When Harry Annesley returned from Cheltenham, which he did about the beginning of February, he was a very happy man. It may be said, indeed, that within his own heart he was more exalted than is fitting for a man mortal,—for a human creature who may be cut off from his joys to-morrow, or may have the very source of his joy turned into sorrow. He walked like a god, not showing it by his outward gesture, not declaring that it was so by any assumed grace or arrogant carriage of himself; but knowing within himself that that had happened down at Cheltenham which had all but divested him of humanity, and made a star of him. To no one else had it been given to have such feelings, such an assurance of heavenly bliss, together with the certainty that, under any circumstances, it must be altogether his own, for ever and ever. It was thus he thought of himself and what had happened to him. He had succeeded in getting himself kissed by a young woman.
Harry Annesley was in truth very proud of Florence, and altogether believed in her. He thought the better of himself because Florence loved him,—not with the vulgar self-applause of a man who fancies himself to be a lady-killer and therefore a grand sort of fellow, but in conceiving himself to be something better than he had hitherto believed, simply because he had won the heart of this one special girl. During that half-hour at Cheltenham she had so talked to him, and managed in her own pretty way so to express herself, as to make him understand that of all that there was of her he was the only lord and master. "May God do so to me, and more also, if to the end I do not treat her not only with all affection, but also with all delicacy of observance." It was thus that he spoke to himself of her, as he walked away from the door of Mrs. Mountjoy's house in Cheltenham.
From thence he went back to Buston, and entered his father's house with all that halo of happiness shining round his heart. He did not say much about it, but his mother and his sisters felt that he was altered; and he understood their feelings when his mother said to him, after a day or two, that "it was a great shame" that they none of them knew his Florence.
"But you will have to know her—well."
"That's of course; but it's a thousand pities that we should not be able to talk of her to you as one whom we know already." Then he felt that they had, among them all, acknowledged her to be such as she was.
There came to the rectory some tidings of the meeting which had taken place at the Hall between his uncle and Miss Thoroughbung. It was Joe who brought to them the first account; and then farther particulars leaked out among the servants of the two houses. Matthew was very discreet; but even Matthew must have spoken a word or two. In the first place there came the news that Mr. Prosper's anger against his nephew was hotter than ever. "Mr. Harry must have put his foot in it somehow." That had been Matthew's assurance, made with much sorrow to the house-keeper, or head-servant, at the rectory. And then Joe had declared that all the misfortunes which had attended Mr. Prosper's courtship had been attributed to Harry's evil influences. At first this could not but be a matter of joke. Joe's stories as he told them were full of ridicule, and had no doubt come to him from Miss Thoroughbung, either directly or through some of the ladies at Buntingford. "It does seem that your aunt has been too many for him." This had been said by Molly, and had been uttered in the presence both of Joe Thoroughbung and of Harry.
"Why, yes," said Joe. "She has had him under the thong altogether, and has not found it difficult to flog him when she had got him by the hind leg." This idea had occurred to Joe from his remembrance of a peccant hound in the grasp of a tyrant whip. "It seems that he offered her money."
"I should hardly think that," said Harry, standing up for his uncle.
"She says so; and says that she declared that ten thousand pounds would be the very lowest sum. Of course she was laughing at him."
"Uncle Prosper doesn't like to be laughed at," said Molly.
"And she did not spare him," said Joe. And then she had by heart the whole story, how she had called him Peter, and how angry he had been at the appellation.
"Nobody calls him Peter except my mother," said Harry.
"I should not dream of calling him Uncle Peter," said Molly. "Do you mean to say that Miss Thoroughbung called him Peter? Where could she have got the courage?" To this Joe replied that he believed his aunt had courage for anything under the sun. "I don't think that she ought to have called him Peter," continued Molly. "Of course after that there couldn't be a marriage."
"I don't quite see why not," said Joe. "I call you Molly, and I expect you to marry me."
"And I call you Joe, and I expect you to marry me; but we ain't quite the same."
"The Squire of Buston," said Joe, "considers himself Squire of Buston. I suppose that the old Queen of Heaven didn't call Jupiter Jove till they'd been married at any rate some centuries."
"Well done, Joe," said Harry.
"He'll become fellow of a college yet," said Molly.
"If you'll let me alone I will," said Joe. "But only conceive the kind of scene there must have been at the house up there when Aunt Matty had forced her way in among your uncle's slippers and dressing-gowns. I'd have given a five-pound note to have seen and heard it."
"I'd have given two if it had never occurred. He had written me a letter which I had taken as a pardon in full for all my offences. He had assured me that he had no intention of marrying, and had offered to give me back my old allowance. Now I am told that he has quarrelled with me again altogether, because of some light word as to me and my concerns spoken by this vivacious old aunt of yours. I wish your vivacious old aunt had remained at Buntingford."
"And we had wished that your vivacious old uncle had remained at Buston when he came love-making to Marmaduke Lodge."
"He was an old fool! and, among ourselves, always has been," said Molly, who on the occasion thought it incumbent upon her to take the Thoroughbung rather than the Prosper side of the quarrel.
