When Mr. Scarborough died, and when he had been buried, his son Mountjoy was left alone at Tretton, living in a very desolate manner. Till the day of the funeral, Merton, the doctor, had remained with him and his aunt, Miss Scarborough; but when the old squire had been laid in his grave they both departed. Miss Scarborough was afraid of her nephew, and could not look forward to living comfortably at the big house; and Dr. Merton had the general work of his life to call him away. "You might as well stay for another week," Mountjoy had said to him. But Merton had felt that he could not remain at Tretton without some especial duty, and he too went his way.
The funeral had been very strange. Augustus had refused to come and stand at his father's grave. "Considering all things, I had rather decline," he had written to Mountjoy. Other guests—none were invited, except the tenants. They came in a body, for the squire had been noted among them as a liberal landlord.
But a crowd of tenants does not in any way make up that look of family sorrow which is expected at the funeral of such a man as Mr. Scarborough. Mountjoy was there, and stood through the ceremony speechless, and almost sullen. He went down to the church behind the body with Merton, and then walked away from the ground without having uttered a syllable. But during the ceremony he had seen that which caused him to be sullen. Mr. Samuel Hart had been there, and Mr. Tyrrwhit. And there was a man whom he called to his mind as connected with the names of Evans & Crooke, and Mr. Spicer, and Mr. Richard Juniper. He knew them all as they stood there round the grave, not in decorous funeral array, but as strangers who had strayed into the cemetery. He could not but feel, as he looked at them and they at him, that they had come to look after their interest,—their heavy interest on the money which had been fraudulently repaid to them. He knew that they had parted with their bonds. But he knew also that almost all that was now his would have been theirs, had they not been cheated into believing that he, Mountjoy Scarborough, was not, and never would be, Scarborough of Tretton Park. They said nothing as they stood there, and did not in any way interrupt the ceremony; but they looked at Mountjoy as they were standing, and their looks disconcerted him terribly.
He had declared that he would walk back to the house which was not above two miles distant from the graveyard, and therefore, when the funeral was over, there was no carriage to take him. But he knew that the men would dog his steps as he walked. He had only just got within the precincts of the park when he saw them all. But Mr. Tyrrwhit was by himself, and came up to him. "What are you going to do, Captain Scarborough," he said, "as to our claims?"
"You have no claims of which I am aware," he said roughly.
"Oh yes, Captain Scarborough; we have claims, certainly. You've come up to the front lately with a deal of luck; I don't begrudge it, for one; but I have claims,—I and those other gentlemen; we have claims. You'll have to admit that."
"Send in the documents. Mr. Barry is acting as my lawyer; he is Mr. Grey's partner, and is now taking the leading share in the business."
"I know Mr. Barry well; a very sharp gentleman is Mr. Barry."
"I cannot enter into conversation with yourself at such a time as this."
"We are sorry to trouble you; but then our interests are so pressing. What do you mean to do, Captain Scarborough? That's the question."
"Yes; with the estate," said Mr. Samuel Hart, coming up and joining them. Of the lot of men, Mr. Samuel Hart was the most distasteful to Mountjoy. He had last seen his Jew persecutor at Monte Carlo, and had then, as he thought, been grossly insulted by him. "What are you hafter, captain?" To this Mountjoy made no answer, but Hart, walking a step or two in advance, turned upon his heels and looked at the park around him. "Tidy sort of place, ain't it, Tyrrwhit, for a gentleman to hang his 'at up, when we were told he was a bastard, not worth a shilling?"
"I have nothing to do with all that," said Mountjoy; "you and Mr. Tyrrwhit held my acceptances for certain sums of money. They have, I believe, been paid in full."
"No, they ain't; they ain't been paid in full at all; you knows they ain't." As he said this, Mr. Hart walked on in front, and stood in the pathway, facing Mountjoy. "How can you 'ave the cheek to say we've been paid in full? You know it ain't true."
"Evans & Crooke haven't been paid, so far," said a voice from behind.
"More ain't Spicer," said another voice.
"Captain Scarborough, I haven't been paid in full," said Mr. Juniper, advancing to the front. "You don't mean to tell me that my five hundred pounds have been paid in full? You've ruined me, Captain Scarborough. I was to have been married to a young lady with a large fortune,—your Mr. Grey's niece,—and it has been broken off altogether because of your bad treatment. Do you mean to assert that I have been paid in full?"
"If you have got any document, take it to Mr. Barry."
"No, I won't; I won't take it to any lawyer. I'll take it right in before the Court, and expose you. My name is Juniper, and I've never parted with a morsel of paper that has your name to it."
"Then, no doubt, you'll get your money," said the captain.
"I thought, gentlemen, you were to allow me to be the spokesman on this occasion," said Mr. Tyrrwhit. "We certainly cannot do any good if we attack the captain all at once. Now, Captain Scarborough, we don't want to be uncivil."
"Uncivil be blowed!" said Mr. Hart; "I want to get my money, and mean to 'ave it. I agreed as you was to speak, Mr. Tyrrwhit; but I means to be spoken up for; and if no one else can do it, I can do it myself. Is we to have any settlement made to us, or is we to go to law?"
"I can only refer you to Mr. Barry," said Mountjoy, walking on very rapidly. He thought that when he reached the house he might be able to enter in and leave them out, and he thought also that if he kept them on the trot he would thus prevent them from attacking him with many words. Evans & Crooke were already lagging behind, and Mr. Spicer was giving signs of being hard pressed. Even Hart, who was younger than the others, was fat and short, and already showed that he would have to halt if he made many speeches.
