Mr. Brownlow was sitting in the library doing nothing. That, at least, was his visible aspect. Within himself he had been calculating and reckoning up till his wearied brain whirled with the effort. He sat leaning his arms on the table and his head in his hands. By this time his powers of thought had failed him. He sat looking on, as it were, and saw the castle of his prosperity crumbling down into dust before him. Every thing he had ever aimed at seemed to drop from him. He had no longer any thing to conceal; but he knew that he had stood at the bar before his children, and had been pardoned but not justified. They would stand by him, but they did not approve him; and they had seen the veil of his heart lifted, and had looked in and found darker things there than he himself had ever been conscious of. He was so absorbed in this painful maze of thought that he did not even look up when Jack came in. Of course Jack would come; he knew that. Jack was ruined; they were all ruined. All for the advantage of a miserable woman who would get no comfort out of her inheritance, whose very life was hanging on a thread. It seemed hard to him that Providence, which had always been so kind to him, should permit it. When his son came in and drew a chair to the other side of the table he roused himself. “Is it you, Jack?” he said; “I am so tired that I fear I am stupid. I was very hard driven last night.”
“Yes,” said Jack, with a little shudder; and Mr. Brownlow looked at him, and their eyes met, and they knew what each had meant. It was a hard moment for the father who had been mad, and had come to his senses again, but yetdid not know what horrible suspicion it was under which for a moment he had lain.
“I was hard driven,” he repeated, pathetically—“very hard put to it. I had been standing out for a long time, and then in a moment I broke down—that is how it was. But I shall be able to talk it all over with you—by and by.”
“That was what I came for, sir,” said Jack. “We must know what we are to do.”
And then Mr. Brownlow put down his supporting hands from his head, and steadied himself in a wearied wondering way. Jack for the moment had the authority on his side.
Mr. Brownlowand his son were a long time together. They talked until the autumn day darkened, and they had no more light for their calculations. Mr. Brownlow had been very weary, even stupefied. He had entered upon the conversation because he could not resist Jack’s eagerness, and the decided claim he made to know fully a business which so much concerned him. He had a right to know, which his father could not dispute; but nevertheless all the events of the past twenty-four hours had worn Mr. Brownlow out. He was stupefied; he did not know what had happened; he could not recollect the details. When his attention was fully arrested, a certain habit of business kept him on, and his mind was clear enough when they went into figures, and when he had to make his son aware of the magnitude of the misfortune which had almost thrown his own mind off its balance. The facts were beyond all comment. It was simple ruin; but such was the nature of the men, and their agreement in it, that they both worked out their reckoning unflinchingly, and when they saw what it was, did not so much as utter an exclamation. They laid down, the one his pen and the other his pencil, as the twilight darkened round them. There was no controversy between them. It was nobody’s fault. Jack might have added a sting to every thing by reproaching his father for the ignorance in which he had been brought up, but he had no mind for any such useless exasperation. Things were as bad as bad could be; therefore they brought their calculations to an end very quietly, and came to the same conclusion as the darkness closed over them. They sat for a minute on opposite sides of the table, not looking at each other, with their papers before them, and their minds filled with one sombre thought. Whether it was that or the mere fall of day which was closing round them neither could have told—only that under this dull oppression there was in Jack’s mind a certain wild suppressed impatience, an overwhelming sense of all that was included in the crisis; while his father in the midst of it could not repress a strange longing to throw himself down upon the sofa, to close his eyes, to be alone in the silence and darkness. Rest was his most imperative want. The young man’s mind was thrilling with a desire to be up and at his troubles, to fight and make some head against them. But then things were new to Jack; whereas to Mr. Brownlow, who had already made a long and not guiltless struggle, the only thing apparent and desirable was rest—to lie down and be quiet for a little, to have no question asked him, nothing said to him, or, if it should please God, to sleep.
Jack, however, was not the man, under the circumstances, to let his father get either sleep or rest. After they had made all the calculations possible, and said every thing that was to be said, he did not go away, but sat silent, biting his nails and pondering much in his mind. They had been thus for about half an hour without exchanging a word, when he suddenly broke into speech.
“It must go into Chancery, I suppose?” he said. “She has got to prove her identity, and all that. You will have time at least to realize all your investments. Too much time perhaps.”
“She is an old woman,” said Mr. Brownlow. He was thinking of nothing beyond the mere matter of fact, and there was no meaning in his voice, but yet it startled his son. “And you were to marry her daughter. I had almost forgotten that. You were very decided on the subject last time you spoke to me. In that case every thing would be yours.”
“I hope she may live forever!” said Jack, getting up from his chair; “and she has no intention of giving me her daughter now—not that her intention matters much,” he said to himself, half muttering, as he stood with his hand on the table. The change was bewildering. He would have his Pamela still, whatever any body might say; but to run away with his pretty penniless darling, and work for her and defy the world for her, was very different from running away with the little heiress who had a right to every penny he had supposed his own. It was very hard upon him; but all the same he had no intention of giving in. No idea of self-sacrifice ever crossed his mind. It made the whole matter more confusing, more disagreeable—but any body’s intention mattered very little, father or mother; he meant to have his love and his way all the same.
“It does matter,” said Mr. Brownlow. “It had much better never go into Chancery at all. I never had any objections to the girl—you need not be impatient. I always liked the girl. She is like your mother. I never knew what it was—” Then Mr. Brownlow made a little pause. “Poor Bessie!” he said, though it was an exclamation that did not seem called for. It was this fortune that had first made him think of Bessie. It was for her sake—for the sake of making a very foolish marriage—that he had made use of the money which at first was nothing but a plague and burden to him. Somehow she seemed to come up before him now it was melting away, and he knew that the charm of Pamela’s dewy eyes and fresh face had been their resemblance to Bessie. The thought softened his heart, and yet made it sting and ache. “This matter is too important for temper or pride,” he went on, recovering himself. “If we are to treat as enemies, of course I must resist, and it will be a long suit, and perhaps outlive us all. But if you are to be her daughter’s husband, the question is different. You are the natural negotiator between us.”
“I can’t be; it is impossible,” cried Jack; and then he sat down again in his chair in a sort of sullen fury with himself. Of course he was the natural negotiator. It was weakness itself to think of flinching from so plain a duty; and yet he would rather have faced a battery or led a forlorn hope.
“You must be,” said Mr. Brownlow. “We are all excited at this present moment; but there can be no doubt of what your position entails. You are my son, and you are, against my will, contrary to my advice, engaged to her daughter. Unless you mean to throw off the girl you love because she has suddenly become an heiress—”
“I mean nothing of the sort,” cried Jack, angrily. “I shall never throw her off.”
“Then you can’t help having an interest in her fortune;—and doing the best you can for her,” said his father, after a pause.
Then again silence fell upon the two. It was natural and reasonable, but it was utterly repugnant, even though one of them thus urged it, to both. A thing may be recommended by good sense, and by all the force of personal interest, and yet may be more detestable than if it was alike foolish and wicked. This was how it seemed to Jack; and for Mr. Brownlow, in the whirl of ruin which had sucked him in, it was as yet but a poor consolation that his son might get the benefit. Acting by the dictates of nature he would rather have kept his son at his side to share his fortune and stand by him. Yet it was his duty to advise Jack to go over to the other side and take every thing he had from him, and negotiate the transfer of his fortune—to “do the best he could,” in short, for his father’s adversary. It was not an expedient agreeable to either, and yet it was a thing which reason and common sense demanded should be done.
