THE OLD SQUIRE'S TROUBLES.
Affairs were going on at the Hall than Roger had liked to tell. Moreover, very much of the there from "mere manner," as people it, which is always and indefinable. Quiet and as Mrs. Hamley had always been in appearance, she was the of the house as long as she lived. The to the servants, to the most minute particulars, came from her sitting-room, or from the sofa on which she lay. Her children always where to her; and to her, was to love and sympathy. Her husband, who was often and angry from one or another, always came to her to be and put right. He was of her over him, and at peace with himself when in her presence; just as a child is at when with some one who is and gentle. But the of the family was gone, and the of which it was to apart. It is always sad when a of this to the of the survivors. Yet, perhaps, this may be only temporary or superficial; the so passed upon the way in which people the of those they have loved, appear to be more cruel, and out, than are. To careless observers, for instance, it would as though the Squire was more and exacting, more and authoritative, by his wife's death. The truth was, that it at a time when many came to him, and some to him; and she was no longer there to he used to his for the of her sweet words. So the and intensely; and often, when he saw how his others, he have out for their pity, of their anger and resentment: "Have upon me, for I am very miserable." How often have such gone up from the of those who have taken of their by the end, as prayers against sin! And when the Squire saw that his were learning to him, and his first-born to avoid him, he did not them. He he was a tyrant; it as if all against him, and as if he was too weak to with them; else, why did in doors and out of doors go so just now, when all he have done, had been prosperous, was to have submitted, in very patience, to the of his wife? But just when he needed money to Osborne's creditors, the had out plentiful, and the price of had to a level it had not touched for years. The Squire had his life at the time of his marriage for a large sum. It was to be a for his wife, if she him, and for their children. Roger was the only of these now; but the Squire was to the by to pay the sum. He would not, if he could, have any part of the which he from his father; and, besides, it was entailed. He had sometimes how wise a step it would have been he have a of it, and with the purchase-money have and the remainder; and at length, learning from some neighbour that Government would make for drainage, &c., at a very low of interest, on condition that the work was done, and the money repaid, a time, his wife had him to take of the loan. But now that she was no longer there to him, and take an in the progress of the work, he to it himself, and no more to go out on his cob, and square on his seat, the on the land all with rushes; speaking to them from time to time in their own country dialect: but the to Government had to be paid all the same, the men well or ill. Then the of the Hall let in the melted snow-water this winter; and, on examination, it out that a new was required. The men who had come about the to Osborne by the London money-lender, had spoken of the on the estate—"Very trees—sound, perhaps, too, fifty years ago, but gone to now; had wanted and clearing. Was there no wood-ranger or forester? They were nothing like the value Mr. Hamley had them to be." The had come to the squire's ears. He loved the trees he had played under as a boy as if they were creatures; that was on the of his nature. Merely looking at them as so many sterling, he had them highly, and had had, until now, no opinion of another by which to his own judgment. So these of the cut him sharp, although he to them, and to himself that he did so. But, after all, these and did not touch the of his against Osborne. There is nothing like for to anger. And the Squire that Osborne and his had been making calculations, upon his own death. He the idea so much—it him so miserable—that he would not it, and it, and meet it with full and investigation. He to the that he was in this world—born under an unlucky star—that all under his management. But he did not in consequence. He put his to the score of Fate—not to his own; and he that Osborne saw his failures, and that his first-born him his natural term of life. All these would have been set to he have talked them over with his wife; or had he been to much in the of those he his equals; but, as has been stated, he was in education to those who should have been his mates; and the and that this had called out long ago, itself in some measure to the he his sons—less to Roger than to Osborne, though the was out by the most man. But Roger was practical; in all out-of-doors things, and he the details, enough, which his father sometimes gave him of the every-day which the had noticed in the and the fields. Osborne, on the contrary, was what is called "fine;" almost to in dress and in manner; in small observances. All this his father had been proud of in the days when