CHAPTER XXIX.
"BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS."
IT was no false alarm. Walter Wilson was dying.
Day and night, almost without any intervals of rest, the penitent Elizabeth watched by the bedside of her brother.
Mrs. Matthew did not make many objections to this. Of course she had been hastily summoned to High Beech when it was found that Walter could not be conveyed home, and she had obeyed the call. She was concerned, too, when told that her son could not possibly rally beyond the few hours, or days at most, predicted by his medical attendant. She was not without natural affection, though this divine gift had been dulled and dimmed by many sordid cares, as we have seen. Still, when her first exclamations of grief had been uttered, she withdrew again into her ordinary self. She wasn't used to nursing, she said; and she didn't like to see anybody die. She didn't think she could stand it. Besides, she was getting old and feeble, and must have her proper night's rest, or where would the house-work go to?
As to getting a regular nurse for Walter, she went on, she didn't know what to say, she was sure. Regular nurses cost a deal of money, and they wanted a deal to eat and drink too, and that of the best. And where was that to come from? All she knew was that she hadn't seen the colour of Walter's money since he had come down upon them; and it was her opinion, as well as Matthew's, that he had come home from Australia pretty near as poor as a church mouse; and at their years (hers and Matthew's) it wasn't to be expected that they could maintain a grown-up son, and pay for his being nursed as well; to say nothing about burying him when he was dead, supposing he should die, as the doctor said.
So, if Elizabeth liked to tend him as he lay there, perhaps it was the best thing to do; and she (Mrs. Matthew) must get through the house-work as best she could without her; and that was hard lines enough. All this, and much more, the old lady enunciated in a sorrowful tone of injured innocence, or something like it.
Matthew Wilson was even less moved by the report of his eldest son's condition. But there is no need to dwell upon this painful side of human nature. It is enough to say again, that where grasping covetousness and close-fisted penuriousness get possession of a human soul, all natural affections become in time so blunted as to leave the unhappy entertainer like one "past feeling, twice dead, and plucked up by the roots." ¹
¹ The narrator writes cautiously and guardedly here, and the picture
he has sketched is but a faint copy of more than one original.
If the parents of the dying man were thus indifferent to the claims of natural affection, it is no great wonder that Mrs. George Wilson fretted exceedingly at the trouble to which she had unexpectedly been put by the perverseness of her husband's brother, in having brought himself to death's door in the place and manner described. Why should she be having the worry of a dying man in her house? she wanted to know. One way and another she had plenty of plague on her hands without that additional grievance. She said this, in other words, to Elizabeth, who made no reply, but with strong restraint turned to her brother's side to receive comfort from his dying words.
For Walter had regained consciousness, as we have seen; and, in the intervals of such distressing paroxysms of weakness and painful labouring for breath as were almost equally distressing to witness and to bear, he was able to point his sister to the only true hope and resting-place of the weary and heavy-laden.
During the two or three or more days which intervened between the departure of John Tincroft and his return, the only alleviation, from the outer world, of Elizabeth's trouble, and almost the only help she obtained in her anxious watching, was in the sympathy of Tom Grigson.
It was not much that this active man of business knew of, and it was not much, if the truth be known, that he cared for Walter Wilson; but he cared a good deal for his friend John Tincroft, and he manifested his love for John by caring for John's friends.
And if I were disposed to write a sermon on the diffusiveness of charity, I might find an illustration here—showing how the influence extends from heart to heart, till it embraces a whole circle of rightly-constituted minds in one bond of brotherhood. But I am not a preacher, and shall only advert to the results of this sympathetic, mysterious linking together of one human being with another. It came to pass, then, that Tom Grigson found himself, day after day, attracted to High Beech, and to the bedside of Walter Wilson, bringing with him such creature comforts as the ample resources of the Manor House could furnish, both for the necessities of the patient and the strengthening sustenance of the nurse.
The third day from the departure of John Tincroft brought down the London lawyer to the bedside of his client, and to the consultation that followed were admitted the squire from the Manor House and his brother. What passed in that solemn conclave was a profound secret to all around, but it terminated in Mr. Fawley (the lawyer, and an old friend of ours in a former history ¹) being invited to stay at the Manor House, instead of trusting to the uncertain hospitalities of the White Hart, which invitation was frankly accepted.
¹ See "George Burley's Experiences of Life."
The news that a gentleman from London had been to see Walter Wilson, and that he was staying at the Manor House, was duly conveyed to Low Beech Farm; but the intelligence excited only the suspicion of old Matthew, who was partially acquainted with the worst side of human nature, and knew what was what, as he said.
"Somebody that Walter owes money to, I'll be bound," said he; "and he'll be coming to me to get it out of me if he can."
Under this uneasy apprehension and distrust, Matthew Wilson kept away from High Beech, where his son lay a dying.
Meanwhile, the unselfish John Tincroft and his charge were travelling as swiftly as the various modes of conveyance they adopted admitted; and on the evening of the fourth day from John's departure on his sorrowful errand, they drove up to High Beech Farm. It was some relief to learn from Mrs. George, on arriving there, that Walter still lived, and, though slowly sinking, was sensible and able to converse at intervals with those around him.
After brief preparation, the agitated and heart-stricken daughter was admitted to her father's chamber, and the door was shut upon the two. We shall not intrude, nor attempt to describe the interview that followed. There are scenes and circumstances in the history of our lives almost too sacred and solemn to be introduced, with whatever effect, into a story such as this. And the almost final parting of a dying father from, and his last words to, a loving child must be reckoned among these scenes.