While they sat thus gloomily together, the household went on in a strangely uncomfortable way outside. The men came straggling in from their shooting, or whatever they had been doing; and, though Sara was with the ladies, every body knew by instinct, as it seemed, that her father and brother were consulting together over something very serious, shut up in the library, Mr. Brownlow neglecting his business and Jack his pleasure. If it had only been business that was neglected, nobody would have been surprised; but when things were thus pushed beyond that natural regard for appearances which is born with Englishmen, they must be serious indeed. Then, of course, to make matters worse, the gentlemen came in earlier than usual. It was their curiosity, the elder ladies said to each other, for every body knows that it is men who are the true gossips and ferret every thing out; but, however that might be, it threw additional embarrassment upon Sara, who stood bravely at her post—a little flushed, perhaps, and unnaturally gay, but holding out with dauntless courage. She had every thing to take on her own shoulders. That night, as it happened by unlucky chance, there was to be a dinner-party. Sir Charles Motherwell and his mother were coming, and were to stay all night; and the rector was coming, he who knew the house better than any body else, and would be most quick of all to discover the difference in it. The recollection of the gathering in the evening had gone out of Mr. Brownlow’s mind and even Jack had forgotten all about it. “Like men!” Sara said to herself, indignantly. She had every thing to do, though she had not slept all night, and had not escaped her share of the excitement of the day. She had to give all the orders and make all the arrangements, and now sat dauntless pouring out the tea, keeping every body at bay, acknowledging the importance of the crisis only by unusual depth of color on her cheek, and an unusual translucent sheen in her big eyes. They did not flash or sparkle as other eyes might have done, but shone like globes full of some weird and visionary light. She had an answer ready for every body, and yet all the while she was racking her mind to think what could they be doing down stairs, what decision could they be coming to? She was doing her part stoutly in ignorance and patience, spreading her pretty draperies before them, as it were, and keeping the world at arm’s length. “Oh, yes, the Motherwells are coming,” she said, “but they will come dressed for dinner, which none of us are as yet. They are only at Ridley—they have not very far to come. Yes, I think we had better have a dance. Jack is not good for much in that way. He never was. He was always an out-of-doors sort of boy.”
“He does not seem to care for out-of-doors either,” said one of the young ladies; “and, Sara, I wonder what has happened to him. He always looks as if he were thinking of something else.”
“Something else than—what?” said Sara. “He has something else than us to think of—if that is what you mean. He is not one of your idle people—” which speech was met by a burst of laughter.
“Oh no; he is very diligent; he loves business,” said young Keppel. “We are all aware of that.”
“He is not at the bar, you know,” retorted the dauntless Sara. “He has not briefs pouring in upon him like—some people. But it is very good of you to take so much notice of us between the circuits—is that the right word? And to reward you, you shall manage the dance? Does Sir Charles dance? I suppose so—all common people do.”
“Sara, my love, don’t speak so,” said one of the matrons. “The Motherwells are one of the best families in the country. I don’t know what you mean by common people.”
“I mean people who are just like other people,” said Sara, “as we all are. If we did not wear different colored dresses and have different-colored hair and eyes, I don’t see how we could be told from each other. As for gentlemen generally, youknowone never knows which is which!” she cried, appealing to the candor of her friends. “We pretend to do it, to please them. Half of them have light beards and half of them have dark, and one never gets any farther; except with those whom one has the honor to know,” said Sara, rising and making a courtesy to the young men who were round her. Then, amid laughter and remonstrances, they all went fluttering away—too early, as most of the young people thought—to their rooms to dress. And some of them thought Sara “reallytoo bad;” and some were sure the gentlemen did not like it. The gentlemen, however, did not seem to mind. They said to each other, “By Jove! how pretty she was to-night;” and some of them wondered how much money she would have; and some supposed she would marry Charley Motherwell after all. And, for the moment, what with dinner approaching and the prospect of the dance after, both the ladies and the men forgot to wonder what could be the matter with the family, and what Mr. Brownlow was saying to Jack.
But as for Sara, she did not forget. Though she was first to move, she was still in the drawing-room when they all went away, and came pitifully up to the big fire which sent gleams of light about through all the dark room, and knelt down on the hearth and warmed her hands, and shivered, not with cold, but excitement. Her eyes were big and nervous and dilated; but though her tears came easily enough on ordinary occasions, to-night she did not cry. She knelt before the fire and held out her hands to it, and then wrung them hard together, wondering how she should ever be able to go through the evening, and what they were doing down stairs, and whether she should not go and remind them of the dinner. It seemed to her as if for the moment she had got rid of her enemies, and had time to think; but she was too restless to think, and every moment seemed an hour to her. As soon as the steps and voices of the guests became inaudible on the stairs, she got up, and went down to seek them out in the library. There were two or three servants in the hall, more than had any right to be there, and Willis, who was standing at the foot of the stairs, came up to her in a doubtful, hesitating way. A gentleman had come up from the office, he said; but he did not like to disturb Master, as was a-talking with Mr. John in the library. The gentleman was in the dining-room. Would Miss Sara see him, or was her papa to be told? Sara was so much excited already, that she saw in this visitor only some new trouble, and jumped at the idea of meeting it herself, and perhaps saving her father something. “I will see him,” she said; and she called up all her resolution, and went rapidly, with the haste of desperation, into the dining-room. The door had closed behind her, and she had glided past the long, brilliant, flower-decked table to where somebody was standing by the fire-place ere she really thought what she was doing. When the stranger started and spoke, Sara woke up as from a dream; and when she found it was Powys who was looking at her—looking anxious, wistful, tender, not like the other people—the poor girl’s composure failed her. She gave him one glance, and then all the tears that had been gathering in her eyes suddenly burst forth. “Oh, Mr. Powys, tell me what it is all about!” she cried, holding out her hands to him. And he, not knowing what he was doing, not thinking of himself or of his love, only penetrated to the heart by her tears, sprang forward and took her into his arms and comforted her. There was one moment in which neither of them knew. For that brief instant they clung to each other unwitting, and then they fell apart, and stood and looked at each other, and trembled, not knowing in their confusion and consciousness and trouble what to say.
“Don’t be angry with me!” he cried; “I did not know what I was doing—I did not mean—forgive me!—you were crying, and I could not bear it; how could I stand still and see you cry?”
“I am not angry,” said Sara, softly. Never in her life had she spoken so softly before. “I know you did not mean it; I am in such terrible trouble; and they never told me it was you.”
Then Powys crept closer once more, poor young fellow, knowing he ought not, but too far gone for reason. “But itisI,” he said, softly touching the hand with which she leaned on the mantle piece,—“to serve you—to do any thing—any thing! only tell me what there is that I can do?”
Then she looked up with her big lucid eyes, and two big tears in them, and smiled at him though her heart felt like to burst, and put out her hands again, knowing this time what she was doing; and he took them, half-crazed with the joy and the wickedness. “I came up with some papers,” he said; “I came against my will; I never thought, I never hoped to see you; and your father will think I have done it dishonorably on purpose; tell me, oh, tell me, what I can do.”
“I don’t think you can do any thing,” said Sara, “nor any body else. I should not speak to you, but I can’t help it. We are in great trouble. And then you are the only one I could speak to,” said the girl, with unconscious self-betrayal. “I think we have lost every thing we have in the world.”
“Lost every thing!” said Powys; his eyes began to dance, and his cheek to burn—“lost every thing!” It was he now who trembled with eagerness, and surprise, and joy. “I don’t want to be glad,” he cried, “but I could work for you, slave for you—I shouldn’t mind what I did—”
“Oh, hush!” cried Sara, interrupting him, “I think I hear papa: it might not matter for us, but it is him we ought to think of. We have got people coming, and I don’t know what to do—I must go to papa.”
