Part 15

North Villa had not been given up, though they did move to Islip. Jacob Chandler held a long lease of it, and he sub-let it for three or four years. At the end of that period it occurred to Mrs. Jacob that she should like to keep it for herself, as a sort of country house to retire to at will. As she was the grey mare, this was done; though Jacob grumbled. So North Villa was furbished up, and some new furniture put into it; and the garden, a very nice one, improved: and Mrs. Jacob, with one or other or all three of her daughters, might be frequently seen driving her pony-carriage with its handsome ponies between North Villa and Islip, streamers flying, ribbons fluttering: you would have taken it for a rainbow coming along. The girls were not bad-looking, played and sang with open windows loud enough to frighten the passers-by, and were given to speak to one another in French at table. "Voulez-vouz donner-moi la sel, Clementina?" "Voulez-vous passer-moi le moutarde, Georgiana?" "Voulez-vous envoyer-moi les poivre, Julietta?" For, as Mrs. Jacob would have told you, they had learnt French at school; and to converse in it was of course only natural to themselves, and most instructive to any visitor who might chance to be present. Added to these advantages Mrs. and the Miss Chandlers adored dress, their out-of-door toilettes being grander than a queen's.

All this: the two houses and the company received in them; the ponies and the groom; the milliners' bills and the dress-makers', made a hole in Jacob Chandler's purse. Not too much of a hole in one sense of the word; Jacob took care of that: but it prevented him from putting by all the money he wished. He made plenty of it: more than the world supposed.

In this manner matters had gone on since the departure of George Chandler for Canada. Mrs. Chandler living quietly in her home making it a happy one for her son Tom, and treasuring George's letters from over the sea: Mrs. Jacob Chandler and her daughters keeping the place alive; Valentine getting to be a very fine gentleman indeed; old Jacob sticking to business and pocketing his gains. The first interruption came in the shape of a misfortune for Mrs. Chandler. She lost a good portion of her money through a calamity that you have heard of before--the bursting-up of Clement Pell. It left her with very little, save the hundred and fifty pounds a-year paid to her regularly by Jacob. Added to this was the hundred a-year Tom earned, and which his uncle had not increased. And this brings us down to the present time, when Tom was four-and-twenty.

Jacob Chandler sat one morning in his own room at his office, when a clerk came in and said Mrs. Chandler from Crabb was asking to see him. Cordiality had always subsisted between the two families, though they were not much together; Mrs. Chandler disliking their show; Mrs. Jacob and her daughters intensely despising one who wore black silk for best, and generally made her puddings with her own fingers. "So low-lived, you know, my dears," Mrs. Jacob would say, with a toss of her bedecked head.

Jacob heard his clerk's announcement with annoyance; the lines on his brow grew deeper. He had always been a shrimp of a man, but he looked like a shrivelled one now. His black clothes sat loosely upon him; his white neckcloth, for he dressed like a parson, seemed too large for his thin neck.

"Mrs. Chandler can come in," said he, after a few moments' hesitation. "But say I am busy."

She came in, putting back her veil: she had worn a plain-shaped bonnet with a white border ever since her husband died. It suited her meek, kind, and somewhat homely face, on which the brown hair, streaked with grey, was banded.

"Jacob, I am sorry to disturb you, especially as you are busy; but I have wanted to speak to you for some time now and have not liked to come," she began, taking the chair that stood near the table at which he sat. "It is about Tom."

"What about him?" asked Jacob. "Has he been up to any mischief?"

"Mischief! Tom! Why, Jacob, I hardly think there can be such another young man as he, for steadiness and good conduct; and, I may say, for kindness. I have never heard anything against him. What I want to ask you is, when you think of making a change?"

"A change?" echoed Jacob, as if the words puzzled him, biting away at the feather of his pen. "A change?"

"Is it not time that he should be taken into the business? I--I thought--and Tom I know also thought, Jacob--that you would have done it when he was twenty-one."

"Oh, did you?" returned Jacob, civilly.

"He is twenty-four, you know, now, Jacob, and naturally wishes to get forward in life. I am anxious that he should; and I think it is time--forgive me for saying it, Jacob--that something was settled."

