Produced by Martin Robb
TOM TUFTON'S TRAVELS;
by Evelyn Everett-Green.
CHAPTER I. AN ONLY SON.
CHAPTER II. OUT INTO THE WORLD.
CHAPTER III. IN GAY LONDON TOWN.
CHAPTER IV. THE FOLLY.
CHAPTER V. WITH LORD CLAUD.
CHAPTER VI. BARNS ELMS.
CHAPTER VII. MASTER GALE'S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER VIII. THE GREAT DUKE.
CHAPTER IX. FARE WELL TO HOME.
CHAPTER X. IN PERIL.
CHAPTER XI. THE PIOUS MONKS OF ST. BERNARD.
CHAPTER XII. BACK IN LONDON.
CHAPTER XIII. ON THE KING'S HIGHWAY.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SWORD OF DAMOCLES.
CHAPTER XV. AWAY TO THE FOREST.
CHAPTER I. AN ONLY SON.
Good Squire Tufton of Gablehurst lay dying. He had been ailing formany months, knowing his end to be near; and yet, as is so oftenthe case in lingering declines, death was long in coming, so thatthose about him had grown used to the sight of the strong figurewasted to a shadow, and the face shadowed by the wings of thehovering messenger.
Some members of the household, indeed, had begun to cherish thehope that the master might yet recover, and be seen amongst themonce more; but that hope was not shared by the patient himself, norby the two devoted women who nursed him with tender love.
His wife and daughter were always with him, relieving each other inturn, and occasionally both yielding place to one of the manyfaithful servants, who were all eager to do what they could for themaster they loved; but in his waking hours the squire seldom missedthe best-loved faces about him. Rachel and her mother seemed tolive their lives about his sick bed, soothing his weariness andpain, and striving with patient resignation to school themselves tosubmission to the will of God, who was about to take their lovedone from them.
And yet they had kept him with them longer than once seemedpossible. The bright days of summer were doubtless favourable tothe patient. When he could lie with open windows, breathing thepure soft air from woodland and field, he seemed able to make astand against the grim enemy of human nature. But the summer wasnow upon the wane; the golden sunshine was obscured by the firstdriving rains of the approaching equinox; and it seemed to thosewho watched at the sufferer's bedside that his life was ebbing awayas slowly and as steadily as the hours of sunshine in theshortening day.
Today there was a look upon his face which caused Rachel many timesto turn anxious and beseeching eyes upon her mother, and yet whatshe read in the expression of that worn and gentle countenance onlyconfirmed her own impressions.
The Squire lay very still and quiet, dozing as it seemed, whilstthe fire crackled cheerfully up the wide chimney, and the raindashed ceaselessly against the windows. He had not spoken for manyhours. There had come into Rachel's heart a terrible fear lest heshould never speak again. The shadow on his face looked so gray;the features had taken so strange and pinched a look.
Rachel had seen death before in many humble homes, although it had,so far, not touched any of her own nearest and dearest. She hadwatched that creeping shadow before now, for her heart always wentout to the sick and the suffering, and her feet led her to thehomes of those who stood in need of tender sympathy and womanlyaid. But when the shadow gathered upon the face of her own lovedfather, the pressure upon her heart seemed almost more than shecould bear. The tears stole down her cheeks, and her eyes soughtthose of her mother with a glance of almost pitiful appeal.
The leech had stolen into the room, had stood beside the patient,had shaken his head, and stolen away. He knew that his skill, suchas it was, could avail nothing now; it was but the question of afew hours.
All day that stupor had continued. Rachel had feared they wouldnever hear his voice, or see the loving glance of his eyes again.She had passed the time between a study of that wasted face, and aneager and restless looking forth from the casement, as though insearch of something or somebody who came not.
Often she saw servants and messengers hastening this way and that,exchanging words with each other, and starting off afresh; but theone stalwart figure, for which she gazed with aching eyes, appearednot, and often a sigh would break from her lips, whilst from timeto time a tear forced its way to her eyes.
Dusk was falling now. She could no longer see across the expanse ofpark land which surrounded Gablehurst. She drew the curtains atlast with gentle hands, and piled up the logs upon the hearth.There was a glint of something in her eyes not altogether accountedfor by the tears in them. It was a sparkle which bespoke woundedsensibility--something approaching to anger.
"O brother, brother," she whispered, with dry lips, "how can youtreat him so? Have you a heart? How terrible a judgment you seem tobe seeking to draw down upon yourself! What will the end be like,if this is the beginning?"
