While these things were going on at Tretton, and while Mr. Scarborough was making all arrangements for the adequate disposition of his property,—in doing which he had happily come to the conclusion that there was no necessity for interfering with what the law had settled,—Mr. Prosper was lying very ill at Buston, and was endeavoring on his sick-bed to reconcile himself to what the entail had done for him. There could be no other heir to him but Harry Annesley. As he thought of the unmarried ladies of his acquaintance, he found that there was no one who would have done for him but Miss Puffle and Matilda Thoroughbung. All others were too young or too old, or chiefly penniless. Miss Puffle would have been the exact thing—only for that intruding farmer's son.
As he lay there alone in his bedroom his mind used to wander a little, and he would send for Matthew, his butler, and hold confidential discussions with him. "I never did think, sir, that Miss Thoroughbung was exactly the lady," said Matthew.
"Why not?"
"Well, sir, there is a saying—But you'll excuse me."
"Go on, Matthew."
"There is a saying as how 'you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.'"
"I've heard that."
"Just so, sir. Now, Miss Thoroughbung is a very nice lady."
"I don't think she's a nice lady at all."
"But—Of course it's not becoming in me to speak against my betters, and as a menial servant I never would."
"Go on, Matthew."
"Miss Thoroughbung is—"
"Go on, Matthew."
"Well;—she is a sow's ear. Ain't she, now? The servants here never would have looked upon her as a silk purse."
"Wouldn't they?"
"Never! She has a way with her just as though she didn't care for silk purses. And it's my mind, sir, that she don't. She wishes, however, to be uppermost, and if she had come here she'd have said so."
"That can never be. Thank God, that can never be!"
"Oh, no! Brewers is brewers, and must be. There's Mr. Joe—He's very well, no doubt."
"I haven't the pleasure of his acquaintance."
"Him as is to marry Miss Molly. But Miss Molly ain't the head of the family; is she, sir?" Here the squire shook his head. "You're the head of the family, sir."
"I suppose so."
"And is—I might make so bold as to speak?"
"Go on, Matthew."
"Miss Thoroughbung would be a little out of place at Buston Hall. Now, as to Miss Puffle—"
"Miss Puffle is a lady,—or was."
"No doubt, sir. The Puffles is not quite equal to the Prospers, as I can hear. But the Puffles is ladies—and gentlemen. The servants below all give it up to them that they're real gentlefolk. But—"
"Well?"
"She demeaned herself terribly with young Tazlehurst. They all said as there were more where that came from."
"What should they mean by that?"
"She'd indulge in low 'abits,—such as never would have been put up with at Buston Hall,—a-cursing and a-swearing—"
"Miss Puffle!"
"Not herself,—I don't say that; but it's like enough if you 'ad heard all. But them as lets others do it almost does it themselves. And them as lets others drink sperrrits o' mornings come nigh to having a dram down their own throats."
"Oh laws!" exclaimed Mr. Prosper, thinking of the escape he had had.
"You wouldn't have liked it, sir, if there had been a bottle of gin in the bedroom!" Here Mr. Prosper hid his face among the bedclothes. "It ain't all that comes silk out of the skein that does to make a purse of."
There were difficulties in the pursuit of matrimony of which Mr. Prosper had not thought. His imagination at once pictured to himself a bride with a bottle of gin under her pillow, and he went on shivering till Matthew almost thought that he had been attacked by an ague-fit.
"I shall give it up, at any rate," he said, after a pause.
"Of course you're a young man, sir."
"No, I'm not."
"That is, not exactly young,"
"You're an old fool to tell such lies!"
"Of course I'm an old fool; but I endeavor to be veracious. I never didn't take a shilling as were yours, nor a shilling's worth, all the years I have known you, Mr. Prosper."
"What has that to do with it? I'm not a young man."
"What am I to say, sir? Shall I say as you are middle-aged?"
"The truth is, Matthew, I'm worn out."
"Then I wouldn't think of taking a wife."
"Troubles have been too heavy for me to bear. I don't think I was intended to bear trouble."
"'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward,'" said Matthew.
"I suppose so. But one man's luck is harder than another's. They've been too many for me, and I feel that I'm sinking under them. It's no good my thinking of marrying now."
"That's what I was coming to when you said I was an old fool. Of course I am an old fool."
"Do have done with it! Mr. Harry hasn't been exactly what he ought to have been to me."
"He's a very comely young gentleman."
"What has comely to do with it?"
"Them as is plain-featured is more likely to stay at home and be quiet. You couldn't expect one as is so handsome to stay at Buston and hear sermons."
"I don't expect him to be knocking men about in the streets at midnight."
"It ain't that, sir."
"I say it is that!"
"Very well, sir. Only we've all heard down-stairs as Mr. Harry wasn't him as struck the first blow. It was all about a young lady."
"I know what it was about."
"A young lady as is a young lady."—This was felt to the quick by Mr. Prosper, in regard to the gin-drinking Miss Puffle and the brewer-bred Miss Thoroughbung; but as he was beginning to think that the continuation of the family of the Prospers must depend on the marriage which Harry might make, he passed over the slur upon himself for the sake of the praise given to the future mother of the Prospers.—"And when a young gentleman has set his heart on a young lady he's not going to be braggydoshoed out of it."
"Captain Scarborough knew her first."
"First come first served isn't always the way with lovers. Mr. Harry was the conquering hero. 'Weni, widi, wici.'"
"Halloo, Matthew!"
"Them's the words as they say a young gentleman ought to use when he's got the better of a young lady's affections; and I dare say they're the very words as put the captain into such a towering passion. I can understand how it happened, just as if I saw it."
"But he went away, and left him bleeding and speechless."
"He'd knocked hisweni, widi, wiciout of him, I guess! I think, Mr. Prosper, you should forgive him." Mr. Prosper had thought so too, but had hardly known how to express himself after his second burst of anger. But he was at the present ill and weak, and was anxious to have some one near to him who should be more like a silk purse than his butler, Matthew. "Suppose you was to send for him, sir."
"He wouldn't come."
"Let him alone for coming! They tell me, sir—"
"Who tells you?"
