# Adventures of Susan Hopley/Volume 1/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV.
MARRIED LIFE AT OAKFIELD—HARRY LEESON QUITS IT TO SEEK FORTUNE ELSEWHERE.
When Mrs. Gaveston arrived at the age of twenty-one, she was not unmindful of the resolution she had avowed at the period of her father's death, when it was discovered that he had left no will, namely, to execute a deed in favour of Harry, as soon as she had the power, which should place him with respect to the property, precisely in the situation he would have held had the will been forthcoming; for she had been fully aware of her father's intentions towards him, and the whole affair had been arranged with her entire concurrence.
Previous to her marriage she had made known her determination to Mr. Gaveston, who appeared perfectly to coincide in her views; and whenever she had occasionally ​adverted to it since, as he raised no objections, she interpreted his silence into acquiescence. Now, however, the time was arrived for fulfilling her intentions, and she opened the business to her husband, one morning at breakfast, by observing that Harry would shortly be home for the summer vacation.
"What do you mean to do with that boy, Mrs. Gaveston?" inquired her husband. "He's now nearly fifteen, and it's high time he was put to something."
"That depends on what profession he selects, I suppose," replied the wife. "If he fixes on medicine, or the church, or the bar, he should go to college first, shouldn't he?"
"Nonsense!" answered Mr. Gaveston, "what should a chap like that do at college, that hasn't a rap in the world?"
"He'd stand in the greater need of a good education if that were the case," returned Fanny. "But I should be very sorry to think that was Harry's predicament. You know, Walter, I am now of age; and it has always been understood between us that when that time arrived, Harry should be compensated for the loss he sustained by my father's having left no will."
​"Nonsense! Fanny," replied the husband. "How can you be so absurd? You don't imagine I'm going to give away ten thousand pounds to a fellow that's neither kith nor kin to me!"
"But he's both to me, Walter," said Mrs. Gaveston. "I love Harry as if he were my brother. Besides I never could feel happy were I to neglect the fulfilment of my dear father's intentions."
"There is nothing so absurd, Mrs. Gaveston," returned the husband, "as arguing a point on which one's mind is perfectly made up. Now, I repeat, that I have not the slightest idea of doing what you propose. Therefore we may as well drop the subject."
"You never made any objections before,' replied Fanny. "I'm sure, I have named it to you twenty times, and you always appeared to acquiesce."
"Because I expected you'd grow out of your folly, and that opposition would be unnecessary," answered he.
"I shall never outgrow the folly of being just," replied Fanny.
Here Mr. Gaveston took up the newspaper which he had laid down when his wife ​commenced the conversation, and applied himself to its perusal with an air of perseverance denoting that he did not intend to argue the matter further.
"I hope you will not interfere to prevent my doing that which I consider so," continued Fanny. But Mr. Gaveston remained silent. "An act," she added, "which is necessary to my peace of mind. I have had sorrows enough, Walter; don't add another to the catalogue."
"If you choose to coin sorrows out of every opposition to your will, I can't help it," said the husband. "When you are ten years older you'll see the folly of what you want to do now, and thank me for preventing it."
"That I assuredly shall not," replied Fanny. "But I think it extremely improbable that I shall be in the world ten years hence, to entertain any opinion on the subject. As you well know my health has never recovered the shock it received at my poor father's death, and—"
"I thought it was agreed, Mrs. Gaveston, that I was at last to have some respite from that eternal subject;" said the husband, throwing down the paper in an angry manner; and abruptly pushing his chair from the table, he began to stride up and down the room. "It's the sauce ​to my breakfast, dinner, and supper; and I'm sick of it."
"You wrong me very much," answered his wife. "Painful as silence very often is to myself, since you have forbidden the subject, I never introduce it, voluntarily—but in talking of such a business as this, it's scarcely possible to avoid it. However, consent to what I propose to do for Harry, and I'll give you my word, Walter, I'll never mention it again in your presence."
"But you'll mention it behind my back, and complain that I don't allow you liberty of speech, I suppose," said he.
"I am sorry you have no better opinion of my taste than you have of my prudence," replied Fanny. "Whatever causes of complaint I might have, I hope I shall not forget myself so far as to entertain my friends with them. However, I will neither mention the subject before your face, nor behind your back, if you will comply with my request in this one instance."
