Tom stops, and looks in the window. His father is sitting close to it, in his arm-chair, his hands upon his knees, his face lifted to the sunlight, with chin slightly outstretched, and his pale eyes feeling for the light. The expression would have been painful, but for its perfect sweetness and resignation. His countenance6 is not, perhaps, a strong one; but its delicacy7, and calm, and the high forehead, and the long white locks, are most venerable. With a blind man's exquisite8 sense, he feels Tom's shadow fall on him, and starts, and calls him by name; for he has been expecting him, and thinking of nothing else all the morning, and takes for granted that it must be he.
In another moment Tom is at his father's side. What need to describe the sacred joy of those first few minutes, even if it were possible? But unrestrained tenderness between man and man, rare as it is, and, as it were, unaccustomed to itself, has no passionate9 fluency11, no metaphor12 or poetry, such as man pours out to woman, and woman again to man. All its language lies in the tones, the looks, the little half-concealed gestures, hints which pass themselves off modestly in jest; and such was Tom's first interview with his father; till the old Isaac, having felt Tom's head and hands again and again, to be sure whether it were his very son or no, made him sit down by him, holding him still fast, and began—
"Now, tell me, tell me, while Jane gets you something to eat. No, Jane, you mustn't talk to Master Tom yet, to bother about how much he's grown;—nonsense, I must have him all to myself, Jane. Go and get him some dinner. Now, Tom," as if he was afraid of losing a moment; "you have been a dear boy to write to me every week; but there are so many questions which only word of mouth will answer, and I have stored up dozens of them! I want to know what a coral reef really looks like, and if you saw any trepangs upon them? And what sort of strata13 is the gold really in? And you saw one of those giant rays; I want a whole hour's talk about the fellow. And—What an old babbler I am! talking to you when you should be talking to me. Now begin. Let us have the trepangs first. Are they real Holothurians or not?"
And Tom began, and told for a full half-hour, interrupted then by some little comment of the old man's, which proved how prodigious14 was the memory within, imprisoned15 and forced to feed upon itself.
"You seem to know more about Australia than I do, father," said Tom at last.
"No, child; but Mary Armsworth, God bless her! comes down here almost every evening to read your letters to me; and she has been reading to me a book of Mrs. Lee's Adventures in Australia, which reads like a novel; delicious book—to me at least. Why, there is her step outside, I do believe, and her father's with her!"
The lighter16 woman's step was inaudible to Tom; but the heavy, deliberate waddle17 of the banker was not. He opened the house-door, and then the parlour-door, without knocking; but when he saw the visitor, he stopped on the threshold with outstretched arms.
"Hillo, ho! who have we here? Our prodigal18 son returned, with his pockets full of nuggets from the diggings. Oh, mum's the word, is it?" as Tom laid his finger on his lips. "Come here, then, and let's have a look at you!" and he catches both Tom's hands in his, and almost shakes them off. "I knew you were coming, old boy! Mary told me—she's in all the old man's secrets. Come along, Mary, and see your old playfellow. She has got a little fruit for the old gentleman. Mary, where are you I always colloguing with Jane."
Mary comes in: a little dumpty body, with a yellow face, and a red nose, the smile of an angel, and a heart full of many little secrets of other people's—and of one great one of her own, which is no business of any man's—and with fifty thousand pounds as her portion, for she is an only child. But no man will touch that fifty thousand; for "no one would marry me for myself," says Mary; "and no one shall marry me for my money."
So she greets Tom shyly and humbly19, without looking in his face, yet very cordially; and then slips away to deposit on the table a noble pine-apple.
"A little bit of fruit from her greenhouse," says the old man in a disparaging20 tone: "and, oh Jane, bring me a saucer. Here's a sprat I just capered21 out of Hemmelford mill-pit; perhaps the Doctor would like it fried for supper, if it's big enough not to fall through the gridiron."
Jane, who knows Mark Armsworth's humour, brings in the largest dish in the house, and Mark pulls out of his basket a great three-pound trout23.
"Aha! my young rover; Old Mark's right hand hasn't forgot its cunning, eh? And this is the month for them; fish all quiet now. When fools go a-shooting, wise men go a-fishing! Eh? Come here, and look me over. How do I wear, eh? As like a Muscovy duck as ever, you young rogue24? Do you recollect25 asking me, at the Club dinner, why I was like a Muscovy duck? Because I was a fat thing in green velveteen, with a bald red head, that was always waddling27 about the river bank. Ah, those were days! We'll have some more of them. Come up to-night and try the old '21 bin28."
"I must have him myself to-night; indeed I must, Mark," says the Doctor.
"All to yourself you selfish old rogue?"
"Why—no—"
"We'll come down, then, Mary and I, and bring the '21 with us, and hear all his cock-and-bull stories. Full of travellers' lies as ever, eh? Well, I'll come, and smoke my pipe with you. Always the same old Mark, my lad," nudging Tom with his elbow; "one fellow comes and borrows my money, and goes out and calls me a stingy old hunks because I won't let him cheat me; another comes, and eats my pines, and drinks my port, goes home, and calls me a purse-proud upstart, because he can't match 'em. Never mind; old Mark's old Mark; sound in the heart, and sound in the liver, just the same as thirty years ago, and will be till he takes his last quietus est—
'And drops into his grassy29 nest.'
Bye, bye, Doctor! Come, Mary!"
And out he toddled30, with silent little Mary at his heels.
"Old Mark wears well, body and soul," said Tom.
"He is a noble, generous fellow, and as delicate-hearted as a woman withal, in spite of his conceit31 and roughness. Fifty and odd years now, Tom, have we been brothers, and I never found him change. And brothers we shall be, I trust, a few years more, till I see you back again from the East, comfortably settled. And then—"
"Don't talk of that, sir, please!" said Tom, quite quickly and sharply.
"How ill poor Mary looks!"
"So they say, poor child; and one hears it in her voice. Ah, Tom, that girl is an angel; she has been to me daughter, doctor, clergyman, eyes and library; and would have been nurse too, if it had not been for making old Jane jealous. But she is ill. Some love affair, I suppose—"
"How quaint32 it is, that the father has kept all the animal vigour33 to himself, and transmitted none to the daughter."
"He has not kept the soul to himself, Tom, or the eyes either. She will bring me in wild flowers, and talk to me about them, till I fancy I can see them as well as ever. Ah, well! It is a sweet world still, Tom, and there are sweet souls in it. A sweet world: I was too fond of looking at it once, I suppose, so God took away my sight, that I might learn to look at Him." And the old man lay back in his chair, and covered his face with his handkerchief, and was quite still awhile. And Tom watched him, and thought that he would give all his cunning and power to be like that old man.
Then Jane came in, and laid the cloth,—a coarse one enough,—and Tom picked a cold mutton bone with a steel fork, and drank his pint34 of beer from the public-house, and lighted his father's pipe, and then his own, and vowed35 that he had never dined so well in his life, and began his traveller's stories again.
And in the evening Mark came in, with a bottle of the '21 in his coat-tail pocket; and the three sat and chatted, while Mary brought out her work, and stitched listening silently, till it was time to lead the old man upstairs.
Tom put his father to bed, and then made a hesitating request—
"There is a poor sick man whom I brought down with me, sir, if you could spare me half-an-hour. It really is a professional case; he is under my charge, I may say."
"What is it, boy?"
"Well, laudanum and a broken heart."
"Exercise and ammonia for the first. For the second, God's grace and the grave: and those latter medicines you can't exhibit, my dear boy. Well, as it is professional duty, I suppose you must: but don't exceed the hour; I shall lie awake till you return, and then you must talk me to sleep."