"Why, sir, the servants now at the rectory. Of course, sir, where two families is so near connected, the servants are just as near: it's no more than natural. They tell me now that since you were so kind about the allowance, their talk of you is all changed." Then the squire's anger was heated hot again. Their talk had all been against him till he had opened his hand in regard to the allowance. And now when there was something again to be got they could be civil. There was none of that love of him for himself for which an old man is always hankering,—for which the sick man breaks his heart,—but which the old and sick find it so difficult to get from the young and healthy. It is in nature that the old man should keep the purse in his own pocket, or otherwise he will have so little to attract. He is weak, querulous, ugly to look at, apt to be greedy, cross, and untidy. Though he himself can love, what is his love to any one? Duty demands that one shall smooth his pillow, and some one does smooth it,—as a duty. But the old man feels the difference, and remembers the time when there was one who was anxious to share it.
Mr. Prosper was not in years an old man, and had not as yet passed that time of life at which many a man is regarded by his children as the best of their playfellows. But he was weak in body, self-conscious, and jealous in spirit. He had the heart to lay out for himself a generous line of conduct, but not the purpose to stick to it steadily. His nephew had ever been a trouble to him, because he had expected from his nephew a kind of worship to which he had felt that he was entitled as the head of the family. All good things were to come from him, and therefore good things should be given to him. Harry had told himself that his uncle was not his father, and that it had not been his fault that he was his uncle's heir. He had not asked his uncle for an allowance. He had grown up with the feeling that Buston Hall was to be his own, and had not regarded his uncle as the donor. His father, with his large family, had never exacted much,—had wanted no special attention from him. And if not his father, then why his uncle? But his inattention, his absence of gratitude for peculiar gifts, had sunk deep into Mr. Prosper's bosom. Hence had come Miss Thoroughbung as his last resource, and Miss Thoroughbung had—called him Peter. Hence his mind had wandered to Miss Puffle, and Miss Puffle had gone off with the farmer's son, and, as he was now informed, had taken to drinking gin. Therefore he turned his face to the wall and prepared himself to die.
On the next day he sent for Matthew again. Matthew first came to him always in the morning, but on that occasion very little conversation ever took place. In the middle of the day he had a bowl of soup brought to him, and by that time had managed to drag himself out of bed, and to clothe himself in his dressing-gown, and to seat himself in his arm-chair. Then when the soup had been slowly eaten, he would ring his bell, and the conversation would begin. "I have been thinking over what I was saying yesterday, Matthew." Matthew simply assented, but he knew in his heart that his master had been thinking over what he himself had said.
"Is Mr. Harry at the rectory?"
"Oh yes; he's there now. He wouldn't stir from the rectory till he hears that you are better."
"Why shouldn't he stir? Does he mean to say that I'm going to die? Perhaps I am. I'm very weak, but he doesn't know it."
Matthew felt that he had made a blunder, and that he must get out of it as well as he could. "It isn't that he is thinking anything of that, but you are confined to your room, sir. Of course he knows that."
"I never told him."
"He's most particular in his inquiries from day to day."
"Does he come here?"
"He don't venture on that, because he knows as how you wouldn't wish it."
"Why shouldn't I wish it? It'd be the most natural thing in the world."
"But there has been—a little—I'm quite sure Mr. Harry don't wish to intrude. If you'd let me give it to be understood that you'd like him to call, he'd be over here in a jiffy." Then, very slowly, Mr. Prosper did give it to be understood that he would take it as a compliment if his nephew would walk across the park and ask after him. He was most particular as to the mode in which this embassy should be conducted. Harry was not to be made to think that he was to come rushing into the house after his old fashion,—"Halloo, uncle, aren't you well? Hope you'll be better when I come back. Have got to be off by the next train." Then he used to fly away and not be heard of again for a week. And yet the message was to be conveyed with an alluring courtesy that might be attractive, and might indicate that no hostility was intended. But it was not to be a positive message, but one which would signify what might possibly take place. If it should happen that Mr. Harry was walking in this direction, it might also happen that his uncle would be pleased to see him. There was no better ambassador at hand than Matthew, and therefore Matthew was commissioned to arrange matters. "If you can get at Mrs. Weeks, and do it through his mother," suggested Mr. Prosper. Then Matthew winked and departed on his errand.
In about two hours there was a ring at the back-door, of which Mr. Prosper knew well the sound. Miss Thoroughbung had not been there very often, but he had learned to distinguish her ring or her servant's. In old days, not so very far removed, Harry had never been accustomed to ring at all. But yet his uncle knew that it was he, and not the doctor, who might probably come,—or Mr. Soames, of whose coming he lived in hourly dread. "You can show him up," he said to Matthew, opening the door with great exertion, and attempting to speak to the servant down the stairs. Harry, at any rate, was shown up, and in two minutes' time was standing over his uncle's sick-chair. "I have not been quite well just lately," he said, in answer to the inquiries made.
"We are very sorry to hear that, sir."
"I suppose you've heard it before."
"We did hear that you were a little out of sorts."
"Out of sorts! I don't know what you call out of sorts. I have not been out of this room for well-nigh a month. My sister came to see me one day, and that's the last Christian I've seen."
"My mother would be over daily if she fancied you'd like it."
"She has her own duties, and I don't want to be troublesome."
"The truth is, Uncle Prosper, that we have all felt that we have been in your black books; and as we have not thought that we deserved it, there has been a little coolness."
"I told your mother that I was willing to forgive you."
"Forgive me what? A fellow does not care to be forgiven when he has done nothing. But if you'll only say that by-gones shall be by-gones quite past I'll take it so." He could not give up his position as head of the family so easily,—an injured head of the family. And yet he was anxious that by-gones should be by-gones, if only the young man would not be so jaunty, as he stood there by his arm-chair. "Just say the word, and the girls shall come up and see you as they used to do." Mr. Prosper thought at the moment that one of the girls was going to marry Joe Thoroughbung, and that he would not wish to see her. "As for myself, if I've been in any way negligent, I can only say that I did not intend it. I do not like to say more, because it would seem as though I were asking you for money."
"I don't know why you shouldn't ask me."
"A man doesn't like to do that. But I'd tell you of everything if you'd only let me."
