Kitabı oku: «Roger Kyffin's Ward», sayfa 5
“Miss Everard went up into her room some time ago.”
Madam Everard hastened forward, telling the maid to follow.
The door was slightly open. There was no sound in the room – a lamp burned on the table; Madam Everard’s heart sank with dread. She looked round. Stretched on the floor lay her beloved niece in her gay ball dress, her countenance like marble, and blood flowing from her lips!
“She breathes, she breathes!” she said; and she and the maid lifted her on to the bed.
She had broken a blood-vessel. Madam Everard knew that at a glance: Lucy’s mother had done the same.
“Dr Jessop must be sent for immediately;” but Madam Everard did not wish to give the alarm to the rest of the guests. She would let the visitors depart, and allow those who were to remain in the house to go to their rooms before the sad intelligence was conveyed to them. She did all that could be done, and applied such restoratives as she believed would be effectual.
Immediately Paul Gauntlett threw himself on horseback, and galloped off to fetch Dr Jessop. He would not even stop to put a saddle on the horse’s back, and would have gone off with the halter.
Meantime Lucy returned to consciousness, and declared that she did not feel ill, only somewhat tired, and would like to go to sleep. The guests shortly began to take their departure. The maid-servants of the maiden ladies came with their pattens and hoods, and big cloaks, some with huge umbrellas in addition. There were footmen and footboys also, with many-coloured liveries, carrying huge stable lanterns to light their mistresses. They were generally employed in the service of the dowagers. The Fly was in requisition, but only for a select few.
As the guests came down-stairs, the foreign officers stood in the hall, occasionally making themselves useful, by assisting to put on the ladies’ hoods, cloaks, or shawls.
The young Baron de Ruvigny alone lingered. He had seen Lucy leave the room, and he became anxious, finding that she did not return. He asked the Colonel where she was. Just then a maid-servant came down with a message from Madam Everard, requesting Colonel Everard to come to his daughter’s room.
“What is the matter?” asked the young Baron of the servant, as the Colonel hurried off.
“Our mistress is very ill, very ill indeed, and I fear there’s no hope of her recovery,” answered the girl.
The young Baron entreated that he might be allowed to remain till the doctor had seen her.
Paul had found Dr Jessop at home. He accompanied him back at full speed. He looked very grave after he had seen Miss Lucy.
“I should like my friend Dr Musgrave to see her. If the skill of any man can avail, I am sure that his will, but it would take two days to get him down here, and this is a case demanding immediate remedies.”
Paul Gauntlett had come in with the doctor, and was waiting outside Miss Lucy’s room to hear his opinion.
“I will do it, sir!” he exclaimed, “if you will tell me where Dr Musgrave is to be found; I will be off and bring him down as soon as possible.”
“Stay, friend,” said Dr Jessop; “while you are taking some refreshment and getting your horse ready, I will write out a state of the case, and if Dr Musgrave cannot come he will send by you such remedies as he may consider efficacious.”
Paul scarcely liked the delay. He would have started on the back of the first horse he could lead out of the stable without thinking of food for himself. Within ten minutes he was galloping along through the forest. He could get to Redbridge, and Southampton, and so on to Winchester before daybreak. He could there get a fresh horse. He would distance any post-chaise; he was sure of that. He had left orders to have a fresh horse brought on for him to Southampton. He resolved not to waste a moment till he had brought the remedy for his dear Miss Lucy. His horse carried him nobly; he seemed to be aware that it was a matter of life and death. Paul had been with his master in London on several occasions. He knew the road, and being an old campaigner, without difficulty found his way to the doctor’s house. The doctor was out visiting patients. Paul fretted and fumed more than he had ever done in his life before. The servant was disposed to shut the door in his face, and send him to an inn.
“That will not do, master,” said Paul; “I must wait here till the doctor comes back, and you must put up my horse, and rub him down, and feed him well. It’s a matter of life and death;” and Paul expatiated on the youth and beauty and gentle disposition of his young mistress, till the tears rolled down his cheek, and he almost made the doctor’s somewhat morose butler weep with him.
“Oh, sir, sir, can you save her?” he exclaimed, handing Dr Jessop’s note to Dr Musgrave, when he came back. “It’s impossible that so young and sweet a creature as Miss Lucy should be allowed to die. It cannot be, sir; it cannot be; it would break the Colonel’s heart, and mine, too.”
Chapter Eight.
The Young Heiress. – Harry Comes Out in London not under the best of auspices
Mr Musgrave threw himself into his arm-chair, and crossing his legs, with a frown of thought on his brow, looked over Dr Jessop’s notes. “I will go down to-morrow,” he said, turning to Paul, who stood before him eagerly watching his countenance, as if he could there read the probable fate of his beloved young mistress. “I cannot possibly go to-day; I may be of some use, but it is doubtful. However, I will send a medicine which may be efficacious, and suggest to Dr Jessop how he may treat the young lady.”