"I was thinking of raising Tom's salary," coolly observed Jacob; "of giving him, say, fifty pounds a-year more. Valentine has been bothering me to do the same by him; so I suppose I must."

The fixed colour on Mrs. Chandler's thin cheeks grew a shade deeper. "But, Jacob, it was his father's wish, you know, that he should be taken into partnership, should succeed to his own share of the business; and I thought you would have arranged it ere this. An increase of salary is not the thing at all: it is not that that is in question."

"Nothing can be so bad for a young man as to make him his own master too early," cried Jacob. "I've known it ruin many a one."

"You promised my husband when he was dying that it should be so," she gently urged. "Besides, it is Tom's right. I understood that when he was of a proper age, he was to come in, in accordance with a previous arrangement made between you and poor Thomas."

Jacob bit the end of the pen right off and nearly swallowed it. "Thomas left all things in my hands," said he, coughing and choking. "Tom must acquire some further experience yet."

"When do you propose settling it, then? How long will it be first?"

"Well, that depends, you know. I shall see."

"Will it be in another year? Tom will be five-and-twenty then."

"Ay, he will: and Val four-and-twenty. How time flies! It seems but the other day that they were in jackets and trousers."

"But will it be then--in another year? You have not answered me, Jacob."

"And I can't answer you," returned Jacob. "How can I? Don't you understand me when I say I must wait and see?"

"You surely will do what is right, Jacob?"

"Well now, can you doubt it, Betsy? Of course I shall. When did you hear from George?"

Mrs. Chandler rose, obliged to be satisfied. To urgently press any interest of her own was not in her nature. As she shook hands with Jacob she was struck with the sickly appearance of his face.

"Are you feeling quite well, Jacob? You look but poorly."

"I have felt anything but well for a long time," he replied, in a fretful tone. "I don't know what ails me: too much work, perhaps, but I seem to have strength for nothing."

"You should give yourself a rest, Jacob, and take some bark."

"Ay. Good-day."

Now it came to pass that in turning out of the house, after nodding to Tom and Valentine, who sat at a desk side by side in the room to the left, the door of which stood open, Mrs. Chandler saw the Squire on the opposite side of the street, and crossed over to him. He asked her in a joking way whether she had been in to get six and eightpenceworth of law. She told him what she had been in for, seeing no reason for concealing it.

"Bless me, yes!" cried he, in his impulsive way. "I'm sure it's quite time Tom was in the firm. I'll go and talk to Jacob."

And when he got in--making straight across the street with the words, and through the passage, and so to the room without halt or ceremony--he saw Jacob leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust into his black side-pockets, and his head bent on his chest in deep thought. The Squire noticed how deep the lines in his brow had grown, just as Mrs. Chandler had.

"But you know, Jacob Chandler, that it was an agreement with the dead," urged the Squire, in his eagerness, after listening to some plausible (and shuffling) remarks from Jacob.

"An agreement with the dead!" repeated Jacob, looking up at the Squire for explanation. They were both standing on the matting near the fender: which was filled with an untidy mass of torn and twisted scraps of paper. "What do you mean, Squire? I never knew before that the dead could make an agreement."

"You know what I mean," cried the Squire, hotly. "Poor Thomas was close upon death at the time you and he had the conversation: he wanted but two or three minutes of it."

"Oh, ah, yes; that's true enough, so far as it goes, Squire," replied Jacob, pulling up his white cravat as if his throat felt cold.

"Well," argued the Squire. "Did not you and he agree that Tom was to come in when he was twenty-one? Both of you seemed to imply that there existed a previous understanding to that effect."

"There never was a word said about his coming in when he was twenty-one," contended Jacob.

"Why, bless my heart and mind, do you suppose my ears were shut, Jacob Chandler?" retorted the Squire, beginning to rub his head with his red silk handkerchief. "I heard the words."

"No, Squire. Think a bit."

Jacob spoke so calmly that the Squire began to rub up his memory as well as his head. He had no cause to suppose Jacob Chandler to be other than an honourable man.

