CHAPTER XXII.
THE OLD SQUIRE'S TROUBLES.
Affairs were going on worse at the Hall than Roger had liked to tell.Moreover, very much of the discomfort there arose from "mere manner,"as people express it, which is always indescribable and indefinable.Quiet and passive as Mrs. Hamley had always been in appearance,she was the ruling spirit of the house as long as she lived. Thedirections to the servants, down to the most minute particulars,came from her sitting-room, or from the sofa on which she lay. Herchildren always knew where to find her; and to find her, was to findlove and sympathy. Her husband, who was often restless and angry fromone cause or another, always came to her to be smoothed down andput right. He was conscious of her pleasant influence over him, andbecame at peace with himself when in her presence; just as a childis at ease when with some one who is both firm and gentle. But thekeystone of the family arch was gone, and the stones of which itwas composed began to fall apart. It is always sad when a sorrow ofthis kind seems to injure the character of the mourning survivors.Yet, perhaps, this injury may be only temporary or superficial; thejudgments so constantly passed upon the way in which people bear theloss of those whom they have deeply loved, appear to be even morecruel, and wrongly meted out, than human judgments generally are. Tocareless observers, for instance, it would seem as though the Squirewas rendered more capricious and exacting, more passionate andauthoritative, by his wife's death. The truth was, that it occurredat a time when many things came to harass him, and some to bitterlydisappoint him; and _she_ was no longer there to whom he used tocarry his sore heart for the gentle balm of her sweet words. So thesore heart ached and smarted intensely; and often, when he saw howhis violent conduct affected others, he could have cried out fortheir pity, instead of their anger and resentment: "Have mercy uponme, for I am very miserable." How often have such dumb thoughts goneup from the hearts of those who have taken hold of their sorrowby the wrong end, as prayers against sin! And when the Squire sawthat his servants were learning to dread him, and his first-born toavoid him, he did not blame them. He knew he was becoming a domestictyrant; it seemed as if all circumstances conspired against him, andas if he was too weak to struggle with them; else, why did everythingin doors and out of doors go so wrong just now, when all he couldhave done, had things been prosperous, was to have submitted, in veryimperfect patience, to the loss of his wife? But just when he neededready money to pacify Osborne's creditors, the harvest had turned outremarkably plentiful, and the price of corn had sunk down to a levelit had not touched for years. The Squire had insured his life at thetime of his marriage for a pretty large sum. It was to be a provisionfor his wife, if she survived him, and for their younger children.Roger was the only representative of these interests now; but theSquire was unwilling to lose the insurance by ceasing to pay theannual sum. He would not, if he could, have sold any part of theestate which he inherited from his father; and, besides, it wasstrictly entailed. He had sometimes thought how wise a step itwould have been could he have sold a portion of it, and with thepurchase-money have drained and reclaimed the remainder; and atlength, learning from some neighbour that Government would makecertain advances for drainage, &c., at a very low rate of interest,on condition that the work was done, and the money repaid, within agiven time, his wife had urged him to take advantage of the profferedloan. But now that she was no longer there to encourage him, and takean interest in the progress of the work, he grew indifferent to ithimself, and cared no more to go out on his stout roan cob, and sitsquare on his seat, watching the labourers on the marshy land allovergrown with rushes; speaking to them from time to time in theirown strong nervous country dialect: but the interest to Governmenthad to be paid all the same, whether the men worked well or ill.Then the roof of the Hall let in the melted snow-water this winter;and, on examination, it turned out that a new roof was absolutelyrequired. The men who had come about the advances made to Osborne bythe London money-lender, had spoken disparagingly of the timber onthe estate--"Very fine trees--sound, perhaps, too, fifty years ago,but gone to rot now; had wanted lopping and clearing. Was there nowood-ranger or forester? They were nothing like the value young Mr.Hamley had represented them to be." The remarks had come round tothe squire's ears. He loved the trees he had played under as a boyas if they were living creatures; that was on the romantic side ofhis nature. Merely looking at them as representing so many poundssterling, he had esteemed them highly, and had had, until now,no opinion of another by which to correct his own judgment. Sothese words of the valuers cut him sharp, although he affected todisbelieve them, and tried to persuade himself that he did so. But,after all, these cares and disappointments did not touch the root ofhis deep resentment against Osborne. There is nothing like