Troy Chimneys

by Margaret Kennedy

  ‘I cannot believe that I ever—’

  ‘Oh I don’t accuse you of trifling with her. Your attentions were never marked enough for that. But I thought it odd that you should notice her so much, and I therefore watched you both pretty closely, and I could soon see that you were everything to her. I am not in the least surprised at that. You have a very taking way with you, as I expect you know. I don’t suppose that she had ever met a man who talked to her so much, or considered her tastes, or entered into her ideas. That poor boy who courted her long before – I am sure he had not half your power to make himself agreeable. My mother always said that he only took notice of her because all the smarter girls had slighted him. But, if you will allow me to be perfectly frank, you were quite captivating in those days. I don’t mean to suggest that you cannot be captivating now. But you are now more a man of the world, and I think it would be a little bit more clear what your feelings really are. In those days, you were so boyish and impulsive and poetical – even I could not be sure that you meant nothing until I noticed that you never went beyond a certain point, – the point that would have committed you. She should have noticed that too, of course. It was very simple of her. But then, you know, she understood little about flirtation. She did not go out very much, and in the years when one flirts I suppose that she had been mourning for her poor sailor. It only broke upon her gradually that you meant nothing. You ceased coming to us at one time, although you were invited. And of course you would have come, if you had cared for her. I forget what year it was, – that you were to have come and did not?’

  I said that it was in 1807.

  ‘Ah yes! It was the year of Tilsit! Because we heard of that upon the same day that we heard you were not coming, – my brother was so gloomy about Tilsit, and we girls were all so gloomy at the prospect of a summer with no Lufton, you cannot imagine how dismal we all were, – well that is a very long time ago! Ten years! But Caroline became an altered creature. She cried herself to sleep every night. I know, because we shared a bedchamber. She would wait until she thought I slept, and then the sobs broke out. I knew her better than to say anything. But often I would pretend to be asleep when I was not, so that the poor thing might be free to cry—’

  I broke out in protest, exclaiming that she had no right to betray her sister.

  ‘I only do it for her good,’ said she complacently. ‘She fell into a sort of melancholy, after that, from which I think she has never recovered. Yet she would always defend you, if you were criticised. My mother – I betray no secrets, for I think you must have guessed that you were no favourite there – my mother sometimes said little things in your disfavour. But Caroline defended you. I remember that once she said–’

  Here Mrs. Egerton pulled up, aware that her indiscretion was running away with her. But I knew, without being told, what must have passed. Frank Morrill’s mother had accused me of having come there solely in order to secure the family interest; once I had got West Malling, I would not trouble to visit Lingshot. And Caroline, on my behalf, had said that such expedients are to be excused in a man who must rise by his own exertions. I had already heard her excuses for Pronto, – the excuses which her generosity had found for him, after he had broken her heart.

  I cannot bear this, I said to myself. I cannot bear to think of it. I must not think of it. I shall go mad if I do. I need not, for it is all over. She has refused me. We have parted. I must forget her as soon as possible. That is better than thinking about it.

  ‘She would not have refused me yesterday,’ said I, ‘if any feeling of that sort had remained.’

  ‘Oh yes. It is very natural. Consider that for years she has been forbidding herself to love you – telling herself that she does not—’

  ‘She is far too frank and sensible to deceive herself. And too generous to bear a grudge. Had she still cared for me, I think that she would have accepted me.’

  ‘Ah! You think so because you are a man. I am a woman, and I understand her better.’

  They always say this and we always swallow it. We should get on with them much better, I think, if we never allowed them to explain each other, for, when they do, they lead us into a maze from which there is no escape.

  I should not have listened to her. I should have resigned myself to that frightful truth which gripped me, – that my chance with Caroline had come and gone long since, – that, in her exalted resolution, she had forgiven me far too well. The girl who had loved me ten years before was lost beyond recall; the woman she might have become, had I loved her then, was lost too. The surviving Caroline had learnt to cherish solitude, – she was not for me, not for any man.

  But I allowed myself to be talked into a kind of hope, against reason, against feeling, – since, between us, we settled upon a picture of Caroline which did her little justice. She did not know her own mind. She did not know her own heart. There might be a little resentment, it was very natural, which had prompted her to inflict pain upon one who had caused her so much. She had not meant what she said. She would soften when she knew of my remorse. With patience, I might still prevail.

  I was the more ready to listen since this kind of reasoning did away with certain mortifying memories. I was able to forget those strictures upon Lufton, and set them all down to the reproaches of a wounded heart. We had a long discussion. We must have been closeted together for above two hours, for Mrs. Egerton had a great deal of very good advice, once she had prevailed upon me to listen. She thought it better that I should leave Bath for the present, giving Caroline a little time for reflection and regret. She herself would meanwhile be my constant advocate, and would engage to let me know when to return.

