Castle Richmond

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER IX.

  FAMILY COUNCILS.

  When the girls and Aunt Letty went to their chambers that night,Herbert returned to his mother's own dressing-room, and there, seatedover the fire with her, discussed the matter of his father's suddenattack. He had been again with his father, and Sir Thomas had seemedglad to have him there; but now he had left him for the night.

  "He will sleep now, mother," said the son; "he has taken laudanum."

  "I fear he takes that too often now."

  "It was good for him to have it to-night. He did not get too much,for I dropped it for him." And then they sat silent for a few momentstogether.

  "Mother," said Herbert, "who can this man have been?"

  "I have no knowledge--no idea--no guess even," said Lady Fitzgerald.

  "It is that man's visit that has upset him."

  "Oh, certainly. I think there is no doubt of that. I was waiting forthe man to go, and went in almost before he was out of the house."

  "Well?"

  "And I found your father quite prostrated."

  "Not on the floor?"

  "No, not exactly on the floor. He was still seated on his chair, buthis head was on the table, over his arms."

  "I have often found him in that way, mother."

  "But you never saw him looking as he looked this morning, Herbert.When I went in he was speechless, and he remained so, I should say,for some minutes."

  "Was he senseless?"

  "No; he knew me well enough, and grasped me by the hand; and when Iwould have gone to the bell to ring for assistance, he would not letme. I thought he would have gone into a fit when I attempted it."

  "And what did you do?"

  "I sat there by him, with his hand in mine, quite quietly. And thenhe uttered a long, deep sigh, and--oh, Herbert!"

  "Well, mother?"

  "At last, he burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed and cried like achild."

  "Mother!"

  "He did, so that it was piteous to see him. But it did him good, forhe was better after it. And all the time he never let go my hand, butheld it and kissed it. And then he took me by the waist, and kissedme, oh, so often. And all the while his tears were running like thetears of a girl." And Lady Fitzgerald, as she told the story, couldnot herself refrain from weeping.

  "And did he say anything afterwards about this man?"

  "Yes; not at first, that is. Of course I asked him who he was as soonas I thought he could bear the question. But he turned away, andmerely said that he was a stupid man about some old London business,and that he should have gone to Prendergast. But when, after a while,I pressed him, he said that the man's name was Mollett, and that hehad, or pretended to have, some claim upon the city property."

  "A claim on the city property! Why, it's not seven hundred a yearaltogether. If any Mollett could run away with it all, that losswould not affect him like that."

  "So I said, Herbert; not exactly in those words, but trying tocomfort him. He then put it off by declaring that it was theconsciousness of his inability to see any one on business whichaffected him so grievously."

  "It was that he said to me."

  "And there may be something in that, Herbert."

  "Yes; but then what should make him so weak, to begin with? If youremember, mother, he was very well,--more like himself than usuallast night."

  "Oh, I observed it. He seemed to like having Clara Desmond there."

  "Didn't he, mother? I observed that too. But then Clara Desmond issuch a sweet creature." The mother looked at her son as he said this,but the son did not notice the look. "I do wonder what the real truthcan be," he continued. "Do you think there is anything wrong aboutthe property in general? About this estate, here?"

  "No, I don't think that," said the mother, sadly.

  "What can it be then?" But Lady Fitzgerald sat there, and did notanswer the question. "I'll tell you what I will do, mother; I'll goup to London, and see Prendergast, and consult him."

  "Oh, no; you mustn't do that. I am wrong to tell you all this, for hetold me to talk to no one. But it would kill me if I didn't speak ofit to you."

  "All the same, mother, I think it would be best to consultPrendergast."

  "Not yet, Herbert. I dare say Mr. Prendergast may be a very good sortof man, but we none of us know him. And if, as is very probable, thisis only an affair of health, it would be wrong in you to go to astranger. It might look--"

  "Look what, mother?"

  "People might think--he, I mean--that you wanted to interfere."

  "But who ought to interfere on his behalf if I don't?"

  "Quite true, dearest; I understand what you mean, and know how goodyou are. But perhaps Mr. Prendergast might not. He might think youwanted--"

  "Wanted what, mother? I don't understand you."

  "Wanted to take the things out of your father's hands."

  "Oh, mother!"

  "He doesn't know you. And, what is more, I don't think he knows muchof your father. Don't go to him yet." And Herbert promised that hewould not.

  "And you don't think that this man was ever here before?" he asked.

  "Well, I rather think he was here once before; many years ago--soonafter you went to school."

  "So long ago as that?"

  "Yes; not that I remember him, or, indeed, ever knew of his comingthen, if he did come. But Jones says that she thinks she remembershim."

  "Did Jones see him now?"

  "Yes; she was in the hall as he passed through on his way out. And itso happened that she let him in and out too when he came before. Thatis, if it is the same man."