"As I said before," replied Mr. Gaveston, "there is no object to be gained by arguing a point on which one's mind is perfectly decided. If you are willing to have the boy put to some decent trade, I'll go so far as to pay the fee of ​his apprenticeship; but as for bringing up a beggar's brat like that to be a gentleman, or giving him ten thousand pounds to make him one, I'll not do it; and as you have now my definite answer, I beg I may never hear any more on the subject," and banging the door after him he quitted the room.
As the door closed upon him Mrs. Gaveston clasped her hands, and ejaculated, "Oh, my father!" and then she relieved her heart for some minutes, by showers of bitter tears. After this having composed herself as well as she could, she retired to her room, and wrote a letter to her father's solicitor, Mr. Olliphant; informing him, that it had always been her intention to provide handsomely for her cousin Harry Leeson; and now she was of age, it was her desire to do so still. That she had reason to apprehend Mr. Gaveston did not acquiesce in her views; but she could not feel that his dissent released her from her promise, and an obligation voluntarily assumed; and she therefore begged that he would take the earliest opportunity of letting her know what was in her power, &c. But, greatly to her disapointment, she had received no answer to this letter, when the period of Harry's vacation arrived.
​As the academy was not far distant, Mr. Jeremy, who was sent to fetch him, took Harry's pony with him, that the boy might ride home; and as they jogged on together towards Oakfield, the worthy butler told him what he called "a piece of his mind."
"Now, master Harry," said he, "you're grown up to a fine young gentleman, and it's time you learnt a little of what's what, and who's who, and how you are yourself situated with regard to these people."
"What people?" said Harry.
"A certain person," replied Mr. Jeremy. "There's some people, that, like the devil, one ar'n't over fond of calling by their names, lest one should see them looking over one's shoulder—but it's my master I mean—that ever I should live to call him so!—but I shan't call him so much longer; and would not now but for Miss Fanny's sake."
"She's not Miss Fanny now," replied Harry. "I wish she was."
"You may say that, master Harry," replied Jeremy, "and nobody with more reason; and that just brings me to what I wanted to say. As I observed just now, you're grown up a young gentleman by this time, and old enough ​to understand something of human natur, and that sort of thing—not that I think the person we're speaking of has much of that sort of natur in him, but such as he has, you must learn as well as you can to abide by it, and make the best of it, for your own sake, and for the sake of Miss Fanny—for as for calling her by any other name it's a thing I can't do."
"But what has he to do with me?" asked Harry, "I'm not obliged to care for him."
"I wish you wasn't," returned Jeremy, "but he'll find the way to make you care, or I'm much mistaken—which is a thing I never was yet in man or woman. You see, Sir, if your uncle had lived the time that God Almighty intended he should, he'd have provided for you handsomely, I've no doubt; but them as curtailed his life, curtailed your fortin, and that being the case, you must cut your coat according to your cloth."
"But the money's all Fanny's, is not it?" said Harry.
"Not a bawbee of it," replied Mr. Jeremy; "and that's the reason I want to give you a bit of a caution. If the money belonged to Miss Fanny, as it should have done, you might have snapt your fingers at a person that shall be ​nameless, for it's little you have to thank him for; but things being as they are, he can make you or mar you, just as the fit takes him; and the bit of advice I want to give you is this, just to keep in with him, and put up as well as you can with his figaries, and his insolence, and what not, till you've got settled in the world in some way to do for yourself—and then you may pitch him to old Nick for what I care, which according to my private opinion is the place he com'd from."
"Does he behave ill to Fanny?" inquired Harry.
"Does he!" ejaculated Mr. Jeremy. "If you'd been home this last vacation you wouldn't need to ask that. He soon showed his cloven foot, when the parson had joined them together for better and worse. Lord love you! he's worse to live with than a Turk, or a Jew, or a heretic!"
"Is he?" exclaimed Harry, alarmed by the force of Mr. Jeremy's imagery.
"Her eyes that was as bright as diamonds, are dim with tears," said the butler, brushing a drop from his own eye with the cuff of his coat, "and the roses in her cheeks, that her father was so proud of's all washed out on'em."