We descend, then, to the parlour below—so well-known to John Tincroft in the earlier days of our history, and which has been, not over graciously, yielded by Mrs. George Wilson to her husband's kinsfolk in these days of trouble. Here were seated John and Sarah, not yet disencumbered of their travelling attire, and not having dismissed their hired chaise, which was still outside awaiting further orders. I have little doubt that, as they sat there, some odd and (notwithstanding the present grave and sorrowful occasion) rather comically bewildering remembrances stole in upon them both, causing them to look askance, first of all, at the old-fashioned worm-eaten chairs on which they rested, and then shyly and slyly at each other, whereupon Sarah blushed a little, and John, not to confuse his dear wife, made believe not to notice it, but turned away his eyes and looked out of the window instead. And, then they were recalled to a sense of the trouble that had brought them to High Beech, by hearing the voice of Elizabeth as she descended the stairs.
Sarah and Elizabeth had never seen each other since the day of Sarah's marriage, more than twenty years before; and then their parting was of the coolest and most indifferent sort. And Mrs. Tincroft, on her way to her old home, from the moment of getting into the Trotbury coach, had been unceasingly pondering in her dear little mind how ever she should accomplish a meeting with her cousin. She had no enmity against Elizabeth. Why should she have? To be sure, she had received unkindness at her cousin's hands; but that was long ago, and, besides, it had all turned out for the best. What would be the good, then, of bearing in mind those old passages of arms?
To tell the truth, too, Sarah, weak-minded as no doubt she was, was intrinsically good-natured and loving; and it would have been strange if her twenty years and more of companionship with gall-less John Tincroft had not had a beneficial effect upon her. But, for all that, she wasn't quite sure whether a certain show of dignity in remembrance of past injustice and injury wouldn't be the proper thing to put on in the anticipated meeting. Of course, after this she would show herself very forgiving and very affectionate towards her former persecutor—and so on, and so on.
I have just come across a passage in my desultory reading, which may give me a lift in this part of my story. "The payments and debts and returns of affection," says the writer, "are at all times hard to reckon. Some people pay a whole treasury of love in return for a stone; others deal out their affections at interest; others, again, take everything, to the uttermost farthing, and cast it into the ditch, and go then way and leave their benefactor penniless and a beggar."
Well, these payments and debts and returns are no doubt hard to reckon. When they had been girls together, Elizabeth and Sarah had loved one another as cousins. Then had come the fatal blight, brought on by Mark Wilson's vice of intemperance and the kindred one of recklessness: and their whole treasury of love had been poisoned by unkindness on one side and angry resentment on the other. And now, how were they to meet?
John Tincroft had his doubts and anxious thoughts about this, I think; for he sat uneasily watching and waiting for the opening of the door, glancing every now and then at his little wife's perturbed and flushed countenance. And then, presently, the door handle was moved, the latch was gently lifted, and the door was slowly opened. John started from his seat, sprang hastily forward; and before the cousins had time to make up their minds what to say to one another at first starting, he had, with the gallantry of a true gentleman, as he was and ever had been, despite his awkward shyness, led the homely, hard-working, and penitent Elizabeth across the room to where his wife was now standing, like a timid, half-frightened fawn, and brought into contact the hands which had so long been strangers to each other's grasp. And then came a little startled cry; and Sarah threw her disengaged arm round Elizabeth's neck, and in another moment the cousins were in close embrace, as though they had never been separated in affection.
"How could I ever behave to you as I did?" sobbed Elizabeth.
And after this, and when they had settled down, John left the cousins by themselves, under the pretence of looking after the chaise and its driver, for he could see that he had done all that was needed.
"He is so good—so good to me, and to everybody!" cried Sarah, as the door was shut upon Elizabeth and herself: and then the payments and debts and returns of affection, which are so hard to reckon, welled up from both their softened hearts; and there was no more said, on either side, about the past unhappy alienation.
An hour later, and when dear Helen's interview with her father was over, and John and Sarah had stood for a little while by Walter's bedside, it was agreed that Helen—who would not leave her father, she said—should remain under the protection of Aunt Elizabeth, while John and Sarah went to the Manor House, where, as a matter of course, they were expected. And the power of kindness so wrought even upon the hard and not very impressible nature of Mrs. George Wilson, that she felt herself softening under it to the heart-stricken Helen, and agreed that, as long as was needed, she should share with Elizabeth the little bedchamber which for the last few days she had nominally occupied while nursing her brother.
It was not long needed. On the day week from Walter's fainting fit in the holly arbour, he gently sank into that slumber from which there is no awakening. One hand, damp with the dews of death, was laid on the head of his kneeling, weeping daughter, and the other feebly clasped those of his first love and her husband.
And then, as twilight deepened, a solemn silence fell upon all assembled there. Walter was dead.
Later that evening, the last offices to the poor mortal and corruptible body having been performed, came the village carpenter; and all that night, till early morning, in the stillness of the village, was heard from the dimly-lighted-up carpenter's shop, the sharp sound of saw, and hammer, and nails on stout elm boards, which told of another claimant for a resting-place in God's Acre.
On the following evening, the laden coffin was quietly, and without much observation, conveyed from High Beech to the old farmhouse in the valley, and there, in the chamber where he had first drawn breath, was deposited, until the day to be appointed for the funeral, all that was left of the first-born of old Matthew Wilson.
Meanwhile Helen, submitting herself to the loving care and sympathy of her friend and protectress, Mrs. Tincroft, had been received at the Manor House with genuine kindness and all delicate attentions by Richard Grigson and his motherly housekeeper.
