The Old House at Railes: A heartwarming rags to riches Victorian family saga

by Mary E. Pearce

  The children did not respond, and Katharine, to fill an uncomfortable pause, made much of the simple business of getting them all seated together. Still the two children were silent, sitting together on the settee, and although they regarded their father with open curiosity, their bearing towards him remained aloof.

  ‘Come, now,’ Charles said impatiently, ‘am I such a stranger as all that?’

  ‘Yes, Papa,’ Susannah said. ‘It isn’t only we who have changed. You have grown much older too.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It’s the hot Californian sun has done that. It ages people rapidly, especially those who work in its glare.’

  ‘Is that where you’ve been? California?’ Dick said, speaking now for the first time. ‘What were you doing there? Looking for gold?’

  ‘Yes. But if you are expecting to hear that I am now a millionaire, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. Still, my time in the gold-fields was certainly not wasted, and I’m glad to be able to tell you that I am in much better case now than I was before leaving England.’

  ‘Why did you never write to us?’

  ‘At first because I was on the move, travelling the breadth of America. Next because I was waiting until I had good news to impart. Then, later, when time had passed, and I was on my way home, I decided to make it a surprise.’

  Here something flickered in Dick’s face, and Charles recognized it as scorn.

  ‘However,’ he said, in a changed tone, ‘judging by the reception accorded me, the surprise has not been much to your liking.’

  ‘What reception did you expect? A fatted calf?’

  ‘Dick!’ Katharine said, in sharp reproof; but before she could say any more, Charles had rounded fiercely on her.

  ‘Evidently, in my absence, madam, you have been very busy turning my children against me.’

  ‘That is not true,’ Dick said. ‘Never once in three years has my mother spoken a word against you. But we have minds of our own, Sue and I, and what we both feel is ‒’

  ‘I do not need to be told what you feel. It is already perfectly plain.’ Charles, though still extremely angry, now made an effort to bring his temper under control. ‘I can see,’ he said carefully, ‘that in your eyes I have done wrong, and if I have I am sorry for it. But one thing I promise you ‒ whatever injury I may have done you by my absence, I fully intend to make up for it.’

  There followed a long silence, during which Charles and his children eyed one another, still with impatience on his side and doubt on theirs. Eventually, Katharine spoke, addressing herself to the children.

  ‘We have been talking in such a way that we have all upset one another. The most important thing is that your papa has come home to us. Obviously, that means change in our lives, especially as he has certain plans for us, which we shall need to discuss. But before we begin I think we should have some tea. It is well past our usual time. Dick, will you please ring the bell?’

  Dick got up and did as she asked. Then he returned to his seat on the couch and looked at each of his parents in turn.

  ‘What plans?’ he asked suspiciously.

  Martin, also, on coming home, heard immediately of Yuart’s return, first from Jack Sherard the groom, then from Cook, who led him into the still-room, where they could talk privately. She, like the rest of the staff, was in a state of great perturbation.

  ‘I had made up my mind, after all this time, that Mr Yuart must be dead. Drowned at sea in a shipwreck, I thought, though I never said that to Miss Katharine, of course. But here he is back again, all just as sudden as when he went, and I wish I knew what to think of it, and whether it’s for the best or not, because I simply cannot understand how he could behave in such a way.’

  ‘How long has he been here?’

  ‘Best part of an hour. Tea was sent in a while ago, just after the children came in.’

  ‘In that case I’ll join them,’ Martin said, ‘as soon as I am presentable.’

  He went upstairs to freshen himself, which gave him a little time to think; a little time, in privacy, in which to absorb the shock of the news and all its many implications. This was no easy task but when, in a while, he joined the company in the drawing-room, and Yuart rose to meet him, Martin by then was confident that his face and manner were well controlled.

  ‘Mr Yuart. Your servant, sir. Please accept my felicitations on being thus reunited with your family.’

  ‘Mr Cox. I’m obliged to you. I apologize for my intrusion here while you were absent, but I’m sure you will agree that the circumstances constitute a valid excuse.’

