Works of Ellen Wood, page 227
“It’s not much for a commoner, let alone a peer,” said Roland, growing fierce. “If I were no better off than Carrick, I’d drop the title; that’s what I’d do. Why, if he could live as a peer ought, do you suppose we should be in the position we are? One a soldier; one (and that’s me) lowered to be a common old proctor; one a parson; and all the rest of it! If Carrick could be as other earls are, and have interest with the Government, and that, we should stand a chance of getting properly provided for. Of course he can make interest with nobody while his estates bring him in next door to nothing.”
“Are there no means of improving his estates, Mr. Roland?” asked Jenkins.
“If there were, he’s not the one to do it. And I don’t know that it would do him any material good, after all,” acknowledged Roland. “If he gets one thousand a year, he spends two; and if he had twenty thousand, he’d spend forty. It might come to the same in the long run, so far as he goes: we might be the better for it, and should be. It’s a shame, though, that we should need to be the better for other folk’s money; if this were not the most unjust world going, everybody would have fortunes of their own.”
After this friendly little bit of confidence touching his uncle’s affairs, Roland prepared to depart. “I’ll be sure to come in good time nn the morning, Jenkins, and set to it like a brick,” was his parting salutation.
Away he went. Jenkins, with his aching head and his harassing cough, applied himself diligently, as he ever did, to the afternoon’s work, and got through it by six o’clock, which was later than usual. There then remained the copying, which Mr. Roland Yorke ought to have done. Knowing the value of Roland’s promises, and knowing also that if he kept this promise ever so strictly, the amount of copying was more than could be completed in time, if left to the morning, Jenkins did as he had been aware he must do, when talking with Roland — took it home with him.
The parchments under his arm, he set out on his walk. What could be the matter with him, that he felt so weak, he asked himself as he went along. It must be, he believed, having gone without his dinner. Jenkins generally went home to dinner at twelve, and returned at one; occasionally, however, he did not go until two, according to the exigencies of the office; this day, he had not gone at all, but had cut a sandwich at breakfast-time and brought it with him in his pocket.
He had proceeded as far as the elm trees in the Boundaries — for Jenkins generally chose the quiet cloister way for his road home — when he saw Arthur Channing advancing towards him. With the ever-ready, respectful, cordial smile with which he was wont to greet Arthur whenever he saw him, Jenkins quickened his steps. But suddenly the smile seemed to fix itself upon his lips; and the parchments fell from his arm, and he staggered against the palings. But that Arthur was at hand to support him, he might have fallen to the ground.
“Why, what is it, Jenkins?” asked Arthur, kindly, when Jenkins was beginning to recover himself.
“Thank you, sir; I don’t know what it could have been. Just as I was looking at you, a mist seemed to come before my eyes, and I felt giddy. I suppose it was a sort of faintness that came over me. I had been thinking that I felt weary. Thank you very much, sir.”
“Take my arm, Jenkins,” said Arthur, as he picked up the parchments, and took possession of them. “I’ll see you home.”
“Oh no, sir, indeed,” protested simple-hearted Jenkins; “I’d not think of such a thing. I should feel quite ashamed, sir, at the thought of your being seen arm-in-arm with me in the street. I can go quite well alone; I can, indeed, sir.”
Arthur burst out laughing. “I wish you wouldn’t be such an old duffer, Jenkins — as the college boys have it! Do you suppose I should let you go home by yourself? Come along.”
Drawing Jenkins’s arm within his own, Arthur turned with him. Jenkins really did not like it. Sensitive to a degree was he: and, to his humble mind, it seemed that Arthur was out of place, walking familiarly with him.
“You must have been doing something to tire yourself,” said Arthur as they went along.
“It has been a pretty busy day, sir, now Mr. Galloway’s away. I did not go home to dinner, for one thing.”
“And Mr. Roland Yorke absent for another, I suppose?”
“Only this afternoon, sir. His uncle, Lord Carrick, has arrived. Oh, sir!” broke off Jenkins, stopping in a panic, “here’s his lordship the bishop coming along! Whatever shall you do?”
“Do!” returned Arthur, scarcely understanding him. “What should I do?”
“To think that he should see you thus with the like of me!”
