Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.
Seeking Hospitality.
“Why, if it ain’t you, Master Sep, as I thought we were never going to see no more!” cried Mrs Lower to the desolate-looking man outside her snug bar. “But, my; you do look bad, and it’s close upon ten years since I’ve set eyes upon you. There, do come in and sit down. Yes; that’s poor Lower’s chair; he’s been gone years now, Master Sep, and I’m left a lone widow, my dear; but your name was one of the last words he spoke—your name and poor Miss Agnes’s. Do you ever see her in the big city, Master Sep?”
Septimus shook his head.
“Has she left here?” he said.
“Didn’t you know?” said Mrs Lower. “Ah, yes, long enough ago!” and she stooped her head and whispered in her visitor’s ear. “But there, we needn’t talk about troubles now. How haggard and worn you do look! And how’s Mrs Septimus? I always think of her as Mrs Grey. But what’s it to be now? Isn’t it awful about poor master, whom I’d never have left if I’d known what was to happen? No, Master Sep, not to marry a dozen Lowers, and be the mistress of fifty County Arms; though, rest him! poor Lower was a good, kind husband, for all we were elderly folk to wed, and had forgotten how to make love. Now, say a hot cup of tea, Master Sep, or a hot steak with a little ketchup. If you’d been a bit sooner, there was a lovely sweetbread in the house; but there, it’s no use to talk of that; so say the steak and tea. I am glad to see you, my dear boy!”
Septimus signified his desire for the tea, and Charles was summoned, and dismissed with his orders, but not without making a tolerable investigation of the guest whom his mistress delighted to honour—an investigation apparently not very satisfactory, from the imperious way in which he gave his orders in the kitchen.
“Now, just a toothful of my orange cordial, Master Sep. Now, don’t say no, because you must. I make it myself, and the gentlemen take it on hunting-days. Now, tip it up like a good boy; and here’s a biscuit. See now; don’t it put you in mind of old times, when you were a naughty child, and wouldn’t take your physic? How time does go, to be sure; why, it’s only like yesterday. But there, I won’t bother you. Have a pair of slippers and a comfortable wash. Did you bring any luggage?”
Ten minutes passed, and then Septimus was again seated in the snug bar, with the kettle singing its song of welcome upon the hob; a savoury steak was before him; and the comely old dame, in her rustling black silk, smilingly pouring out the strong tea she had been brewing, taking a cup too herself, “just for sociability sake,” as she told her visitor.
“And so poor master’s gone, and you’re coming down to the old place again?” said Mrs Lower.
Septimus groaned.
“Ah, Master Sep, I can respect your feelings; but though poor master’s dead and gone, he had his failings, while he never did his duty either by you or your poor mother.”
Septimus Hardon nearly dropped his cup as he gazed blankly in his old nurse’s face.
“What—what do you mean?” he exclaimed.
“Why, he was always hard, and—But there, poor man, he’s dead and gone, and we all have our failings, and plenty of them. But come, my dear boy, pray do eat something.”
Septimus tried to eat a few morsels, but his appetite was gone, and he soon laid down his knife and fork.
“Of course you’ll come down and live at the old place, Master Sep?” said Mrs Lower.
Septimus shook his head sadly.
“O, Master Sep!” cried the old lady, “don’t sell it; don’t part with it, it would be a sin.”
“But it will never be mine!” cried Septimus passionately. “O, nurse, nurse! this is a hard and a bitter world. I came down here almost in rags, tramping down like a beggar, and now, in cold and brutal terms, my uncle tells me that I am a bastard—that I have no right to enter my own father’s house; while, if this is true, I am a beggar still.”
Mrs Lower looked astounded. “What,” she exclaimed, “does he mean to say? But there, it’s nonsense. You can soon prove to him that you are not.”
“How?” exclaimed Septimus wearily. “Everything goes against me. I have been away ten years; my father sent me from his house; he refused all communications with me; and now I return on the day before the funeral.”
“O, but you must go to the lawyers!” cried Mrs Lower. “They can put you right.”
The couple sat talking for some time. It was refreshing to Septimus to find so sincere a welcome, for he had put Mrs Lower’s hospitality to the test on the strength of the sovereign his aunt had slipped into his hand. But the old dame could give him no information touching his birth, and but little respecting the place and time of his father’s marriage.