"What is there to tell?" said Uncle Prosper, knowing well that the love-story would be communicated to him.
"I've got myself engaged to marry a young woman."
"A young woman!"
"Yes;—she's a young woman, of course; but she's a young lady as well. You know her name: it is Florence Mountjoy."
"That is the young lady that I've heard of. Was there not some other gentleman attached to her?"
"There was;—her cousin, Mountjoy Scarborough."
"His father wrote to me."
"His father is the meanest fellow I ever met."
"And he himself came to me,—down here. They were fighting your battle for you."
"I'm much obliged to them."
"For even I have interfered with him about the lady."
Then Harry had to repeat hisveni, vidi, viciafter his own fashion. "Of course I interfered with him. How is a fellow to help himself? We both of us were spooning on the same girl, and of course she had to decide it."
"And she decided for you?"
"I fancy she did. At any rate I decided for her, and I mean to have her."
Then Mr. Prosper was, for him, very gracious in his congratulations, saying all manner of good things of Miss Mountjoy. "I think you'd like her, Uncle Prosper." Mr. Prosper did not doubt but that he would "appease the solicitor." He also had heard of Miss Mountjoy, and what he had heard had been much to the "young lady's credit." Then he asked a few questions as to the time fixed for the marriage. Here Harry was obliged to own that there were difficulties. Miss Mountjoy had promised not to marry for three years without her mother's consent. "Three years!" said Mr. Prosper. "Then I shall be dead and buried." Harry did not tell his uncle that in that case the difficulty might probably vanish, as the same degree of fate which had robbed him of his poor uncle would have made him owner of Buston. In such a case as that Mrs. Mountjoy might probably give way.
"But why is the young lady to be kept from marriage for three years? Does she wish it?"
Harry said that he did not exactly think that Miss Mountjoy, on her own behalf, did wish for so prolonged a separation. "The fact is, sir, that Mrs. Mountjoy is not my best friend. This nephew of hers, Mountjoy Scarborough, has always been her favorite."
"But he's a man that always loses his money at cards."
"He's to have all Tretton now, it seems."
"And what does the young lady say?"
"All Tretton won't move her. I'm not a bit afraid. I've got her word, and that's enough for me. How it is that her mother should think it possible;—that's what I do not know."
"The three years are quite fixed?"
"I don't quite say that altogether."
"But a young lady who will be true to you will be true to her mother also." Harry shook his head. He was quite willing to guarantee Florence's truth as to her promise to him, but he did not think that her promise to her mother need be put on the same footing. "I shall be very glad if you can arrange it any other way. Three years is a long time."
"Quite absurd, you know," said Harry, with energy.
"What made her fix on three years?"
"I don't know how they did it between them. Mrs. Mountjoy, perhaps, thought that it might give time to her nephew. Ten years would be the same as far as he is concerned. Florence is a girl who, when she says that she loves a man, means it. For you don't suppose I intend to remain three years?"
"What do you intend to do?"
"One has to wait a little and see." Then there was a long pause, during which Harry stood twiddling his fingers. He had nothing farther to suggest, but he thought that his uncle might say something. "Shall I come again to-morrow, Uncle Prosper?" he said.
"I have got a plan," said Uncle Prosper.
"What is it, uncle?"
"I don't know that it can lead to anything. It's of no use, of course, if the young lady will wait the three years."
"I don't think she's at all anxious," said Harry.
"You might marry almost at once."
"That's what I should like."
"And come and live here."
"In this house?"
"Why not? I'm nobody. You'd soon find that I'm nobody."
"That's nonsense, Uncle Prosper. Of course you're everybody in your own house."
"You might endure it for six months in the year."
Harry thought of the sermons, but resolved at once to face them boldly. "I am only thinking how generous you are."
"It's what I mean. I don't know the young lady, and perhaps she mightn't like living with an old gentleman. In regard to the other six months, I'll raise the two hundred and fifty pounds to five hundred pounds. If she thinks well of it, she should come here first and let me see her. She and her mother might both come." Then there was a pause. "I should not know how to bear it,—I should not, indeed. But let them both come."
After some farther delay this was at last decided on. Harry went away supremely happy and very grateful, and Mr. Prosper was left to meditate on the terrible step he had taken.
It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Barry, when he heard the last story from Tretton, began to think that his partner was not so wide-awake as he had hitherto always regarded him. As time runs on, such a result generally takes place in all close connections between the old and the young. Ten years ago Mr. Barry had looked up to Mr. Grey with a trustful respect. Words which fell from Mr. Grey were certainly words of truth, but they were, in Mr. Barry's then estimation, words of wisdom also. Gradually an altered feeling had grown up; and Mr. Barry, though he did not doubt the truth, thought less about it. But he did doubt the wisdom constantly. The wisdom practised under Mr. Barry's vice-management was not quite the same as Mr. Grey's. And Mr. Barry had come to understand that though it might be well to tell the truth on occasions, it was folly to suppose that any one else would do so. He had always thought that Mr. Grey had gone a little too fast in believing Squire Scarborough's first story. "But you've been to Nice, yourself, and discovered that it is true," Mr. Grey would say. Mr. Barry would shake his head, and declare that in having to deal with a man of such varied intellect as Mr. Scarborough there was no coming at the bottom of a story.
But there had been no question of any alterations in the mode of conducting the business of the firm. Mr. Grey had been, of course, the partner by whose judgment any question of importance must ultimately be decided; and, though Mr. Barry had been sent to Nice, the Scarborough property was especially in Mr. Grey's branch. He had been loud in declaring the iniquity of his client, but had altogether made up his mind that the iniquity had been practised; and all the clerks in the office had gone with him, trusting to his great character for sober sagacity. And Mr. Grey was not a man who would easily be put out of his high position.
The respect generally felt for him was too high; and he carried himself before his partner and clerks too powerfully to lose at once his prestige. But Mr. Barry, when he heard the new story, looked at his own favorite clerk and almost winked an eye; and when he came to discuss the matter with Mr. Grey, he declined even to pretend to be led at once by Mr. Grey's opinion. "A gentleman who has been so very clever on one occasion may be very clever on another." That had been his argument. Mr. Grey's reply had simply been to the effect that you cannot twice catch an old bird with chaff. Mr. Barry seemed, however, to think, in discussing the matter with the favorite clerk, that the older the bird became, the more often he could be caught with chaff.