  We were still in the midst of this sanguine conspiracy when Caroline’s note was brought in.

  The servant said that a boy had left it at the door, saying that a lady, travelling post to London, had given him a shilling to deliver it at Devonshire Crescent by midday.

  ‘Travelling post to London!’ cried Mrs. Egerton, breaking the seal. ‘But this is Caroline’s hand!’

  She looked at it, turned pale, cried out and thrust it into my hand before rushing from the room. Bells were rung, maids ran up and down stairs, – the whole house echoed with cries and exclamations, as it became plain that Caroline was gone. She had slipped out, with a small travelling bag, while I was closeted with her sister, had hired a post-chaise, and quitted Bath.

  Whilst all this clamour proceeded I stood in the drawing-room, reading and re-reading her note:

  I am going to London. Pray send my clothes to Lingshot. You shall have my direction when I know what it will be. I choose to live by myself for a while.

  Nancy tells me that you have sent for Mr. Lufton. I know you too well not to guess what you mean to tell him, and I cannot bear to see either of you again. You have no right to betray me, and no right to give him this needless pain. You do me wrong to take me out of the grave. Tell him to forget – forget and forgive.

  I tried to forget, because I did not wish to forgive. I spent the autumn in a reckless, angry mood, refusing to think, determined to remember nothing.

  Then came my accident, my illness, and the eclipse of Pronto, which left me no defence against memory.

  But why should I have feared it? This long reverie of recollection has brought me more of good than evil. It has raised my mother from the shades, an image no longer dim, but as a light which shone like heaven upon my childhood. Hawker has returned to me, as I first knew him, I have seen Ludovic galloping over the downs, I have remembered why I love Newsome and Kitty so much. Beyond all other blessings, – my beloved girl has been restored to my heart. Where she may be now, I know not; but wherever she is, God go with her.

  Of Miles and Pronto this may be a sorry tale:

  But genuine love must prize the past,

  And memory wakes the thoughts that bless;

  They rose the first – they set the last.

  What shall I do now? I do not trouble myself greatly over that. I
t will follow, – it will follow as the night must follow day. To know himself is the first thing that a man must do before he dies. It is not all, but it is the first.

  There must be no more of these boyish starts, – no more dreams of going to sea, no more attempts to fly the world. Miles has compounded too often with Pronto in that way, and set a Harry Ridding against the pangs of conscience. I trust that this business of Ridding’s may be the last of his exploits. The feelings which prompted these impulsive actions must, and shall, be put to a more effective use. ‘There is much to be done.’ I will no longer cry: Helpless! ‘A duty that I may be happy to fulfil.’ I shall find it. I have still half of my life before me.

  It was daylight when I began this last chapter. Now it is dark, and a young crescent moon has appeared above the trees in the park. Down in the lane I can hear voices and low laughter. Harriet, Sukey and Anna are strolling there; I can see their white dresses glimmer among the shadows.

  They have just spied me at my window and are calling to me to turn my money in my pocket and kiss my hand to the new moon.

  EPILOGUE: 1880

  EPILOGUE: 1880

  Cullenstown, Jan. 14, 1880

  DEAR FRED,

  I am afraid we are in hot water over the Lufton Papers. My mother, who is now with us, has just discovered that you have them. She is much distressed that we should have let them go out of the house, – so much distressed that I think you had better send them back, if you have got all the information you want about Chalfont. She talks of destroying them.

  As I suspected, she did know something. After beating about the bush for a while she told me what it was. It is not much, – only what she had from my father ages ago, and she has a most happy faculty for forgetting anything she doesn’t care to remember.

  Lufton was killed in a duel. It was all hushed up. In my mother’s words: ‘The inquest said it was an accident, but your grandfather was there and he said it was sheer murder. Your uncle fired wide, but the other man, who was drunk and very angry, did not, which shocked everybody very much. Your grandfather had to be very careful what he said at the inquest.’

  This last sentence is, I imagine, my Mama’s euphemism for perjury! But she doesn’t worry on Grandpapa’s account. Wherever he is now, they can’t get him for it.

  It is the man who did it (she swears she never knew who he was) or his children, that she thinks of. Some of them may be living still and might be distressed if this story got out.

  Family skeletons!

  I think she is making a fuss out of nothing, but perhaps you had better send those papers back.

  Yours ever,

  JIM

  Brailsford, Jan. 18, 1880

  DEAR SIR JAMES,

  I am writing on behalf of poor Harnish, who has had a severe set-back, a bad haemorrhage a couple of days ago, which has completely knocked him up. He does not wish Lady Emily to know, as it might frighten her, and he is sure that it is nothing and that he will soon pick up. I hope he is right; the doctor seems to be fairly optimistic. But I wish some of the family were here. The only relative in England is young Chalfont, at Eton. I have written to let him know, and to the Amershams, in Vienna, of course.

