MR. PROSPER IS TAKEN ILL.
When Harry Annesley returned from Cheltenham, which he did about the
beginning of February, he was a very happy man. It may be said, indeed,
that within his own heart he was more exalted than is fitting for a man
mortal,--for a human creature who may be cut off from his joys to-morrow,
or may have the very source of his joy turned into sorrow. He walked
like a god, not showing it by his outward gesture, not declaring that it
was so by any assumed grace or arrogant carriage of himself; but knowing
within himself that that had happened down at Cheltenham which had all
but divested him of humanity, and made a star of him. To no one else had
it been given to have such feelings, such an assurance of heavenly
bliss, together with the certainty that, under any circumstances, it
must be altogether his own, for ever and ever. It was thus he thought of
himself and what had happened to him. He had succeeded in getting
himself kissed by a young woman.
Harry Annesley was in truth very proud of Florence, and altogether
believed in her. He thought the better of himself because Florence loved
him,--not with the vulgar self-applause of a man who fancies himself to
be a lady-killer and therefore a grand sort of fellow, but in conceiving
himself to be something better than he had hitherto believed, simply
because he had won the heart of this one special girl. During that
half-hour at Cheltenham she had so talked to him, and managed in her own
pretty way so to express herself, as to make him understand that of all
that there was of her he was the only lord and master. "May God do so to
me, and more also, if to the end I do not treat her not only with all
affection, but also with all delicacy of observance." It was thus that
he spoke to himself of her, as he walked away from the door of Mrs.
Mountjoy's house in Cheltenham.
From thence he went back to Buston, and entered his father's house with
all that halo of happiness shining round his heart. He did not say much
about it, but his mother and his sisters felt that he was altered; and
he understood their feelings when his mother said to him, after a day or
two, that "it was a great shame" that they none of them knew his
Florence.
"But you will have to know her--well."
"That's of course; but it's a thousand pities that we should not be able
to talk of her to you as one whom we know already." Then he felt that
they had, among them all, acknowledged her to be such as she was.
There came to the rectory some tidings of the meeting which had taken
place at the Hall between his uncle and Miss Thoroughbung. It was Joe
who brought to them the first account; and then farther particulars
leaked out among the servants of the two houses. Matthew was very
discreet; but even Matthew must have spoken a word or two. In the first
place there came the news that Mr. Prosper's anger against his nephew
was hotter than ever. "Mr. Harry must have put his foot in it somehow."
That had been Matthew's assurance, made with much sorrow to the
house-keeper, or head-servant, at the rectory. And then Joe had declared
that all the misfortunes which had attended Mr. Prosper's courtship had
been attributed to Harry's evil influences. At first this could not but
be a matter of joke. Joe's stories as he told them were full of
ridicule, and had no doubt come to him from Miss Thoroughbung, either
directly or through some of the ladies at Buntingford. "It does seem
that your aunt has been too many for him." This had been said by Molly,
and had been uttered in the presence both of Joe Thoroughbung and of
Harry.
"Why, yes," said Joe. "She has had him under the thong altogether, and
has not found it difficult to flog him when she had got him by the hind
leg." This idea had occurred to Joe from his remembrance of a peccant
hound in the grasp of a tyrant whip. "It seems that he offered her
money."
"I should hardly think that," said Harry, standing up for his uncle.
"She says so; and says that she declared that ten thousand pounds would
be the very lowest sum. Of course she was laughing at him."
"Uncle Prosper doesn't like to be laughed at," said Molly.
"And she did not spare him," said Joe. And then she had by heart the
whole story, how she had called him Peter, and how angry he had been at
the appellation.
"Nobody calls him Peter except my mother," said Harry.
"I should not dream of calling him Uncle Peter," said Molly. "Do you
mean to say that Miss Thoroughbung called him Peter? Where could she
have got the courage?" To this Joe replied that he believed his aunt had
courage for anything under the sun. "I don't think that she ought to
have called him Peter," continued Molly. "Of course after that there
couldn't be a marriage."