Then the young man stood and looked at her wistfully. “I can’t help you with that,” he said, “I can’t be any good to you—the only thing I can do is to go away; but, Sara! you have only to tell me; you know—”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes to him once more, and the two big tears fell, and her lips quivered as she tried to smile; she was not angry—“yes,” she said, “I know;” and then there were sounds outside, and in a moment this strange, wild, sweet surprise was over. Sara rushed out to the library without another word, and Powys, tingling to the very points of his fingers, gave his bundle of papers to Willis to be given to Mr. Brownlow, and said he would come back, and rushed out into the glare of Lady Motherwell’s lamps as her carriage came sweeping up the avenue. He did not know who the little old lady was, nor who the tall figure with the black mustache might be in the corner of the carriage; but they both remarked him as he came down the steps at a bound. It gave them their first impression of something unusual about the house. “It is seven now,” Lady Motherwell said, “and dinner ought to be in half an hour—what an odd moment to go away.” She was still more surprised to see no one but servants when she entered,and to be shown into the deserted drawing-room where there was not a sign of any one about. “I don’t know what they mean by it, Charley,” Lady Motherwell said; “Mr. Brownlow or somebody was always here to receive us before.” Sir Charles did not say any thing, but he pulled his mustache, and he, too, thought it was rather queer.
When Sara rushed into the library not five minutes before Lady Motherwell’s arrival, the consultation there had been broken up. Jack, notwithstanding his many preoccupations, had yet presence of mind enough to remember that it was time to dress, as well as to perceive that all had been said that could be said. Mr. Brownlow was alone. He had stolen to the sofa for which he had been longing all the afternoon, and had laid himself down on it. The room was very dimly lighted by a pair of candles on the mantle-piece. It was a large room, and the faint twinkle of those distant lights made it look ghostly, and it was a very strange sight to see Mr. Brownlow lying on a sofa. He roused himself when Sara came in, but it was with an effort, and he was very reluctant to be disturbed. “Seven o’clock!” he said—“is it seven o’clock? but leave me a little longer, my darling; ten minutes is enough for dress.”
“Oh, papa,” said Sara, “it is dreadful to think of dress at all, or any thing so trifling, on such a day; but we must do it—people will think—; I am sure even already they may be thinking—”
“Yes,” said Mr. Brownlow, vaguely—“I don’t think it matters—I would rather have five minutes’ sleep.”
“Papa,” said Sara in desperation, “I have just seen Mr. Powys—he has come with some papers—that is, I think he has gone away. He came to—to—I mean he told me he was sent to—I did not understand what it was, but he has gone away—”
“Ah, he has gone away,” said Mr. Brownlow, sitting up; “that is all right—all right. And there are the Motherwells coming. Sara, I think Charles Motherwell is a very honest sort of man.”
“Yes, papa,” said Sara. She was too much excited and disturbed to perceive clearly what he meant, and yet the contrast of the two names struck her dimly. At such a moment what was Charles Motherwell to her?
“I think he’s a very good fellow,” said Mr. Brownlow, rising; and he went and stirred the smoldering fire. Then he came up to where she stood, watching him. “We shall have to go and live in the house at Masterton,” he said, with a sigh. “It will be a strange place for such a creature as you.”
“I don’t see why it should be strange for me,” said Sara; and then her face blazed suddenly with a color her father did not understand. “Papa, I shall have you all to myself,” she said, hurriedly, feeling in her heart more than half a hypocrite. “There will be no troublesome parties like this, and nobody we don’t want to see.”
Mr. Brownlow looked at her half suspiciously; but he did not know what had happened in those two minutes beside the fruit and flowers in the dining-room. He made a desperate effort to recover himself, and to take courage and play out his part steadily to the end.
“We must get through it to-night,” he said. “We must keep up for to-night. Go and put on all your pretty things, my darling. You have had to bear the brunt of every thing to-day.”
“No, papa; it does not matter,” said Sara, smothering the longing she had to cry, and tell him—tell him?—she did not know what. And then she turned and put her one question. “Is it true?—have we nothing? Is it all as that terrible woman said?”
Mr. Brownlow put his hand on her arm and leaned upon her, slight prop as she was. “You were born in the old house in Masterton,” he said, with a certain tone of appeal in his voice; “your mother lived in it. It was bright enough once.” Then he stopped and led her gently toward the door. “But, Sara, don’t forget,” he said hurriedly, “I think a great deal of Charles Motherwell—I am sure he is kind and honest and true.”
“He has nothing to do with us!” said Sara, with a thrill of fear.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow, almost humbly. “I don’t know—if it might be best for you—”
And then he kissed her and sent her away. Sara flew to her own room with her heart beating so loud that it almost choked her. So many excitements all pressing on her together—so many things to think of—was almost more than an ordinary brain could bear. And to dress in all her bravery and go down and look as if nothing had happened—to sit at the head of the table just there where she had been standing half an hour before—to smile and talk and look her best as if every thing was steady under her feet, and she knew of no volcano! And then, to crown all, Sir Charles Motherwell! In the height of her excitement it was perhaps a relief to her to think how at least she would crush that one pretendant. If it should be the last act of her reign at Brownlows, there would be a certain poetic justice in it. If he was so foolish, if he was so persistent, Sara savagely resolved that she would let him propose this time. And then! But then she cried, to Angelique’s great discomfiture, without any apparent reason. What was to be done with a young lady who left herself but twenty minutes to dress in, and wept in an unprovoked and exasperating way in the middle of it? Sara was so shaken and driven about by emotion and by self-restraint that she was humble to Angelique in the midst of all her own tumults of soul.
Thedinner passed over without, so far as the guests were aware, any special feature in it. Jack might look out of sorts, perhaps, but then Jack had been out of sorts for some time past. As for Sara, the roses on her cheeks were so much brighter than usual, that some people went so far as to suppose she had stooped to the vulgar arts of the toilet. Sir Charles Motherwell was by her side, and she was talking to him with more than ordinary vivacity. Mr. Brownlow, for his part, looked just as usual. People do not trouble themselves to observe whether the head of the house, when it is a manof his age, looks pale or otherwise. He talked just as usual; and though, perhaps, it was he who had suffered most in this crisis, it did not cost him so much now as it did to his son and daughter. And the new people who came only for the evening, and knew nothing about it, amused the people who were living at Brownlows, and had felt in the air some indication of the storm. Every thing went on well, to the amazement of those who were principally concerned—that is to say, every thing went on like a dream; the hours and all the sayings and doings in them, even those which they themselves did and said, swept on, and carried with them the three who had anxieties so much deeper at heart. Sara’s cheeks kept burning crimson all the night; and Mr. Brownlow stood apart and talked heavily with one or other of his guests; and Jack did the best he could—going so far as to dance, which was an exercise he did not much enjoy. And the guests called it “a very pleasant evening,” with more than ordinary sincerity. When the greater part of those heavy hours had passed, and they began to see the end of their trial, a servant came into the room and addressed himself to Jack, who was just then standing with his partner in the pause of a waltz. Sara, though she was herself flying round the room at the moment, saw it, and lost breath. Mr. Brownlow saw it from the little inner drawing-room. It seemed to them that every eye was fixed upon that one point, but the fact was nobody even noticed it but themselves and Jack’s partner, who was naturally indignant when he gave up her hand and took her back to her seat. Somebody wanted to see him, the servant said—somebody who would not take any answer, but insisted on seeing Mr. John—somebody from the cottages at the gate. It was Willis himself who came, and he detracted in no way from the importance of the communication. His looks were grave enough for a plenipotentiary. His master, looking at him, felt that Willis must know all; but Willis, to tell the truth, knew nothing. He felt that something was wrong, and, with the instinct of a British domestic, recognized that it was his duty to make the most of it—that was all. Jack went out following him, but the people who did not know there was any thing significant in his going, took very little notice of it. The only visible consequence was, that thenceforward Sara was too tired to dance, and Mr. Brownlow forgot what he was saying in the middle of a sentence. Simple as the cause might be, it was alarming to them.