woundedaffection for giving poignancy to anger. And the Squire believed thatOsborne and his advisers had been making calculations, based upon hisown death. He hated the idea so much--it made him so miserable--thathe would not face it, and define it, and meet it with full inquiryand investigation. He chose rather to cherish the morbid fancy thathe was useless in this world--born under an unlucky star--that allthings went badly under his management. But he did not become humblein consequence. He put his misfortunes down to the score of Fate--notto his own; and he imagined that Osborne saw his failures, and thathis first-born grudged him his natural term of life. All thesefancies would have been set to rights could he have talked them overwith his wife; or even had he been accustomed to mingle much inthe society of those whom he esteemed his equals; but, as has beenstated, he was inferior in education to those who should have beenhis mates; and perhaps the jealousy and _mauvaise honte_ that thisinferiority had called out long ago, extended itself in some measureto the feelings he entertained towards his sons--less to Rogerthan to Osborne, though the former was turning out by far the mostdistinguished man. But Roger was practical; interested in allout-of-doors things, and he enjoyed the details, homely enough, whichhis father sometimes gave him of the every-day occurrences whichthe latter had noticed in the woods and the fields. Osborne, on thecontrary, was what is commonly called "fine;" delicate almost toeffeminacy in dress and in manner; careful in small observances. Allthis his father had been rather proud of in the days when he lookedforward to a brilliant career at Cambridge for his son he had atthat time regarded Osborne's fastidiousness and elegance as anotherstepping-stone to the high and prosperous marriage which was torestore the ancient fortunes of the Hamley family. But now thatOsborne had barely obtained his degree; that all the boastings of hisfather had proved vain; that the fastidiousness had led to unexpectedexpenses (to attribute the most innocent cause to Osborne's debts),the poor young man's ways and manners became a subject of irritationto his father. Osborne was still occupied with his books and hiswritings when he was at home; and this mode of passing the greaterpart of the day gave him but few subjects in common with his fatherwhen they did meet at meal times, or in the evenings. Perhaps ifOsborne had been able to have more out-of-door amusements it wouldhave been better; but he was short-sighted, and cared little for thecarefully observant pursuits of his brother; he knew but few youngmen of his own standing in the county; his hunting even, of which hewas passionately fond, had been curtailed this season, as his fatherhad disposed of one of the two hunters he had been hitherto allowed.The whole stable establishment had been reduced; perhaps because itwas the economy which told most on the enjoyment of both the Squireand Osborne, and which, therefore, the former took a savage pleasurein enforcing. The old carriage--a heavy family coach bought in thedays of comparative prosperity--was no longer needed after madam'sdeath, and fell to pieces in the cobwebbed seclusion of thecoach-house. The best of the two carriage-horses was taken for a gig,which the Squire now set up; saying many a time to all who mightcare to listen to him that it was the first time for generationsthat the Hamleys of Hamley had not been able to keep their own coach.The other carriage-horse was turned out to grass; being too old forregular work. Conqueror used to come whinnying up to the park palingswhenever he saw the Squire, who h
ad always a piece of bread, or somesugar, or an apple for the old favourite; and would make many acomplaining speech to the dumb animal, telling him of the change oftimes since both were in their prime. It had never been the Squire'scustom to encourage his boys to invite their friends to the Hall.Perhaps this, too, was owing to his _mauvaise honte_, and also to anexaggerated consciousness of the deficiencies of his establishment ascompared with what he imagined these lads were accustomed to at home.He explained this once or twice to Osborne and Roger when they wereat Rugby.
"You see, all you public schoolboys have a kind of freemasonry ofyour own, and outsiders are looked on by you much as I look onrabbits and all that isn't game. Ay, you may laugh, but it is so; andyour friends will throw their eyes askance at me, and never think onmy pedigree, which would beat theirs all to shivers, I'll be bound.No; I'll have no one here at the Hall who will look down on a Hamleyof Hamley, even if he only knows how to make a cross instead of writehis name."
Then, of course, they must not visit at houses to whose sons theSquire could not or would not return a like hospitality. On all thesepoints Mrs. Hamley had used her utmost influence without avail;his prejudices were immoveable. As regarded his position as headof the oldest family in three counties, his pride was invincible;as regarded himself personally--ill at ease in the society ofhis equals, deficient in manners, and in education--his morbidsensitiveness was too sore and too self-conscious to be calledhumility.
