Johnny Ludlow Fourth Series Part 41

"_I_ can't supply it; you know I can't. I am not able to pay my own way now. Let her write to Mrs. Cramp."

"It would be of no use, mamma. Aunt Mary Ann will never help us to clothes. She says we have had too many of them."

"Well, I don't want to be worried with these matters: it's enough for me to think of poor Valentine's things. Only two days now before he starts.

And what wretched weather it is!"

"Valentine says he shall not take much luggage with him. He saw me counting his s.h.i.+rts, and he said they were too many by half."

"And who will supply him with s.h.i.+rts out there, do you suppose?"

demanded Mrs. Chandler. "You talk nothing but nonsense, Julietta. Where _is_ Valentine? He ought to be here, with all this packing to do. He must have been gone out these two hours."

"He said he had business at Islip."

Mrs. Chandler looked gloomy at the answer. She hated the very name of Islip: partly because they held no longer any part in the place, partly because the Bell was in it.

But Valentine had not gone to the Bell this time. His visit was to his cousin Tom; and his errand was to beg of Tom to give or lend him a fifty-pound note before sailing.

"I shall have next to nothing in my pocket, Tom, when I land," he urged, as the two sat together in Tom's private room. "If I get on over there, I will pay you back. If I don't--well, perhaps you won't grudge having helped me for the last time."

For a moment Tom did not answer. He sat before his desk-table, Valentine near him: just as Valentine had one day sat at his desk in his private room, and Tom had been the pet.i.tioner, not so many years gone by.

Valentine looked upon the silence as an ill-omen.

"You have all the business that once was mine in your fingers now, Tom.

It has left me for you."

"But not by any wish or seeking of mine, Valentine; you know that,"

spoke Tom readily, turning his honest eyes and kindly face on the fallen man. "I wish you were in your office still. There's plenty of work for both of us."

"Well, I am not in it; and you have got it all. You might lend me such a poor little sum as fifty pounds."

"Of course I mean to lend it: but I was thinking. Look here, Valentine.

I will not give it you now; you cannot want it before sailing: and you might lose it on board," he added laughing. "You shall carry with you an order upon my brother George for one hundred pounds."

"Will George pay it?"

"I will take care of that. He shall receive a letter from me by the same mail that takes you out. Stay, Valentine. I will give you the order now."

He wrote what was necessary, sealed it up, and handed it over. Valentine thanked him.

"How is Emma?" he asked as he rose. "And the boy?"

"Quite well, thank you: both. Will you not go in and see them?"

"I think not. You can say good-bye for me. I don't much care to trouble people."

"G.o.d bless you, Valentine," said Tom, clasping his hand. "You will begin life anew over there, and may have a happy one yet. One of these days you will be coming back to us, a prosperous man."

Valentine went trudging home through the rain, miserable and dispirited, and found a visitor had arrived--Mrs. Cramp. His mother and sister were upstairs then, busy over his trunks; so Mrs. Cramp had him all to herself. She had liked Valentine very much. When he went wrong, it put her out frightfully, and since then she had not spared him: which of course put out Valentine.

"Yes, it will be a change," he acknowledged, in reply to a remark of hers. "A flouris.h.i.+ng solicitor here, and a servant there. For that's what I shall be over yonder, I conclude; I can't expect to be my own master. You don't know how good the business was, Aunt Mary Ann, at the time my father died. If I could only have kept it!"

"You could not expect to keep it," said Mrs. Cramp, who sat facing him, her bonnet tilted back from her red and comely face, her purple stuff gown pulled up above her boots.

"I should have kept it, but for now and then taking a little drop too much," confessed poor Valentine: who was deeper in the dumps that day than he had ever been before.

"I don't know that," said Mrs. Cramp. "The business was a usurped one."

"A what?" said Valentine.

"There is an overruling Power above us, you know," she went on. "I am quite sure, Valentine--I have learnt it by experience--that injustice never answers in the long run. It may seem to succeed for a time; but it does not last: it cannot and it does not. If a man rears himself on another's downfall, causing himself that downfall that he may rise, his prosperity rests on no sure foundation. In some way or other the past comes home to him; and he suffers for it, if not in his own person, in that of his children. Ill-gotten riches bring a curse, never a blessing."

"What a growler you are, Aunt Mary Ann!"

"I don't mean it for growling, Valentine. It is true."

"It's not true."

"Not true! The longer I live the more examples I see of it. A man treads another down that he may rise himself: and there he stands high and flouris.h.i.+ng. But wait a few years, and look then. He is gone. Gone, and no trace of his prosperity left. And when I mark that, I recall that verse in the Psalms of David: 'I went by, and lo, he was gone: I sought him, but his place was nowhere to be found.' That verse is a true type of real life, Valentine."

"I don't believe it," cried Valentine. "And where's the good of having the Psalms at your finger-ends?"

"You do believe it. Why, Valentine, take your own case. Was there ever a closer exemplification? Tom was injured; put down; I may say, crushed by you and your father. Yes, crushed: crushed out of his rights. _His_ father made the business; and the half of it, at any rate, ought to have been Tom's. Instead of that, your father deposed him and usurped it. He repented when he was dying, and charged you to remedy the wrong. But you did not; _you_ usurped it. And what has it ended in?"

"Ended in?" cried Valentine vacantly.

"You are--as you are; ruined in character, in purse, in reputation; and Tom is respected and flouris.h.i.+ng. The business has left you and gone to him; not through any seeking of his, but through your own doings entirely; the very self-same business that his father made has in the natural course of time and events gone back to him--and he is not thirty yet. It is retribution, nephew. Justice has been righting herself; and man could neither stay nor hinder it."

"What nonsense!" debated Valentine testily. "Suppose I had been steady: would the business have left me for Tom then?"

"Yes. In some inscrutable way, that we see not, it would. I am sure of it. You would no more have been allowed to triumph to the end on your ill-gotten gains, than I could stand if I went out and perched myself on yonder weatherc.o.c.k," affirmed Mrs. Cramp, growing warm. "Your father kept his place, it is true; but what a miserable man he always was, and without any ostensible cause."

"I wonder you don't set up for a parson, Aunt Mary Ann! This is as good as a sermon."

"Then carry the sermon in your memory through life, Valentine. Our doings, whether they be good or ill, bring back their fruits. In some wonderful manner that we cannot understand, events are always shaping onwards their own true ends, their appointed destiny, and working out the will of Heaven."

That's all. And the Squire seemed to take a leaf out of Mrs. Cramp's book. For ever so long afterwards, he would tell us to read a lesson from the history of the Chandlers, and to remember that none can deal unjustly in the sight of G.o.d without having to account for it sooner or later.

VERENA FONTAINE'S REBELLION.

I.

You have been at Timberdale Rectory two or three times before; an old-fas.h.i.+oned, red-brick, irregularly-built house, the ivy cl.u.s.tering on its front walls. It had not much beauty to boast of, but was as comfortable a dwelling-place as any in Worcesters.h.i.+re. The well-stocked kitchen-garden, filled with plain fruit-trees and beds of vegetables, stretched out beyond the little lawn behind it; the small garden in front, with its sweet and homely flowers, opened to the pasture-field that lay between the house and the church.