Jack asked the man no questions as he went down stairs; he was himself wound-up and ready for any thing. Whatever additional hardship or burden might come, his position could scarcely be made worse. So he was in a manner indifferent. What could it matter? In the hall he found Mrs. Swayne standing wrapped up in a big shawl. She was excited, and fluttered, and breathless, and almost unable to speak, and the shawl which was thrown over her head showed that she had come in haste. She put her hand on jack’s arm, and drew him to a side out of hearing of the servants, and then her message burst forth.
“It’s not what I ever thought I’d come to. It ain’t what I’d do, if e’er a one of us were in our right senses,” she cried. “But you must come down to her this very moment. Come along with me, Mr. John. It’s that dark I’ve struck my foot again’ every tree, and I’ve come that fast I ain’t got a bit of breath left in my body. Come down to her this very moment. Come along with me.”
“What is the matter?” said Jack.
“Matter! It’s matter enough,” gasped Mrs. Swayne, “or it never would have been me to come leaving my man in his rheumatics, and the street door open, and an old shawl over my head. And there ain’t one minute to be lost. Get your hat and something to keep you warm, and I’ll tell you by the way. It’s bitter cold outside.”
In spite of himself Jack hesitated. His pride rose up against the summons. Pamela had left him and gone over to her mother’s side, and her mother was no longer a nameless poor woman, but the hard creditor who was about to ruin him and his. Though he had vowed that he would never give her up, yet somehow at that moment his pride got the better of his love. He hesitated, and stood looking at the breathless messenger, who herself, in her turn, began to look at him with a certain contempt.
“If you ain’t a-coming, Mr. John,” said Mrs. Swayne, “say so—that’s all as I ask. Not as I would be any way surprised. It’s like men. When you don’t want ’em, they’ll come fast enough; but when you’re in need, and they might be of some use—Ugh! that ain’t my way. I wouldn’t be the wretch as would leave that poor young critter in her trouble, all alone.”
“All alone—what do you mean?” said Jack, following her to the door, and snatching his hat as he passed. “How can she be alone? Did she send you? What trouble is she in? Woman, can’t you tell me what you mean?”
“I won’t be called woman by you, not if you was ten times as grand—not if you was a duke or a lord,” said Mrs. Swayne, rushing out into the night. Beyond the circle of the household lights, the gleaming lamp at the door and lighted windows, the avenue was black as only a path in the heart of the country can be. The night was intensely dark, the rain drizzling, and now and then a shower of leaves falling with the rain. Two or three long strides brought Jack up with the indignant Mrs. Swayne, who ran and stumbled, but made indifferent progress. He took hold of her arm, and in his excitement unconsciously gave her a shake.
“Keep by me and I’ll guide you,” he said; “and tell me in a word what is the matter, and how she happens to be alone.”
Then Mrs. Swayne’s passion gave way to tears. “You’d think yourself alone,” she cried, “if you was left with one as has had a shock, and don’t know you no more than Adam, and ne’er a soul in the house, now I’m gone, but poor old Swayne with his rheumatics, as can’t stir, not to save his life. You’d think it yourself if it was you. But catch a man a-forgetting of hisself like that; and the first thought in her mind was for you. Oh me! oh me! She thought you’d ha’ come like an arrow out of a bow.”
“A shock?” said Jack vaguely to himself; and then he let go his hold of Mrs. Swayne’s arm. “I can’t wait for you,” he said; “I can be there quicker than you.” And he rushedwildly into the darkness, forsaking her. He was at the gate before the bewildered woman, thus abandoned, could make two steps in advance. As he dashed past old Betty’s cottage, he saw inside the lighted window a face he knew, and though he did not recognize who it was, a certain sense of help at hand came over him. Another moment and he was in Mrs. Swayne’s cottage, so far recollecting himself as to tread more softly as he rushed up the dark and narrow stair. When he opened the door, Pamela gave but one glance round to greet him. She was alone, as Mrs. Swayne had said. On the bed by which she stood lay a marble figure, dead to all appearance except for its eyes. Those eyes moved in the strangest, most terrible way, looking wildly round and round, now at the ceiling, now at the window, now at Pamela, imperious and yet agonized. And poor little Pamela, soft girlish creature, stood desperate, trying to read what they said. She had not a word to give to Jack—not even a look, except for one brief moment. “What does she want—what does she want?” she cried. “Oh, mamma! mamma! will you nottryto speak?”
“Is there no one with you?” said Jack. “Have you sent for the doctor? How long has she been like this? My darling! my poor little darling! Has the doctor seen her yet?”
“I sent for you,” said Pamela, piteously. “Oh, what does she want? I think she could speak if she would only try.”
“It is the doctor she wants,” cried Jack. “That is the first thing;” and he turned and rushed down stairs still more rapidly than he had come up. The first thing he did was to go across to old Betty’s cottage, and send the old woman to Pamela’s aid, or at least, if aid was impossible, to remain with her. There he found Powys, who was waiting till the guests went away from Brownlows. Him Jack placed in Mrs. Swayne’s parlor, to be ready to lend any assistance that might be wanted, or to call succor from the great house if necessary; and then he himself buttoned his coat and set off on a wild race over hedge and field for the doctor. The nearest doctor was in Dewsbury, a mile and a half away. Jack knew every step of the country, and plunged into the unseen by-ways and across the ploughed fields; in so short a time that Mrs. Swayne had scarcely reached her own house before he dashed back again in the doctor’s gig. Then he went into the dark little parlor to wait and take breath. He was in evening-dress, just as he had been dancing; his light varnished boots were heavy with ploughed soil and wet earth, his shirt wet with rain, his whole appearance wild and disheveled. Powys looked at him with the strange mixture of repugnance and liking that existed between the young men, and drew forward a chair for him before the dying fire.
“Why did not you let me go?” he said. “I was in better trim for it than you.”
“You did not know the way,” said Jack; “besides there are things that nobody can do for one.” Then he added, after a pause, “Her daughter is going to be my wife.”
“Ah!” said Powys, with a sigh, half of sympathy, half of envy. He did not think of Jack’s circumstances in any speculative way, but only as comparing them with his own hard and humble fate, who should never have a wife, as he said to himself—to whom it was mere presumption, madness, to think of love at all.
“Yes,” said Jack, putting his wet feet to the fire; and then he too gave forth a big sigh from his excited breast, and felt the liking grow stronger than the repugnance, and that he must speak to some one or die.
“It is a pretty mess,” he said; “I thought they were very poor, and it turns out she has a right to almost all my father has—trust-money that was left to him if he could not find her; and he was never able to find her. And, at last, after all was settled between us, she turns up; and now, I suppose, she’s going to die.”
“I hope not,” said Powys, not knowing what answer to make.