Mr. Grey in these days was very unhappy,—not made so simply by the iniquity of his client, but by the insight which he got into his partner's aptitude for business. He began to have his doubts about Mr. Barry. Mr. Barry was tending toward sharp practice. Mr. Barry was beginning to love his clients,—not with a proper attorney's affection, as his children, but as sheep to be shorn. With Mr. Grey the bills had gone out and had been paid, no doubt, and the money had in some shape found its way into Mr. Grey's pockets. But he had never looked at the two things together. Mr. Barry seemed to be thinking of the wool as every client came or was dismissed. Mr. Grey, as he thought of these things, began to fancy that his own style of business was becoming antiquated. He had said good words of Mr. Barry to his daughter, but just at this period his faith both in himself and in his partner began to fail. His partner was becoming too strong for him, and he felt that he was failing. Things were changed; and he did not love his business as he used to do. He had fancies, and he knew that he had fancies, and that fancies were not good for an attorney. When he saw what was in Mr. Barry's mind as to this new story from Tretton, he became convinced that Dolly was right. Dolly was not fit, he thought, to be Mr. Barry's wife. She might have been the wife of such another as himself, had the partner been such another. But it was not probable that any partner should have been such as he was. "Old times are changed," he said to himself; "old manners gone." Then he determined that he would put his house in order, and leave the firm. A man cannot leave his work forever without some touch of melancholy.
But it was necessary that some one should go to Rummelsburg and find what could be learned there. Mr. Grey had sworn that he would have nothing to do with the new story, as soon as the new story had been told to him; but it soon became apparent to him that he must have to do with it. As soon as the breath should be out of the old squire's body, some one must take possession of Tretton, and Mountjoy would be left in the house. In accordance with Mr. Grey's theory, Augustus would be the proper possessor. Augustus, no doubt, would go down and claim the ownership, unless the matter could be decided to the satisfaction of them both beforehand. Mr. Grey thought that there was little hope of such satisfaction; but it would of course be for him or his firm to see what could be done. "That I should ever have got such a piece of business!" he said to himself. But it was at last settled among them that Mr. Barry should go to Rummelsburg. He had made the inquiry at Nice, and he would go on with it at Rummelsburg. Mr. Barry started, with Mr. Quaverdale, of St. John's, the gentleman whom Harry Annesley had consulted as to the practicability of his earning money by writing for the Press. Mr. Quaverdale was supposed to be a German scholar, and therefore had his expenses paid for him, with some bonus for his time.
A conversation between Mr. Barry and Mr. Quaverdale, which took place on their way home, shall be given, as it will best describe the result of their inquiry. This inquiry had been conducted by Mr. Barry's intelligence, but had owed so much to Mr. Quaverdale's extensive knowledge of languages, that the two gentlemen may be said, as they came home, to be equally well instructed in the affairs of Mr. Scarborough's property.
"He has been too many for the governor," said Barry. Mr. Barry's governor was Mr. Grey.
"It seems to me that Scarborough is a gentleman who is apt to be too many for most men."
"The sharpest fellow I ever came across, either in the way of a cheat or in any other walk of life. If he wanted any one else to have the property, he'd come out with something to show that the entail itself was all moonshine."
"But when he married again at Nice, he couldn't have quarrelled with his eldest son already. The child was not above four or five months old." This came from Quaverdale.
"It's my impression," said Barry, "that it was then his intention to divide the property, and that this was done as a kind of protest against primogeniture. Then he found that that would fail,—that if he came to explain the whole matter to his sons, they would not consent to be guided by him, and to accept a division. From what I have seen of both of them, they are bad to guide after that fashion. Then Mountjoy got frightfully into the hands of the money-lenders, and in order to do them it became necessary that the whole property should go to Augustus."
"They must look upon him as a nice sort of old man!" said Quaverdale.
"Rather! But they have never got at him to speak a bit of their mind to him. And then how clever he was in getting round his own younger son. The property got into such a condition that there was money enough to pay the Jews the money they had really lent. Augustus, who was never quite sure of his father, thought it would be best to disarm them; and he consented to pay them, getting back all their bonds. But he was very uncivil to the squire,—told him that the sooner he died the better, or something of that sort; and then the squire immediately turned round and sprung this Rummelsburg marriage upon us, and has left every stick about the place to Mountjoy. It must all go to Mountjoy,—every acre, every horse, every bed, and every book."
"And these, in twelve months' time, will have been divided among the card-players of the metropolis," said Quaverdale.
"We've got nothing to do with that. If ever a man did have a lesson he has had it. If he chose to take it, no man would ever have been saved in so miraculous a manner. But there can be no doubt that John Scarborough and Ada Sneyd were married at Rummelsburg, and that it will be found to be impossible to unmarry them."
"Old Mrs. Sneyd, the lady's mother, was then present?" said Quaverdale.
"Not a doubt about it, and that Fritz Deutchmann was present at the marriage. I almost think that we ought to have brought him away with us. It would have cost a couple of hundred pounds, but the estate can bear that. We can have him by sending for him, if we should want it." Then, after many more words on the same subject and to the same effect, Mr. Barry went on to give his own private opinions: "In fact, the only blemish in old Scarborough's plans was this,—that the Rummelsburg marriage was sure to come out sooner or later."
"Do you think so? Fritz Deutchmann is the only one of the party alive, and it's not probable that he would ever have heard of Tretton."
"These things always do come out. But it does not signify now. And the world will know how godless and reprobate old Scarborough has been; but that will not interfere with Mountjoy's legitimacy. And the world has pretty well understood already that the old man has cared nothing for God or man. It was bad enough, according to the other story, that he should have kept Augustus so long in the dark, and determined to give it all to a bastard by means of a plot and a fraud. The world has got used to that. The world will simply be amused by this other turn. And as the world generally is not very fond of Augustus Scarborough, and entertains a sort of a good-natured pity for Mountjoy, the first marriage will be easily accepted."
