Roger Kyffin heard of Major Tryon's death soon after it occurred. He
was afraid that Fanny might be left badly off, and he considered how he
could with the greatest delicacy assist her. He would not intrude on
her grief, but he thought that he might employ some person in the
neighbourhood who would act as agent to take care that she was supplied
with every comfort.
That evening he was travelling down in the mail coach to Lynderton. He
knew his way to the cottage as well as anybody in the place.
Near it was a little inn, to which he had his carpet bag conveyed. Here
he took up his abode. He felt a satisfaction in being near her, but was
nervous lest by any means she should find out that he was in the
neighbourhood. He soon discovered that Dr. Jessop drove by every day
and visited the cottage, and he resolved, therefore, to stop the doctor
and introduce himself as a friend of Mrs. Tryon's family. If he found
him a trustworthy and sensible person, he would employ him as his agent
in affording the assistance he wished to render the widow. He saw him,
and was satisfied that Dr. Jessop was just the person he hoped to find.
"I have had a long round of visits," said the worthy practitioner, "and
would gladly put up my horse at the inn and talk the matter over with
you."
They were soon seated together in the little parlour allotted to Mr.
Kyffin. His wishes were easily explained. "My interesting patient
will, I am sure, feel grateful for the sympathy and assistance of her
unknown friend," said the doctor; "but to be frank with you, Mr. Kyffin,
I fear she will not enjoy it for many years. I believe that her days
are numbered--"
He stopped suddenly, observing Roger Kyffin's countenance.
"My dear sir," he exclaimed, "I was not aware how deeply I was wounding
you, and yet, my friend, it is better to know the truth. You may yet
prove a friend to her boy, and should she be taken away, the poor child
will greatly need one."
It would be difficult to describe the feelings which agitated Roger
Kyffin's kind heart. He had one consolation. He might, as the doctor
suggested, prove a friend and guardian to the orphan boy. The kind
doctor called every day to report on the health of his patient. He
gladly undertook to do all in his power in carrying out Mr. Kyffin's
wishes, and promised not to betray the donor of the money which was to
be placed at Mrs. Tryon's disposal.
Roger Kyffin could with difficulty tear himself away from the
neighbourhood. He received constant communications from Dr. Jessop, who
sent him rather more favourable reports of Mrs. Tryon. Five years
passed by--Mrs. Tryon's mother was dead. She had no wish to leave her
little cottage. Where, indeed, could she go? Her only employment was
that of watching over her little boy. During this time several changes
had taken place in the neighbourhood. Sir Harcourt Tryon died. Though
he must have been aware of his grandson's existence, he had never
expressed any wish to see him. At length the mother caught cold. The
effect was serious. Dr. Jessop became alarmed, and wrote an account of
her state to Mr. Kyffin. She could no longer take Harry out to walk,
and had therefore to send him under charge of a nursemaid.
One day he and his nurse were longer absent than usual. What could have
kept them? The young mother went to the garden-gate several times, and
looked anxiously along the road. She felt the wind very cold. Again
she entered the house. Could she have mistaken the hour? The next time
she threw a shawl over her shoulders, but the cold made her cough
fearfully. At last she saw a female figure in the distance. It was
Susan the nurse, but Harry was not with her. Mrs. Tryon had to support
herself by the gate till the girl came up.
"Where is Harry? where is my child?" she exclaimed.
"I could not help it, ma'am, I did my best to prevent it," answered the
nurse, crying.
Poor Fanny's heart sank within her; her knees trembled.
"Prevent what?" she exclaimed; "what has happened? where is my boy?"
"No harm has come to him, ma'am, though there might have been, but it is
all right now," answered Susan. "We were going on, Master Harry
skipping and playing in front of me, when I saw a carriage coming along
the road very fast. I ran on to catch hold of him, but he darted away
just under the horses' feet. I screamed out, and the coachman pulled
up. An old lady was in the carriage, and putting her head out of the
window she asked what was the matter? Seeing the little boy, she wanted
to know whose child he was. When I told her, she ordered the footman to
lift him into the carriage. She looked at his face as if she was
reading a book, then she kissed him and sat him down by her side. I
begged the lady to let me have him again, as I wanted to come home.