"'When Tom shall be of age, he must take my place:' those were I think the very words," repeated the Squire. "I can see your poor brother's face now as he lay down on the floor and spoke them. It had death in it."

"Yes, it had death in it," acquiesced Jacob, in a tone of discomfort. "What he said was this, Squire: 'When Tom shall be of an age.' Meaning of course a suitable age to justify the step."

"I don't think so: I did not hear it so," persisted the Squire. "There was no 'an' in it. 'When Tom shall be of age:' that was it. Meaning when he should be twenty-one."

"Oh dear, no; quite a mistake. You can't think my ears would deceive me at such a time as that, Mr. Todhetley. And about our own business too."

"Well, you ought to know best, of course, though my impression is that you are wrong," conceded the Squire. "Put it that it was as you say: don't you think Tom Chandler is now quite old enough for it to be acted upon?"

"No, I don't," replied Jacob. "As I have just told his mother, nothing can be more pernicious for a young man than to be made his own master too early. Nine young fellows out of every ten would get ruined by it."

"Do you think so?" asked the Squire, dubiously.

"I am sure so, Squire. Tom Chandler is steady now, for aught I know to the contrary; but just let him get the reins into his hands, and you'd see what it would be. That is, what it might be. And I am not going to risk it."

"He is as steady-going a young man as any one could wish for; diligent, straightforward. Not at all given to spending money improperly."

"Because he has not had it to spend. I have known many a young blade to be quiet and cautious while his pockets were empty; and as soon as they were filled, perhaps all at once, he has gone headlong to rack and ruin. How do we know that it would not be the case with Tom?"

"Well, I--I don't think it would be," said the Squire, with hesitation, for he was coming round to Jacob's line of argument.

"But I can't act upon 'thinking,' Squire; I must be sure. Tom will just stay on with me at present as he is; so there's an end of it. His salary is going to be raised: and I--I consider that he is very well off."

"Well, perhaps he'll be none the worse for a little longer spell of clerkship," repeated the Squire, coming wholly round. "And now good-morning. I'm rather in a hurry to-day, but I thought it right to put in a word for Tom's sake, as I was present when poor Thomas died."

"Good-morning, Mr. Todhetley," answered Jacob, as he sat down to his desk again.

But he did not get to work. He bent his head on his neckcloth as before, and set on to think. What had just passed did not please him at all: for Jacob Chandler was not devoid of conscience; though it was an elastic one, and he was in the habit of deadening it at will. It was not his intention to take his nephew into partnership at all; then or later. Almost ever since the day of his brother's funeral he had looked at matters after his own fashion, and soon grew to think that Tom had no manner of right to a share in the business; that as Thomas was dead and gone, it was all his, and ought to be all his. He and Thomas had shared it between them: therefore it was only just and proper that he, the survivor, should take it. That's how Jacob Chandler, who was the essence of covetousness, had been reasoning, and his mind was made up.

It was therefore very unpleasant to be pounced upon in this way by two people in one morning. Their application as regarded Tom himself would not have troubled him: he knew how to put disputants off civilly, saying neither yes nor no, and promising nothing: but what annoyed him was the reminiscence they had called up of his dying brother. Jacob intended to get safely into the world above, some day, by hook or by crook; he went to church regularly, and considered himself a model of good behaviour. But these troublesome visitors had somehow contrived to put before his conscience the fact that he might be committing a lifelong act of injustice on Tom; and that, to do so, was not the readiest way of getting to heaven. Was that twelve o'clock? How the morning had passed!

"Uncle Jacob, I am going over to Brooklands about that lease. Have you any particular instructions to give me?"

It was Tom himself who had entered. A tall, good-looking, fresh-coloured young man, who had honesty and kindliness written on every line of his open face.

Jacob lifted his bent head, and drew his chair nearer his table as if he meant to set to work in earnest. But his mouth took a cross look.

"Who told _you_ to go? I said Valentine was to go."

"Valentine has stepped out. He asked me to go for him."

"Where has he stepped to?"

"He did not say," replied Tom, evasively. For he knew quite well where Valentine was gone: to the Bell inn over the way. Valentine went to the Bell a little too much, and was a little too fond of the Bell's good liquor.