CHAPTER XXX.
A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION.
THE hospitable Manor House would have held almost any number of guests upon occasion, so, although it entertained at this time Tom Grigson and his son and namesake, John Tincroft and his Sarah, Helen Wilson, and Mr. Fawley, the London lawyer, there was room enough and to spare.
There was sufficient reason, Mr. Fawley thought, to induce him to remain a few days, especially in such good quarters, waiting the event of his client's decease. He had been fully forewarned of the doctor's firmly expressed conviction that Walter could not last long, and his own observations confirmed this prediction. Accordingly, he was prepared with the will, he had drawn up in London those months previously, and with the codicil, which was but a day or two old, and which had been duly witnessed by the Grigsons. Meanwhile, he made the best of his time in mudding through the woods and groves in the surrounding neighbourhood, as well as in taking mental notes of the society into which he was thus fortuitously thrown.
While Mr. Fawley was thus engaged, Tom Grigson and his son divided their time pretty equally between the Manor House and the Mumbles, having at their disposal for these almost daily excursions Richard's fast-trotting Peg and dog-cart. Once or twice young Tom remained at his grandfather's house for the night, but he invariably found his way back on the following day—the charms and attractions of his youthful future bride not being sufficiently powerful, as it seemed, to keep the complaisant, immature, and premature lover from the greater freedom from polite restraints to be found at his uncle's.
As to John Tincroft, in the interval between the death and funeral of Helen's father, he had not much inclination for social intercourse. His Sarah and Helen necessarily secluded themselves in the recess of their ladies' chamber, being understood to be engaged, in conjunction with certain dressmakers and milliners from the next town, in the preparation of mourning attire; or otherwise, the one in giving, and the other in receiving, such solace as under the circumstances was most natural.
John, therefore, was much left to himself, excepting when in the company of his host or his old friend Tom. And strange to say (or perhaps not strange to say) John rather shunned than courted at this time any confidential intercourse with that old friend.
No, it was not strange. John had been both puzzled and shocked at what he considered the inconceivable blindness of his friend in running the risk of sacrificing the happiness of one whom he had confessed to tenderly loving, for the sake of what might be called a convenient family arrangement. Dear hermit-like John! If he had not lived so long—all his life, indeed—shut up in his own shell, so to speak, he might have known how often these convenient family arrangements are entered into in certain classes of society; how many a pair of cousins, or other relatives, are constantly being matched together, without any considerations of fitness or unfitness, likes or dislikes, qualifications or disqualifications; and all for the sake of keeping together a certain number of money-bags, or a capital trade connection; or of perpetuating in the family a desirable estate, or a title, or even (as we have known it and witnessed it) the tenancy of a farm!
But John did not know this; and no wonder, therefore, that his eyes sometimes rested, without his knowing it, with mute compassion and sorrowful interest on the young Tom, who, to tell the truth, seemed to care very little about the matter, one way or other, so long as he was not expected to remain too long at a time in the company of his cousin Blanche.
"I shall have plenty of that when we are buckled together, father," he said, one day (in John's hearing), when he was remonstrated and reasoned with for running away from his "little wife."
Dear old John! Do you wonder, reader, that with all his experience on the one hand, and his inexperience on the other, he drew doleful pictures of the after-life of that bright boy and the cousin whom he was doomed to marry?
"I can't do any good by saying anything about it to Tom," thought he to himself, "and if I could, I haven't the right to interfere; but I pity the poor boy with all my heart."
No wonder, then, that under the mood of the time, and while the shadow of death was yet upon him, John felt more embarrassment than he had ever expected to feel when thrown into his friend Tom Grigson's company.
Here for the present we must leave, not only this subject, but also the Manor House, and enter the humbler precincts of Low Beech Farm.
A habitation into which death has entered, or which, as at, Low Beech, is for the time brought into intimate connection and fellowship with the grave, seems to be cut off from the rest of the world, and to gather around it an atmosphere of oppression and gloom. The darkened windows, the noiseless footsteps and subdued tones of voice which every inhabitant adopts, as though fearful of awakening the dead, and all other signs and tokens of grief, whether simulated or real, seem to mark that house as set apart from the common and ordinary and vulgar associations of everyday existence.
And yet it is not really so. The business of life must be carried on; and the passions and habits and dispositions of the living will be found to be held very little in check even by the near presence of the dead. At Low Beech, for instance, the sordid carefulness of old Matthew and his wife had not disappeared beneath the dignity of parental sorrow. No doubt they mourned for their son after a certain fashion; that is, they would rather he had been alive and well and well-to-do, and rather also that, seeing he was doomed to die, the blow had not fallen so as to place them at an inconvenience and possible expense.
But things having happened as they had gave no reason for neglecting the business of the farm and house. So Mrs. Matthew went about her work as usual, while Elizabeth was preparing and "making up black," as the mother explained to the clergyman who called to condole with the family on their bereavement; and Matthew went looking after his men, and feeding his stock, to all appearance little moved by his proximity at home to his dead Walter.
But he was moved, nevertheless. He couldn't make it out anyhow, he muttered to his wife. He had varied his opinion, as we have seen, on the subject of Walter's pecuniosity or impecuniosity; and now, at the last, he was utterly bewildered. He shifted his views almost every quarter of an hour, at one time thinking his son must have got a nest-egg somewhere or other; and then returning to his firm conviction that if Walter had been well off and prospering in Australia, he would never have returned to his home.