  ‘Indeed, the circumstances are such that it cannot be termed an intrusion at all.’

  Martin, still very formal, turned and nodded to Katharine and smiled across at Dick and Susannah. He then turned to Yuart again, inviting him to resume his seat; but this invitation Yuart declined, saying he had matters of business to attend to in the town.

  ‘I have taken a room at The Post House and will stay there a few days while making certain arrangements regarding my wife and family. What these arrangements are, she will tell you herself. I think it suffices if I say that as soon as they are completed she will be leaving your employ. You will, I’m sure, agree to waive the usual quarter’s notice.’

  Yuart spoke in a crisp, perfunctory way, making it clear that Martin was not required to answer.

  ‘Meanwhile, it will of course be necessary for me to see my wife occasionally, but I will do my best to ensure that my visits here do not inconvenience you. The situation, I promise you, will be of the shortest possible duration.’

  A few last courtesies and he was on his way to the door. Katharine got up and followed him, intimating by a glance to the children that they too should accompany him. While they were all out of the room, the maid came in, bringing fresh tea for Martin, and a moment later, when she had gone, Katharine and the children returned. Katharine, to busy herself, poured Martin’s tea and gave it to him. Fleetingly, her glance met his, and she gave him the token of a smile. She and Susannah sat down on the couch; Dick sat perched on one of its arms. Martin stood, sipping his tea, looking at each of them in turn. All three faces were strained and pale. Eventually Susannah spoke.

  ‘Papa has been in America. He intends taking us back there with him. We’re to be ready in three or four days. A week at the outside, he says. Then we’re to travel to Liverpool, and take ship from there.’

  ‘I see,’ Martin said, in a flat voice. ‘All very sudden for everybody.’

  ‘I think it’s monstrous!’ Dick exclaimed. ‘First he runs off and abandons us! Now he would tear us up by the roots! He says we have no choice, Sue and I, being both of us under age, but what about Mama? ‒ Has she no rights at all, where such decisions are concerned? Even if she has no rights in law, wouldn’t you think that my father should at least have enough decency ‒’

  ‘Dick!’ Katharine said, interrupting him. ‘You mustn’t expect Martin to answer questions of that kind. You place him in a difficult position.’

  ‘You mean he is bound to take our part?’

  ‘There can be no question of taking parts. I, being your papa’s wife, and you his children, we owe him the duty of obedience. Nothing in the world can alter that.’

  ‘I know, I know! But surely Papa has some duty, too. ‒ To consider our wishes in such a matter? Instead of which, I am to forego my chance of a place in Mr Bonnamy’s office, to do God knows what in San Francisco!’

  ‘Yes, and just think!’ Susannah said. ‘Whatever will Aunt Ginny say when she comes back from travelling abroad and finds us gone from here forever, without having seen her to say goodbye? I think Papa is very cruel. He thinks of no one but himself.’

  Katharine, having had time to reflect; having, while talking to Charles, seen how set he was on his chosen course, now made some attempt to conciliate her children on his behalf.

  ‘You must understand, both of you, that during the past three years your papa has had a very hard life. A dangerous life. And a lonely
one. We, in those years, have had one another. We’ve had Aunt Ginny and Uncle George. And Martin. And Railes. But Papa has been in a strange land, labouring incessantly, suffering all manner of hardships and ‒’

  ‘That’s not our fault,’ Dick said. ‘He didn’t have to go out there.’

  ‘It was a sacrifice, nevertheless, and one that was made in part for our sakes, so as to build a new life for us. Now Papa has every right to expect that we should do our best to make up to him for those three years.’

  Dick and Susannah remained silent. Katharine then spoke again.

  ‘Come, now,’ she said, in gentle reproach. ‘This is no way for us to behave, when we have so much to be thankful for. Papa has come back, safe and sound, and we’re a complete family again. That should make it a day of rejoicing. A day for giving thanks to God.’

  Still the young faces were obdurate. Dick’s, especially, was set in grim lines.

  ‘If I could see you rejoicing, Mama, then I might rejoice myself.’

