But the arrival of poor Anderson’s farewell letter settled the point at once, and the hour in which she read it was an important epoch in her existence. As she thought of his being gone for ever, she felt, probably, as most other women would have done under similar circumstances. But it was not that, it was not her sorrow for his death which was the important feature of the occurrence. She had known long ago that she had lost him for ever, and her knowledge of his death added nothing to her feeling of certainty on this point. The important feature was in the improvement of the terms on which the letter placed her with herself. She now, for the first time, knew, with well-assured certainty, that she had not been the dupe of her own vanity. She had not placed herself side by side with all the vainly sighing nymphs whose folly had been her scorn from the early age of fourteen to her present mature half-century.
This was a great comfort, and as the cheering idea suggested itself she uttered the words, “Thank God!” as fervently as if she had been returning thanks upon finding that she had escaped from half-suspected hydrophobia.
Having thus cordially welcomed this unhoped-for blessing, she was in no bad mood to enjoy likewise the pleasurable, though melancholy, reminiscences which this precious letter awakened.
Did she remember their metaphysical discussions?
Did she remember that particular discussion under the lime-tree?
Had she ever forgotten that, or any other, conversation that had ever passed between them?
Most certainly not. But it was now for the first time that she recalled them with unmixed pleasure. There was no disgrace now, no folly in remembering among the unchanged scenes where they had conversed together, the themes which he had remembered among all the changes and chances of his varied life.
Having indulged, and certainly enjoyed for a considerable time, the, to her, perfectly new recreation of sentimental recollections, her middle-aged countenance suddenly became almost radiant with an expression of new-born hope and happiness; for she at that moment ceased to think of herself at all, and only remembered that it might be possible for her to be useful to the orphan daughter of John Anderson.
CHAPTER XI.
IT was easy enough, in fact almost as easy as it was delightful, to fancy the sort of occupation, the sort of interest, the sort of happiness which the having John Anderson’s child for ever with her, would afford her. But it was not quite so easy to settle with herself how this matter was to be arranged, so as to satisfy all the yearnings of her heart towards this newly found child.
Nothing had been said as yet, at least not to her, concerning any wish or intention on the part of Mr. Mathews of inviting his grandson to visit him, and at that moment Mrs. Mathews almost felt as if she would have willingly given up her cherished five hundred a year, as well as the future disposal of her property, could she by so doing have ensured the eternal absence of the threatened Mr. Stephen Cornington.
To ensure this absence, however, was impossible, and Mrs. Mathews could only rejoice that her guest was likely to be the first in the field, and, as she flattered herself, firmly established at Weldon Grange, before it was possible for the grandson to make his appearance.
A little further and more deliberate reflection served rather to strengthen her hopes than to weaken them.
She then remembered, with exceeding satisfaction, the enlarged power’ which her precious five hundred a-year would give her of embellishing the life of the dear Janet, without laying either of them under obligations to anybody. The seven thousand, or even the five thousand pounds, spoken of as Janet’s fortune, would be quite enough to prevent any anxieties about the future, and long before it was necessary to leave her library and appear at the dinner table, she found herself positively quizzing her own monomania upon the subject of buying books.
“I rather think that I shall have sufficient ingenuity now, to find other ways of spending money agreeably, besides buying books; and this will be a decided enlargement of mind, for hitherto no such possibility has ever occurred to me.”
This was the idea which most effectively soothed her spirits when her thoughts turned from the young friend she hoped to find to the old friend whom she had assuredly lost; and it enabled her to announce the tidings of John Anderson’s death to her father with much less of sorrow and sadness than she would have felt without it.
She found no difficulty in awakening the kind-hearted old man’s recollection of the agreeable young Scotchman, who had been such a general favourite in the neighbourhood, and she did this without making it at all apparent that she had ever thought more about him herself than everybody else had done; and then she dwelt a little upon the pleasure she felt at finding that so very amiable a man had retained so friendly a recollection of them as to make him anxious that the young daughter, who was so soon to be left an orphan, should be made known to them. And to all this her good father listened with greater symptoms of knowing who and what she was talking about than she had hoped to find.
This first very satisfactory conversation on the subject took place during a short tête-à-tête which preceded Mr. King’s after-dinner nap, and when it was over she left him to sleep upon it; moreover, on his awakening, she had the pleasure to find, that far from having forgotten what she had told him, he immediately began talking of it again.
This was excellent and hopeful, for there could not be a more thoroughly kind heart in any human breast than that which had not yet ceased to beat in the bosom of Mr. King; and if he once got it into his head that his house would be a pleasant asylum for the orphan child of an old friend, there was no doubt whatever of his earnestly wishing to get her there.
Her next step, of course, was to open the subject to her husband, and so far was she from encountering any opposition from him, that it was immediately evident that he liked the idea of the young lady’s visit exceedingly.