"Barry be d––––d!" exclaimed Hart.
"You see how it is, Captain Scarborough," said Tyrrwhit; "Your father, as has just been laid to rest in hopes of a a happy resurrection, was a very peculiar gentleman."
"The most hinfernal swindler I ever 'eard tell of!" said Hart.
"I don't wish to say a word disrespectful," continued Tyrrwhit, "but he had his own notions. He said as you was illegitimate,—didn't he, now?"
"I can only refer you to Mr. Barry," said Mountjoy.
"And he said that Mr. Augustus was to have it all; and he proved his words,—didn't he, now? And then he made out that, if so, our deeds weren't worth the paper they were written on. Isn't it all true what I'm saying? And then when we'd taken what small sums of money he chose to offer us, just to save ourselves from ruin, then he comes up and says you are the heir, as legitimate as anybody else, and are to have all the property. And he proves that too! What are we to think about it?"
There was nothing left for Mountjoy Scarborough but to make the pace as good as possible. Mr. Hart tried once and again to stop their progress by standing in the captain's path, but could only do this sufficiently at each stoppage to enable him to express his horror with various interjections. "Oh laws! that such a liar as 'e should ever be buried!"
"You can't do anything by being disrespectful, Mr. Hart," said Tyrrwhit.
"What—is it—he means—to do?" ejaculated Spicer.
"Mr. Spicer," said Mountjoy, "I mean to leave it all in the hands of Mr. Barry; and, if you will believe me, no good can be done by any of you by hunting me across the park."
"Hare you a bastard, or haren't you?" ejaculated Hart.
"No, Mr. Hart, I am not."
"Then pay us what you h'owes us. You h'ain't h'agoing to say as you don't h'owe us?"
"Mr. Tyrrwhit," said the captain, "it is of no use my answering Mr. Hart, because he is angry."
"H'angry! By George, I h'am angry! I'd like to pull that h'old sinner's bones h'out of the ground!"
"But to you I can say that Mr. Barry will be better able to tell you than I am what can be done by me to defend my property."
"Captain Scarborough," said Mr. Tyrrwhit, mildly, "we had your name, you know. We did have your name."
"And my father bought the bonds back."
"Oh laws! And he calls himself a shentleman!"
"I have nothing farther to say to you now, gentlemen, and can only refer you to Mr. Barry." The path on which they were walking had then brought them to the corner of a garden wall, through which a door opened into the garden. Luckily, at the moment, it occurred to Mountjoy that there was a bolt on the other side of the gate, and he entered it quickly and bolted the door. Mr. Tyrrwhit was left on the other side, and was joined by his companions as quickly as their failing breath enabled them to do so. "'Ere's a go!" said Mr. Hart, striking the door violently with the handle of his stick.
"He had nothing for it but to leave us when we attacked him altogether," said Mr. Tyrrwhit. "If you had left it to me he would have told us what he intended to do. You, Mr. Hart, had not so much cause to be angry, as you had received a considerable sum for interest." Then Mr. Hart turned upon Mr. Tyrrwhit, and abused him all the way back to their inn. But it was pleasant to see how these commercial gentlemen, all engaged in the natural course of trade, expressed their violent indignation, not so much as to their personal losses, but at the commercial dishonesty generally of which the Scarboroughs, father and son, had been and were about to be guilty.
Mountjoy, when he reached the house of which he was now the only occupant besides the servants, stood for an hour in the dining-room with his back toward the fire, thinking of his position. He had many things of which to think. In the first place, there were these pseudo-creditors who had just attacked him in his own park with much acrimony. He endeavored to comfort himself by telling himself that they were certainly pseudo-creditors, to whom he did not in fact owe a penny. Mr. Barry could deal with them.
But then his conscience reminded him that they had, in truth, been cheated,—cheated by his father for his benefit. For every pound which they had received they would have claimed three or four. They would no doubt have cheated him. But how was he now to measure the extent of his father's fraud against that of his creditors? And though it would have been right in him to resist the villany of these Jews, he felt that it was not fit that he should escape from their fangs altogether by his father's deceit. He had not become so dead to honor but thatnoblesse obligedid still live within his bosom. And yet there was nothing that he could do to absolve his bosom. The income of the estate was nearly clear, the money brought in by the late sales having all but sufficed to give these gentlemen that which his father had chosen to pay them. But was he sure of that income? He had just now asserted boldly that he was the legitimate heir to the property; but did he know that he was so? Could he believe his father? Had not Mr. Grey asserted that he would not accept this later evidence? Was he not sure that Augustus intended to proceed against him? and was he not aware that nothing could be called his own till that lawsuit should have been decided? If that should be given against him, then these harpies would have been treated only too well; then there would be no question, at any rate by him, as to whatnoblesse obligemight require of him. He could take no immediate step in regard to them, and therefore, for the moment, drove that trouble from his mind.
But what should he do with himself as to his future life? To be persecuted and abused by these wretched men, as had this morning been his fate, would be intolerable. Could he shut himself up from Mr. Samuel Hart and still live in England? And then could he face the clubs,—if the clubs would be kind enough to re-elect him? And then there came a dark frown across his brow, as he bethought himself that even at this moment his heart was longing to be once more among the cards. Could he not escape to Monaco, and there be happy among the gambling-tables? Mr. Hart would surely not follow him there, and he would be free from the surveillance of that double blackguard, his brother's servant and his father's spy.
