Arragon House; or, the Banker's Son

Chapter I

Great was the consternation in the monetary world of London when news, one morning, spread abroad of the failure of Raynor, Curtis, & Co., that long established firm of merchant bankers in the city7. Greater still the conster nation, as the day wore on, and brought worse tidings; — tidings affecting the soul of the unhappyhead of the firm, far, far more than the failure itself affected the bodily interests of thousands; — tidings that instantly shrouded bis name in a veil of dark suspicion which had hitherto only threatened to envelope him, although its ultimate descent was but too sure. Mr. Raynor, it was reported, was found drowned: — he had committed suicide. At the inquest held on the body, the evidence given proved to all pi'esent without a doubt that the deed was deliberately7 conceived and executed, for a letter in his own hand-writing was produced acknowledging the intention, after stating that he could not survive the impending disgrace and remorse which his failure would occasion.

The disgrace he feared would have been public trials and imprisonment, perhaps transportation; the remorse he B dreaded would have been occasioned by the upbraiding cries of countless widows and orphans. And yet, my father, for it is of him I write, was en tirely guiltless of any fraud, of any real fault save extreme rashness and heedlessness. He had speculated too far; he had made a bold and desperate venture to recover lost ground and to save the fortunes he had risked. It failed. He could not endure ruin and disgrace, the penalties of his folly ; he could not meet solemn engagements or redeem solemn promises; he could not face the misery he had occasioned — listen to just reproaches, or endure just punishment, for he felt that the life of a felon might be before him. Therefore, the morning that heralded the intelligence of his failure brought to light a sadly disfigured corpse, together with the terrible evidence and the letter of which I have already spoken.

If there was " weeping and gnashing of teeth" round many a hearth that day, what was there round our's — the poor orphans of this lost man? Oh ! God, how can I recall the sufferings of that day? What but Thy hand could have softened even while it inflicted this fearful blow ? For forty years my father had lived in London, occupied with the business which finally7 brought about his ruin. His sole relaxation was an occasional continental tour, always connected, more or less, with the business itself. He had been born, so to say, certainly nurtured and reared in golden ideas, and impressed with the necessity of making money; he lived for that object alone, and a naturally fine disposition was thereby crushed beneath the sordid cares that this intoxicating slavery brings. His intelligence was devoted to calculations and the various intricacies of his calling; his will to carrying out certain designs at any cost; his heart, so warm and noble in itself, gradually ceased beating for any7 other claims and affections than those of money.

As for religion, — alas ! had he not chosen his God? Did he not fall down before the golden calf? And can any one worship two Gods. During one of his business vacations, when quite a young man, my father had visited Spain, where he became acquainted with, and enamoured of the daughter of a valued correspondent. His addresses were favourably received, and subsequently7 be brought back his beautiful bride to languish and pine away in the money world of London. I never understood that marriage ! My earliest recollections are of an exquisitely beautiful, dark-eyed, olive-complexioned young woman, waking me in the morning with the softest voice and the tenderest smile, yielding to no one the task of dressing her first-born, teaching me to kneel beside her before a representation of oui' Lord crucified for us, and to repeat some simple prayers, talkinoto me often of the Child Jesus, telling me to love and cherish my y-ounger brothers and sisters — to love and respect my father, above all, to love and obey God ; taking me to chapel with her every morning, to drive in her carriage or walk every afternoon, amusing and interesting me in every possible way.

Oh, how I loved my mother ! In the evening, after dinner, Iwasalway7s brought down and placed in a high chair beside my father. He liked to distino-uish his eldest son. Very often there were two or three gentlemen present besides ourselves ; sometimes we were alone. But always, child as I was, I noticed a difference in her; — she w-as so silent and subdued compared with the morning and evening manner that I knew and loved so well. If my father talked at all, it was on business matters, after patting me on the head and asking me if I had been a good boy; and my mother always answered him with an appearance of interest; but when he had taken his coffee in the drawing-room and gone away, as he did very soon, she would throw herself on the sofa with an air of languor and weariness which gradually increased as Time went on.

Often I heard her sigh deeply, or saw some slow tears drop down her face. Yet, my father was not unkind : he was simply indifferent to any but one subject, hardened by its engrossing interest to that of any other. In reality, he loved his wife and was very proud of her. He loved his children, I know, but he had no time to think of them. When I was about fifteen years old I became very ill. I had always been delicate ; and suddenly growing very7 fast, I fell into a languishing state of health which threatened serious consequences. My favourite studies, which I had hitherto pursued with great ardour, became fatiguing, almost distasteful. I could not sleep or walk ; I lost my appetite and spirits. It was what often happens to growing lads ; but my dear mother was terribly alarmed when the doctors said that if I had not a thorough change of air and scene I might go into a decline.

