CHAPTER IV.COUSIN TOM.

CHAPTER IV.COUSIN TOM.

“Mother, how is Cousin Tom?”

John Dallington had been enjoying a ride over his farm before breakfast, and had returned, as he said, with an enormous appetite. The morning was delightful, and the sweet scent of the early spring flowers came in at the open window as he spoke. Mrs. Hunter assumed a listening attitude, and then replied, “If I am not mistaken, Tom is coming to answer for herself.”

The next moment John was at the door, and in time to assist his cousin to alight from her horse; but she was by his side before he could quite reach her. This lady with the incongruous name, “Tom Whitwell,” was the youngest daughter of Henry Whitwell, Esq., of Hornby Hall, the father of eleven daughters and no son. Mr. Whitwell had waited very anxiously for the son who did not come; and when the eleventh daughter was announced, he declared that he did not wish to look at her. But meeting the disappointed gaze of his wife he relented.

“Never mind, wife,” he said, “we will make the best of the bad bargain. This last comer shall have a boy’s name, and a boy’s education, and, as far as possible, a boy’s portion. She shall be called Tom, after my father.”

Mrs. Whitwell suggested a compromise, and the baby was eventually named Thomasine Grace Whitwell. But she had always been called Tom, and to please her father she had endeavoured to live up to her name. She early learned to ride and row and play cricket. Her brown hair was cut short and parted on one side, and she wore the most gentlemanly hats, jackets, collars, boots, and gloves that could be bought. She cultivated the lower notes of her voice, and when asked to sing professed herself “only able to do bass.” She was fond of mathematics and science, and considered herself a very logical reasoner. She was a doughty defender of women, but a merciless critic of their weaknesses. She tried to look at things from a man’s standpoint, and laughed at the pleasures and pursuits of her own sex. But she did not do this when one of her friends, Margaret Miller, was near, for Margaret had a way of smiling quietly, and saying, “There is no morewomanly woman living, really, at heart, you know, than little Tom Whitwell.”

John Dallington thought that she looked as fresh as the morning; her clear grey eyes were bright with pleasure; and as she glanced into her cousin’s face her cheeks glowed, and she was a vision of health and happiness that quite delighted him. Tom had always been a favourite with John, and he was unfeignedly glad to see her now.

“You have really got back, John! And how well you look!”

“So do you, Tom; and not a day older than when I went away.”

“Oh, thank you! You have grown polite, I find. I cannot return the compliment, for you look about ten years older.”

“Do I indeed? I am glad of that. I want to be old, to inspire you all with respect. Will you have some breakfast, Tom?”

“If I do, it will be the third this morning. The air makes one hungry. How do you like England, John?”

“I like it very much. I have been long enough away to make me think the old country charming.”

“‘No place like home,’ and all that sort of thing, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes! And ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ and all that sort of thing. You look splendid, Tom; and I do believe you have grown. Would not you like to see the places I have seen?”

“I would, indeed. You have been everywhere, haven’t you? And I have been staying in England all the time. It is well to be you, John.”

“That is precisely my opinion. But I have seen nothing more beautiful than the view from this window.”

“Really?”

“And truly. Of course I have seen many places a thousand times more magnificent, but none more lovely and picturesque. The world altogether is very beautiful, Tom. You come upon proofs of it in unexpected places. There are countries that everybody visits for the sake of their mountains or their rivers, or some special features of interest; but those less known are not the least lovely, and I have frequently enjoyed most when I have expected nothing.”

“It is not a very happy world, though, John.”

“I think it is! What has given you that idea?”

“Oh, everything! I have seen two persons this morning, one a woman and one a child, both poor and both suffering. And the doctors are of no use. John, do you know I mean to be a doctor myself?”

“Indeed?” laughed John. “Well, it may be desirable. Thehuman race is increasing at too rapid a rate. Some parts of England are inconveniently crowded, and even the colonies are getting overstocked; so that anything which helps to thin the population will not be an unmixed evil. Taking all things into consideration, I do not know a less objectionable method of augmenting the death-rate than appointing a considerable number of lady-doctors. And there is no reason in the world why you should not be one of them.”