So Tom went out and homeward with Mark and Mary, for their roads lay together; and as he went, he thought good to tell them somewhat of the history of John Briggs, alias36 Elsley Vavasour.
"Poor fool!" said Mark, who listened in silence to the end. "Why didn't he mind his bottles, and just do what Heaven sent him to do? Is he in want of the rhino37, Tom?"
"He had not five shillings left after he had paid his fare; and he refuses to ask his wife for a farthing."
"Quite right—very proper spirit." And Mark walked on in silence a few minutes.
"I say, Tom, a fool and his money are soon parted. There's a five-pound note for him, you begging, insinuating38 dog, and be hanged to you both! I shall die in the workhouse at this rate."
"Oh father, you will never miss—"
"Who told you I thought I should, pray? Don't you go giving another five pounds out of your pocket-money behind my back, ma'am. I know your tricks of old. Tom, I'll come and see the poor beggar to-morrow with you, and call him Mr. Vavasour—Lord Vavasour, if he likes—if you'll warrant me against laughing in his face." And the old man did laugh, till he stopped and held his sides again.
"Oh, father, father, don't be so cruel. Remember how wretched the poor man is."
"I can't think of anything but old Bolus's boy turned poet. Why did you tell me, Tom, you bad fellow? It's too much for a man at my time of life, and after his dinner too."
And with that he opened the little gate by the side of the grand one, and turned to ask Tom—
"Won't come in, boy, and have one more cigar?"
"I promised my father to be back as quickly as possible."
"Good lad—that's the plan to go on—
'You'll be churchwarden before all's over,
And so arrive at wealth and fame.'
Instead of writing po-o-o-etry? Do you recollect that morning, and the black draught40? Oh dear, my side!"
And Tom heard him keckling to himself up the garden walk to his house; went off to see that Elsley was safe; and then home, and slept like a top; no wonder, for he would have done so the night before his execution.
And what was little Mary doing all the while?
She had gone up to the room, after telling her father, with a kiss, not to forget to say his prayers. And then she fed her canary bird, and made up the Persian cat's bed; and then sat long at the open window, gazing out over the shadow-dappled lawn, away to the poplars sleeping in the moonlight, and the shining silent stream, and the shining silent stars, till she seemed to become as one of them, and a quiet heaven within her eyes took counsel with the quiet heaven above. And then she drew in suddenly, as if stung by some random41 thought, and shut the window. A picture hung over her mantelpiece—a portrait of her mother, who had been a country beauty in her time. She glanced at it, and then at the looking-glass. Would she have given her fifty thousand pounds to have exchanged her face for such a face as that?
She caught up her little Thomas à Kempis, marked through and through with lines and references, and sat and read steadfastly42 for an hour and more. That was her school, as it has been the school of many a noble soul. And, for some cause or other, that stinging thought returned no more; and she knelt and prayed like a little child; and like a little child slept sweetly all the night, and was away before breakfast the next morning, after feeding the canary and the cat, to old women who worshipped her as their ministering angel, and said, looking after her: "That dear Miss Mary, pity she is so plain! Such a match as she might have made! But she'll be handsome enough, when she is a blessed angel in heaven."
Ah, true sisters of mercy, whom the world sneers44 at as "old maids," if you pour out on cats and dogs and parrots, a little of the love which is yearning45 to spend itself on children of your own flesh and blood! As long as such as you walk this lower world, one needs no Butler's Analogy to prove to us that there is another world, where such as you will have a fuller and a fairer (I dare not say a juster) portion.
* * * * *
Next morning Mark started with Tom to call on Elsley, chatting and puffing46 all the way.
"I'll butter him, trust me. Nothing comforts a poor beggar like a bit of praise when he's down; and all fellows that take to writing are as greedy after it as trout after the drake, even if they only scribble47 in county newspapers. I've watched them when I've been electioneering, my boy!"
"Only," said Tom, "don't be angry with him if he is proud and peevish48.
The poor fellow is all but mad with misery49."
"Poh! quarrel with him? whom did I ever quarrel with? If he barks, I'll stop his mouth with a good dinner. I suppose he's gentleman enough, to invite?"
"As much a gentleman as you and I; not of the very first water, of course. Still he eats like other people, and don't break many glasses during a sitting. Think! he couldn't have been a very great cad to marry a nobleman's daughter!"
"Why, no. Speaks well for him, that, considering his breeding. He must be a very clever fellow to have caught the trick of the thing so soon."
"And so he is, a very clever fellow; too clever by half; and a very fine-hearted fellow, too, in spite of his conceit and his temper. But that don't prevent his being an awful fool!"
"You speak like a book, Tom!" said old Mark, clapping him on the back. "Look at me! no one can say I was ever troubled with genius: but I can show my money, pay my way, eat my dinner, kill my trout, hunt my hounds, help a lame50 dog over a stile" (which was Mark's phrase for doing a generous thing), "and thank God for all; and who wants more, I should like to know? But here we are—you go up first!"
They found Elsley crouched51 up over the empty grate, his head in his hands, and a few scraps52 of paper by him, on which he had been trying to scribble. He did not look up as they came in, but gave a sort of impatient half-turn, as if angry at being disturbed. Tom was about to announce the banker; but he announced himself.
"Come to do myself the honour of calling on you, Mr. Vavasour. I am sorry to see you so poorly; I hope our Whitbury air will set all right."
"You mistake me, sir; my name is Briggs!" said Elsley, without turning his head; but a moment after he looked up angrily.
"Mr. Armsworth? I beg your pardon, sir; but what brings you here? Are you come, sir, to use the rich successful man's right, and lecture me in my misery?"
"'Pon my word, sir, you must have forgotten old Mark Armsworth, indeed, if you fancy him capable of any such dirt. No, sir, I came to pay my respects to you, sir, hoping that you'd come up and take a family dinner. I could do no less," ran on the banker, seeing that Elsley was preparing a peevish answer, "considering the honour that, I hear, you have been to your native town. A very distinguished53 person, our friend Tom tells me; and we ought to be proud of you, and behave to you as you deserve, for I am sure we don't send too many clever fellows out of Whitbury."
"Would that you had never sent me!" said Elsley in his bitter way.
"Ah, sir, that's matter of opinion! You would never have been heard of down here, never have had justice done you, I mean; for heard of you have been. There's my daughter has read your poems again and again— always quoting them; and very pretty they sound too. Poetry is not in my line, of course; still, it's a credit to a man to do anything well, if he has the gift; and she tells me that you have it, and plenty of it. And though she's no fine lady, thank Heaven, I'll back her for good sense against any woman. Come up, sir, and judge for yourself if I don't speak the truth; she will be delighted to meet you, and bade me say so."
By this time good Mark had talked himself out of breath; and Elsley flushing up, as of old, at a little praise, began to stammer54 an excuse. "His nerves were so weak, and his spirits so broken with late troubles."
"My dear sir, that's the very reason I want you to come. A bottle of port will cure the nerves, and a pleasant chat the spirits. Nothing like forgetting all for a little time; and then to it again with a fresh lease of strength, and beat it at last like a man."
"Too late, my dear sir; I must pay the penalty of my own folly," said
Elsley, really won by the man's cordiality.