`No,' she said, `go and tell your mistress that his grandmother has
taken him with her, that she is pleased with his looks, and must take
him for a short time.' I knew, ma'am, that you would be vexed, and I
begged the lady again and again to let me have him, but she answered
that he must go with her, and that it would be better for him in the
end."
Poor Mrs. Tryon had been listening with breathless eagerness to this
account of the nursemaid's. Leaning on the girl's arm, she tottered
back to the house, scarcely knowing whether or not she ought to be
thankful that the boy had been seen by his grandmother. One thing she
knew, she longed to press him to her own bosom. She felt, however, weak
and ill. While yet undecided how to act, Dr. Jessop's carriage drove up
to the gate. As he entered the house, she was seized with a fit of
coughing, followed by excessive weakness. As she was leaning back in
the arm-chair, the doctor felt her pulse. As soon as she could speak
she told him what had happened. He looked very grave.
"My dear madam," he said, "I am sorry that her ladyship has carried off
the little boy. If you will give me authority, I will drive on and
bring him back to you. An old friend of yours has come down to this
neighbourhood, and he wishes to see Harry. He has heard that you are
ill, and desires to know from your own lips your wishes with regard to
your boy."
"What do you mean, doctor?" asked the dying lady, looking up with an
inquiring glance at the doctor's face. "The child is so young that I
should not wish to part from him for some years to come."
"My dear lady," said Dr. Jessop, solemnly, "the lives of all of us are
in God's hands. You are suffering from a serious complaint. It would
be cruel in me not to warn you that you are in considerable danger."
"Do you mean to say I'm going to die, doctor--that I must part from my
boy?" gasped out poor Fanny, in a faint voice.
"I should wish you to be prepared, should it be God's will to call you
away," answered the doctor, much moved. "If you will give authority to
your devoted friend, Mr. Roger Kyffin, I am sure he will act the part of
a parent to your boy. I expect him here this evening, and as he wishes
to see Harry, I will drive over to Lady Tryon and request her ladyship
to allow me to bring your boy back to you. Certainly in most cases a
child's grandmother is a proper person to act as guardian, but though I
attend Lady Tryon professionally when she is in the country, I am unable
to express a satisfactory opinion as to her fitness for the task. I
begged my friend Tom Wallis, the solicitor at Lynderton, to ride over
here with Mr. Kyffin; so that should you wish to place your boy under
the legal protection of your old friend, you may be able to do so."
"Surely his grandmother is a proper person to take charge of Harry;
though I have no cause to regard her with affection," said Fanny, in a
faint voice, "yet I could with more confidence consign him to that kind
and generous man, Mr. Kyffin; I will do therefore as he wishes, only
requesting that the boy may be allowed to remain as much as possible
during his childhood with his grandmother."
Poor Fanny! a lingering feeling of pride prompted this resolution. Far
better would it have been, in all human probability, for the boy, had
she committed him entirely to her faithful friend's care, and not
mentioned Lady Tryon. The doctor knew too well that his patient had not
many hours to live. He hurried off to Aylestone Hall, the residence of
Lady Tryon. The old lady expressed herself delighted with the child,
and was very unwilling to part with him. Indeed, though she was told of
her daughter-in-law's dangerous state, she positively refused to give
him up, unless the doctor promised to bring him back again. Harry was
accordingly placed in the doctor's carriage, which drove rapidly back to
Mrs. Tryon's cottage.
"I can give you but little hopes," said the doctor to Roger Kyffin,
whom, in company with Mr. Wallis, he met at the cottage gate.
Roger Kyffin sighed deeply. The little boy flew towards his mother.
She had scarcely strength to bend forward to meet him. The doctor held
him while she pressed him to her bosom.
"May he come in?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," she whispered, "I should be glad to see him before I die; you
were right, doctor, and kind to warn me."
Roger Kyffin entered the room, but his knees trembled, and he could
scarcely command his voice. Fanny thanked him for all his kindness;
"continue it," she said, "to this poor child."