“It’s easy to say you hope not,” said Jack, “but she will—you’ll see she will. I never saw such a woman. And then what am I to do?—forsake my poor Pamela, who does not know a word of it, because she is an heiress, or marry her and rob my father? You may think yours is a hard case, but I’d like to know what you would do if you were me?”
“I should not forsake her, anyhow,” said Powys, kindling with the thought.
“And neither shall I, by Jove,” said Jack, getting up in his vehemence. “What should I care for fathers and mothers, or any fellow in the world? It’s all that cursed money—that’s what it always is. It comes in your way and in my way wherever a man turns—not that one can get on without it either,” said Jack, suddenly sitting down and leaning over the fire with his face propped up in his two hands.
“Some of us have got to do without it,” said Powys, with a short laugh, though he did not see any thing amusing in it. Yet there was a certain bitter drollery in the contrast between his own little salary and the family he had already to support on it, and Jack’s difficulties at finding that his Cinderella had turned into a fairy princess. Jack gave a hasty glance at him, as if fearing that he himself was being laughed at. But poor Powys had a sigh coming so close after his laugh that it was impossible to suspect him of mockery. Jack sighed too, for company. His heart was opened; and the chance of talking to any body was a godsend to him in that moment of suspense.
“Were you to have been with us this evening?” he said. “Why did not you come? My father always likes to see you.”
“He does not care to see me now,” said Powys, with a little bitterness; “I don’t know why. I went up to carry him some papers, against my will. He took me to your house as first against my own judgment. It would have been better for me I had walked over a precipice or been struck down like the poor lady up stairs.”
“No,” said Jack, pitying, and yet there was a touch of condescension in his voice. “Don’t say so—not so bad as that. A man may make a mistake, and yet it need not kill him. There’s the doctor—I must hear what he has to say.”
The doctor came in looking very grave. He said there were signs of some terrible mental tumult and shock she had received; that all the symptoms were of the worst kind, and that he had no hope whatever for her life. She might recoverher faculties and be able to speak; but it was almost certain she must die. This was the verdict pronounced upon Mrs. Preston as the carriage lamps of the departing guests began to gleam down the avenue, and old Betty rushed across to open the gates, and the horses came prancing out into the road. Pamela caught a momentary glimpse of them as she moved about the room, and it suddenly occurred to her to remember her own childish delight at the sight when she first came. And oh, how many things had happened since then! And this last of all which she understood least. She was sick with terror and wonder, and her head ached and her heart throbbed. They were her mother’s eyes which looked at her so, and yet she was afraid of them. How was she ever to live out the endless night?
It was a dreadful night for more people than Pamela. Powys went up to the great house very shortly after to carry the news to Mr. Brownlow, who was so much overcome by it that he shivered and trembled and looked for the moment like a feeble old man. He sank down into his chair, and could not speak at first. “God forgive me,” he said when he had recovered himself. “I am afraid I had ill thoughts of her—very ill thoughts in my head. Sara, you heard all—was I harsh to her? It could not be any thing I said?”
“No, papa,” said Sara, trembling, and she came to him and drew his head for a moment to her young, tremulous, courageous breast. And Powys stood looking on with a pang in his heart. He did not understand what all this meant, but he knew that she was his and yet could not be his. He dared not go and console her as he had done in his madness when they were alone.
Mr. Brownlow would not go to bed; he sat and watched, and sent for news through the whole long night. And Powys, who knew only by Jack’s short and incoherent story what important issues were involved, served him faithfully as his messenger coming and going. The thoughts that arose in Mr. Brownlow’s mind were not to be described. It was not possible that compunction such as that which moved him at first could be his only feeling. As the hours went on, a certain strange mixture of satisfaction and reproach against Providence came into his mind. He said Providence in his mind, being afraid and ashamed to say God. If Providence was about to remove this obstacle out of his way, it would seem but fitting and natural; but why, then why, when it was to be, not have done it a few days sooner? Two days sooner?—that would have made all the difference. Now the evil she had done would not die with her, though it might be lessened. In these unconscious inarticulate thoughts, which came by no will of his, which haunted him indeed against his will, there rose a certain upbraiding against the tardy fate. It was too late. The harm was done. As it was, it seemed natural that his enemy should be taken out of his way, for Providence had ever been very kind to him—but why should it be this one day too late?
Jack sat down stairs in Mrs. Swayne’s parlor all the night. The fire went out, and he had not the heart to have it lighted: one miserable candle burned dully in the chill air. Now and then Powys came in from the darkness without, glowing from his rapid walk; sometimes Mrs. Swayne came creaking down stairs to tell him there was no change; once or twice he himself stole up to see the same awful sight. Poor Pamela, for her part, sat by the bedside half stupefied by her vigil. She had not spirit enough left to give one answering look to her lover. Her brain was racking with devices to make out what her mother meant. She kept talking to her, pleading with her, entreating—oh, if she would but try to speak! and ever in desperation making another and another effort to get at her meaning. Jack could not bear the sight. The misery, and darkness, and suspense down stairs were less dreadful at least than this. Even the doctor, though he knew nothing of what lay below, had been apparently excited by the external aspect of affairs, and came again before day-break to see if any change were perceptible. It was that hour of all others most chilling and miserable; that hour which every watcher knows, just before dawn, when the darkness seems more intense, the cold more keen, the night more lingering and wretched than at any other moment. Jack in his damp and thin dress walked shivering about the little black parlor, unable to keep still.
She might die and make no sign; and if she did so, was it possible still to ignore all that had happened, and to bestow her just heritage on Pamela only under cover as his wife? This was the question that racked him as he waited and listened; but when the doctor went up just before day-break a commotion was heard in the room above. Jack stood still for a moment holding his breath, and then he rushed up stairs. Before he got into the room there arose suddenly a hoarse voice, which was scarcely intelligible. It was Mrs. Preston who was speaking. “What was it? what was it?” she was crying wildly. “What did I tell you, child?” and then, as he opened the door, a great outcry filled the air. “Oh, my God, I’ve forgotten—I’ve forgotten!” cried the dying woman. She was sitting up in her bed in a last wild rally of all her powers. Motion and speech had come back to her. She was propping herself up on her two thin arms, thrusting herself forward with a strained and excessive muscular action, such as extreme weakness sometimes is equal to. As she looked round wildly with the same eager impotent look that had wrung the beholders’ hearts while she was speechless, her eye fell on Jack, who was standing at the door. She gave a sudden shriek of mingled triumph and entreaty. “You can tell them,” she said—“you can tell me—come and tell me—tell me! Pamela, there is one that knows.”
“Oh, mamma, I don’t want to hear,” cried Pamela; “oh, lie down and take what the doctor says; oh, mamma, mamma, if you care for me! Don’t sit up and wear out your strength, and break my heart.”
“It’s for you—it’s all for you!” cried the sufferer; and she moved the hands on which she was supporting herself, and threw forward her ghastly head, upon which Death itself seemed to have set its mark. “I’ve no time to lose—I’m dying, and I’ve forgotten it all. Oh, my God, to think I should forget! Come here, if you are a man, and tell me what it was!”
Jack stepped forward like a man in a dream. He saw that she might fall and die the next moment; her worn bony arms began to tremble, her head fell forward, her eyes staring at him seemed to loosen in their sockets. Perhaps she had but half an hour longer to live. The strength of death was in her no less than its awful weakness. “Tell me,” she repeated, in a kind of babble, as if she could not stop. Pamela, who never thought nor questioned what her mother’s real meaning was, kept trying, with tears and all her soft force, to lay her down on the pillows; and the doctor, who thought her raving, stood by and looked on with a calm professional eye, attributing all her excitement to the delirium of death. In the midst of this preoccupied group Jack stood forward, held by her eye. An unspeakable struggle was going on in his mind. Nobody believed there was any meaning in her words. Was it he that must give them a meaning, and furnish forth the testimony that was needed against himself? It was but to be silent, that was all, and no one would be the wiser. Mrs. Swayne, too, was in the room, curious but unsuspicious. They all thought it was she who was “wandering,” and not that he had any thing to tell.