My father lost no time in sending me away to a college in France, at a place called Neuville, a seapoi't town of some importance, where I soon grew comparatively strong and passed several very happy years, with many delightful intervals of home. During one vacation, I was greatly shocked to see a change in my7 mother's appearance. She was worn to a shadow ; her eyes glittered quite painfully, and she often fainted away. I knew that she would soon give birth to another little one, but still I was so uneasy that I spoke seriously to my father before leaving home again, and saw with a pleasure I shall never forget how really concerned he was. He proposed to send the whole family to Neuville where I was returning, as soon as the weather was sufficiently7 settled ; and full of happy anticipations I went back to my second home.

The head of the college and the masters were all priests, and several of the young men there commenced theological studies and entered upon the ecclesiastical life. Many of my7 friends expected me to do the same, I suppose because my good, pious mother had so early accustomed me to love religion and to practise it without fear ; but I always knew that Almighty God had not called me to this state. My second brother Stephen, y-ounger than me by five years, had joined me ; and it was not difficult to see that he had indeed a religious vocation. How proud I was of him at college ! He was so handsome and clever, such a tall, strong, manly fellow, — with my7 mother's beautiful dark ey-es, religious enthusiasm, and warm heart. So generous and merry7, too; often getting into scrapes and always disarming the anger of his judges, — idolised, in fact, by all who knew 1dm !

It is true that theology was one of my favourite studies ; but I had taken to it by the advice of a wise and deal friend of mine among the professors, as a remedy for an evil that threatened to overwhelm my soul. A time came when I had to pass through a great temptation, — the whirl wind of doubts, of my own troubled thoughts; when I carried about incessantly within me a demon of evil. I felt distinctly that duality, so to say, of which St. Paul speaks in his wonderful treatise to the Romans upon Grace. And still with full knowledge that it w7as the inferior, the rebel lious spirit which strove to paralyse the Divine part of my nature, I seemed powerless to disregard, although I could perfectly refute its reasonings. And because I had a calm exterior and pursued my ordinaryreligious exercises, fearing to give them up for one single moment, I was thought by some a " saint," by others to be perfectly ignorant of all temptation or mental trouble, by others, — but why record the vain judgments of men from mere outward appearance in my case, as in so many others .

Often, when bowed down by internal sufferings and humiliations, or stung with some slighting mistaken judgment which acted upon me like the rough tearing away of plaister from an angry wound, my good friend comforted and strengthened me by such words as these: — " God knows, God judges all things !" And among other remedies for my malady he recommended a serious and continued study of some one subject, selecting for me that of Theology. " Theology," said he, " however much it may be com monly regarded now-a-days with indifference by those who would elevate indefinitely the various other branches of science, is, nevertheless, by far the greatest of all, because it treats of revealed Truth, of the positive intercourse of God with man, of man himself — that little great creation, if I may say so, who enjoys and rebels, who so often strives to turn his limited knowledge against the giver of all good things, desiring even to defy the Author of all he possesses.

A knowledge of theology is of the greatest importance to Christians, socially speaking, because it gives them a firm footing in their intercourse with the world, either sceptical, indifferent, or ignorant; also individually, with regard to devotion — to the true appreciation of the mysteries of faith, to drawing our hearts towards God." And this was how I was led to the greatest of all studies. But the happy domestic anticipations of which I just now spoke received an untimely shock in the sudden announcement which was one day conveyed to me, that my mother was dangerously ill, and that I must hasten to England. I arrived at home to find an addition to the family of twin brothers, and to receive my dear, dear mother's last words. I was just in time, thank God, for that! It is a terrible break up in a family, when the mother is taken away in the prime of life, leaving so many7 young children !

Next to me came my sister Marcella, then just seventeen ; after her, Stephen ; two sisters of thirteen and ten, then a gap that had once been filled up by other little faces, and lastly, Barbara, commonly called Baby, an infant in arms, who had preceded by one year the hapless twins, born under such inauspicious circumstances. My father suffered keenly, I know, from the death of his wife;' but business must be attended to. In its pre occupations he found some distraction, and its claims engrossed him as before. We had one conversation in which he spoke with sentiments of strong affection of his bereaved children, and with tears, y7es, even tears of regret for his own severe loss. This showed me what he really was, — above all, what he would be if freed from the baneful touch of the hand of mammon.