Weary at length of the subject, Septimus listened to the history of Somesham during the past few years, till, taking compassion upon her visitor’s jaded looks, Mrs Lower showed him his bedroom, where he tried to forget his present sorrows in sleep.
But sleep came not, and he tossed feverishly from side to side, bewildered by the thoughts that rushed through his brain: old faces, old scenes, and, foremost among them, home, and the stern countenance of his father, came crowding back. Now he would doze, but to start up in a few minutes under the impression that he was called. He dozed off again and again, but always to start up with the same fancy, and once he felt so sure that he leaped out of bed and opened his door; but the dark passage was empty, and all without quite still, so he returned to his bed, sat there for a few minutes thinking, and then went to the window, drew the blind, and stood gazing out upon the buildings of the familiar market-place.
The wind swept by, swinging the old sign to and fro, while all looked so calm and peaceful that he returned to his bed, and again tried for rest, falling into a fevered, half sleeping, half waking state, wherein the old faces still came crowding back, now nearer and nearer, now seeming to vanish away into nothingness, till at last that one old face seemed to exclude all others, and he saw his father as he saw him last, frowning harshly upon him; but soon the face assumed an aspect of pity, a look that told the suffering man that he was forgiven, before it changed into the frigid hardness of death.
Septimus Hardon started up in bed and gazed at the dim, shaded window, hardly realising where he was, as he tried to get rid of the dread image which oppressed him; but the night through, hour after hour, as soon as he closed his eyes, there was the same cold, stern face, as though impressed upon his brain, and wanting but the exclusion of the light for him to direct his gaze inward upon the fixed lineaments. So on, hour after hour, dozing and starting up, till the first streaks of the coming day appeared in the east, and as they grew stronger, peering in through the bedroom window, and holding forth to view the various objects in the room in a half-shadowed, ghostly manner that completely chased away the remaining desire for sleep that lingered with the unnerved man.
“Knocked three times, mem,” said Charles, “and can’t make him hear.”
“Never mind,” said Mrs Lower. “I’ll go myself presently.”
Mrs Lower had carefully prepared what she considered a snug breakfast, and put her regular body to no slight inconvenience by waiting past her usual hour for the morning meal; but she thought of her visitor’s fatigue and trouble.
“He can’t do better than sleep, poor boy,” she muttered, descending the stairs, after listening at the bedroom door for the third time; when she sat in the bar and waited for quite an hour, till suddenly a thought struck her, which set her trembling and wringing her hands, and her comely old face worked as she tried to keep back the tears.
“O, if he has—if he has! O, my poor boy!” she exclaimed, hurrying up the staircase, and stumbling at every second step in her agitation. “O, Charles, come with me!”
The door yielded to her touch, and almost falling against the bed, Mrs Lower found it empty, while the pillow was quite cold.
“O, look round—look round, Charles!” she gasped, as she sank upon her knees at the bedside, and buried her face in the clothes.
“No one here, mem,” said Charles, after a cursory glance round—not being able to comprehend his mistress’s emotion.
“O, look behind the door, Charles!” gasped Mrs Lower; “and at the bedposts.”
“Silk dress behind the fust, and wallance and hangings on the seconds,” said Charles methodically. “What next, mem?”
“Can’t you see him, Charles?” said Mrs Lower, slowly raising her head.
“No, mem,” said Charles; “he’s gone, safe. Did he pay, mem?”
“Nonsense!” cried Mrs Lower angrily; “he was a friend of mine;” and then the doubting dame carefully examined the room, looking in the most impossible of corners for the missing visitor, and only stopping as she was about to peer up the chimney by seeing a half-concealed grin upon the face of Charles.
“I’ll ask Boots if he’s seen him, mem,” said Charles, to get out of his difficulty.
But that gentleman had neither seen Septimus Hardon nor the articles of clothing after which he was named; so that it seemed evident that the visitor had taken his unbrushed boots and departed.
“So very strange!” muttered Mrs Lower to herself.
“The seediest pair of boots we’ve ever had in the place,” said Charles in confidence to the chambermaid; and then, after due cogitation, he came to the conclusion that if many of the visitors to the County Arms were like the unknown of the past night, his situation would not be worth the energy he displayed for the comfort of all who sought there rest and refreshment.