Then once more she raised her voice, which grew harsher and weaker every moment. “I am dying,” she cried; “if you will not tell me I will speak to God. I will speak to him—about it—he—will send word—somehow. Oh my God, tell me—tell me—what was it?—before I die.”
Then they all looked at him, not with any real suspicion, but wondering. Jack was as pale almost as the dying creature who thus appealed to him. “I will tell you,” he said, in a broken voice. “It was about money. I can’t speak about legacies and interest here. I will speak of it—when—you are better. I will see—that she has her rights.”
“Money!” cried Mrs. Preston, catching at the word—“money—my mother’s money—that is what it was. A fortune, Pamela! and you’ll have friends—plenty of friends when I’m gone. Pamela, Pamela, it’s all for you.”
Then she fell back rigid, not yielding, but conquered; for a moment it seemed as if some dreadful fit was coming on; but presently she relapsed into the state in which she had been before—dumb, rigid, motionless, with a frame of ice, and two eyes of fire. Jack staggered out of the room, broken and worn out; the very doctor, when he followed, begged for wine, and swallowed it eagerly. It was more than even his professional nerves could bear.
“She ought to have died then,” he said; “by all sort of rules she ought to have died; but I don’t see much difference in her state now; she might go on like that for days—no one can say.”
Jack was not able to make any answer; he was worn out as if with hard work; his forehead was damp with exhaustion; he too gulped down some of the wine Mrs. Swayne brought them, but he had no strength to make any reply.
“Mr. Brownlow, let me advise you to go home,” said the doctor; “no one can do any good here. You must make the young lady lie down, Mrs. Swayne. There will be no immediate change, and there is nothing to be done but to watch her. If she should recover consciousness again, don’t cross her in any thing: give her the drops if possible, and watch—that’s all that can be done. I shall come back in the course of the day.”
And in the grey dawning Jack too went home. He was changed; conflict and doubt had gone out of him. In their place a sombre cloud seemed to have taken him up. It was justice, remorseless and uncompromising, that thus overshadowed him. Expediency was not to be his guide—not though it should be a thousand times better, wiser, more desirable, than any other course of action. It was not what was best that had now to be considered, but only what was right. It never occurred to him that any farther struggle could be made. He felt himself no longer Pamela’s betrothed lover, whose natural place was to defend and protect her, but her legal guardian and adviser, bound to consider her interests and make the best of every thing; the champion, not of herself, but of her fortune—that fortune which seemed to step between and separate them forever. When he was half-way up the avenue it occurred to him that he had forgotten Powys, and then he went back again to look for him. He had grown as a brother to him during this long night. Powys, however, was gone. Before Jack left the house he had set off for Masterton with the instinct of a man who has his daily work to do, and can not indulge in late hours. Poor fellow! Jack thought in his heart. It was hard upon him to be sacrificed to Mr. Brownlow’s freak and Sara’s vanity. But though he was himself likely to be a fellow-sufferer, it did not occur to Jack to intercede for Powys, or even to imagine that now he need not be sacrificed. Such an idea never entered into his head. Every thing was quiet in Brownlows when he went home. Mr. Brownlow had been persuaded to go to his room, and except the weary and reproachful servant who admitted Jack, there was nobody to be seen. He went up to his own room in the cold early day-light, passing by the doors of his visitors with a certain bitterness, and at the same time contempt. He was scornful of them for their ignorance, for their indifference, for their faculty of being amused and seeing no deeper. A parcel of fools! he said to himself; and yet he knew very well they were not fools, and was more thankful than he could express that their thoughts were directed to other matters, and that they were as yet unsuspicious of the real state of affairs. Every body was quite unsuspicious, even the people who surrounded Pamela. They saw something was amiss, but they had no idea what it was. Only himself, in short, knew to its full extent the trouble which had overwhelmed him. Only he knew that it was his hard fate to be his father’s adversary, and the legal adviser of his betrothed bride; separated from the one by his opposition, from the other by his guardianship. He would win the money away from his own flesh and blood, and he would lose them in doing so; he would win it for his love, and in the act he would lose Pamela. Neither son nor lover henceforward, neither happy and prosperous in taking his own will, nor beloved and cherished in standing by those who belonged to him. He would establishPamela’s rights, and secure her in her fortune, but never could he share that fortune. It was an inexorable fate which had overtaken him. Just as Brutus, but with no praise for being just; this was to be his destiny. Jack flung himself listlessly on his bed, and turned his face from the light. It was a cruel fate.
Theguests at Brownlows next morning got up with minds a little relieved. Notwithstanding the evident excitement of the family, things had passed over quietly enough, and nothing had happened, and indifferent spectators easily accustom themselves to any atmosphere, and forget the peculiarities in it. There might still be a smell of brimstone in the air, but their organs were habituated, and failed to perceive it. After breakfast Sir Charles Motherwell had a little talk with Mr. Brownlow, as his smoked his morning cigar in the avenue; but nobody, except perhaps his mother, who was alive to his movements, took any notice of what he was doing. Once more the men in the house were left to themselves; but it did not strike them so oddly as on the day before. And Sara, for her part, was easier in her mind. She could not help it. It might be wicked even, but she could not help it. She was sorry Mrs. Preston should die; but since Providence had so willed it, no doubt it was the best for every body. This instinctive argument came to Sara as to all the rest. Nobody was doing it. It was Providence, and it was for the best. And Jack would marry Pamela, and Sara would go with her father to Masterton, and, but for the shock of Mrs. Preston’s death, which would wear off in the course of nature, all would go merry as a marriage bell. This was how she had planned it all out to herself; and she saw no difficulty in it. Accordingly, she had very much recovered her spirits. Of course, the house at Masterton would not be so pleasant as Brownlows; at least—in some things it might not be so pleasant—but—And so, though she might be a little impatient, and a little preoccupied, things were decidedly brighter with Sara that morning. She was in the dining-room as usual, giving the housekeeper the benefit of her views about dinner, when Sir Charles came in. He saw her, and he lingered in the hall waiting for her, and her vengeful project of the previous night occurred to Sara. If she was to be persecuted any more about him, she would let him propose; charitably, feelingly, she had staved off that last ceremony; but now, if she was to be threatened with him—if he was to be thrown in her face—And he looked very sheepish and awkward as he stood in the hall, pulling at the black mustache which was so like a respirator. She saw him, and she prolonged his suspense, poor fellow. She bethought herself of a great many things she had to say to the housekeeper. And he stood outside, like a faithful dog, and waited. When she saw that he would not go away, Sara gave in to necessity. “Lady Motherwell is in the morning-room, and all the rest,” she said, as she joined him; and then turned to lead the way up stairs.
“I don’t want to see my mother,” he said, with a slight shudder, she thought; and then he made a very bold effort. “Fine morning,” said Sir Charles; “aw—would you mind taking a little walk?”
“Taking a walk?” said Sara, in amaze.
“Aw—yes—or—I’d like to speak to you for ten minutes,” said Sir Charles, with growing embarrassment; “fact is, Miss Brownlow, I don’t want to see my mother.”