​"Poor dear Fanny!" said Harry.
"He's no more heart than a flint," continucd Mr. Jeremy, whose indignation made him eloquent; "and a tiger's whelp has more good-ature in his jawtooth than he has in his whole composition! so Master Harry, mind your p's and q's till you can snap your fingers at him, that's all I want to say."
Jeremy's advice was excellent, but unfortunately not easily to be followed by a boy of fifteen, who had more spirit than prudence; and indeed it would have required a very considerable allowance of the latter quality to endure with patience Gaveston's tyranny and insolence to himself, and his hard and arbitrary behaviour towards Fanny. But as it is quite certain that the most forbearing demeanour Harry could have assumed would have been utterly unavailing towards placating Gaveston, whose hatred to him was ingrained, his failure made no great difference in the ultimate result.
As Mrs. Gaveston still hoped to find the means of providing for him, or at least of setting him well afloat in some profession, she took an opportunity of privately consulting him as to which he would select; and he told her that as his papa had been a soldier, he should like, if she ​had no objection, to be one, too; and Fanny acquiesced willingly in his choice. It obviated the necessity of his going to college, which she much feared she might not be able to accomplish; and would remove him very much from Gaveston's path, which, greatly as she grieved herself to part with him, she saw was necessary for all parties.
One day at dinner, shortly after this decision, the conversation happening to turn on the army, Harry said that he hoped he should be a captain as young as his papa had been, for that it was when he was only nineteen, "and as I am only fifteen now," he added, "if I get my commission soon, perhaps I may."
"I hope you will, Harry," said Mrs. Gaveston. "I should like to see you with an epaulet on your shoulder."
"How can you fill that chap's head with such absurd notions, Mrs. Gaveston?" asked her husband. "How's he to get a commission?"
"By purchasing it, I suppose," replied Fanny; "I fear there's not much chance of getting one without."
"About as much chance as there is of getting one with, I fancy," returned Gaveston. "But it's really high time this sort of nonsense was ​put an end to, and that the boy was made to understand his real situation, which you take as much pains to blink from him as if prevent his learning it at last."
"I know I have no money," said Harry, blushing crimson. "There's no need to tell me that."
"And, pray, who do you expect will give you a commission, then ?" said Gaveston.
Harry looked down upon his plate, and the tears swam in his eyes, for he did not like to say he expected Fanny would, lest he should turn the tempest upon her; whilst her face reflected all the poor boy's feelings; and as for Mr. Jeremy, who was standing behind her chair, he grasped the back of it, and clenched his teeth, to keep down the indignation he durst not give vent to.
"He expects I will," returned Fanny; "and with the best reason."
"Then the sooner he is undeceived the better," replied Gaveston, coldly. "What I am willing to do for him, and even that he has no right to expect, I have told you already; and if you did what's right by the boy, you would have endeavoured to open his eyes to the realities of life, instead of filling his head with these ​romantic and extravagant notions, which must end in disappointment. If he chooses to be put to some decent trade—a boot and shoe-maker, for example—there's Wilcox that I deal with, I have no doubt would take him for a small sum—indeed, when I hinted the thing to him, he said he would, to oblige me—if you, young Sir, can make up your mind to exchange the gold epaulet you've been dreaming about for a leathern apron, and the sword for an awl, I'll pay the fee of your apprenticeship. If you don't, you must shift for yourself as you can."
"Then I will shift for myself, Sir," said Harry, rising from the table, and with a bursting heart he quitted the room.
"Oh, Walter!" said Mrs. Gaveston, "if you knew how I love that boy!" and she covered her face with her hands, to hide the tears that were streaming down her cheeks; whilst poor Jeremy, unable any longer to control his feelings, caught up a plate and disappeared.
From that moment Harry's mind was made up. He felt assured that Gaveston would keep his word where the thing promised was to make other people unhappy; and he felt moreover, young as he was, that after the insults he had received he never could condescend to eat the ​bread that that man's purse had provided. "No," said he, "I'll keep my hands free, that by and by, when he has broken poor Fanny's heart, as I am sure he will do, I may challenge him, and have a chance of punishing him for all his cruelty and his insults by blowing out his brains."