"Never too late, sir, while there's life left in us. And," he went on in a gentler tone, "if we all were to pay for our own follies55, or lie down and die when we saw them coming full cry at our heels, where would any one of us be by now? I have been a fool in my time, young gentleman, more than once or twice; and that too when I was old enough to be your father: and down I went, and deserved what I got: but my rule always was—Fight fair; fall soft; know when you've got enough; and don't cry out when you've got it: but just go home; train again; and say—better luck next fight." And so old Mark's sermon ended (as most of them did) in somewhat Socratic allegory, savouring rather of the market than of the study; but Elsley understood him, and looked up with a smile.
"You too are somewhat of a poet in your way, I see, sir!"
"I never thought to live to hear that, sir. I can't doubt now that you are cleverer than your neighbours, for you have found out something which they never did. But you will come?—for that's my business."
Elsley looked inquiringly at Tom; he had learnt now to consult his eye, and lean on him like a child. Tom looked a stout57 yes, and Elsley said languidly,—
"You have given me so much new and good advice in a few minutes, sir, that I must really do myself the pleasure of coming and hearing more."
"Well done, our side!" cried old Mark. "Dinner at half-past five. No London late hours here, sir. Miss Armsworth will be out of her mind when she hears you're coming."
And off he went.
"Do you think he'll come up to the scratch, Tom?"
"I am very much afraid his courage will fail him. I will see him again, and bring him up with me: but now, my dear Mr. Armsworth, do remember one thing; that if you go on with him at your usual rate of hospitality, the man will as surely be drunk, as his nerves and brain are all but ruined; and if he is so, he will most probably destroy himself to-morrow morning."
"Destroy himself?"
"He will. The shame of making a fool of himself just now before you will be more than he could bear. So be stingy for once. He will not wish for it unless you press him; but if he talks (and he will talk after the first half-hour), he will forget himself, and half a bottle will make him mad; and then I won't answer for the consequences."
"Good gracious! why, these poets want as tender handling as a bag of gunpowder58 over the fire."
"You speak like a book there in your turn." And Tom went home to his father.
He returned in due time. A new difficulty had arisen. Elsley, under the excitement of expectation, had gone out and deigned59 to buy laudanum—so will an unhealthy craving60 degrade a man!—of old Bolus himself, who luckily did not recognise him. He had taken his fullest dose, and was now unable to go anywhere or do anything. Tom did not disturb him: but went away, sorely perplexed61, and very much minded to tell a white lie to Armsworth, in whose eyes this would be an offence—not unpardonable, for nothing with him was unpardonable, save lying or cruelty—but very grievous. If a man had drunk too much wine in his house, he would have simply kept his eye on him afterwards, as a fool who did not know when he had his "quotum;" but laudanum drinking,—involving, too, the breaking of an engagement, which, well managed, might have been of immense use to Elsley,—was a very different matter. So Tom knew not what to say or do; and not knowing, determined62 to wait on Providence63, smartened himself as best he could, went up to the great house, and found Miss Mary.
"I'll tell her. She will manage it somehow, if she is a woman; much more if she is an angel, as my father says."
Mary looked very much shocked and grieved; answered hardly a word; but said at last, "Come in, while I go and see my father." He came into the smart drawing-room, which he could see was seldom used; for Mary lived in her own room, her father in his counting-house, or in his "den39." In ten minutes she came down. Tom thought she had been crying.
"I have settled it. Poor unhappy man! We will talk of something more pleasant. Tell me about your shipwreck64, and that place,—Aberalva, is it not? What a pretty name!"
Tom told her, wondering then, and wondering long afterwards, how she had "settled it" with her father. She chatted on artlessly enough, till the old man came in, and to dinner, in capital humour, without saying one word of Elsley.
"How has the old lion been tamed?" thought Tom. "The two greatest affronts65 you could offer him in old times were, to break an engagement, and to despise his good cheer." He did not know what the quiet oil on the waters of such a spirit as Mary's can effect.
The evening passed pleasantly enough till nine, in chatting over old times, and listening to the history of every extraordinary trout and fox which had been killed within twenty miles, when the footboy entered with a somewhat scared face.
"Please, sir, is Mr. Vavasour here?"
"Here? Who wants him?"
"Mrs. Brown, sir, in Hemmelford Street. Says he lodges66 with her, and has been to seek for him at Dr. Thurnall's."
"I think you had better go, Mr. Thurnall," said Mary, quietly.
"Indeed you had, boy. Bother poets, and the day they first began to breed in Whitbury! Such an evening spoilt! Have a cup of coffee? No? then a glass of sherry?"
Out went Tom. Mrs. Brown had been up, and seen him seemingly sleeping; then had heard him run downstairs hurriedly. He passed her in the passage, looking very wild. "Seemed, sir, just like my nevy's wife's brother, Will Ford22, before he made away with hes'self."
Tom goes off post haste, revolving68 many things in a crafty69 heart. Then he steers70 for Bolus's shop. Bolus is at "The Angler's Arms;" but his assistant is in.
"Did a gentleman call here just now, in a long cloak, with a felt wide-awake?"
"Yes." And the assistant looks confused enough for Tom to rejoin,—
"And you sold him laudanum?"
"Why—ah—"
"And you had sold him laudanum already this afternoon, you young rascal71? How dare you, twice in six hours? I'll hold you responsible for the man's life!"
"You dare call me a rascal?" blusters72 the youth, terror-stricken at finding how much Tom knows.
"I am a member of the College of Surgeons," says Tom, recovering his coolness, "and have just been dining with Mr. Armsworth. I suppose you know him?"
The assistant shook in his shoes at the name of that terrible justice of the peace and of the war also; and meekly74 and contritely75 he replied,—
"Oh sir, what shall I do?"
"You're in a very neat scrape; you could not have feathered your nest better," says Tom, quietly filling his pipe, and thinking. "As you behave now, I will get you out of it, or leave you to—you know what, as well as I. Get your hat."
He went out, and the youth followed trembling, while Tom formed his plans in his mind.
"The wild beast goes home to his lair76 to die, and so may he; for I fear it's life and death now. I'll try the house where he was born. Somewhere in Water Lane it is I know."
And toward Water Lane he hurried. It was a low-lying offshoot of the town, leading along the water meadows, with a straggling row of houses on each side, the perennial77 haunts of fever and ague. Before them, on each side the road, and fringed with pollard willows78 and tall poplars, ran a tiny branch of the Whit1, to feed some mill below; and spread out, meanwhile, into ponds and mires79 full of offal and duckweed and rank floating grass. A thick mist hung knee-deep over them, and over the gardens right and left; and as Tom came down on the lane from the main street above, he could see the mist spreading across the water-meadows and reflecting the moon-beams like a lake; and as he walked into it, he felt as if he were walking down a well. And he hurried down the lane, looking out anxiously ahead for the long cloak.
At last he came to a better sort of house. That might be it. He would take the chance. There was a man of the middle class, and two or three women, standing80 at the gate. He went up—
"Pray, sir, did a medical man named Briggs ever live here?"
"What do you want to know for?"
"Why"—Tom thought matters were too serious for delicacy—"I am looking for a gentleman, and thought he might have come here."
"And so he did, if you mean one in a queer hat and a cloak."
"How long since?"
"Why, he came up our garden an hour or more ago; walked right into the parlour without with your leave, or by your leave, and stared at us all round like one out of his mind; and so away, as soon as ever I asked him what he was at—"
"Which way?"
"To the river, I expect: I ran out, and saw him go down the lane, but I was not going far by night alone with any such strange customers."
"Lend me a lanthorn then, for Heaven's sake!"
The lanthorn is lent, and Tom starts again down the lane.
