AT CHESNUT HILL.
We return to Garley's Hotel at the conclusion of the sale.
Philip Stanburne had recognized the Colonel, and gone up to him to shake hands. He had not seen him before since the downfall of the Sootythorn Bank, though he had written a very feeling letter, in which he had begged his friend to make use of Stanithburn Peel so long as he might care to remain in Yorkshire. Indeed the Colonel had received many such letters.
Mr. Stedman, on looking about for Philip, saw him with the Colonel, and joined them.
"Where are you staying, Colonel Stanburne?" asked Mr. Stedman.
"I have been staying with my mother lately at Wenderholme Cottage. I have persuaded her to remain there. It is better, I think, that an old lady should not be obliged to change all her habits. I hope the new owner will allow her to remain. She will have very good neighbors in the Prigleys. I gave the living of Wenderholme to Mr. Prigley when the old vicar died, about three months since. He used to be the incumbent of Shayton."
"It will be a great advance for Mr. Prigley. Shayton was a poor living, but I have heard that Wenderholme is much better."
"Wenderholme is worth seven hundred a-year. The Prigleys have been very poor for many years, with their numerous family and the small income they had at Shayton. I am very glad," the Colonel added, with rather a melancholy smile, "that I was able to do this for them before my own ill-luck overtook me. A few months later I should have missed the chance."
"Do you return to Wenderholme to-night? It is late, is it not?"
"No; I mean to sleep here in the hotel."
"Would you accept a bed at Chesnut Hill, Colonel Stanburne? Philip is staying with me."
The Colonel was only too glad to spend the rest of his evening with two real friends, and they were soon in the comfortable dining-room at Chesnut Hill. The Colonel had often met Mr. Stedman, who had stayed once or twice for a night or two at Wenderholme; and he had dined a few times at Chesnut Hill, and had stayed all night, so that the house was not altogether strange to him; though, since he had repeatedly met with Mr. Stedman at Sootythorn and at Stanithburn Peel (where during the last twelve years he had been a frequent visitor), he knew the owner of the mansion much more intimately than the mansion itself.
Ever since the death of poor Alice, a warm friendship had united her father and Philip Stanburne—a friendship which had been beneficial to them both. Each was still sincerely attached to his own convictions, but the great sorrow which they had suffered in common had drawn them together, and Mr. Stedman considered the younger man as nearly related to him as if the intended marriage had actually taken place. Their loss had been of that kind which time may enable us to accept as an inevitable void in our existence, but which no amount of habit can ever obliterate from the memory. Philip still remembered that conversation with Alice in which she had begged him not to desert her father in his old age; and Mr. Stedman, on his part, felt that every kindness which he could show to the man whom his daughter had loved was a kindness to Alice herself. So there was a paternal and filial tie between these two; and though, after Alice's death, Philip had resumed his solitary existence at Stanithburn, and Mr. Stedman continued his business as a cotton manufacturer (for he felt the need of some binding occupation), they made use of each other's houses, as is done by the nearest relatives; and Mr. Stedman spent many a summer day in botanizing about Stanithburn, whilst his friend, when on duty in the militia, always billeted himself at Chesnut Hill.
"What is the last news about our poor friend Anison?" the Colonel asked, when the three were comfortably seated in Mr. Stedman's easy-chairs.
"It cannot be very good news, but it is as good as can be expected. His works and Arkwright Lodge were sold by auction three days since, at Whittlecup."
"And who bought them?"
"The same man, Colonel Stanburne, who purchased Wenderholme this evening—Jacob Ogden of Shayton."
"They must be rich, those Ogdens. I know his brother Isaac very well, and his nephew is a great friend of mine, but I really know nothing of this Jacob."
"He is the only rich one in the family, but he is a rich one. He made a great bargain at Whittlecup. He gave twenty thousand for Anison's works, with every thing in them in working order; and to my certain knowledge, Joseph Anison had a capital of thirteen thousand sunk in copper rollers alone.[24] He paid four thousand for Arkwright Lodge. It's dirt cheap. The house alone cost more than that, and there's thirty acres of excellent land. I wish I'd bought it myself. I missed it by not going to that sale; but Philip and I wanted to bid for Wenderholme, and we stayed away from Whittlecup so as to keep out of temptation."