"I suppose you can go, then. No, I have no instructions: you know what to say as well as I do. We don't give way a jot, mind. Oh, and--Tom!" added Jacob, calling him back as he went out.

"Yes, sir."

"I am intending to raise your salary. From the beginning of next month, you will have a hundred and fifty a-year."

"Oh, thank you, Uncle Jacob."

Tom spoke as he in his ready good-nature felt--brightly and gratefully. Nevertheless, a shade of disappointment did cross his mind, for he thought his position in the house ought to be a different one.

"And I am _sure_ it is quite as much as I ought to do for him," argued Jacob with his conscience. And he put away unpleasant prickings and set to work like a house on fire.

It was one o'clock when Valentine came in. He had an excuse ready for his father: the latter, turning out of the clerks' room, chanced to see him enter. "He had been down to Tyler's to see if he could get that money from them." It was an untruth, for he had stayed all the while at the Bell; and his father noticed that his face was uncommonly flushed. Old Jacob had had his suspicions before; yes, and spoken of them to Valentine: he now motioned him to go before him into the private room.

"You have been drinking, sir!"

"I!--good gracious, no," returned Valentine, boldly, his blue eyes fearlessly meeting his father's. "What fancies you do pick up!"

"Valentine, when I was your age I never drank a drop of anything till night, and then it was only a glass of beer with my supper. It seems to me that young men of the present day think they can drink at all hours with impunity."

"I don't drink, father."

"Very well. Take care you do not. It is a habit more easily acquired than left off. Look here: I am going to give you fifty pounds a-year more. Mind you _make it do_: and do not spend it in waste."

It was not very long after this that Jacob Chandler had a shock: a few months, or so. During that time he had been growing thinner and weaker, and looked so shrivelled up that there seemed to be nothing left of him. Islip, small place though it was, had a market-day--Friday;--when farmers would drive or walk in and congregate at the Bell. One afternoon, just as the ordinary was over, Jacob went to the inn, as was his general custom: he had always some business or other to transact with the farmers; or, if not, something to say. His visit to them over, he said good-day and left: but the next minute he turned back, having forgotten something. Some words fell on his ear as he opened the door.

"Ay. He is not long for this world."

They were spoken by old Farmer Blake--a big, burly, kind-hearted man. And Jacob Chandler felt as certain that they were meant to apply to himself as though his name had been mentioned. He went into a cold shiver, and shut the door again without entering.

Was it true, he asked himself, as he walked across the street to his office: was it indeed a fact that he was slowly dying? A great fear fell upon him: a dread of death. What, leave all this beautiful sunshine, this bright world in which he was so busy, and pass into the cold dark grave! Jacob turned sick at the thought.

It was true that he had long been ailing; but not with any specific ailment. He could not deny that he was now more like a shadow than a man, or that every day seemed to bring him less of strength. Passing into his dining-parlour instead of into his private business room, he drank two glasses of wine off at once, and it seemed to revive him. He was a very abstemious man in general.

Well, if Farmer Blake did say it--stupid old idiot!--it was not obliged to be true, reflected Jacob then. People judged by his spareness: he wished he could get a little fatter. And so he reasoned and persuaded himself out of his fears, and grew sufficiently reassured to transact his business, always pressing on a Friday.

But that same evening, Jacob Chandler drove to North Villa in his gig, telling his wife he should sleep there for a week or two, for the sake of the fresh air. And the next morning, before he went to Islip, he sent for the doctor--Cole.

"People are saying you won't live!" repeated Cole, having listened to Jacob's confidential communication. "I don't see why you should not live. Let's examine you a bit. You should not take up fancies."

Cole could find nothing particular the matter with him. He recommended him rest from business, change of air, and a generous diet. "Try it for a month," said he.

"I can't try it--except the diet," returned Jacob. "It's all very well for you to talk about rest from business, Cole, but how am I to take rest? My business could not get on without me. Business is a pleasure to me; it's not a pain."

"You want rest from it all the same," said Cole. "You have stuck closely to it this many a year."