Now to search. At the end of the lane is a cross road parallel to the river. A broad still ditch lies beyond it, with a little bridge across, where one gets minnows for bait: then a broad water-meadow; then silver Whit.
The bridge-gate is open. Tom hurries across the road to it. The lanthorn shows him fresh footmarks going into the meadow. Forward!
Up and down in that meadow for an hour or more did Tom and the trembling youth beat like a brace81 of pointer dogs, stumbling into gripes, and over sleeping cows; and more than once stopping short just in time, as they were walking into some broad and deep feeder.
Almost in despair, and after having searched down the river bank for full two hundred yards, Tom was on the point of returning, when his eye rested on a part of the stream where the mist lay higher than usual, and let the reflection of the moonlight off the water reach his eye; and in the moonlight ripples82, close to the farther bank of the river—what was that black lump?
Tom knew the spot well; the river there is very broad, and very shallow, flowing round low islands of gravel83 and turf. It was very low just now too, as it generally is in October: there could not be four inches of water where the black lump lay, but on the side nearest him the water was full knee deep.
The thing, whatever it was, was forty yards from him; and it was a cold night for wading84. It might be a hassock of rushes; a tuft of the great water-dock; a dead dog; one of the "hangs" with which the club-water was studded, torn up and stranded85: but yet, to Tom, it had not a canny86 look.
"As usual! Here am I getting wet, dirty, and miserable87, about matters which are not the slightest concern of mine! I believe I shall end by getting hanged or shot in somebody else's place, with this confounded spirit of meddling88. Yah! how cold the water is!"
For in he went, the grumbling89 honest dog; stepped across to the black lump; and lifted it up hastily enough,—for it was Elsley Vavasour.
Drowned?
No. But wet through, and senseless from mingled90 cold and laudanum.
Whether he had meant to drown himself, and lighting91 on the shallow, had stumbled on till he fell exhausted92: or whether he had merely blundered into the stream, careless whither he went, Tom knew not, and never knew; for Elsley himself could not recollect.
Tom took him in his arms, carried him ashore94 and up through the water meadow; borrowed a blanket and a wheelbarrow at the nearest cottage; wrapped him up; and made the offending surgeon's assistant wheel him to his lodgings.
He sat with him there an hour; and then entered Mark's house again with his usual composed face, to find Mark and Mary sitting up in great anxiety.
"Mr. Armsworth, does the telegraph work at this time of night?"
"I'll make it, if it is wanted. But what's the matter?"
"You will indeed?"
"'Gad95, I'll go myself and kick up the station-master. What's the matter?"
"That if poor Mrs. Vavasour wishes to see her husband alive, she must be here in four-and-twenty hours. I'll tell you all presently—"
"Mary, my coat and comforter!" cries Mark, jumping up.
"And, Mary, a pen and ink to write the message," says Tom.
"Oh! cannot I be of any use?" says Mary.
"No, you angel."
"You must not call me an angel, Mr. Thurnall. After all, what can I do which you have not done already?"
Tom started. Grace had once used to him the very same words. By the by, what was it in the two women which made them so like? Certainly, neither face nor fortune. Something in the tones of their voices.
"Ah! if Grace had Mary's fortune, or Mary Grace's face!" thought Tom, as he hurried back to Elsley, and Mark rushed down to the station.
Elsley was conscious when he returned, and only too conscious. All night he screamed in agonies of rheumatic fever; by the next afternoon he was failing fast; his heart was affected96; and Tom knew that he might die any hour.
The evening train brings two ladies, Valencia and Lucia. At the risk of her life, the poor faithful wife has come.
A gentleman's carriage is waiting for them, though they have ordered none; and as they go through the station-room, a plain little well-dressed body comes humbly up to them—
"Are either of these ladies Mrs. Vavasour?"
"Yes! I!—I!—is he alive?" gasps98 Lucia.
"Alive, and better! and expecting you—"
"Better?—expecting me?" almost shrieks100 she, as Valencia and Mary (for it is she) help her to the carriage. Mary puts them in, and turns away.
"Are you not coming too?" asks Valencia, who is puzzled.
"No, thank you, madam; I am going to take a walk. John, you know where to drive these ladies."
Little Mary does not think it necessary to say that she, with her father's carriage, has been down to two other afternoon trains, upon the chance of finding them.
But why is not Frank Headley with them, when he is needed most? And why are Valencia's eyes more red with weeping than even her sister's sorrow need have made them?
Because Frank Headley is rolling away in a French railway, on his road to Marseilles, and to what Heaven shall find for him to do.
Yes, he is gone Eastward101 Ho among the many; will he come Westward102 Ho again, among the few?
They are at the door of Elsley's lodgings now. Tom Thurnall meets them there, and bows them upstairs silently. Lucia is so weak that she has to cling to the banister a moment; and then, with a strong shudder103, the spirit conquers the flesh, and she hurries up before them both.
It is a small low room—Valencia had expected that: but she had expected, too, confusion and wretchedness: for a note from Major Campbell, ere he started, had told her of the condition in which Elsley had been found. Instead, she finds neatness—even gaiety; fresh damask linen104, comfortable furniture, a vase of hothouse flowers, while the air was full of cool perfumes. No one is likely to tell her that Mary has furnished all at Tom's hint—"We must smarten up the place, for the poor wife's sake. It will take something off the shock; and I want to avoid shocks for her."
So Tom had worked with his own hands that morning; arranging the room as carefully as any woman, with that true doctor's forethought and consideration, which often issues in the loftiest, because the most unconscious, benevolence105.
He paused at the door—
"Will you go in?" whispered he to Valencia, in a tone which meant—"you had better not."
"Not yet—I daresay he is too weak."
Lucia darted106 in, and Tom shut the door behind her, and waited at the stair-head. "Better," thought he, "to let the two poor creatures settle their own concerns. It must end soon, in any case."
Lucia rushed to the bed-side, drew back the curtains—
"Tom!" moaned Elsley.
"Not Tom!—Lucia!"
"Lucia?—Lucia St. Just!" answered he, in a low abstracted voice, as if trying to recollect.
"Lucia Vavasour!—your Lucia!"
Elsley slowly raised himself upon his elbow, and looked into her face with a sad inquiring gaze.
"Elsley—darling Elsley!—don't you know me?"
"Yes, very well indeed; better than you know me. I am not Vavasour at all. My name is Briggs—John Briggs, the apothecary's son, come home to Whitbury to die."
She did not hear, or did not care for those last words.
"Elsley! I am your wife!—your own wife!—who never loved any one but you—never, never, never!"
"Yes, my wife, at least!—Curse them, that they cannot deny!" said he, in the same abstracted voice.
"Oh God! is he mad?" thought she. "Elsley, speak to me!—I am your
Lucia—your love—"
And she tore off her bonnet107, and threw herself beside him on the bed, and clasped him in her arms, murmuring,—"Your wife! who never loved any one but you!"
Slowly his frozen heart and frozen brain melted beneath the warmth of her great love: but he did not speak: only he passed his weak arm round her neck; and she felt that his cheek was wet with tears, while she murmured on, like a cooing dove, the same sweet words again—
"Call me your love once more, and I shall know that all is past."
"Then call me no more Elsley, love!" whispered he. "Call me John Briggs, and let us have done with shams108 for ever."
"No; you are my Elsley—my Vavasour! and I am your wife once more!" and the poor thing fondled his head as it lay upon the pillow. "My own Elsley, to whom I gave myself, body and soul; for whom I would die now, —oh, such a death!—any death!"
"How could I doubt you?—fool that I was!"