The flames leapt up with a sudden ruddy glow. The room had beendark before; now it was suddenly flooded with a brilliantpalpitating light. As Rachel turned back to the bed, she saw thather father's eyes had opened. The mists of weakness no longerseemed to cloud his sight. He was looking round him withcomprehension and observation.
"Where is Tom?"
It was the question they had been expecting all day. It was inanticipation of this that messengers had been scouring theneighbourhood in search of that young ne'er-do-well, Tom Tufton,the good Squire's unworthy son.
And yet, unworthy as he was--idle, reckless, dissipated, a sourceof pain and anxiety to father, mother, and sister--young Tom wasbeloved by the people in and about his home, albeit they all shooktheir heads over his follies and wildness, and wondered with batedbreath what would befall Gablehurst when the young master should belord of all.
"Where is Tom?" asked the Squire, in a firmer voice than they hadthought to hear again.
"Dear father, we have sent for him," answered Rachel soothingly;"he will be here anon."
"I would speak with Tom," said the Squire. "There are things Ineeds must say to him ere I close my eyes for ever. Perchance Ihave already delayed too long. Yet I have waited and waited, hopingfor signs of seriousness in one so soon to lose a parent. Butseriousness and Tom have no dealings together, it would seem. Godforgive us if it be any lack on our part that has made our son thewild young blade that he seems like to be!"
A little sob broke from the mother's lips. It was the bitterestthought of all to the parents; and yet they could not see whereinthey had erred. They had striven to bring up the boy well. He hadhad the same training as his father before him. There had been nolack of firmness, and no lack of love, but the result, as atpresent seen, was terrible to the father and mother.
The squire heard the stifled sound of grief, and put out his handto clasp that of his wife.
"Remember he is the child of many prayers," he said. "We mustbelieve that those prayers will be answered. We must have faith inGod."
"I will try--I will try," answered the poor mother; "but oh, myhusband, how shall I hope to cope with that wild spirit when youare gone?"
It was a hard question to answer, for the Squire himself had foundhis son more than a match for him many a time. It was true that hehad done all that man can do to protect wife and daughter from thereckless extravagance of an ungoverned nature; but he knew wellthat Tom was not one to see himself tamely set aside. There weredifficulties ahead for these two women, and the future of his sonlay like a load upon his spirit.
"I would speak with Tom," he said, after a brief pause, duringwhich Rachel administered a draught of the cordial which did mostto support the failing strength of the dying man. Just at thismoment the lamp of life seemed to be glowing with fresh strength.It was but the last flicker before extinction, and the wife knewi
t, but Rachel experienced a glow of hope that perhaps it mightmean a temporary improvement.
"I will go and see if he has come," she said. "Perchance they havefound and brought him by now."
She glided from the room, just giving one backward glance in sodoing, when the expression on her mother's face brought a quickspasm of pain to her heart. There was a strange conflict of feelinggoing on within her, as she trod the corridor with swift steps, andpassed rapidly down into the hall beneath.
This hall was a great square place, with a glowing fireilluminating it, the dancing shadows falling grotesquely upon thepictured Tuftons that lined the walls, and upon the weapons whichhung, together with trophies of game, between them. In the centreof the hall was an oak table, heavily carved about the legs, and atthis table stood a tall, broad-shouldered young man, clad in thestout leathern breeches and full coat of the period, tossing off asteaming tankard of some spirituous liquor, although the flush onhis face, and the slightly unsteady way in which he held thevessel, seemed to indicate that he stood in no further need ofstrong drink.
Rachel came swiftly down the staircase, her footfall makingscarcely any sound upon the shallow polished steps.
"Tom!" she exclaimed, in a voice full of repressed feeling, "howcan you delay drinking here, when your father upstairs is dying,and is asking for you?"
"Dying, quotha!" returned the young man, with a foolish laugh;"methinks I have heard that tale somewhat too often to be scared byit now, sweet sister!" and he patted her shoulder with a gesturefrom which she instinctively recoiled.
"Tom, have you no heart? He will not last the night through. Gotyou not our messages, sent hours ago? How can you show yourself socareless--so cruel? But tarry no longer now you are here. He hasasked for you twice. Take care lest you dally too long!"
Something in Rachel's face and in her manner of speaking seemed tomake an impression upon the young roisterer. Tom was not drunk,although he had been spending the day with comrades who seasonedevery sentence with an oath, and flavoured every pastime withstrong drink. A man with a weaker head might have been overcome bythe libations in which he had indulged, but Tom was a seasonedvessel by that time, and he could stand a good deal.
He was in a noisy and reckless mood, but he had the command of hisfaculties. He saw that his sister was speaking with conviction, andhe prepared to do her bidding.