  "That's very odd."

  "It did not happen here. We were at Tenby for a few weeks in thesummer."

  "I remember; you went there with the girls just when I went back toschool."

  "Jones was with us, and Richard. We had none other of our ownservants. And Jones says that the same man did come then; that hestayed with your father for an hour or two; and that when he left,your father was depressed--almost as he was yesterday. I wellremember that. I know that a man did come to him at Tenby; and--oh,Herbert!"

  "What is it, mother? Speak out at any rate to me."

  "Since that man came to him at Tenby he has never been like what hewas before."

  And then there was more questioning between them about Jones and herremembrances. It must be explained that Jones was a very old and veryvalued servant. She had originally been brought up as a child by Mrs.Wainwright, in that Dorsetshire parsonage, and had since remainedfirm to the fortunes of the young lady, whose maid she had become onher first marriage. As her mistress had been promoted, so had Jones.At first she had been Kitty to all the world, now she was Mrs. Jonesto the world at large, Jones to Sir Thomas and her mistress andof late years to Herbert, and known by all manner of affectionatesobriquets to the young ladies. Sometimes they would call herJohnny, and sometimes the Duchess; but doubtless they and Mrs. Jonesthoroughly understood each other. By the whole establishment Mrs.Jones was held in great respect, and by the younger portion inextreme awe. Her breakfast and tea she had in a little sitting-roomby herself; but the solitude of this was too tremendous for herto endure at dinner-time. At that meal she sat at the head of thetable in the servants' hall, though she never troubled herself tocarve anything except puddings and pies, for which she had a greatpartiality, and of which she was supposed to be the most undoubtedand severe judge known of anywhere in that part of the country.

  She was supposed by all her brother and sister servants to be a veryCroesus for wealth; and wondrous tales were told of the money shehad put by. But as she was certainly honest, and supposed to be verygenerous to certain poor relations in Dorsetshire, some of thesestories were probably mythic. It was known, however, as a fact, thattwo Castle Richmond butlers, one out-door steward, three neighbouringfarmers, and one wickedly ambitious coachman, had endeavoured totempt her to matrimony--in vain. "She didn't want none of them," shetold her mistress. "And, what was more, she wouldn't have none ofthem.
" And therefore she remained Mrs. Jones, with brevet rank.

  It seemed, from what Lady Fitzgerald said, that Mrs. Jones's mannerhad been somewhat mysterious about this man, Mollett. She hadendeavoured to reassure and comfort her mistress, saying that nothingwould come of it as nothing had come of that other Tenby visit, andgiving it as her counsel that the ladies should allow the wholematter to pass by without further notice. But at the same time LadyFitzgerald had remarked that her manner had been very serious whenshe first said that she had seen the man before.

  "Jones," Lady Fitzgerald had said to her, very earnestly, "if youknow more about this man than you are telling me, you are bound tospeak out, and let me know everything."

  "Who--I, my lady? what could I know? Only he do look to me like thesame man, and so I thought it right to say to your ladyship."

  Lady Fitzgerald had seen that there was nothing more to be gained bycross-questioning, and so she had allowed the matter to drop. But shewas by no means satisfied that this servant whom she so trusted didnot know more than she had told. And then Mrs. Jones had been withher in those dreadful Dorsetshire days, and an undefined fear beganto creep over her very soul.

  "God bless you, my child!" said Lady Fitzgerald, as her son got up toleave her. And then she embraced him with more warmth even than washer wont. "All that we can do at present is to be gentle with him,and not to encourage people around him to talk of his illness."

  On the next morning Lady Fitzgerald did not come down to breakfast,but sent her love to Clara, and begged her guest to excuse her onaccount of headache. Sir Thomas rarely came in to breakfast, andtherefore his absence was not remarkable. His daughters, however,went up to see him, as did also his sister; and they all declaredthat he was very much better.

  "It was some sudden attack, I suppose?" said Clara.

  "Yes, very sudden; he has had the same before," said Herbert. "Butthey do not at all affect his intellect or bodily powers. Depressionis, I suppose, the name that the doctors would call it."

  And then at last it became noticeable by them that Lady Clara did notuse her left arm. "Oh, Clara!" said Emmeline, "I see now that you arehurt. How selfish we have been! Oh dear, oh dear!" And both Emmelineand Mary immediately surrounded her, examining her arm, and almostcarrying her to the sofa.

  "I don't think it will be much," said Clara. "It's only a littlestiff."

  "Oh, Herbert, what shall we do? Do look here; the inside of her armis quite black."