I do not think that I, the chronicler, am bound to explain, or attempt to explain, the motives (if there were any) for Walter Wilson's reticence about his money matters, both to his friend Tincroft and to his relatives at Low Beech. I incline to the opinion, however, that there was no distinct reason for his silence; and that, had he lived a short time longer, a part, at least, of the old people's curiosity would have been satisfied. This, however, is but a conjecture; and it is certain that, respecting his worldly possessions, Walter Wilson "died and made no sign."
And old Matthew was troubled—so troubled that he could not rest; and on one of the days previous to the funeral, while he was pondering over it, and balancing probabilities, it came into his mind that Walter's portmanteau was in the death-chamber, together with the coffin; and also that a pocket-book which he had seen in his son's hands was probably in the coat which he had worn on the day of his seizure, and which had been brought to Low Beech on the removal of the corpse.
Strange that Matthew had never thought of this until now! What more likely than that in those receptacles lay hidden some clue to the mystery which was troubling him—or at least some scrap of information which would help to set his mind at rest. And who had a better right than he to look into his son's personal belongings now that he (Walter) was beyond any further need of them? To be sure, there was the dead man's daughter, to whom they properly belonged, perhaps. But she was only a girl, and could know nothing about the rights of proprietorship; and besides, wasn't he (Matthew) the poor child's natural guardian—always supposing there should be anything to keep guard over? And then came his old suspicion of John Tincroft having kept back some knowledge about Walter's affairs of which he was custodian. Else why was he so willing to take charge of Helen, as he had promised to do?
Matthew was out on his farm when these thoughts came into his head; but he soon retraced his steps homewards; and stealing in at the back entrance to the farm, unobserved as he believed, he crept up the stairs while his wife and daughter and maid-servant were engaged below, and softly entered the room which contained the coffin of his dead son. As noiselessly as he could, he closed the door, and would have locked himself in, probably, but that the key had long been lost.
The portmanteau was on the floor, locked; and the garments of the dead hung on pegs near the bed's head. To search the pockets for the key of the portmanteau, and also for the pocket-book, was, no doubt, the old farmer's first impulse. These were found; and then, kneeling down on the floor for greater convenience in the meanness he contemplated, he applied the key.
There was nothing in the portmanteau to reward his search until, carefully removing, one by one, the changes of raiment which it contained, he came at last to two small parchment-bound and brass-clasped books, with Walter Wilson's name written on the covers. Trembling with excitement, the old man loosed the clasp of one of these books, and turned over one or two leaves.
Marvellous! There were entries there which made old Matthew turn giddy. Entries of investments in the funds, in stock of various kinds, in railway shares (it was in the early days of railroads, be it remembered)—investments to the amount of thousands of pounds, bearing interest (as the keen-eyed old man saw at a glance) that would reach up to six or seven hundred pounds a year, if not considerably more!
With a hasty movement, Matthew closed this book, reclasped it, and opened the other. It was a bank-book—some London bank—in which a respectable sum had been placed to the credit side of the account, with only one or two small items on the opposite page, indicating that these sums only had been drawn out since the account was opened.
Almost beside himself with excitement, the avaricious old man carefully replaced these precious volumes, and refilled the portmanteau before he ventured to turn to the pocket-book which lay on the floor within his reach. This was soon accomplished, however, and the book was opened. It had many divisions in it, forming separate cases, and there were folded papers in several of these receptacles. But Matthew, after his former discoveries, cared little for these in comparison with the contents of one of these pockets, which attracted his glistening eyes.
"Bank notes! One, two, three. Ten! Twenty! Fifty!" gasped the covetous old man, as he unfolded and held them up to the light. "Who would have thought of this, now!"
Who shall tell the force of the temptation that whirled through that sordid brain, and quickened the sluggish pulses Of that throbbing heart?—The temptation which whispered to his grasping thoughts and desires that his son, being dead, needed money no longer; that no one knew of his having that amount of portable wealth about his person, that his grand-daughter was of course well provided for, and that, at all events, he himself was the proper person to take care of this property—till it was claimed, if it ever should be; and if not claimed—well, what then?
His trembling hands had closed upon these notes, and he was about to—no, not to replace them in the pocket-book, when suddenly the chamber door was thrown open, and his daughter stood before him, flushed with fear and anger.
"For shame, father! Oh, father, father! What is it you are doing? Put them back, put them back, put them back!" she cried, in tones of terror. "And thank God for having saved you from this sin."
"Elizabeth, woman! How dare you speak to me like that? What is it you mean? What business have you to be prying into what doesn't concern you?" stammered the miserable old man, in broken sentences, as he sprang to his feet, the bank paper still in his grasp.
"Put them back! Put them back!" repeated the daughter, in yet stronger tones of desperation. "Strike me if you will, father," she cried, as she thought she detected a threatening gesture in the clenched hand. "Strike me, and kill me, if you will, and let me be laid along with poor Walter—oh, I wish I could be! I wish I could be!—But don't rob the dead and the living as well. Father, dear father," she went on, in more imploring accents; "put them back; oh, father, put them back!"
"How came you here, girl?" demanded the old man, hoarsely.
"God sent me, I think," said she; "oh, father, I heard you come in, and knew that you came up here, and I followed, and have seen it all from that little window—" and she pointed to a single pane of glass in a corner of the room near the ceiling, which dimly lighted a narrow dark staircase to the attic above—"and God has sent me to keep you from doing a great sin. Oh, father, father, put them back!"
Slowly and silently the old man cast his eyes on to the floor, stooped, picked up the pocket-book, put the notes in their former position, then passionately threw the book down again, muttering, "I shall remember this, Elizabeth. I shan't forget it, you may make sure of that," and then he shuffled out of the room.
