CHANGES.
"I shall never recover her loss. I live only in the hope of rejoining
her THERE."
It has been said that the vows of lovers are ephemeral as characters
written on the sand of the sea-shore. Surely may this also be said of
the regrets mourners give to the departed! For time has a habit of
soothing the deepest sorrow; and the remembrance which is piercing our
hearts so poignantly to-day in a few short months will have lost its
sting.
My father was quite sincere when speaking the above words: meant and
believed them to the very letter. Yet before the spring and summer
flowers had given place to those of autumn, he had taken unto himself
another wife: Mrs. Heriot.
The first intimation of what was in contemplation came to me from
Leah. I had offended her one day; done something wrong, or not done
something right; and she fell upon me with a stern reproach,
especially accusing me of ingratitude.
"After all my care of you, Master Charles--my anxiety and trouble to
keep your clothes nice and make you good! What shall you do when I
have gone away?"
"But you are not going away, Leah."
"I don't know that. We are to have changes here, it seems, and I'm not
sure that they will suit me."
"What changes?" I asked.
She sat at the nursery window, which had the same aspect as the
drawing-room below, darning my socks; I knelt on a chair, looking out.
It was a rainy day, and the drops pattered thickly against the panes.
"Well, there's going to be--some company in the house," said Leah,
taking her own time to answer me. "A _lot_ of them. And I think
perhaps there'll be no room for me."
"Oh, yes there will. Who is it, Leah?"
"I shouldn't wonder but it's those people over yonder," pointing her
long darning-needle in the direction of the dingle.
"There's nothing there but mosses and trees, Leah. No people."
"There _is_ a little farther off," nodded Leah. "There's Mrs. Heriot
and her two children."
"Oh, do you say they are coming here!--do you mean it?" I cried in
ecstasy. "Are they coming for a long visit, Leah?--to have breakfast
here, and dine and sleep? Oh, how glad I am!"
"Ah!" groaned Leah; "perhaps you may be glad just at first; you are
but a little shallow-sensed boy, Charley: but it may turn out for
better, or it may turn out for worse."
To my intense astonishment, she dropped her work, burst into tears,
and threw her hands up to her face. I felt very uncomfortable.
"What is it, Leah?"
"Well, it is that I'm a silly," she answered, looking up and drying
her eyes. "I got thinking of the past, Master Charley, of your dear
mamma, and all that. It _is_ solitary for you here, and perhaps you'll
be happier with some playfellows."
I went on staring at her.
"And look here, Master Charles, don't repeat what I've said; not to
anybody, mind; or perhaps they won't come at all," concluded Leah,
administering a slight shaking by way of enforcing her command.
There came a day--it was in that same week--when everything seemed to
go wrong, as far as I was concerned. I had been at warfare with Leah
in the morning, and was so inattentive (I suppose) at lessons in the
afternoon that papa scolded me, and gave me an extra Latin exercise to
do when they were over, and shut me up in the study until it was
done. Then Leah refused jam for tea, which I wanted; saying that jam
was meant for good boys, not for naughty ones. Altogether I was in
anything but an enviable mood when I went out later into the garden.
The most cruel item in the whole was that I could not see _I_ had been
to blame, but thought everyone else was. The sun had set behind the
trees of the dingle in a red ball of fire as I climbed into my
favourite seat--the fork of the pear-tree. Papa had gone to attend a
vestry meeting; the little bell of the church was tinkling out, giving
notice of the meeting to the parish.
Presently the bell ceased; solitary silence ensued both to eye and
ear. The brightness of the atmosphere was giving place to the shades
of approaching evening; the trees were putting on their melancholy. I
have always thought--I always shall think--that nothing can be more
depressing than the indescribable melancholy which trees in a
solitary spot seem to put on after sunset. All people do not feel
this; but to those who, like myself, see it, it brings a sensation of
loneliness, nay, of _awe_, that is strangely painful.
"Ho-ho! So you are up there again, young Charley!"
The garden-gate had swung back to admit Tom Heriot. In hastening down
from the tree--for he had a way of tormenting me when in it--I somehow
lost my balance and fell on to the grass. Tom shrieked out with
laughter, and made off again.