  Herbert, gently touching her hand, did examine the arm, and declaredhis opinion that she had received a dreadfully violent blow. Emmelineproposed to send for a doctor to pronounce whether or no it werebroken. Mary said that she didn't think it was broken, but that shewas sure the patient ought not to be moved that day, or probably fora week. Aunt Letty, in the mean time, prescribed a cold-water bandagewith great authority, and bounced out of the room to fetch thenecessary linen and basin of water.

  "It's nothing at all," continued Clara. "And indeed I shall go hometo-day; indeed I shall."

  "It might be very bad for your arm that you should be moved," saidHerbert.

  "And your staying here will not be the least trouble to us. We shallall be so happy to have you; shall we not, Mary?"

  "Of course we shall; and so will mamma."

  "I am so sorry to be here now," said Clara, "when I know you are allin such trouble about Sir Thomas. But as for going, I shall go assoon as ever you can make it convenient to send me. Indeed I shall."And so the matter was discussed between them, Aunt Letty in the meantime binding up the bruised arm with cold-water appliances.

  Lady Clara was quite firm about going, and, therefore, at abouttwelve she was sent. I should say taken, for Emmeline insisted ongoing with her in the carriage. Herbert would have gone also, but hefelt that he ought not to leave Castle Richmond that day, on accountof his father. But he would certainly ride over, he said, and learnhow her arm was the next morning.

  "And about Clady, you know," said Clara.

  "I will go on to Clady also. I did send a man there yesterday to seeabout the flue. It's the flue that's wrong, I know."

  "Oh, thank you; I am so much obliged to you," said Clara. And thenthe carriage drove off, and Herbert returned into the morningsitting-room with his sister Mary.

  "I'll tell you what it is, Master Herbert," said Mary.

  "Well--what is it?"

  "You are going to fall in love with her young ladyship."

  "Am I? Is that all you know about it? And who are you going to fallin love with pray?"

  "Oh! his young lordship, perhaps; only he ought to be about ten yearsolder, so that I'm afraid that wouldn't do. But Clara is just the agefor you. It really seems as though it were all prepared ready to yourhand."

  "You girls always do think that those things are ready prepared;"and so saying, Herbert walked off with great manly dignity to someretreat among his own books and papers, there to meditate whetherthis thing were in truth prepared for him. It certainly was the factthat the house did seem very blank to him now that Clara was gone;and that he looked forward with impatience to the visit which it wasso necessary that he should make on the following day to Clady.

  The house at Castle Richmond was very silent and quiet that day. WhenEmmeline came back, she and her sister remained together. Nothing hadbeen said to them about Mollett's visit, and they had no other ideathan that this lowness of spirits on their father's part, to whichthey had gradually become accustomed, had become worse and moredangerous to his health than ever.

  Aunt Letty talked much about it to Herbert, to Lady Fitzgerald,to Jones, and to her brother, and was quite certain that she hadpenetrated to the depth of the whole matter. That nasty cityproperty, she said, which had come with her grandmother, had alwaysgiven the family more trouble than it was worth. Indeed, hergrandmother had been a very troublesome woman altogether; and nowonder, for though she was a Protestant herself, she had had Papistrelations in Lancashire. She distinctly remembered to have heard thatthere was some flaw in the title of that property, and she knew thatit was very hard to get some of the tenants to pay any rent. That shehad always heard. She was quite sure that this man was some personlaying a claim to it, and threatening to prosecute his claim at law.It was a thousand pities that her brother should allow such a trifleas this,--for after all it was but a trifle, to fret his spirits andworry him in this way. But it was the wretched state of his health:were he once himself again, all such annoyances as that would passhim by like the wind.

  It must be acknowledged that Aunt Letty's memory in this respect wasnot exactly correct; for, as it happened, Sir Thomas held his littleproperty in the city of London by as firm a tenure as the laws andcustoms of his country could give him; and seeing that his incomethence arising came from ground rents near the river, on whichproperty stood worth some hundreds of thousands, it was not veryprobable that his tenants should be in arrear. But what she said hadsome effect upon Herbert. He was not quite sure whether this mightnot be the cause of his father's grief; and if the story did not havemuch effect upon Lady Fitzgerald, at any rate it did as well as anyother to exercise the ingenuity and affection of Aunt Letty.

  Sir Thomas passed the whole of that day in his own room; but during agreat portion of the day either his wife, or sister, or son was withhim. They endeavoured not to leave him alone with his own thoughts,feeling conscious that something preyed upon his mind, thoughignorant as to what that something might be.

  He was quite aware of the nature of their thoughts; perfectlyconscious of the judgment they had formed respecting him. He knewthat he was subjecting himself, in the eyes not only of his ownfamily but of all those around him, to suspicions which must beinjurious to him, and yet he could not shake off the feeling thatdepressed him.