But, in truth, this renewed quarrel between the Hall and the rectory was likely to prove extremely deleterious to Harry Annesley's interests. For his welfare depended not solely on the fact that he was at present heir presumptive to his uncle, nor yet on the small allowance of two hundred and fifty pounds made to him by his uncle, and capable of being withdrawn at any moment, but also on the fact, supposed to be known to all the world,—which was known to all the world before the affair in the streets with Mountjoy Scarborough,—that Harry was his uncle's heir. His position had been that of eldest son, and indeed that of only child to a man of acres and squire of a parish. He had been made to hope that this might be restored to him, and at this moment absolutely had in his pocket the check for sixty-two pounds ten which had been sent to him by his uncle's agent in payment of the quarter's income which had been stopped. But he also had a farther letter, written on the next day, telling him that he was not to expect any repetition of the payment. Under these circumstances, what should he do?
Two or three things occurred to him. But he resolved at last to keep the check without cashing it for some weeks, and then to write to his uncle when the fury of his wrath might be supposed to have passed by, offering to restore it. His uncle was undoubtedly a very silly man; but he was not one who could acknowledge to himself that he had done an unjust act without suffering for it. At the present moment, while his wrath was hot, there would be no sense of contrition. His ears would still tingle with the sound of the laughter of which he had supposed himself to have been the subject at the rectory. But that sound in a few weeks might die away, and some feeling of the propriety of justice would come back upon the poor man's mind. Such was the state of things upon which Harry resolved to wait for a few weeks.
But in the mean time tidings came across from the Hall that Mr. Prosper was ill. He had remained in the house for two or three days after Miss Thoroughbung's visit. This had given rise to no special remarks, because it was well known that Mr. Prosper was a man whose feelings were often too many for him. When he was annoyed it would be long before he would get the better of the annoyance; and during such periods he would remain silent and alone. There could be no question that Miss Thoroughbung had annoyed him most excessively. And Matthew had been aware that it would be better that he should abstain from all questions. He would take the daily newspaper in to his master, and ask for orders as to the daily dinner, and that would be all. Mr. Prosper, when in a fairly good humor, would see the cook every morning, and would discuss with her the propriety of either roasting or boiling the fowl, and the expediency either of the pudding or the pie. His idiosyncrasies were well known, and the cook might always have her own way by recommending the contrary to that which she wanted,—because it was a point of honor with Mr. Prosper not to be led by his servants. But during these days he simply said, "Let me have dinner and do not trouble me." This went on for a day or two without exciting much comment at the rectory. But when it went on beyond a day or two it was surmised that Mr. Prosper was ill.
At the end of a week he had not been seen outside the house, and then alarm began to be felt. The rumor had got abroad that he intended to go to Italy, and it was expected that he would start, but no sign came of his intended movements; not a word more had been said to Matthew on the subject. He had been ordered to admit no visitor into the house at all, unless it were some one from the firm of Grey & Barry. From the moment in which he had got rid of Miss Thoroughbung he had been subject to some dread lest she should return. Or if not she herself, she might, he thought, send Soames & Simpson, or some denizen from the brewery. And he was conscious that not only all Buston, but all Buntingford was aware of what he had attempted to do. Every one whom he chanced to meet would, as he thought, be talking of him, and therefore he feared to be seen by the eye of man, woman, or child. There was a self-consciousness about him which altogether overpowered him. That cook with whom he used to have the arguments about the boiled chicken was now an enemy, a domestic enemy, because he was sure that she talked about his projected marriage in the kitchen. He would not see his coachman or his groom, because some tidings would have reached them about that pair of ponies. Consequently he shut himself up altogether, and the disease became worse with him because of his seclusion.
And now from day to day, or, it may be more properly said, from hour to hour, news came across to the rectory of the poor squire's health. Matthew, to whom alone was given free intercourse with his master, became very gloomy. Mr. Prosper was no doubt gloomy, and the feeling was contagious. "I think he's going off his head; that's what I do think," he said, in confidential intercourse with the cook.
That conversation resulted in Matthew's walking across to the rectory, and asking advice from the rector; and in the rector paying a visit to the Hall. He had again consulted with his wife, and she had recommended him to endeavor to see her brother. "Of course, what we hear about his anger only comes from Joe, or through the servants. If he is angry, what will it matter?"
"Not in the least to me," said the rector; "only I would not willingly trouble him."
"I would go," said the rector's wife, "only I know he would require me to agree with him about Harry. That, of course, I cannot do."
Then the rector walked across to the Hall, and sent up word by Matthew that he was there, and would be glad to see Mr. Prosper, if Mr. Prosper were disengaged. But Matthew, after an interval of a quarter of an hour, came back with merely a note: "I am not very well, and an interview at the present moment would only be depressing. But I would be glad to see my sister, if she would come across to-morrow at twelve o'clock. I think it would be well that I should see some one, and she is now the nearest.—P.P." Then there arose a great discussion at the rectory as to what this note indicated. "She is now the nearest!" He might have so written had the doctor who attended him told him that death was imminent. Of course she was the nearest. What did the "now" mean? Was it not intended to signify that Harry had been his heir, and therefore the nearest; but that now he had been repudiated? But it was of course resolved that Mrs. Annesley should go to the Hall at the hour indicated on the morrow.
