Читать книгу Self-Raised; Or, From the Depths - Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth - Страница 25

God loves no heart to others iced,

Nor erring flatteries which bedim

Our glorious membership in Christ,

Wherein all loving His, love Him.

—M. F. Tupper.

It was a long day's ride from the Beacon to Brudenell Hall. The greater length of the road lay through the forest. It was, in fact, the very same route traversed, five years before, by Reuben Gray, when he brought Hannah and Ishmael from the Hill Hut to Woodside.

Ishmael thought of that time, as he ambled on through the leafy wilderness.

At noon he stopped at a rural inn to feed and rest his horse, and refresh himself, and an hour afterwards he mounted and resumed his journey.

It was near sunset when he came in sight of the bay and the village to which it gave the name of Baymouth. How well he remembered the last time he had been at that village—when he had run that frantic race to catch the sleigh which was carrying Claudia away from him, and had fallen in a swoon at the sight of the steamer that was bearing her off.

How many changes had taken place since then! Claudia was a viscountess; he was a successful barrister; their love a troubled dream of the past.

He rode through Baymouth, looking left and right at the old familiar shops and signs that had been the wonder and amusement of his childhood; and at many new shops and signs that the march of progress had brought down even to Baymouth.

He paused a moment to gaze at Hamlin's book store, that had been the paradise of his boyhood; and he recalled that noteworthy day in August, when, while standing before Hamlin's window, staring at the books, he had first been accosted by Mr. Middleton, afterwards assaulted by Alfred Burghe, and finally defended by Claudia Merlin. Claudia was noble then—but, ah, how ignoble now!

He passed on, unrecognized by anyone, first because the years between the ages of seventeen, when he was last there, and twenty- one, when he was now there, really had wrought serious changes in his personal appearance, and secondly because no one was just then expecting to see Ishmael Worth at all, and least of all in the person of the tall, distinguished-looking, and well-mounted stranger, who came riding through their town and taking the road to Brudenell.

Every foot of that road was rich in memories to Ishmael. Over it he had ridden, in Mr. Middleton's carriage, on that fateful day of his first meeting with Claudia.

Over it he had traveled, weary and footsore, through the snow, to sell his precious book to buy tea for Hannah.

And over it he had again flashed in Mr. Middleton's sleigh, happy in the possession of his recovered treasure.

Twilight was deepening into dark when he reached that point in the road where the little footpath diverged from it and led up to the Hill Hut.

No! he could not pass this by. The path was wide enough to admit the passage of a horse. He turned up it, and rode on until he came in sight of the hut.

It was but little changed. It is astonishing how long these little lonely dilapidated houses hold on if let alone.

He alighted, tied his horse to a tree, and walked up behind the house, where, under the old elm, he saw the low headstone gleaming dimly in the starlight.

He knelt and bowed his head over it for a little while. Then he arose and stood with folded arms, gazing thoughtfully down upon it. Finally he murmured to himself: "Not here, but risen;" and turned and left the spot.

He went to the tree where he had tied his horse, remounted, and rode on his way.

Again he passed down the narrow path leading back to the broad turnpike road that wound around the brow of the hills to Brudenell Hall.

Here also every yard of the road was redolent of past associations.

How often, while self-apprenticed to the Professor of Odd Jobs, he had passed up and down this road, carrying a basket of tools behind his master.

At length he came to the cross-roads, and to the turnstile, where he had once seen and been accosted by the beautiful Countess of Hurstmonceux.

He rode past this spot, and taking the lower arm of the road entered upon the Brudenell grounds.

A very short ride brought him to the semi-circular avenue leading to the house.

It was now quite dark; but the front of the house was lighted up, holding forth, as it were, its hands in welcome.

As he rode up and dismounted a servant took his horse.

And as he walked up the front steps Mr. Brudenell came out of the front door and, holding out his hand, said cordially:

"You are welcome, my dear Ishmael! I received your letter this morning, and have been looking for you all afternoon!"

"And I am very glad to get here at last, sir," said Ishmael, returning the fervent pressure of his father's hands.

"Come up, my boy! Felix, go before us with the light to the room prepared for Mr. Worth," he said to a mulatto boy who was waiting in the hall.

Felix immediately led the way upstairs to a large back room, whose windows overlooked the star-lit, dew-spangled garden, and which Ishmael at once recognized as the happy schoolroom of his boyhood, now transformed into his bedroom. He welcomed the old familiar walls with all his heart; he was glad to be in them.

Mr. Brudenell himself took care that Ishmael had everything he was likely to want, and then he left him.

When Ishmael had changed his dress he went below to the drawing room, where he found his father waiting. The late dinner was immediately served.

Old Jovial, who on account of his age and infirmity had been left to vegetate on the estate, waited on the table.

He stole wistful glances at the strange young man who was his master's guest, and who somehow or other reminded him of somebody whom he felt he ought to remember, but knew he could not.

At length Ishmael, attracted by his covert regards, looked at him in return, and in spite of his bowed and shrunken form and thinned and whitened hair, recognized the old friend of his boyhood, and exclaimed, as he offered his hand:

"Why, Jovial, it is never you!"

"Mr. Ishmael, sir, it's never you!" returned the old man with a grin of joyful recognition.

They shook hands then and there.

And old Jovial showed his increased regard for the guest by continually proffering bread, vegetables, meat, poultry, pepper, salt, in short, everything in succession over and over again, thereby effectually preventing Ishmael from eating his dinner, by compelling his constant attention to these offerings; until at length Mr. Brudenell interfered and brought him to reason.

The next morning Mr. Brudenell proposed to Ishmael to go out for a day's shooting. And accordingly they took their fowling-pieces, called the dogs and started for the wooded valley where game most abounded.

They spent the day pleasantly, bagged many birds and returned home to a late dinner; and the evening closed as before.

"What would you like to do with yourself this morning, Ishmael?" inquired Mr. Brudenell, as they were seated at breakfast on Thursday.

"I wish to go in search of a valued old friend of mine, known in this neighborhood as the Professor of Odd Jobs," was the reply.

"Oh, Morris. Yes. You will find him, I fancy, in the old place, just on the edge of the estate," replied Mr. Brudenell.

And when they arose from the table the latter went out and mounted his horse to ride to the post office, for Herman Brudenell's establishment was now reduced to so small a number of servants that he was compelled to be his own postman. To be plain with you, there were but two servants—old Jovial, who was gardener, coachman, and waiter; and old Dinah, his wife, who was cook, laundress, and chambermaid.

Felix, the lad mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, was scarcely to be called one, upon account of the mental imbecility that confined his usefulness to such simple duties as running little errands from room to room about the house.

So Mr. Brudenell rode off to the post office, and Ishmael walked off to the cottage occupied by Jim Morris.