The doctor signed to Mr. Wallis to come forward. He had brought writing
materials. Fanny expressed her wish to place her child under Roger
Kyffin's guardianship. She signed the paper. She evidently wished to
say more, but her voice failed her. It was with difficulty she could
gasp out the last words she had uttered. In vain the doctor
administered a restorative. With her one arm flung round her boy, while
Roger Kyffin held her other hand, her spirit took its departure.
Roger Kyffin would gladly have carried Harry off to London, but no
sooner did Lady Tryon hear of the death of her neglected
daughter-in-law, than, driving over to the cottage, she took Harry with
her back to Aylestone Hall. She directed also that a proper funeral
should be prepared; and at her request several distant members and
connections of the family attended it. Thus Mrs. Tryon was laid to rest
with as much pomp and ceremony as possible, in Lynderton churchyard.
With a sad heart Roger Kyffin returned to London and devoted himself
with even more than his usual assiduity to his mercantile duties.
Aylestone Hall was a red brick building, surrounded by a limited extent
of garden and shrubbery, within half a mile of the town of Lynderton.
The interior, for a country house, had a somewhat gloomy and
unpicturesque aspect. Young Harry felt depressed by the atmosphere, so
different from the cheerful little cottage, with its flower-surrounded
lawn, to which he had been accustomed. He was not drawn either to his
grandmother, though she intended to be kind to him. She treated him
indeed much as a child does a new plaything, constantly fondling it at
first, and then casting it aside uncared for. Harry was also soon
nauseated by the old lady's caresses. He had, too, a natural antipathy
to musk, of which her garments were redolent.
Lady Tryon was a small woman with strongly marked features, decidedly
forbidding at first sight, though she possessed the art of smiling, and
making herself very agreeable to her equals. She could smile especially
very sweetly when she had an object to gain, or wished to be
particularly agreeable; but her countenance could also assume a very
different aspect when she was angry. She had bright grey eyes, which
seemed to look through and through the person to whom she was speaking,
while her countenance, utterly devoid of colour, was wrinkled and
puckered in a curious way. She always wore rouge, and was dressed in
the height of fashion. She very soon discarded her widow's ugly cap,
and the gayest, of colours decked her shrivelled form, the waist almost
close up under the arms, and the dress very low, a shawl being flung
over her shoulders. She could laugh and enjoy a joke, but her voice was
discordant, and even when she wished to be most courteous there was a
want of sincerity in its tone. Lady Tryon had been maid of honour in
her youth to a royal personage, and possessed a fund of anecdote about
the Court, which was listened to with respectful delight by her country
neighbours. She was supposed to have very literary tastes, and to have
read every book in existence. The fact was that she scarcely ever
looked into one, but she picked up a semblance of knowledge, and having
a retentive memory was able to make the most of any information she
obtained. In the same way she had got by heart a large supply of
poetry, which she was very clever in quoting, and as her audience was
not often very critical, any mistakes of which she might have been
guilty were rarely discovered. Her chief talent was in letter-writing,
and she kept up a constant epistolary correspondence with aristocratic
friends. No one could more elegantly turn a compliment or express
sympathy with sorrow and disappointment. She occasionally, too, penned
a copy of verses. If there was not much originality in the lines, the
words were well chosen, and the metre correct. She described herself as
being a warm friend and a bitter enemy. The latter she had undoubtedly
proved herself on more than one occasion; but the warmth of her
friendship depended rather upon the amount of advantage she was likely
to gain by its exhibition than from any sensation of the heart. In
fact, those who knew her best had reason to doubt whether she was
possessed of that article. In reality, its temperature was, without
variation, down at zero. Poor Sir Harcourt, a warmhearted man, had
discovered this fact before he had been very long united to her. She,
however, managed from the first to rule him with a rod of iron, and to
gain her own way in everything. Most fatally had she gained it in the
management of her son, whom she had utterly ruined by her pernicious
system of education. Sir Harcourt endeavoured to make all the excuses
for her in his power.
"She is all mind!" he used to observe. "A delightful woman--such powers
of conversation! We must not expect too much from people! She has a
wonderful command of her feelings: never saw her excited in my life! A
wonderful mind, a wonderful mind has Lady Tryon!"