"Oh yes; I'm up here; where else should I be,—unless you expected to find me in my bed?" It was thus that he answered his sister's first inquiry as to his condition.
"In bed? Oh no! Why should any one expect to find you in bed, Peter?"
"Never call me by that name again!" he said, rising up from his chair, and standing erect, with one arm stretched out. She called him Peter, simply because it had been her custom so to do during the period of nearly fifty years in which they had lived in the same parish as brother and sister. She could, therefore, only stare at him and his tragic humor, as he stood there before her. "Though of course it is madness on my part to object to it! My godfather and godmother christened me Peter, and our father was Peter before me, and his father too was Peter Prosper. But that woman has made the name sound abominable in my ears."
"Miss Thoroughbung, you mean?"
"She came here, and so be-Petered me in my own house,—nay, up in this very room,—that I hardly knew whether I was on my head or my heels."
"I would not mind what she said. They all know that she is a little flighty."
"Nobody told me so. Why couldn't you let me know that she was flighty beforehand? I thought that she was a person whom it would have done to marry."
"If you will only think of it, Peter—" Here he shuddered visibly. "I beg your pardon, I will not call you so again. But it is unreasonable to blame us for not telling you about Miss Thoroughbung."
"Of course it is. I am unreasonable, I know it."
"Let us hope that it is all over now."
"Cart-ropes wouldn't drag me up to the hymeneal altar,—at least not with that woman."
"You have sent for me, Peter—I beg pardon. I was so glad when you sent. I would have come before, only I was afraid that you would be annoyed. Is there anything that we can do for you?"
"Nothing at all that you can do, I fear."
"Somebody told us that you were thinking of going abroad." Here he shook his head. "I think it was Harry." Here he shook his head and frowned. "Had you not some idea of going abroad?"
"That is all gone," he said, solemnly.
"It would have enabled you to get over this disappointment without feeling it so acutely."
"I do feel it; but not exactly the disappointment. There I think I have been saved from a misfortune which would certainly have driven me mad. That woman's voice daily in my ear could have had no other effect. I have at any rate been saved from that."
"What is it, then, that troubles you?"
"Everybody knows that I intended it. All the country has heard of it. But yet was not my purpose a good one? Why should not a gentleman marry if he wants to leave his estate to his own son?"
"Of course he must marry before he can do that."
"Where was I to get a young lady—just outside of my own class? There was Miss Puffle. I did think of her. But just at the moment she went off with young Tazlehurst. That was another misfortune. Why should Miss Puffle have descended so low just before I had thought of her? And I couldn't marry quite a young girl. How could I expect such a one to live here with me at Buston, where it is rather dull? When I looked about there was nobody except that horrid Miss Thoroughbung. You just look about and tell me if there was any one else. Of course my circle is circumscribed. I have been very careful whom I have admitted to my intimacy, and the result is that I know almost nobody. I may say that I was driven to ask Miss Thoroughbung."
"But why marry at all unless you're fond of somebody to be attached to?"
"Ah!"
"Why marry at all? I say. I ask the question knowing very well why you intended to do it."
"Then why do you ask?" he said, angrily.
"Because it is so difficult to talk of Harry to you. Of course I cannot help feeling that you have injured him."
"It is he that has injured me. It is he that has brought me to this condition. Don't you know that you've all been laughing at me down at the rectory since this affair of that terrible woman?" While he paused for an answer to his question Mrs. Annesley sat silent. "You know it is true. He and that man whom Molly means to marry, and the other girls, and their father and you, have all been laughing at me."
"I have never laughed."
"But the others?" And again he waited for a reply. But the no reply which came did as well as any other answer. There was the fact that he had been ridiculed by the very young man whom it was intended that he should support by his liberality. It was impossible to tell him that a man who had made himself so absurd must expect to be laughed at by his juniors. There was running through his mind an idea that very much was due to him from Harry; but there was also an idea that something too was due from him. There was present, even to him, a noble feeling that he should bear all the ignominy with which he was treated, and still be generous. But he had sworn to himself, and had sworn to Matthew, that he would never forgive his nephew. "Of course you all wish me to be out of the way?"
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is true. How happy you would all be if I were dead, and Harry were living here in my place."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, I do. Of course you would all go into mourning, and there would be some grimace of sorrow among you for a few weeks, but the sorrow would soon be turned into joy. I shall not last long, and then his time will come. There! you may tell him that his allowance shall be continued, in spite of all his laughing. It was for that purpose that I sent for you. And, now you know it, you can go and leave me." Then Mrs. Annesley did go, and rejoiced them all up at the rectory by these latest tidings from the Hall. But now the feeling was, how could they show their gratitude and kindness to poor Uncle Prosper?
