Read Ebook: The History of the First West India Regiment by Ellis A B Alfred Burdon

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 1000 lines and 109484 words, and 20 pages

"You are always in my thoughts," he wrote. "I see your face in the firelight; I hear the rustle of your dress behind my chair; half a dozen times a day I could swear that I heard you singing in the next room. When you come back to me in spring, my darling, I will never let you go away again."

To Ella his letters would read almost like a contradiction. He could write thus, evidently pining for her, and yet would not allow her to return. She comforted herself with the reassurance that he must be better. Not the faintest hint was given to her in any one of the letters that Mrs. Dexter, a sick-nurse, had taken up her abode at Heron Dyke.

Hubert Stone received several private notes from Ella, asking for full and special information respecting the state of her uncle's health. The writer of them little thought how they were treasured up and covered with kisses. To each of them Hubert wrote a few guarded lines of reply, confirming the general tenour of Mr. Denison's own letters. Miss Winter, he said, had no cause for uneasiness: Mr. Denison was certainly stronger than he had been for two years past. A few old friends of the Squire called at the Hall occasionally and inquired respecting his health. Now and again he would see one or other of them for a few minutes, and talk away as if nothing were the matter with him.

But after the middle of December no visitors of any kind were admitted. They were told that the Squire was much as usual, but that his medical man, Dr. Jago, enjoined perfect quiet as indispensable to him. When Dr. Spreckley heard this, he differed completely.

"I always told Mr. Denison that he ought to see more company than he did," said Spreckley. "He wanted rousing more out of himself. The sight of a fresh face and a little lively conversation never failed to do him good."

It was a marvel to Dr. Spreckley that the Squire still lived. He wondered much what treatment was being pursued, not believing that any treatment known to him could keep him in life; he marvelled at other things.

"Hang it all!" cried the Doctor one day to himself. "I can't see daylight in it. Shut up in his rooms from people's sight; green-baize doors put up to keep out the household! what does it mean? Are they treating him to a course of slow poisons? Upon my word, if it were not that the object is to keep the Squire in life, I should think there was a conspiracy to send him out of it, and that they don't want to be watched at their work. But it is a strange thing that he yet lives."

That was, to Dr. Spreckley, the strangest thing of all. Morning after morning, as he arose, did he expect to hear the news of the Squire's death; but winter wore on, and the old year died out, and still the tidings came not. Dr. Spreckley marvelled more and more; but he said nothing to anybody.

That winter in Norfolk was an exceptionally severe one. Lady Cleeve, whose health had been waning for some time past, felt the cold more severely than she had ever done before, and was rarely out of her own home. Trusting her son so thoroughly, the twelve hundred pounds had now been transferred to him, as promised, and stood in his name in the books of Nullington Bank. And to Philip life seemed to have become well worth living. The fact that he could draw cheques now on his own account--ay, and find them duly honoured--was a new and delightful item in his experience. His sunny, debonair face might be seen everywhere with a smile upon it: he had a kind look for this neighbour, meeting him in the street: a pleasant word for that one. He carried fascination with him; and, whatever might be his faults, it was impossible to help liking Philip Cleeve.

"A thousand pounds will be quite enough for Tiplady," he decided, after some mental debate, carried on at intervals. "If the old fellow lets me join him at all, he'll take me for that: money's nothing to him."

This, you perceive, would leave Mr. Philip two hundred pounds to play with: a very desirable acquisition. But the partnership question remained as yet in abeyance. Mr. Tiplady was very much engaged with some troublesome private affairs of his own at this period, was often from home; and for the time being seemed to have forgotten his talk with Lady Cleeve about the partnership.

Philip was particularly careful not to refresh his memory. His mother felt anxious now and then that no progress was being made: she spoke to Philip about it, only to have her fears pooh-poohed, and be put off in that young gentleman's laughing, easy-going style.

"A month or two more or less cannot make any possible difference, mother," he said one day. "Besides, I don't think it would be wise to bother Tiplady just now. It will be time enough to speak when he has got through his law-suit with Jarvis."

It did not take Philip Cleeve very long to make a considerable hole in the two hundred pounds: set aside in his own mind as a margin to be used for whatever contingencies might arise. In the first place, his IOU to Freddy Bootle for his losses at cards in October had to be redeemed, Freddy having lent him the money to square up: although it might have stood over for an indefinite period as far as Freddy was concerned. This of itself ran away with a considerable sum. Then Philip discovered that he had been in the habit of dressing less well than was desirable, and so replenished his wardrobe throughout. After that, chancing to be one day at the jeweller's, he took a fancy to a gold hunting-watch and a couple of expensive rings. The latter articles he would draw off and slip into his pocket when going into his mother's presence; while of the existence of the watch she knew nothing. Not for a great deal would he have had Lady Cleeve suspect that he had touched a penny of the twelve hundred pounds. Yes, he was not without faults, this Master Philip.

