Kitabı oku: «Jasper», sayfa 10

Chapter Thirteen
From across the World

I have reached, I see, the thirteenth chapter of my story! And thirteen is supposed to be an unlucky number. Nevertheless, I scarcely think it would be fair to any children who have read to the end of chapter twelve, to stop short there, even though things are now in a much happier position in the little house at Spenser Terrace than they were a few chapters back.

Besides, I really have something more to tell about my small hero and his family, and though at first it may not sound very cheerful, I think, before we have to say good-bye to each other, you will agree with me that this time the number thirteen does not bring bad luck with it. So now I will go on with this family history.

That early summer, even in the rather dull out-skirt, where Spenser Terrace is situated, was really bright and pleasant, and for some weeks after the return from the seaside no one felt specially anxious about Jasper, though he certainly did not gain strength very satisfactorily.

“It takes a good while for a rather delicate child to recover thoroughly from such an extremely sharp attack as his was,” said the doctor when he called one day. “Of course it would have been better to have kept him much longer at the seaside or in the country. But no doubt, when the weather becomes hot, you will be planning another change for him. It would not do for him to be in London if it grew oppressively warm.”

And Mrs Fortescue did not like to say how exceedingly difficult it would be to manage any change of any kind for any of them! The expenses of the illness and all it brought about had already exhausted the very small sum they were able to scrape together, beyond what was actually necessary for every-day life, and the prospect of sending Roland to Winton by the autumn was growing sadly uncertain. But to Dr Wilkins, though he was such a very old friend, poor “Mumsey” said nothing.

“It would look,” she thought, “as if I was hinting for him to invite Jasper to his own country house – and even if he did so, I could not let the darling go without a nurse or a maid of some kind, and Mrs Wilkins is rather too old to be troubled with children. It was most good of her to have Roley, but of course he is able to look after himself.”

So indeed – remembering his seven years only – was Jasper; quite wonderfully self-helpful and independent. Or rather he had been so before his illness. But of late, more than once, his mother had said to him, laughingly, that he was “growing into a baby again;” he was so clinging and quiet, though always sweet and unselfish.

“Everything’s so tirin’, Mumsey darlin’,” he said, “and Lelly and Chrissie does spoil me so. They’se always fetchin’ my fings, and they won’t never let me run messages, scarcely. But please, Mumsey darlin’, might I not go out a walk to-day, but just stay here ’aside you?”

And day by day the pitiful little request was repeated, though it had to be refused. For even if the small legs ached and the feet dragged along rather painfully, air, fresh air, he must have, if he was ever to get stronger, or even not get worse!

“I wish we had old Evans and his bath-chair here for you,” said his mother one day, feeling rather in despair.

“There is a stand of them about a mile off,” said Roland.

“I know,” replied she, “but the hire is very dear. Nearly as much as a hansom, and they would charge extra to come so far, I suspect,” with a sigh.

Now and then the little patient cheered up and grew more like his old active little self again. Sometimes on a Saturday afternoon his father took him an hour or two’s drive in a hansom, which nowadays was, of course, a great treat, and brought some colour into his cheeks. But, alas! it soon faded again, and he seemed more tired than usual on Sunday morning, so that there was no question of church for him, and Jasper liked going to church! Then, as June advanced, there came a spell of August heat, and though it lessened somewhat after a few days, it left him whiter and thinner and more exhausted.

“We must do something,” thought Aunt Margaret, “or he will be slipping out of our hands altogether,” and that afternoon she shut herself into her own room for some time, to decide what that something must be. “Yes,” she said to herself, “I must do it, but I will tell the dear little girls first. It will do them no harm to be consulted,” and she quietly called them to come to her.

She was seated at her writing-table, with two or three small, somewhat old-fashioned, jewel cases before her.

“Leila dear, and Chrissie,” she said as they came in, looking rather surprised at her summons, “I am going to confide in you. We are not happy about Jasper. He is not improving, and he must have country or sea-air if he is ever to grow quite strong.”

“I know,” said Leila, growing pale. “Chris and I are very miserable about him, aren’t we, Chrissie? – for of course – ” but here her voice failed her: and as for Chrissie, she was already in tears.

“The lesson has been a lasting one,” thought their aunt, and she was thankful to see it. But she was not one to “break the bruised reed.”

“Leave the past, darlings,” she said, “that is all over and forgiven. What I want to tell you is that you may help me to do something for our dear boy,” and as she spoke she opened two ring boxes, showing their contents. There were two beautiful, though not very large, diamond rings – of different designs, but about the same size. The children gazed at them in admiration.

“These are the only jewels of any value that I have kept,” she said, “and they are not very valuable, but they are old family ones, and I meant them for you two. I know the pair would sell for forty or fifty pounds – enough, with care, to get a little country cottage for two or three months where we could take it in turns to be with Jasper. But I count them really yours, you see?” and she looked up at them.

“Oh, sell them, sell them. Auntie darling,” cried both the children together. “Thank you, oh, thank you, for letting us join in it. When can you settle about it, dear Auntie?”

“To-morrow morning, I think,” was the reply. “I will tell no one but you two, dears, and perhaps Mummy will let one of you go with me to a jeweller I know. I am rather nervous about omnibuses still. And then when we bring back the money, we will all three together give it to your mother, and talk over what will be the best place. Perhaps Seabay again – it seemed to suit him.”

And so it was settled. But, strange to say, the plan was not carried out! The dear old rings were never sold. They are on Leila’s and Chrissie’s fingers at this very moment. And how this came about, I must hasten to tell you.

Something had happened which even Aunt Margaret had not yet been told. “We must not raise false hopes till we know more about it all. Dear Aunt has been through so much strain already,” Mr and Mrs Fortescue had thoughtfully decided.

But at the very time that the consultation was taking place about the rings, another and most important one was being held in a private room at a certain hotel, where, after several letters had passed between Mr Fortescue and his tenant at Fareham, it had been arranged that the three – for Mrs Fortescue was particularly required – should meet.

This was the subject of it. You will remember that Mr Maynard had been strangely struck by the name “Jasper Greville.” It was that of a very old man – a gentleman – whom he had known for several years in Australia. This Mr Greville had been foolish and extravagant in his early youth, and having wasted what money he had – not very much after all – had been shipped off to the colonies by his relations, none of whom, as he was an orphan and an only child, cared very much what became of him, except one cousin, who had gone to Liverpool with him and done what he could for his comfort, till he sailed. And this the emigrant never forgot. Tears and years afterwards he wrote to his kind namesake – they were both “Jaspers” – to tell of his prosperity; but the letter was never answered, for by some mistake in the address, it was never received. And as the Australian was by this time happily married and the father of several boys and girls, and full of home interests and business, he never wrote again.

Life had opened sadly for him, and now, when he was over eighty, it seemed as if it were to close in the same way. For after many happy years, sorrow after sorrow fell upon him. His wife died, then his daughters; then again, after some years’ interval, his two sons, in the prime of life, and last of all his twin grandsons, the last of his children, on whom all his hopes were centred, the sole heirs of his large fortune! And then all seemed at an end for the poor old man.

“What do I care for possessions on this side now?” he had often said to his friend, Mr Maynard. “It is not a case of ‘moth and rust’ with me – it is even sadder from this world’s point of view, though not really so,” for he was a true Christian. “I can look forward to the better country where my dear ones are waiting for me. Still, I must not be selfish: I must make some use of my wealth. I will leave a fair amount for good charities here, where it has been made, but besides this Maynard, if you should come across any of my name in England, let me know. ‘Jasper Greville,’ remember – not Greville only; of Grevilles there are plenty, but my branch was always marked by ‘Jaspers.’ I fancy, however, they have all died out. There were never very many of us.”

And so they had – all died out, except “Edith Greville,” now Mrs Fortescue, the grand-daughter and only descendant of the kind cousin.

She – when she heard what I have just related – remembered vaguely the story of the poor lonely young fellow whom her grandfather had comforted, and this was an additional assurance that there was no mistake about the relationship.

Now good Mr Maynard had lost no time in writing to his aged friend at the antipodes, though very doubtful as to the letter finding him still alive. But it had done so – and the reply, just a few days ago received by Mr Maynard, was the reason of his correspondence with Mr Fortescue, and the present talk at the “Marvellous Hotel.” For the contents of old Mr Greville’s letter were most important, as it brought an urgent request that Mr Maynard would do all he possibly could to persuade the old man’s newly-discovered relations to pay him a visit, in his far-away home, without delay. And this was the subject of the consultation.

At first, of course, it seemed a very startling idea, and Mrs Fortescue grew pale with nervousness.

“To leave them all and go so far,” she murmured, but Mr Maynard caught the words.

“Not all,” he said gently. “Our old friend specially begs that if possible you will bring my little first acquaintance – ‘Jasper Greville’ – his namesake. You see I wrote very fully to him, giving every detail. I even told him of your boy’s illness and delicacy. It will really be a curious coincidence if my prescription for him, ‘a long sea voyage,’ should come to be followed! And,” he went on, hesitating a little, “as – as this letter explains, expense must be no consideration,” and though he said no more, his visitors fully understood that the unexpected and tremendous change in their means and position had been thoroughly explained to the rich relation at the other side of the world.

Then another difficulty struck Mrs Fortescue. She turned to her husband.

“Your post, Reginald?” she said. “Will you not lose it if you are away for six months?”

But it was Mr Maynard who answered her.