"Mr. Barry has given me to understand that he means to come down to-morrow." This was said by Mr. Grey to his daughter.
"What does he want to come here for?"
"I suppose you know why he wants to come here?" Then the father was silent, and for some time Dolly remained silent also. "He is coming to ask you to consent to be his wife."
"Why do you let him come, papa?"
"I cannot hinder him. That, in the first place. And then I don't want to prevent his coming."
"Oh, papa!"
"I do not want to prevent his coming. And I do not wish you now at this instant to pledge yourself to anything."
"I cannot but pledge myself."
"You can at any rate remain silent while I speak to you." There was a solemnity in his manner which almost awed her, so that she could only come nearer to him and sit close to him, holding his hand in hers. "I wish you to hear what I have got to say to you, and to make no answer till you shall make it to-morrow to him, after having fully considered the whole matter. In the first place, he is an honest and good man, and certainly will not ill-treat you."
"Is that so much?"
"It is a great deal, as men go. It would be a great deal to me to be sure that I had left you in the hands of one who is, of his nature, tender and affectionate."
"That is something; but not enough."
"And then he is a careful man, who will certainly screen you from all want; and he is prudent, walking about the world with his eyes open,—much wider than your father has ever done." Here she only pressed his hand. "There is nothing to be said against him, except that something which you spotted at once when you said that he was not a gentleman. According to your ideas, and to mine, he is not quite a gentleman; but we are both fastidious."
"We must pay the penalty of our tastes in that respect."
"You are paying the penalty now by your present doubts. But it is not yet too late for you to get the better of it. Though I have acknowledged that he is not quite a gentleman, he is by no means the reverse. You are quite a lady."
"I hope so."
"But you are not particularly good-looking."
"Papa, you are not complimentary."
"My dear, I do not intend to be so. To me your face, such as it is, is the sweetest thing on earth to look upon."
"Oh, papa;—dear papa!" and she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"But having lived so long with me you have acquired my habits and thoughts, and have learned to disregard utterly your outward appearance."
"I would be decent and clean and womanly."
"That is not enough to attract the eyes of men in general. But he has seen deeper than most men do."
"Into the value of the business, you mean?" said she.
"No, Dolly; I will not have that! that is ill-natured, and, as I believe, altogether untrue. I think of Mr. Barry that he would not marry any girl for the sake of the business, unless he loved her."
"That is nonsense, papa. How can Mr. Barry love me? Did he and I ever have five minutes of free conversation together?"
"Unless he meant to love, would be nearer the mark; and knew that he could do so. You will be quite safe in his hands."
"Safe, papa!"
"So much for yourself; and now I must say a few words as to myself. You are not bound to marry him, or any one else, to do me a good turn; but I think you are bound to remember what my feelings would be if on my death-bed I were leaving you quite alone in the world. As far as money is concerned, you would have enough for all your wants; but that is all that you would have. You have become so thoroughly my friend, that you have hardly another real friend in the world."
"That is my disposition."
"Yes; but I must guard against the ill-effects of that disposition. I know that if some man came the way, whom you could in truth love, you would make the sweetest wife that ever a man possessed."
"Oh, papa, how you talk! No such man will come the way, and there's an end of it."
"Mr. Barry has come the way,—and, as things go, is deserving of your regard. My advice to you is to accept him. Now you will have twenty-four hours to think of that advice, and to think of your own future condition. How will life go with you if you should be left living in this house all alone?"
"Why do you speak as though we were to be parted to-morrow?"
"To-morrow or next day," he said very solemnly. "The day will surely come before long. Mr. Barry may not be all that your fancy has imagined."
"Decidedly not."
"But he has those good qualities which your reason should appreciate. Think it over, my darling. And now we will say nothing more about Mr. Barry till he shall have been here and pleaded his own cause."
Then there was not another word said on the subject between them, and on the next morning Mr. Grey went away to his chambers as usual.
Though she had strenuously opposed her father through the whole of the conversation above given, still, as it had gone on, she had resolved to do as he would her; not indeed, that is, to marry this suitor, but to turn him over in her mind yet once again, and find out whether it would be possible that she should do so. She had dismissed him on that former occasion, and had not since given a thought to him, except as to a nuisance of which she had so far ridded herself. Now the nuisance had come again, and she was to endeavor to ascertain how far she could accustom herself to its perpetual presence without incurring perpetual misery. But it has to be acknowledged that she did not begin the inquiry in a fair frame of mind. She declared to herself that she would think about it all the night and all the morning without a prejudice, so that she might be able to accept him if she found it possible.
