“Do you think so, mother?” said Algernon. “I don’t. She knows how she is playing very well.”
Mrs. Heathcote suddenly turned her eyes upon the boy, and remembering some of his former hints on the same subject understood his meaning. “Well, dear,” she said, with something a little like a sigh, “and if she does, I don’t see who’s to blame her. She has not got so many to love her as you and Florence have.”
“But is that any reason, mother, that she should play so very well?” said Algernon.
“Yes, I think it is, poor thing!” replied Mrs. Heathcote, in a whisper. “I often wish that I... and you, Algernon, and all of us, indeed, could get on faster in being fond of her; and it does not do us any great credit, I think, considering how very badly off she is, that there is not one of us that loves her.”
“Why I do think you are a hard step-mother upon us, now,” replied Algernon, with a comic shake of the head. “I have heard of step-mothers who gave musty porridge to the poor innocents committed to their keeping, and whipped them if they made wry faces at it; but ask your own hard heart, Mrs. Heathcote, if you don’t serve us worse?.... Just think of the dry, hard, sour stuff that you and father have bestowed upon us, and then you tell us to be fond of it! Fie, Mrs. Heathcote! Fie, fie, fie!”
“Go to bed, Algernon!” replied the step-mother, knitting her brows, and endeavouring not to laugh; “and, above all things, you bad boy, take care not to make your remarks when anybody besides myself and Florence can hear them.”
“Born for your will, I live but to obey you,” replied Algernon; “I don’t mean about going to bed, however, but about keeping all my wisdom for you and Flora, and one more,” he added, with a mysterious nod. “But do not be alarmed, mother, I would not interfere with the curly-headed darling for the world. Only, don’t you think that it might be rather a good thing to give uncle Thorpe a hint that the ‘poor, desolate, orphan girl’ had better be adopted at once? It would be such a comfort, you know, mother, for them both, if she was to come and live here! Why should we not leave her at once in her own house that is to be? It would be such a good way of teaching us resignation for being cut out; would it not, mother?”
And thus passed the Christmas evening. Sir Charles Temple did not return till just before the party separated for the night; Mr. Wilkyns did not wake till the supper-tray came in; the whist players played on; and the three Misses Wilkyns, and the two Messrs. Spencer, amused themselves as well as they could, each one of them thinking in their hearts that he Or she ought to become the possessor of Thorpe Combe and all its appertainments, as an atonement for being obliged to endure such exceeding dulness.
And Florence! Was Florence asleep as well as Mr. Wilkyns? No: but she did not feel as if she had anything to say, either to her mother or Algernon; and so she let them whisper on without interruption.
CHAPTER X.
“Les choses s’arrangent,” say the French, and so do people too, however heterogeneously brought together, if they are but left to settle into their own ways and their own places, without being too Anxiously set to rights by their collectors.
And thus it happened at Thorpe-Combe, Before, long before, a week had fully passed, the different individuals of the party assembled there had one and all taken their positions relatively to the rest; and so they continued till they were separated, most of them never to meet together again with any very great degree of intimacy.
Generally speaking, the congregated cousins did not appear to have conceived any very strong degree of affection for each other. Miss Martin indeed ceased not to propitiate the love and affection of every living being she came near, excepting the Heathcote family, from whom it was not possible she could gain anything more than they had already given, — that being a child’s share in all they had. Neither was it probable that she could lose much. The Heathcotes, as she very justly observed to herself, not being the sort of people to take any fussy fancies about being affronted.
Mr. Wilkyns never quarrelled with man, woman, dog, cat, stock, nor stool, ‘provided they stood not in his path when he was moving towards his food, nor walked over him when drowsy digestion was patiently pursuing its ceaseless task; but neither was he apt to conceive attachment.