  Martin, throughout this interchange, had said not one word, because such was the nature of his relationship with this family that his deeper feelings had to be hidden. Katharine knew what those feelings were; the children did not; the love he had for her, and for them, could only be conveyed in terms of friendship. Still, because of the circumstances, that friendship had been a special one. He had been able to help them; had become an important part of their lives. But now, at a stroke, he was nothing at all. His friendship carried no privileges, now that Charles Yuart was back. He could not intercede for them; he had to stand by while events took their course. In practical terms, his friendship was worthless. He was just a man of straw who had won their trust with promises of future help which he was now powerless to fulfil. And the knowledge of this, together with the prospect of imminent parting, was almost more than he could bear.

  The children, however, understood, and he soon found, on talking to them, that they both saw him as one of themselves: a fellow victim of circumstance; and although they did not comprehend the exact nature of his love for their mother, they accepted without question that she, and they, were important to him. They took it for granted, therefore, that his sense of loss was akin to theirs, and Susannah once, turning to him, suddenly said in a voice of tears:

  ‘Oh, Martin! I wish you could hide us away somewhere, in some secret place, so that we could stay here with you and never, never leave Railes at all!’

  ‘Yes,’ Martin said, ‘I wish it too.’

  But there was no hiding-place, or escape, as the children knew only too well. Once before they had left Railes; now fate decreed they must leave it again; and although they continued to argue the matter, passionately, as children will, all they achieved at the end of it was a kind of angry acceptance and a fierce resolve to make the most of the few days that were left to them.

  In the light of this resolve, everything they did, however trivial, had a special significance. They and their mother, always close, were drawn even closer at this time; they attended her everywhere, and every quiet word they spoke, as they went about the house and garden, was recorded forever in their hearts, together with the sights, sounds, and scents of the place, and all that made it so dear to them.

  ‘ “Eyes, look your last!

  Arms, take your last embrace!” ’

  ‘Surely, when we left before, it wasn’t as bad as it is this time? Why is that?’ Susannah asked.

  ‘Because that was then, and this is now, and we were not going so far,’ Dick said.

  Railes that evening was beautiful and brother and sister were both determined to absorb its essence into their souls so that, however far they went, they would carry that essence away with them. Determined, too, instinctively, to leave something of themselves behind; something of what they thought and felt, which would always, they hoped, be part of Railes, just as Railes would always be part of them.

  There came a moment later that evening when, the children having gone to the stables to talk to Sherard, Martin and Katharine were alone, walking together on the sunny parterre.

  ‘America,’ he said, in a hollow voice. ‘Somehow I never envisaged that.’

  ‘No, nor did I.’

  ‘I’ve often thought about losing you. I have forced myself to think of it, so that I should be prepared. But never for an instant did I think that I could lose you so utterly. It is, I suppose, a judgment on me.’

  ‘A judgment? Why?’

  ‘Because two years ago, when we talked about your husband, and you told me you still loved him, I made a vow to myself, that I would pray for his return. That vow has not been well kept. I felt he had made you unhappy enough. I feared he might make you unhappy again. Also, I had my own selfish reasons, as you know … so whatever prayer my lips formed, it was nothing but empty words. And although I often told myself that I was prepared for his coming home … in my heart I felt sure it would never happen. That’s why I say it’s a judgment on me ‒ that I am paid out for my falseness.’

  He paused and Katharine glanced at him: a soft upwards glance, quickly withdrawn; but a glance of such sort indeed that if Martin had not already loved her, ‒ if this had been his first meeting with her ‒ he would certainly have loved her from that moment on, and thought the world well lost for it, because of what that glance conveyed.

  ‘God, how we delude ourselves where our own wishes are concerned!’ he said. ‘Of course Charles has come back to you! What man would not?’

  Katharine made no reply; her face was turned away now; and they walked for a while in silence, across the parterre and down the steps, onto the sloping lawn below. Then Martin spoke again.

  ‘If by some miraculous means the clock were turned back a few hours, and you found his return had been only a dream, would you be glad or sorry?’ he asked.

