“And so I will, Richard,” replied the excellent Miss Brandenberry, with the warmest sisterly affection; “and what is more, you shall never hear me complain of the job, as long as there is the very slightest chance that it will come to anything.... And yet, upon my word and honour, Richard, my part of the business is no sinecure... Oh dear! how disagreeable she is, to be sure!”
“You need not tell me that, my dear,” replied the brother laughing; and the refused lover, and his truly sympathising sister walked home together, by no means in a despairing state of mind.
* * * * * * * * * *
It was still several days after this, before Sophia again saw Mr. Jenkins; and she began to feel very seriously uneasy lest his diseased fancy might have seized upon some new whim, and that she should see no more of him, or of the riches and the gems of which he had boasted. She would undoubtedly have been more uneasy still, had she known that during this time he spent many hours of every day in the banqueting-room at Temple, surrounded by the detested Heathcotes, and making himself so agreeable by his good-humour, his anecdotes, and his fun, that, notwithstanding all his odd ways and his odd looks, they were becoming very fond of his visits. A mutual regard was indeed so evidently springing up among them as might well have made her tremble for her own influence, had she witnessed it. But though Major Heathcote, his wife, and his daughter, had all agreed not to suffer Sophia’s ill humour to drive them away, or to break up an arrangement, the destruction of which might involve Sir Charles Temple in considerable trouble, they did not feel themselves called upon to converse more with their sullen and sulky little hostess, than she herself appeared to wish; and, consequently, these goings and comings of the eccentric Mr. Jenkins were never communicated to her by any of them.
When at length however this, to her, most interesting personage once more made his appearance in her boudoir, she was completely satisfied, when in answer to her flattering inquiries respecting his health and his absence, he replied that he had not been well enough to trouble her with his presence. He seemed, nevertheless, to have quite forgotten his favourite fancy of going over every room in the house, for when she told him that Mrs. Barnes, her housekeeper, or she herself, if he preferred it, would be quite ready to attend him, he replied, “Not now, not now, thank you. I don’t feel quite in the humour for it.” He refused, too, to partake of her luncheon, and seemed altogether a good deal changed in manner; being restless and fidgetty, beginning many sentences without finishing any, and more than once appearing to forget her altogether, and to be occupied solely with the examination of the different articles of furniture in the apartment. But all this she attributed to the unsettled state of his intellect, a fact of which she entertained very little doubt; and she consoled herself for the change in his manner, by thinking that she perceived an increased degree of familiarity in his address, which in his state of mind argued well, she thought, in favour of the hopes she still entertained of farther presents from him.
On the following day he returned again, and then his manner was, if possible, more strange and restless than before. But after wasting a good deal of time in walking round and round, and backwards and forwards, much in the manner of a greatly bored lion in a cage, he at last sat down close to her, and said, “Pray, my dear, how soon do you expect that your guardian, Sir Charles Temple, will be likely to return to England?”
Delighted at hearing him thus open upon a subject which so nearly concerned her, and persuaded that nothing would be more likely to establish firmly for herself the interest which her residence and possessions had already given her in the eyes of this whimsical old friend of her predecessor, she answered him eagerly, and in the kindest voice imaginable, “Oh! my dear sir, that is a subject upon which my poor mind is very busy at present. Your kindness to me has been so great, that if you had not kept away from me, I am quite sure that I should have opened my heart, and told you all my troubles.”
“Then open your heart now, my dear?” replied Mr. Jenkins with sudden animation. I should like to hear all you have got to say, exceedingly.”
“Should you, sir?” returned Sophia, quite sentimentally. “How very kind of you!”
“Go on, Sophy.... go on, what was it you were going to say?” demanded the impatient confidant.
“Why the truth is, my dear sir, that I have lately written to my guardian, Sir Charles; and it is impossible for me to say what will be the consequence of my letter; I should not be greatly surprised if it brought him back immediately,”
“Indeed!... upon my word I am very glad to hear it, my dear. Then he will bring home with him your cousin Algernon, won’t he?... and of course the boy will be here?... I want to see that boy.”