“That is very odd,” said Sara, tempted to laughter; “but still you might walk by yourself, without seeing Lady Motherwell. There would not be much protection in having me.”
“It was not for—protection, nor—nor that sort of thing,” stammered Sir Charles, growing very red—“fact is, Miss Brownlow, it was something I had to say—to you—”
“Oh!” said Sara: she saw it was coming now; and fortified by her resolution, she made no farther effort to smother it. This, at least, she could do, and nobody had any right to interfere with her. She might be in her very last days of sovereignty; a few hours might see her fallen—fallen from her high estate; but at least she could refuse Charley Motherwell. That was a right of which neither cruel father nor adverse fortune could deprive her. She made no farther resistance, or attempt to get away. “If it is only to speak to me, we can talk in the library,” she said; “it is too early to go out.” And so saying she led the way into Mr. Brownlow’s room. Notwithstanding the strange scenes she had seen in it, it did not chill Sara in her present mood. But it evidently had a solemnizing effect on Sir Charles. She walked across to the fire, which was burning cheerfully, and placed herself in one of the big chairs which stood by, arranging her pretty skirts within its heavy arms, which was a troublesome operation; and then she pointed graciously to the other. “Sit down,” she said, “and tell me what it is about.”
It was not an encouraging opening for a bashful lover. It was not like this that she had received Powys’s sudden wild declarations, his outbursts of passionate presumption. She had been timid enough then, and had faltered and failed to herself, somewhat as poor Sir Charles was doing. He did not accept her kind invitation to seat himself, but stood before her in front of the fire, and looked more awkward than ever. Poor fellow, he had a great deal on his mind.
“Miss Brownlow,” he burst out, all at once, after he had fidgeted about for five minutes, pulling his mustache and looking at her, “I am a bad fellow to talk. I never know what to say. I’ve got into heaps of scrapes from people mistaking what I mean.”
“Indeed, I am sure I am very sorry,” said Sara; “but I think I always understand what you mean.”
“Yes,” he said, with relief, “aw—I’ve observed that. You’re one that does, and my mother’s one; but never mind my mother just now,” he went on precipitately. “For instance, when a fellow wants to ask a girl to marry him, every thing has to be understood—a mistake about that would be awful—would be dreadful—I mean, you know, it wouldn’t do.”
“It wouldn’t do at all,” said Sara, looking athim with terrible composure, and without even the ghost of a smile.
“Yes,” said Sir Charles, revolving on his own axis, “it might be a horrid mess. That’s why I wanted to see you, to set out with, before I spoke to my mother. My mother’s a little old-fashioned. I’ve just been talking to Mr. Brownlow. I can make my—aw—any girl very comfortable. It’s not a bad old place; and as for settlements and that sort of thing—”
“I should be very glad to give you my advice, I am sure,” said Sara, demurely; “but I should like first to know who the lady is.”
“The lady!” cried Sir Charles—“aw—upon my word, it’s too bad. That’s why I said every thing must be very plain. Miss Brownlow, there’s not a girl in the world but yourself—not one!—aw—you know what I mean. I’d go down on my knees, or any thing; only you’d laugh, I know, and I’d lose my—my head.” All this he said with immense rapidity, moving up and down before her. Then he suddenly came to a stand-still and looked into her face. “I know I can’t talk,” he said; “but you know, of course, it’s you. What would be the good of coming like this, and—and making a fool of myself, if it wasn’t you?”
“But it can’t be me, Sir Charles,” said Sara, growing, in spite of herself, out of sympathy, a little agitated, and forgetting the humor of the situation. “It can’t be me—don’t say any more. If you only knew what has been happening to us—”
“I know,” cried Sir Charles, coming a step closer; “that’s why—though I don’t mean that’s why from the commencement, for I only heard this morning; and that’s why I don’t want to see my mother. You need not think it matters to me—I’ve got plenty, and we could have your father to live with us, if you like.”
Sara stood up with the intention of making him a stately and serious answer, but as she looked at his eager face, bent forward and gazing down at her, a sudden change came over her feelings. She had been laughing at him a moment before; now all at once, without any apparent provocation, she burst into tears. Sir Charles was very much dismayed. It did not occur to him to take advantage of her weeping, as Powys had done. He stared, and he drew a step farther back, and fell into a state of consternation. “I’ve said something I ought not to have said,” he exclaimed; “I know I’m a wretched fellow to talk; but then I thought you would understand.”
“I do understand,” cried Sara, in her impulsive way; “and papa was quite right, and I am a horrid wretch, and you are the best man in the world!”
“Not so much as that,” said Sir Charles, with a smile of satisfaction, which showed all his teeth under his black mustache; “but as long as you are pleased—Don’t cry. We’ll settle it all between us, and make him comfortable; and as for you and me—”
He made a step forward, beaming with content as he spoke, and poor Sara, drying her eyes hastily, and waking up to the urgency of the situation, retreated as he advanced.
“But, Sir Charles,” she cried, clasping her hands—“oh! what a wretch I am to take you in and vex you. Stop! I did not mean that. I meant—oh! I could kill myself—I think you are the best and kindest and truest man in the world, but it can never be me!”
Sir Charles stopped short. That air of flattered vanity and imbecile self-satisfaction with which most men receive the idea of being loved, suddenly yielded in his face to intense surprise. “Why? how? what? I don’t understand,” he stammered; and stood amazed, utterly at a loss to know what she could mean.
“It can never be me!” cried Sara. “I am not much good. I don’t deserve to be cared for. You will find somebody else a great deal nicer. There are girls in the house even—there is Fanny. Don’t be angry. I don’t think there is any thing particular in me.”
“But it is only you I fancy,” cried Sir Charles, deluded, poor man, by this humility, and once more lighting up with complaisance and self-satisfaction. “Fact is, we could be very comfortable together. I don’t know about any other girls. You’re nice enough for me.”
Then Sara sank once more into the chair where a few minutes before she had established herself with such state and dignity. “Don’t say any more,” she cried again, clasping her hands. “Don’t! I shall like you and be grateful to you all my life; but it can never be me!”
If Sara had been so foolish as to imagine that her unimpassioned suitor would be easily got rid of, she now found out her error. He stared at her, and he took a little walk around the table, and then he came back again. The facts of the case had not penetrated his mind. Her delicate intimations had no effect upon him. “If you like me,” he said, “that’s enough—fact is, I don’t see how any girl could be nicer. They say all girls talk like this at first. You and I might be very comfortable; and as for my mother—you know if you wanted to have the house to yourself—”
“Would you be so wicked as to go and turn out your mother?” cried Sara, suddenly flashing into indignation, “and for a girl you know next to nothing about? Sir Charles, I never should have expected this of you.”
Poor Sir Charles fell back utterly disconcerted. “It was all to make you comfortable,” he said. “Of course I’d like my mother to stay. It was all for you.”
“And I told you it could never be me,” cried Sara—“never! I am going to Masterton with papa to take care of him. It is he who wants me most. And then I must say good-bye to every body; I shall only be the attorney’s daughter at Masterton; we shall be quite different; but, Sir Charles, I shall always like you and wish you well. You have been so very good and kind to me.”
Then Sara waved her hand to him and went toward the door. As for Sir Charles, he was too much bewildered to speak for the first moment. He stood and stared and let her pass him. It had never entered into his mind that this interview was to come to so abrupt an end. But before she left the room he had made a long step after her. “We could take care of him at Motherwell,” he said, “just as well. Miss Brownlow, look here. It don’t make any difference to me. If you had not a penny, you are just the same as you always were. If you like me, that is enough for me.”
