Spring sunshine, bright and warm to-day, lay on Timberdale. Herbert
Tanerton, looking sick and ill, sat on a bench on the front lawn,
holding an argument with his wife, shielded from outside gazers by the
clump of laurel-trees. We used to say the Rector's illnesses were all
fancy and temper; but it seemed to be rather more than that now. Worse
tempered he was than ever; Jack's misfortunes and Jack's conduct annoyed
him. During the past winter Jack had taken some employment at the
Liverpool Docks, in connection with the Messrs. Freeman's ships.
Goodness knew of what description it was, Herbert would say, turning
up his nose.
A day or two ago Jack made his appearance again at the Rectory; had
swooped down upon it without warning or ceremony, just as he had in the
autumn. Herbert did not approve of that. He approved still less of the
object which had brought Jack at all. Jack was tired of the Liverpool
Docks; the work he had to do was not congenial to him; and he had now
come to Timberdale to ask Robert Ashton to make him his bailiff. Not
being able to take a farm on his own account, Jack thought the next best
thing would be to take the management of one. Robert Ashton would be
parting with his bailiff at Midsummer, and Jack would like to drop into
the post. Anything much less congenial to the Rector's notions, Jack
could hardly have pitched upon.
"I can see what it is--Jack is going to be a thorn in my side for ever,"
the Rector was remarking to his wife, who sat near him, doing some
useful work. "He never had any idea of the fitness of things. A bailiff,
now!--a servant!"
"I wish you would let him take a farm, Herbert--lend him the money to
stock one."
"I know you do; you have said so before."
Grace sighed. But when she had it on her conscience to say a thing she
said it.
"Herbert, you know--you know I have never thought it fair that we should
enjoy all the income we do; and----"
"What do you mean by 'fair'?" interrupted Herbert. "I only enjoy my
own."
"Legally it is yours. Rightly, a large portion of it ought to be Jack's.
It does not do us any good, Herbert, this superfluous income; you only
put it by. It does not in the slightest degree add to our enjoyment of
life."
"Do be quiet, Grace--unless you can talk sense. Jack will get no money
from me. He ought to be at sea. What right had he to give it up? The
_Rose of Delhi_ is expected back now: let him take her again."
"You know why he will not, Herbert. And he must do something for a
living. I wish you would not object to his engaging himself to Robert
Ashton. If----"
"Why don't you wish anything else that's lowering and degrading? You are
as devoid of common sense as he!" retorted the parson, walking away in
a fume.
Matters were in this state when we got back to Crabb Cot; to stop at it
for a longer or a shorter period as fate and the painters at Dyke Manor
would allow. Jack urging Robert Ashton to promise him the bailiffs
post--vacant the next Midsummer; Herbert strenuously objecting to it;
and Robert Ashton in a state of dilemma between the two. He would have
liked well enough to engage John Tanerton: but he did not like to defy
the Rector. When the Squire heard this later, his opinion vacillated,
according to custom: now leaning to Herbert's side, now to Jack's. And
the Fontaines, we found, were in all the bustle of house-moving. Their
own house, Oxlip Grange, being at length ready for them, they were
quitting Maythorn Bank.
"Goodness bless me!" cried the Squire, coming in at dusk from a stroll
he had taken the evening of our arrival. "I never got such a turn in my
life."
"What has given it you, sir?"
"What has given it me, Johnny? why, Sir Dace Fontaine. I never saw any
man so changed," he went on, rubbing up his hair. "He looks like a
ghost, more than a man."
"Is he ill?"
"He must be ill. Sauntering down that narrow lane by Maythorn Bank, I
came upon a tall something mooning along like a walking shadow. I might
have taken it for a shadow, but that it lifted its bent head, and threw
its staring eyes straight into mine--and I protest that a shadowy
sensation crept over myself when I recognized it for Fontaine. You never
saw a face so gloomy and wan. How long is it since we saw him, Johnny?"
"About nine months, I think, sir."
"The man must be suffering from a wasting complaint, or else he has some
secret care that's fretting him to fiddle-strings. Mark my words, all of
you, it is one or the other."
"Dear me!" put in Mrs. Todhetley, full of pity. "I always thought him a
gloomy man. Did you ask him whether he was ill?"
"Not I," said the pater: "he gave me no opportunity. Had I been a
sheriffs-officer with a writ in my hand he could hardly have turned off
shorter. They had moved into the other house that day, he muttered, and
he must lock up Maythorn Bank and be after them."
This account of Sir Dace was in a measure cleared up the next morning.
Who should come in after breakfast but the surgeon, Cole. Talking of
this and that, Sir Dace Fontaine's name came up.
"I am on my way now to Sir Dace; to the new place," cried Cole. "They
went into it yesterday. Might have gone in a month ago, but Sir Dace
made no move to do it. He seems to have no heart left to do anything;
neither heart nor energy."
"I knew he was ill," cried the Squire. "No mistaking that. And now,
Cole, what is it that's the matter with him?"
"He shows symptoms of a very serious inward complaint," gravely answered
Cole. "A complaint that, if it really does set in, must prove fatal. We
have some hopes yet that we shall ward it off. Sir Dace does not think
we shall, and is in a rare fright about himself."
"A fright, is he! That's it, then."
"Never saw any man in such a fright before," went on Cole. "Says he's
going to die--and he does not want to die."
"I said last night the man was like a walking shadow. And there's a kind
of scare in his face."
Cole nodded. "Two or three weeks ago I got a note from him, asking me to
call. I found him something like a shadow, as you observe, Squire. The
cold weather had kept him indoors, and I had not chanced to see him
for some weeks. When Sir Dace told me his symptoms, I suppose I looked
grave. Combined with his wasted appearance, they unpleasantly impressed
me, and he took alarm. 'The truth,' he said, in his arbitrary way: 'tell
me the truth; only that. Conceal nothing.' Well, when a patient adjures
me in a solemn manner to tell the truth, I deem it my duty to do so,"
added Cole, looking up.
"Go on, Cole," cried the Squire, nodding approval.
"I told him the truth, softening it in a degree--that I did not
altogether like some of the symptoms, but that I hoped, with skill and
care, to get him round again. The same day he sent for Darbyshire of
Timberdale, saying we must attend him conjointly, for two heads were
better than one. Two days later he sent for somebody else--no other than
Mr. Ben Rymer."