  He wants me to tell you that we are returning the Lufton Papers, and have enclosed with this a letter we found, not from Miles Lufton, but from his brother George, which confirms Lady Cullen’s story. We found it before we had finished reading the memoir so we knew what the end would be; and, as the ‘other man’ concerned is clearly identified, there is some reason for caution. We have looked that family up in Burke, and find that he died in 1846, but his grandson still owns the Gloucestershire property. These things are better forgotten.

  I will let you know how Harnish goes on.

  With kindest regards,

  Yours very sincerely,

  CHARLES CUNNINGHAM

  Enclosure

  The Parsonage, Great Bramfield, Glos.

  July 12, 1818

  MY LORD,

  I am in receipt of your lordship’s letter of the 10th inst. and will do my best to answer your questions.

  As to the circumstances of my brother’s death, I think this question sufficiently answered by the findings of the Coroner’s Jury. He died by misadventure, being accidentally shot by our cousin, Mr. Edward Chadwick, of Great Bramfield Park. Evidence was given by Mr. Charles Pinney, of Stokehampton, and by my brother-in-law, Sir James Cullen, who were both witnesses of the melancholy event. All four were shooting at rabbits in a disused quarry, locally called Ribstone Pit, having gone there very early one morning for the purpose. That they used pistols has occasioned, I believe, some comment, but it is not uncommon for gentlemen to amuse themselves at this kind of sport. Both Sir James and Mr. Pinney stated that my brother stepped unexpectedly into range when Mr. Chadwick happened to be firing. He was hit in the lungs and died within an hour.

  As to his state and final moments, I was present at the end and will give as full an account as I can. I was still abed when a message was brought to me that there had been an accident. I hastened with the messenger, a labourer called Howes, to Ribstone Pit. Sir James was, by then, gone off to seek a surgeon; the bleeding was so profuse that they dared not aggravate it by moving my brother until skilled assistance should arrive. I found him supported in his cousin’s arms; Mr. Chadwick, unable to believe that he was dying, repeatedly exhorted him to say that it was nothing, and that he was not really hurt.

  Poor Miles, upon perceiving me, gasped out that it was ‘not Ned’s fault’ and that I must ‘tell them so’. After that he said nothing collected. His mind seemed to wander. He murmured something which I could not catch; it sounded like: ‘Missed the venture and hit Ahab.’ I suppose that he was trying to explain the accident. I asked him if he was comfortable or if he would prefer to be moved to the nearest cottage. He replied: No. He should do very well among the chimney sweepers. Perceiving that the awful moment was fast approaching, I began to repeat the prayer for dying persons, constantly interrupted by the sobs of Mr. Chadwick; Mr. Pinney and Howes kneeling beside us. My brother cut me short with a whisper that I should ‘Pray for the helpless – pray for all sorts and conditions’ – I accordingly began that prayer but had got no further than all who profess and call themselves Christians when he broke in again, to ask for Ridding, a farmer upon the Bramfield property. ‘Here are Bob, Ned and I, but there should be four of us, you know. Where is Harry?’ With that he fixed his eyes earnestly upon the labourer Howes. I took no notice and continued the prayer. At the words the bond of peace, he cried out suddenly, in a strong voice: Begone! He fell into a strange, wild fit of laughter, which was strangled by a gush of blood, and all was over.

  He is buried beside our mother, in Bramfield churchyard.

  It is very kind of your lordship to enquire so particularly after my father. He is so much shaken by these dreadful events that I doubt if he will ever again be equal to his parish duties. While he lives I can remain here, acting as his curate. At his death I am certain that the living will be presented elsewhere, and I do not know where I can expect preferment, unless I may depend upon your lordship’s continued interest in our family.

  As regards the property in Wiltshire, it is not in my power to give any precise information, but I believe that it is to be sold to the present tenant. I may say that the whole of my brother’s property goes to my sister Susan, in a Will executed by him this Spring. I will not criticise his action in thus passing over the claims of other relatives. My sister has chosen to remove from Bramfield and has gone to Ireland.

  Your lordship’s final question leaves me completely at a loss. I know nothing of my brother’s dreams. If he received some warning of his end, I never heard of it. As to the particular dream which he communicated to your lordship, – I cannot see any connection between this sad fatality and my sister-in-law, formerly Miss Maria Cotman, now Mrs. Poole, and resident in Jamaica.

  I have the honour to be

  Your lordship’s obliged
, humble

  and obedient servant,

  GEORGE LUFTON

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