"No, it was all my fault. It was all my odious109 temper! But we will be happy now, will we not?"
Elsley smiled sadly, and began babbling—Yes, they would take a farm, and he would plough, and sow, and be of some use before he died; "But promise me one thing!" cried he, with sudden strength.
"What?"
"That you will go home and burn all the poetry—all the manuscripts, and never let the children write a verse—a verse—when I am dead?" And his head sank back, and his jaw110 dropped.
"He is dead!" cried the poor impulsive111 creature, with a shriek99 which brought in Tom and Valencia.
"He is not dead, madam: but you must be very gentle with him, if we are to—"
Tom saw that there was little hope.
"I will do anything,—only save him!—save him! Mr. Thurnall, till I have atoned113 for all."
"You have little enough to atone112 for, madam," said Tom, as he busied himself about the sufferer. He saw that all would soon be over, and would have had Mrs. Vavasour withdraw: but she was so really good a nurse as long as she could control herself, that he could hardly spare her.
So they sat together by the sick-bed side, as the short hours passed into the long, and the long hours into the short again, and the October dawn began to shine through the shutterless114 window.
A weary eventless night it was, a night as of many years, as worse and worse grew the weak frame; and Tom looked alternately at the heaving chest, and shortening breath, and rattling115 throat, and then at the pale still face of the lady.
"Better she should sit by (thought he), and watch him till she is tired out. It will come on her the more gently, after all. He will die at sunrise, as so many die."
At last be began gently feeling for Elsley's pulse.
Her eye caught his movement, and she half sprang up; but at a gesture from him she sank quietly on her knees, holding her husband's hand in her own.
Elsley turned toward her once, ere the film of death had fallen, and looked her full in the face, with his beautiful eyes full of love. Then the eyes paled and faded; but still they sought for her painfully long after she had buried her head in the coverlet, unable to bear the sight.
And so vanished away Elsley Vavasour, poet and genius, into his own place.
"Let us pray," said a deep voice from behind the curtain: it was Mark Armsworth's. He had come over with the first dawn, to bring the ladies food; had slipped upstairs to ask what news, found the door open, and entered in time to see the last gasp97.
Lucia kept her head still buried: and Tom, for the first time for many a year, knelt, as the old banker commended to God the soul of our dear brother just departing this life. Then Mark glided116 quietly downstairs, and Valencia, rising, tried to lead Mrs. Vavasour away.
But then broke out in all its wild passion the Irish temperament117. Let us pass it over; why try to earn a little credit by depicting118 the agony and the weakness of a sister?
At last Thurnall got her downstairs. Mark was there still, having sent off for his carriage. He quietly put her arm through his, led her off, worn out and unresisting, drove her home, delivered her and Valencia into Mary's keeping, and then asked Tom to stay and sit with him.
"I hope I've no very bad conscience, boy; but Mary's busy with the poor young thing, mere93 child she is, too, to go through such a night; and, somehow, I don't like to be left alone after such a sight as that!"
* * * * *
"Tom!" said Mark, as they sat smoking in silence, after breakfast, in the study. "Tom!"
"Yes, sir!"
"That was an awful death-bed, Tom!"
Tom was silent.
"I don't mean that he died hard, as we say; but so young, Tom. And I suppose poets' souls are worth something, like other people's—perhaps more. I can't understand 'em; but my Mary seems to, and people, like her, who think a poet the finest thing in the world. I laugh at it all when I am jolly, and call it sentiment and cant119: but I believe that they are nearer heaven than I am: though I think they don't quite know where heaven is, nor where" (with a wicked wink120, in spite of the sadness of his tone)—"where they themselves are either."
"I'll tell you, sir. I have seen men enough die—we doctors are hardened to it: but I have seen unprofessional deaths—men we didn't kill ourselves; I have seen men drowned, shot, hanged, run over, and worse deaths than that, sir, too;—and, somehow, I never felt any death like that man's. Granted, he began by trying to set the world right, when he hadn't yet set himself right; but wasn't it some credit to see that the world was wrong?"
"I don't know that. The world's a very good world."
"To you and me; but there are men who have higher notions than I of what this world ought to be; and, for aught I know, they are right. That Aberalva curate, Headley, had; and so had Briggs, in his own way. I thought him once only a poor discontented devil, who quarrelled with his bread and butter because he hadn't teeth to eat it with: but there was more in the fellow, coxcomb121 as he was. 'Tisn't often that I let that croaking122 old bogy, Madam might have been, trouble me; but I cannot help thinking that if, fifteen years ago, I had listened to his vapourings more, and bullied123 him about them less, he might have been here still."
"You wouldn't have been then. Well for you that you didn't catch his fever."
"And write verses too? Don't make me laugh, sir, on such a day as this;
I always comfort myself with—'it's no business of mine:' but, somehow,
I can't do so just now." And Tom sat silent, more softened124 than he had
been for years.
"Let's talk of something else," said Mark at last. "You had the cholera125 very bad down there, I hear?"
"Oh, sharp, but short," said Tom, who disliked any subject which brought
Grace to his mind.
"Any on my lord's estate with the queer name?"
"Not a case. We stopped the devil out there, thanks to his lordship."
"So did we here. We were very near in for it, though, I fancy.—At least, I chose to fancy so—thought it a good opportunity to clean Whitbury once for all."
"It's just like you. Well?"
"Well, I offered the Town-council to drain the whole town at my own expense, if they'd let me have the sewage. And that only made things worse; for as soon as the beggars found out the sewage was worth anything, they were down on me, as if I wanted to do them—I, Mark Armsworth!—and would sooner let half the town rot with an epidemic126, than have reason to fancy I'd made any money out of them. So a pretty fight I had, for half-a-dozen meetings, till I called in my lord; and, sir, he came down by the next express, like a trump127, all the way from town, and gave them such a piece of his mind—was going to have the Board of Health down, and turn on the Government tap, commissioners128 and all, and cost 'em hundreds: till the fellows shook in their shoes;—and so I conquered, and here we are, as clean as a nut,—and a fig56 for the cholera!—except down in Water-lane, which I don't know what to do with; for if tradesmen will run up houses on spec in a water-meadow, who can stop them? There ought to be a law for it, say I; but I say a good many things in the twelve months that nobody minds. But, my dear boy, if one man in a town has pluck and money, he may do it. It'll cost him a few: I've had to pay the main part myself, after all: but I suppose God will make it up to a man somehow. That's old Mark's faith, at least. Now I want to talk to you about yourself. My lord comes into town to-day, and you must see him."
"Why, then? He can't help me with the Bashi-bazouks, can he?"
"Bashi-fiddles! I say, Tom, the more I think over it, the more it won't do. It's throwing yourself away. They say that Turkish contingent129 is getting on terribly ill."
"More need of me to make them well."
"Hang it—I mean—hasn't justice done it, and so on. The papers are full of it."
"Well," quoth Tom, "and why should it?"
"Why, man alive, if England spends all this money on the men, she ought to do her duty by them."
"I don't see that. As Pecksniff says, 'if England expects every man to do his duty, she's very sanguine130, and will be much disappointed.' They don't intend to do their duty by her, any more than I do; so why should she do her duty by them?"
"Don't intend to do your duty?"
"I'm going out because England's money is necessary to me; and England hires me because my skill is necessary to her. I didn't think of duty when I settled to go, and why should she? I'll get all out of her I can in the way of pay and practice, and she may get all she can out of me in the way of work. As for being ill-used, I never expect to be anything else in this life. I'm sure I don't care; and I'm sure she don't; so live and let live; talk plain truth, and leave Bunkum for right honourables who keep their places thereby131. Give me another weed."