"I don't quite see why not," said Joe. "I call you Molly, and I expect
you to marry me."
"And I call you Joe, and I expect you to marry me; but we ain't quite
the same."
"The Squire of Buston," said Joe, "considers himself Squire of Buston. I
suppose that the old Queen of Heaven didn't call Jupiter Jove till
they'd been married at any rate some centuries."
"Well done, Joe," said Harry.
"He'll become fellow of a college yet," said Molly.
"If you'll let me alone I will," said Joe. "But only conceive the kind
of scene there must have been at the house up there when Aunt Matty had
forced her way in among your uncle's slippers and dressing-gowns. I'd
have given a five-pound note to have seen and heard it."
"I'd have given two if it had never occurred. He had written me a letter
which I had taken as a pardon in full for all my offences. He had
assured me that he had no intention of marrying, and had offered to give
me back my old allowance. Now I am told that he has quarrelled with me
again altogether, because of some light word as to me and my concerns
spoken by this vivacious old aunt of yours. I wish your vivacious old
aunt had remained at Buntingford."
"And we had wished that your vivacious old uncle had remained at Buston
when he came love-making to Marmaduke Lodge."
"He was an old fool! and, among ourselves, always has been," said Molly,
who on the occasion thought it incumbent upon her to take the
Thoroughbung rather than the Prosper side of the quarrel.
But, in truth, this renewed quarrel between the Hall and the rectory was
likely to prove extremely deleterious to Harry Annesley's interests. For
his welfare depended not solely on the fact that he was at present heir
presumptive to his uncle, nor yet on the small allowance of two hundred
and fifty pounds made to him by his uncle, and capable of being
withdrawn at any moment, but also on the fact, supposed to be known to
all the world,--which was known to all the world before the affair in the
streets with Mountjoy Scarborough,--that Harry was his uncle's heir. His
position had been that of eldest son, and indeed that of only child to a
man of acres and squire of a parish. He had been made to hope that this
might be restored to him, and at this moment absolutely had in his
pocket the check for sixty-two pounds ten which had been sent to him by
his uncle's agent in payment of the quarter's income which had been
stopped. But he also had a farther letter, written on the next day,
telling him that he was not to expect any repetition of the payment.
Under these circumstances, what should he do?
Two or three things occurred to him. But he resolved at last to keep the
check without cashing it for some weeks, and then to write to his uncle
when the fury of his wrath might be supposed to have passed by, offering
to restore it. His uncle was undoubtedly a very silly man; but he was
not one who could acknowledge to himself that he had done an unjust act
without suffering for it. At the present moment, while his wrath was
hot, there would be no sense of contrition. His ears would still tingle
with the sound of the laughter of which he had supposed himself to have
been the subject at the rectory. But that sound in a few weeks might die
away, and some feeling of the propriety of justice would come back upon
the poor man's mind. Such was the state of things upon which Harry
resolved to wait for a few weeks.
But in the mean time tidings came across from the Hall that Mr. Prosper
was ill. He had remained in the house for two or three days after Miss
Thoroughbung's visit. This had given rise to no special remarks, because
it was well known that Mr. Prosper was a man whose feelings were often
too many for him. When he was annoyed it would be long before he would
get the better of the annoyance; and during such periods he would remain
silent and alone. There could be no question that Miss Thoroughbung had
annoyed him most excessively. And Matthew had been aware that it would
be better that he should abstain from all questions. He would take the
daily newspaper in to his master, and ask for orders as to the daily
dinner, and that would be all. Mr. Prosper, when in a fairly good humor,
would see the cook every morning, and would discuss with her the
propriety of either roasting or boiling the fowl, and the expediency
either of the pudding or the pie. His idiosyncrasies were well known,
and the cook might always have her own way by recommending the contrary
to that which she wanted,--because it was a point of honor with Mr.