It seemed to me as if something vile and unworthy had stepped in to make mischief between two human beings whom I loved with my whole heart. My father was spoiled, my mother was wronged, for the sake of this idol; and from that hour I positively hated what had never been in any7 way7 tasteful to me, — a mere moneymaking business. But there was no immediate prospect of my being called on to adopt it, for I became so ill again after losing my dear mother, that my father gave me a circular letter of credit for no trifling amount, and peremptorily ordered me to go away and travel wherever I liked for three years, as soon as we had settled something for the younger children. Stephen was placed at a seminary in Paris ; my sisters, Teresa and Emma, were sent to the Ursuline Convent School, at Neuville, and a charming little house was taken at Hammersmith, where Marcella, with an old nurse who AHHAGON HOUSE. had assisted at my birth, and other servants, was to live in charge of the little ones.

My father spent every Sunday with them, and fetched over the two girls for the holidays during my absence. Punctually at the end of the three years I returned, for I was home-sick, although greatlybetter in health and spirits ; but yearning after the motherless ones at home who were so much attached to me. I hastened to the old house on my arrival and was most kindly welcomed by my father, who was literally overwhelmed with business. He promised to come to us at Hammersmith some day before Sunday if possible, — but he did not appear; and I afterwards went into town daily to see him, to shake him by the hand and exchange a few words with him.

Chapter II

One day when I went to take leave of my father before returning home, he put into my hands a small packet, containing important papers, he said, which he begged me to deliver at the address it bore on my way. I saw that it was directed to Mr. Curtis, a partner in the house, whom I had supposed to be abroad, where he usually resided. But it appeared that he had come over to England on business for a short time, and was now living at Ken sington, where I undertook to find him and give the packet into his own hands. I mounted my horse and rode off, something faster than my ordinary pace, to allow for delay, as Mr. Curtis' house was a little out of my direct road, and I knew my sisters would be anxious if I did not appear about the usual time. How curious is the minuteness with which we can recall slight things, apparently unnoticed at the moment, having reference to any of those turning points in our lives at which we all arrive some time or other.

I never look back to that day without seeing every little detail of that ride in my mind's eye, with the clearness and exactitude of a daguerreotype. I recollect names over shops, articles displayed in their windows that had never struck me before; I recollect the numbers of manycabs and the colours of their horses; I recollect a hole in the toll keeper's coat sleeve, and a pimple on his face. I still see before me with perfect distinctness groups of strange children and nursemaids; I almost feel the soft warm air, slightly scented, that blew upon my face as I turned off from the main street and passed the private houses and pretty villas skirting the now quiet road. I know that some organ grinder must have been performing the familiar Angioldi pace, for I have never heard the melody since without being transported back in imagination to that afternoon, and living over again, as it were, its very simple events and sensations, for in themselves they were simple enough, God knows.

I soon found the house I sought, and rang at the garden gate, which was opened by a neat little maid servant. Mr. Curtis was at home, she said ; so I dismounted, and giving the bridle to a sanguine youth in not verydecent garments, who had probably7 acted as my henchman for some distance, I walked up the trim garden, so carefully cul tivated and adorned with really choice flowers, and, entering the house, was ushered into a room close at hand. My name was announced to its sole occupant, not, as I had expected, a gentleman, but a lady — a young lady — who was seated before a large embroidery frame. Shall I describe her — and how ? Sav that her com it plexion was sallow, that her features were irregular, her eyes bright, dark, and sparkling, with dark straight eye brows that nearly met; that her mouth was large and expressive, her smile irresistibly captivating, her hair thick, black, and glossy ; her figure tall, thin, and slightly stooping.

All this is strictly true as detail, but I doubt if if gives the faintest real idea of Isabella Temple. She was dressed in deep mourning ; and from the form and material of the small cap she wore, I judged that she was a widow. As she rose to receive me, apologising for the absence of her father, who had just gone out, she said, unknown to the servant, it suddenly flashed across me that I had heard Mr. Curtis lived with an only daughter who was lately widowed. Her manner was so frank and cheerful, she was so lively and unaffected, that we fell into conversation immediately — the close intimacy of friendship and interest of our respective fathers forming the most natural introduction. Time flew fast ; and when I rose to take my leave, although I knew of course that the papers with which I was charged would be as safe with Mrs. Temple as with Mr. Curtis himself, I became very punctilious with reference to my promise of deliver ing them into his own hands, and anxious to know for certain if I could see him next day on my way into town.