"Queer old philosopher you are; but go you shan't!"
"Go I will, sir; don't stop me. I've my reasons, and they're good ones enough."
The conversation was interrupted by the servant;—Lord Minchampstead was waiting at Mr. Armsworth's office.
"Early bird, his lordship, and gets the worm accordingly," says Mark, as he hurries off to attend on his ideal hero. "You come over to the shop in half-an-hour, mind."
"But why?"
"Confound you, sir! you talk of having your reasons: I have mine!"
Mark looked quite cross; so Tom gave way, and went in due time to the bank.
Standing with his back to the fire in Mark's inner room, he saw the old cotton prince.
"And a prince he looks like," quoth Tom to himself, as he waited in the bank outside, and looked through the glass screen. "How well the old man wears! I wonder how many fresh thousands he has made since I saw him last, seven years ago."
And a very noble person Lord Minchampstead did look; one to whom hats went off almost without their owners' will; tall and portly, with a soldier-like air of dignity and command, which was relieved by the good-nature of the countenance. Yet it was a good-nature which would stand no trifling132. The jaw was deep and broad, though finely shaped; the mouth firm set; the nose slightly aquiline133; the brow of great depth and height, though narrow;—altogether a Julius Caesar's type of head; that of a man born to rule self, and therefore to rule all he met.
Tom looked over his dress, not forgetting, like a true Englishman, to mark what sort of boots he wore. They were boots not quite fashionable, but carefully cleaned on trees; trousers strapped134 tightly over them, which had adopted the military stripe, but retained the slit135 at the ankle which was in vogue136 forty years ago; frock coat with a velvet26 collar, buttoned up, but not too far; high and tight blue cravat137 below an immense shirt collar; a certain care and richness of dress throughout, but soberly behind the fashion: while the hat was a very shabby and broken one, and the whip still more shabby and broken; all which indicated to Tom that his lordship let his tailor and his valet dress him; and though not unaware138 that it behoved him to set out his person as it deserved, was far too fine a gentleman to trouble himself about looking fine.
Mark looks round, sees Tom, and calls him in.
"Mr. Thurnall, I am glad to meet you, sir. You did me good service at
Pentremochyn, and did it cheaply. I was agreeably surprised, I confess,
at receiving a bill for four pounds seven shillings and sixpence, where
I expected one of twenty or thirty."
"I charged according to what my time was really worth there, my lord. I heartily139 wish it had been worth more."
"No doubt," says my lord, in the blandest140, but the driest tone.
Some men would have, under a sense of Tom's merits, sent him a cheque off-hand for five-and-twenty pounds: but that is not Lord Minchampstead's way of doing business. He had paid simply the sum asked: but he had set Tom down in his memory as a man whom he could trust to do good work, and to do it cheaply; and now—
"You are going to join the Turkish contingent?"
"I am."
"You know that part of the world well, I believe?"
"Intimately."
"And the languages spoken there?"
"By no means all. Russian and Tartar well; Turkish tolerably; with a smattering of two or three Circassian dialects."
"Humph! A fair list. Any Persian?"
"Only a few words."
"Humph! If you can learn one language I presume you can learn another.
Now, Mr. Thurnall, I have no doubt that you will do your duty in the
Turkish contingent."
Tom bowed.
"But I must ask you if your resolution to join it is fixed142?"
"I only join it because I can get no other employment at the seat of war."
"Humph! You wish to go then, in any case, to the seat of war?"
"Certainly."
"No doubt you have sufficient reasons…. Armsworth, this puts the question in a new light."
Tom looked round at Mark, and, behold143, his face bore a ludicrous mixture of anger and disappointment, and perplexity. He seemed to be trying to make signals to Tom, and to be afraid of doing so openly before the great man.
"He is as wilful144 and as foolish as a girl, my lord; and I've told him so."
"Everybody knows his own business best, Armsworth; Mr. Thurnall, have you any fancy for the post of Queen's messenger?"
"I should esteem145 myself only too happy as one."
"They are not to be obtained now as easily as they were fifty years ago; and are given, as you may know, to a far higher class of men than they were formerly146. But I shall do my best to obtain you one, when an opportunity offers"
Tom was beginning his profusest thanks: for was not his fortune made? but Lord Minchampstead stopped him with an uplifted finger.
"And, meanwhile, there are foreign employments of which neither those who bestow147 them, nor those who accept them, are expected to talk much: but for which you, if I am rightly informed, would be especially fitted."
Tom bowed; and his face spoke141 a hundred assents148.
"Very well; if you will come over to Minchampstead to-morrow, I will give you letters to friends of mine in town. I trust that they may give you a better opportunity than the Bashi-bazouks will, of displaying that courage, address, and self-command, which, I understand, you possess in so uncommon149 a degree. Good morning!" And forth150 the great man went.
Most opposite were the actions of the two whom he had left behind him.
Tom dances about the room, hurrahing151 in a whisper—
"My fortune's made! The secret service! Oh, what bliss152! The thing I've always longed for!"
Mark dashes himself desperately153 back in his chair, and shoots his angry legs straight out, almost tripping up Tom.
"You abominable154 ass10! You have done it with a vengeance155! Why, he has been pumping me about you this month! One word from you to say you'd have stayed, and he was going to make you agent for all his Cornish property."
"Don't he wish he may get it? Catch a fish climbing trees! Catch me staying at home when I can serve my Queen and my country, and find a sphere for the full development of my talents! Oh, won't I be as wise as a serpent? Won't I be complimented by —— himself as his best lurcher, worth any ten needy156 Poles, greedy Armenians, traitors157, renegades, rag-tag and bob-tail! I'll shave my head to-morrow, and buy me an assortment158 of wigs159 of every hue160!"
Take care, Tom Thurnall. After pride comes a fall; and he who digs a pit may fall into it himself. Has this morning's death-bed given you no lesson that it is as well not to cast ourselves down from where God has put us, for whatsoever161 seemingly fine ends of ours, lest, doing so, we tempt162 God once too often?
Your father quoted that text to John Briggs, here, many years ago. Might he not quote it now to you? True, not one word of murmuring, not even of regret, or fear, has passed his good old lips about your self-willed plan. He has such utter confidence in you, such utter carelessness about himself, such utter faith in God, that he can let you go without a sigh. But will you make his courage an excuse for your own rashness? Again, beware; after pride may come a fall.
* * * * *
On the fourth day Elsley was buried. Mark and Tom were the only mourners; Lucy and Valencia stayed at Mark's house, to return next day under Tom's care to Eaton Square.
The two mourners walked back sadly from the churchyard. "I shall put a stone over him, Tom. He ought to rest quietly now; for he had little rest enough in this life….
"Now, I want to talk to you about something; when I've taken off my hatband, that is; for it would be hardly lucky to mention such matters with a hatband on."
Tom looked up, wondering.
"Tell me about his wife, meanwhile. What made him marry her? Was she a pretty woman?"
"Pretty enough, I believe, before she married: but I hardly think he married her for her face."
"Of course not!" said the old man with emphasis; "of course not! Whatever faults he had, he'd be too sensible for that. Don't you marry for a face, Tom! I didn't."
Tom opened his eyes at this last assertion; but humbly expressed his intention of not falling into that snare163.