“You know nothing about the matter, or you would not talk so flippantly. When are you coming to Hornby? Father would like to see you soon, and so would my sisters.”

“Perhaps I can ride back with you. You will not return yet, I suppose?”

Before Tom could answer a dog-cart drove up to the door, and the faces of both ladies flushed and looked confused.

“Whom have we here?” asked John with interest.

“That is my stepson,” replied his mother shortly.

The visitor entered, and was introduced as Mr. William Hunter. John Dallington was kindly disposed, but he did not like his mother’s stepson, who came in with a very free-and-easy air, only removing a big cigar from his mouth to enable him to speak.

“How do, Dallington? Congratulate you, I’m sure. Good morning, mother. How are you, Miss Whitwell? Feel myself fortunate in meeting you.”

The new-comer threw himself into a chair and continued to smoke his cigar. This irritated Dallington, who was not a smoker, and disliked the habit in others. The coolness of the man who could behave so rudely in the presence of ladies annoyed him. “Do you dislike the smoke?” he asked of his cousin.

Mr. Hunter laughed. “Miss Whitwell is probably herself a smoker,” he said. “She is too sensible a lady to set herself against smoking, for that would be to set men against her.”

Tom flushed violently. “It is scarcely worth while to contradict you,” she said.

Mrs. Hunter interposed with some remarks upon the weather; she was extremely anxious that the two young men should be friends, but she had some misgivings, for she could not but know that her son and son-in-law were of very opposite natures, and that their tastes, therefore, were not likely to be the same. John Dallington, however, was too much interested in his cousin to give a second thought to William Hunter. “Will you come into the garden, Tom?” he said. “I have forgotten the names of some of the English flowers, and you must remind me of them.”

“I do so dislike that man,” she said, as soon as they were on the outside of the house. “He is a most unpleasant person, and not good either. Do not have much to do with him, John; and you must remember that you are master, and assert yourself accordingly.”

“I hope he will behave himself.”

“I do not think he knows how.”

“We must give him a few lessons. But never mind him now, Tom. Tell me about yourself and everybody. What have you been doing all this long time? Have you got yourself engaged yet?”

“Not I, indeed. There has been far too much to do. I have been making myself a practical farmer, and I am great on lands and soils and crops; so if you are at a loss, consult your cousin.”

“Thank you; I will with pleasure, for I am sure that I have very much to learn.”

“And I am sure that farming was never so difficult as now. Father often looks worried, though he keeps wonderfully well, on the whole.”

“I am glad of that. I want to see him. I shall have plenty to do, I find. I have actually already had an invitation to a wedding.”

“Mary Wythburn’s, I suppose? You must accept it, John. I am to be one of the bridesmaids, and many of your old friends will be there.”

“Give me a few names. First, the bridegroom: who is he?”

“Alfred Greenholme is the bridegroom, Dr. Stapleton the groomsman, and the vicar, Mr. Sherborne, will also be present as a friend. The other bridesmaids are Hilda Copeland and Margaret Miller.”

Tom glanced at her cousin as she uttered the last name, and saw that his countenance brightened.

“How is Miss Miller, Tom? Are you as good friends as ever?”

“Yes, we are good friends, and Margaret is very well. Which are the flowers whose names you have forgotten?”

“I am afraid we have passed them. Let us go back and look for them. I hope Alfred Greenholme is not as a man what he was as a boy, or Miss Wythburn is little to be congratulated.”

“She does not congratulate herself. In fact, I know that she is wretched. There is nothing very tangible against Mr. Greenholme. He is a lazy, self-pleasing, good-natured man; but girls of these days—some of them, at all events—wantmore than that. Mary Wythburn is a very clever girl, and far-seeing, too. She denounces such people as Mr. Greenholme. Like Mrs. Booth, she gets into a furious mood when she sees hosts of poor wretches starving, because they cannot get remunerative work to do, while men and women in good circumstances—professing Christianity, too—seem to have not a thought in life excepting that which touches their own pleasure. She thinks that if we are real Christians we cannot, and ought not, to be happy while so many are miserable, and I agree with her.”