Lady Tryon had, however, one passion. It absorbed her sufficiently to
make her forget any annoyances. She was fond of play. She would sit up
half the night at cards, and, cool and calculating, she generally
managed to come off winner. Of late years she had not been so
successful. Her mind was not so strong as it was, and all her powers of
calculation had decreased. Still she retained the passion as strong as
ever. In London she had no difficulty in gratifying it, but during her
forced visits to the country she found few people willing to play with
her. At first, her country neighbours were highly flattered at being
invited to her house, but they soon found that they had to pay somewhat
dear for the honour. Still her ladyship, while winning their money, was
so agreeable, and smiled so sweetly, and spoke so softly, that like
flies round the candle, they could not resist the temptation of
frequenting her house. For some years she managed to rule the
neighbourhood with a pretty high hand. There was only one person who
refused to succumb to her blandishments, and of her she consequently
stood not a little in awe. This person was an authoress, not unknown to
fame. She had more than once detected the piracies of which Lady Tryon
had been guilty in her poetical effusions, and could not resist, when
her ladyship spoke of books, asking her in which review she had seen
such and such remarks. Miss Bertrand was young, not pretty, certainly,
but very genuine and agreeable, and possessed of a large amount of
talent. She drew admirably, and her prose and poetical works were
delightful. Lady Tryon looked upon her as a rival, and hated her
accordingly.
Such was the grand-dame under whose care Harry Tryon was to be brought
up. Dr. Jessop was not happy about the matter. He would far rather
that the honest clerk had taken charge of the boy. He resolved,
however, as far as he had the power, to counteract the injudicious
system he discovered that Lady Tryon was pursuing. For this purpose he
won the little fellow's affection, and as he was a constant visitor at
the house in his official capacity, he was able to maintain his
influence. When her ladyship went to town he induced her to allow Harry
to come and stay with him, and on these occasions he never failed to
invite Roger Kyffin down to pay him a visit. The worthy clerk's
holidays were therefore always spent in the neighbourhood of Lynderton.
The two kindly men on these occasions did their best to pluck out the
ill weeds which had been growing up in Master Harry, while under his
grandmother's care. It was, however, no easy task to root them out, and
to sow good seed in their stead. Still, by their means Harry did learn
the difference between good and evil, which, if left to Lady Tryon's
instructions, he certainly would never have done. He also became very
much attached to the old doctor and to his younger friend, and would
take advice from them, which he would receive from no one else. He grew
up a fine, manly boy, with many right and honourable feelings; and
though his mental powers might not have been of a very high order, he
had fair talents, and physically his development was very perfect. Lady
Tryon herself began to teach him to read, and as he showed a
considerable aptitude for acquiring instruction, and gave her no
trouble, she continued the process till he was able to read without
difficulty by himself. She put all sorts of books into his hands, from
which his brain extracted a strange jumble of ideas. He certainly
acquired very good manners from his grandmother, and to the surprise of
the neighbourhood, when he was ten years old there was scarcely a better
behaved boy in Lynderton. Dr. Jessop then suggested that he should be
sent to Winchester School, or some other place of public instruction.
Lady Tryon would not hear of this, though she consented that he should
attend the grammar school at Lynderton. For this the worthy doctor was
not sorry.
"I can look after him the better," he said to himself, "and go on with
the process of pulling up the weeds during her ladyship's absence."
Harry's holidays were generally spent in the country. Twice, however,
his grandmother had him up to London in the winter. On these occasions,
Mr. Kyffin got leave from her ladyship to have him to stay with him part
of the time. Every spare moment of the day was devoted to the lad. He
took him to all the sights of London, and in the evenings contrived for
him variety of amusement. Harry became more and more attached to Mr.
Kyffin, and more ready to listen to his advice, and more anxious to
please him. Thus the boy grew on, gaining mental and physical strength,
though without forming many associates of his own rank in life. His
manners were very good, and his tastes were refined, and this prevented
him associating with the ordinary run of boys at the grammar school.