What Gaveston had said, had certainly the effect of opening the boy's eyes, as he called it, to his real situation. The darling of his mother, and then the darling of Mr. Wentworth and Fanny, poor Harry had never had occasion to learn what poverty and dependence were; but the lesson was instilled into him now with all its bitterness. He saw that his cousin had no power to protect nor to assist him; and that his presence was only aggravating the misery of her situation in every way. He comprehended what she suffered when she saw him oppressed and insulted; he found that instead of being a comfort to her, he was only an everlasting source of irritation to Gaveston, and of dissension betwixt her and her husband.
It was not without many and bitter tears that poor Harry came to the resolution of leaving Oakfield, and throwing himself upon the world—dear Oakfield, where he had been so happy, and ​so beloved; and that he had felt to be as much his home, as if it had been the house of his father. He thought, too, of that noble and brave father, whom he well remembered; and of his sweet mother, and his kind good uucle—even Dobbs, and Andrew, and Susan—the memory of all that had ever loved him, rushed upon his heart and swelled it almost to bursting.
But it was time to think of the future—that future which is the legitimate inheritance of youth, the field of their enterprise, the arena of their glory, of which it is so cruel to rob them by substituting stern realities for vivid hopes, and mournful truths for bright delusions.
There was but one plan he could think of, and that was to go to London. He had been there once with his uncle, and had seen the morning parade of the guards at St. James's; and it occurred to him that if he went there, he might possibly contrive to make the king acquainted with his situation, and that his papa had been a brave officer, who had fought many battles, and had died in his majesty's service. Then thought Harry, "he couldn't do less than give me a commission." Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte—having accomplished this step, the rest followed naturally; his promotion ​would be rapid, his feats of bravery remarkable—they would inevitably reach his majesty's ears, and when he was summoned down to tea he had just been commanded by the king to rise Sir Harry Leeson.
Engrossed by these visions, Harry felt himself at that moment quite independent of Gaveston and his insolence. He reckoned confidently on the day coming when he would be his superior, and be able to render back scorn for scorn, and insult for insult. Instead therefore of presenting himself in the drawing-room with the subdued and mortified air that Fanny had expected, he entered it with a bright countenance and an erect bearing. She was relieved, attributing it to the natural elasticity of youthful spirits that would rise again, and fling off sorrow; and she was particularly glad, because in the interval between dinner and tea, two visitors had arrived whom she intended to take an opportunity of privately consulting about Harry and his fortunes. These were Mr. Olliphant, the lawyer she had written to on the subject, and Mr. Simpson her father's old clerk, now a joint partner in the concern; she was anxious that they should form a favourable opinion of the boy, and it so happened that ​he never appeared to greater advantage. The laurel wreath he had so lately won was still upon his brow, his satisfaction at his majesty's gracious reception was still dancing in his eyes; and the glory of his martial deeds, and the pride of his well-earned honours pervaded his whole person, tinging his smooth cheek with a bright carmine, and lending firmness and dignity to his carriage.
"How can any one dislike that boy?" was the question that occurred to three of the party as he entered the drawing-room; as for the fourth, Mr. Gaveston, who had expected to meet him with a very different aspect, something like a glimmering of the truth suggested itself to him as the cause of the change.
"He has got some project in his head that's to make his fortune," thought he. "He has found some fool's ladder by which he expects to mount to wealth and fame in a trice; and he'll be cutting his stick and away, some fine morning, to seek them."
Harry had no intention of keeping him long in suspense for the dénouement. On many accounts he felt that if his project was ever to be executed at all, it could not be commenced too soon. He had read in the ​paper only that very morning, that the king, who had been staying at Weymouth, had returned to London, where he was to remain a fortnight, previous to going somewhere else. Thus there was no time to lose. Besides, the weather was beautiful, the nights clear, and the moon at the full. Then his pride spurred him on to the enterprise, and urged him away; and his fears were not much less active. He could not tell the moment that Gaveston would carry him off against his will, and consign him to some odious master, from whom it might be no easy matter to escape; and the very idea of finding himself in his enemy's power, away from Fanny or any body that had an interest in him, was terrific. He saw clearly that, for some reason or other, he was the object of his intense hatred, and a secret instinct told him that Gaveston's hatred was not to be despised. Since he had been older and more capable of reflection and observation, some vague suspicions had arisen in his mind about the fall in the pond, and other accidents that he had been exposed to when in his company. The notions had first found their way into his head through some words dropped by Andrew and Jeremy; and now that the ​antipathy was so evident and so active, and that there was no one to stand between him and it, he shrunk instinctively from the idea of finding himself at his mercy.