But, after all, as he declared to himself, did it not altogether turn on the final answer which he might get from Florence Mountjoy? Could Florence be brought to accede to his wishes, he thought that he might still live happily, respectably, and in such a manner that his name might go down to posterity not altogether blasted. If Florence would consent to live at Tretton, then could he remain there. He thought it over as he stood there with his back to the fire, and he told himself that with Florence the first year would be possible, and that after the first year the struggle would cease to be a struggle. He knew himself, he declared, and he made all manner of excuses for his former vicious life, basing them all on the hardness of her treatment of him. He did not know himself, and such assurances were vain. But buoyed up by such assurances, he resolved that his future fate must be in her hands, and that her word alone should suffice either to destroy him or to save him.
Thinking thus of his future life, he resolved that he would go at once to Cheltenham, and throw himself, and what of Tretton belonged to him, at the girl's feet. Nor could he endure himself to rest another night at Tretton till he had done so. He started at once, and got late to Gloucester, where he slept, and on the next morning at eleven o'clock was at Cheltenham, out on his way to Montpellier Terrace. He at once asked for Florence, but circumstances so arranged themselves that he first found himself closeted with her mother. Mrs. Mountjoy was delighted, and yet shocked, to see him. "My poor brother!" she said; "and he was buried only yesterday!" Such explanation as Mountjoy could give was given. He soon made the whole tenor of his thoughts intelligible to her. "Yes; Tretton was his,—at least he supposed so. As to his future life he could say nothing. It must depend on Florence. He thought that if she would promise to become at once his wife, there would be no more gambling. He had felt it to be incumbent on him to come and tell her so."
Mrs. Mountjoy, frightened by the thorough blackness of his apparel and by the sternness of his manner, had not a word to say to him in opposition. "Be gentle with her," she said, as she led the way to the room in which Florence was found. "Your cousin has come to see you," she said; "has come immediately after the funeral. I hope you will be gracious to him." Then she closed the door, and the two were alone together.
"Florence!" he said.
"Mountjoy! We hardly expected you here so soon."
"Where the heart strays the body is apt to follow. I could speak to no one, I could do nothing, I could hope and pray for nothing till I had seen you."
"You cannot depend on me like that," she answered.
"I do depend on you most entirely. No human being can depend more thoroughly on another. It is not my fortune that I have come to offer you, or simply my love, but in very truth my soul."
"Mountjoy, that is wicked!"
"Then wicked let it be. It is true. Tretton, by singular circumstances, is all my own, free of debt. At any rate, I and others believe it to be so."
"Tretton being all your own can make no difference."
"I told you that I had not come to offer you my fortune." And he almost scowled at her as he spoke. "You know what my career has hitherto been, though you do not perhaps know what has driven me to it. Shall I go back, and live after the same fashion, and let Tretton go to the dogs? It will be so unless you take me and Tretton into your hands."
"It cannot be."
"Oh, Florence! think of it before you pronounce my doom."
"It cannot be. I love you well as my cousin, and for your sake I love Tretton also. I would suffer much to save you, if any suffering on my part would be of avail. But it cannot be in that fashion." Then he scowled again at her. "Mountjoy, you frighten me by your hard looks;—but though you were to kill me you cannot change me. I am the promised wife of Harry Annesley; and for his honor I must bid you plead this cause no more." Then, just at this moment there was a ring at the bell and a knock at the door, each of them somewhat impetuous, and Florence Mountjoy, jumping up with a start, knew that Harry Annesley was there.
She knew that Harry Annesley was at the door. He had written to say that he must come again, though he had fixed no day for his coming. She had been delighted to think that he should come, though she had after her fashion, scolded him for the promised visit. But, though his comings had not been frequent, she recognized already the sounds of his advent. When a girl really loves her lover, the very atmosphere tells of his whereabouts. She was expecting him with almost breathless expectation when her cousin Mountjoy was brought to her; and so was her mother, who had been told that Harry Annesley had business on which he intended to call. But now the two foes must meet in her presence. That was the idea which first came upon her. She was sure that Harry would behave well. Why should not a favored lover on such occasions always behave well? But how would Mountjoy conduct himself when brought face to face with his rival? As Florence thought of it, she remembered that when last they met the quarrel between them had been outrageous. And Mountjoy had been the sinner, while Harry had been made to bear the punishment of the sin.
Harry, when he was told that Miss Mountjoy was at home, had at once walked in and opened for himself the door of the front room downstairs. There he found Florence and Mountjoy Scarborough. Mrs. Mountjoy was still up-stairs in her bedroom, and was palpitating with fear as she thought of the anger of the two combative lovers. To her belief, Harry was, of the two, the most like to a roaring lion, because she had heard of him that he had roared so dreadfully on that former occasion. But she did not instantly go down, detained in her bedroom by the eagerness of her fear, and by the necessity of resolving how she would behave when she got there.
Harry, when he entered, stood a moment at the door, and then, hurrying across the room, offered Scarborough his hand. "I have been so sorry," he said, "to hear of your loss; but your father's health was such that you could not have expected that his life should be prolonged." Mountjoy muttered something, but his mutterings, as Florence had observed, were made in courtesy. And the two men had taken each other by the hand; after that they could hardly fly at each other's throats in her presence. Then Harry crossed to Florence and took her hand. "I never get a line from you," he said, laughing, "but what you scold me. I think I escape better when I am present; so here I am."
"You always make wicked propositions, and of course I scold you. A girl has to go on scolding till she's married, and then it's her turn to get it."
"No wonder, then, that you talk of three years so glibly. I want to be able to scold you."