"And what do you think Mr. Anison will do?"
"He asked Jacob Ogden to let him remain at Whittlecup and manage the works for a very moderate salary, but Jacob declined; and in doing so he did what I never heard of him doing before—he acted directly against his own interest. He'll never get such a manager as Anison would have been, but he refused him out of spite. Twelve years ago Madge Anison jilted Jacob Ogden, just when my daughter died. He made her pay up a thousand for breach of promise. She's an old maid now, or something very like one, for she's over thirty-three; but Jacob Ogden hasn't forgiven her for jiltin' him, and never will. Last news I had of Joseph Anison, he was seeking a situation in Manchester, and his three girls 'll have to seek situations too. It 's a bad job there isn't one of 'em married—they were as fine lasses as a man need set his eyes on, and in their father's good time they'd scores of offers, but either they looked too high or else they were very difficult to suit, for they never hooked on, somehow."
Philip Stanburne knew rather more about Madge Anison by this time than Mr. Stedman did, and could have enlightened his friends concerning her had he been so minded. The young lady had thrown Jacob Ogden over, as the reader is already aware, for no other purpose than to leave herself free for Philip Stanburne on his return from the Continent after the death of Alice. When he visited his friends at Arkwright Lodge, Miss Anison had not had the degree of prudence necessary to conceal her designs, and Philip (to his intense disgust, for all his thoughts were with the gentle creature he had so recently lost) perceived that he was the object which Margaret had in view. A young lady can scarcely commit a greater mistake than to make advances to a man so saddened as Philip was then; for in such a condition of mind he has not the buoyancy of spirit necessary for a flirtation, and it is only through a flirtation that he can be led to pay his addresses in earnest. Poor Margaret had fatally under-estimated the duration of Philip Stanburne's sorrow, and also the keenness of his perceptions. For instead of his being less observant and easier to manage than he had been before that episode in his life, it had so wrought upon his intellect and his feelings as to be equivalent to the experience of years. In a word, her project had ended in total failure, and the sense of this failure gave a certain petulance and irritability to her manner, and lent a sharpness of sarcasm to her tongue, which did not induce other gentlemen to aspire to that happiness which Philip had refused. So she was Margaret Anison still, and at the present period of our story was trying, not very successfully, to obtain a situation in Manchester.
It was Mr. Stedman's custom, as in Lancashire it is the custom of his class, to have a little supper about nine or ten o'clock—a pleasant and sociable meal, though not always quite suitable to persons of feeble digestion. Colonel Stanburne, on the other hand, according to the custom of his class, dined substantially at seven, and took nothing later except tobacco-smoke. This evening, however, he was in a position to conform to the custom of Chesnut Hill; for though he had dined at Mr. Garley's an hour before the time fixed for the sale, he had felt so melancholy about it, and so anxious to know who would be the future possessor of his home, that he had eaten a very poor dinner indeed. But now that the thing was decided, and that he found himself with two such kind and faithful friends (whose manner to him was exactly the same as it had been in the days of his prosperity), John Stanburne's naturally powerful appetite reasserted itself at the expense of Mr. Stedman's cold roast-beef, which, with plenty of pickles and mashed potatoes, formed the staple of the repast.
The Colonel was already beginning to learn the great art of miserable men—the art which enables them to gain in hours of comparative happiness the energy and elasticity necessary for future times of trial—the art of laying unhappiness aside like a pinching boot, and of putting their weary feet into the soft slippers of a momentary contentment. Wenderholme was sold—it belonged to Mr. Jacob Ogden; why think of Wenderholme any more? The Colonel actually succeeded in dismissing the matter from his thoughts for at least five minutes at a time, till a sort of pang would come upon his heart, and he rapidly asked himself what the pang meant, and then he knew that it meant Wenderholme.