It was a fine, soft, sunny day on the afternoon of which Walter Wilson was buried. There was but little pomp at that funeral, though there were many to follow him to his grave.
There was Helen as chief mourner, and the ceremonious undertaker said that it was the right and proper thing for her, as the only child, to walk first and alone, behind the coffin, all the way from Low Beech Farm to the church—for it was a walking funeral, as was the fashion then in those parts; but Helen pleaded so earnestly and tearfully that Sarah might accompany her and support her, and so put strength into her to bear the last scene in her father's history on earth, that it was yielded.
And so Walter's old discarded lover, and his daughter by another and perhaps more highly-prized wife than Sarah would ever have been, followed him together and stood side by side at the open grave, and were the last to depart when the solemn ceremony was over.
And if the tears which ran down Sarah's cheek then, sprang, some of them, from old remembrances revived, there was no treason in them against God or man. In that world whither the words just uttered over the dead transported the thoughts of the living, "they neither marry nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven."
Old Matthew and his wife followed their first-born to the grave, and in their train came Walter's sister and his brothers and their wives. And then John Tincroft and the lawyer came after. And the Grigsons were there too.
It was "a fine funeral," one of the onlookers said to another. But it was soon over, and then the family, with Tincroft and the lawyer, returned to Low Beech to transact business, for there was Walter's will to be read, as Mr. Fawley had taken care to inform them all.
Helen would fain have stayed away, but it was needful she should be there; and, still under Sarah's wing, but supported and comforted now by John Tincroft also, she entered, for almost the first time, the home of her father's childhood and youth.
The will, when it came to be read, was not very prolix. It contained an inventory of investments, and all was left in trust—after the payment of a legacy of a thousand pounds to his dear cousin Sarah Tincroft—to John Tincroft, of Tincroft House, and so forth, for the benefit of the testator's dear and only child, Helen. The property thus bequeathed amounted, at a rough calculation, to something over twenty thousand pounds. The will also constituted John Tincroft sole executor of the testator's estate and effects, and the guardian of his daughter until she should be of age. In case of her decease before she had reached twenty-one, the property was to be distributed among certain charities which were named.
No mention was made in this will of any other family connections than John and Sarah. Evidently it had been prepared at a time when the fire of resentment in Walter's mind against his family had not yet died out.
Matthew 'Wilson looked furiously across the room at John Tincroft and Sarah. He understood it all now, he thought; and before he had composed himself, the lawyer was reading the codicil which had been drawn up and signed and witnessed so lately in the sick-chamber at High Beech.
In this instrument was revoked so much of the original will as related to the disposal of the property in case of Helen's death, and a fresh disposition was made of it. It was to be divided in equal parts between the several members of the testator's family, or their survivors.
Old Matthew smiled ghastlily at this. Little hope that he should ever see any of his son's money, he probably thought.
But there was something else more interesting.
After an expression of regret that there had been so long an alienation or distance of feeling between the testator and his family, certain legacies were to be paid to them out of the estate, amounting altogether to a thousand pounds—namely two hundred pounds each to the brothers, to Old Matthew, and to the sister. In addition to this, there were some bank notes which would be found in his pocket-book—(old Matthew broke out into a visible perspiration here)—amounting to eighty pounds. This sum the testator willed to be placed without deduction into the hands of his dear sister Elizabeth, in remembrance of their old love, which had been afresh stirred up (the document went on to say) by what passed in the last walk they took together.
This was nearly all. The funeral expenses were, of course, to be paid out of the estate, and the necessary legal powers were to be placed in John Tincroft's hands to administer to the will.
There was a short silence when Mr. Fawley had finished reading; and he and his friends from the Manor House were about to depart, when Old Matthew arose. Hoarsely, he spoke.
He had never known such trickery—never. Here was his son Walter, who had come home from Australia a rich man, making believe to be a poor man. Or if he didn't make-believe that, he never said he wasn't, and didn't seem as if he had got a pound to bless himself with. And then, instead of coming to his proper home in England, as he ought to have done, and to his old father and mother, he had been putting up with his old lover and her husband, which was most improper; but, of course, Mr. Tincroft had made it answer his purpose. And though he had pretended to him that he did not know whether Walter was rich or poor, anybody could see now what a pretence that was. And he was to be executor too, and Helen's guardian, when, by rights, he, the grandfather, ought to have been. A good deal more fit, he was, though he said it, to take care of money (having been used to business all his life) than a college gentleman who had never added up a sum since he went to school, he dared to say. And he said now that it was an unnatural thing, and wicked, to be taking his poor grand-daughter from her proper sheltering-place; and he wanted to know if Mr. Tincroft meant to come between relations like that. Wasn't Helen Wilson his own flesh and blood?
And then there was the money that was left to Elizabeth over and above her share of that paltry thousand pounds—
"You shall have it all, father, if you will," said Elizabeth, "only if you won't go on talking like this," she added, her cheeks mantling with shame.
"And if your grand-daughter prefers making her home at Low Beech, she has only to say so, and her will shall be law to me," said John Tincroft.
We need not give Helen's reply. And as little need is there to tell how the sombre party soon broke up. Our next chapter will open on other scenes and circumstances.
CHAPTER XXXI.
YOUNG TOM GRIGSON.
THE record of every man's life is necessarily mixed up and interwoven with that of many other lives; and to discourse on the one with any degree of interest, not to say intelligibly and coherently, it is absolutely necessary to include some portions of those other histories. For instance, how could my readers have known anything worth knowing of John Tincroft, apart from his friend Tom Grigson?