Not all the habitual weighing of words to which Sophia had for years drilled herself, whenever she thought her interest concerned, could prevent a burst of genuine feeling upon hearing this detested name, coupled with her house, as the probable home of him who bore it.
“Algernon Heathcote come here?” she exclaimed, while her unguarded eyes suffered a spark from within to shoot through them.... “Never, sir!... Oh, Mr. Jenkins!” she continued, recovering her self-possession, “I wish to heaven that your kind heart knew all that I have suffered from that shocking boy, and then you would not wonder at my expressing myself with so much vehemence.”
“What have you suffered, Sophy?” returned Mr. Jenkins, gravely. “I would wish you to tell me all about it. What has Algernon Heathcote ever done to injure you?”
Desiring nothing better than such an opportunity of making a partisan of her jeweled friend, she replied...
“What have I suffered? Oh, Mr. Jenkins! you know not What a life of suffering mine has been! Left an orphan at nineteen years of age, I but too well remembered all the happiness of having a mother, not to feel in the most agonizing manner the want of one!”
“Of course, of course. That must be true enough, certainly. Go on, Sophy,” said Mr. Jenkins.
“You understand this, dear Mr. Jenkins,” she resumed, “therefore I need not enter at length into the history of all I suffered on my removal from my poor mother’s house, to that of Major Heathcote. It was most dreadful.”
“But how did you come to go there, more than to any other of your mother’s connections?” demanded Mr. Jenkins, again interrupting her.
Sophia coloured a little, but the weak emotion passed, and she replied without any appearance of embarrassment; “I believe it was in consequence of some arrangement made between my poor mother and Major Heathcote, just before she died.”
“Some pecuniary arrangement, I presume?” said Mr. Jenkins.
“Yes, I suppose so,” returned Sophia, again colouring a little.
“Very well; go on. What was it made you so very miserable when you got there?”
“The dreadful treatment that I met with from my cousins,” replied Sophia, unhesitatingly.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Jenkins. “There is something very shocking in that. Perhaps it was the younger children who Were in no way your blood relations, whose behaviour made you so uncomfortable?”
“No, sir, indeed it was not!” said Sophia; quickly remembering that as they had no connexion whatever with Thorpe-Combe, to which all Mr. Jenkins’ affectionate reminiscences seemed to attach themselves, they could not be within reach of becoming her rivals. “I have no reason whatever to complain of the younger children; neither the boys nor the girls troubled me in any way, poor things.... and God forbid I should accuse them falsely! But my cousin Florence has ever been my greatest enemy; and as for Algernon, if ever there was a diabolic temper upon earth, it is his.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, Sophy,” said Mr. Jenkins, with a sigh that really seemed to speck great concern.
“Indeed, my dear sir,” she resumed, “I should be very unwilling to pain your kind and generous heart by describing all I have endured from him.”
“Never mind me and my feelings, Sophy,” said her sympathising friend. “I wish to hear all the partic
ulars, and you may depend upon it, that listening to you will do me no harm. What sort of wickedness was it, that Algernon Heathcote used to practise against you?”
“It was a system of ceaseless tormenting,” she replied, “which none perhaps but the wretched victim can fully understand. Had his unmerited hatred shown itself in mere bodily injuries, bad he beaten me, pinched me, nay almost murdered me, I should call his conduct a thousand times less cruel than I think it now. Neither was his ill-will shown in open abuse or revilings — No. You might have lived for weeks in the same house with us, and never perhaps become aware of what he made me suffer!” Sophia here drew forth her handkerchief, and pressed it upon her eyes.