At the same time, Tom was not seriously alarmed about his father.The Squire's long illness had bred in him a sort of disbelief inany fatal termination. He had made up his mind that women anddoctors were all fools together, and frightened themselves fornothing. He had resolved against letting himself be scared by theirlong faces and doleful prognostications, and had gone on in hiswonted courses with reckless bravado. He was not altogether anundutiful son. He had some affection for both father and mother.But his affection was not strong enough to keep him from followingout his own wishes. He had long been a sort of leader amongst theyoung men of the place and neighbourhood, and he enjoyed thereputation he held of being a daring young blade, not far inferiorin prowess and recklessness to those young bloods about town,reports of whose doings sometimes reached the wilds of Essex,stirring up Tom Tufton's ambition to follow in their wake.
He always declared that he meant no harm, and did no harm, to any.The natives of the place were certainly proud of him, even if theysometimes fell to rating and crying shame upon him. He knew hispopularity; he knew that he had a fine figure and a handsome face;he knew that he had the sort of address which carried him throughhis scrapes and adventures with flying colours. He found the worlda pleasant place, and saw no reason why he should not enjoy himselfin his own way whilst he was young. Some day he would marry andsober down, and live as his fathers had done before him; but,meantime, he meant to have his fling.
There were other Tuftons who had done the like before him, as hisfather knew to his cost. Several times had the estate been sadlyimpoverished by the demands made upon it by some of the wildyounger brothers, who had bequeathed (as it seemed) theircharacteristics to this young scion, Tom. The Squire himself hadbeen living with great economy, that he might pay off a mortgagewhich had been contracted by his own father, in order to save thehonour of the family, which had been imperilled by the extravaganceof his brother.
Tom never troubled himself about these things. He cared little howhis father scraped and saved, if he had but money in his pocketssufficient for the needs of the day. Extravagance in money was lessTom's foible than recklessness in his exploits, and a daringdisregard of authority. No doubt he would have made away with moneyhad he possessed it; but as everybody knew that he did not possessa long purse, and that the Squire would not be likely to pay hisson's debts of honour, he was saved from the temptation of plungingdeeply into debt. People did not care to trust him too far.
So, as he climbed the shallow stairs three at once, he told himselfthat his father had no need to speak severely to him. He had onlybeen as other young men, and had not got into serious debt ortrouble. Tom had almost persuaded himself, in fact, that he hadbeen on the whole a very estimable sort of youth, and he enteredthe sick room with something of a swaggering air, as much as to saythat he had no cause for shame.
But at the sight which greeted his eyes, as they met those of thesick man, a sobering change came over him. He had seen deathsometimes, and the sight of it had always painfully affected him.He hated to be brought up short, as it were, and forced to see theserious, the solemn, the awe inspiring in life. He wanted to livein the present; he did not want to be forced to face the inevitablefuture.
"Tom," said his father's voice, in weak but distinct accents, "youhave come, and it is well. I have things to say to you which maynot longer be delayed. Take that chair beside me. I would see yourface once again."
Tom would far rather have lingered in the shadows of thebackground; but his mother had risen and motioned him to take herplace. He sat down rather awkwardly; and mother and daughter,without leaving the room, retired to the background, and sattogether upon a distant settle, holding each other by the hand.
"Tom," said the dying man, "I have sent for you because there arethings which I would rather you should hear from my lips than learnfrom others after my death."
"Oh, you will not die yet, father; you will be better soon," saidTom uneasily, letting his glance wander restlessly round the roomto avoid the searching gaze of those luminous eyes.
"Life and death are in God's hands, boy; and I think my summons hascome. Tom, have you been counting upon being master here when I amgone?"
"I don't know that I ever thought much about it," answered Tom,rather taken aback; "but I suppose I come after you."
"Yes, Tom, you come after me; but not immediately. I have sosettled my affairs that your mother remains here and administersthe estate until you are five and twenty--that will be three yearshence. By that time the burdens will be cleared away--and I fearyou would never clear them off were you in power. By that time itwill be possible for you to come and live here (I trust a wiser anda better man), whilst the estate can bear the charge upon it of asufficient income to be paid to your mother and sister to live incomfort at Little Gables, which has been willed absolutely to yourmother and to Rachel after her. At present the estate could notbear that drain--unless only to get into fresh difficulties; butthree more years will put things right. During those three years,Tom, you will not be master of Gablehurst. You will have no morepower than you have had in my lifetime. But I hope and trust youwill be a dutiful son to your mother, and will cause her noheart-breaking anxieties, and oppose no vexatious obstacles to hermanagement of the estate."