"There'll be a lawsuit, I suppose?" said Quaverdale.
"I don't see that they'll have a leg to stand on. When the old man dies the property will be exactly as it would have been. This latter intended fraud in favor of Augustus will be understood as having been old Scarborough's farce. The Jews are the party who have really suffered."
"And Augustus?"
"He will have lost nothing to which he was by law entitled. His father might of course make what will he pleased. If Augustus was uncivil to his father, his father could of course alter his will. The world would see all that. But the world will be inclined to say that these poor money-lenders have been awfully swindled."
"The world won't pity them."
"I'm not so sure. It's a hard case to get hold of a lot of men and force them to lend you a hundred pounds without security and without interest. That's what has been done in this case."
"They'll have no means of recovering anything."
"Not a shilling. The wonder is that they should have got three hundred thousand pounds. They never would have had it unless the squire had wished to pave the way back for Mountjoy. And then he made Augustus do it for him! In my mind he has been so clever that he ought to be forgiven all his rascality. There has been, too, no punishment for him, and no probability of punishment. He has done nothing for which the law can touch him. He has proposed to cheat people, but before he would have cheated them he might be dead. The money-lenders will have been swindled awfully, but they have never had any ground of tangible complaint against him. 'Who are you?' he has said. 'I don't know you.' They alleged that they had lent their money to his eldest son. 'That's as you thought,' he replied. 'I ain't bound to come and tell you all the family arrangements about my marriage.' If you look at it all round it was uncommonly well done."
When Mr. Barry got back he found that it was generally admitted at the Chambers that the business had been well done. Everybody was prepared to allow that Mr. Scarborough had not left a screw loose in the arrangement,—though he was this moment on his death-bed, and had been under surgical tortures and operations, and, in fact, slowly dying, during the whole period that he had been thus busy. Every one concerned in the matter seemed to admire Mr. Scarborough except Mr. Grey, whose anger, either with himself or his client, became the stronger the louder grew the admiration of the world.
A couple of barristers very learned in the law were consulted, and they gave it as their opinion that from the evidence as shown to them there could be no doubt but that Mountjoy was legitimate. There was no reason in the least for doubting it, but for that strange episode which had occurred when, in order to get the better of the law, Mr. Scarborough had declared that at the time of Mountjoy's birth he had not been married. They went on to declare that on the squire's death the Rummelsburg marriage must of course have been discovered, and had given it as their opinion that the squire had never dreamed of doing so great an injustice either to his elder or his younger son. He had simply desired, as they thought, to cheat the money-lenders, and had cheated them beautifully. That Mr. Tyrrwhit should have been so very soft was a marvel to them; but it only showed how very foolish a sharp man of the world might be when he encountered one sharper.
And Augustus, through an attorney acting on his own behalf, consulted two other barristers, whose joint opinion was not forthcoming quite at once, but may have to be stated. Augustus was declared by them to have received at his father's hands a most irreparable injury to such an extent that an action for damages would, in their opinion, lie.
He had, by accepting his father's first story, altered the whole course of his life, abandoned his profession, and even paid large sums of money out of his own pocket for the maintenance of his elder brother. A jury would probably award him some very considerable sum,—if a jury could get hold of his father while still living. No doubt the furniture and other property would remain, and might be held to be liable for the present owner's laches. But these two learned lawyers did not think that an action could be taken with any probability of success against the eldest son, with reference to his tables and chairs, when the Tretton estates should have become his. As these learned lawyers had learned that old Mr. Scarborough was at this moment almostin articulo mortis, would it not be better that Augustus should apply to his elder brother to make him such compensation as the peculiarities of the case would demand? But as this opinion did not reach Augustus till his father was dead, the first alternative proposed was of no use.
"I suppose, sir, we had better communicate with Mr. Scarborough?" Mr. Barry said to his partner, on his return.
"Not in my name," Mr. Grey replied. "I've put Mr. Scarborough in such a state that he is not allowed to see any business letter. Sir William Brodrick is there now." But communications were made both to Mountjoy and to Augustus. There was nothing for Mountjoy to do; his case was in Mr. Barry's hands; nor could he take any steps till something should be done to oust him from Tretton. Augustus, however, immediately went to work and employed his counsel, learned in the law.
"You will do something, I suppose, for poor Gus?" the old man said to his son one morning. It was the last morning on which he was destined to awake in the world, and he had been told by Sir William and by Mr. Merton that it would probably be so. But death to him had no terror. Life to him, for many weeks past, had been so laden with pain as to make him look forward to a release from it with hope. But the business of life had pressed so hard upon him as to make him feel that he could not tell what had been accomplished.
The adjustment of such a property as Tretton required, he thought, his presence, and, till it had been adjusted, he clung to life with a pertinacity which had seemed to be oppressive. Now Mountjoy's debts had been paid, and Mountjoy could be left a bit happier. Having achieved so much, he was delighted to think that he might. But there had come latterly a claim upon him equally strong,—that he should wreak his vengeance upon Augustus. Had Augustus abused him for keeping him in the dark so long, he would have borne it patiently. He had expected as much. But his son had ridiculed him, laughed at him, made nothing of him, and had at last told him to die out of the way. He would, at any rate, do something before he died.
He had had his revenge, very bitter of its kind. Augustus should be made to feel that he had not been ridiculous,—not to be laughed at in his last days. He had ruined his son, inevitably ruined him, and was about to leave him penniless upon the earth. But now in his last moments, in his very last, there came upon him some feeling of pity, and in speaking of his son he once more called him "Gus."
"I don't know how it will all be, sir; but if the property is to be mine—"
"It will be yours; it must be yours."
"Then I will do anything for him that he will accept."
"Do not let him starve, or have to earn his bread."
"Say what you wish, sir, and it shall be done, as far as I can do it."
"Make an offer to him of some income, and settle it on him. Do it at once." The old man, as he said this, was thinking probably of the great danger that all Tretton might, before long, have been made to vanish. "And, Mountjoy—"
"Sir."
"You have gambled surely enough for amusement. With such a property as this in your hands gambling becomes very serious."