Mr. Spencer felt himself capable of doing a great deal for the sake of enriching his very promising and fashionable-looking sons; but he was dreadfully tired before the period allotted to their probation was over. His spirits, however, were greatly sustained by the secret conviction that it was morally impossible any man living in the style of old Thorpe, and so evidently by his manners a man of the world, could select from among the assembled party any bid; one of his two sons as his heir. The misses Wilkyns, and all their ways, he felt to be most anciently Britannic. Sophia Martin was too ugly to be looked at more than could be helped; therefore he espied no latent danger in her: and as for the Heathcote boy and girl, the ex-ambassador would be more likely to leave his property to his old housekeeper than to either of them. Yet, notwithstanding this very satisfactory view of the party, he was sick to death of them all, and hailed the morning on which they all met, as he devoutly hoped, for the last time, with feelings of the most agreeable kind.
The douce Sophia said nothing to anybody about her particular opinions, her particular hopes, or her particular intentions; but, notwithstanding this discreet reserve, she was the only one who wept very much at parting, and she certainly cried a good deal when Mr. Thorpe caressingly put his hand, for the last time, upon her stiff hair, kissed her forehead, and begged of God to bless her. The good-natured Major and his excellent little wife, though exceedingly delighted by their reception and entertainment, felt. their hearts leap within them at the thoughts of home, and all the dear children, and the chickens, and the dogs, and the pigs, and all else that makes life precious to the homely heart.
The three heiresses, as they daily confessed to each other during their diurnal retirements before dinner, detested the whole set immensely, excepting uncle Spencer; but most particularly Sir Charles Temple, who was beyond all contradiction the most complete bore of a man they had ever met. Sophia Martin, they confessed, was the best of the bunch; but it was dreadfully wearing to the spirits always to see the same dress, and the hair, too, combed and curled, day after day, as if it was done in a mould; so they, too, hailed the breaking up of the party as a blessing.
Of the dozen guests who had been this brought together, there were, however, three who watched the waning of every passing day with pain. The two young Heathcotes and Sir Charles Temple had gradually fallen into an easy sort of friendly intercourse, the charm of which was little guessed at by any of the lookers-on, though some among them were pretty sharp observers, too. Mr. Thorpe felt exceedingly obliged to his young friend for his great good-nature in taking so much notice of the sickly boy; and the circumstance of Florence being generally one of the party when they walked in the sun or gossiped round the fire, produced from him no observation whatever. Not that he quite overlooked her either, for he thought her exceedingly pretty, and pitied the pain she would feel upon losing the brother she seemed to love so dearly, — for that Algernon was doomed to follow the weakly race of his Madras-born brothers and sisters, he had not the slightest doubt, Sophia Martin having told him that more than one medical man had declared it was quite impossible he should live. Little did the old gentleman guess what was going on in the heart of Sir Charles Temple; little did he imagine that by giving his estate to his niece Florence, he might at once have obtained what he had so long wished for, — namely, the repairing the dilapidated estate of his friend.... But most unfortunately it was the interest of no human being acquainted with this fact to enlighten him upon it, excepting that of the baronet himself,.... and he.... would much rather have knocked down his beloved old mansion, and sold the materials as rubbish, than have so selfishly used his influence. Florence herself knew no more of the matter than her good uncle; and as for Algernon, he had certainly never in his life thought so little about his s
ister Florence as he did now. The library, and all the delightful talk that grew out of it, possessed him wholly; and though he and his step-mother often got Sir Charles and Florence to sing together, when it was too dark to read, and too early, as they thought, to call for lights, it never entered the head of either to fancy that their dear, happy, merry, playful Florence had inspired the gentleman with a passion that must of necessity make either the bane or the bliss of his existence.
That these three felt a pang at parting that would have occasioned unmitigated astonishment, could it have been made known to the rest, is most certain; but they said little or nothing about it; and Major Heathcote’s closely-packed hack post-chaise drove off just as tranquilly, to all appearance, (though with a little more clatter,) as the more aristocratic equipages of Mr. Wilkyns and Mr. Spencer had done before it.
