Tom Tufton's Travels. Everett-Green Evelyn
scarcely any sound upon the shallow polished steps.
"Tom!" she exclaimed, in a voice full of repressed feeling, "how can 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 by it now, sweet sister!" and he patted her shoulder with a gesture from which she instinctively recoiled.
"Tom, have you no heart? He will not last the night through. Got you not our messages, sent hours ago? How can you show yourself so careless-so cruel? But tarry no longer now you are here. He has asked for you twice. Take care lest you dally too long!"
Something in Rachel's face and in her manner of speaking seemed to make an impression upon the young roisterer. Tom was not drunk, although he had been spending the day with comrades who seasoned every sentence with an oath, and flavoured every pastime with strong drink. A man with a weaker head might have been overcome by the libations in which he had indulged, but Tom was a seasoned vessel by that time, and he could stand a good deal.
He was in a noisy and reckless mood, but he had the command of his faculties. He saw that his sister was speaking with conviction, and he 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 in any fatal termination. He had made up his mind that women and doctors were all fools together, and frightened themselves for nothing. He had resolved against letting himself be scared by their long faces and doleful prognostications, and had gone on in his wonted courses with reckless bravado. He was not altogether an undutiful son. He had some affection for both father and mother. But his affection was not strong enough to keep him from following out his own wishes. He had long been a sort of leader amongst the young men of the place and neighbourhood, and he enjoyed the reputation he held of being a daring young blade, not far inferior in 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 they sometimes fell to rating and crying shame upon him. He knew his popularity; he knew that he had a fine figure and a handsome face; he knew that he had the sort of address which carried him through his scrapes and adventures with flying colours. He found the world a pleasant place, and saw no reason why he should not enjoy himself in his own way whilst he was young. Some day he would marry and sober 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 his father knew to his cost. Several times had the estate been sadly impoverished by the demands made upon it by some of the wild younger brothers, who had bequeathed (as it seemed) their characteristics to this young scion, Tom. The Squire himself had been living with great economy, that he might pay off a mortgage which had been contracted by his own father, in order to save the honour of the family, which had been imperilled by the extravagance of his brother.
Tom never troubled himself about these things. He cared little how his father scraped and saved, if he had but money in his pockets sufficient for the needs of the day. Extravagance in money was less Tom's foible than recklessness in his exploits, and a daring disregard of authority. No doubt he would have made away with money had he possessed it; but as everybody knew that he did not possess a long purse, and that the Squire would not be likely to pay his son's debts of honour, he was saved from the temptation of plunging deeply into debt. People did not care to trust him too far.
So, as he climbed the shallow stairs three at once, he told himself that his father had no need to speak severely to him. He had only been as other young men, and had not got into serious debt or trouble. Tom had almost persuaded himself, in fact, that he had been on the whole a very estimable sort of youth, and he entered the sick room with something of a swaggering air, as much as to say that he had no cause for shame.
But at the sight which greeted his eyes, as they met those of the sick man, a sobering change came over him. He had seen death sometimes, and the sight of it had always painfully affected him. He hated to be brought up short, as it were, and forced to see the serious, the solemn, the awe inspiring in life. He wanted to live in the present; he did not want to be forced to face the inevitable future.
"Tom," said his father's voice, in weak but distinct accents, "you have come, and it is well. I have things to say to you which may not longer be delayed. Take that chair beside me. I would see your face once again."
Tom would far rather have lingered in the shadows of the background; but his mother had risen and motioned him to take her place. He sat down rather awkwardly; and mother and daughter, without leaving the room, retired to the background, and sat together upon a distant settle, holding each other by the hand.
"Tom," said the dying man, "I have sent for you because there are things which I would rather you should hear from my lips than learn from others after my death."
"Oh, you will not die yet, father; you will be better soon," said Tom uneasily, letting his glance wander restlessly round the room to avoid the searching gaze of those luminous eyes.
"Life and death are in God's hands, boy; and I think my summons has come. Tom, have you been counting upon being master here when I am gone?"
"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 so settled my affairs that your mother remains here and administers the estate until you are five and twenty-that will be three years hence. By that time the burdens will be cleared away-and I fear you would never clear them off were you in power. By that time it will be possible for you to come and live here (I trust a wiser and a better man), whilst the estate can bear the charge upon it of a sufficient income to be paid to your mother and sister to live in comfort at Little Gables, which has been willed absolutely to your mother and to Rachel after her. At present the estate could not bear that drain-unless only to get into fresh difficulties; but three more years will put things right. During those three years, Tom, you will not be master of Gablehurst. You will have no more power than you have had in my lifetime. But I hope and trust you will be a dutiful son to your mother, and will cause her no heart-breaking anxieties, and oppose no vexatious obstacles to her management of the estate."
It cannot be denied that Tom was taken aback at this. He had naturally supposed that he would succeed to his father's position as squire of Gablehurst without let or hindrance; and it was a decided blow to him to feel that he was still to occupy a subordinate position, squire only in name. It was all very well when his father lived-that was right and natural enough-but to see his mother ruling, and himself submitting to her rule! – that was a thing he had not bargained for. He felt as though he would be the 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 the best which can be made."
"Oh yes, in a way. I see what you mean. I don't understand scraping and paring myself; yet, of course, it will be best to get the mortgage paid off once and for all. I can see that well enough. But I confess it will be poor fun living at Gablehurst as a little boy tied to his mother's apron strings. I would rather go away altogether, and see the world for myself."
"Well, Tom," answered the father in the same low, even tones, "your mother and I have sometimes asked ourselves seriously whether you might not do better away from home; whether it might not be the best thing we could do for you to sever you from your present companions, 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 anxieties would be less. But what are we to think of these cruel sports in which you indulge, these scenes of vice and drunkenness where you are constantly found? Even the Sabbath