Receiving her assurance in the affirmative, given I thought with some appearance of readiness on her own part to receive me again, I bowed myself out, feeling as I rode quickly home, that I had made the acquaintance of a charming woman, whom it would be no small pleasure to me to see again. " Marcella," said I that evening, when my sister and I were sitting alone as usual before retiring to rest, " did y-ou ever see Mr. Curtis' daughter?" "No, Austin," she replied, "but I have often heard of her." " What have you heard?" " That she is very fascinating, and very amiable. She lost her husband about six months ago, I think." " And who was he? Tell me all you know about her." " Mr. Curtis," said my sister, " has been a widower a long, long while, and his daughter — an only child — was brought up in some fashion of his own, for he is a very7 eccentric man, you know-, Austin, in an out-of-the-way village by the sea-side, athis country place, called Arragon House.

Mr. Curtis is a terrible martyr to gout, and several years ago, when Mrs. Temple was quite a young girl, he went off to some town in Germany7 where there are baths, and there they settled themselves. She married, almost immediately7, rather an elderly man — a very old friend of her father's. It was said the marriage was made up to please him, and I suppose she was young enough to have no particular dislike to it and to be pleased at the prospect of independence. They all lived together, but not veryamicably I have heard. Mr. Temple w-as jealous and irritable, and his health was bad. His wife's patience and attention to him have been most highly spoken of, and since his death she is as devoted to her father as she was to him. But the last few months of his life were very7 trying for her, so they have been travelling about since then, winding up with a visit to England, principally on account of some business of Mr. Curtis' about the house.

However, he continues to suffer so much from gout, poor man, that they will return to Germany as soon as possible, Papa says." I liked to hear all this of my new friend, and thought I could see signs in her of that patience and gentleness my sister mentioned — of that filial devotion ; and at the same time something of naturally7 high spirits which would carry her through a great deal of worry7 with buoyancy and cheerfulness. Marcella's story did not lessen the impres sion she had made on my mind and thoughts, and I acknowledge that I put on a new waistcoat and pair of gloves next morning, and was more than usually particular about the brushing of my hat, when I started for London. I do not mean that I acknowledged these trifles to myrself at the time, for it is wonderful, on the contrary, what ingenious mental excuses I made for this unwonted coxcombry.

I remember also how hastily I fled, for fear my sisters should make any remarks. Teresa and Emma were at home then, full of mischief and impudence. Arriving at my destination, the same little servant maid opened the gate and ushered me into the same room ; but the effect of my very conscious entrance was quite lost. No one was there. I walked about the room vacantly, turning over the books, smelling the flowers, staring at the pictures, looking at myself at least once in the glass I am afraid, and otherwise testifying to my state of pre-occupation for five or ten minutes, at the end of which time Dorothy (so the little maid was called) returned, opening the door with a suddenness that made me start away from the chimney -piece and wish I had been found rationally sitting down. " Oh ! if you please Sir," said she, " would you be so good as step this way?

Master is but poorly7, Sir, and he's a-breakfasting up stairs." "I shall disturb him, then, perhaps? I shall call again." " Oh ! no, Sir. If you please to step up to master's dressing-room, he wants particular to see you. Him and Mrs. Temple is only a-breakfasting, Sir, if y7ou w-on't mind, because master has had a bad night, and is but poorly this morning." " If you are sure I shall not disturb them," I repeated, still doubting. " Oh ! dear no, Sir," said Dorothy, leading the way " Very often master don't come down of a morning, and Mrs. Temple she always breakfasts along with master, and lots of gentlemen comes up sometimes." " Oh !" said I, boldly advancing then two steps at a time. What Dorothy called the dressing-room was, in fact, a little boudoir opening out of Mr. Curtis' bed-room, and here I found the invalid and his daughter sitting together at a well-spread, well-mounted table.