But at the same time there was present to her a high, black stone wall, at one side of which stood she herself while Mr. Barry was on the other. That there should be any clambering over that wall by either of them she felt to be quite impossible, though at the same time she acknowledged that a miracle might occur by which the wall would be removed,
So she began her thinking, and used all her father's arguments. Mr. Barry was honest and good, and would not ill-treat her. She knew nothing about him, but would take all that for granted as though it were gospel,—because her father had said so. And then it was to her a fact that she was by no means good-looking,—the meaning of which was that no other man would probably want her. Then she remembered her father's words,—"To me your face is the sweetest thing on earth to look upon." This she did believe. Her plainness did not come against her there. Why should she rob her father of the one thing which to him was sweet in the world? And to her, her father was the one noble human being whom she had ever known. Why should she rob herself of his daily presence? Then she told herself,—as she had told him,—that she had never had five minutes free conversation with Mr. Barry in her life. That certainly was no reason why free conversation should not be commenced. But then she did not believe that free conversation was within the capacity of Mr. Barry. It would never come, though she might be married to him for twenty years. He too might, perhaps, talk about his business; but there would be none of those considerations as to radical good or evil which made the nucleus of all such conversations with her father. There would be a flatness about it all which would make any such interchange of words impossible. It would be as though she had been married to a log of wood, or rather a beast of the field, as regarded all sentiment. How much money would be coming to him? Now her father had never told her how much money was coming to him. There had been no allusion to that branch of the subject.
And then there came other thoughts as to that interior life which it would be her destiny to lead with Mr. Barry. Then came a black cloud upon her face as she sat thinking of it. "Never," at last she said, "never, never! He is very foolish not to know that it is impossible." The "he" of whom she then spoke was her father, and not Mr. Barry. "If I have to be left alone, I shall not be the first. Others have been left alone before me. I shall at any rate be left alone." Then the wall became higher and more black than ever, and there was no coming of that miracle by which it was to be removed. It was clearer to her than ever that neither of them could climb it. "And, after all," she said to herself, "to know that your husband is not a gentleman! Ought that not to be enough? Of course a woman has to pay for her fastidiousness. Like other luxuries, it is costly; but then, like other luxuries, it cannot be laid aside." So, before that morning was gone, she made up her mind steadily that Mr. Barry should never be her lord and master.
How could she best make him understand that it was so, so that she might be quickly rid of him? When the first hour of thinking was done after breakfast, it was that which filled her mind. She was sure that he would not take an answer easily and go. He would have been prepared by her father to persevere,—not by his absolute words, but by his mode of speaking. Her father would have given him to understand that she was still in doubt, and therefore might possibly be talked over. She must teach him at once, as well as she could, that such was not her character, and that she had come to a resolution which left him no chance. And she was guilty of one weakness which was almost unworthy of her. When the time came she changed her dress, and put on an old shabby frock, in which she was wont to call upon the Carrolls. Her best dresses were all kept for her father,—and, perhaps, accounted for that opinion that to his eyes her face was the sweetest thing on earth to look upon. As she sat there waiting for Mr. Barry, she certainly did look ten years older than her age.
In truth both Mr. Grey and Dolly had been somewhat mistaken in their reading of Mr. Barry's character. There was more of intellect and merit in him than he had obtained credit for from either of them. He did care very much for the income of the business, and perhaps his first idea in looking for Dolly's hand had been the probability that he would thus obtain the whole of that income for himself. But, while wanting money, he wanted also some of the good things which ought to accompany it. A superior intellect,—an intellect slightly superior to his own, of which he did not think meanly, a power of conversation which he might imitate, and that fineness of thought which, he flattered himself, he might be able to achieve while living with the daughter of a gentleman,—these were the treasures which Mr. Barry hoped to gain by his marriage with Dorothy Grey. And there had been something in her personal appearance which, to his eyes, had not been distasteful. He did not think her face the sweetest thing in the world to look at, as her father had done, but he saw in it the index of that intellect which he had desired to obtain for himself. As for her dress, that, of course, should all be altered. He imagined that he could easily become so far master of his wife as to make her wear fine clothes without difficulty. But then he did not know Dolly Grey.
He had studied deeply his manner of attacking her. He would be very humble at first, but after a while his humility should be discontinued, whether she accepted or rejected him. He knew well that it did not become a husband to be humble; and as regarded a lover, he thought that humility was merely the outside gloss of love-making. He had been humble enough on the former occasion, and would begin now in the same strain. But after a while he would stir himself, and assume the manner of a man. "Miss Grey," he said, as soon as they were alone, "you see that I have been as good as my word, and have come again." He had already observed her old frock and her mode of dressing up her hair, and had guessed the truth.
"I knew that you were to come, Mr. Barry."
"Your father has told you so."
"Yes."
"And he has spoken a good word in my favor?"
"Yes, he has."
"Which I trust will be effective."
"Not at all. He knows that it is the only subject on which I cannot take his advice. I would burn my hand off for my father, but I cannot afford to give it to any one at his instance. It must be exclusively my own,—unless some one should come very different from those who are likely to ask for it."
There was something, Mr. Barry thought, of offence in this, but he could not altogether throw off his humility as yet. "I quite admit the value of the treasure," he said.
"There need not be any nonsense between us, Mr. Barry. It has no special value to any one,—except to myself; but to myself I mean to keep it. At my father's instance I had thought over the proposition you have made me much more seriously than I had thought it possible that I should do."
"That is not flattering," he said.