“Oh! sir, cannot you come, cannot you save her?” exclaimed Paul, not understanding what the doctor had said, but only making out that he was unable to accompany him back.
“Yes, yes, my friend,” answered the doctor, touched by the old soldier’s earnestness, “To-morrow I’ll start. I must go in a post-chaise, I cannot ride express as you do. Now go down, and my man Mumford will attend to your wants while your horse is fed. In the meantime, I will look out the medicines, and write a letter to my good friend Dr Jessop. Will that satisfy you? Now do go, my good man, do go.”
Paul could with difficulty get down any food, but at the same time his experience told him that when work was to be done the body must be fed.
He thought the doctor was a long time in concocting the medicine, but hoped that it would be more efficacious in consequence.
When once mounted, with the medicine in a case slung at his back, he did not spare his speed. His only fear was falling. A horse had been sent on to Winchester to meet him. He exchanged it for his tired steed. Winchester was soon passed through and Southampton reached. Shortly after leaving the latter place, he encountered Harry Tryon, with a led horse, coming to meet him. He mounted it gladly, for his own was already tired, and together they galloped back through the forest.
Harry was afraid that Miss Lucy was worse. At all events, they were anxiously looking out for the doctor or his remedies. The Colonel met them at the hall-door steps. His face was very grave and anxious. He was disappointed at not seeing the doctor, but eagerly took the case of medicines.
“Paul, you saved my life once, and by God’s providence you may be the means of paving my daughter’s. His will be done, whatever happens.”
Dr Jessop was in attendance. The remedies sent by the London doctor were administered, but Lucy was very weak. Harry asked Dr Jessop what he thought.
“My boy, doctors at all times must not express their thoughts,” he answered, evasively. “Miss Everard is young, and youth is a great thing in a patient’s favour. Remember that, and make a good use of yours while you enjoy it.”
The guests with sad hearts took their departure. The long-expected ball was not to be. Messages were sent round to the residents in the neighbourhood, informing them that the ball was put off, but in the evening several who had not heard of what had occurred arrived at the door. The Colonel went down to speak to them himself. It was with difficulty he could command his voice, for he saw, with the eye of affection, that his beloved daughter was struck by the hand of death. Among others, a party of foreign officers arrived from a neighbouring town. Captain Everard begged his uncle that he might be allowed to go and speak to them. Refreshments had been placed for those who might come from a distance, and they were accordingly invited in. They were gentlemanly men, and Captain Everard received them as a man of the world. Having mentioned the serious illness of Miss Everard, he at once turned the conversation to other subjects. Among the guests, he saw one whose face was familiar; he looked at him again and again, and was trying to consider where he had seen him. The officer at length became aware that Captain Everard’s eyes were fixed on him.
“Surely we have met before,” said the latter. “Was it not at Toulon?” A deep melancholy came over the foreigner’s countenance.
“It may be, for I was there once,” he answered; “would that I had died there, too; but my life was saved by a brave English officer, who, at the risk of his own, carried me away amid showers of musketry poured down upon us by my countrymen, and amidst exploding ships, and masses of burning ruin which showered down upon our heads. Tell me, sir, are you that officer? for as you know well, my mind was unhinged by the dreadful events of that night, and though I have a dim recollection of his features, if you are he, you will recollect that I had scarcely recovered when he was compelled to send me to the hospital.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Captain Everard, “I had the satisfaction of saving the life of a French officer in the way you describe. Captain Rochard, I understood, was his name, and although he remained several weeks in my cabin, all that time he was scarcely conscious of what was taking place around him.”
“Yes, yes, I am the very man,” exclaimed the foreign officer, rising from his seat, and taking Captain Everard’s hand in his own. “Let me now express my gratitude to you, which I was at that time unable to do. I have since then lived a chequered and adventurous life, and though I dare not contemplate the past, I feel that there is still pleasure and satisfaction to be found in the present. While a spark of hope remains in the bosom of a man, he cannot desire death.”
The other officers seemed much interested at the meeting between their friend and the English captain. Captain Rochard, they said, had joined them, and one or two had known him formerly when he was in the French marine, and they were convinced that he would do credit to their corps.
