods in the rear of the house--lighted the room
with a broad pale flicker. My father was looking ill and tired. He was
leaning with his elbow on the mantel-piece, and said:
"Ethel, darling, I want to know what you would like best. We are going
abroad for a little time; it is the only thing for your mamma. This
place would kill her. I shall be leaving this to-morrow afternoon, and
you can make up your mind which you would like best--to come with us and
travel for some months, or to wait here, with Miss Grey, until our
return. You shall do precisely whatever you like best--I don't wish you
to hurry yourself, darling. I'd rather you thought it over at your
leisure."
Then he sat down and talked about other things; and turned about to the
fire with his decanter of sherry by him, and drank a good many glasses,
and leaned back in his chair before he had finished it.
My father, I thought, was dozing, but was not sure; and being a good
deal in awe of him--a natural consequence of seeing so little of him--I
did not venture either to waken him, or to leave the room without his
permission.
There are two doors in that room. I was standing irresolutely near that
which is next the window, when the other opened, and the long whiskers
and good-humoured, sensible face of portly Wynne Williams, the
town-clerk and attorney of Cardyllion, entered. My father awoke, with a
start, at the sound, and seeing him, smiled and extended his hand.
"How d'ye do, Williams? It's so good of you to come. Sit down. I'm off
to-morrow, so I sent you a note. Try that sherry; it is better than I
thought. And now I must tell you, that old scoundrel, Rokestone, is
going to foreclose the mortgage, and they have served one of the tenants
at Darlip with an ejectment; that's more serious; I fancy he means
mischief there also. What do you think?"
"I always thought he might give us annoyance there; but Mandrick's
opinion was with us. Do you wish me to look after that?"
"Certainly. And he's bothering me about that trust."
"I know," said Mr. Wynne Williams, with rather gloomy rumination.
"That fellow has lost me--I was reckoning it up only a day or two
ago--between five and six thousand pounds in mere law costs, beside all
the direct mischief he has done me; and he has twice lost me a seat in
the House--first by maintaining that petition at King's Firkins, a thing
that must have dropped but for his money; he had nothing on earth to do
with it, and no motive but his personal, fiendish feelings; and next by
getting up the contest against me at Shillingsworth, where, you know, it
was ten to one; by Heavens! I should have had a walk over. There is not
an injury that man could do me he has not done. I can prove that he
swore he would strip me of everything I possessed. It is ever so many
years since I saw him--you know all about it--and the miscreant pursues
me still relentlessly. He swore to old Dymock, I'm told, and I believe
it, that he would never rest till he had brought me to a prison. I could
have him before a jury for that. There's some remedy, I suppose, there's
some protection? If I had done what I wished ten years ago, I'd have had
him out; it's not too late yet to try whether pistols can't settle it. I
wish I had not taken advice; in a matter like that, the man who does
always does wrong. I daresay, Williams, you think with me, now it's a
case for cutting the Gordian knot?"
"I should not advise it, sir; he's an old man, and he's not afraid of
what people say, and people know he has fought. He'd have you in the
Queen's Bench, and as his feelings are of that nature, I'd not leave him
the chance--I wouldn't trust him."
"It's not easy to know what one should do--a miscreant like that. I hope
and pray that the curse of----"
My father spoke with a fierce tremble in his voice, and at that moment
he saw me. He had forgotten that I was in the room, and said instantly:
"You may as well run away, dear; Mr. Williams and I have some business
to talk over--and tiresome business it is. Good night, darling."
So away I went, glad of my escape, and left them talking. My father rang
the bell soon, and called for more wine; so I suppose the council sat
till late. I joined Laura Grey, to whom I related all that had passed,
and my decision on the question, which was, to remain with her at
Malory. She kissed me, and said, after a moment's thought:
"But will they think it unkind of you, preferring to remain here?"
"No," I said; "I think I should be rather in the way if I went; and,
besides, I know papa is never high with any one, and really means what
he says; and I should feel a little strange with them. They are very
kind, and love me very much, I know, and so do I love them; but I see
them so little, and you are such a friend, and I don't wish to leave
this place; I like it better than any other in all the world; and I feel
at home with you, more than I could with any one else in the world."
So that point was settled, and next day papa took leave of me very
affectionately; and, notwithstanding his excited language, I heard
nothing more of pistols and Mr. Rokestone. But many things were to
happen before I saw papa again.