Prosper not to be led by his servants. But during these days he simply
said, "Let me have dinner and do not trouble me." This went on for a day
or two without exciting much comment at the rectory. But when it went on
beyond a day or two it was surmised that Mr. Prosper was ill.
At the end of a week he had not been seen outside the house, and then
alarm began to be felt. The rumor had got abroad that he intended to go
to Italy, and it was expected that he would start, but no sign came of
his intended movements; not a word more had been said to Matthew on the
subject. He had been ordered to admit no visitor into the house at all,
unless it were some one from the firm of Grey & Barry. From the moment
in which he had got rid of Miss Thoroughbung he had been subject to some
dread lest she should return. Or if not she herself, she might, he
thought, send Soames & Simpson, or some denizen from the brewery. And he
was conscious that not only all Buston, but all Buntingford was aware of
what he had attempted to do. Every one whom he chanced to meet would, as
he thought, be talking of him, and therefore he feared to be seen by the
eye of man, woman, or child. There was a self-consciousness about him
which altogether overpowered him. That cook with whom he used to have
the arguments about the boiled chicken was now an enemy, a domestic
enemy, because he was sure that she talked about his projected marriage
in the kitchen. He would not see his coachman or his groom, because some
tidings would have reached them about that pair of ponies. Consequently
he shut himself up altogether, and the disease became worse with him
because of his seclusion.
And now from day to day, or, it may be more properly said, from hour to
hour, news came across to the rectory of the poor squire's health.
Matthew, to whom alone was given free intercourse with his master,
became very gloomy. Mr. Prosper was no doubt gloomy, and the feeling was
contagious. "I think he's going off his head; that's what I do think,"
he said, in confidential intercourse with the cook.
That conversation resulted in Matthew's walking across to the rectory,
and asking advice from the rector; and in the rector paying a visit to
the Hall. He had again consulted with his wife, and she had recommended
him to endeavor to see her brother. "Of course, what we hear about his
anger only comes from Joe, or through the servants. If he is angry, what
will it matter?"
"Not in the least to me," said the rector; "only I would not willingly
trouble him."
"I would go," said the rector's wife, "only I know he would require me
to agree with him about Harry. That, of course, I cannot do."
Then the rector walked across to the Hall, and sent up word by Matthew
that he was there, and would be glad to see Mr. Prosper, if Mr. Prosper
were disengaged. But Matthew, after an interval of a quarter of an hour,
came back with merely a note: "I am not very well, and an interview at
the present moment would only be depressing. But I would be glad to see
my sister, if she would come across to-morrow at twelve o'clock. I think
it would be well that I should see some one, and she is now the
nearest.--P.P." Then there arose a great discussion at the rectory as to
what this note indicated. "She is now the nearest!" He might have so
written had the doctor who attended him told him that death was
imminent. Of course she was the nearest. What did the "now" mean? Was it
not intended to signify that Harry had been his heir, and therefore the
nearest; but that now he had been repudiated? But it was of course
resolved that Mrs. Annesley should go to the Hall at the hour indicated
on the morrow.
"Oh yes; I'm up here; where else should I be,--unless you expected to
find me in my bed?" It was thus that he answered his sister's first
inquiry as to his condition.
"In bed? Oh no! Why should any one expect to find you in bed, Peter?"
"Never call me by that name again!" he said, rising up from his chair,
and standing erect, with one arm stretched out. She called him Peter,
simply because it had been her custom so to do during the period of
nearly fifty years in which they had lived in the same parish as brother
and sister. She could, therefore, only stare at him and his tragic
humor, as he stood there before her. "Though of course it is madness on
my part to object to it! My godfather and godmother christened me Peter,
and our father was Peter before me, and his father too was Peter
Prosper. But that woman has made the name sound abominable in my ears."
"Miss Thoroughbung, you mean?"
"She came here, and so be-Petered me in my own house,--nay, up in this
very room,--that I hardly knew whether I was on my head or my heels."
"I would not mind what she said. They all know that she is a little
flighty."