"Ah? you don't believe me: well, she was a beautiful woman.—I'd like to see her fellow now in the county!—and I won't deny I was proud of her. But she had ten thousand pounds, Tom. And as for her looks, why, if you'll believe me, after we'd been married three months, I didn't know whether she had any looks or not. What are you smiling at, you young rogue?"
"Report did say that one look of Mrs. Armsworth's, to the last, would do more to manage Mr. Armsworth than the opinions of the whole bench of bishops164."
"Report's a liar165, and you're a puppy! You don't know yet whether it was a pleasant look, or a cross one, lad. But still—well, she was an angel, and kept old Mark straighter than he's ever been since: not that he's so very bad, now. Though I sometimes think Mary's better even than her mother. That girl's a good girl, Tom."
"Report agrees with you in that, at least."
"Fool if it didn't. And as for looks—I can speak to you as to my own son—Why, handsome is that handsome does."
"And that handsome has; for you must honestly put that into the account."
"You think so? So do I! Well, then, Tom,"—and here Mark was seized with a tendency to St. Vitus's dance, and began overhauling166 every button on his coat, twitching167 up his black gloves, till (as undertakers' gloves are generally meant to do) they burst in half-a-dozen places; taking off his hat, wiping his head fiercely, and putting the hat on again behind before; till at last he snatched his arm from Tom's, and gripping him by the shoulder, recommenced—
"You think so, eh? Well, I must say it, so I'd better have it out now, hatband or none! What do you think of the man who married my daughter, face and all?"
"I should think," quoth Tom, wondering who the happy man could be, "that he would be so lucky in possessing such a heart, that he would be a fool to care about the face."
"Then be as good as your word, and take her yourself. I've watched you this last week, and you'll make her a good husband. There, I have spoken; let me hear no more about it."
And Mark half pushed Tom from him, and puffed168 on by his side, highly excited.
If Mark had knocked the young Doctor down, he would have been far less astonished and far less puzzled too. "Well," thought he, "I fancied nothing could throw my steady old engine off the rails; but I am off them now, with a vengeance." What to say he knew not; at last—
"It is just like your generosity169, sir; you have been a brother to my father; and now—"
"And now I'll be a father to you! Old Mark does nothing by halves."
"But, sir, however lucky I should be in possessing Miss Armsworth's heart, what reason have I to suppose that I do so? I never spoke a word to her. I needn't say that she never did to me—which—"
"Of course she didn't, and of course you didn't. Should like to have seen you making love to my daughter, indeed! No, sir; it's my will and pleasure. I've settled it, and done it shall be! I shall go home and tell Mary, and she'll obey me—I should like to see her do anything else! Hoity, toity, fathers must be masters, sir! even in these fly-away new times, when young ones choose their own husbands, and their own politics, and their own hounds, and their own religion too, and be hanged to them!"
What did this unaccustomed bit of bluster73 mean? for unaccustomed it was; and Tom knew well that Mary Armsworth had her own way, and managed her father as completely as he managed Whitbury.
"Humph! It is impossible; and yet it must be. This explains his being so anxious that Lord Minchampstead should approve of me. I have found favour in the poor dear thing's eyes, I suppose: and the good old fellow knows it, and won't betray her, and so shams tyrant170. Just like him!" But—that Mary Armsworth should care for him! Vain fellow that he was to fancy it! And yet, when he began to put things together, little silences, little looks, little nothings, which all together might make something. He would not slander171 her to himself by supposing that her attentions to his father were paid for his sake: but he could not forget that it was she, always, who read his letters aloud to the old man: or that she had taken home and copied out the story of his shipwreck. Beside, it was the only method of explaining Mark's conduct, save on the supposition that he had suddenly been "changed by the fairies" in his old age, instead of in the cradle, as usual.
It was a terrible temptation; and to no man more than to Thomas Thurnall. He was no boy, to hanker after mere animal beauty; he had no delicate visions or lofty aspirations172; and he knew (no man better) the plain English of fifty thousand pounds, and Mark Armsworth's daughter—a good house, a good consulting practice (for he would take his M.D. of course), a good station in the county, a good clarence with a good pair of horses, good plate, a good dinner with good company thereat; and, over and above all, his father to live with him; and with Mary, whom he loved as a daughter, in luxury and peace to his life's end.—Why, it was all that he had ever dreamed of, three times more than he ever hoped to gain!—Not to mention (for how oddly little dreams of selfish pleasure slip in at such moments!)—that he would buy such a Ross's microscope! and keep such a horse for a sly by-day with the Whitford Priors! Oh, to see once again a fox break from Coldharbour gorse!
And then rose up before his imagination those drooping173 steadfast43 eyes; and Grace Harvey, the suspected, the despised, seemed to look through and through his inmost soul, as through a home which belonged of right to her, and where no other woman must dwell, or could dwell; for she was there; and he knew it; and knew that, even if he never married till his dying day, he should sell his soul by marrying any one but her. "And why should I not sell my soul?" asked he, almost fiercely. "I sell my talents, my time, my strength; I'd sell my life to-morrow, and go to be shot for a shilling a day, if it would make the old man comfortable for life; and why not my soul too? Don't that belong to me as much as any other part of me? Why am I to be condemned174 to sacrifice my prospects175 in life to a girl of whose honesty I am not even sure? What is this intolerable fascination176? Witch! I almost believe in mesmerism now!— Again, I say, why should I not sell my soul, as I'd sell my coat, if the bargain's but a good one?"
And if he did, who would ever know?—Not even Grace herself. The secret was his, and no one else's.
Or if they did know, what matter? Dozens of men sell their souls every year, and thrive thereon; tradesmen, lawyers, squires177, popular preachers, great noblemen, kings and princes. He would be in good company, at all events: and while so many live in glass houses, who dare throw stones?
But then, curiously178 enough, there came over him a vague dread179 of possible evil, such as he had never felt before. He had been trying for years to raise himself above the power of fortune; and he had succeeded ill enough: but he had never lost heart. Robbed, shipwrecked, lost in deserts, cheated at cards, shot in revolutions, begging his bread, he had always been the same unconquerable light-hearted Tom, whose motto was, "Fall light, and don't whimper: better luck next round." But now, what if he played his last court-card, and Fortune, out of her close-hidden hand, laid down a trump thereon with quiet sneering180 smile? And she would! He knew, somehow, that he should not thrive. His children would die of the measles181, his horses break their knees, his plate be stolen, his house catch fire, and Mark Armsworth die insolvent182. What a fool he was, to fancy such nonsense! Here he had been slaving all his life to keep his father: and now he could keep him; why, he would be justified183, right, a good son, in doing the thing. How hard, how unjust of those upper Powers in which he believed so vaguely184, to forbid his doing it!
And how did he know that they forbid him? That is too deep a question to be analysed here: but this thing is noteworthy, that there came next over Tom's mind a stranger feeling still—a fancy that if he did this thing, and sold his soul, he could not answer for himself thenceforth on the score of merest respectability; could not answer for himself not to drink, gamble, squander185 his money, neglect his father, prove unfaithful to his wife; that the innate186 capacity for blackguardism, which was as strong in him as in any man, might, and probably would, run utterly187 riot thenceforth. He felt as if he should cast away his last anchor, and drift helplessly down into utter shame and ruin. It may have been very fanciful: but so he felt; and felt it so strongly too, that in less time than I have taken to write this he had turned to Mark Armsworth:—
"Sir, you are what I have always found you. Do you wish me to be what you have always found me?"
"I'd be sorry to see you anything else, boy."
"Then, sir, I can't do this. In honour, I can't."
"Are you married already?" thundered Mark.