It amused Arthur exceedingly. Poor, lowly-minded Jenkins! The bishop appeared to divine the state of the case, for he stopped when he came up. Possibly he was struck by the wan hue which overspread Jenkins’s face.
“You look ill, Jenkins,” he said, nodding to Arthur Channing. “Keep your hat on, Jenkins — keep your hat on.”
“Thank you, my lord,” replied Jenkins, disregarding the injunction touching his hat. “A sort of faintness came over me just now under the elm trees, and this gentleman insisted upon walking home with me, in spite of my protestations to—”
Jenkins was stopped by a fit of coughing — a long, violent fit, sounding hollow as the grave. The bishop watched him till it was over. Arthur watched him.
“I think you should take better care of yourself, Jenkins,” remarked his lordship. “Is any physician attending you?”
“Oh, my lord, I am not ill enough yet for that. My wife made me go to Mr. Hurst the other day, my lord, and he gave me a bottle of something. But he said it was not medicine that I wanted.”
“I should advise you to go to a physician, Jenkins. A stitch in time saves nine, you know,” the bishop added, in his free good humour.
“So it does, my lord. Thank your lordship for thinking of me,” added Jenkins, as the bishop said good afternoon, and pursued his way. And then, and not till then, did Jenkins put on his hat again.
“Mr. Arthur, would you be so kind as not to say anything to my wife about my being poorly?” asked Jenkins, as they drew near to his home. “She’d be perhaps, for saying I should not go again yet to the office; and a pretty dilemma that would put me in, Mr. Galloway being absent. She’d get so fidgety, too: she kills me with kindness, if she thinks I am ill. The broth and arrowroot, and other messes, sir, that she makes me swallow, are untellable.”
“All right,” said Arthur.
But the intention was frustrated. Who should be standing at the shop-door but Mrs. Jenkins herself. She saw them before they saw her, and she saw that her husband looked like a ghost, and was supported by Arthur. Of course, she drew her own conclusions; and Mrs. Jenkins was one who did not allow her conclusions to be set aside. When Jenkins found that he was seen and suspected, he held out no longer, but honestly confessed the worst — that he had been taken with a giddiness.
“Of course,” said Mrs. Jenkins, as she pushed a chair here and another there, partly in temper, partly to free the narrow passage through the shop to the parlour. “I have been expecting nothing less all day. Every group of footsteps slower than usual, I have thought it was a shutter arriving and you on it, dropped dead from exhaustion. Would you believe” — turning short round on Arthur Channing— “that he has been such a donkey as to fast from breakfast time? And with that cough upon him!”
“Not quite so fast, my dear,” deprecated Jenkins. “I ate the paper of sandwiches.”
“Paper of rubbish!” retorted Mrs. Jenkins. “What good do sandwiches do a weakly man? You might eat a ton-load, and be none the better for it. Well, Jenkins, you may take your leave of having your own way.”
Poor Jenkins might have deferentially intimated that he never did have it. Mrs. Jenkins resumed:
“He said he’d carry a sandwich with him this morning, instead of coming home to dinner. I said, ‘No.’ And afterwards I was such a simpleton as to yield! And here’s the effects of it! Sit yourself down in the easy-chair,” she added, taking Jenkins by the arms and pushing him into it. “And I’ll make the tea now,” concluded she, turning to the table where the tea-things were set out. “There’s some broiled fowl coming up for you.”
“I don’t feel as if I could eat this evening,” Jenkins ventured to say.
“Not eat!” she repeated with emphasis. “You had better eat — that’s all. I don’t want to have you falling down exhausted here, as you did in the Boundaries.”
“And as soon as you have had your tea, you should go to bed,” put in Arthur.
“I can’t, sir. I have three or four hours’ work at that deed. It must be done.”
“At this?” returned Arthur, opening the papers he had carried home. “Oh, I see; it is a lease. I’ll copy this for you, Jenkins. I have nothing to do to-night. You take your ease, and go to bed.”
And in spite of their calls, Jenkins’s protestations against taking up his time and trouble, and Mrs. Jenkins’s proffered invitation to partake of tea and broiled fowl, Arthur departed carrying off the work.
CHAPTER XXXVI. — ELLEN HUNTLEY.