“I often think the same. But she ought not to marry Greenholme if she feels like that. And the invitations are out?”

“Yes; so I suppose the wedding will take place. But I shall not quite believe it until I see her married. John, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of the best people in England who are absolutely weary of things as they are; and they are growing determined to change them, too. You have come home in time to help. We only want one or two men of genius and grace to show us the way. I believe the way is not through the giving of alms, for the money given to the poor every winter is enormous—besides special magnificent gifts for special purposes—and yet things are little better for it all.”

“Tom, have you been surreptitiously in correspondence with my old comrade, Arthur Knight?”

“Who and what is Arthur Knight? He has a good name.”

“Has he not? And he is a true knight, too—a splendid fellow, and great on this subject. He says things need not be another year as they are; and declares that it only requires a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether to accomplish such a revolution as shall crown England with truer glory than she has ever known before.”

“I expect it is a revolution that we want. There has been a great deal of pottering, but the right thing has yet to be done. John, I must be going. Will you order my horse?”

“Yes, and ride with you. It will be like old times.”

They had a delightful ride, and almost forgot that they were not boy and girl together. They went the longest way round, and yet reached their destination sooner than they wished.

Hornby Hall was an old-fashioned manor house—large, substantial, and comfortable—standing in its own grounds, and itself covering considerable space. It was built in the Gothic style, and had any number of large, low rooms, withthick walls, and ample chimney-corners and enticing window seats.

The master, “a fine old English gentleman,” came forward to greet his nephew with much cordiality, and John Dallington felt proud of his uncle, as well he might, for he was an upright man, who could not do a mean thing, stately in form and spotless in character, a magistrate, a member of the County Council, a man whose name was respected through the whole province, whose keen grey eyes seemed to see everything, whose courteous bearing delighted everybody, who was beloved and honoured by the poor and admired and trusted by the rich; a man without reproach, whose glory was not in what he had, but in what he was. It was a privilege to be related to him, as Dallington felt.

“Welcome home, my boy,” he said, kindly. “I am glad you have come into your own, and that we shall see something of you again. I wish you health and happiness for your new life. Come in, and be made much of by your aunt and cousins; they are not all such forward things as Tom, but they will be just as glad to see you.”

And indeed they appeared to be, and seemed bent on spoiling the returned wanderer, who might have been a veritable prodigal son, so eager were they to lavish the best of everything upon him.

John spent some very pleasant hours that day at Hornby Hall, hearing the news and telling stories of his own experiences. His cousins were merry girls, quick at repartee, and full of good-humoured fun. Some of them were married, but there were quite enough of them at home to fill the old house with pleasant sights and sounds.

In the afternoon Mr. Whitwell took his nephew over the farm and showed him the improvements he had made during his absence. “You must see my model cottages, John,” he said. “The old places were falling into dis-repair, and were not very comfortable to live in; but you will be pleased with these, I think.”

“These are scarcely like the old style of agricultural cottages.”

“No; are they? But the old style of thing will not do in these days. You see they have large gardens. I am not a Radical, you know, John, but a steady-going Conservative; and that is how it is that I have come to see what a shame it is for a man to work on a farm, and have spacious fields and meadows all around him, and yet not have a patch of ground large enough to grow a bed of cabbages or a few potatoes to call his own. Monstrous, when you come to think of it!”

“Yes, so it is,” assented Dallington; “but I should not have thought that such ideas on your part were the outcome of Conservatism.”

“Would you not? I am happy to say that most of the old Tories of my acquaintance have come to have the same opinion as I.”

“I am glad to hear it. I shall have to do something to my own cottages, I expect. Why, you have actually planted these gardens with fruit trees.”