Harry Tryon had come to the house twice before in the day to inquire for Lucy; he now returned with the Baron de Ruvigny, who really looked dejected and almost heartbroken at the illness of the young lady. Harry had exchanged a few words with Mabel; they were parting words, so we must not too curiously inquire into what was said. He had been, however, anxious to remain a few days longer, but Lady Tryon insisted on setting off the next day for London. He once more rejoined the Baron at the hall-door. He found him standing with the foreign officers, whom he had invited to spend the rest of the evening at Lynderton. Harry was of course asked to join the party. Captain Everard was parting from them at the hall-door, and as the light fell on Captain Rochard’s features Harry was sure that he was an old acquaintance. Captain Rochard dropped a little behind his companions as they walked down the avenue, and Harry took this opportunity of addressing him.
“We have met before, Captain Falwasser,” said Harry; “I am sure that I am not mistaken, and you were very kind to me on one occasion when I was a boy.”
“Ah!” answered the Captain, with a start, “that was my name; I will not deny it; that is to say, it was my name for a time, and it may be my name again; but at present I must beg you will know me as Captain Rochard, the friend of your relative – is he not? – Captain Everard.”
“I will be careful to obey your wishes, Captain Rochard,” said Harry; “but Captain Everard is not a relative.”
Harry felt himself blushing as he said this, for he certainly hoped that he might be so some day. Harry felt very curious to know who this Captain Rochard could possibly be. He had known him, apparently, as the commander of a smuggler; now he found him in the character of a military officer. “Perhaps, after all, he may be neither one nor the other,” thought Harry; “there is a peculiarly commanding and dignified air about him.”
The evening was spent very pleasantly, for although the young Baron was sad at heart, he endeavoured to overcome his feelings, for the sake of entertaining his guests, and music and pleasant conversation made the hours pass rapidly away. The officers of the foreign legion had neither the inclination nor the means of imitating the example of British military officers, who at that time, and on such an occasion, would have spent the evening in a carouse. A few glasses of lemonade was probably the extent of the entertainment afforded by the host, or expected by the guests.
The next morning Harry found himself on the box of Lady Tryon’s coach, rumbling away towards London. Her lady’s-maid was inside. The footman sat on the box with Harry. Even the beautiful forest scenery through which they passed failed to raise Harry’s spirits. He was constantly looking back in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the chimneys of Stanmore; not that he could really have seen them, by-the-bye, but his heart flew, at all events, in the direction of his eye. He thought, too, of dear sweet Lucy lying on her sick-bed, too likely, he feared, to prove her death-bed.
The road was none of the best in those days, and Harry and the footman had often to get off and help the carriage along. This was a relief, however. They each had a brace of pistols, and a blunderbuss was strung at the back of the box. Harry, however, had a strong suspicion that Simon, the footman, would be very unwilling to use it, even in defence of the matured charms of Miss Betsy Frizzle, her ladyship’s much suffering and much enduring handmaiden. Sometimes the journey occupied three days, but her ladyship was in a hurry, and her carriage being unusually light, and the roads in tolerably good order, they were only to sleep one night on the road.
Harry had been so constantly away from home for the last few days, that he had had no conversation with his grandmother. As they were seated at tea in their inn, the old lady again spoke of his marriage with Mabel.
“I told you, Harry, that the Colonel’s daughter would die. I knew it long ago. I saw it in her eye, and her voice told me that she was not to live many years in this world. Thus, mark me, Miss Mabel will become the mistress of Stanmore. Now, Harry, I intend to leave you all I have got, so that you may cut a figure in the world. You are like your father in face and figure, and I love you on that account. He was more a man of the world than you are, or will ever become, I suspect. Let me tell you it is an important thing to know the world well. I do, and have no great respect for it in consequence; but I know how to manage it, and that’s what I want you to do. You will have many opportunities in London; I must beg that you will not throw them away. You may be the possessor of a large fortune, and yet unless you know how to manage it, it may be of little use to you. Many a man, with three or four thousand a year, does more than others with thirty or forty thousand. I would have you also, Harry, pay every attention to the wishes of your guardian, Mr Kyffin. He is a very respectable man, and will probably save money, and as far as I can learn, as he has no other relations of his own, he will undoubtedly leave it to you. Thus I hope that you may be very well off. Still both Mr Kyffin and I may live for a good many years. When he last called for you in London I examined his countenance, and considered him a remarkably hale and healthy man, while I myself feel as well as I ever did in my life. However, I don’t wish to think of the time when you will come into my property.”
Harry, of course, begged that the old lady would not think of such an event, and declared himself ready to enter some profession, by which he might make himself independent of the expected fortunes of his friends. He thought that he might like the law. Life in London and in dusty chambers was not exactly what he had been accustomed to, but still, where an important object was to be gained, he was ready to submit to anything. Lady Tryon laughed at the notion. He might certainly eat his dinners at the Inns of Court and live in dusty chambers, but as to making anything by so doing, the idea was preposterous. A young fellow like him, of good family and presentable appearance, must marry an heiress. He was fit for that, and nothing else.