The fall was nothing--though my ankle ached; but at these untoward
moments a little smart causes a great pain. It seemed to me that I was
smarting all over, inside and out, mentally and bodily; and I sat down
on the bench near the bed of shrubs, and burst into tears.
Sweet shrubs were they. Lavender and rosemary, old-man and
sweet-briar, marjoram and lemon-thyme, musk and verbena; and others,
no doubt. Mamma had had them all planted there. She would sit with me
where I was now sitting alone, under the syringa trees, and revel in
the perfume. In spring-time those sweet syringa blossoms would
surround us; she loved their scent better than any other. Bitterly I
cried, thinking of all this, and of her.
Again the gate opened, more gently this time, and Mrs. Heriot came in
looking round. "Thomas," she called out--and then she saw me.
"Charley, dear, has Tom been here? He ran away from me.--Why, my dear
little boy, what is the matter?" For she had seen the tears falling.
They fell faster than ever at the question. She came up, sat down on
the bench, and drew my face lovingly to her. I thought then--I think
still--that Mrs. Heriot was one of the kindest, gentlest women that
ever breathed. I don't believe she ever in her whole life said a sharp
word to anyone.
Not liking to tell of my naughtiness--which I still attributed to
others--or of the ignominious fall from the pear-tree, I sobbed forth
something about mamma.
"If she had not gone away and left me alone," I said, "I should never
have been unhappy, or--or cried. People were not cross with me when
she was here."
"My darling, I know how lonely it is for you. Would you like me to
come here and be your mamma?" she caressingly whispered.
"You could not be that," I dissented. "Mamma's up there."
Mrs. Heriot glanced up at the evening sky. "Yes, Charley, she is up
there, with God; and she looks down, I feel sure, at you, and at what
is being done for you. If I came home here I should try to take care
of you as she would have done. And oh, my child, I should love you
dearly."
"In her place?" I asked, feeling puzzled.
"In her place, Charley. _For her._"
Tom burst in at the gate again. He began telling his stepmother of my
fall as he danced a war-dance on the grass, and asked me how many of
my legs and wings were broken.
* * * * *
They came to the Rectory: Mrs. Heriot--she was Mrs. Strange then--and
Tom and Baby. After all, Leah did not leave. She grew reconciled to
the new state of things in no time, and became as fond of the children
as she was of me. As fond, at least, of Tom. I don't know that she
ever cared heartily for Blanche: the little lady had a haughty face,
and sometimes a haughty way with her.
We were all as happy as the day was long. Mrs. Strange indulged us
all. Tom was a dreadful pickle--it was what the servants called him;
but they all adored him. He was a handsome, generous, reckless boy,
two years older than myself in years, twice two in height and
advancement. He teased Leah's life out of her; but the more he teased,
the better she liked him. He teased Blanche, he teased me; though he
would have gone through fire and water for either of us, ay, and laid
down his life any moment to save ours. He was everlastingly in
mischief indoors or out. He called papa "sir" to his face, "the
parson" or "his reverence" behind his back. There was no taming Tom
Heriot.
For a short time papa took Tom's lessons with mine. But he found it
would not answer. Tom's guardians wrote to beg of the Rector to
continue to undertake him for a year or two, offering a handsome
recompense in return. But my father wrote word back that the lad
needed the discipline of school and must have it. So to school Tom was
sent. He came home in the holidays, reckless and random, generous and
loving as ever, and we had fine times together, the three of us
growing up like brothers and sister. Of course, I was not related to
them at all: and they were only half related to each other.
Rather singularly, Thomas Heriot's fortune was just as much as mine:
six thousand pounds: and left in very much the same way. The
interest, three hundred a year, was to maintain and educate him for
the army; and he would come into the whole when he was twenty-one.
Blanche had less: four thousand pounds only, and it was secured in the
same way as Tom's was until she should be twenty-one, or until she
married.
And thus about a couple of years went on.
* * * * *
No household was ever less given to superstition than ours at White
Littleham Rectory. It never as much as entered the mind of any of its
inmates, from its master downwards. And perhaps it was this complete
indifference to and disbelief in the supernatural that caused the
matter to be openly spoken of by the Rector. I have since thought so.