"There is no need for flattery, either on the one side or on the other. You had better take that as established. You have done me the honor of wishing, for certain reasons, that I should be your wife."
"The common reason:—that I love you."
"But I am not able to return the feeling, and do not therefore wish that you should be my husband. That sounds to be uncivil."
"Rather."
"But I say it in order to make you understand the exact truth. A woman cannot love a man because she feels for him even the most profound respect. She will often do so when there is neither respect nor esteem. My father has so spoken of you to me that I do esteem you; but that has no effect in touching my heart, therefore I cannot become your wife."
Now, as Mr. Barry thought, had come the time in which he must assert himself. "Miss Grey," he said, "you have probably a long life before you."
"Long or short, it can make no difference."
"If I understood you aright, you are one who lives very much to yourself."
"To myself and my father."
"He is growing in years."
"So am I, for the matter of that. We are all growing in years."
"Have you looked out for yourself, and thought what manner of home yours will be when he shall have been dead and buried?" He paused, but she remained silent, and assumed a special cast of countenance, as though she might say a word, if he pressed her, which it would be disagreeable for him to hear. "When he has gone will you not be very solitary without a husband?"
"No doubt I shall."
"Had you not better accept one when one comes your way who is not, as he tells you, quite unworthy of you?"
"In spite of such worth solitude would be preferable."
"You certainly have a knack, Miss Grey, of making the most unpalatable assertions."
"I will make another more unpalatable. Solitude I could bear,—and death,—but not such a marriage. You force me to tell you the whole truth because half a truth will not suffice."
"I have endeavored to be at any rate civil to you," he said.
"And I have endeavored to save you what trouble I could by being straightforward." Still he paused, sitting in his chair uneasily, but looking as though he had no intention of going. "If you will only take me at my word and have done with it!" Still he did not move. "I suppose there are young ladies who like this kind of thing, but I have become old enough to hate it. I have had very little experience of it, but it is odious to me. I can conceive nothing more disagreeable than to have to sit still and hear a gentleman declare that he wants to make me his wife, when I am quite sure that I do not intend to make him my husband."
"Then, Miss Grey," he said, rising from his chair suddenly, "I shall bid you adieu."
"Good-bye, Mr. Barry."
"Good-bye, Miss Grey. Farewell!" And so he went.
"Oh, papa, we have had such a scene!" she said, the moment she felt herself alone with her father.
"You have not accepted him?"
"Accepted him! Oh dear no! I am sure at this moment he is only thinking how he would cut my throat if he could get hold of me."
"You must have offended him then very greatly."
"Oh, mortally! I said everything I possibly could to offend him. But then he would have been here still had I not done so. There was no other way to get rid of him,—or indeed to make him believe that I was in earnest."
"I am sorry that you should have been so ungracious."
"Of course I am ungracious. But how can you stand bandying compliments with a man when it is your object to make him know the very truth that is in you? It was your fault, papa. You ought to have understood how very impossible it is that I should marry Mr. Barry."
When Mr. Scarborough had written the check and sent it to Mr. Grey, he did not utter another word on the subject of gambling. "Let us make another beginning," he said, as he told his son to make out another check for sixty pounds as his first instalment of the allowance.
"I do not like to take it," said the son.
"I don't think you need be scrupulous now with me." That was early in the morning, at their first interview, about ten o'clock. Later on in the day Mr. Scarborough saw his son again, and on this occasion kept him in the room some time. "I don't suppose I shall last much longer now," he said.
"Your voice is as strong as I ever heard it."
"But unfortunately my body does not keep pace with my voice. From what Merton says, I don't suppose there is above a month left."
"I don't see why Merton is to know."
"Merton is a good fellow; and if you can do anything for him, do it for my sake."
"I will." Then he added, after a pause, "If things go as we expect, Augustus can do more for him than I. Why don't you leave him a sum of money?"
Then Miss Scarborough came into the room, and hovered about her brother, and fed him, and entreated him to be silent; but when she had gone he went back to the subject. "I will tell you why, Mountjoy. I have not wished to load my will with other considerations,—so that it might be seen that solicitude for you has been in my last moments my only thought. Of course I have done you a deep injury."
"I think you have."
"And because you tell me so I like you all the better. As for Augustus—But I will not burden my spirit now, at the last, with uttering curses against my own son."
"He is not worth it."
"No, he is not worth it. What a fool he has been not to have understood me better! Now, you are not half as clever a fellow as he is."
"I dare say not."
"You never read a book, I suppose?"
"I don't pretend to read them, which he does."
"I don't know anything about that;—but he has been utterly unable to read me. I have poured out my money with open hands for both of you."
"That is true, sir, certainly, as regards me."
"And have thought nothing of it. Till it was quite hopeless with you I went on, and would have gone on. As things were then, I was bound to do something to save the property."
"These poor devils have put themselves out of the running now," said Mountjoy.
"Yes; Augustus with his suspicions has enabled us to do that. After all, he was quite right with his suspicions."
"What do you mean by that, sir?"
"Well, it was natural enough that he should not trust me. I think, too, that perhaps he saw a screw loose where old Grey did not; but he was such an ass that he could not bring himself to keep on good terms with me for the few months that were left. And then he brought that brute Jones down here, without saying a word to me as to asking my leave. And here he used to remain, hardly ever coming to see me, but waiting for my death from day to day. He is a cold-blooded, selfish brute. He certainly takes after neither his father nor his mother. But he will find yet, perhaps, that I am even with him before all is over."
"I shall try it on with him, sir. I have told you so from the beginning; and now if I have this money it will give me the means of doing so. You ought to know for what purpose I shall use it."
"That is all settled," said the father. "The document, properly completed, has gone back with the clerk. Were I to die this minute you would find that everything inside the house is your own,—and everything outside except the bare acres. There is a lot of plate with the banker which I have not wanted of late years. And there are a lot of trinkets too,—things which I used to fancy, though I have not cared so much about them lately. And there are a few pictures which are worth money. But the books are the most valuable; only you do not care for them."
"I shall not have a house to put them in."
"There is no saying. What an idiot, what a fool, what a blind, unthinking ass Augustus has been!"
"Do you regret it, sir,—that he should not have them and the house too?"
"I regret that my son should have been such a fool! I did not expect that he should love me. I did not even want him to be kind to me. Had he remained away and been silent, that would have been sufficient. But he came here to enjoy himself, as he looked about the park which he thought to be his own, and insulted me because I would not die at once and leave him in possession. And then he was fool enough to make way for you again, and did not perceive that by getting rid of your creditors he once again put you into a position to be his rival. I don't know whether I hate him most for the hardness of his heart, or despise him for the slowness of his intellect."
During the time that these words had been spoken Miss Scarborough had once or twice come into the room, and besought her brother to take some refreshment which she offered him, and then give himself up to rest. But he had refused to be guided by her till he had come to a point in the conversation at which he had found himself thoroughly exhausted. Now she came for the third time, and that period had arrived, so that Mountjoy was told to go about his business, and shoot birds or hunt foxes, in accordance with his natural proclivities. It was then three o'clock on a gloomy December afternoon, and was too late for the shooting of birds; and as for the hunting of foxes, the hounds were not in the neighborhood. So he resolved to go through the house, and look at all those properties which were so soon to become his own. And he at once strolled into the library. This was a long, gloomy room, which contained perhaps ten thousand volumes, the greater number of which had, in the days of Mountjoy's early youth, been brought together by his own father; and they had been bound in the bindings of modern times, so that the shelves were bright, although the room itself was gloomy. He took out book after book, and told himself, with something of sadness in his heart, that they were all "caviare" to him. Then he reminded himself that he was not yet thirty years of age, and that there was surely time enough left for him to make them his companions.
He took one at random, and found it to be a volume of Clarendon's "History of the Rebellion." He pitched upon a sentence in which he counted that there were sixteen lines, and when he began to read it, it became to him utterly confused and unintelligible. So he put it back, and went to another portion of the room and took down Wittier's "Hallelujah;" and of this he could make neither head nor tail. He was informed, by a heading in the book itself, that a piece of poetry was to be sung "as the ten commandments." He could not do that, and put the book back again, and declared to himself that farther search would be useless. He looked round the room and tried to price the books, and told himself that three or four days at the club might see an end of it all. Then he wandered on into the state drawing-room,—an apartment which he had not entered for years,—and found that all the furniture was carefully covered. Of what use could it all be to him,—unless that it, too, might be sent to the melting-pot and brought into some short-lived use at the club?
But as he was about to leave the room he stood for a moment on the rug before the fireplace and looked into the huge mirror which stood there. If the walls might be his, as well as the garnishing of them, and if Florence Mountjoy could come and reign there, then he fancied that they all might be put to a better purpose than that of which he had thought. In earlier days, two or three years ago, at a time which now seemed to him to be very distant, he had regarded Florence as his own, and as such had demanded her hand. In the pride of his birth, and position, and fashion, he had had no thought of her feelings, and had been imperious. He told himself that it had been so with much self-condemnation. At any rate, he had learned, during those months of solitary wandering, the power of condemning himself. And now he told him that if she would yet come he might still learn to sing that song of the old-fashioned poet "as to the ten commandments." At any rate, he would endeavor to sing it, as she bade him.
He went on through all the bedrooms, remembering, but hardly more than remembering, them as he entered them. "Oh, Florence,—my Florence!" he said, as he passed on. He had done it all for himself,—brought down upon his own head this infinite ruin,—and for what? He had scarcely ever won, and Tretton was gone from him forever. But still there might yet be a chance if he could abstain from gambling.