All this was going on in Mountjoy's presence, while he stood by, silent, black, and scowling. His position was very difficult,—that of hearing the billing and cooing of these lovers. But theirs also was not too easy, which made the billing and cooing necessary in his presence. Each had to seem to be natural, but the billing and cooing were in truth affected. Had he not been there, would they not have been in each other's arms? and would not she have made him the proudest man in England by a loving kiss? "I was asking Miss Mountjoy, when you came in, to be my wife." This Scarborough said with a loud voice, looking Harry full in the face.
"It cannot be," said Florence; "I told you that, for his honor,"—and she laid her hand on Harry's arm,—"I could listen to no such request."
"The request has to be made again," he said.
"It will be made in vain," said Harry.
"So, no doubt, you think," said Captain Scarborough.
"You can ask herself," said Harry.
"Of course it will be made in vain," said Florence. "Does he think that a girl, in such a matter as that of loving a man, can be turned here and there at a moment's notice,—that she can say yes and no alternately to two men? It is impossible. Harry Annesley has chosen me, and I am infinitely happy in his choice." Here Harry made an attempt to get his arm round her waist, in which, however, she prevented him, seeing the angry passion rising in her cousin's eyes. "He is to be my husband, I hope. I have told him that I love him, and I tell you so also. He has my promise, and I cannot take it back without perjury to him, and ruin, absolute ruin, to myself. All my happiness in this world depends on him. He is to me my own one absolute master, to whom I have given myself altogether, as far as this world goes. Even were he to reject me I could not give myself to another."
"My Florence! my darling!" Harry exclaimed.
"After having told you so much, can you ask your cousin to be untrue to her word and to her heart, and to become your wife when her heart is utterly within his keeping? Mountjoy, it is impossible."
"What of me, then?" he said.
"Rouse yourself and love some other girl and marry her, and so do well with yourself and with your property."
"You talk of your heart," he said, "and you bid me use my own after such fashion as that!"
"A man's heart can be changed, but not a woman's. His love is but one thing among many."
"It is the one thing," said Harry. Then the door opened, and Mrs. Mountjoy entered the room.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she said, "you, both of you, here together?"
"Yes: we are both here together," said Harry.
There was an unfortunate smile on his face as he said so, which made Mountjoy Scarborough very angry. The two men were both handsome, two as handsome men as you shall see on a summer's day. Mountjoy was dark-visaged, with coal-black whiskers and mustaches, with sparkling, angry eyes, and every feature of his face well cut and finely formed; but there was absent from him all look of contentment or satisfaction. Harry was light-haired, with long, silken beard, and bright eyes; but there was usually present to his face a look of infinite joy, which was comfortable to all beholders. If not strong, as was the other man's, it was happy and eloquent of good temper. But in one thing they were alike:—neither of them counted aught on his good looks. Mountjoy had attempted to domineer by his bad temper, and had failed; but Harry, without any attempt at domineering, always doubting of himself till he had been assured of success by her lips, had succeeded. Now he was very proud of his success; but he was proud of her, and not of himself.
"You come in here and boast of what you have done in my presence," said Mountjoy Scarborough.
"How can I not seem to boast when she tells me that she loves me?" said Harry.
"For God's sake, do not quarrel here!" said Mrs. Mountjoy.
"They shall not quarrel at all," said Florence, "There is no cause for quarrelling. When a girl has given herself away there should be an end of it. No man who knows that she has done so should speak to her again in the way of love. I will leave you now; but, Harry, you must come again, in order that I may tell you that you must not have it all your own way, just as you please, sir." Then she gave him her hand, and passing on at once to Mountjoy, tendered her hand to him also. "You are my cousin, and the head now of my mother's family. I would fain know that you would say a kind word to me, and bid me 'God speed.'"
He looked at her, but did not take her hand. "I cannot do it," he said. "I cannot bid you 'God speed.' You have ruined me, trampled upon me, destroyed me. I am not angry with him," and he pointed across the room to Harry Annesley; "nor with you; but only with myself." Then, without speaking a word to his aunt, he marched out of the room and left the house, closing the front-door after him with a loud noise, which testified to his anger.
"He has gone!" said Mrs. Mountjoy, with a tone of deep tragedy.
"It is better so," said Florence.
"A man must take his chance in such warfare as this," said Harry. "There is something about Mountjoy Scarborough that, after all, I like. I do not love Augustus, but, with certain faults, Mountjoy is a good fellow."
"He is the head of our family," said Mrs. Mountjoy, "and is the owner of Tretton."
"That is nothing to do with it," said Florence.
"It has much to do with it," said her mother, "though you would never listen to me. I had set my heart upon it, but you have determined to thwart me. And yet there was a time when you preferred him to every one else."
"Never!" said Florence, with energy.
"Yes, you did,—before Mr. Annesley here came in the way."
"It was before I came, at any rate," said Harry.
"I was young, and I did not wish to be disobedient. But I never loved him, and I never told him so. Now it is out of the question."
"He will never come back again," said Mrs. Mountjoy, mournfully.
"I should be very glad to see him back when I and Florence are man and wife. I don't care how soon we should see him."
"No; he will never come back," said Florence,—"not as he came to-day. That trouble is at last over, mamma."
"And my trouble is going to begin."
"Why should there be any trouble? Harry will not give you trouble;—will you, Harry?"
"Never, I trust," said Harry.
"He cannot understand," said Mrs. Mountjoy; "he knows nothing of the desire and ambition of my life. I had promised him my child, and my word to him is now broken."