Harry saw that there was no use discussing the matter with his grandmother. He resolved, however, to talk it over with his guardian as soon as they met. He saw that the old lady had some project in her head, which she had resolved to keep secret from him. It must be confessed, he was very glad when her ladyship rang for Betsy Frizzle, and retired to her room. They arrived next day late in the evening at Lady Tryon’s house, in the middle of – Street.
Harry set off the next day to visit Mr Roger Kyffin, of Hampstead. He found that the coach ran twice in the day to that far-distant suburb. It was a pleasant drive, among green fields, here and there a smiling villa, but otherwise with few buildings. Mr Kyffin had not come back from the city when Harry arrived, but his careful housekeeper received him with every attention, and insisted on his partaking of some of her preserves and home-made wine, just to give him an appetite for supper, as of course her master always dined in London.
At last Mr Kyffin arrived. He was much pleased with Harry’s appearance. They spent a very pleasant evening. Harry could not help contrasting the conversation of his guardian with that of his grandmother – the man of business, so unworldly, and with a heart so full of warm affection, anxious for the welfare of his fellow-creatures, while the old lady with one foot in the grave was truly of the earth – earthy. Harry did not exactly say as much as this to himself, but he felt it, notwithstanding. Roger Kyffin was very much pleased to hear of Harry’s wish to enter a profession. “I would not have you decide in a hurry,” he said, “and you must consider for what you are best fitted. You know that I, as far as I have the power, will help you to the utmost – on that you may depend. Further than that, Harry, I don’t wish to bias you.” Harry slept at Mr Kyffin’s, a pretty little cottage, and accompanied him the next day back to London. He found that the mornings hung somewhat heavily on his hands; the evenings, too, were not spent in a way particularly agreeable to him, as Lady Tryon insisted on his accompanying her to the routs and other parties she frequented. He had a dislike to cards, and could never learn to play, so she had not insisted on his joining her, but she spent the whole of the evening at the card-table. He saw, however, from the piles of gold placed before her that she was playing high; how high he could not tell; but very often she returned home in an unusually bad humour, when he found it safer to keep silence than to attempt any conversation with her.
At this time, ladies of fashion, as well as gentlemen, were fearfully addicted to the vice of gambling. The law was doing its utmost to put down public hells, but it was unable in general to stop the practice in private houses, in consequence of the difficulty of obtaining evidence.
One evening Lady Tryon had been at the house of the Countess of Buckinghamshire, to which Harry had, very unwillingly, been compelled to accompany her. As usual, gambling went on, a gentleman of fashion keeping the faro-table. Harry saw by the expression of his grandmother’s countenance that she was a heavy loser. The more she lost, the higher stakes she seemed inclined to play for.
“Let the old lady have her way,” he heard a gentleman near whom he was standing observe, “a little bleeding will do her no harm.”
The Countess’s handsome rooms were full of people of rank and fashion. Tables were scattered about on each side with eager players, some engaged in cards, others casting the dice, while others stood round staking considerable sums on the turn of a card or throw of the ivory. All of them seemed brought together by one absorbing passion, which they shared with the stockbrokers of Change Alley and the frequenters of the lowest hells. A few like Harry might have been compelled to go there against their will – young daughters to attend their mothers, who were leading them into vice, and a few like Harry who had no money to stake. As he looked at the group of excited beings with sparkling eyes, the rouge cheeks of the ladies, with here and there a black patch to hide a blemish, or to set off the fairness of their skins; the haggard faces of the men, with their perukes pushed on one side, their lips puckered, pressed close together, many of them holding the cards with trembling knees, evidently with one foot in the grave, Harry could not help hoping that he might never become like one of them, and he longed once more to be back at Stanmore in the company of Mabel. He thought, too, of her dying cousin, for the last account which had been received gave no hopes of her recovery, and every day he expected to hear that she was no more. He was thankful when at length he received Lady Tryon’s commands to order her coach. She was in a worse humour even than usual.
“Fortune won’t desert me,” she said at length, as they were nearing home; “there’s another chance; I intend to purchase some lottery tickets: they can bring me through, though nothing else can, unless, Harry, when you marry the little heiress you take care of your old grand-dame; you owe her something for bringing you up as a gentleman, for if I had not taken you up you would have been even now a merchant’s clerk in the city! Faugh! that such should be the fate of a grandson of General Tryon.”
Harry did not venture to remark that her ladyship’s brother was a merchant, and probably had been a merchant’s clerk in his younger days; however, he thought as much.