he looked to a career at Cambridge for his son; he had at that time Osborne's and as another stepping-stone to the high and marriage which was to the of the Hamley family. But now that Osborne had his degree; that all the of his father had proved vain; that the had to (to the most to Osborne's debts), the man's and manners a of to his father. Osborne was still with his books and his when he was at home; and this mode of the part of the day gave him but in common with his father when they did meet at times, or in the evenings. Perhaps if Osborne had been able to have more out-of-door it would have been better; but he was short-sighted, and little for the of his brother; he but men of his own in the county; his even, of which he was fond, had been this season, as his father had of one of the two he had been allowed. The whole had been reduced; it was the economy which told most on the of the Squire and Osborne, and which, therefore, the took a in enforcing. The old carriage—a family coach in the days of prosperity—was no longer needed after madam's death, and to pieces in the of the coach-house. The best of the two carriage-horses was taken for a gig, which the Squire now set up; saying many a time to all who might to to him that it was the time for that the Hamleys of Hamley had not been able to keep their own coach. The other carriage-horse was out to grass; being too old for regular work. Conqueror used to come up to the park he saw the Squire, who had always a piece of bread, or some sugar, or an apple for the old favourite; and would make many a speech to the animal, telling him of the of times since were in their prime. It had been the Squire's to his boys to their friends to the Hall. Perhaps this, too, was to his honte, and also to an of the of his as with what he these were to at home. He this once or twice to Osborne and Roger when they were at Rugby.
"You see, all you public have a of of your own, and are looked on by you much as I look on and all that isn't game. Ay, you may laugh, but it is so; and your friends will their at me, and think on my pedigree, which would theirs all to shivers, I'll be bound. No; I'll have no one here at the Hall who will look on a Hamley of Hamley, if he only how to make a of his name."
Then, of course, they must not visit at houses to sons the Squire not or would not return a like hospitality. On all these points Mrs. Hamley had used her without avail; his were immoveable. As his position as of the family in three counties, his was invincible; as himself personally—ill at in the of his equals, in manners, and in education—his was too and too self-conscious to be called humility.
Take one from among many of the of him and his son, which, if it not be called active discord, at least estrangement.
It took place on an in the March Mrs. Hamley's death. Roger was at Cambridge. Osborne had also been from home, and he had not any as to his absence. The Squire that Osborne had been either at Cambridge with his brother, or in London; he would have liked to where his son had been, what he had been doing, and he had seen, purely as pieces of news, and as some from the and which were pressing him hard; but he was too proud to ask any questions, and Osborne had not him any of his journey. This had the Squire's dissatisfaction, and he came home to dinner and sore-hearted a day or two after Osborne's return. It was just six o'clock, and he into his own little business-room on the ground-floor, and, after his hands, came into the drawing-room as if he were very late, but the room was empty. He at the clock over the mantel-piece, as he to warm his hands at the fire. The fire had been neglected, and had gone out the day; it was now up with half-dried wood, which and of doing its in and the room, through which the wind was its way in all directions. The clock had stopped, no one had to wind it up, but by the squire's watch it was already past dinner-time. The old put his into the room, but, the alone, he was about to it back, and wait for Mr. Osborne, announcing dinner. He had to do this unperceived, but the him in the act.
"Why isn't dinner ready?" he called out sharply. "It's ten minutes past six. And, pray, why are you using this wood? It's to warm by such a fire as this."
"I believe, sir, that Thomas—"
"Don't talk to me of Thomas. Send dinner in directly."
About five minutes elapsed, by the Squire in all of ways—attacking Thomas, who came in to look after the fire; the about, out sparks, but the of warmth; up the candles, which appeared to him to give a light for the large cold room. While he was doing this, Osborne came in in full dress. He always moved slowly; and this, to with, the Squire. Then an of a black coat, trousers, cravat, and boots, itself upon him as he saw Osborne's point-device costume. He to it and in Osborne, and was on the point of out with some remark, when the butler, who had Osborne making the announcement, came in to say dinner was ready.
"It surely isn't six o'clock?" said Osborne, out his little watch. He was more than it of the that was brewing.