They were the last words,—the last intelligible words,—which the old man spoke. He died with his left hand on his son's neck, and took Merton and his sister by his side. It was a death-bed not without its lesson,—not without a certain charm in the eyes of some fancied beholder. Those who were there seemed to love him well, and should do so.
He had contrived, in spite of his great faults, to create a respect in the minds of those around him, which is itself a great element of love. But there was something in his manner which told of love for others. He was one who could hate to distraction, and on whom no bonds of blood would operate to mitigate his hatred. He would persevere to injure with a terrible persistency; but yet in every phase of his life he had been actuated by love for others. He had never been selfish, thinking always of others rather than of himself. Supremely indifferent he had been to the opinion of the world around him, but he had never run counter to his own conscience. For the conventionalities of the law he entertained a supreme contempt, but he did wish so to arrange matters with which he was himself concerned as to do what justice demanded. Whether he succeeded in the last year of his life the reader may judge. But certainly the three persons who were assembled around his death-bed did respect him, and had been made to love him by what he had done.
Merton wrote the next morning to his friend Henry Annesley respecting the scene. "The poor old boy has gone at last, and, in spite of all his faults, I feel as though I had lost an old friend. To me he has been most kind, and did I not know of all his sins I should say that he had been always loyal and always charitable. Mr. Grey condemns him, and all the world must condemn him. One cannot make an apology for him without being ready to throw all truth and all morality to the dogs. But if you can imagine for yourself a state of things in which neither truth nor morality shall be thought essential, then old Mr. Scarborough would be your hero. He was the bravest man I ever knew. He was ready to look all opposition in the face, and prepared to bear it down. And whatever he did, he did with the view of accomplishing what he thought to be right for other people. Between him and his God I cannot judge, but he believed in an Almighty One, and certainly went forth to meet him without a fear in his heart."
While some men die others are marrying. While the funeral dirge was pealing sadly at Tretton, the joyful marriage-bells were ringing both at Buntingford and Buston. Joe Thoroughbung, dressed all in his best, was about to carry off Molly Annesley to Rome previous to settling down to a comfortable life of hunting and brewing in his native town. Miss Thoroughbung sent her compliments to Mrs. Annesley. Would her brother be there? She thought it probable that Mr. Prosper would not be glad to see her. She longed to substitute "Peter" for Mr. Prosper, but abstained. In such case she would deny herself the pleasure of "seeing Joe turned off." Then there was an embassy sent to the Hall. The two younger girls went with the object of inviting Uncle Prosper, but with a desire at their hearts that Uncle Prosper might not come. "I presume the family at Buntingford will be represented?" Uncle Prosper had asked. "Somebody will come, I suppose," said Fanny. Then Uncle Prosper had sent down a pretty jewelled ring, and said that he would remain in his room. His health hardly permitted of his being present with advantage. So it was decided that Miss Thoroughbung should come, and every one felt that she would be the howling spirit,—if not at the ceremony, at the banquet which would be given afterward.
Miss Thoroughbung was not the only obstacle, had the whole been known. Young Soames, the son of the attorney with whom Mr. Prosper had found it so evil a thing to have to deal, was to act as Joe's best man. Mr. Prosper learned this, probably, from Matthew, but he never spoke of it to the family.
It was a sad disgrace in his eyes that any Soames should have been so far mixed up with the Prosper blood. Young Algy Soames was in himself a very nice sort of young fellow, who liked a day's hunting when he could be spared out of his father's office, and whose worst fault was that he wore loud cravats. But he was an abomination to Mr. Prosper, who had never seen him. As it was, he carried himself very mildly on this occasion.
"It's a pity we're not to have two marriages at the same time," said Mr. Crabtree, a clerical wag from the next parish. "Don't you think so, Mrs. Annesley?" Mrs. Annesley was standing close by, as was also Miss Thoroughbung, but she made no answer to the appeal. People who understood anything knew that Mrs. Annesley would not be gratified by such an allusion. But Mr. Crabtree was a man who understood nothing.
"The old birds never pair so readily as the young ones," said Miss Thoroughbung.
"Old! Who talks of being old?" said Mr. Crabtree. "My friend Prosper is quite a boy. There's a good time coming, and I hope you'll give way yet, Miss Thoroughbung."
Then they were all marshalled on their way to church. It is quite out of my power to describe the bride's dress, or that of the bride's maids. They were the bride's sisters and two of Joe's sisters. An attempt had been made to induce Florence Mountjoy to come down, but it had been unsuccessful. Things had gone so far now at Cheltenham that Mrs. Mountjoy had been driven to acknowledge that if Florence held to her project for three years she should be allowed to marry Harry Annesley. But she had accompanied this permission by many absurd restrictions. Florence was not to see him, at any rate, during the first year; but she was to see Mountjoy Scarborough if he came to Cheltenham. Florence declared this to be impossible; but, as the Buston marriage took place just at this moment, she could not have her way in everything. Joe drove up to the church with Algy Soames, it not having been thought discreet that he should enter the parsonage on that morning, though he had been there nearly every day through the winter. "I declare, here he is!" said Miss Thoroughbung, very loudly. "I never thought he'd have the courage at the last moment."
"I wonder how a certain gentleman would have felt when it came to his last moment," said Mr. Crabtree.
Mrs. Annesley took to weeping bitterly, which seemed to be unnecessary, as she had done nothing but congratulate herself since the match had first been made, and had rejoiced greatly that one of her numerous brood should have "put into such a haven of rest."
"My dear Mrs. Annesley," said Mrs. Crabtree, consoling her in that she would not be far removed from her child, "you can almost see the brewery chimneys from the church tower." Those who knew the two ladies well were aware that there was some little slur intended by the allusion to brewery chimneys. Mrs. Crabtree's girl had married the third son of Sir Reginald Rattlepate. The Rattlepates were not rich, and the third son was not inclined to earn his bread.
"Thank God, yes!" said Mrs. Annesley, through her tears. "Whenever I shall see them I shall know that there's an income coming out with the smoke."
The boys were home from school for the occasion. "Molly, there's Joe coming after you," said the elder.
"If he gives you a kiss now you needn't pretend to mind," said the other.
"My darling, my own one, that so soon will be my own no longer!" said the father, as he made his way into the vestry to put on his surplice.