It was Christmas-tide, and Christmas weather. Frost and snow covered
the ground. Icicles on the branches glittered in the sunshine like
diamonds.
"It is the jolliest day!" exclaimed Tom, dashing into the
breakfast-room from an early morning run half over the parish.
"People are slipping about like mad, and the ice is inches thick on
the ponds. Old Joe Styles went right down on his back."
"I hope he was not hurt, Tom," remarked papa, coming down from his
chamber into the room in time to hear the last sentence.
"Good-morning, my boys."
"Oh, it was only a Christmas gambol, sir," said Tom carelessly.
We sat down to breakfast. Leah came in to see to me and Tom. The
Rector might be--and was--efficient in his parish and pulpit, but a
more hopelessly incapable man in a domestic point of view the world
never saw. Tom and I should have come badly off had we relied upon him
to help us, and we might have gobbled up every earthly thing on the
table without his saying yea or nay. Leah, knowing this, stood to pour
out the coffee. Mrs. Strange had gone away to London on Wednesday (the
day after Christmas Day) to see an old aunt who was ill, and had taken
Blanche with her. This was Friday, and they were expected home again
on the morrow.
Presently Tom, who was observant in his way, remarked that papa was
taking nothing. His coffee stood before him untouched; some bacon lay
neglected on his plate.
"Shall I cut you some thin bread and butter, sir?" asked Leah.
"Presently," said he, and went on doing nothing as before.
"What are you thinking of, papa?"
"Well, Charley, I--I was thinking of my dream," he answered. "I
suppose it _was_ a dream," he went on, as if to himself. "But it was a
curious one."
"Oh, please tell it us!" I cried. "I dreamt on Christmas night that I
had a splendid plum-cake, and was cutting it up into slices."
"Well--it was towards morning," he said, still speaking in a dreamy
sort of way, his eyes looking straight out before him as if he were
recalling it, yet evidently seeing nothing. "I awoke suddenly with the
sound of a voice in my ear. It was your mamma's voice, Charley; your
own mother's; and she seemed to be standing at my bedside. 'I am
coming for you,' she said to me--or seemed to say. I was wide awake in
a moment, and knew her voice perfectly. Curious, was it not, Leah?"
Leah, cutting bread and butter for Tom, had halted, loaf in one hand,
knife in the other.
"Yes, sir," she answered, gazing at the Rector. "Did you _see_
anything, sir?"
"No; not exactly," he returned. "I was conscious that whoever spoke to
me, stood close to my bedside; and I was also conscious that the
figure retreated across the room towards the window. I cannot say that
I absolutely saw the movement; it was more like some unseen presence
in the room. It was very odd. Somehow I can't get it out of my
head---- Why, here's Mr. Penthorn!" he broke off to say.
Mr. Penthorn had opened the gate, and was walking briskly up the path.
He was our doctor; a gray-haired man, active and lively, and very
friendly with us all. He had looked in, in passing back to the
village, to tell the Rector that a parishioner, to whom he had been
called up in the night, was in danger.
"I'll go and see her," said papa. "You'd be none the worse for a cup
of coffee, Penthorn. It is sharp weather."
"Well, perhaps I shouldn't," said he, sitting down by me, while Tom
went off to the kitchen for a cup and saucer. "Sharp enough--but
seasonable. Is anything amiss with you, Leah? Indigestion again?"
This caused us to look at Leah. She was whiter than the table-cloth.
"No, sir; I'm all right," answered Leah, as she took the cup from
Tom's hand and began to fill it with coffee and hot milk. "Something
that the master has been telling us scared me a bit at the moment,
that's all."
"And what was that?" asked the Doctor lightly.
So the story had to be gone over again, papa repeating it rather more
elaborately. Mr. Penthorn was sceptical, and said it was a dream.
"I have just called it a dream," assented my father. "But, in one
sense, it was certainly not a dream. I had not been dreaming at all,
to my knowledge; have not the least recollection of doing so. I woke
up fully in a moment, with the voice ringing in my ears."
"The voice must have been pure fancy," declared Mr. Penthorn.
"That it certainly was not," said the Rector. "I never heard a voice
more plainly in my life; every tone, every word was distinct and
clear. No, Penthorn; that someone spoke to me is certain; the puzzle
is--who was it?"