"He will have known, mamma, that you could not promise for me. Now go, Harry, because we are flurried. May I not ask him to come here to-night and to drink tea with us?" This she said, addressing her mother in a tone of sweetest entreaty. To this Mrs. Mountjoy unwillingly yielded, and then Harry also took his departure.
Florence was aware that she had gained much by the interview of the morning. Even to her it began to appear unnecessary that she should keep Harry waiting three years. She had spoken of postponing the time of her servitude and of preserving for herself the masterdom of her own condition. But in that respect the truth of her own desires was well understood by them all. She was anxious enough to submit to her new master, and she felt that the time was coming. Her mother had yielded so much, and Mountjoy had yielded. Harry was saying to himself at this very moment that Mountjoy had thrown up the sponge. She, too, was declaring the same thing for her own comfort in less sporting phraseology, and, what was much more to her, her mother had nearly thrown up the sponge also. In the worse days of her troubles any suitor had made himself welcome to her mother who would rescue her child from the fangs of that roaring lion, Harry Annesley. Mr. Anderson had been received with open arms, and even M. Grascour. Mrs. Mountjoy had then got it into her head that of all lions which were about in those days Harry roared the loudest. His sins in regard to leaving poor Mountjoy speechless and motionless on the pavement had filled her with horror. But Florence now felt that all that had come to an end. Not only had Mountjoy gone away, but no mention would probably be ever again made of Anderson or Grascour. When Florence was preparing herself for tea that evening she sang a little song to herself as to the coming of the conquering hero. "A man must take his chance in such warfare as this," she said, repeating to herself her lover's words.
"You can't expect me to be very bright," her mother said to her before Harry came.
There was a sign of yielding in this also; but Florence in her happiness did not wish to make her mother miserable, "Why not be bright, mamma? Don't you know that Harry is good?"
"No. How am I to know anything about him? He may be utterly penniless."
"But his uncle has offered to let us live in the house and to give us an income. Mr. Prosper has abandoned all idea of getting married."
"He can be married any day. And why do you want to live in another man's house when you may live in your own? Tretton is ready for you,—the finest mansion in the whole county." Here Mrs. Mountjoy exaggerated a little, but some exaggeration may be allowed to a lady in her circumstances.
"Mamma, you know that I cannot live at Tretton."
"It is the house in which I was born."
"How can that signify? When such things happen they are used as additional grounds for satisfaction. But I cannot marry your nephew because you were born in a certain house. And all that is over now: you know that Mountjoy will not come back again."
"He would," exclaimed the mother, as though with new hopes.
"Oh, mamma! how can you talk like that? I mean to marry Harry Annesley;—you know that I do. Why not make your own girl happy by accepting him?" Then Mrs. Mountjoy left the room and went to her own chamber and cried there, not bitterly, I think, but copiously. Her girl would be the wife of the squire of Buston, who, after all, was not a bad sort of fellow. At any rate he would not gamble. There had always been that terrible drawback. And he was a fellow of his college, in which she would look for, and probably would find, some compensation as to Tretton. When, therefore, she came down to tea, she was able to receive Harry not with joy but at least without rebuke.
Conversation was at first somewhat flat between the two. If the old lady could have been induced to remain up-stairs, Harry felt that the evening would have been much more satisfactory. But, as it was, he found himself enabled to make some progress. He at once began to address Florence as his undoubted future spouse, very slyly using words adapted for that purpose: and she, without any outburst of her intention,—as she had made when discussing the matter with her cousin,—answered him in the same spirit, and by degrees came so to talk as though the matter were entirely settled. And then, at last, that future day was absolutely brought on the tapis as though now to be named.
"Three years!" ejaculated Mrs. Mountjoy, as though not even yet surrendering her last hope.
Florence, from the nature of the circumstances, received this in silence. Had it been ten years she might have expostulated. But a young lady's bashfulness was bound to appear satisfied with an assurance of marriage within three years. But it was otherwise with Harry. "Good God, Mrs. Mountjoy, we shall all be dead!" he cried out.
Mrs. Mountjoy showed by her countenance that she was extremely shocked. "Oh, Harry!" said Florence, "none of us, I hope, will be dead in three years."
"I shall be a great deal too old to be married if I am left alive. Three months, you mean. It will be just the proper time of year, which does go for something. And three months is always supposed to be long enough to allow a girl to get her new frocks."
"You know nothing about it, Harry," said Florence. And so the matter was discussed—in such a manner that when Harry took his departure that evening he was half inclined to sing a song of himself about the conquering hero. "Dear mamma!" said Florence, kissing her mother with all the warm, clinging affection of former years. It was very pleasant,—but still Mrs. Mountjoy went to her room with a sad heart.
When there she sat for a while over the fire, and then drew out her desk. She had been beaten,—absolutely beaten,—and it was necessary that she should own so much in writing to one person. So she wrote her letter, which was as follows:
"Dear Mountjoy,—After all it cannot be as I would have had it. As they say, 'Man proposes, but God disposes.' I would have given her to you now, and would even yet have trusted that you would have treated her well, had it not been that Mr. Annesley has gained such a hold upon her affections. She is wilful, as you are, and I cannot bend her. It has been the longing of my heart that you two should live together at Tretton. But such longings are, I think, wicked, and are seldom realized.
"I write now just this one line to tell you that it is all settled. I have not been strong enough to prevent such settling. He talks of three months! But what does it matter? Three months or three years will be the same to you, and nearly the same to me.
"Your affectionate aunt,
"SARAH MOUNTJOY.
"SARAH MOUNTJOY.