The evening passed in general conversation, in which Harry, when the strangers addressed him, freely took his part; and many were the approving glances that passed between them at the answers and remarks he made. As the visitors had not arrived till after dinner, there was a supper, which Harry thought by no means inopportune. He could not tell when he might meet with another good meal; and as he had fared ill at the last repast, he determined to fortify himself for his journey by making himself amends now.
His pride and his hopes kept up his spirits through the whole evening, till the moment came that he was to take leave of Fanny. Then, the feeling that it was his last good night, his last kiss to her that he loved so much, and who so warmly returned his affection, almost overthrew his resolution. He left her too so unhappy; subject to all the humours and tyranny of her odious husband. "But my staying cannot mend that," he said to himself—"I only make it worse; and if I ​can succeed in my project, and once write to her that I am comfortably provided for, I'm sure she'll be much happier than in seeing me the victim of ill treatment she can't prevent."
Soon after the supper was removed, Fanny rose to retire; and he rose too. Gaveston took no notice of him, but the visitors shook hands with him kindly; and then he followed Fanny out of the room. They ascended the stairs together, and when they reached his room door, he threw his arms round her neck and said, "God bless you, dear Fanny!" She thought his flushed cheek and unusual energy arose merely from the events of the day, and she returned his embrace with equal ardour. She longed to tell him that she hoped the visit of the two gentlemen below would result in some satisfactory arrangement for him, and if he had appeared depressed, she would have risked doing so to raise his spirits; but as it was, afraid of awakening hopes she might not be able to fulfil, she thought it better to wait till she had had some communication with her father's friends in the morning.
When Harry had shut himself in his room, ​the tears he had suppressed in Fanny's presence burst forth, and for some minutes the pang of parting with her seemed greater than he was able to encounter. Then once more he invoked the memory of all those who had loved him—his brave papa, his dear beautiful mamma, his kind indulgent uncle, his good and faithful servants. The grief of a young heart is so bitter whilst it lasts, that it's a blessed thing it seldom lasts long. When the paroxysm, whose violence soon exhausted itself, was abated, he arose from his knees—for in that attitude, with his face leaning on the side of his bed, he had wept his last farewell to Oakfield, and recommended himself, a friendless orphan as he was, to the care of his Father in heaven—took up his little bundle and softly descended the stairs. He knew that it would be much easier for him to get away unheard before the door was locked for the night, which in the summer was not done till Mr. Gaveston retired to his room; and he, with the two visitors, was yet at the supper table. So Harry gently opened the door, and stept out upon the gravel walk that surrounded the house. Here he paused to take a last look at his once happy home, at the windows of the room that had been his uncle's, and at the light ​that showed Fanny's shadow as she moved about in her apartment. "Farewell, dear Fanny!" he whispered, and was about to move away, when it occurred to him that he should have left a few lines to account for his disappearance, and relieve in some degree the grief and alarm he was sure his departure would occasion her. He did not dare return into the house lest he should meet Gaveston, and his journey be impeded; so with his pencil he wrote a few words on a scrap of paper he found in his pocket; and folding it so as to attract observation, he placed it on the ledge of the drawing-room window, and secured it with a stone from blowing away. Then without further pause or hesitation he walked briskly down the avenue; and climbing the park gate, which was already locked, he leaped into the high road.
When Mrs. Gaveston descended from her chamber in the morning to take her usual early walk, she found the two visitors already at the door, with their hats on. The moment was convenient for the consultation she desired, for she knew her husband was gone to take a survey of some land he was proposing to purchase, and would not return till breakfast-time. She, therefore, joined them; and opened the ​conference by inquiring of Mr. Olliphant if he had received her letter.