“But I don’t like you!” said Sara, in desperation,turning round upon him with her eyes flashing fiercely, her mouth quivering pathetically, her tears falling fast. “I mean I like somebody else better. Don’t, please, say any more—thanks for being so good and kind to me; and good-bye—good-bye!”
Then she seized his hand like the vehement creature she was, and clasped it close in her soft hands, and turned and fled. That was the only word for it. She fled, never pausing to look back. And Sir Charles, utterly bewildered and disconcerted, stayed behind. The first thing he did was to walk back to the fire, the natural attraction of a man in trouble. Then he caught a glimpse of his own discomfited countenance in the glass. “By George!” he said to himself, and turned his back upon the rueful visage. It was the wildest oath he ever permitted himself, poor fellow, and he showed the most overwhelming perturbation. He stood there a long time, thinking it over. He was not a man of very fine feelings, and yet he felt very much cast down. Though his imagination was not brilliant, it served to recall her to him with all her charms. And his honest heart ached. “What do I care for other girls?” he said to himself. “What good is Fanny to me?” He stood half the morning on the hearth-rug, sometimes turning round to look at his own dejected countenance in the glass, and sometimes to poke the fire. He had no heart to put himself within reach of his mother, or to look at the other girls. When the bell rang for luncheon he rushed out into the damp woods. Such a thing had never happened in his respectable life before: and this was the end of Sir Charles Motherwell’s little romance.
Sara, though she did not regret Sir Charles, was more agitated than she could have supposed possible when she left the library; there are young ladies, no doubt, who are hardened to it; but an ordinary mortal feels a little sympathetic trouble in most cases, when she has had to decide (so far) upon another creature’s fate. And though he was not bright, he had behaved very well; and then her own affairs were in such utter confusion. She could not even look her future in the face, and say she had any prospects. If she were to live a hundred years, how could she ever marry her father’s clerk? and how could he so much as dream of marrying her—he who had nothing, and a family to maintain? Poor Sara went to her own room, and had a good cry over Sir Charles in the first (but least) place, and herself in the second. What was to become of her? To be the attorney’s daughter in Masterton was not the brightest of fates—and beyond that—She cried, and she did not get any satisfaction from the thought of having refused Sir Charles. It was very, very good and nice of him—and oh, if it had only been Fanny on whom he had set his fancy! Her eyes were still red when she went down stairs, and it surprised her much to see her father leaving the morning-room as she approached. Lady Motherwell was there with a very excited and pale face, and one or two other ladies with a look of consternation about them. One who was leaving the room stopped as she did so, took Sara in her arms, though it was quite uncalled for, and gave her a hasty kiss. “My poor dear!” said this kind woman. As for Lady Motherwell, she was in quite a different state of mind.
“Where is Charley?” she cried. “Miss Brownlow, I wish you would tell me where my son is. It is very strange. He is a young man who never cares to be long away from his mother; but since we have been in this house, he has forsaken me.”
“I saw him in the library,” said Sara. “I think he is there now. I will go and call him, if you like.” This she said because she was angry; and without any intention of doing what she said.
“I am much obliged to you, I am sure,” said the old lady, who, up to this moment, had been so sweet to Sara, and called her by every caressing name. “I will ring and send a servant, if you will permit me. We have just been hearing some news that my dear boy ought to know.”
“If it is something papa has been telling you, I think Sir Charles knows already,” said Sara. Lady Motherwell gave her head an angry toss, and rang the bell violently. She took no farther notice of the girl whom she had professed to be so fond of. “Inquire if Sir Charles Motherwell is below,” she said. “Tell him I have ordered my carriage, and that his man is putting up his things. We are going in half an hour.”
It was at this moment the luncheon bell rang, and Sir Charles plunged wildly out into the woods. Perhaps the sound of the bell mollified Lady Motherwell. She was an old lady who liked luncheon. Probably it occurred to her that to have some refreshment before she left would do nobody any harm. Her son could not make any proposals at table under her very eyes; or perhaps a touch of human feeling came over her. “I meant to say we are going directly after luncheon,” she said, turning to Sara. “You will be very glad to get rid of us all, if Mr. Brownlow really means what he says.”
“Oh, yes, he means it,” said Sara, with a little smile of bitterness, “but it is always best to have luncheon first. I think you will find your son down stairs.”
“You seem to know,” said Lady Motherwell; “perhaps that is why we have had so little of your company this morning. The society of young men is pleasanter than that of old ladies like me.”
“The society ofsomeyoung men is pleasant enough,” said Sara, unable to suppress the retort; and she stood aside and let her guest pass, sweeping in her long silken robes. Lady Motherwell headed the procession; and of the ladies who followed, two or three made little consoling speeches to Sara as they clustered after her. “It will not turn out half so bad as your papa supposes,” said one. “I don’t see that he had any need to tell. We have all had our losses—but we don’t go and publish them to all the world.”
“And if it should be as bad, never mind, Sara,” said another. “We shall all be as fond of you as ever. You must not think it hard-hearted if we go away.”
“Oh, Sara dear, I shall be so sorry to leave you; but he would not have told us,” said a third, “if he had not wanted us to go away.”
“I don’t know what you all mean,” said Sara. “I think you want to make me lose my senses. Is it papa that wants you to go away?”
“He told us he had lost a great deal of money, and perhaps he might be ruined,” said thelast of all, twining her arm in Sara’s. “You must come to us, dear, if there is any breaking-up. But perhaps it may not be as bad as he says.”
“Perhaps not,” said Sara, holding up her head proudly. It was the only answer she made. She swept past them all to her place at the head of the table, with a grandeur that was quite unusual, and looked round upon her guests like a young queen. “Papa,” she said, at the top of her sweet young voice, addressing him at the other end of the table, “when you have unpleasant news to tell, you should not tell it before luncheon. I hope it will not hurt any body’s appetite.” This was all the notice she took of the embarrassing information that had thrown such a cloud of confusion over the guests. Mr. Brownlow, too, had recovered his calm. He had meant only to tell Lady Motherwell, knowing at the moment that her son was pleading his suit with Sara down stairs. He had told Sir Charles, and the news had but made him more eager; and, with a certain subtle instinct that came of his profession, Mr. Brownlow, that nobody might be able to blame him, went and told the mother too. It was Lady Motherwell’s amazed and indignant exclamations that spread the news. And now both he and the old lady were equally on tenter-hooks of expectation. They wanted to know what had come of it. Sara, for any thing they knew, might be Sir Charley’s betrothed at this moment. Mr. Brownlow, with a kind of hope, tried to read what was in his child’s face, and Lady Motherwell looked at her with a kind of despair. Sara, roused to her full strength, smiled and baffled them both.
“Sir Charles is in the library,” she said. “Call him, Willis; he might be too much engaged—he might not hear the bell.”
But at this moment another bell was heard, which struck strangely upon the excited nerves of the company. It was the bell at the door, which, as that door was always open, and there was continually some servant or other in the hall, was never rung. On this occasion it was pulled wildly, as by some one in overwhelming haste. The dining-room door was open at the moment, and the conversation at table was so hushed and uncomfortable, that the voice outside was clearly audible. It was something about “Miss Sara,” and “to come directly.” They all heard it, their attention being generally aroused. Then came a rush which made every one start and turn round. It was Mrs. Swayne, with her bonnet thrust over her eyes, red and breathless with running. “She’s a-dying—she’s a-dying,” said the intruder. “And I’m ready to drop. And, Miss Sara, she’s a-calling for you.”