And our introduction to Tom led us in the most natural way to the bachelor brother at the Manor House. Then we could not have followed out our friend's matrimonial adventures unless we had accompanied him to High Beech Farm, and seen how he became engulfed or influxed, so to speak, in the vortex of that great maelstrom of which I have elsewhere spoken. High Beech led us to Low Beech, just as the Manor House and its surroundings conducted us to the Mumbles.
Then, without intending it in the first instance, a needs-be gradually forced itself upon the present chronicler to lightly sketch certain other characters and scenes, so as to make, as far as lay in his power, a harmonious and congruous whole, of which, as a matter of course, John Tincroft should be the central point of interest, but without which other characters and scenes the picture would have presented an unpleasant confusion of impalpable shadows.
Above all, it has been the writer's design and study and earnest labour to give the colouring of truth to every subordinate as well as principal character in this picture of life, so that, in the end, at least one useful lesson may have been presented to each reader of this story, who, without intending it, or even expecting to be instructed, has taken up these pages to pass away an idle day or to amuse a leisure hour.
Not many more chapters remain to be written; and this immediate one must be given up to one or more of those subordinate actors to whom I have referred.
A few days after that which witnessed the funeral of Walter Wilson, and also the reading of his will, Tom Grigson and his son took their departure homewards, John Tincroft and Sarah and the young Helen accompanying them—Mr. Fawley, the lawyer, having already taken his leave of the hospitable master of the Manor House, and the woodland glades of which he had become enamoured.
Tincroft and his following passed a day or two at their friend's villa on the banks of the Thames, and then returned to their home near Trotbury, where he and his Sarah devoted themselves to comforting their darling ward, and to puzzling themselves in laying plans for her unknown future. Thus occupied we must at present leave them, our business being, in the first place, with Tom Grigson the younger.
It was not, after all, an uncongenial life on which he was about to enter. It may be thought, at first sight, perhaps, that an active, enterprising lad of sixteen could find little interest in the monotonous and wearying details of a London house of business, especially if he should be the possessor of what is called a correct and classical taste, improved by education. I take leave to say, however, to those who argue thus, that they are very little acquainted with the subject on which they think themselves competent to pass a judgment.
The details of business, in London or elsewhere, are neither monotonous nor wearying to properly constituted minds; nor are they inconsonant with good taste and good education. There are men, old and young, and in every proper sense of the word true gentlemen, who belong to houses of business all the world over, and who yet have more true taste for the beautiful in nature and art, more cultivation of mind, and greater scientific and literary acquirements, than are to be found in one half of the frequenters of fashionable salons. And yet these same persons are energetic men of business, and possess talents which, if need were, would qualify them for conducting the affairs of a nation almost as easily, and quite as successfully, as those of a mercantile firm.
Such a person as this was the principal partner in the house with which Elliston and Grigson were connected; and this gentleman—who had by this time become a member of Parliament—took a strong fancy to young Tom, almost on his first entrance into the house. Under his auspices, the lad was not only pushed forward in the higher departments Of business, but was introduced to some circles in society, intercourse with which gave a zest to the everyday and more prosaic details of London life.
It is scarcely to be wondered at, therefore, that, after a short time, the young man was sufficiently satisfied with his present position to desire no change. In other words, his visions of university life gradually faded away, and nothing more was said or thought of entering him at Oxford.
To compensate—if compensation were needed—for this deprivation, which cannot be called a disappointment, Tom was indulged, at the end of his second year's experience in business life, with a long holiday ramble on the Continent, whence he returned full of enthusiastic admiration for Alpine scenery and adventures, but with more energy than ever for the common concerns and ordinary duties of his worldly calling.
Nor were the attractions of home very feeble for young Grigson. A pleasant villa, a good-tempered father, who did not draw the cords of discipline over tightly, an indulgent mother, a tolerably harmonious brood of younger brothers and sisters, a select circle of friends, occasional visitors, serviceable domestics, a horse to ride when he pleased, a sailing-boat on, if not one of the loveliest rivers in the world, yet a very passable one as rivers go, and time enough to enjoy these luxuries of existence, and not too much, so as to breed ennui. If with all these acquisitions any young fellow overflowing with bodily health and animal spirits could not be reasonably happy, that young fellow was not our young Tom.
There was only one little ingredient in this cup of happiness which now and then gave a slight flavour to it which was not altogether to young Grigson's taste.
"I wish they had left me to choose for myself," said Tom, one day, to his sister Catherine, who was only a year, or a little more, younger than himself.
They were having a quiet sail on the river one summer's evening, and were seated side by side at the stern, Tom with the sail under his management.
"But you like Blanche, don't you, Tom?"
"Oh, don't I?" Tom rejoined, lightly.
"Well, but you do, you know, Tom."
"Oh yes; Cousin Blanche is so charming, you know, Kitty, that I ought to be the happiest young fellow in the world. Everybody tells me so; and what everybody says must be true. But for all that, Kitty—" and then Kitty's brother came to a full stop.
"Well, Tom?" This after a long pause.
"Suppose we change the subject, Kitty."
"With all my heart; only we have not begun it yet, and mamma wanted me to say just a word—may I? She thinks I can do it better than she can."
"Say away, then, darling; but wait a bit: I'll just hitch this line round the bolt, and take the rudder strings, There—so; now."