In fact the happy bridegroom and proud grandfather had already confided to the post a very gracious answer to the letter which had announced to him the existence of Mr. Stephen Cornington, and he felt rather more certain than he had thought it necessary to mention to his lady, that the probable effect of that epistle would be to bring the youthful portrait of himself to his feet with as little delay as possible. Now it seemed evident, that if he accorded an amiable welcome to an unknown young friend invited by his lady, she must perforce accord an amiable welcome to the unknown young grandson invited by himself. He, therefore, lost not a moment before he expressed the very strongest satisfaction at hearing that there was a chance of her having a young friend come to visit her. “Nothing, certainly,” said he, “could be more fortunate than her coming to us at this particular time. It will be necessary for us, you know, to give several dinner parties in return for all the invitations we have received, and the having a young person staying with us will make everything go off so very pleasantly. I must say that I like having young people staying in the house very much.”
Could she desire better sympathy? — or could she avoid telling him that she felt upon the subject exactly as he did?
For a day or two after this announcement on her part, of the probable arrival of Janet Anderson, the family trio never found themselves together without some pleasant allusion being made to this much wished-for event; but day by day it seemed gradually to die away, for no further tidings arrived concerning her. It need scarcely be said, however, that hope and expectation were as much alive as ever in the mind of Mrs. Mathews; and her first thought in the morning, and her last at night was still of Janet. But, alas! week after week wore away, and still she got no further news either of John Anderson or of John Anderson’s daughter. Day after day she read the news from India with what might fairly be called the hope of seeing the death of her old friend recorded there; for well she knew that John Anderson would not have written such a letter as she had received from him had there been any chance of his recovery. But either his death had not yet occurred or he was not a person of sufficient consequence to have it recorded in such a ma
nner as to reach her. The uncertainty was very painful, and the more so as there was no human being near her to whom she could express her anxiety or discuss the causes which occasioned it.
One dark, very rainy, and very windy evening in the early part of April, just as she was quitting her book-room, in order to go down, as usual, to make tea for her father and her husband, she was startled by hearing the house-door bell ring. The strongest possible conviction that Janet was arrived immediately took possession of her, and the rapidity with which she descended her corkscrew stairs might have done honour to the activity of fifteen. By the time she reached the first landing place, which was that upon which the best bedrooms opened, conjecture seemed to be changed for certainty; for there could no longer be any doubt that a stranger had arrived.
Clearly and distinctly audible above all other sounds was a voice that she had never heard before, and though it was very certain it was not a female voice, it might proceed from the attendant of Janet Anderson, though it could not proceed from herself.
A very brief interval, however, sufficed to bring the active lady into the hall; but she looked around it in vain for some young female figure, which, if she had found it, would have been straightway encircled in her arms without any question asked.
But, alas! “there was no such thing” Nevertheless there was an arrival; but, instead of a youthful female it was, beyond all question, a youthful male. For though its careful envelopment from the cold of that stormy night might have been equally judicious to an individual of either sex, and though, moreover, the hairy decoration of the youthful face consisted of short curls instead of long moustaches, — yet the height of the figure precluded the possibility of any doubt as to the sex.
But Mrs. Mathews had rushed forward too precipitately, to permit her quietly stealing out of it, in the hope that the mystery of this arrival might be explained to her at leisure. The stranger took little heed of her, however, for he was very busy. First he handed a sealed packet to the servant, which he said was to be delivered instantly to Mr. Mathews; and, this done, he himself threw the house-door wide open, to admit the entrance of a large trunk, which the driver of his post-chaise was dragging in. Mrs. Mathews, however, paused not to ascertain what was going on in the hall, but, passing hastily on into the sitting-room, perceived her husband standing at the tea-table, and preparing to peruse, by the light of the candles which stood upon it, the contents of the packet which he had that moment opened.
Mrs. Mathews passed him, and went straight to her father, who, as usual, was sitting half asleep in his arm-chair, near the fire.
“Do you know who the person is, father, who is just arrived here?” said she, not without some feint hope that it might prove to be an avant courier to Janet Anderson.
“The person! — what person? Who has arrived here, Mary? Is the young lady come at last?” said the old man, rousing himself.
“I cannot tell who it is,” replied his vexed daughter, looking almost jealously at her husband, who appeared to be very eagerly reading his dispatch.
“Who is it, Mathews? What have you got reading there?” said Mr. King, who, like his daughter, had some notion that the arrival and despatch might have some connection with the young lady who had been so long expected. “What is it all about, Mathews?” reiterated the old gentleman, impatiently.
“Upon my word, sir, I can hardly tell you,” replied Mr. Mathews, whose colour was considerably heightened, and who seemed altogether much agitated.
And then, looking up from his letter and perceiving his wife, he said, —
“Oh, my dear, are you there? The most extraordinary thing has happened, Mary! Upon my honour and word I don’t understand anything about it, I don’t indeed. I do assure you, my deal’ Mary, I do assure you, Mr. King, that I never invited him to come in this way! I should never have dreamed of doing such a thing, without consulting you both about it. But what am I to do now? How is it possible for me to send him away, and in such a night as this too? I am sure I know no more than the child unborn what I ought to do, and I really do wish that one or both of you would tell me.”