One very curious consequence of the great event of that day was this, that whereas the last time he had been to Chesnut Hill (in the days of his prosperity) the place had seemed to him both vulgar and unenviable, he now appreciated certain qualities about the place which before had been by him altogether imperceptible. For example, when he was rich, mere comfort had never been one of his objects. Having the power to create it wherever he might happen to be, he had often done very well without it, and his rooms in barracks, or his den in his own mansion, had been often very destitute thereof. But now that it had become highly probable that comfort would soon be beyond his reach, he began to awaken to a perception of it. The warm red flock-paper on Mr. Stedman's dining-room wall, the good carpet on the floor, the clean white table-cloth, the comfortable morocco-covered chairs—all these things began to attract his attention in quite a novel and remarkable manner. And yet hitherto he had continued to live like a gentleman, therefore, what will it be, I wonder, when he is reduced a good deal lower in the world?
When they had done supper, and were drinking the inevitable grog, Mr. Stedman said to the Colonel,—
"I hope you will forgive me if I am guilty of any indiscretion, Colonel Stanburne, but you know you are with sincere friends. May I ask what your own plans are?"
Mr. Stedman's age, and his evident good-will, made the question less an indiscretion than an acceptable proof of kindness, and the Colonel took it in that way. "My dear Mr. Stedman," he said in answer, "you know a position like mine is very embarrassing. I am getting on in life—I mean I am getting oldish; I never had a profession by which money could be earned, you know, though I have been in the army, but that 's not a trade to live by. As to the colonelcy of the militia, the lord-lieutenant has my resignation. No, I can't see any thing very clearly just now. The only thing I'm fit for is driving a public coach."
Philip Stanburne said, "Why did you refuse to come and live at the Peel? You would have been very welcome—you would be welcome still." It was already publicly understood that the Colonel and Lady Helena were separated, and that Miss Stanburne would either follow her ladyship to Lord Adisham's, or remain with her old grandmother.
"My dear Philip," the Colonel said, very sadly and affectionately, laying his hand on Philip's hand—"my dear Philip, if I were quite old and done for, I would have no false pride. I would come to the Peel and live with you, and you should buy me a suit of clothes once every two years, and give me a little tobacco, and a sovereign or two for pocket-money. I would take all this from you. But you see, Philip, though I'm not a clever man, and though I really have no profession, still my bodily health and strength are left to me, thank God; and so long as I have these, I think it is my duty to try in some way to earn my living for myself. You know that Helena and I are separated—everybody seems to know it now. Well, I got a letter from her father this morning, in which—but stop, I'll show you the letter itself. Will you read it, Mr. Stedman?"
"Dear Sir,—My daughter Helena desires me to say to you, that as you shared your means with her in the time of your prosperity, so it is her desire that you should share her income now in your adversity. A sum of three hundred a-year will therefore be paid to your credit at any banker's you may be pleased to name.
"Your obedient servant, Adisham."
"Well," said Mr. Stedman, "you may still live very comfortably as a single man on such an income as three hundred a-year. It is a great deal of money."
"I have accepted Lady Helena's offer, but not for myself. I will not touch one penny of Lord Adisham's allowance. I have told the banker to pay it over to my mother, whom I have ruined. She has not a penny in the world. However, you see Helena is provided for, since she is living at Lord Adisham's (a very good house to live in), and my mother is provided for, and between them they will keep Edith till I can do something for her; so my mind is easy about these three ladies, and I 've nobody to provide for but myself. Any man with a sound constitution ought to be able to earn his bread. You see, Philip, my mind is made up. There is still, notwithstanding my misfortune, a spirit of independence in me which will not permit me to live upon the kindness of my friends. But I am very greatly obliged both to you and others—to you more especially."
"Well, Colonel, haven't I a right to offer you some assistance? Are we not relations?"
The Colonel looked at Philip with tender affection, and gently pressed his hand. Then he said to Mr. Stedman: "This young friend of yours never called me a relation of his when I was prosperous, but now when I am a poor man he claims me. Isn't he an eccentric fellow, to lay claim to a poor relation?"
The next morning at breakfast-time the Colonel did not appear. The servant said he had risen very early, and left a note.
"My dear and kind Friends,—I came to a decision in the middle of the night, but will not just now tell you what it is. The decision having been come to, I am determined to act upon it at once, and leave Chesnut Hill to catch the early train. Pray excuse this, and believe me, with much gratitude for all your kindness,
"Yours most truly, John Stanburne."