  ‘Martin,’ she said, in a low voice, ‘you know you do wrong in asking me that.’

  ‘No doubt I do wrong in loving you, but I do love you all the same, and always will till the day I die.’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ she said. ‘You must try to forget.’

  ‘Even if that were possible, would you really wish to be forgotten?’

  ‘I would wish to spare you pain.’

  ‘Will you be able to forget what you’re leaving here?’

  ‘No, of course not. This is my home. I’ve lived here the greater part of my life. When I am gone far away, all my memories will be of this house.’

  ‘Yes. Quite so. And in just the same way the house itself will always hold its memories of you. Can you imagine how it will be when you are gone from here? Have you any idea how much you’ll be missed? Why, the very stones will ache for you!’

  ‘Martin, don’t!’ Katharine said. ‘I beg you will not speak like that. Do you think I feel less than the stones?’

  ‘Katharine, I’m sorry. I’m a selfish brute. That I should add to your distress ‒’

  ‘You wouldn’t, I know, deliberately. But just at present, with things as they are, what I need from you is your strength.’

  ‘Strength,’ he repeated, hopelessly, and made a gesture with his hand. But in a moment, when he spoke again, it was with greater firmness. ‘Yes. Very well. Such strength as I have ‒ it shall be yours. Command me any service to the world’s end … even to the very Antipodes.’

  ‘At least we’re not going so far as that.’ Glancing at him, she managed a smile. ‘There! I have found some comfort in our destination ‒ that it is only six thousand miles away, when it might have been twelve. Perhaps if I try hard enough, I may find other things to be thankful for. But one task at least I would charge you with. That when you know our whereabouts there, ‒ and we shall send word as soon as we can ‒ you will write to us regularly, giving all possible news of home, down to the last detail.’

  ‘That will be no task to me. But will you write to me in return?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll send you news from the New World.’

  ‘With your permission,’ Martin said,
‘I will in due course visit you there.’

  ‘You would travel so far?’ she said, marvelling.

  ‘Yes. Why not?’ Meeting her glance, he smiled at her. ‘It is, as you say, only six thousand miles.’

  Later that evening, however, when he had spent some hours alone, he found himself, for the first time, questioning the inevitability of it. And, seeking Katharine’s company again, he broached the subject differently.

  ‘I wonder if we are making a mistake in accepting it so fatalistically.’

  ‘I have no choice but to accept it.’

  ‘So long as your husband sticks by his intention, no, you have not. But what if he could be dissuaded? I have given the matter much thought and I think if I were to speak to him and put certain propositions to him ‒’

  ‘It will be useless,’ Katharine said. ‘He will not accept help from you. You offered it when Hainault failed and he rejected it out of hand.’

  ‘That was more than three years ago. The situation is different now. He may be open to suggestions.’

  ‘I don’t think he will. His mind is set on America.’

  ‘Then why has he come back here like this, when he could so easily have written instead, asking you and the children to join him there?’

  ‘I wondered about that myself. I think perhaps it is because he wanted Chardwell to see that he has done well for himself and that he can hold up his head again.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘It is only natural, Martin, dear.’

  ‘Perfectly natural, I agree. Any man would feel the same. That’s why I think it may be worthwhile speaking to him. Three years ago he was penniless. Now he’s a man of some substance again. Which means, if any proposition were put to him, he could discuss it on equal terms. Will you not allow me to try? If he refuses, nothing is lost. He can do no worse than he plans at present.’

  ‘No, that’s true.’

  ‘Then I have your permission to speak to him?’

  ‘Let me sleep on it,’ Katharine said, ‘and we’ll talk of it again in the morning.’

  In the morning, Martin’s resolve was firmer than ever, and Katharine now gave her consent. He therefore sent word to the stables, requesting his horse for half past eight, but then, just as he was crossing the hall, Charles Yuart himself appeared, letting himself in from the kitchen court. Speaking curtly, as always with Martin, he apologized for his early call. He was anxious, he said, to see his wife.