"Not quite as bad as that;" and in spite of his agitation188 Tom laughed, but hysterically189, at the notion. "But fool I am; for I am in love with another woman. I am, sir," went he on hurriedly. "Boy that I am! and she don't even know it: but if you be the man I take you for, you may be angry with me, but you'll understand me. Anything but be a rogue to you and to Mary, and to my own self too. Fool I'll be, but rogue I won't!"
Mark strode on in silence, frightfully red in the face for full five minutes. Then he turned sharply on Tom, and catching190 him by the shoulder, thrust him from him.
"There,—go! and don't let me see or hear of you; that is, till I tell you! Go along, I say! Hum-hum!" (in a tone half of wrath191, and half of triumph), "his father's child! If you will ruin yourself, I can't help it."
"Nor I, sir," said Tom, in a really piteous tone, bemoaning192 the day he ever saw Aberalva, as he watched Mark stride into his own gate. "If I had but had common luck! If I had but brought my ￡1500 safe home here, and never seen Grace, and married this girl out of hand! Common luck is all I ask, and I never get it!"
And Tom went home sulkier than a bear: but he did not let his father find out his trouble. It was his last evening with the old man. To-morrow he must go to London, and then—to scramble193 and twist about the world again till he died! "Well, why not? A man must die somehow: but it's hard on the poor old father," said Tom.
As Tom was packing his scanty194 carpet-bag next morning, there was a knock at the door. He looked out, and saw Armsworth's clerk. What could that mean? Had the old man determined to avenge195 the slight, and to do so on his father, by claiming some old debt? There might be many between him and the doctor. And Tom's heart beat fast, as Jane put a letter into his hand.
"No answer, sir, the clerk says."
Tom opened it, and turned over the contents more than once ere he could believe his own eyes.
It was neither more nor less than a cheque on Mark's London banker for just five hundred pounds.
A half-sheet was wrapped round it, on which were written these words:—
"To Thomas Thurnall, Esq., for behaving like a gentleman. The cheque
will be duly honoured at Messrs. Smith, Brown, and Jones, Lombard
Street. No acknowledgment is to be sent. Don't tell your father. MARK
ARMSWORTH."
"Queer old world it is!" said Tom, when the first burst of childish delight was over. "And jolly old flirt196, Dame Fortune, after all! If I had written this in a book now, who'd have believed it?"
"Father," said he, as he kissed the old man farewell, "I've a little money come in. I'll send you fifty from London in a day or two, and lodge67 a hundred and fifty more with Smith and Co. So you'll be quite in clover while I am poisoning the Turkeys, or at some better work."
The old man thanked God for his good son, and only hoped that he was not straitening himself to buy luxuries for a useless old fellow.
Another sacred kiss on that white head, and Tom was away for London, with a fuller purse, and a more self-contented heart too, than he had known for many a year.
And Elsley was left behind, under the grey church spire197, sleeping with his fathers, and vexing198 his soul with poetry no more. Mark has covered him now with a fair Portland slab199. He took Claude Mellot to it this winter before church time, and stood over it long with a puzzled look, as if dimly discovering that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamed of in his philosophy.
"Wonderful fellow he was, after all! Mary shall read us out some of his verses to-night. But, I say, why should people be born clever, only to make them all the more miserable?"
"Perhaps they learn the more, papa, by their sorrows," said quiet little
Mary; "and so they are the gainers after all."
And none of them having any better answer to give, they all three went into the church, to see if one could be found there.
And so Tom Thurnall, too, went Eastward-Ho, to take, like all the rest, what God might send.
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1
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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5
jutting
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| v.（使）突出( jut的现在分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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6
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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10
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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13
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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14
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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15
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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17
waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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18
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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19
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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20
disparaging
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| adj.轻蔑的，毁谤的v.轻视( disparage的现在分词 )；贬低；批评；非难 | |
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21
capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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23
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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24
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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25
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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26
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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27
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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28
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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29
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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30
toddled
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的过去式和过去分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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31
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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32
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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33
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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34
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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35
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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36
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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37
rhino
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| n.犀牛，钱, 现金 | |
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38
insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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39
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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40
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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41
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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42
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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43
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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44
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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45
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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46
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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47
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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48
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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49
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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50
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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51
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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53
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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54
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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55
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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56
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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58
gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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59
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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61
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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64
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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65
affronts
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| n.（当众）侮辱，（故意）冒犯( affront的名词复数 )v.勇敢地面对( affront的第三人称单数 )；相遇 | |
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66
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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67
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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68
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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69
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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70
steers
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| n.阉公牛，肉用公牛( steer的名词复数 )v.驾驶( steer的第三人称单数 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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71
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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72
blusters
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| n.大声的威吓( bluster的名词复数 )；狂风声，巨浪声v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的第三人称单数 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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73
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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74
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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75
contritely
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76
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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77
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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78
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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79
mires
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| n.泥潭( mire的名词复数 ) | |
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80
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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81
brace
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| n. 支柱,曲柄,大括号; v. 绷紧,顶住,(为困难或坏事)做准备 | |
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82
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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83
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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84
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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85
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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86
canny
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| adj.谨慎的，节俭的 | |
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87
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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88
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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89
grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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90
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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91
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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92
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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93
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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94
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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95
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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96
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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97
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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98
gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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99
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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100
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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102
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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103
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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104
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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105
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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106
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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107
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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108
shams
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| 假象( sham的名词复数 )； 假货； 虚假的行为（或感情、言语等）； 假装…的人 | |
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109
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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110
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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111
impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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112
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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113
atoned
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的过去式和过去分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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114
shutterless
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| 快门不 | |
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115
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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116
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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117
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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118
depicting
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| 描绘，描画( depict的现在分词 )； 描述 | |
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119
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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120
wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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121
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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122
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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123
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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124
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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125
cholera
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| n.霍乱 | |
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126
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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127
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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128
commissioners
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| n.专员( commissioner的名词复数 )；长官；委员；政府部门的长官 | |
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129
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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130
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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131
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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132
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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133
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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134
strapped
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| adj.用皮带捆住的，用皮带装饰的；身无分文的；缺钱；手头紧v.用皮带捆扎(strap的过去式和过去分词)；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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135
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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136
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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137
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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138
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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139
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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140
blandest
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| adj.（食物）淡而无味的( bland的最高级 )；平和的；温和的；无动于衷的 | |
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141
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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142
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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143
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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144
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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145
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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146
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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147
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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148
assents
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| 同意，赞同( assent的名词复数 ) | |
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149
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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150
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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151
hurrahing
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| v.好哇( hurrah的现在分词 ) | |
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152
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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153
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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154
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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155
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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156
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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157
traitors
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| 卖国贼( traitor的名词复数 )； 叛徒； 背叛者； 背信弃义的人 | |
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158
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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159
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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160
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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161
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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162
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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163
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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164
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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165
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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166
overhauling
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| n.大修；拆修；卸修；翻修v.彻底检查( overhaul的现在分词 )；大修；赶上；超越 | |
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167
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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168
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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169
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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170
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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171
slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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172
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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173
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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174
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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175
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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176
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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177
squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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178
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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179
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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180
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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181
measles
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| n.麻疹，风疹，包虫病，痧子 | |
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182
insolvent
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| adj.破产的，无偿还能力的 | |
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183
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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184
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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185
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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186
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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187
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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188
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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189
hysterically
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| ad. 歇斯底里地 | |
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190
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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191
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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192
bemoaning
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的现在分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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193
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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194
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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195
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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196
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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197
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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198
vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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199
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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