"Dear papa!" It was the only word the bride said as she walked in at the church-door, and prepared to make her way up the nave at the head of her little bevy. They were all very bright, as they stood there before the altar, but the brightest spot among them was Algy Soames's blue necktie. Joe for the moment was much depressed, and thought nothing of the last run in which he had distinguished himself; but nevertheless he held up his head well as a man and a brewer.
"Dont'ee take on so," Miss Thoroughbung said to Mrs. Annesley at the last moment. "He'll give her plenty to eat and to drink, and will never do her a morsel of harm." Joe overheard this, and wished that his aunt was back in her bed at Marmaduke Lodge.
Then the marriage was over, and they all trooped into the vestry to sign the book. "You can't get out of that now," said Mrs. Crabtree to Joe.
"I don't want to. I have got the fairest girl in these parts for my wife, and, as I believe, the best young woman." This he said with a spirit for which Mrs. Crabtree had not given him credit, and Algy Soames heard him and admired his friend beneath his blue necktie. And one of the girls heard it, and cried tears of joy as she told her sister afterward in the bedroom. "Oh, what a darling he is!" Molly had said, amid her own sobbing. Joe stood an inch higher among them all because of that word.
Then came the breakfast,—that dullest, saddest hour of all. To feed heavily about twelve in the morning is always a nuisance,—a nuisance so abominable that it should be avoided under any other circumstances than a wedding in your own family. But that wedding-breakfast, when it does come, is the worst of all feeding. The smart dresses and bare shoulders seen there by daylight, the handing people in and out among the seats, the very nature of the food, made up of chicken and sweets and flummery, the profusion of champagne, not sometimes of the very best on such an occasion; and then the speeches! They fall generally to the lot of some middle-aged gentlemen, who seem always to have been selected for their incapacity. But there is a worse trouble yet remaining—in the unnatural repletion which the sight even of so much food produces, and the fact that your dinner for that day is destroyed utterly and forever.
Mr. Crabtree and the two fathers made the speeches, over and beyond that which was made by Joe himself. Joe's father was not eloquent. He brewed, no doubt, good beer, without a taste in it beyond malt and hops;—no man in the county brewed better beer; but he couldn't make a speech. He got up, dressed in a big white waistcoat, and a face as red as his son's hunting-coat, and said that he hoped his boy would make a good husband. All he could say was, that being a lover had not helped to make him a good brewer. Perhaps when Molly Annesley was brought nearer to Buntingford, Joe mightn't spend so much of his time in going to and fro. Perhaps Mr. Joe might not demand so much of her attention. This was the great point he made, and it was received well by all but the bride, who whispered to Joe that if he thought that he was to be among the brewing tubs from morning till night he'd find he was mistaken. Mr. Annesley threw a word or two of feeling into his speech, as is usual with the father of the young lady, but nobody seemed to care much for that. Mr. Crabtree was facetious with the ordinary wedding jests,—as might have been expected, seeing that he had been present at every wedding in the county for the last twenty years. The elderly ladies laughed good-humoredly, and Mrs. Crabtree was heard to say that the whole affair would have been very tame but that Mr. Crabtree had "carried it all off." But, in truth, when Joe got up the fun of the day had commenced, for Miss Thoroughbung, though she kept her chair, was able to utter as many words as her nephew: "I'm sure I'm very much obliged to you for what you've all been saying."
"So you ought, sir, for you have heard more good of yourself than you'll ever hear again."
"Then I'm the more obliged to you. What my people have said about my being so long upon the road—"
"That's only just what you have told them at the brewery. Nobody knows where you have been."
"Molly can tell you all about that."
"I can't tell them anything," Molly said in a whisper.
"But it comes only once in a man's lifetime," continued Joe; "and I dare say, if we knew all about the governor when he was of my age, which I don't remember, he was as spooney as any one."
"I only saw him once for six months before he was married," said Mrs. Thoroughbung in a funereal voice.
"He's made up for it since," said Miss Thoroughbung.
"I'm sure I'm very proud to have got such a young lady to have come and joined her lot with mine," continued Joe; "and nobody can think more about his wife's family than I do."
"And all Buston," said the aunt.
"Yes, and all Buston."
"I'm sure we're all sorry that the bride's uncle, from Buston Hall, has not been able to come here to-day. You ought to say that, Joe."
"Yes, I do say it. I'm very sorry that Mr. Prosper isn't able to be here."
"Perhaps Miss Thoroughbung can tell us something about him?" said Mr. Crabtree.
"Me! I know nothing special. When I saw him last he was in good health. I did nothing to him to make him keep his bed. Mrs. Crabtree seems to think that I have got your uncle in my keeping. Molly, I beg to say that I'm not responsible."
It must be allowed that amid such free conversation it was difficult for Joe to shine as an orator. But as he had no such ambition, perhaps the interruptions only served him. But Miss Thoroughbung's witticism did throw a certain damp over the wedding-breakfast. It was perhaps to have been expected that the lady should take her revenge for the injury done to her. It was the only revenge that she did take. She had been ill-used, she thought, and yet she had not put Mr. Prosper to a shilling of expense. And there was present to her a feeling that the uncle had at the last moment been debarred from complying with her small requests in favor of Miss Tickle and the ponies on behalf of the young man who was now sitting opposite to her, and that the good things coming from Buston Hall were to be made to flow in the way of the Annesleys generally rather than in her way. She did not regret them very much, and it was not in her nature to be bitter; but still all those little touches about Mr. Prosper were pleasant to her, and were, of course, unpleasant to the Annesleys. Then, it will be said, she should not have come to partake of a breakfast in Mr. Annesley's dining-room. That is a matter of taste, and perhaps Miss Thoroughbung's taste was not altogether refined.
Joe's speech came to an end, and with it his aunt's remarks. But as she left the room she said a few words to Mr. Annesley. "Don't suppose that I am angry,—not in the least; certainly not with you or Harry. I'd do him a good turn to-morrow if I could; and so, for the matter of that, I would to his uncle. But you can't expect but what a woman should have her feelings and express them." Mr. Annesley, on the other hand, thought it strange that a woman in such a position should express her feelings.