I remained, therefore, at Malory, and Laura Grey with me; and the
shadow of Mr. Carmel passed the window every evening, but he did not
come in to see us, as he used. He made inquiries at the door instead,
and talked, sometimes for five minutes together, with Rebecca Torkill. I
was a little hurt at this; I did not pretend to Laura to perceive it;
but in our walks, or returning in the evening, if by chance I saw his
tall, thin, but graceful figure approaching by the same path, I used to
make her turn aside and avoid him by a detour. In so lonely a place as
Malory the change was marked; and there was pain in that neglect. I
would not let him fancy, however, that I wished, any more than he, to
renew our old and near acquaintance.
So weeks passed away, and leafy May had come, and Laura Grey and I were
sitting in our accustomed room, in the evening, talking in our desultory
way.
"Don't you think papa very handsome?" I asked.
"Yes, he is handsome," she answered; "there is something refined as well
as clever in his face; and his eyes are fine; and all that goes a great
way. But many people might think him not actually handsome, though very
good-looking and prepossessing."
"They must be hard to please," I said.
She smiled good-naturedly.
"Mamma fell in love with him at first sight, Rebecca Torkill says," I
persisted, "and mamma was not easily pleased. There was a gentleman who
was wildly in love with her; a man of very old family, Rebecca says, and
good-looking, but she would not look at him when once she had seen
papa."
"I think I heard of that. He is a baronet now; but he was a great deal
older than Mr. Ware, I believe."
"Yes, he was; but Rebecca says he did not look ten years older than
papa, and _he_ was very young indeed then," I answered. "It was well for
mamma she did not like him, for I once heard Rebecca say that he was a
very bad man."
"Did you ever hear of mamma's aunt Lorrimer?" I resumed, after a little
pause.
"Not that I recollect."
"She is very rich, Rebecca says. She has a house in London, but she is
hardly ever there. She's not very old--not sixty. Rebecca is always
wondering whom she will leave her money to; but that don't much matter,
for I believe we have more than we want. Papa says, about ten years ago,
she lived for nothing but society, and was everywhere; and now she has
quite given up all that, and wanders about the Continent."
Our conversation subsided; and there was a short interval in which
neither spoke.
"Why is it, Laura," said I, after this little silence, "that you never
tell me anything about yourself, and I am always telling you everything
I think or remember? Why are you so secret? Why don't you tell me your
story?"
"My story; what does it signify? I suppose it is about an average story.
Some people are educated to be governesses; and some of us take to it
later, or by accident; and we are amateurs, and do our best. The Jewish
custom was wise; every one should learn a mechanic's business. Saint
Paul was a tent-maker. If fortune upsets the boat, it is well to have
anything to lay hold of--anything rather than drowning; an hospital
matron, a companion, a governess, there are not many chances, when
things go wrong, between a poor woman and the workhouse."
"All this means, you will tell me nothing," I said.
"I am a governess, darling. What does it matter what I was? I am happier
with you than ever I thought I could be again. If I had a story that was
pleasant to hear, there is no one on earth I would tell it to so
readily; but my story---- There is no use in thinking over misfortune,"
she continued; "there is no greater waste of time than regretting,
except wishing. I know, Ethel, you would not pain me. I can't talk about
those things; I may another time."
"You shan't speak of them, Laura, unless you wish it. I am ashamed of
having bothered you so," I kissed her. "But, will you tell me one thing,
for I am really curious about it? I have been thinking about that very
peculiar-looking old gentleman, who wore a chocolate-coloured
great-coat, and met us in the Mill Walk, and talked to you, you
remember, on the Sunday we returned from church that way. Now, I want
you to tell me, is that old man's name Rokestone?"
"No, dear, it is not; I don't think he even knows him. But isn't it time
for us to have our tea? Will you not make it, while I put our books up
in the other room?"
So I undertook this office, and was alone.
The window was raised, the evening was warm, and the sun by this time
setting. It was the pensive hour when solitude is pleasant; when grief
is mellowed, and even a thoughtless mind, like mine, is tinged with
melancholy. I was thinking now of our recluse neighbour. I had seen him
pass, as Miss Grey and I were talking. He still despatched those little
notes about the inmates of Malory; for mamma always mentioned, when she
wrote to me, in her wanderings on the Continent, that she had heard from
Mr. Carmel that I was well, and was out every day with my governess, and
so on. I wondered why he had quite given up those little weekly visits,
and whether I could have unwittingly offended him.
These speculations would recur oftener than perhaps was quite consistent
with the disdain I affected on the subject. But people who live in
cities have no idea how large a space in one's thoughts, in a solitude
like Malory, a neighbour at all agreeable must occupy.
I was ruminating in a great arm-chair, with my hand supporting my head,
and my eyes fixed on my foot, which was tapping the carpet, when I heard
the cold, clear voice of Mr. Carmel at the window. I looked up, and my
eyes met his.