CHAPTER IV
Philip went to college in due course, and George departed to learn hisbusiness as a lawyer in Roxham, but it will not be necessary for us toenter into the details of their respective careers during this periodof their lives.
At college Philip did fairly well, and, being a Caresfoot, did not runinto debt. He was, as his great bodily strength gave promise of, afirst-class athlete, and for two years stroked the Magdalen boat. Nordid he altogether neglect his books, but his reading was of adesultory and out-of-the-way order, and much directed towards theinvestigation of mystical subjects. Fairly well liked amongst the menwith whom he mixed, he could hardly be called popular; his temperamentwas too uncertain for that. At times he was the gayest of the gay, andthen when the fit took him he would be plunged into a state of gloomydepression that might last for days. His companions, to whom hismystical studies were a favourite jest, were wont to assert that onthese occasions he was preparing for a visit from his familiar, butthe joke was one that he never could be prevailed upon to appreciate.The fact of the matter was that these fits of gloom wereconstitutional with him, and very possibly had their origin in thestate of his mother's mind before his birth, when her whole thoughtswere coloured by her morbid and fanciful terror of her husband, andher frantic anxiety to conciliate him.
During the three years that he spent at college, Philip saw but littleof George, since, when he happened to be down at Bratham, which wasnot often, for he spent most of his vacations abroad, George avoidedcoming there as much as possible. Indeed, there was a tacit agreementbetween the two young men that they would see as little of each otheras might be convenient. But, though he did not see much of himhimself, Philip was none the less aware that George's influence overhis father was, if anything, on the increase. The old squire's letterswere full of him and of the admirable way in which he managed theestate, for it was now practically in his hands. Indeed, to hissurprise and somewhat to his disgust, he found that George began to bespoken of indifferently with himself as the "young squire." Longbefore his college days had come to an end Philip had determined thathe would do his best, as soon as opportunity offered, to reduce hiscousin to his proper place, not by the violent means to which he hadresorted in other days, but rather by showing himself to be equallycapable, equally assiduous, and equally respectful and affectionate.
At last the day came when he was to bid farewell to Oxford for good,and in due course he found himself in a second-class railway carriage--thinking it useless to waste money, he always went second--and boundfor Roxham.
Just before the train left the platform at Paddington, Philip wasagreeably surprised out of his meditations by the entry into hiscarriage of an extremely elegant and stately young lady, a foreigneras he judged from her strong accent when she addressed the porter.With the innate gallantry of twenty-one, he immediately laid himselfout to make the acquaintance of one possessed of such proud, yetmelting blue eyes, such lovely hair, and a figure that would not havedisgraced Diana; and, with this view, set himself to render her suchlittle services as one fellow-traveller can offer to another. Theywere accepted reservedly at first, then gratefully, and before longthe reserve broke down entirely, and this very handsome pair droppedinto a conversation as animated as the lady's broken English wouldallow. The lady told him that her name was Hilda von Holtzhausen, thatshe was of a German family, and had come to England to enter a familyas companion, in order to obtain a perfect knowledge of the Englishlanguage. She had already been to France and acquired French; when sheknew English, then she had been promised a place as school-mistressunder government in her own country. Her father and mother were dead,and she had no brothers or sisters, and very few friends.
Where was she going to? She was going to a place called Roxham; hereit was written on the ticket. She was going to be companion to a dearyoung lady, very rich, like all the English, whom she had met when shehad travelled with her French family to Jersey, a Miss Lee.
"You don't say so!" said Philip. "Has she come back to Rewtham?"
"What, do you, then, know her?"
"Yes--that is, I used to three years ago. I live in the next parish."
"Ah! then perhaps you are the gentleman of whom I have heard her tospeak, Mr. Car-es-foot, whom she did seem to appear to love; is notthat the word?--to be very fond, you know."
Philip laughed, blushed, and acknowledged his identity with thegentleman whom Miss Lee "did seem to appear to love."
"Oh! I am glad; then we shall be friends, and see each other often--shall we not?"
He declared unreservedly that she should see him very often.
From Fraulein von Holtzhausen Philip gathered in the course of theirjourney a good many particulars about Miss Lee. It appeared that,having attained her majority, she was coming back to live at her oldhome at Rewtham, whither she had tried to persuade her Aunt Chambersto accompany her, but without success, that lady being too muchattached to Jersey to leave it. During the course of a long stay onthe island, the two girls had become fast friends, and the friendshiphad culminated in an offer being made by Maria Lee to Fraulein vonHoltzhausen to come and live with her as a companion, a proposal thatexactly suited the latter.
The mention of Miss Lee's name had awakened pleasant recollections inPhilip's mind, recollections that, at any other time, might havetended towards the sentimental; but, when under fire from the blueeyes of this stately foreigner, it was impossible for him to feelsentimental about anybody save herself. "The journey is over all toosoon," was the secret thought of each as they stepped on to the Roxhamplatform. Before they had finally said good-bye, however, a young ladywith a dainty figure, in a shady hat and pink and white dress, camerunning along the platform.
"Hilda, Hilda, here I am! How do you do, dear? Welcome home," and shewas about to seal her welcome with a kiss, when her eye fell uponPhilip standing by.
"Oh, Philip!" she cried with a blush, "don't you know me? Have Ichanged much? I should have known you anywhere; and I am glad to seeyou, awfully glad (excuse the slang, but it is such a relief to beable to say 'awful' without being pulled up by Aunt Chambers). Justthink, it is three years since we met. Do you remember Grumps? How doI look? Do you think you will like me as much as you used to?"
"I think that you are looking the same dear girl that you always usedto look, only you have grown very pretty, and it is not possible thatI shall like you more than I used to."