"My mother died without apparent cause," said Jacob, dreamily. "She seemed just to drift out of life. About my age, too."

"That's no reason why you should," argued Cole.

Well, they went on, talking at one another; but nothing came of it. And Cole left, saying he would send him in some tonics to take.

By the evening it was known all over the place that Jacob Chandler was ill and had sent for Cole. People talked of it the next morning as they went to church. Jacob appeared, looking much as usual, and sat down in his pew. The next to come in was Mrs. Cramp; who walked over to our church sometimes. She stayed to dine with the Lexoms, and went to call at North Villa after dinner; finding Mrs. Jacob and the rest of them at dessert with a guest or two. Jacob was somewhere in the garden.

Mrs. Cramp found him in the latticed arbour, and sat down opposite to him, taking up her brown shot-silk gown, lest the seat should be dusty. When she told him it was the hearing of his illness which had brought her over to Crabb, he turned cross. He was not ill, he said; only a trifle out of sorts, as every one else must be at times and seasons. By dint of questioning, Mrs. Cramp, who was a stout, comely woman, fond of having her own way, got out of him all Cole had said.

"And Cole is right, Jacob: it is rest and change you want," she remarked. "You are sure you do not need it? don't tell me. A stitch in times saves nine, remember."

"You know nothing about it, Mary Ann."

"I know that you look thinner and thinner every time I see you. Be wise in time, brother."

"Cole told me to go away to the seaside for a month. Why, what should I do, mooning for a whole month in a strange place by myself? I should be like a fish out of water."

"Take your wife and the girls."

"I dare say! They would only worry me with their fine doings. And look at the expense."

"I will go with you if you like, Jacob, rather than you should go alone, though it would be an inconvenience to me. And pay my own expenses."

"Mary Ann, I am not going at all; or thinking of it. It would be impossible for me to leave my business."

Mrs. Cramp, turning over matters in her mind, determined to put the case plainly before him, and did so; telling him that it would be better to leave his business for a temporary period now, than to find shortly that he must leave it for ever. Jacob sat gazing out straight before him at the Malvern Hills, the chain of which lay against the sky in the distance.

"If you took my advice, brother, you would retire from business altogether. You have made enough to live without it, I suppose----"

"But I have not made enough," he interrupted.

"Then you ought to have made it, Jacob."

"Oughts don't go for much."

"What I mean is, that you ought to have made it, judging by the style in which you live. Two houses, a carriage and ponies (besides your gig), expensive dress, parties: all that should never be gone into, brother, unless the _realized_ income justifies it."

"It is the style we live in that has not let me put by, Mary Ann. I don't tell you I have put nothing by: I have put a little by year by year; but it is not enough to live upon."

"Then make arrangements for half the proceeds of the business to be given over to you. Let the two boys take to it, and----"

"_Who?_" cried Jacob.

"The two boys, Tom and Valentine. It will be theirs some time, you know, Jacob: let them have it at once. Tom's name must be first, as it ought to be. Valentine----"

"I have no intention of doing anything of the kind," interposed Jacob, sharply. "I shall keep the business in my own hands as long as I live. Perhaps I may take Valentine into it: not Tom."

Mrs. Cramp sat for a full minute staring at Jacob, her stout hands, from which the gloves had been taken, and her white lace ruffles lying composedly on her brown gown.

"Not take Tom into the business!" she repeated, in a slow, astonished tone. "Why, Jacob, what do you mean?"

"_That_," said Jacob. "Tom will stay on at a good salary: I shall increase it, I dare say, every two years, or so; but he will not come into the firm."

"You can't mean what you say."

"I have meant it this many a year past, Mary Ann. I have never intended to take him in."

"Jacob, beware! No luck ever comes of fraud."

"Of what? _Fraud?_"

"Yes; I say fraud. If you deprive Tom of the place that is justly his, it will be a cheat and a fraud, and nothing short of it."

"You have a queer way of looking at things, Mrs. Cramp. Who has kept the practice together all these years, but me? and added to it little by little, and made it worth double what it was; ay, and more than double? It is right--_right_, mind you, Mary Ann--that my own son should succeed to it."