“I could wish, my dear Miss Sophy,” said Mr. Jenkins, looking rather puzzled than compassionate; “I could wish that your description of all this were more clear and tangible, as I may call it — I think it very likely that, if my old acquaintance Sir Charles Temple returns home, I may become known to this young man — He too, as well as yourself and Miss Florence, stands in near relationship to my valued old friends, and without thinking it necessary to enter exactly into my future plans, I see no reason why I should not fairly state, that my intention in coming to this country was chiefly to have the pleasure of making acquaintance with those they have left behind them, and, if I find them worthy of it, to give from my ample means some substantial proof of the affectionate remembrance in which I retain the kindness of those who are gone — It is therefore really important that I should become acquainted with the character and disposition of your cousins — I cannot hunt up so easily all the other nephews and nieces of my old friends; but these two young Heathcotes seem particularly to have fallen in my way, and I shall therefore feel very much obliged by your telling me everything you know about them.”
This speech was rather a long one, and though in some parts uttered with Mr. Jenkins’ characteristic rapidity, there were pauses in it which gave time for several perfectly new notions to present themselves to the fertile mind of Miss Martin Thorpe. She began very greatly to doubt the justice of her former surmises respecting the sanity of Mr. Jenkins’ intellect. If he had come into the neighbourhood of Thorpe-Combe expressly for the purpose of making acquaintance with the relations of the late Mr. Thorpe, and conferring upon them substantial proofs of his regard, the act which she had considered to be that of a madman, was in reality only a proof of the spirited and able manner in which he was capable of carrying into execution the resolutions which he formed. But new as was this view of the case, it increased rather than lessened the necessity of keeping his partial attention fixed upon herself. Advantages which before had appeared vague, though probable, now took the form of certainties; and, according to the moral code by which she regulated all her actions, she immediately decided that it was a duty which she owed to herself to prevent any other from sharing the affection which his generous present had so clearly proved he already felt for her.
“What you have now said, my dear Mr. Jenkins,” she replied, “renders that a duty which was only a consolation before. Your great kindness to me, which, believe me, I can never forget, raised a very natural wish in my bosom to make you indeed my friend by opening to you my whole heart, and confessing to you the sorrows and sufferings which from others I endeavour to conceal. Algernon and Florence Heathcote, my dear Mr. Jenkins, are, I grieve to say it, very unworthy young people; false, deceitful, hard-hearted, and ungenerous; incapable of feeling attachment themselves, incapable of being grateful for it in others.... Thus much is torn from me by my devoted attachment to you. You have frankly asked me for a true account of them, and I have given it as far as was necessary to satisfy my strict regard to truth. Beyond this, my dear sir, I will entreat you not to press me. It is inexpressibly painful to find myself in a situation in which it becomes a duty to speak severely of my own relations. You, dear Mr. Jenkins, with all your kind and generous feelings, cannot but sympathise in this, and I will therefore venture to entreat that you will ask me no farther questions... and you will, too, I trust, give me credit for the honesty and ardent love of truth which has torn from me what I have already said.”
Mr. Jenkins rose from the chair he occupied immediately opposite to the sofa of the heiress, and placing it between himself and her, leaned over its back as he supported it on its front legs, and looking very fixedly in her face, said, “Sophy, I will never trouble you with any more questions, if you will only answer me this one. Is Florence Heathcote an ill-tempered girl?”
There was something in the expression of the dark and sallow countenance thus brought on a level with her own, which convinced Sophia that her singular visitor attached much importance to her answer. All her hopes from him, perhaps, turned upon the words for which he seemed so anxiously waiting, and she was determined to speak them with effect. Wherefore, clasping her hands fervently together, and steadily returning his gaze, she replied, “Indeed, indeed, she is!”
“Now, then, good morning,” said Mr. Jenkins, raising himself briskly, and appearing to be perfectly satisfied. “I am going to London for a week or two upon particular business, but at the end of that time I shall return to Broughton Castle, whether the family are there or not.... and then you may depend upon seeing me again.”
“To London upon particular business!.... Something about his money, beyond all doubt,” thought Sophia; and rising to present her hand in order most affectionately to bid him farewell, she said... quite touchingly... “God bless you, dear Mr. Jenkins! God bless you, and bring you back again safely!”