"Six o'clock! It's more than a past," out his father.
"I your watch must be wrong, sir. I set mine by the Horse Guards only two days ago."
Now, that old steady, turnip-shaped watch of the Squire's was one of the which, as it not be resented, was not to be forgiven. That watch had been him by his father when were long ago. It had the law to house-clocks, stable-clocks, kitchen-clocks—nay, to Hamley Church clock in its day; and was it now, in its old age, to be looked upon by a little whipper-snapper of a French watch which go into a man's pocket, of having to be extricated, with effort, like a watch of size and position, from a in the waistband? No! not if the whipper-snapper were by all the Horse Guards that were, with the Life Guards to boot. Poor Osborne might have than to this on his father's and blood; for so dear did he his watch!
"My watch is like myself," said the squire, 'girning,' as the Scotch say—"plain, but steady-going. At any rate, it the law in my house. The King may go by the Horse Guards if he likes."
"I your pardon, sir," said Osborne, to keep the peace, "I by my watch, which is right by London time; and I'd no idea you were waiting for me; otherwise I have much quicker."
"I should think so," said the Squire, looking at his son's attire. "When I was a man I should have been to have as much time at my looking-glass as if I'd been a girl. I make myself as as any one when I was going to a dance, or to a party where I was likely to meet girls; but I should have laughed myself to if I'd fiddle-faddling at a glass, at my own likeness, all for my own pleasure."
Osborne reddened, and was on the point of some on his father's dress at the present moment; but he himself with saying, in a low voice,—
"My mother always us all to dress for dinner. I got into the of doing it to her, and I keep it up now." Indeed, he had a of of to her memory in up all the little and she had or preferred. But the which the Squire was by Osborne's remark, put him himself.
"And I, too, try to to her wishes. I do; and in more things. I did when she was alive; and I do so now."
"I said you did not," said Osborne, at his father's and manner.
"Yes, you did, sir. You meant it. I see by your looks. I saw you look at my coat. At any rate, I neglected any wish of hers in her lifetime. If she'd me to go to again and learn my A, B, C, I would. By —— I would; and I wouldn't have gone playing me, and away my time, for of and her. Yet some older than school-boys—"
The here; but though the would not come his did not diminish. "I'll not have you up your mother's to me, sir. You, who near to her at last!"
Osborne was to up and the room. Perhaps it would have been if he had; it might then have about an explanation, and a father and son. But he he did well in still and appearing to take no notice. This to what he was saying appeared to the Squire still more, and he on and talking to himself till Osborne, unable to it any longer, said, very quietly, but very bitterly—
"I am only a of to you, and home is no longer home to me, but a place in which I am to be in trifles, and about as if I were a child. Put me in a way of making a for myself—that much your son has a right to ask of you—I will then this house, and you shall be no longer by my dress, or my want of punctuality."
"You make your much as another son did long ago: 'Give me the that to me.' But I don't think what he did with his money is much for me to—." Then the of how little he give his son his "portion," or any part of it, stopped the Squire.
Osborne took up the speech.
"I'm as as any man to earn my living; only the for any will cost money, and money I haven't got."
"No more have I," said the Squire, shortly.
"What is to be done then?" said Osborne, only his father's words.
"Why, you must learn to stop at home, and not take journeys; and you must your tailor's bill. I don't ask you to help me in the management of the land—you're too a for that; but if you can't earn money, at least you needn't it."
"I've told you I'm to earn money," Osborne, at last. "But how am I to do it? You are very unreasonable, sir."
"Am I?" said the Squire—cooling in manner, though not in temper, as Osborne warm. "But I don't set up for being reasonable; men who have to pay away money that they haven't got for their sons aren't likely to be reasonable. There's two you've gone and done which put me myself, when I think of them; you've out next door to a at college, when your mother so much of you—and when you might have pleased and her so if you chose—and, well! I won't say what the other thing is."