"P.S.—May I as your loving aunt add one word of passionate entreaty? All Tretton is yours now, and the honor of Tretton is within your keeping. Do not go back to those wretched tables!"
Mountjoy Scarborough when he received this letter cannot be said to have been made unhappy by it, because he had already known all his unhappiness. But he turned it in his mind as though to think what would now be the best course of life open to him. And he did think that he had better go back to those tables against which his aunt had warned him, and there remain till he had made the acres of Tretton utterly disappear. There was nothing for him which seemed to be better. And here at home in England even that would at present be impossible to him. He could not enter the clubs, and elsewhere Samuel Hart would be ever at his heels. And there was his brother with his lawsuit, though on that matter a compromise had already been offered to him. Augustus had proposed to him by his lawyer to share Tretton. He would never share Tretton. His brother should have an income secured to him, but he would keep Tretton in his own hands,—as long as the gambling-tables would allow him.
He was, in truth, a wretched man, as on that night he did make up his mind, and ringing his bell called his servant out of his bed to bid him prepare everything for a sudden start. He would leave Tretton on the following day, or on the day after, and intended at once to go abroad. "He is off for that place nigh to Italy where they have the gambling-tables," said the butler, on the following morning, to the valet who declared his master's intentions.
"I shouldn't wonder, Mr. Stokes," said the valet. "I'm told it's a beauteous country and I should like to see a little of that sort of life myself." Alas, alas! Within a week from that time Captain Scarborough might have been seen seated in the Monte Carlo room, without any friendly Samuel Hart to stand over him and guard him.
"I have put in my last appearance at the old chamber in Lincoln's Inn Fields," said Mr. Grey, on arriving home one day early in June.
"Papa, you don't mean it!" said Dolly.
"I do. Why not one day as well as another? I have made up my mind that it is to be so. I have been thinking of it for the last six weeks. It is done now."
"But you have not told me."
"Well, yes; I have told you all that was necessary. It has come now a little sudden, that is all."
"You will never go back again?"
"Well, I may look in. Mr. Barry will be lord and master."
"At any rate he won't be my lord and master!" said Dolly, showing by the tone of her voice that the matter had been again discussed by them since the last conversation which was recorded, and had been settled to her father's satisfaction.
"No;—you at least will be left to me. But the fact is, I cannot have any farther dealings with the affairs of Mr. Scarborough. The old man who is dead was too many for me. Though I call him old, he was ever so much younger than I am. Barry says he was the best lawyer he ever knew. As things go now a man has to be accounted a fool if he attempts to run straight. Barry does not tell me that I have been a fool, but he clearly thinks so."
"Do you care what Mr. Barry thinks or says?"
"Yes, I do,—in regard to the professional position which I hold. He is confident that Mountjoy Scarborough is his father's eldest legitimate son, and he believes that the old squire simply was anxious to supersede him to get some cheap arrangement made as to his debts."
"I supposed that was the case before."
"But what am I to think of such a man? Mr. Barry speaks of him almost with affection. How am I to get on with such a man as Mr. Barry?"
"He himself is honest."
"Well;—yes, I believe so. But he does not hate the absolute utter roguery of our own client. And that is not quite all. When the story of the Rummelsburg marriage was told I did not believe one word of it, and I said so most strongly. I did not at first believe the story that there had been no such marriage, and I swore to Mr. Scarborough that I would protect Mountjoy and Mountjoy's creditors against any such scheme as that which was intended. Then I was convinced. All the details of the Nice marriage were laid before me. It was manifest that the lady had submitted to be married in a public manner and with all regular forms, while she had a baby, as it were, in her arms. And I got all the dates. Taking that marriage for granted, Mountjoy was clearly illegitimate, and I was driven so to confess. Then I took up arms on behalf of Augustus. Augustus was a thoroughly bad fellow,—a bully and a tyrant; but he was the eldest son. Then came the question of paying the debts. I thought it a very good thing that the debts should be payed in the proposed fashion. The men were all to get the money they had actually lent, and no better arrangement seemed to be probable. I helped in that, feeling that it was all right. But it was a swindle that I was made to assist in. Of course it was a swindle, if the Rummelsburg marriage be true, and all these creditors think that I have been a party to it. Then I swore that I wouldn't believe the Rummelsburg marriage. But Barry and the rest of them only shake their heads and laugh, and I am told that Mr. Scarborough was the best lawyer among us!"
"What does it matter? How can that hurt you?" asked Dolly.
"It does hurt me;—that is the truth. I have been at my business long enough. Another system has grown up which does not suit me. I feel that they all can put their fingers in my eyes. It may be that I am a fool, and that my idea of honesty is a mistake."
"No!" shouted Dolly.
"I heard of a rich American the other day who had been poor, and was asked how he had suddenly become so well off. 'I found a partner,' said the American, 'and we went into business together. He had the capital and I had the experience. We just made a change. He has the experience now and I have the capital.' When I knew that story I went to strip his coat off the wretch's back; but Mr. Barry would give him a fine fur cloak as a mark of respect. When I find that clever rascals are respectable, I think it is time that I should give up work altogether."