Then at last came the departure. Molly was taken up into her mother's room and cried over for the last time. "I know that I'm an old fool!"
"Oh, mamma! now, dearest mamma!"
"A good husband is the greatest blessing that God can send a girl, and I do think that he is good and sterling."
"He is, mamma,—he is. I know he is."
"And when that woman talks about brewery chimneys, I know what a comfort it is that there should be chimneys, and that they should be near. Brewery chimneys are better than a do-nothing scamp that can't earn a meal for himself or his children. And when I see Joe with his pink coat on going to the meet, I thank God that my Molly has got a lad that can work hard, and ride his own horses, and go out hunting with the best of them."
"Oh, mamma, I do like to see him then. He is handsome."
"I would not have anything altered. But—but—Oh, my child, you are going away!"
"As Mrs. Crabtree says, I sha'n't be far."
"No, no! But you won't be all mine. The time will come when you'll think of your girls in the same way. You haven't done a thing that I haven't seen and known and pondered over; you haven't worn a skirt but what it has been dear to me; you haven't uttered a prayer but what I have heard it as it went up to God's throne. I hope he says his prayers."
"I'm sure he does," said Molly, with confidence more or less well founded.
"Now go, and leave me here. I'm such an old stupid that I can't help crying; and if that woman was to say anything more to me about the chimneys I should give her a bit of my mind."
Then Molly went down with her travelling-hat on, looking twice prettier than she had done during the whole of the morning ceremonies. It is, I suppose, on the bridegroom's behalf that the bride is put forth in all her best looks just as she is about to become, for the first time, exclusively his own. Molly, on the present occasion, was very pretty, and Joe was very proud. It was not the least of his pride that he, feeling himself to be not quite as yet removed from the "Bung" to the "Thorough," had married into a family by which his ascent might be matured.
And then, as they went, came the normal shower of rice, to be picked up in the course of the next hour by the vicarage fowls, and not by the London beggars, and the air was darkened by a storm of old shoes. In London, white satin slippers are the fashion. But Buston and Buntingford combined could not afford enough of such missiles; and from the hands of the boys black shoes, and boots too, were thrown freely. "There go my best pair," said one of the boys, as the chariot was driven off, "and I don't mean to let them lie there." Then the boots were recovered and taken up to the bedroom.
Now that Molly was gone, Harry's affairs became paramount at Buston. After all, Harry was of superior importance to Molly, though those chimneys at Buntingford could probably give a better income than the acres belonging to the park. But Harry was to be the future Prosper of the county; to assume at some future time the family name; and there was undoubtedly present to them all at the parsonage a feeling that Harry Annesley Prosper would loom in future years a bigger squire than the parish had ever known before. He had got a fellowship, which no Prosper had ever done; and he had the look and tone of a man who had lived in London, which had never belonged to the Prospers generally. And he was to bring a wife, with a good fortune, and one of whom a reputation for many charms had preceded her. And Harry, having been somewhat under a cloud for the last six months, was now emerging from it brighter than ever. Even Uncle Prosper could not do without him. That terrible Miss Thoroughbung had thrown a gloom over Buston Hall which could only be removed, as the squire himself had felt, by the coming of the natural heir. Harry was indispensable, and was no longer felt by any one to be a burden.
It was now the end of March. Old Mr. Scarborough was dead and buried, and Mountjoy was living at Tretton. Nothing had been heard of his coming up to London. No rushing to the card-tables had been announced. That there were to be some terrible internecine law contests between him and Augustus had been declared in many circles, but of this nothing was known at the Buston Rectory. Harry had been one day at Cheltenham, and had been allowed to spend the best part of an hour with his sweetheart; but this permission had been given on the understanding that he was not to come again, and now for a month he had abstained. Then had come his uncle's offer, that generous offer under which Harry was to bring his wife to Buston Hall, and live there during half the year, and to receive an increased allowance for his maintenance during the other half. As he thought of his ways and means he fancied that they would be almost rich. She would have four hundred a year, and he as much; and an established home would be provided for them. Of all these good things he had written to Florence, but had not yet seen her since the offer had been made. Her answer had not been as propitious as it might be, and it was absolutely necessary that he should go down to Cheltenham and settle things.
The three years had in his imagination been easily reduced to one, which was still, as he thought, an impossible time for waiting. By degrees it came down to six months in his imagination, and now to three, resulting in an idea that they might be easily married early in June, so as to have the whole of the summer before them for their wedding-tour. "Mother," he said, "I shall be off to-morrow."
"To Cheltenham?"
"Yes, to Cheltenham. What is the good of waiting. I think a girl may be too obedient to her mother."
"It is a fine feeling, which you will be glad to remember that she possessed."
"Supposing that you had declared that Molly shouldn't have married Joe Thoroughbung?"
"Molly has got a father," said Mrs. Annesley.
"Suppose she had none?"
"I cannot suppose anything so horrible."
"As if you and he had joined together to forbid Molly."
"But we didn't."
"I think a girl may carry it too far," said Harry. "Mrs. Mountjoy has committed herself to Mountjoy Scarborough, and will not go back from her word. He has again come back to the fore, and out of a ruined man has appeared as the rich proprietor of the town of Tretton. Of course the mother hangs on to him still."
"You don't think Florence will change?"
"Not in the least. I'm not a bit afraid of Mountjoy Scarborough and all his property; but I can see that she may be subjected to much annoyance from which I ought to extricate her."
"What can you do, Harry?"
"Go and tell her so. Make her understand that she should put herself into my hands at once, and that I could protect her."
"Take her away from her mother by force?" said Mrs. Annesley, with horror.
"If she were once married her mother would think no more about it. I don't believe that Mrs. Mountjoy has any special dislike to me. She thinks of her own nephew, and as long as Florence is Florence Mountjoy there will be for her the chance. I know that he has no chance; and I don't think that I ought to leave her there to be bullied for some endless period of time. Think of three years,—of dooming a girl to live three years without ever seeing her lover! There is an absurdity about it which is revolting. I shall go down to-morrow and see if I cannot put a stop to it." To this the mother could make no objection, though she could express no approval of a project under which Florence was to be made to marry without her mother's consent.