"Tell me, sir," said Osborne, almost with the idea that his father had his marriage; but the father was of the money-lenders, who were calculating how soon Osborne would come into the estate.
"No!" said the Squire. "I know what I know; and I'm not going to tell you how I know it. Only, I'll just say this—your friends no more know a piece of good when they see it than you or I know how you earn five if it was to keep you from starving. Now, there's Roger—we none of us an about him; but he'll have his Fellowship now, I'll him, and be a bishop, or a chancellor, or something, we've out he's clever—we've been so much taken up about you. I don't know what's come over me to speak of 'we'—'we' in this way," said he, his voice,—a of as sad as sad be. "I ought to say 'I;' it will be 'I' for in this world."
He got up and left the room in quick haste, over his chair, and not stopping to it up. Osborne, who was and his with his hand, as he had been doing for some time, looked up at the noise, and then rose as and after his father, only in time to the study-door locked on the the moment he it.
Osborne returned into the dining-room and sorrowful. But he was always to any of the observances, which might remark; and with his he was to up the chair, and it to its place near the of the table; and so to the as to make it appear that they had been touched, for Robinson. When the came in, by Thomas, Osborne it necessary to say to him that his father was not well, and had gone into the study; and that he himself wanted no dessert, but would have a cup of coffee in the drawing-room. The old sent Thomas out of the room, and came up to Osborne.
"I master wasn't himself, Mr. Osborne, dinner. And, therefore, I for him—I did. He spoke to Thomas about the fire, sir, which is a thing I in put up with, unless by of sickness, which I am always to make for."
"Why shouldn't my father speak to Thomas?" said Osborne. "But, perhaps, he spoke angrily, I daresay; for I'm sure he's not well."
"No, Mr. Osborne, it wasn't that. I myself am to anger; and I'm with as good health as any man in my years. Besides, anger's a good thing for Thomas. He needs a of it. But it should come from the right quarter—and that is me, myself, Mr. Osborne. I know my place, and I know my and as well as any that lives. And it's my to Thomas, and not master's. Master ought to have said, 'Robinson! you must speak to Thomas about out the fire,' and I'd ha' it him well,—as I shall do now, for that matter. But as I said before, I make for master, as being in and ill-health; so I've myself not to give warning, as I should ha' done, for certain, under circumstances."
"Really, Robinson, I think it's all great nonsense," said Osborne, of the long the had told him, and to which he had not attended. "What in the world it my father speaks to you or to Thomas? Bring me coffee in the drawing-room, and don't trouble your any more about Thomas."
Robinson away at his being called nonsense. He to himself in the of Thomas, and saying,—"Things is a since went. I don't wonder master it, for I'm sure I do. She was a lady who had always a respect for a butler's position, and have how he might be in his mind. She'd ha' called his of nonsense—not she; no more would Mr. Roger. He's a gentleman, and over of dirty, into the house; but he's always a word for a man who is in his mind. He'd up the Squire, and keep him from so and wilful. I wish Mr. Roger was here, I do."
The Squire, up with his grief, and his ill-temper as well, in the dingy, study where he daily more and more of his life, over his and till he was as with the as a must be in going in a cage. He had out day-books and ledgers, and was calculating up back-rents; and every time the sum-totals came to different amounts. He have like a child over his sums; he was out and weary, angry and disappointed. He closed his books at last with a bang.
"I'm old," he said, "and my head's less clear than it used to be. I think for her has me. I was much to on; but she a of me—bless her! She'd let me call myself stupid; but, for all that, I am stupid. Osborne ought to help me. He's had money on his learning; but, instead, he comes like a popinjay, and his to think how I'm to pay his debts. I wish I'd told him to earn his as a dancing-master," said the squire, with a sad at his own wit. "He's for all the world like one. And how he's the money no one knows! Perhaps Roger will turn up some day with a of at his heels. No, he won't—not Roger; he may be slow, but he's steady, is old Roger. I wish he was here. He's not the son, but he'd take an in the estate; and he'd do up these for me. I wish Roger was here!"