For some little time past, he had taken to be more from home than usual, in the evening, and to return to it later. Lady Cleeve did not grumble; she but thought he was at the Vicarage, or at the house of some other friend. He was more often at The Lilacs than she was at all aware of. Not that she would have objected: she rather liked Captain Lennox; and she knew nothing of the high play carried on there, or of the unearthly hours that it sometimes pleased Mr. Philip to come in.

It was not play, though, that made Philip's chief attraction at The Lilacs. It was Mrs. Ducie. His pleasant evenings were those when cards were not brought out, when the time was filled with conversation and music. On such occasions Philip left at the sober hour of eleven o'clock, and had nothing to reproach himself with next morning; unless it were, perhaps, that when in the fascinating company of Mrs. Ducie, he almost forgot the existence of Maria Kettle.

Yet it was impossible to say that Margaret Ducie gave him any special encouragement, or led him on in any way. She was probably aware of his admiration for her, but there was nothing that savoured of the coquette in her mode of treating him. She was gracious and easy and pleasant, and that was all that could be said: and she drew an impalpable line between them which Philip felt that it would not be wise on his part to attempt to overpass. Meanwhile life was rendered none the less pleasant, in that he could now and then pass a few sunny hours in her society.

Early in December, Mrs. Ducie went up to London to stay with some friends, purposing to be away a month or two; and after her departure Philip did not find himself at The Lilacs quite so often. One day, however, he chanced to meet Captain Lennox in the street, who gave him a cordial invitation for the evening, to meet some other men who would be there.

"I expect Camberley and Lawlor and Furness," said Captain Lennox. "You don't know Furness, I think? Married a wife with four thousand a year, lucky dog! Come up in time for dinner."

Of course Philip accepted. Indeed, it was a rare thing for him to decline an invitation of any kind. Company pleased him, gaiety made his heart glad.

Play, that evening, began early and finished late. The stakes were higher than usual; the champagne was plentiful. The clock struck five as Philip stood at his own door, fumbling for his latch-key. He had one of his splitting headaches, and his pockets were lighter by seventy pounds than they had been eight hours previously. Seventy pounds!

All that day he lay in bed ill, and was waited upon by his mother, who had no suspicion as to the real state of affairs, or that he had been abroad late. Her own poor health obliging her to retire early, rarely later than ten, she supposed Philip came in at eleven, or thereabouts. His headache went off towards dusk, but the feeling of utter wretchedness that possessed him was still left. He was a prey to self-remorse, not perhaps for the first time in his life, but it had never stung him so bitterly as now. In the evening, when he had dressed himself, he unlocked his desk and took out his bank-book. He had not looked at it lately. After deducting, from the balance shown there, the amount lost by him at cards the previous evening, together with two or three other cheques which he had lately paid away, he found that there now remained to his credit at the bank the sum of nine hundred and thirty-five pounds. In something less than three months he had contrived to get through two hundred and sixty-five pounds of his mother's gift--of the gift which had cost her long years of patient pinching and hoarding to scrape together. At the same rate how long would it take him to squander the whole of it? As he asked himself this question he shut up his bank-book with a groan, and felt the hot tears of shame and mortification rush into his eyes.

He was still sitting thus when a letter was brought him. It proved to be a note of invitation from Maria Kettle, written in the Vicar's name, asking Philip to dinner on the 12th of January, her father's birthday. A similar note had come for Lady Cleeve. The Vicar always kept his birthday as a little festival, at which a dozen or more of his oldest friends were welcome. The sight of Maria's writing touched and affected Philip as it might not have done at another time. His heart to-night was full of vague longings and vain regrets, and perhaps equally vain resolves. He would give up going to The Lilacs, he would never touch a card again, he would cease to seek the society of Margaret Ducie--and, he would ask Maria to promise to be his wife. At this very Vicarage dinner, opportunity being afforded, he would ask her.

He was very quiet and subdued in manner during the next few days, spending all his leisure time at home. Some two years previously he had taken a fancy to teach himself German, but had grown tired of it in a couple of months, as he had grown tired of so many other hobbies in his time. He now hunted out his books again, and began to brush up his half-forgotten knowledge. His mother was delighted at the new industry: it gave her so much more of him at home.

The evening of the twelfth arrived, and Lady Cleeve and Philip drove over to the Vicarage in a fly. The brougham of fat, good natured Dr. Downes was just turning from the door after setting down its master. Lady Cleeve went into a room to take off her warm coverings, and Philip waited for her in the little hall.