Take one instance from among many similar scenes of the state offeeling between him and his eldest son, which, if it could not becalled active discord, showed at least passive estrangement.
It took place on an evening in the March succeeding Mrs. Hamley'sdeath. Roger was at Cambridge. Osborne had also been from home, andhe had not volunteered any information as to his absence. The Squirebelieved that Osborne had been either at Cambridge with his brother,or in London he would have liked to hear where his son had been,what he had been doing, and whom he had seen, purely as pieces ofnews, and as some diversion from the domestic worries and cares whichwere pressing him hard; but he was too proud to ask any questions,and Osborne had not given him any details of his journey. Thissilence had aggravated the Squire's internal dissatisfaction, andhe came home to dinner weary and sore-hearted a day or two afterOsborne's return. It was just six o'clock, and he went hastily intohis own little business-room on the ground-floor, and, after washinghis hands, came into the drawing-room feeling as if he were verylate, but the room was empty. He glanced at the clock over themantel-piece, as he tried to warm his hands at the fire. The fire hadbeen neglected, and had gone out during the day; it was now piled upwith half-dried wood, which sputtered and smoked instead of doing itsduty in blazing and warming the room, through which the keen wind wascutting its way in all directions. The clock had stopped, no one hadremembered to wind it up, but by the squire's watch it was alreadypast dinner-time. The old butler put his head into the room, but,seeing the squire alone, he was about to draw it back, and waitfor Mr. Osborne, before announcing dinner. He had hoped to do thisunperceived, but the squire caught him in the act.
"Why isn't dinner ready?" he called out sharply. "It's ten minutespast six. And, pray, why are you using this wood? It's impossible toget oneself warm by such a fire as this."
"I believe, sir, that Thomas--"
"Don't talk to me of Thomas. Send dinner in directly."
About five minutes elapsed, spent by the hungry Squire in all sortsof impatient ways--attacking Thomas, who came in to look afterthe fire; knocking the logs about, scattering out sparks, butconsiderably lessening the chances of warmth; touching up thecandles, which appeared to him to give a light unusually insufficientfor the large cold room. While he was doing this, Osborne came indressed in full evening dress. He always moved slowly; and this, tobegin with, irritated the Squire. Then an uncomfortable consciousnessof a black coat, drab trousers, checked cotton cravat, and splashedboots, forced itself upon him as he saw Osborne's point-devicecostume. He chose to consider it affectation and finery in Osborne,and was on the point of bursting out with some remark, when thebutler, who had watched Osborne downstairs before making theannouncement, came in to say dinner was ready.
"It surely isn't six o'clock?" said Osborne, pulling out his daintylittle watch. He was scarcely more unaware than it of the storm thatwas brewing.
"Six o'clock! It's more than a quarter past," growled out his father.
"I fancy your watch must be wrong, sir. I set mine by the HorseGuards only two days ago."
Now, impugning that old steady, turnip-shaped watch of the Squire'swas one of the insults which, as it could not reasonably be resented,was not to be forgiven. That watch had been given him by hisfather when watches were watches long ago. It had given the law tohouse-clocks, stable-clocks, kitchen-clocks--nay, even to HamleyChurch clock in its day; and was it now, in its respectable old age,to be looked down upon by a little whipper-snapper of a French watchwhich could go into a man's waistcoat pocket, instead of having tobe extricated, with due effort, like a respectable watch of size andposition, from a fob in the waistband? No! not if the whipper-snapperwere backed by all the Horse Guards that ever were, with the LifeGuards to boot. Poor Osborne might have known better than to castthis slur on his father's flesh and blood; for so dear did he holdhis watch!
"My watch is like myself," said the squire, 'girning,' as the Scotchsay--"plain, but steady-going. At any rate, it gives the law in myhouse. The King may go by the Horse Guards if he likes."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Osborne, really anxious to keep thepeace, "I went by my watch, which is certainly right by London time;and I'd no idea you were waiting for me; otherwise I could havedressed much quicker."