“Oh, yes! It does not do to expect too much from my tenants. If they take care of the trees, and train them and eat the fruit, it is as much as one has a right to look for.”

“They are very pretty cottages.”

“I am glad you like them. And they are convenient. They have rooms enough, and they are not too small. At one time a man was satisfied with a four-roomed cottage, no matter how many sons and daughters he had; but all that has passed away before a better education, thank God!”

“The gardens look well kept.”

“They are; and they provide vegetables enough to last the whole year. The people are all right, you know, if they have fruit and vegetables, corn and milk.”

“Have you raised the rents?”

“No; nor yet the wages. The men are quite alive to the value of the house and garden. But come and look at the crops.”

The estate was, as John knew, strictly entailed. At Mr. Whitwell’s death it would pass away from his family of girls to the next heir, who was his brother’s son. But all the same for that, indeed, partly because of it, the squire of Hornby was scrupulously anxious to do the very best he could for the property. The farm buildings were either new or kept in perfect repair. He was careful not to impoverish any of the land, but by all the means which modern science had made possible he nursed it for the heir as carefully as if he had been his son. The said heir was a young man of whom his uncle did not approve, and, vain as it was, he could not keep the wish from his mind that, since he had no sons of his own, John Dallington had been the next in succession.

It was late in the day when John left to go home, accompanied part of the way by three of his cousins. Tom did not go, but she stood at the window watching until they were out of sight. Then her father called her into the library, where the two were often together hard at work for many hours.

“It is too late for those accounts, Tom, I’m afraid.”

“I think it is, father. They can wait until to-morrow, cannot they?”

“Oh, yes! Very well. John has become a fine young fellow, hasn’t he?”

“Yes; I think he is very much improved. I wonder if he has seen his lawyer?”

“Ah, poor fellow! No; he has not seen him yet. If he had he would not be as light-hearted as he is. I think his father did not treat him quite fairly. The lad ought to have been told how things were. And then it was too hard for Dallington to leave so much power in his wife’s hands. She has made things a good deal worse for John. He will find it as much as he can do to hold his own.”

“I suppose he can sell part of his land?”

“Yes, if he can get anybody to buy it. But land does not now fetch the price it ought, and farming is not what it used to be.”

Tom was silent for some minutes, and her face became first red and then pale.

She wanted to say something to her father. Generally she thought aloud in his presence, such good friends were they; but she needed more courage than she had now.

At last she rose and stood beside him, putting her hand on his shoulder, and turning her face so that he could not see it.

“Father,” she said, trying to steady her voice and speak in her ordinary tones, “do you remember promising me that I should have that mortgage, or whatever it is, for my portion?”

“Of course I do.”

“May I have the papers and keep them in my possession now?”

“Why, what do you want them for, Tom? What possible good could they do you?”

“No good at all, only I should like them.”

Mr. Whitwell hesitated.

“Do you think you are quite capable of taking care of them? They are worth three thousand pounds, you know.”

“Yes; I do not forget their value. You are not afraid to trust me, father, are you?”

“I trust you with everything, Tom, as you know.”

But Mr. Whitwell said no more; and Tom waited.

Presently she sighed, and pressed her lips to her father’s cheek. “Never mind,” she said, “if you would rather not. I am sure you know best what is right and wise.”

Mr. Whitwell arose, unlocked a safe, and took from it a parchment.

“Here it is,” he said. “Take care of it, and I think it will be prudent of you to give it back into my charge when you have looked it through.”

Tom took the paper without a word, and her father did not notice how pale she was. She kissed him, and, going swiftly to her own room, locked the parchment in a drawer.

But that night she took it out and read it through, every word. Then a strange expression came over her face, and she folded up the parchment, muttering, “If only I dared! If only I dared!” and held it above the flame of the candle, so near that it began to be scorched. And then she opened it, and spread it on the bed, and fell on her knees to pray, but burst instead into a flood of tears.

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