"Someone must have got into your room, then," said the Doctor,
throwing his eyes suspiciously across the table at Tom.
Leah turned sharply round to face Tom. "Master Tom, if you played
this trick, say so," she cried, her voice trembling.
"I! that's good!" retorted Tom, as earnestly as he could speak. "I
never got out of bed from the time I got into it. Wasn't likely to. I
never woke up at all."
"It was not Tom," interposed papa. "How could Tom assume my late
wife's voice? It _was_ her voice, Penthorn. I had never heard it since
she left us; and it has brought back all its familiar tones to my
memory."
The Doctor helped himself to some bread and butter, and gave his head
a shake.
"Besides," resumed the Rector, "no one else ever addressed me as she
did--'Eustace.' I have not been called Eustace since my mother died,
many years ago, except by her. My present wife has never called me by
it."
That was true. Mrs. Strange had a pet name for him, and it was
"Hubby."
"'I am coming for you, Eustace,' said the voice. It was her voice; her
way of speaking. I can't account for it at all, Penthorn. I can't get
it out of my head, though it sounds altogether so ridiculous."
"Well, I give it up," said Mr. Penthorn, finishing his coffee. "If you
_were_ awake, Strange, someone must have been essaying a little
sleight-of-hand upon you. Good-morning, all of you; I must be off to
my patients. Tom Heriot, don't you get trying the ponds yet, or maybe
I shall have you on my hands as well as other people."
We gave it up also: and nothing more was said or thought of it, as far
as I know. We were not, I repeat, a superstitious family. Papa went
about his duties as usual, and Leah went about hers. The next day,
Saturday, Mrs. Strange and Blanche returned home; and the cold grew
sharper and the frozen ponds were lovely.
On Monday afternoon, the last day of the year, the Rector mounted old
Dobbin, to ride to the next parish. He had to take a funeral for the
incumbent, who was in bed with gout.
"Have his shoes been roughed?" asked Tom, standing at the gate with me
to watch the start.
"Yes; and well roughed too, Master Tom," spoke up James, who had lived
with us longer than I could remember, as gardener, groom, and general
man-of-all-work. "'Tisn't weather, sir, to send him out without being
rough-shod."
"You two boys had better get to your Latin for an hour, and prepare it
for me for to-morrow; and afterwards you may go to the ponds," said my
father, as he rode away. "Good-bye, lads. Take care of yourself,
Charley."
"Bother Latin!" said Tom. "I'm going off now. Will you come,
youngster?"
"Not till I've done my Latin."
"You senseless young donkey! Stay, though; I must tell the mamsie
something."
He made for the dining-room, where Mrs. Strange sat with Blanche.
"Look here, mamsie," said he; "let us have a bit of a party
to-night."
"A party, Tom!" she returned.
"Just the young Penthorns and the Clints."
"Oh, do, mamma!" I cried, for I was uncommonly fond of parties. And
"Do, mamma!" struck in little Blanche.
My new mother rarely denied us anything; but she hesitated now.
"I think not to-night, dears. You know we are going to have the
school-treat tomorrow evening, and the servants are busy with the
cakes and things. They shall come on Wednesday instead, Tom."
Tom laughed. "They _must_ come to-night, mamsie. They _are_ coming. I
have asked them."
"What--the young Penthorns?"
"_And_ the young Clints," said Tom, clasping his stepmother, and
kissing her. "They'll be here on the stroke of five. Mind you treat us
to plenty of tarts and cakes, there's a good mamsie!"
Tom went off with his skates. I got to my books. After that, some
friends came to call, and the afternoon seemed to pass in no time.
"It is hardly worth while your going to the ponds now, Master
Charles," said Leah, meeting me in the passage, when I was at last at
liberty.
In looking back I think that I must have had a very obedient nature,
for I was ever willing to listen to orders or suggestions, however
unpalatable they might be. Passing through the back-door, the nearest
way to the square pond, to which Tom had gone, I looked out. Twilight
was already setting in. The evening star twinkled in a clear, frosty
sky. The moon shone like a silver shield.
"Before you could get to the square pond, Master Charley, it would be
dark," said Leah, as she stood beside me.
"So it would," I assented. "I think I'll not go, Leah."
