Bab Bab 82 · 第82章

. It almost seemed as though our casual mention of Theobald and Christina

had in some way excited them from a dormant to an active state. During

the years that had elapsed since they last appeared upon the scene they

had remained at Battersby, and had concentrated their affection upon

their other children.

It had been a bitter pill to Theobald to lose his power of plaguing his

first-born; if the truth were known I believe he had felt this more

acutely than any disgrace which might have been shed upon him by

Ernest’s imprisonment. He had made one or two attempts to reopen

negotiations through me, but I never said anything about them to

Ernest, for I knew it would upset him. I wrote, however, to Theobald

that I had found his son inexorable, and recommended him for the

present, at any rate, to desist from returning to the subject. This I

thought would be at once what Ernest would like best and Theobald

least.

A few days, however, after Ernest had come into his property, I

received a letter from Theobald enclosing one for Ernest which I could

not withhold.

The letter ran thus:—

“To my son Ernest,—Although you have more than once rejected my

overtures I appeal yet again to your better nature. Your mother, who

has long been ailing, is, I believe, near her end; she is unable to

keep anything on her stomach, and Dr Martin holds out but little hopes

of her recovery. She has expressed a wish to see you, and says she

knows you will not refuse to come to her, which, considering her

condition, I am unwilling to suppose you will.

“I remit you a Post Office order for your fare, and will pay your

return journey.

“If you want clothes to come in, order what you consider suitable, and

desire that the bill be sent to me; I will pay it immediately, to an

amount not exceeding eight or nine pounds, and if you will let me know

what train you will come by, I will send the carriage to meet you.

Believe me, Your affectionate father,

T. PONTIFEX.”

Of course there could be no hesitation on Ernest’s part. He could

afford to smile now at his father’s offering to pay for his clothes,

and his sending him a Post Office order for the exact price of a

second-class ticket, and he was of course shocked at learning the state

his mother was said to be in, and touched at her desire to see him. He

telegraphed that he would come down at once. I saw him a little before

he started, and was pleased to see how well his tailor had done by him.

Towneley himself could not have been appointed more becomingly. His

portmanteau, his railway wrapper, everything he had about him, was in

keeping. I thought he had grown much better-looking than he had been at

two or three and twenty. His year and a half of peace had effaced all

the ill effects of his previous suffering, and now that he had become

actually rich there was an air of _insouciance_ and good humour upon

his face, as of a man with whom everything was going perfectly right,

which would have made a much plainer man good-looking. I was proud of

him and delighted with him. “I am sure,” I said to myself, “that

whatever else he may do, he will never marry again.”

The journey was a painful one. As he drew near to the station and

caught sight of each familiar feature, so strong was the force of

association that he felt as though his coming into his aunt’s money had

been a dream, and he were again returning to his father’s house as he

had returned to it from Cambridge for the vacations. Do what he would,

the old dull weight of _home-sickness_ began to oppress him, his heart

beat fast as he thought of his approaching meeting with his father and

mother, “and I shall have,” he said to himself, “to kiss Charlotte.”

Would his father meet him at the station? Would he greet him as though

nothing had happened, or would he be cold and distant? How, again,

would he take the news of his son’s good fortune? As the train drew up

to the platform, Ernest’s eye ran hurriedly over the few people who

were in the station. His father’s well-known form was not among them,

but on the other side of the palings which divided the station yard

from the platform, he saw the pony carriage, looking, as he thought,

rather shabby, and recognised his father’s coachman. In a few minutes

more he was in the carriage driving towards Battersby. He could not

help smiling as he saw the coachman give a look of surprise at finding

him so much changed in personal appearance. The coachman was the more

surprised because when Ernest had last been at home he had been dressed

as a clergyman, and now he was not only a layman, but a layman who was

got up regardless of expense. The change was so great that it was not

till Ernest actually spoke to him that the coachman knew him.

“How are my father and mother?” he asked hurriedly, as he got into the

carriage. “The Master’s well, sir,” was the answer, “but the Missis is

very sadly.” The horse knew that he was going home and pulled hard at

the reins. The weather was cold and raw—the very ideal of a November

day; in one part of the road the floods were out, and near here they

had to pass through a number of horsemen and dogs, for the hounds had

met that morning at a place near Battersby. Ernest saw several people

whom he knew, but they either, as is most likely, did not recognise

him, or did not know of his good luck. When Battersby church tower drew

near, and he saw the Rectory on the top of the hill, its chimneys just

showing above the leafless trees with which it was surrounded, he threw

himself back in the carriage and covered his face with his hands.

It came to an end, as even the worst quarters of an hour do, and in a

few minutes more he was on the steps in front of his father’s house.