It cannot be denied that Tom was taken aback at this. He hadnaturally supposed that he would succeed to his father's positionas squire of Gablehurst without let or hindrance; and it was adecided blow to him to feel that he was still to occupy asubordinate position, squire only in name. It was all very wellwhen his father lived--that was right and natural enough--but tosee his mother ruling, and himself submitting to
her rule!--thatwas a thing he had not bargained for. He felt as though he would bethe laughing-stock of all his friends.
The father saw the look upon his face, and it pained him.
"You do not like the arrangement, Tom; and yet I know it is thebest which can be made."
"Oh yes, in a way. I see what you mean. I don't understand scrapingand paring myself; yet, of course, it will be best to get themortgage paid off once and for all. I can see that well enough. ButI confess it will be poor fun living at Gablehurst as a little boytied to his mother's apron strings. I would rather go awayaltogether, and see the world for myself."
"Well, Tom," answered the father in the same low, even tones, "yourmother and I have sometimes asked ourselves seriously whether youmight not do better away from home; whether it might not be thebest thing we could do for you to sever you from your presentcompanions, and see if you could not find better ones elsewhere."
"I have no fault to find with my friends," said Tom quickly.
"No, my son, I fear not. But we have much to complain of."
"I don't see what!" cried young Tom rather hotly.
"That is the worst of it. Did you see greater harm, our anxietieswould be less. But what are we to think of these cruel sports inwhich you indulge, these scenes of vice and drunkenness where youare constantly found? Even the Sabbath is not sacred to you. Whatis this story we hear of you--that no girl may even go to churchwithout paying 'Tom Tufton's toll' at the lych gate?"
Tom broke into a sudden laugh.
"They like that toll well enough, father, I can tell you; else theycould go round the other way. Why, you yourself salute the farmers'little wenches on the cheek sometimes--I have seen you do it; andwhy not I the older ones?"
The Squire looked at his son with mournful intensity of gaze.
"Tom, Tom, I think sometimes that thou dost err more fromthoughtlessness than from wickedness; but, my son, thoughtlessness,if carried to excess, may become wickedness, and may breed vice. Iverily believe that in half thy pranks thou dost mean no greatharm; but thou art growing to man's estate, Tom. It is time thatthou didst put away childish things. What is pardoned to youth, maynot so easily be pardoned to manhood. Have a care, Tom, have acare! Oh, my son, remember that the day will come when thou toomust lie face to face with death, even as I do tonight. Let not therecord upon which thou wilt then look be one of vice andprofligacy. It needs must be that in such a moment our lives seemdeeply stained by sin; but strive so to live that thou mayest atleast be able to say, 'I have striven to do my duty--the Lordpardon all my imperfections!' For, Tom, if thou dost persevere incareless and evil courses, it may be that the power to ask theLord's forgiveness may pass from thee; and if it comes to such apass, may the Lord have mercy upon thy wretched soul!"
The dying man stopped short, a spasm of suffering passing over hisface. The thought had been a terrible one to him. Yet he had beenbred up in the somewhat stern Puritan tenets, and it was not in hiscreed to speak so much of the everlasting mercy as the everlastingjudgment.
Tom put the cup of cordial to his father's lips, himself somewhatsobered by the words heard and the visions called up. He wasneither callous nor hard-hearted; and his father was dying. In thatmoment he really longed to turn over a new leaf, and cut adriftfrom former temptations.
"Then, father, let me go," he said; "let me try afresh in a newplace. I could not do it here perhaps; but I think I couldelsewhere."
"If that be so, my son, then thou hadst better go," said the dyingman. "I would that thou couldst have remained to be the stay andsupport of thy mother; but if not, then it may be thou wilt bebetter elsewhere. I have thought often of this. I and thy motherhave talked it over many times. I have even made provision for it,as she will tell thee and show thee. But, Tom, if thou go hence,linger not in London, where, I fear me, thou wouldst soon be ruinedbody and soul. There be stirring things passing in the great worldbeyond the seas. Take ship, and go and see some of these things.Linger not in idleness in the haunts of vice. The world is a biggerplace than thou canst know. Go forth and see it, and learn and findthy manhood's strength."
Tom's eyes glistened at the thought. It had never occurred to himas possible to leave his native place. Now it suddenly seemed asthough a new life were opening out before him.
"Where shall I go, father?" he asked.
The Squire was silent for a while. He had exhausted himself by theenergy with which he had spoken hitherto. When next he opened hislips his words came more slowly and languidly.