"And I'm sure you don't need to tire yourself for to-night," went on
Leah. "There'll be romping enough and to spare if those boys and girls
come."
I went back to the parlour. Leah walked to the side gate, wondering
(as she said afterwards) what had come to the milkman, for he was
generally much earlier. As she stood looking down the lane, she saw
Tom stealing up.
"He has been in some mischief," decided Leah. "It's not like _him_ to
creep up in that timorous fashion. Good patience! Why, the lad must
have had a fright; his face is white as death."
"Leah!" said the boy, shrinking as he glanced over his shoulder.
"Leah!"
"Well, what on earth is it?" asked Leah, feeling a little dread
herself. "What have you been up to at that pond? You've not been in it
yourself, I suppose!"
"Papa--the parson--is lying in the road by the triangle, all pale and
still. He does not move."
Whenever Master Tom Heriot saw a chance of scaring the kitchen with a
fable, he plunged into one. Leah peered at him doubtfully in the
fading light.
"I think he is dead. I'm sure he is," continued Tom, bursting into
tears.
This convinced Leah. She uttered a faint cry.
"We took that way back from the square pond; I, and Joe and Bertie
Penthorn. They were going home to get ready to come here. Then we saw
something lying near the triangle, close to that heap of flint-stones.
It was _him_, Leah. Oh! what is to be done? I can't tell mamma, or
poor Charley."
James ran up, all scared, as Tom finished speaking. He had found
Dobbin at the stable-door, without sign or token of his master.
Even yet I cannot bear to think of that dreadful night. We _had_ to be
told, you see; and Leah lost no time over it. While Tom came home with
the news, Joe Penthorn had run for his father, and Bertie called to
some labourers who were passing on the other side of the triangle.
He was brought home on a litter, the men carrying it, Mr. Penthorn
walking by its side. He was not dead, but quite unconscious. They put
a mattress on the study-table, and laid him on it.
He had been riding home from the funeral. Whether Dobbin, usually so
sure-footed and steady, had plunged his foot into a rut, just glazed
over by the ice, and so had stumbled; or whether something had
startled him and caused him to swerve, we never knew. The Rector had
been thrown violently, his head striking the stones.
Mr. Penthorn did not leave the study. Two other surgeons, summoned in
haste from the neighbouring town, joined him. They could do nothing
for papa--_nothing_. He never recovered consciousness, and died during
the night--about a quarter before three o'clock.
"I knew he would go just at this time, sir," whispered Leah to Mr.
Penthorn as he was leaving the house and she opened the front-door for
him. "I felt sure of it when the doctors said he would not see morning
light. It was just at the same hour that he had his call, sir, three
nights ago. As sure as that he is now lying there dead, as sure as
that those stars are shining in the heavens above us, _that was his
warning_."
"Nonsense, Leah!" reproved Mr. Penthorn sharply.
* * * * *
Chances and changes. The world is full of them. A short time and White
Littleham Rectory knew us no more. The Reverend Eustace Strange was
sleeping his last sleep in the churchyard by his wife's side, and the
Reverend John Ravensworth was the new Rector.
Tom Heriot went back to school. I was placed at one chosen for me by
my great-uncle, Mr. Serjeant Stillingfar. Leah Williams left us to
take service in another family, who were about to settle somewhere on
the Continent. She could not speak for emotion when she said good-bye
to me.
"It must be for years, Master Charles, and it may be for ever," she
said, taking, I fancy, the words from one of the many favourite
ditties, martial or love-lorn, she treated us to in the nursery. "No,
we may never meet again in this life, Master Charles. All the same, I
hope we shall."
And meet we did, though not for years and years. And it would no doubt
have called forth indignation from Leah had I been able to foretell
how, when that meeting came in after-life, she would purposely
withhold her identity from me and pass herself off as a stranger.
Mrs. Strange went to London, Blanche with her, to take up for the
present her abode with her old aunt, who had invited her to do so. She
was little, if any, better off in this second widowhood than she had
been as the widow of Colonel Heriot. What papa had to leave he left to
her; but it was not much. I had my own mother's money. And so we were
all separated again; all divided: one here, another there, a third
elsewhere. It is the way of the world. Change and chance! chance and
change!