His father, hearing the carriage arrive, came a little way down the

steps to meet him. Like the coachman he saw at a glance that Ernest was

appointed as though money were abundant with him, and that he was

looking robust and full of health and vigour.

This was not what he had bargained for. He wanted Ernest to return, but

he was to return as any respectable, well-regulated prodigal ought to

return—abject, broken-hearted, asking forgiveness from the tenderest

and most long-suffering father in the whole world. If he should have

shoes and stockings and whole clothes at all, it should be only because

absolute rags and tatters had been graciously dispensed with, whereas

here he was swaggering in a grey ulster and a blue and white necktie,

and looking better than Theobald had ever seen him in his life. It was

unprincipled. Was it for this that he had been generous enough to offer

to provide Ernest with decent clothes in which to come and visit his

mother’s death-bed? Could any advantage be meaner than the one which

Ernest had taken? Well, he would not go a penny beyond the eight or

nine pounds which he had promised. It was fortunate he had given a

limit. Why he, Theobald, had never been able to afford such a

portmanteau in his life. He was still using an old one which his father

had turned over to him when he went up to Cambridge. Besides, he had

said clothes, not a portmanteau.

Ernest saw what was passing through his father’s mind, and felt that he

ought to have prepared him in some way for what he now saw; but he had

sent his telegram so immediately on receiving his father’s letter, and

had followed it so promptly that it would not have been easy to do so

even if he had thought of it. He put out his hand and said laughingly,

“Oh, it’s all paid for—I am afraid you do not know that Mr Overton has

handed over to me Aunt Alethea’s money.”

Theobald flushed scarlet. “But why,” he said, and these were the first

words that actually crossed his lips—“if the money was not his to keep,

did he not hand it over to my brother John and me?” He stammered a good

deal and looked sheepish, but he got the words out.

“Because, my dear father,” said Ernest still laughing, “my aunt left it

to him in trust for me, not in trust either for you or for my Uncle

John—and it has accumulated till it is now over £70,000. But tell me

how is my mother?”

“No, Ernest,” said Theobald excitedly, “the matter cannot rest here, I

must know that this is all open and above board.”

This had the true Theobald ring and instantly brought the whole train

of ideas which in Ernest’s mind were connected with his father. The

surroundings were the old familiar ones, but the surrounded were

changed almost beyond power of recognition. He turned sharply on

Theobald in a moment. I will not repeat the words he used, for they

came out before he had time to consider them, and they might strike

some of my readers as disrespectful; there were not many of them, but

they were effectual. Theobald said nothing, but turned almost of an

ashen colour; he never again spoke to his son in such a way as to make

it necessary for him to repeat what he had said on this occasion.

Ernest quickly recovered his temper and again asked after his mother.

Theobald was glad enough to take this opening now, and replied at once

in the tone he would have assumed towards one he most particularly

desired to conciliate, that she was getting rapidly worse in spite of

all he had been able to do for her, and concluded by saying she had

been the comfort and mainstay of his life for more than thirty years,

but that he could not wish it prolonged.

The pair then went upstairs to Christina’s room, the one in which

Ernest had been born. His father went before him and prepared her for

her son’s approach. The poor woman raised herself in bed as he came

towards her, and weeping as she flung her arms around him, cried: “Oh,

I knew he would come, I knew, I knew he could come.”

Ernest broke down and wept as he had not done for years.

“Oh, my boy, my boy,” she said as soon as she could recover her voice.

“Have you never really been near us for all these years? Ah, you do not

know how we have loved you and mourned over you, papa just as much as I

have. You know he shows his feelings less, but I can never tell you how

very, very deeply he has felt for you. Sometimes at night I have

thought I have heard footsteps in the garden, and have got quietly out

of bed lest I should wake him, and gone to the window to look out, but

there has been only dark or the greyness of the morning, and I have

gone crying back to bed again. Still I think you have been near us

though you were too proud to let us know—and now at last I have you in

my arms once more, my dearest, dearest boy.”

How cruel, how infamously unfeeling Ernest thought he had been.

“Mother,” he said, “forgive me—the fault was mine, I ought not to have

been so hard; I was wrong, very wrong”; the poor blubbering fellow

meant what he said, and his heart yearned to his mother as he had never

thought that it could yearn again. “But have you never,” she continued,

“come although it was in the dark and we did not know it—oh, let me

think that you have not been so cruel as we have thought you. Tell me

that you came if only to comfort me and make me happier.”

Ernest was ready. “I had no money to come with, mother, till just

lately.”

This was an excuse Christina could understand and make allowance for;

“Oh, then you would have come, and I will take the will for the

deed—and now that I have you safe again, say that you will never, never

leave me—not till—not till—oh, my boy, have they told you I am dying?”

She wept bitterly, and buried her head in her pillow.