“I dare say, Mr. Mathews, that it would be very easy for one or both of us to give you an opinion on the subject, did we happen to know who the young gentleman is,” replied Mrs. Mathews, quietly; for she had perfectly recovered her accustomed composure, upon discovering that the stranger, whoever it might be, was a consignment to him, and not to her.
“It is my grandson, my dear,” replied her husband, as distinctly as if he had been reading the newspaper.
It was not an easy thing to make Mrs. Mathews start, but she did start now. It was so very near a relation that was thus so unexpectedly introduced to her notice that her surprise almost overpowered for a moment her habitual selfpossession.
“Do you think I ought to send him away such a terrible night as this, my dear?” said Mr. Mathews, plaintively.
“Certainly not, Mr. Mathews, if you mean to acknowledge this stranger as your grandson. It is quite impossible, I am sure, that my father should wish you to do so.”
Thus gently reminded that the house, to which this really unexpected grandson had been consigned, belonged neither to himself nor his wife, but to Mr. King, the puzzled grandfather went up to the old man’s chair, and laying his hand coaxingly on his shoulder, said —
“Shall I be asking too much, my dearest sir, if I beg your permission to let this poor boy remain here just for the present? This letter is from Mrs. Briot, his grandmother, of whom, as you know, I have seen nothing for many years. But she tells me now, as her former letter did, you know also, that my poor son is dead, and that this young boy has not a friend in the world to whom he can look for help, except myself. What do you think, my dear sir, I ought to do under the circumstances? Such a night as it is too! One would not turn a dog from the door! What can I do? What do you think I ought to do, Mr. King?”
“Desire him to come in, of course, Mr. Mathews, and let us give him some warm tea, unless there is any other refreshment that he may like better this cold evening,” replied the kind-hearted old man.
“I am very much obliged to you for your kindness — I am, indeed, my dear sir,” replied the greatly relieved Mr. Mathews, very cordially; “and I have the pleasure of knowing,” he added, “that my dear wife will be sure to approve whatever her father does; and God knows that if the young friend she has been expecting were to come at last, which I heartily hope she may do, there is nothing in the world I would not do to make her welcome, if she were to stay here with us to the end of her days — or ours, rather! Then I may go and tell this poor boy that he may come in, may I?” he continued, looking first at his wife and then at her father.
“By all means,” said Mrs. Mathews, with a civil smile.
“To be sure you may! Don’t keep him waiting any longer, Mathews,” said her father, kindly.
Thus sanctioned, Mr. Mathews left the room, and after the interval of a few minutes returned to it, leading by the arm a very tall and very handsome youth, apparently about twenty years of age.
There must unquestionably have been some consciousness of the awkwardness of such a very unexpected intrusion in the young man’s feelings, at finding himself thus the centre of six wondering eyes, without counting the distended orbs of the footman, but his bearing did not betray it; on the contrary, his handsome face was radiant with smiles, and he looked as if he were quite ready to enjoy the warm comforts among which he had so unexpectedly entered, and to make those he found in possession of them ready and joyful to share them all with him.
There is so much of almost irresistible attraction in youth, and youthful beauty, that few are found insensible to their influence; and when to these are added the perhaps still greater fascination of ready smiles, and the fearless freedom of address which seems to ask for and to offer friendship, it is difficult indeed not to throw off reserve and to welcome a youthful stranger so gifted with kindness and cordiality And such appeared likely to be the result i
n the present instance, for however little the unexpected arrival of a stranger so circumstanced might have been wished for by either of the three sober-minded personages before whom he had so unexpectedly presented himself, there was not one of them who could look at him with an unkind or even grave expression of countenance.
The features of Mr. Mathews in particular, though he was very decidedly the individual most disposed to feel annoyed by this sudden intrusion, seemed to express, in spite of him, both admiration and pleasure.
It is but fair to confess, however, that most old bachelors of sixty-five, having reached that mature age without ever having been greeted as a relative by anything either young or handsome, might have been weak enough to like being called grandfather by such a captivating young fellow as this stranger.
He was, as I have already said, considerably above the common height; yet, young as he was, there was nothing like want of muscle and fibre in his frame. He was, indeed, admirably well made; and though perhaps a skilful anatomical eye might have discerned more promise of an athlete than an Apollo in its future development, it would never have entered the head of any one to attach the epithet of clumsy to his stalwart limbs.
His features were not precisely what we call regular, yet they were very far from being uncomely. His mouth was large, but his teeth splendidly beautiful, and his dark eyes decidedly among the most magnificent that Nature ever gave to illumine a human countenance.
His hair, short, thick, and crisply curling, was of bright but very dark chestnut, defying the most envious to hint at the odious epithet red; though it was not impossible that his beard, if he ever permitted its becoming of sufficient length to betray the secret, might deserve to be so classed.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 386