"It is that letter that has occasioned our visit," replied the lawyer. "We thought it was much better to see you than to write; and we should have been here before, but I was out of town when your letter arrived; and my clerk considered the business of too private a nature for him to interfere in."
"Well," said Fanny, "you have seen Harry—what do you think of him?"
"I never saw a finer lad," returned the gentleman—"and it would be a thousand pities that his prospects were blighted for want of a little money," added Mr. Simpson.
"Wouldn't it?" said Fanny, "and that was why I wrote to you, Mr. Olliphant. Unfortunately, Mr. Gaveston does not see him with our eyes; but in a case like this, where I know I should have my dear father's approbation, I shall venture to act for myself. What is there in my power that I can give to Harry?"
"Nothing," replied the lawyer—"not a stiver."
"Oh," exclaimed Fanny, in the greatest alarm, "you don't mean to say I can do nothing for him?"
​"I do mean it, indeed," said Mr. Olliphant. "You must remember that before your marriage, I pointed out to you the consequence of marrying without settlements, or any arrang ement of your property."
"I do recollect that when you were here immediately after my father's death," returned she, "that you said something about it—but I was in such a state of mind that I never thought of it again."
"But when I understood you were about to be married, Mrs. Gaveston, I wrote to you on the subject," said Mr. Olliphant.
"Then I never received your letter," said she. Mr. Simpson and the lawyer exchanged glances. "I said every thing I could on the subject," continued Olliphant; "urged by my friendship for your father, and my regard for you. Besides I had heard you say you intended to provide for this boy, and I thought it right to tell you, that if you did not do it before your marriage, you could not do it after."
"I assure you your letter never reached me," repeated Fanny; "though, possibly, if it had I might still have trusted to being able to do it afterwards, with Mr. Gaveston's consent; for I never expected he would oppose it. But you ​distress me very much—what is to become of poor Harry?"
"Though you can do nothing, my dear lady," said Mr. Olliphant, "here is somebody that's willing to do a great deal, if it will contribute to your happiness," and as he spoke he laid his hand on Mr. Simpson's shoulder.
"Yes," said Mr. Simpson, blowing his nose, and clearing his throat, for he felt something there that almost choked his voice, when he looked at the wan cheeks, and listened to the desponding tones of the once gay and blooming Fanny Wentworth, the child of the man he had loved so much. "Yes, my dear," said he, "let no anxiety about your cousin. Harry disturb your peace. Olliphant and I have foreseen this day, and have provided against it. I am aware that it was your father's intention to give Harry Leeson half the business and ten thousand pounds. The ten thousand pounds he shall have when I die; and the half of the business is his already. I obtained it not for myself—my salary has always far exceeded my expenditure—but for him. Every thing I have in the world I owe to your father, and every thing I have shall go to his children."
This was consolation indeed for Fanny; the ​warm pressure of her hand, and the tears that swam in her eyes, touched the honest man more eloquently than words. "I'll run directly," said she, "and bring Harry that he may learn the good news, and thank you himself. I wonder he has not joined us before this; but, perhaps, he thinks we're talking of business. Harry, dear," said she, gently opening the door and peeping in—"Harry! what, are you not up yet?" for the curtains of his bed were still drawn—but as she received no answer, she stepped into the room. The bed had evidently not been slept in—she flew down stairs—"Who has seen Harry Leeson this morning?" No one. The truth flashed on her mind. "He's gone! He's gone!" she cried, rushing towards the portico.
"And here is his farewell," said Mr. Olliphant. "I was looking at the clematis by the drawing-room window, when this bit of paper caught my eye, and I took it up without reflection. It has evidently been placed there for you."
"Oh, how unfortunate!" exclaimed Fanny. "When he might have been so happy!"
"Never fear," said Mr. Olliphant. "We'll find him again. We'll publish a reward, and ​put an advertisement in the papers inviting him to return; and in the mean time, you had better send out some of your people on horseback to search the country for him."
"He's gone to Lunnun, as sure as my name's John Jeremy," said the butler—"all boys think they can make their fortin there."
The measures proposed were adopted, but without success. Harry Leeson was not to be found.