"I should think so," said the Squire, looking sarcastically at hisson's attire. "When I was a young man I should have been ashamed tohave spent as much time at my looking-glass as if I'd been a girl.I could make myself as smart as any one when I was going to a dance,or to a party where I was likely to meet pretty girls; but I shouldhave laughed myself to scorn if I'd stood fiddle-faddling at a glass,smirking at my own likeness, all for my own pleasure."
Osborne reddened, and was on the point of letting fly some causticremark on his father's dress at the present moment; but he contentedhimself with saying, in a low voice,--
"My mother always expected us all to dress for dinner. I got into thehabit of doing it to please her, and I keep it up now." Indeed, hehad a certain kind of feeling of loyalty to her memory in keepingup all the little domestic habits and customs she had instituted orpreferred. But the contrast which the Squire thought was implied byOsborne's remark, put him beside himself.
"And I, too, try to attend to her wishes. I do; and in more importantthings. I did when she was alive; and I do so now."
"I never said you did not," said Osborne, astonished at his father'spassionate words and manner.
"Yes, you did, sir. You meant it. I could see by your looks. I sawyou look at my morning coat. At any rate, I never neglected any wishof hers in her lifetime. If she'd wished me to go to school againand learn my A, B, C, I would. By ---- I would; and I wouldn't havegone playing me, and lounging away my time, for fear of vexing anddisappointing her. Yet some folks older than school-boys--"
The squire choked here; but though the words would not come hispassion did not diminish. "I'll not have you casting up your mother'swishes to me, sir. You, who went near to break her heart at last!"
Osborne was strongly tempted to get up and leave the room. Perhaps itwould have been better if he had; it might then have brought aboutan explanation, and a reconciliation between father and son. But hethought he did well in sitting still and appearing to take no notice.This indifference to what he was saying appeared to annoy the Squirestill more, and he kept on grumbling and talking to himself tillOsborne, unable to bear it any longer, said, very quietly, but verybitterly--
"I am only a cause of irritation to you, and home is no longer hometo me, but a place in which I am to be controlled
in trifles, andscolded about trifles as if I were a child. Put me in a way of makinga living for myself--that much your oldest son has a right to ask ofyou--I will then leave this house, and you shall be no longer vexedby my dress, or my want of punctuality."
"You make your request pretty much as another son did long ago: 'Giveme the portion that falleth to me.' But I don't think what he didwith his money is much encouragement for me to--." Then the thoughtof how little he could give his son his "portion," or any part of it,stopped the Squire.
Osborne took up the speech.
"I'm as ready as any man to earn my living; only the preparation forany profession will cost money, and money I haven't got."
"No more have I," said the Squire, shortly.
"What is to be done then?" said Osborne, only half believing hisfather's words.
"Why, you must learn to stop at home, and not take expensivejourneys; and you must reduce your tailor's bill. I don't ask youto help me in the management of the land--you're far too fine agentleman for that; but if you can't earn money, at least you needn'tspend it."
"I've told you I'm willing enough to earn money," cried Osborne,passionately at last. "But how am I to do it? You really are veryunreasonable, sir."
"Am I?" said the Squire--cooling in manner, though not in temper, asOsborne grew warm. "But I don't set up for being reasonable; men whohave to pay away money that they haven't got for their extravagantsons aren't likely to be reasonable. There's two things you've goneand done which put me beside myself, when I think of them; you'veturned out next door to a dunce at college, when your poor motherthought so much of you--and when you might have pleased and gratifiedher so if you chose--and, well! I won't say what the other thing is."
"Tell me, sir," said Osborne, almost breathless with the idea thathis father had discovered his secret marriage; but the father wasthinking of the money-lenders, who were calculating how soon Osbornewould come into the estate.
"No!" said the Squire. "I know what I know; and I'm not going totell you how I know it. Only, I'll just say this--your friends nomore know a piece of good timber when they see it than you or I knowhow you could earn five pounds if it was to keep you from starving.Now, there's Roger--we none of us made an ado about him; but he'llhave his Fellowship now, I'll warrant him, and be a bishop, or achancellor, or something, before we've found out he's clever--we'vebeen so much taken up thinking about you. I don't know what's comeover me to speak of 'we'--'we' in this way," said he, suddenlydropping his voice,--a change of tone as sad as sad could be. "Iought to say 'I;' it will be 'I' for evermore in this world."