Thus it was that Mr. Grey left the house of Grey & Barry, driven to premature retirement by the vices, or rather frauds, of old Mr. Scarborough. When Augustus went to work, which he did immediately on his father's death, to wrest the property from the hands of his brother,—or what part of the property might be possible,—Mr. Grey absolutely declined to have anything to do with the case. Mr. Barry explained how impossible it was that the house, even for its own sake, should absolutely secede from all consideration of the question. Mountjoy had been left in possession, and, according to all the evidence now before them, was the true owner. Of course he would want a lawyer, and, as Mr. Barry said, would be very well able to pay for what he wanted. It was necessary that the firm should protect themselves against the vindictiveness of Mr. Tyrrwhit and Samuel Hart. Should the firm fail to do so, it would leave itself open to all manner of evil calumnies. The firm had been so long employed on behalf of the Scarboroughs that now, when the old squire was dead, it could not afford to relinquish the business till this final great question had been settled. It was necessary, as Mr. Barry said, that they should see it out, Mr. Barry taking a much more leading part in these discussions than had been his wont. Consequently Mr. Grey had told him that he might do it himself, and Mr. Barry had been quite contented. Mr. Barry, in talking the matter over with one of the clerks, whom he afterward took into partnership, expressed his opinion that "poor old Grey was altogether off the hooks." "Old Grey" had always been Mr. Grey when spoken of by Mr. Barry till that day, and the clerk remarking this, left Mr. Grey's bell unanswered for three or four minutes. Mr. Grey, though he was quite willing to shelf himself, understood it all, and knocked them about in the chambers that afternoon with unwonted severity. He said nothing about it when he came home that evening: but the next day was the last on which he took his accustomed chair.
"What will you do with yourself, papa?" Dolly said to him the next morning.
"Do with myself?"
"What employment will you take in hand? One has to think of that, and to live accordingly. If you would like to turn farmer, we must live in the country."
"Certainly I shall not do that. I need not absolutely throw away what money I have saved."
"Or if you were fond of shooting or hunting?"
"You know very well I never shot a bird, and hardly ever crossed a horse in my life."
"But you are fond of gardening."
"Haven't I got garden enough here?"
"Quite enough, if you think so; but will there be occupation sufficient in that to find you employment for all your life?"
"I shall read."
"It seems to me," she said, "that reading becomes wearisome as an only pursuit, unless you've made yourself accustomed to it."
"Sha'n't I have as much employment as you?"
"A woman is so different! Darning will get through an unlimited number of hours. A new set of underclothing will occupy me for a fortnight. Turning the big girl's dresses over there into frocks for the little girls is sufficient to keep my mind in employment for a month. Then I have the maid-servants to look after, and to guard against their lovers. I have the dinners to provide, and to see that the cook does not give the fragments to the policeman. I have been brought up to do these things, and habit has made them usual occupations to me. I never envied you when you had to encounter all Mr. Scarborough's vagaries; but I knew that they sufficed to give you something to do."
"They have sufficed," said he, "to leave me without anything that I can do."
"You must not allow yourself to be so left. You must find out some employment." Then they sat silent for a time, while Mr. Grey occupied himself with some of the numerous papers which it would be necessary that he should hand over to Mr. Barry. "And now," said Dolly, "Mr. Carroll will have gone out, and I will go over to the Terrace. I have to see them every day, and Mr. Carroll has the decency to take himself off to some billiard-table so as to make room for me."
"What are they doing about that man?" said Mr. Grey.
"About the lover? Mr. Juniper has, I fancy, made himself extremely disagreeable, not satisfying himself with abusing you and me, but poor aunt as well, and all the girls. He has, I fancy, got some money of his own."
"He has had money paid to him by Captain Scarborough; but that I should fancy would rather make him in a good humor than the reverse."
"He is only in a good humor, I take it, when he has something to get. However, I must be off now, or the legitimate period of Uncle Carroll's absence will be over."
Mr. Grey, when he was left alone, at once gave up the manipulation of his papers, and, throwing himself back into his chair, began to think of that future life of which he had talked so easily to his daughter. What should he do with himself? He believed that he could manage with his books for two hours a day; but even of that he was not sure. He much doubted whether for many years past the time devoted to reading in his own house had amounted to one hour a day. He thought that he could employ himself in the garden for two hours; but that would fail him when there should be hail, or fierce sunshine, or frost, or snow, or rain. Eating and drinking would be much to him; but he could not but look forward to self-reproach if eating and drinking were to be the joy of his life. Then he thought of Dolly's life,—how much purer and better and nobler it had been than his own. She talked in a slighting, careless tone of her usual day's work, but how much of her time had been occupied in doing the tasks of others? He knew well that she disliked the Carrolls. She would speak of her own dislike of them as of her great sin, of which it was necessary that she should repent in sackcloth and ashes.
But yet how she worked for the family! turning old dresses into new frocks, as though the girls who had worn them, and the children who were to wear them, had been to her her dearest friends. Every day she went across to the house intent upon doing good offices; and this was the repentance in sackcloth and ashes which she exacted from herself. Could not he do as she did? He could not darn Minnie's and Brenda's stockings, but he might do something to make those children more worthy of their cousin's care. He could not associate with his brother-in-law, because he was sure that Mr. Carroll would not endure his society; but he might labor to do something for the reform even of this abominable man. Before Dolly had come back to him he had resolved that he could only redeem his life from the stagnation with which it was threatened by working for others, now that the work of his own life had come to a close. "Well, Dolly," he said, as soon as she had entered the room, "have you heard any thing more about Mr. Juniper?"
"Have you been here ever since, papa?"
"Yes, indeed; I used to sit at chambers for six or seven hours at a stretch, almost without getting out of my chair."
"And are you still employed about those awful papers?"
"I have not looked at them since you left the room."
"Then you must have been asleep."
"No, indeed; I have not been asleep. You left me too much to think of to enable me to sleep. What am I to do with myself besides eating and drinking, so that I shall not sleep always on this side of the grave?"