“A pretty time o’ day this is to deliver the letters. It’s eleven o’clock!”
“I can’t help it. The train broke down, and was three hours behind its time.”
“I dare say! You letter-men want looking up: that’s what it is. Coming to folks’s houses at eleven o’clock, when they have been waiting and looking ever since breakfast-time!”
“It’s not my fault, I say. Take the letter.”
Judith received it with a grunt, for it was between her and the postman that the colloquy had taken place. A delay had occurred that morning in the delivery, and Judith was resenting it, feeling half inclined to reject the letter, now that it had come. The letters from Germany arrived irregularly; sometimes by the afternoon post at four, sometimes by the morning; the only two deliveries in Helstonleigh. A letter had been fully expected this morning, and when the time passed over, they supposed there was none.
It was directed to Miss Channing. Judith, who was quite as anxious about her master’s health as the children were, went off at once with it to Lady Augusta Yorke’s, just as she was, without the ceremony of putting on a bonnet. Though she did wear a mob-cap and a check apron, she looked what she was — a respectable servant in a respectable family; and the Boundaries so regarded her, as she passed through them, letter in hand. Martha, Lady Augusta’s housemaid, answered the door, presenting a contrast to Judith. Martha wore a crinoline as big as her lady’s, and a starched-out muslin gown over it, with flounces and frillings, for Martha was “dressed” for the day. Her arms, red and large, were displayed beneath her open sleeves, and something that looked like a bit of twisted lace was stuck on the back of her head. Martha called it a “cap.” Judith was a plain servant, and Martha was a fashionable one; but I know which looked the better of the two.
Judith would not give in the letter. She asked for the young mistress, and Constance came to her in the hall. “Just open it, please, Miss Constance, and tell me how he is,” said she anxiously; and Constance broke the seal of the letter.
“Borcette. Hotel Rosenbad, September, 18 — .”
“My Dear Child, — Still better and better! The improvement, which I told you in my last week’s letter had begun to take place so rapidly as to make us fear it was only a deceitful one, turns out to have been real. Will you believe it, when I tell you that your papa can walk! With the help of my arm, he can walk across the room and along the passage; and to-morrow he is going to try to get down the first flight of stairs. None but God can know how thankful I am; not even my children. If this change has taken place in the first month (and it is not yet quite that), what may we not expect in the next — and the next? Your papa is writing to Hamish, and will confirm what I say.”
This much Constance read aloud. Judith gave a glad laugh. “It’s just as everybody told the master,” said she. “A fine, strong, handsome man, like him, wasn’t likely to be laid down for life like a baby, when he was hardly middle-aged. These doctors here be just so many muffs. When I get too old for work, I’ll go to Germany myself, Miss Constance, and ask ’em to make me young again.”
Constance smiled. She was running her eyes over the rest of the letter, which was a long one. She caught sight of Arthur’s name. There were some loving, gentle messages to him, and then these words: “Hamish says Arthur applied at Dove and Dove’s for a clerk’s place, but did not come to terms with them. We are glad that he did not. Papa says he should not like to have one of his boys at Dove and Dove’s.”
“And here’s a little bit for you, Judith,” Constance said aloud. “Tell Judith not to be over-anxious in her place of trust; and not to over-work herself, but to let Sarah take her full share. There is no hurry about the bed-furniture; Sarah can do it in an evening at her leisure.”
Judith received the latter portion of the message with scorn. “’Tisn’t me that’s going to let her do it! A fine do it would be, Miss Constance! The first thing I shall see, when I go back now, will be her head stretched out at one of the windows, and the kidney beans left to string and cut themselves in the kitchen!”
Judith turned to depart. She never would allow any virtues to her helpmate Sarah, who gave about the same trouble to her that young servants of twenty generally give to old ones. Constance followed her to the door, saying something which had suddenly occurred to her mind about domestic affairs, when who should she meet, coming in, but the Rev. William Yorke! He had just left the Cathedral after morning prayers, and was calling at Lady Augusta’s.