  But at last he did resolve to make an attempt at doing so. For sometime in the evening he was altogether alone, and he then strove toforce his mind to work upon the matter which occupied it,--to arrangehis ideas, and bring himself into a state in which he could make
aresolution. For hours he had sat,--not thinking upon this subject,for thought is an exertion which requires a combination of ideas andresults in the deducing of conclusions from premises; and no sucheffort as that had he hitherto made,--but endeavouring to think whilehe allowed the matter of his grief to lie ever before his mind's eye.

  He had said to himself over and over again, that it behoved him tomake some great effort to shake off this incubus that depressed him;but yet no such effort had hitherto been even attempted. Now at lasthe arose and shook himself, and promised to himself that he would bea man. It might be that the misfortune under which he groaned washeavy, but let one's sorrow be what it may, there is always a betterand a worse way of meeting it. Let what trouble may fall on a man'sshoulders, a man may always bear it manfully. And are not troubleswhen so borne half cured? It is the flinching from pain which makespain so painful.

  This truth came home to him as he sat there that day, thinking whathe should do, endeavouring to think in what way he might best turnhimself. But there was this that was especially grievous to him,that he had no friend whom he might consult in this matter. It wasa sorrow, the cause of which he could not explain to his own family,and in all other troubles he had sought assistance and lookedfor counsel there and there only. He had had one best, steadiest,dearest, truest counsellor, and now it had come to pass that thingswere so placed that in this great trouble he could not go to her.

  And now a friend was so necessary to him! He felt that he was not fitto judge how he himself should act in this terrible emergency; thatit was absolutely necessary for him that he should allow himself tobe guided by some one else. But to whom should he appeal?

  "He is a cold man," said he to himself, as one name did occur to him,"very cold, almost unfeeling; but he is honest and just." And thenagain he sat and thought. "Yes, he is honest and just; and whatshould I want better than honesty and justice?" And then, shudderingas he resolved, he did resolve that he would send for this honest andjust man. He would send for him; or, perhaps better still, go to him.At any rate, he would tell him the whole truth of his grief, and thenact as the cold, just man should bid him.

  But he need not do this yet--not quite yet. So at least he said tohimself, falsely. If a man decide with a fixed decision that histooth should come out, or his leg be cut off, let the tooth come outor the leg be cut off on the earliest possible opportunity. It is theflinching from such pain that is so grievously painful.

  But it was something to have brought his mind to bear with a fixedpurpose upon these things, and to have resolved upon what he woulddo, though he still lacked strength to put his resolution immediatelyto the proof.

  Then, later in the evening, his son came and sat with him, and hewas able in some sort to declare that the worst of that evil day hadpassed from him. "I shall breakfast with you all to-morrow," he said,and as he spoke a faint smile passed across his face.

  "Oh! I hope you will," said Herbert; "we shall be so delighted: but,father, do not exert yourself too soon."

  "It will do me good, I think."

  "I am sure it will, if the fatigue be not too much."

  "The truth is, Herbert, I have allowed this feeling to grow upon metill I have become weak under it. I know that I ought to make anexertion to throw it off, and it is possible that I may succeed."

  Herbert muttered some few hopeful words, but he found it verydifficult to know what he ought to say. That his father had somesecret he was quite sure; and it is hard to talk to a man about hissecret, without knowing what that secret is.

  "I have allowed myself to fall into a weak state," continued SirThomas, speaking slowly, "while by proper exertion I might haveavoided it."

  "You have been very ill, father," said Herbert.

  "Yes, I have been ill, very ill, certainly. But I do not know thatany doctor could have helped me."

  "Father--"

  "No, Herbert; do not ask me questions; do not inquire; at any rate,not at present. I will endeavour--now at least I will endeavour--todo my duty. But do not urge me by questions, or appear to notice meif I am infirm."

  "But, father,--if we could comfort you?"

  "Ah! if you could. But, never mind, I will endeavour to shake offthis depression. And, Herbert, comfort your mother; do not let herthink much of all this, if it can be helped."

  "But how can it be helped?"

  "And tell her this: there is a matter that troubles my mind."

  "Is it about the property, father?"

  "No--yes; it certainly is about the property in one sense."

  "Then do not heed it; we shall none of us heed it. Who has so good aright to say so as I?"

  "Bless you, my darling boy! But, Herbert, such things must beheeded--more or less, you know: but you may tell your mother this,and perhaps it may comfort her. I have made up my mind to go toLondon and to see Prendergast; I will explain the whole of this thingto him, and as he bids me so will I act."

  This was thought to be satisfactory to a certain extent both by themother and son. They would have been better pleased had he openedhis heart to them and told them everything; but that it was clear hecould not bring himself to do. This Mr. Prendergast they had heardwas a good man; and in his present state it was better that he shouldseek counsel of any man than allow his sorrow to feed upon himselfalone.