“Not necessarily,” he said. “In fact I can assure you that if Fortescue cares to resume his present work, the place will be open for him. I have plenty of influence in that quarter. But, my dear lady,” he continued, and his tone grew more earnest, “you scarcely realise the whole position. If you accede to Mr Greville’s wish, and start without delay, it will certainly mean that he receives you as his heir – or heiress – and he is very rich. You are his only living relatives – except possibly some very distant cousins – there is nothing unnatural about it; nothing to hurt your reasonable feelings of independence – ”

“No, I see that,” she said gently. “It is very, very good of Mr Greville all the same. Most old people grow selfish and give themselves as little trouble as they can.”

“That is not his character,” replied Mr Maynard; “and remember, there is the association of long ago kindness received from your grandfather, which he has never forgotten. My only anxiety is that there should be no delay. Mr Greville is aged and very far from strong. If you consent, I will cable to tell him so, this very day. And the sooner you start, the better for the boy, I should say.”

And I do believe it was this last consideration as much as the prospect of a return to freedom from anxiety as regarded money, that at last carried the day with Jasper’s “Mumsey.”

It was astounding news – was it not? – that Mrs Fortescue carried back to Spenser Terrace that afternoon, when she left her husband and their kind new friend to go on to the City, and she herself hurried home. Aunt Margaret, of course, forgetting all about herself and the trouble and responsibility this unexpected move might bring upon her, was strongly of opinion that the decision was a right one.

“Have no anxiety about the girls and Roley and me,” she said at once. “We shall be all right. If we can afford to go for two or three weeks to Seabay, that will keep us all well and strong, I hope, and we may very possibly be together again by the New Year.”

Mr Maynard’s instructions to do everything to smooth away difficulties had been most liberal, and when things have to be done quickly, and there is no lack of money to do them with, it is astonishing how speedily they can be managed. Within ten days of the talk at the Hotel, the three travellers, pale little Jasper and his parents, were on board ship and on their way. The parting was a terrible wrench – it could not but be so; and though none of the group put their fears into words, there were sad misgivings in all hearts, when our brave little boy hugged each dear one in turn, choking back his own tears and sobs, and promising to get “kite, kite well again,” and come back with Daddy and Mumsey for Christmas.

And before very long, letters from various points on the way began to drop in – and after a little longer, a cable to Mr Maynard, sent on by him without a moment’s delay, you may be sure, which, being translated by his “code,” told of “safe arrival, all well, Jasper especially.”

And the refreshing visit to Seabay was paid, and Roland did go to Winton at the October term, without dear Aunt Margaret’s rings needing to be sold, and the letters that she and her little nieces sent by every mail, had happy and cheering news to give of the peaceful and busy home life in the small house in Spenser Terrace, though, of course, they all ended with the same chorus – “oh, how we long for you to come home again.”

Christmas came and went without bringing this joy. For just as Jasper and his parents were on the point of starting on their return, old Mr Greville, who had revived wonderfully for a time, refreshed and cheered by the presence and affection of his newly-found relations, died suddenly – peacefully and painlessly – at the great age of eighty-seven. And this delayed their leaving. It was not till the end of January, just about a year from the time we first made the acquaintance of Chrissie and her stockings, that the three travellers came home at last. I think happy times of this kind are difficult to describe, but less difficult to picture in one’s own mind, especially for those who have themselves known the exquisite delight of “being all together again” after separation, and no doubt some of my unknown little friends have had this joy.

There was nothing to spoil the return. Jasper was taller and plumper and ruddier than he had ever been in his life; his father and mother glad to feel that their visit had given happiness as well as brought it to themselves and their dear ones; for the future now looked very different from what had been the case a year ago. There was even a prospect of having Fareham as their country home again before very long, as Mr Maynard had begun to rebuild a charming old house in the neighbourhood which he had bought, and intended to settle in, as soon as it was ready.

And many good and happy plans gradually took shape in the children’s minds as to how others, less fortunate than themselves, should be made to benefit by their prosperity – ideas suggested, in great part, I feel sure, by their close companionship with their Aunt Margaret.

“Ever since I were so ill,” said Jasper one day – his English by this time being almost quite “grown-up” – “ever since I were so ill, I’ve thought I’d like to make a beautiful big house at the seaside for poor children who’ve been ill, too, to get well in. And I’d have lots of bath-chairs and donkeys for the weller ones.”

And who knows what may come of the idea some day?

“But in the meantime,” said Leila, “as soon as ever we’re settled in our big new London house, Aunt Margaret and Mumsey are going to have a room on purpose for us to have some poor children – not ill ones, of course – at tea, once a week. Won’t it be nice?”

“There’s to be a piano for them to dance to, and all sorts of things,” added Chrissie.

“And lots and lots of cakes and buns,” said Jasper.

His sisters laughed.

“Why, Japs,” said Chrissie, “you used never to care about nice things to eat.”

“But you see I’m always hungry now,” he replied with satisfaction, “so it make me think that lots of them must be hungry too – awfly hungry sometimes, I daresay.”

“Well, they must have plenty to eat when they come to tea with us,” Chrissie agreed, and I am quite sure they did.

The End.