And then, when it was dusk within the house, he went out, and passed through the stables and roamed about the gardens till the evening had altogether set in, and black night had come upon him. Two years ago he had known that he was the heir to it all, though even then that habit was so strong upon him he had felt that his tenure of it would be but slight. But he had then always to tell himself that when his marriage had taken place a great change would be effected. His marriage had not taken place, and the next fatal year had fallen upon him. As long as the inheritance of the estate was certainly his, he could assuredly raise money,—at a certain cost. It was well known that the property was rising in value, and the money had always been forthcoming,—at a tremendous sacrifice. He had excused to himself his recklessness on the ground of his delayed marriage, but still always treating her, on the few occasions on which they had met, with an imperiousness which had been natural to him. Then the final crash had come, and the estate was as good as gone. But the crash, which had been in truth final, had come afterward, almost as soon as his father had learned what was to be the fate of Tretton; and he had found himself to be a bastard with a dishonored mother,—just a nobody in the eyes of the world. And he learned at the same time that Harry Annesley was the lover whom Florence Mountjoy really loved. What had followed has been told already,—perhaps too often.
But at this moment, as he stood in the gloom of the night, below the porch in the front of the house, swinging his stick at the top of the big steps, an acknowledgment of contrition was very heavy upon him.
Though he was prepared to go to law the moment that Augustus put himself forward as the eldest son, he did recognize how long-suffering his father had been, and how much had been done for him in order, if possible, to preserve him. And he knew, whatever might be the result of his lawsuit, that his father's only purpose had been to save the property for one of them. As it was, legacies which might be valued at perhaps thirty thousand pounds would be his. He would expend it all on the lawsuit, if he could find lawyers to undertake his suit. His anger, too, against his brother was quite as hot as was that of his father. When he had been obliterated and obliged to vanish, from the joint effects of his violence in the streets and his inability to pay his gambling debts at the club, he had, in an evil moment, submitted himself to Augustus; and from that hour Augustus had become to him the most cruel of tyrants. And this tyranny had come to an end with his absolute banishment from his brother's house. Though he had been subdued to obedience in the lowest moment of his fall, he was not the man who could bear such tyranny well. "I can forgive my father," he said, "but Augustus I will never forgive." Then he went into the house, and in a short time was sitting at dinner with Merton, the young doctor and secretary. Miss Scarborough seldom came to table at that hour, but remained in a room up-stairs, close to her brother, so that she might be within call should she be wanted. "Upon the whole, Merton," he said, "what do you think of my father?" The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Will he live or will he die?"
"He will die, certainly."
"Do not joke with me. But I know you would not joke on such a subject. And my question did not merely go to the state of his health. What do you think of him as a man generally? Do you call him an honest man?"
"How am I to answer you?"
"Just the truth."
"If you will have an answer, I do not consider him an honest man. All this story about your brother is true or is not true. In neither case can one look upon him as honest."
"Just so."
"But I think that he has within him a capacity for love, and an unselfishness, which almost atones for his dishonesty; and there is about him a strange dislike to conventionality and to law which is so interesting as to make up the balance. I have always regarded your father as a most excellent man, but thoroughly dishonest. He would rob any one,—but always to eke out his own gifts to other people. He has, therefore, to my eyes been most romantic."
"And as to his health?"
"Ah, as to that I cannot answer so decidedly. He will do nothing because I tell him."
"Do you mean that you could prolong his life?"
"Certainly I think that I could. He has exerted himself this morning, whereas I have advised him not to exert himself. He could have given himself the same counsel, and would certainly live longer by obeying it than the reverse. As there is no difficulty in the matter, there need be no conceit on my part in saying that so far my advice might be of service to him."
"How long will he live?"
"Who can say? Sir William Brodrick, when that fearful operation was performed in London, thought that a month would see the end of it. That is eight months ago, and he has more vitality now than he had then. For myself, I do not think that he can live another month."
Later on in the evening Mountjoy Scarborough began again. "The governor thinks that you have behaved uncommonly well to him."
"I am paid for it all."
"But he has not left you anything by his will."
"I have certainly expected nothing, and there could be no reason why he should."
"He has entertained an idea of late that he wishes to make what reparation may be possible to me; and therefore, as he says, he does not choose to burden his will with legacies. There is some provision made for my aunt, who, however, has her own fortune. He has told me to look after you."
"It will be quite unnecessary," said Mr. Merton.
"If you choose to cut up rough you can do so. I would propose that we should fix upon some sum which shall be yours at his death,—just as though he had left it to you. Indeed, he shall fix the sum himself."
Merton, of course, said that nothing of the kind would be necessary; but with this understanding Mountjoy Scarborough went that night to bed.
Early on the following morning his father again sent for him. "Mountjoy," he said, "I have thought much about it, and I have changed my mind."
"About your will?"
"No, not about my will at all. That shall remain as it is. I do not think I should have strength to make another will, nor do I wish to do so."
"You mean about Merton?"
"I don't mean about Merton at all. Give him five hundred pounds, and he ought to be satisfied. This is a matter of more importance than Mr. Merton—or even than my will."
"What is it?" said Mountjoy, in a tone of much surprise.
"I don't think I can tell you now. But it is right that you should know that Merton wrote, by my instructions, to Mr. Grey early this morning, and has implored him to come to Tretton once again. There! I cannot say more than that now." Then he turned round on his couch, as was his custom, and was unassailable.