Both were confused; both stopped, face to face, in hesitation. Constance grew crimson; Mr. Yorke pale. It was the first time they had met since the parting. There was an angry feeling against Constance in the mind of Mr. Yorke; he considered that she had not treated him with proper confidence; and in his proud nature — the Yorke blood was his — he was content to resent it. He did not expect to lose Constance eventually; he thought that the present storm would blow over some time, and that things would come right again. We are all too much given to trust to that vague “some time.” In Constance’s mind there existed a soreness against Mr. Yorke. He had doubted her; he had accepted (if he had not provoked) too readily her resignation of him. Unlike him, she saw no prospect of the future setting matters right. Marry him, whilst the cloud lay upon Arthur, she would not, after he had intimated his opinion and sentiments: and that cloud could only be lifted at the expense of another.
They exchanged a confused greeting; neither of them conscious how it passed. Mr. Yorke’s attention was then caught by the open letter in her hand — by the envelope bearing the foreign post-marks. “How is Mr. Channing?” he asked.
“So much better that it seems little short of a miracle,” replied Constance. “Mamma says,” glancing at the letter, “that he can walk, leaning on her arm.”
“I am so glad to hear it! Hamish told me last week that he was improving. I trust it may go on to a cure.”
“Thank you,” replied Constance. And she made him a pretty little state curtsey as she turned away, not choosing to see the hand he would fain have offered her.
Mr. Yorke’s voice brought a head and shoulders out at the breakfast-room door. They belonged to Lord Carrick. He and Lady Augusta were positively at breakfast at that hour of the day. His lordship’s eyes followed the pretty form of Constance as she disappeared up the staircase on her return to the schoolroom. William Yorke’s were cast in the same direction. Then their eyes — the peer’s and the clergyman’s — met.
“Ye have given her up, I understand, Master William?”
“Master William” vouchsafed no reply. He deemed it a little piece of needless impertinence.
“Bad taste!” continued Lord Carrick. “If I were only twenty years younger, and she’d not turn up her nose at me for a big daft of an Irishman, you’d not get her, me lad. She’s the sweetest little thing I have come across this many a day.”
To which the Rev. William Yorke condescended no answer, unless a haughty gesture expressive of indignation might be called one, as he brushed past Lord Carrick into the breakfast-room.
At that very hour, and in a breakfast-room also — though all signs of the meal had long been removed — were Mr. Huntley and his daughter. The same praise, just bestowed by Lord Carrick upon Constance Channing, might with equal justice be given to Ellen Huntley. She was a lovely girl, three or four years older than Harry, with pretty features and soft dark eyes. What is more, she was a good girl — a noble, generous-hearted girl, although (you know no one is perfection) with a spice of self-will. For the latter quality I think Ellen was more indebted to circumstances than to Nature. Mrs. Huntley was dead, and a maiden sister of Mr. Huntley’s, older than himself, resided with them and ruled Ellen; ruled her with a tight hand; not a kind one, or a judicious one; and that had brought out Miss Ellen’s self-will. Miss Huntley was very starched, prim, and stiff — very unnatural, in short — and she wished to make Ellen the same. Ellen rebelled, for she much disliked everything artificial. She was truthful, honest, straightforward; not unlike the character of Tom Channing. Miss Huntley complained that she was too straightforward to be ladylike; Ellen said she was sure she should never be otherwise than straightforward, so it was of no use trying. Then Miss Huntley would take offence, and threaten Ellen with “altering her will,” and that would vex Ellen more than anything. Young ladies rarely care for money, especially when they have plenty of it; and Ellen Huntley would have that, from her father. “As if I cared for my aunt’s money!” she would say. “I wish she may not leave it to me.” And she was sincere in the wish. Their controversies frequently amused Mr. Huntley. Agreeing in heart and mind with his daughter, he would yet make a playful show of taking his sister’s part. Miss Huntley knew it to be show — done to laugh at her — and would grow as angry with him as she was with Ellen.
Mr. Huntley was not laughing, however, this morning. On the contrary, he appeared to be in a very serious, not to say solemn mood. He slowly paced the room, as was his custom when anything disturbed him, stopping at moments to reflect, buried in thought. Ellen sat at a table by the window, drawing. The house was Mr. Huntley’s own — a white villa with a sloping lawn in front. It was situated outside the town, on a gentle eminence, and commanded a view of the charming scenery for which the county was famous.