"Nobody told me so. Why couldn't you let me know that she was flighty
beforehand? I thought that she was a person whom it would have done to
marry."
"If you will only think of it, Peter--" Here he shuddered visibly. "I
beg your pardon, I will not call you so again. But it is unreasonable to
blame us for not telling you about Miss Thoroughbung."
"Of course it is. I am unreasonable, I know it."
"Let us hope that it is all over now."
"Cart-ropes wouldn't drag me up to the hymeneal altar,--at least not with
that woman."
"You have sent for me, Peter--I beg pardon. I was so glad when you sent.
I would have come before, only I was afraid that you would be annoyed.
Is there anything that we can do for you?"
"Nothing at all that you can do, I fear."
"Somebody told us that you were thinking of going abroad." Here he shook
his head. "I think it was Harry." Here he shook his head and frowned.
"Had you not some idea of going abroad?"
"That is all gone," he said, solemnly.
"It would have enabled you to get over this disappointment without
feeling it so acutely."
"I do feel it; but not exactly the disappointment. There I think I have
been saved from a misfortune which would certainly have driven me mad.
That woman's voice daily in my ear could have had no other effect. I
have at any rate been saved from that."
"What is it, then, that troubles you?"
"Everybody knows that I intended it. All the country has heard of it.
But yet was not my purpose a good one? Why should not a gentleman marry
if he wants to leave his estate to his own son?"
"Of course he must marry before he can do that."
"Where was I to get a young lady--just outside of my own class? There
was Miss Puffle. I did think of her. But just at the moment she went off
with young Tazlehurst. That was another misfortune. Why should Miss
Puffle have descended so low just before I had thought of her? And I
couldn't marry quite a young girl. How could I expect such a one to live
here with me at Buston, where it is rather dull? When I looked about
there was nobody except that horrid Miss Thoroughbung. You just look
about and tell me if there was any one else. Of course my circle is
circumscribed. I have been very careful whom I have admitted to my
intimacy, and the result is that I know almost nobody. I may say that I
was driven to ask Miss Thoroughbung."
"But why marry at all unless you're fond of somebody to be attached to?"
"Ah!"
"Why marry at all? I say. I ask the question knowing very well why you
intended to do it."
"Then why do you ask?" he said, angrily.
"Because it is so difficult to talk of Harry to you. Of course I cannot
help feeling that you have injured him."
"It is he that has injured me. It is he that has brought me to this
condition. Don't you know that you've all been laughing at me down at
the rectory since this affair of that terrible woman?" While he paused
for an answer to his question Mrs. Annesley sat silent. "You know it is
true. He and that man whom Molly means to marry, and the other girls,
and their father and you, have all been laughing at me."
"I have never laughed."
"But the others?" And again he waited for a reply. But the no reply
which came did as well as any other answer. There was the fact that he
had been ridiculed by the very young man whom it was intended that he
should support by his liberality. It was impossible to tell him that a
man who had made himself so absurd must expect to be laughed at by his
juniors. There was running through his mind an idea that very much was
due to him from Harry; but there was also an idea that something too was
due from him. There was present, even to him, a noble feeling that he
should bear all the ignominy with which he was treated, and still be
generous. But he had sworn to himself, and had sworn to Matthew, that he
would never forgive his nephew. "Of course you all wish me to be out of
the way?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is true. How happy you would all be if I were dead, and
Harry were living here in my place."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, I do. Of course you would all go into mourning, and there would be
some grimace of sorrow among you for a few weeks, but the sorrow would
soon be turned into joy. I shall not last long, and then his time will
come. There! you may tell him that his allowance shall be continued, in
spite of all his laughing. It was for that purpose that I sent for you.
And, now you know it, you can go and leave me." Then Mrs. Annesley did
go, and rejoiced them all up at the rectory by these latest tidings from
the Hall. But now the feeling was, how could they show their gratitude
and kindness to poor Uncle Prosper?