He got up and left the room in quick haste, knocking over his chair,and not stopping to pick it up. Osborne, who was sitting and shadinghis eyes with his hand, as he had been doing for some time, looked upat the noise, and then rose as quickly and hurried after his father,only in time to hear the study-door locked on the inside the momenthe reached it.
Osborne returned into the dining-room chagrined and sorrowful. But hewas always sensitive to any omission of the usual observances, whichmight excite remark; and even with his heavy heart he was careful topick up the fallen chair, and restore it to its place near the bottomof the table; and afterwards so to disturb the dishes as to make itappear that they had been touched, before ringing for Robinson. Whenthe latter came in, followed by Thomas, Osborne thought it necessaryto say to him that his father was not well, and had gone into thestudy; and that he himself wanted no dessert, but would have a cupof coffee in the drawing-room. The old butler sent Thomas out of theroom, and came up confidentially to Osborne.
"I thought master wasn't justly himself, Mr. Osborne, before dinner.And, therefore, I made excuses for him--I did. He spoke to Thomasabout the fire, sir, which is a thing I could in nowise put upwith, unless by reason of sickness, which I am always ready to makeallowances for."
"Why shouldn't my father speak to Thomas?" said Osborne. "But,perhaps, he spoke angrily, I daresay; for I'm sure he's not well."
"No, Mr. Osborne, it wasn't that. I myself am given to anger; and I'mblessed with as good health as any man in my years. Besides, anger'sa good thing for Thomas. He needs a deal of it. But it should comefrom the right quarter--and that is me, myself, Mr. Osborne. I knowmy place, and I know my rights and duties as well as any butler thatlives. And it's my duty to scold Thomas, and not master's. Masterought to have said, 'Robinson! you must speak to Thomas about lettingout the fire,' and I'd ha' given it him well,--as I shall do now,for that matter. But as I said before, I make excuses for master,as being in mental distress and bodily ill-health; so I've broughtmyself round not to give warning, as I should ha' done, for certain,under happier circumstances."
"Really, Robinson, I think it's all great nonsense," said Osborne,weary of the long story the butler had told him, and to which hehad not half attended. "What in the world does it signify whethermy father speaks to you or to Thomas? Bring me coffee in thedrawing-room, and don't trouble your head any more about scoldingThomas."
Robinson went away offended at his grievance being called nonsense.He kept muttering to himself in the intervals of scolding Thomas, andsaying,--"Things is a deal changed since poor missis went. I don'twonder master feels it, for I'm sure I do. She was a lady who hadalways a becoming respect for a butler's position, and could haveunderstood how he might be hurt in his mind. She'd never ha' calledhis delicacies of feelings nonsense--not she; no more would Mr.Roger. He's a merry young gentleman, and over fond of bringing dirty,slimy creatures into the house; but he's always a kind word for a manwho is hurt in his mind. He'd cheer up the Squire, and keep him fromgetting so cross and wilful. I wish Mr. Roger was here, I do."
The poor Squire, shut up with his grief, and his ill-temper as well,in the dingy, dreary study where he daily spent more and more ofhis indoors life, turned over his cares and troubles till he was asbewildered with the process as a squirrel must be in going round ina cage. He had out day-books and ledgers, and was calculating upback-rents; and every time the sum-totals came to different amounts.He could have cried like a child over his sums; he was worn out andweary, angry and disappointed. He closed his books at last with abang.
"I'm getting old," he said, "and my head's less clear than it used tobe. I think sorrow for her has dazed me. I never was much to boaston but she thought a deal of me--bless her! She'd never let me callmyself stupid; but, for all that, I am stupid. Osborne ought to helpme. He's had money enough spent on his learning; but, instead, hecomes down dressed like a popinjay, and never troubles his head tothink how I'm to pay his debts. I wish I'd told him to earn hisliving as a dancing-master," said the squire, with a sad smile at hisown wit. "He's dressed for all the world like one. And how he's spentthe money no one knows! Perhaps Roger will turn up some day with aheap of creditors at his heels. No, he won't--not Roger; he may beslow, but he's steady, is old Roger. I wish he was here. He's not theeldest son, but he'd take an interest in the estate; and he'd do upthese weary accounts for me. I wish Roger was here!"