It is as well to say that two years had passed away since we fell in with Tom the younger at the Manor House. He is consequently eighteen years old, or a little over, and a strange sensation sometimes creeps over him, when he reminds himself that in three years' time he is to be a married man, will-he, nil-he; and the "nil-he" is at present uppermost in his mind.
"And now," said he, settling himself soberly to hear what his sister (who at seventeen is, in some respects, older than her brother at eighteen) has to say.
"Mamma thinks you don't pay quite proper attentions to Blanche."
"Pho! Pho! Kitty. Not proper attentions! Why, don't I go to see her once a week? If that is not often enough, I don't know what would be."
"I shouldn't think so, Tom, if I were Blanche. Besides, when you do go to see her—or, rather, when you go to dinner at Uncle Elliston's—you stay so long in the dining-room that Blanche has very little of your company, she says."
"I wonder what she would have," grumbled Tom. "She'll have enough of it by-and-by, I'll be bound," he added.
"That depends. Do you know, mamma is afraid—" It was Catherine's turn to come to a full stop now.
"Well, Kitty?" This after another pause.
"Mamma is afraid that you are running a risk of losing Blanche, after all."
"You don't say so, Kitty?" cried Tom, with an odd expression of alarm, too readily put on to be quite real, his sister thought.
"Mamma says so," answered Kitty, demurely; adding, "She says she is mistaken if—if somebody else, never mind who—"
"Oh, I don't mind. Well?"
"Isn't trying to step into your shoes. That's what mamma says, Tom."
"I hope the old shoes won't pinch the feet," said Tom, laughing.
"But seriously, Tom."
"To be sure; yes, seriously, Kitty," returned the brother, composing his countenance.
"You don't want to lose Cousin Blanche, do you?"
"I have never thought much about it, Kitty. What do you think about it?"
"I think, Tom, that you will be sorry to lose her."
"Um! Well?"
"You know it was all settled so long ago."
"That's true enough," said Tom.
"And then when you marry you are to come into a partnership."
"Nobody ever married without coming into that," said Tom.
"Tom, you are incorrigible. A partnership in the house, I mean. You know what I mean."
"Yes, I know what you mean, darling Kitty; and it will all come right, don't be afraid; and tell mamma not to worry herself about it. I am agreeable. Only I wish it hadn't been all planned out so nicely. If only they had left it for me to choose for myself," he added, returning to his starting-point.
"And if they had, you would have chosen Blanche, don't you think?"
"Possibly. Blanche is a charming girl, of course. Oh, Kitty, Kitty! Why didn't they leave me and Cousin Blanche to set about it in the good old fashion? As it is, I feel as if Blanche had been my wife and I her husband ever since we were babies; and that I am an old married man."
"An old married man of eighteen!" and Kitty laughed merrily.
"Just so," said Tom, grimly. "I wonder whether anybody took the trouble to plan in this way for father and mother before they were really married."
"Their case was different," argued the sister; "but what does that signify? You say you are fond of Blanche, don't you?"
"Why, of course. What a young infidel you are, Kitty."
"Then you should be a good boy, and take care she doesn't slip through your fingers. That's what mamma says."
"Tell mamma, then, that I will behave better in future. Heigh-ho! And now let us talk about something else. Aren't you sorry you have left school for good?"
"No, I don't think I am. There's only one thing makes me sorry. Helen Wilson is to stay at Miss G—'s another half, and she is my dearest friend. Poor dear Helen! You have heard me speak of her, Tom?"
"I should think so. Where were my ears else?"
"And you remember her, don't you?"
"Yes; of course. I remember her—down at Uncle Dick's when I was there, and came home with us—she and dear old Tincroft and Mrs. T. Yes, I remember her."
"I like her so much," continued Kitty; "and I wanted to bring her home with me these holidays, but Mr. Tincroft wouldn't hear of it. He couldn't spare her, he said. Ill-natured, wasn't it?"
And then from this topic of conversation, the brother and sister passed on to another, till it was time to finish their cruise.
Tom did "behave better in future." That is to say, he begun from this time to pay greater attentions to the young lady, who, without any choice on his part, or hers either, was marked out to be his future wife; that is to say, he went twice a week instead of once to her father's house at Camberwell, and devoted more time when he was there to her special society.
And, not to flatter Blanche, she was not unworthy of these attentions. She had made good use of her time since, two years before, our friend Tincroft had passed, in his own mind, so unfavourable a judgment respecting her. The rather pert and conceited and affected schoolgirl had changed into an attractive and well-behaved young woman; while her pale face and unformed figure had ripened, if not into a perfect Hebe, yet into a sufficiently blooming and graceful piece of humanity. Whether or not it was wise in this instance—or whether it is wise in any instance—for such an alliance as has been spoken of to be contracted by other parties as sponsors for those most deeply interested, remains to be proved.
The wisdom of this arrangement, however, seemed manifest to one, at any rate, of these contracting parties, when a certain event of importance occurred.
"Did you ever know anything like this?" Mrs. Tom Grigson wished to be told, holding up her hands in sheer astonishment, when she had made herself acquainted with the purport of a letter which her husband had handed to her across the breakfast-table.
"Yes, my dear, I have known a good many things so exactly like it as to be identically the same," responded our old friend Tom.
"What a—what a—moon-calf he must be, Tom," the lady went on.
"Rather tough to digest, Kate," returned the husband, drily.
"But they do say there's no fool like an old fool," continued Mrs. Grigson.
"My dear!" remonstrated Tom.
"To think that he should ever think of doing such a thing!" said the lady. "'Tis dreadful!" she added.