“Thank God! that business is over, Temple,” said Mr. Thorpe, taking the arm of his friend, and leading him back into the house, after having watched this last departure. “I hope you think I have got through it well — but it has been terribly hard work sometimes. But I don’t believe they found it out: do you think they did?”
“They could have found nothing, my dear sir,” replied the young man, endeavouring to speak gaily, “but the most frank and graceful hospitality; and it seemed so naturally and so easily rendered, that, well as I know you, I never guessed that it cost you a painful effort. I am afraid, then, it must altogether have been a great bore to you.”
“It has, Temple; not perhaps quite altogether, but very nearly so. I thank you heartily, however, for the noble help you gave me. That poor sickly boy seemed to touch your kind heart, my good friend. It is a sad spectacle. I would not let myself take notice of him, for it appeared to me that he was a beautiful and intelligent creature; and, after all I have suffered, I declare to Heaven that I would rather have died myself than taken a fancy to him.”
“Upon my word, my dear sir,” returned Sir Charles, eagerly, “I think you are totally mistaken about him. I am no physician, certainly, but I feel no doubt in the world that Algernon Heathcote is in a fair way to live and do well; and in point of disposition and intellect, I consider him as one of the most promising lads I ever met with, I wish I had known the cause of your taking so little notice of him; but, in truth, I thought that, for some reason or other, you did not like him, — and that I had no business to tell you whom you should, and whom you should not talk to.”
“No, poor fellow! God knows I took no dislike to him; quite the contrary, Temple. There is something exceedingly touching in his fondness for that kind-hearted step-mother. How he fired up when those trumpery puppies attempted to mystify her one day about the geography of Eton.... But don’t let’s talk of him. I am sorry to say that I know but too well he has not long to live.”
Sir Charles Temple was strongly tempted to ask upon what authority he knew this, or rather believed it; but Mr. Thorpe effectually put a stop to all further discussion by saying, “Now, Temple, I am going to do something quite as novel as inviting all my kith and kind to visit me, — I am going to desire that you will take yourself off.... I must get Barnes to pack me up again in my own snuggery before I can have any comfort in you. Come and dine with me to-morrow, will you, my dear fellow? I don’t suppose I am very sick; but neither do I feel particularly well, nor shall I, till I am got into my old corner, with you opposite to me and pussy between us.”
“Agreed,” said the young man, preparing to go. “I will dine with you to-morrow without fail. But remember that if you go back to your old fancies about being ill, I shall decidedly take my evening coffee in all the dignity of my own silent halls.”
This was said gaily; but the poor young man felt sadder as he turned to take his solitary way to those same silent halls, than ever Jaques did, when he set about railing at all the first-born of Egypt.
He failed not, however, to keep his appointment, and found, as he expected to do, all traces of the recent metamorphosis entirely done away. Mr. Thorpe was seated in the identical arm-chair in which he was first introduced to the reader, with the same reading-desk between his knees, the blazing fire of wood upon the hearth, and the tabby cat contentedly re-established upon her rug.
Mr. Thorpe’s last command to Mrs. Barnes, and, as he assured her, the last he ever intended to give respecting the transactions of the last fortnight, was, that everything, was to he restored to the statu quo in which it had been at the moment lie announced to her his intention of receiving company.
“Write down upon a bit of paner,” he said, in conclusion, “write down upon a bit of paper, Barnes, the sum of money that you will require to pay all the bills, wages, and what not: but not a single word of remark about it in any way, nor ever let me hear the subject mentioned more.”
These commands had been strictly obeyed; and when the two friends sat down again, tête-à-tête, to their little delicate dinner, it was Jem only, and Jem restored to his former unpage-like appearance, who was their sole attendant.
When he was dismissed, and the solitary bottle of claret left in tiers between them, Mr. Thorpe said, not quite solemnly, but by no means in a light or jesting tone, “You must remember, neighbour, that you have not yet quite completed your promised work of kindness. You stand engaged, you know, to help me decide on whom my property shall descend. Give me, I pray you, your judgment on this point.”