"There are twenty things, papa,—thirty, fifty, for a man so minded as you are." This she said trying to comfort him.
"I must endeavor to find one or two of the fifty." Then he went back to his papers, and really worked hard on that day.
On the following morning, early, he went across to Bolsover Terrace, to begin his task of reproving the Carroll family, without saying a word to Dolly indicative of his purpose.
He found that the task would be difficult, and as he went he considered within his mind how best it might be accomplished. He had put a prayer-book in his pocket, without giving it much thought; but before he knocked at the door he had assured himself that the prayer-book would not be of avail. He would not know how to begin to use it, and felt that it would be ridiculed. He must leave that to Dolly or to the clergyman. He could talk to the girls; but they would not care about the affairs of the firm; and, in truth, he did not know what they would care about. With Dolly he could hold sweet converse as long as she would remain with him. But he had been present at the bringing up of Dolly, and did think that gifts had been given to Dolly which had not fallen to the lot of the Carroll girls. "They all want to be married," he said to himself, "and that at any rate is a legitimate desire."
With this he knocked at the door, and when it was opened by Sophia, he found an old gentleman with black cotton gloves and a doubtful white cravat just preparing for his departure. There was Amelia, then giving him his hat, and looking as pure and proper as though she had never been winked at by Prince Chitakov. Then the mother came through from the parlor into the passage. "Oh, John! how very kind of you to come. Mr. Matterson, pray let me introduce you to my brother, Mr. Grey. John, this is the Rev. Mr. Matterson, a clergyman who is a very intimate friend of Amelia."
"Me, ma! Why me in particular?"
"Well, my dear, because it is so. I suppose it is so because Mr. Matterson likes you the best."
"Laws, ma; what nonsense!" Mr. Matterson appeared to be a very shy gentleman, and only anxious to escape from the hall-door. But Mr. Grey remembered that in former days, before the coming of Mr. Juniper upon the scene, he had heard of a clerical admirer. He had been told that the gentleman's name was Matterson, that he was not very young nor very rich, that he had five or six children, and that he could afford to marry if the wife could bring with her about one hundred pounds a year. He had not then thought much of Mr. Matterson, and no direct appeal had been made to him. After that Mr. Juniper had come forward, and then Mr. Juniper had been altogether abolished. But it occurred to Mr. Grey that Mr. Matterson was at any rate better than Mr. Juniper; that he was by profession a gentleman, and that there might be a beginning of those good deeds by which he was anxious to make the evening of his days bearable to himself.
"I am delighted to make Mr. Matterson's acquaintance," he said, as that old gentleman scrambled out of the door.
Then his sister took him by the arm and led him at once into the parlor. "You might as well come and hear what I have to say, Amelia." So the daughter followed them in. "He is the most praiseworthy gentleman you ever knew, John," began Mrs. Carroll.
"A clergyman, I think?"
"Oh yes; he is in orders,—in priest's orders," said Mrs. Carroll, meaning to make the most of Mr. Matterson. "He has a church over at Putney."
"I am glad of that," said Mr. Grey.
"Yes, indeed; though it isn't very good, because it's only a curate's one hundred and fifty pounds. Yes; he does have one hundred and fifty pounds, and something out of the surplice fees."
"Another one hundred pounds I believe it is," said Amelia.
"Not quite so much as that, my dear, but it is something."
"He is a widower with children, I believe?" said Mr. Grey.
"There are children—five of them; the prettiest little dears one ever saw. The eldest is just about thirteen." This was a fib, because Mrs. Carroll knew that the eldest boy was sixteen; but what did it signify? "Amelia is so warmly attached to them."
"It is a settled thing, then?"
"We hope so. It cannot be said to be quite settled, because there are always money difficulties. Poor Mr. Matterson must have some increase to his income before he can afford it."
"Ah, yes!"
"You did say something, uncle, about five hundred pounds," said Amelia.
"Four hundred and fifty, my dear," said Mr. Grey.
"Oh, I had forgotten. I did say that I hoped there would be five hundred."
"There shall be five hundred," said Mr. Grey, remembering that now had come the time for doing to one of the Carroll family the good things of which he had thought to himself. "As Mr. Matterson is a clergyman of whom I have heard nothing but good, it shall be five hundred." He had in truth heard nothing either good or bad respecting Mr. Matterson.
Then he asked Amelia to take a walk with him as he went home, reflecting that now had come the time in which a little wholesome conversation might have its effect. And an idea entered his head that in his old age an acquaintance with a neighboring clergyman might be salutary to himself. So Amelia got her bonnet and walked home with him.
"Is he an eloquent preacher, my dear?" But Amelia had never heard him preach. "I suppose there will be plenty for you to do in your new home."
"I don't mean to be put upon, if you mean that, uncle."
"But five children!"
"There is a servant who looks after them. Of course I shall have to see to Mr. Matterson's own things, but I have told him I cannot slave for them all. The three eldest have to be sent somewhere; that has been agreed upon. He has got an unmarried sister who can quite afford to do as much as that." Then she explained her reasons for the marriage. "Papa is getting quite unbearable, and Sophy spoils him in everything."
Poor Mr. Grey, when his niece turned and went back home, thought that, as far as the girl was concerned, or her future household, there would be very little room for employment for him. Mr. Matterson wanted an upper servant who instead of demanding wages, would bring a little money with her, and he could not but feel that the poor clergyman would find that he had taken into his house a bad and expensive upper servant.
"Never mind, papa," said Dolly, "we will go on and persevere, and if we intend to do good, good will come of it."