"Is it so dreadful, Kate?" asked the gentleman, looking up. "That's a new light cast on the subject," he added.
"Nonsense, Tom! You know what I mean. Of course it isn't always dreadful, nor yet dreadful in itself; but, as you say sometimes, 'circumstances alter cases.'"
"Alters, you should say, Kate, to give the proper roll to the aphorism."
"That isn't grammar, Tom."
"Never mind about grammar when you want to produce effect. And I say, circumstances alters cases. And then, again—"
"There's no accounting for opinions;
Some likes apples, some likes inions."
"And Dick likes matrimony, it seems. Why shouldn't he?"
"Wasn't he always railing against it?"
"None the less likely to fall into it, for all that, Kate. And when he had our example set before him to follow, with the benefit of our experience—"
"Nonsense, Tom! Why, we have been man and wife any time these twenty years."
"Is it so long, Kate?" Tom asked.
"Of course it is; and here's Dick pretty near old enough to be your father—"
"Which he isn't," interposed the gentleman.
"You put me out, and make me forget what I was going to say, Tom, when you interrupt me like that," remonstrated the lady. "But what I mean is that at his age your brother Richard ought to be above such folly."
"Ought not to be above such wisdom, you should say, Kate. He sees his folly, no doubt, and argues that it is never too late to mend."
"To mend, indeed! An old man like him to be marrying a girl of twenty! He ought to be ashamed of himself."
It was quite true that Mr. Richard Grigson had so far committed himself. Having lived a single life till his hair had turned grey, and all the while declaring against matrimony, he had suddenly and violently become enamoured of a young lady from London who, while visiting a friend in the country, not far from the Manor House, accidentally fell in with and was introduced to the Manor House's owner.
It was a storm of wind and rain that brought about the introduction. The young lady and the old gentleman, in whose house she was a guest were out walking one fine May day, when suddenly the sky became overcast, and a heavy dark cloud from the west began to discharge its contents. The old gentleman was two or three miles away from his own house; he was afraid of rheumatism; he had not an umbrella; and the nearest shelter was the Manor House, whose gates he and his young friend were passing as the shower came on. He was slightly acquainted with Richard Grigson, though on no familiar terms with him. But, driven by the exigencies of the case, the storm-attacked pedestrians rushed at once through the gateway, scudded across the lawn, and presented themselves at the hospitable doors of the Manor House, suppliants for shelter.
They received shelter and something more; and the next day Richard bethought himself that it would be only proper for him to ride over to the old gentleman's house to give expression to his hope that the young lady had not taken cold.
The young lady had not taken cold, thanks to Mr. Grigson; but the old gentleman had, and was confined to his chamber by its effects. And so, perforce, the elderly bachelor and the juvenile maiden had to entertain each other in the drawing-room. The entertainment lasted longer than was calculated on; for, strange to say, while they were thus engaged, another heavy shower came on; and Richard, who never till now had minded being wet to the skin, felt an unconquerable repugnance to facing the rain. Before the shower was over, he had secretly made up his mind to pay another visit—which he did, and this time it was to Miss Hardcastle.
There is no need to multiply words in describing the progress of a rapid thaw of frozen-up passions. It is enough to say that before three weeks had passed away, Mr. Richard's determination never to marry had melted away beneath the influence of Miss Hardcastle's charms. In another week, he was her accepted lover.
It was rather awkward—at least, kind-hearted Richard Grigson felt it to be so—to make known to his brother the change which had come over him, and the engagement on which he had entered.
"It will be a little hard upon brother Tom," he thought within himself, "and if not upon brother Tom, it will fall heavy upon nephew Tom (bless his young heart!) to know that the old family estate may have to keep in a straight line after all. But they are good fellows, both of them, and I am sure they won't make a quarrel of it, and I must make it as easy for young Tom as I can. And, after all, it may come to him all the same," he added, by way of salvo, or salve to his conscience.
"Besides," continued he, in his thoughts, "there's no law that I know of, in the Bible or out of it, to keep a man from marrying because he has a fair estate on the one hand, and a fair nephew on the other."
The result of this soliloquy was the letter which had so disturbed the equanimity of Mrs. Tom Grigson at the breakfast-table; and, to tell the truth, it also took Mr. Tom a little aback. But he soon recovered himself.
"Dick has as much right to please himself by taking a wife as ever I had," said he; "and I'll go down to his wedding," he added.
It could not be denied, however, that this new move (as it was called) of Dick's sent all, or a good many, previous calculations to the right-about. And our friend Tom congratulated himself more than ever on having brought up his son to business instead of sending him to Oxford.
"As it isn't at all likely our boy will come to the estate now," he said to his wife, when they were by themselves, "it is a good thing to have put him in the way of being independent without it, which he mightn't have been if we had made a scholar of him."
There was another source of congratulation also—namely, that the young fellow's match with his cousin had been made so long ago, and was progressing without any palpable hitch.
"I wish Tom was a little more in earnest about it," the father went on; "but, as he says, it will come on in time. And then, when they are married, Tom will have got a snug nest, anyhow."
Tom the elder did go down to his brother's wedding, and so did Tom the younger. Mrs. Tom Grigson was also prevailed upon to dispose of her chagrin and go also. Richard Grigson was profoundly touched by this almost unlooked-for kindness on their part.
"I always knew you were a good fellow, dear old Tom!" said Dick. "But I was half afraid you would turn rusty."
"Nonsense, Richard! The world's wide enough for us all, isn't it? And there's no one wishes you all sorts of happiness in your married life more heartily than I do. All sorts of happiness, mind," he added.