If Sir Charles Temple had only seen in Florence Heathcote the charming creature which she really was, without having fallen in love with her a thousand fathom deep, he would have had nodoubt whatever as to what advice to give. He would have said, “Leave your estate to Algernon, and in failure of issue from him, to his sister Florence.” But now such counsel was impossible. He had refused frankly, and with his whole heart, the earnest entreaties of the old man to become his heir; and should he suffer the affection, that now filled his whole soul with the purest and tenderest feeling of which human nature is capable, to make him assume the appearance of having repented him of his disinterestedness, and led him to discover a way to escape the penalty of it? It was in vain that his heart told him that, if Algernon inherited the estate, the contingent bequest of it to Florence would be as little likely to take effect as to be wished for; yet still, though all but hopeless of ever calling her his wife, he shrank with unconquerable averseness from the idea of naming her. After the meditation of a moment, he replied to Mr. Thorpe’s point-blank question by saying, “If you have, as I cannot but think probable, already made up your mind on this subject, do not, my dear friend, waste your time by asking for my opinion. If this be the case, I would rather not give it.”
“Nonsense, Temple! What earthly reason can there be for any mystery between us on this subject? Give me your opinion of these young people. You will greatly vex me if you refuse it.”
“So urged,” replied the young man, “I shall certainly speak with perfect frankness. Did you see with my eyes, Thorpe, you would leave your estate to Algernon Heathcote.”
“You do not mean it, my good friend? but your words are a dagger to me,” replied the old man. “That boy is dying, Temple! Were it otherwise.... had I dared to doubt the fact, and ventured to pay him the same degree of attention that you did, I have little doubt that we should have agreed as well on this subject as we have ever done on most others: but pray do not name him again.
I will not run the risk of being deprived by death a second time of the object of all my remaining hopes. I entreat you to name him no more.”
“Then I presume the choice lies between Mr. Spencer’s two sons?”
“And why so, Temple? A girl may take my name, and her family may retain it, as easily as a boy: and, to speak with sincerity, I do not ever remember to have seen a pair of puppies from whom I should have found it more difficult to select a favourite. They are paltry miniatures of their paltry father. I would rather endow pussy with my estate, Sir Charles Temple, than bestow it upon either of them.”
The young baronet changed colour. Th
e question was becoming a very close one. He had not forgotten the hints of Algernon, respecting the manœuvrings of Miss Martin; but there was something so outrageously impossible in the idea that any one could prefer Sophia Martin to Florence Heathcote, that his understanding refused to receive it, and he perfectly trembled while waiting for the name he might hear next. But it was his own turn to speak, and not Mr. Thorpe’s, and he soon perceived that his answer was waited for, whereupon, to save himself from an embarrassment that was intolerable, he said —
“You told me, if I mistake not, that you considered the three Welsh heiresses as already too well provided for, to make any increase of fortune particularly desirable. But it is possible, perhaps, that you may have changed this opinion now?”
“Do you really think so, Sir Charles Temple?” demanded Mr. Thorpe with some austerity.
“Nay, my dear sir, how is it possible for me to judge?” replied the hard-pressed young man. Then making a sudden bold plunge to extricate himself, he added, “Be not offended with me if I confess that the name you have forbidden me to mention, is the only one among the whole party that I could ever utter to you with sincere approval — because.... I think a male heir would be preferable to a female one. This being the case, it is now your turn to name the person you think the most eligible.”
The old man sighed heavily, but after a short silence replied, “It was hardly to be expected, Charles, that among a parcel of young people, all, as a matter of justice, perhaps, having equal claims.... your young eye and my old one should fix upon the same. Nay, I am quite willing to confess that there may possibly be more of weakness than wisdom in the selection my fancy has made. But cannot you conceive, Temple, that if some one among these nephews and nieces happens to have features or an air that recalls to me my lost son, that one will be most likely to please me?”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 292