"I think they must teach you to pay compliments at Oxford, Philip,"she answered, flushing with pleasure, "but it is all rubbish for youto say that I am pretty, because I know I am not"--and then,confidentially, glancing round to see that there was nobody withinhearing (Hilda was engaged with a porter in looking after her things):"Just look at my nose, and you will soon change your mind. It'sbroader, and flatter, and snubbier than ever. I consider that I havegot a bone to pick with Providence about that nose. Ah! here comesHilda. Isn't she lovely! There's beauty for you if you like. Shehasn't got a nose. Come and show us to the carriage. You will come andlunch with us to-morrow, won't you? I am so glad to get back to theold house again; and I mean to have such a garden! 'Life is short, andjoys are fleeting,' as Aunt Chambers always says, so I mean to makethe best of it whilst it lasts. I saw your father yesterday. He is adear old man, though he has such awful eyes. I never felt so happy inmy life as I do now. Good-bye. One o'clock." And she was gone, leavingPhilip with something to think about.
Philip's reception at home was cordial and reassuring. He found hisfather considerably aged in appearance, but as handsome and upright asever, and to all appearance heartily glad to see him.
"I am glad to see you back, my boy," he said. "You come to take yourproper place. If you look at me, you will see that you won't have longto wait before you take mine. I can't last much longer, Philip, I feelthat. Eighty-two is a good age to have reached. I have had my time,and put the property in order, and now I suppose I must make room. Iwent with the clerk, old Jakes, and marked out my grave yesterday.T
here's a nice little spot the other side of the stone that they saymarks where old yeoman Caresfoot, who planted Caresfoot's Staff, laidhis bones, and that's where I wish to be put, in his good company.Don't forget that when the time comes, Philip. There's room foranother if you care to keep it for yourself, but perhaps you willprefer the vault."
"You must not talk of dying yet, father. You will live many yearsyet."
"No, Philip; perhaps one, perhaps two, not more than two, perhaps amonth, perhaps not a day. My life hangs on a thread now." And hepointed to his heart. "It may snap any day, if it gets a strain. Bythe way, Philip, you see that cupboard? Open it! Now, you see thatstoppered bottle with the red label? Good. Well now, if ever you seeme taken with an attack of the heart (I have had one since you wereaway, you know, and it nearly carried me off), you run for that ashard as you can go, and give it me to drink, half at a time. It is atremendous restorative of some sort, and old Caley says that, if I donot take it when the next attack comes, there'll be an end of 'DevilCaresfoot';" and he rapped his cane energetically on the oak floor.
"And so, Philip, I want you to go about and make yourself thoroughlyacquainted with the property, so that you may be able to take thingsover when I die without any hitch. I hope that you will be careful anddo well by the land. Remember that a big property like this is asacred trust.
"And now there are two more things that I will take this opportunityto say a word to you about. First, I see that you and your cousinGeorge don't get on well, and it grieves me. You have always had afalse idea of George, always, and thought that he was underhand.Nothing could be more mistaken than such a notion. George is a mostestimable young man, and my dear brother's only son. I wish you wouldtry to remember that, Philip--blood is thicker than water, you know--and you will be the only two Caresfoots left when I am gone. Now,perhaps you may think that I intend enriching George at your expense,but that is not so. Take this key and open the top drawer of thatsecretaire, and give me that bundle. This is my will. If you care tolook over it, and can understand it--which is more than I can--youwill see that everything is left to you, with the exception of thatoutlying farm at Holston, those three Essex farms that I bought twoyears ago, and twelve thousand pounds in cash. Of course, as you know,the Abbey House, and the lands immediately round, are entailed--it hasalways been the custom to entail them for many generations. There, putit back. And now the last thing is, I want you to get married, Philip.I should like to see a grandchild in the house before I die. I wantyou to marry Maria Lee. I like the girl. She comes of a good oldMarlshire stock--our family married into hers in the year 1703.Besides, her property would put yours into a ring-fence. She is asharp girl too, and quite pretty enough for a wife. I hope you willthink it over, Philip."
"Yes, father; but perhaps she will not have me. I am going to lunchthere to-morrow."
"I don't think you need be afraid, Philip; but I won't keep you anylonger. Shake hands, my boy. You'll perhaps think of your old fatherkindly when you come to stand in his shoes. I hope you will, Philip.We have had many a quarrel, and sometimes I have been wrong, but Ihave always wished to do my duty by you, my boy. Don't forget to makethe best of your time at lunch to-morrow."
Philip went out of his father's study considerably touched by thekindness and consideration with which he had been treated, and not alittle relieved to find his position with reference to his successionto the estate so much better than he had anticipated, and his cousinGeorge's so much worse.
"That red-haired fox has plotted in vain," he thought, with secretexultation. And then he set himself to consider the desirability offalling in with his father's wishes as regards marriage. Of Maria hewas, as the reader is aware, very fond; indeed, a few years before hehad been in love with her, or something very like it; he knew too thatshe would make him a very good wife, and the match was one that inevery way commended itself to his common sense and his interests. Yes,he would certainly take his father's advice. But every time he saidthis to himself--and he said it pretty often that evening--there wouldarise before his mind's eye a vision of the sweet blue eyes of MissLee's stately companion. What eyes they were, to be sure! It madePhilip's blood run warm and quick merely to think of them; indeed, hecould almost find it in his heart to wish that Hilda was Maria andMaria was in Hilda's shoes.
What between thoughts of the young lady he had set himself to marry,and of the young lady he did not mean to marry, but whose eyes headmired, Philip did not sleep so well as usual that night.