“You are very kind,” was his reply; but stopping short as he was turning to leave her, he added, “By the by, Miss Martin Thorpe, I will ask you a favour before I go. Those palings that you are running up, so as to enclose the entrance to the shrubbery cottage, as it used to be called, will destroy one or two trees which my kind friend Mrs. Thorpe planted with her own hands.... for I was at her side, and helped her. Will you indulge me by stopping the work till I come back?.... and then, if the foolish old man is still obstinate.... for I know all about it.... if he is still obstinate, I dare say that between us we shall find some other way to manage him. Will you grant me this delay?”
“Grant you! ray dearest sir!” returned the heiress, with great enthusiasm. “What is there you could ask, that I should feel it possible to refuse?” And delighted and exhilarated beyond her usual composure of spirits, by the manner in which he seemed to mix himself up with her concerns by that charming monosyllable WE, she pushed aside an intervening chair or two, and almost ran to the door by which he was going to make his exit, once more to take his hand, and once more to utter an affectionate farewell.... But ere she reached it, he had already passed through it, closed it behind him, and was gone.
CHAPTER XXX.
During a few weeks which followed this interview, everything went on at Thorpe-Combe with great apparent tranquillity; but, nevertheless, the mind of its mistress was not without its anxieties. Could she have anticipated so conclusive an interview with Mr. Jenkins, or could she have foreseen the absence which now so fortunately put him out of the reach of Florence, and all her hated wiles and smiles, she certainly would have at least delayed her letter to Sir Charles Temple. But as it was past recall, she wisely bestowed more thought on its possible results than on her regret for its departure. She resolved, let his reply be what it would, to keep on the best possible terms with him, and even to endure the Heathcotes during the whole of her minority, rather than have any dispute. These conciliatory resolutions did not arise so much from any partiality to him, or from any pertinacity in the purpose which had formerly suggested itself of joining the properties of Temple and Thorpe-Combe, and giving herself the desirable appellation of “my lady,” but solely from the fear that the generous Mr. Jenkins might take it into his head to think her wilful. Nothing, therefore, could be more steadfast than the resolution she came to, of being as amiable as possible. The paling work was suspended; the dinners, and evening tea-drinkings, when taken togeth
er, passed without any further efforts to make the intractable Heathcotes quarrel; and, in a word, everything went on as smoothly as the pent-up water above a mill-dam, before it reaches the point at which it is to be dashed into froth and fragments.
Meanwhile her intercourse with the Brandenberry brother and sister had received little or no interruption, in consequence of the offer and its rejection Miss Martin Thorpe would in truth have felt greatly at a loss how to dispose of her day, had she lost the eternal enterings of the unwearied Margaret, with all the gossip which her long acquaintance with the neighbourhood enabled her to get at, and all the patterns which the heiress’s resolution to work for herself the most superb set of chairs ever seen, rendered so invaluable. Each of the ladies pretended to believe that the other knew nothing of the enamoured Richard’s melancholy state of mind, so that the adventure of the offer was never discussed between them. Miss Brandenberry continued, as heretofore, to allude occasionally to the perishing condition of her too sensitive brother, and Miss Martin Thorpe to listen to her, without giving any indication of displeasure. In fact, Sophia would not have at all disliked any degree of lovemaking which the brother and sister thought advisable, conscious, that let it be as pleasant as it would, there was not the slightest danger of her being such a fool as to make any marriage in consequence of it, which would add neither to her consequence nor her fortune.
So Mr. Brandenberry went on sighing and ogling without let or hindrance of any kind; Sophia, and Margaret too, (for the heiress expected a good deal of cross-stitch in return for her friendship,) went on working monsters in lamb’s-wool; the Major caught trout; Mrs, Heathcote made frocks; Florence read, wrote, and roamed deliciously through the groves of Temple; and the two happy little boys almost forgot at times that “cross cousin Sophy” lived in the same house with them.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 319