Mrs. Temple looked so bewitching in her morning gown and preposterous little cap that my impression of yesterdaywas suddenly ham mered in as deep again as before. Mr. Curtis himself was not nearly so fascinating in appearance. He wore a frightful dressing-gown, and a reddish brown, terribly palpable wig. He looked pettish and cross, and both his feet were displayed on a T stool in huge black list slip pers. " Well, young man !" he exclaimed, holding out his hand, " I am glad to make your acquaintance. I saw you when you were a very little chap, and your father is one of my oldest friends, although we disagree wonderfully on many subjects. At any rate, there need be no ceremony between us, so sit down and tell me your business. Sit down there," he continued, emphasising the last word with an impatient clap of his stick on the floor, and point ing to a chair at some distance from the one I was making for close to Mrs. Temple.

I mildly obeyed him, and contented myself with looking unutterable things on every possible occasion. I explained mv commission, and while the old man was irresistibly absorbed in the papers, the nature of which was unknown to me, Mrs. Temple talked with the same lively good-humour and easy grace that had so fascinated me the day before; but always unobtrusively intent on her father the while, just as I had felt she had been with her husband. She was so gay, and laughed so merrily, that I was often astonished, for it seemed to me that the life she led must break any young spirit. She asked about my sisters, and even said, to my un speakable delight, that she would like to go and see them, if her visit would be agreeable. I do not know how I answered her. I cannot tell how I expressed myself between the immense pleasure of the idea, and my fears of appearing too anxious.

But (to cut short a scene upon which I have alway7s a tendency to expatiate almost to drivelling) a few days afterwards, on returning home, I found a neat little carriage at the door, and was just in time to escort to it its bewitching owner, who had been enchanting my sisters, and whose charms formed the sole topic of my evening conversation with Marcella that day. In various ways I saw her many times; and from all that came to my knowledge of her character and disposition, my first impression was more and more confirmed, my respect for her more than equalled my admiration; and what does not that say7? After one confidential and very encouraging chat on the subject with Marcella, who now knew Mrs. Temple well enough to form a conjecture as to her feelings, I went into town one day resolved to tell my father my pro jects, and bring matters to a crisis.

By way of leading to the subject, I asked him if he had any message for Mr. Curtis, as I intended calling there. He answered, rather significantly, " No ;" and asked — " Do you want to see Curtis himself?" I suppose I looked embarrassed, for he immediately added — "I am afraid, my good fellow, he has seen too much of you already. You have frightened him in some way, I suspect, and he has taken flight." "Taken flight?" I exclaimed. " Yes. Read this ; and he handed me a letter he had that morning received from his eccentric partner, which was dated from Ostend, and gave no sort of clue to his future plans. I rode past the house on my way (or rather out of my way) home, and saw that it was quite shut up, and a bill to let desecrated the lovely garden. As I turned away and continued my daily route, looking at every familiar object as one might turn and turn a favourite kaleidescope hopelessly and dimly in a darkened room, I thought to myself there was no heavier heart than mine under the sun that day7.

Chapter III

I fear I may have appeared egotistic in relating so much of my own feelings and sorrows above those of my family, who were, God knows, so dear to me. In this chapter, still a retrospective one, I will dwell no more on my per sonal affairs than must be unavoidable for the due relation of our history7 ; and as I look back at the lapse of y-ears from the close of my last chapter to the beginning of my first, — that is to say, in less charade-like language, to the course of our life during a period of many years at our little happy home at Hammersmith, I am irresistibly led to that which may possibly create a pleasant diversion to my readers in thinking of our old nurse. Nurse ! For I never knew her by any other name ; and I am certain that 1 could never have stated that which her godfather or godmother gave her wdien baptised, any more than that which her parents bore, whatever the post man may have known, or Marcella, who paid her wages, and possessed, in a certain book, a variety of wonderful and dislocated domestic signatures in the form of receipts for the same.

No doubt I could now learn her name if I wished it, but I prefer to call her, nurse. And who has a better right to do so, for was she not my first and only nurse ? — and should I live to be a hundred, and she sur vive me, I am convinced she would call me nothing but " Master Austin" before any and everybody. Nurse was a wonderful woman in those Hammersmith day7s. Her costume, to begin with, was peculiar. She w7as possessed of a certain fur tippet, which in winter triumphantly crowned whatever shawl she might be wearing ; and of these I remember two in particular, — one of a batter colour, the other a beautiful red Indian shawl sent her direct by " Miss Emma," as will be hereafter seen, and of which she was amazingly proud. Once she tore it, and there was no peace in the house until she found somebody who undertook to darn it invisibly with the ravelling of the shawl itselL I do not think I can have made any mistake in describing this process, for I heard quite enough about it at the time.