"If I were in your place, boy, I should go forth and see what isdoing at the seat of war. I love not war for its own sake. It is acruel and terrible thing. Yet there be times when it becomes arighteous thing; and methinks England is doing right to allyherself with the foes of France to crush the tyranny of that proudnation, whose king would fain be monarch of all Europe if he could.I know not whether men untrained to arms may enlist themselves inthe ranks of the great Duke of Marlborough, whose genius is winningrenown for England's sons. But were I young, methinks I would goforth and see some of the great things that are doing in the world;and it might well be that a fine grown young fellow, with stalwartlimbs, a firm seat on a horse, and a knowledge of sword play andthe use of firearms, might even find a place in the ranks of thegreat general. Whether or not, he would see life as he had neverseen it before, and learn lessons which might make a man of him allhis life."
The prospect was attractive and exciting for Tom, who loved a fightas he loved nothing else, and who had a very exalted idea of hisown prowess and skill in arms. He could wrestle and throw betterthan any antagonist he had ever met, and was no novice with pistolor sword. He had the good opinion of his powers which naturallycame to one who had seldom or never found his match in his nativeplace; and already in imagination he saw himself riding at the headof a troop of soldiers, and winning laurels on all sides by hisbravery and address.
The Squire's voice had sunk into the silence of exhaustion. He hadclosed his eyes, and only opened them again after a long interval.Their glance met that of young Tom, and the father seemed to readsomething of what was passing in his mind.
"Tom, lad," he said feebly, reaching forth his hand and trying tograsp the great horny fist of his son, "strive to be humble. Thinknot too well of thyself. Seek counsel from God in all things. Benot wise in thine own eyes. If thou art self willed, vain, andheadstrong, grief and pain will be thy lot. Seek first the kingdomof heaven and its righteousness--"
But here the voice failed; and Tom, his quick nature touched andsobered, rose hastily, and, with a muttered promise of quickreturn, threw himself out of the room, as though afraid to trusthimself there longer. He was such a stranger to keen emotion, thathe fled from before it with a sense of dread.
The wife came back to her husband's bedside. He looked into herface and said, faintly:
"The lad hath yet a warm heart."
"I have always felt that," she answered quickly. "But oh, myhusband, why send him forth to the perils of war?"
"In the hope that the stern discipline of a soldier's life may fithim for the duties which will be his at home. The lad needs aboveall things to learn to obey. Till he has mastered the lesson ofsubmission, he can never be fit to hold the reins of government.That lesson he will learn most quickly in the life of the camp.There he will be no great man, but an overgrown boy to be taughtand drilled. Young Tom needs to find his own level. That is what henever will do at home. He has lorded it over the neighbourhood toolong already."
"But if he leaves us and goes forth into the world, who will carefor his immortal soul?" asked the mother, with tears in her eyes.
"Has he listened to our words of admonition and warning at home?"asked the Squire, with a strange look in his glazing eyes. "Nay,wife, I feel as I lie here dying, that the life of the soul issomething we poor frail human creatures must not try too much totouch. The Spirit of God will work in His own time. We may pray andweep and plead before God for an erring son, and we believe ourprayers will be answer
ed; but it will be in His time, not in ourown. And time and place are no barriers with Him. He will do forTom, I will not doubt it, what we have failed to do with all ourpains and care."
The mother wept silently--for the husband whose life was ebbingaway; for the son over whose heart she seemed to have so littlecontrol; for herself, soon to be left alone in the world, with onlyher daughter for her prop and stay. She was not a weak or helplesscreature. She had been in her husband's confidence, and had beenhis helpmeet throughout their married life. She was well able tocarry on single-handed the course of action he had pursued throughhis long rule at Gablehurst; yet not the less for this did she feelthe desolation of her approaching widowhood; and it seemed anadditional sorrow (although she recognized its necessity) that Tomwas also to be taken from her.
A mother's love for her only son is a very sacred and compellingthing. Tom had not been a comfort or support to his parents; he waslikely, if he remained, to be a source of endless trouble to hismother during her reign at the old house; yet none the less did itseem to her a heart-breaking thing to have to part from him.
The light about them grew more dim as the fire burned with a steadyglow instead of with dancing flames. Rachel had lighted a lamp, yetit did little to illumine the great room. The sick man lay asthough asleep.
Presently the mother spoke in a whisper to her daughter.
"Fetch Tom," she said.
Rachel knew what that meant, and her heart beat to suffocation. Shecrept from the room, and returned with her brother, and they stoodside by side at one side of the bed, whilst their mother knelt atthe other.
Once the dying man opened his eyes, and looked from one to anotherof those about him, though whether he saw them they did not know.Then his eyes closed, he gave a sigh, and turned upon his pillows.
The Squire of Gablehurst had passed to his last account.