"What, you here!" he exclaimed, as Captain Lennox entered. "Ay. Why not?"

"I should have fancied this house would be too quiet for you," returned Philip. "There will be no Camberley--no high play here."

Captain Lennox stroked his fair moustache, and looked at Philip with an amused smile.

"My good sir, do you suppose I must live ever in a racket? Mr. Kettle was good enough to invite me, and I had pleasure in accepting. As to Camberley--his play goes a little further at times than I care for."

A pretty flush mounted to Maria's cheek as she met Philip; his laughing hazel eyes seemed to have a meaning in them, the pressure of his hand was more emphatic than usual. They had not seen much of each other lately. No direct words of love had yet passed between them, but there was a sort of tacit understanding on both sides that one day they would in all probability become man and wife; needing no assurance in set phrases that they would be true to each other and wait till circumstances should be propitious. Of late, however, Philip's visits to the Vicarage had been few and far between. Rumours had reached Maria of evenings spent in the billiard-room of the Rose and Crown, and of his frequent presence at The Lilacs. When Maria thought of Margaret Ducie's attractions, her heart grew sad.

The dinner guests numbered a dozen--all pleasant people. One or two handsome girls were there, but Philip had eyes for Maria only.

"How nice she looks!" he thought; "how pure, how candid! What is it that constitutes her nameless charm? It cannot be her beauty."

No, for Maria had not very much of that. It was the goodness that shone from every line of her countenance.

Dinner over, the Vicar and a few of his guests retired to his study for a sober hand at whist, leaving the drawing-room free for music and conversation: and so the evening passed on.

Ten o'clock struck, and Philip's momentous words to Maria were still unspoken. At last the watched-for opportunity came. In her search for some particular piece of music, Maria went downstairs to what she still called her schoolroom, and Philip followed. A single jet of gas was lighted, and she was stooping over an old canterbury when he put his arm round her waist. She had not heard his footsteps, and rose up startled.

"Oh, Philip!" she cried, and sought to push his hand away.

"Do not repulse me, Maria," he whispered, a strange earnestness in his generally laughing eyes. "I am here to tell you how truly and tenderly I love you. I am here to ask you to be my wife."

"Oh, Philip!" was all that poor Maria could reiterate in that first moment of surprise.

"You must have known all along that I loved you, and I ought perhaps to have spoken before," he continued. "But I cannot be silent longer. Tell me, my dearest, that you will be mine--my own sweet wife for ever!"

Maria's face was covered with blushes. Her eyes met Philip's in one brief loving glance, but no word did she speak. He drew her to him and kissed her tenderly twice. His arms were round her, her head rested on his shoulder, when there came a sound of footsteps outside the door. An instant later, Philip was alone. How brief a time had sufficed to seal the fate of two persons for weal or woe!

'Twas a pity that an unwelcome thought should intrude to mar the brightness. Somehow Philip began to think of the money he had drawn from the bank.

A bustle in the hall--and Philip left the room. Lady Cleeve was passing out to her fly, which waited for her, escorted to it by good Dr. Downes. She had already stayed beyond her time: Philip would walk home later. He helped to place his mother in it, wished her goodnight, and returned to the rooms with the old Doctor.

At eleven o'clock the party broke up: late hours were not in fashion at the Vicarage. As Philip wished Maria goodnight, he whispered that he should be with her on the morrow: and the warm pressure of his hand and the love-light that sat in his eyes were more eloquent than any words.

Dr. Downes was fumbling with the sleeves and buttons of his overcoat in the hall: his own man generally did these things for him.

"Let me help you, Doctor," said Philip: and buttoned the coat deftly.

"Thank you, lad," returned the Doctor. "Would you like a lift as far as I go?"

Philip thought he would, and got into the roomy old brougham, and chatted soberly with the old physician on the way. He got out of it when they came to the side-turning that led to the Doctor's house, said goodnight, and strode onwards.

Dr. Downes took snuff. A bad habit, perhaps, and one less general now than in the years gone by. He took it out of a gold box, one of great value, presented to him by a grateful patient, Lord Lytham: and this box, being rather proud of it, the old Doctor was fond of exhibiting in company. The first thing he did, arrived at his own fireside, his coat and comforter off, was to put his hand in his pocket for his snuffbox.

It was not there!

Had the Doctor found himself not to be there, he could hardly have felt more surprise. That he had not dropped it in the carriage, he knew, for he had never at all unbuttoned his overcoat: still he sent out and had it searched; and made assurance doubly sure.

"Well, this is a strange thing!" ejaculated the Doctor.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet