CHAPTER VII. HAPPINESS.
There come in life moments, perhaps hours, perhaps days, perhaps even months of perfect bliss, and this glorious happening—these sunshiny days, hours, and months—came to little Maureen O'Brien while she lived with Colonel Herbert. She had undoubtedly had a most severe shock, and as her illness had been long and dangerous, so undoubtedly was her recovery somewhat tedious; but by degrees her little larklike voice could be heard singing about the house; and then all kinds of indescribable changes took place at Rathclaren. It was a handsome and stately home before Maureen arrived there, but now it became a beautiful home. The Colonel could not quite make out what had altered it. He did not know that a great nest of daffodils in a certain corner of his vast library made the room all aglow with light. He could not guess why the piano began to sound in the old-fashioned drawing-room, and why a pretty soft voice sang all kinds of old-fashioned songs—"The Dark Rosaleen" for one, "The Wearing o' the Green" for another, and Moore's inimitable melodies—
"Oh, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream!"
The Colonel had heard those words ages ago, and he now crept cautiously into the drawing-room and stood behind the little singer.
Certainly her voice was not strong, but it was at that stage of her growth a high soprano, and very clear and very true, so when she sang "When Malachi Wore His Collar of Gold," "The Vale of Avoca," "Believe Me, if all those Endearing Young Charms," "The Minstrel Boy," "Those Evening Bells," "Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore," "The Last Bose of Summer," and "The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls," the Colonel felt as though he were living in a new world.
When he discovered Maureen's gift he did not get the piano tuned, which most men would have done, but got a beautiful new boudoir grand put in its place; and a master came twice a week from Kingsala to train a voice that needed no training, for it was Nature's voice, just as the birds' voices are. Thus the Colonel was intensely happy. The days sped by, and Maureen's passion for music was gratified. Evening after evening the "dear Colonel" and Maureen used to enjoy those incomparable melodies together, the child singing her heart away, the man listening, never speaking, never praising, but with his own heart full to the brim of love for this queer little creature. He loved to spend money on Maureen, and consulted his excellent housekeeper, and bought the child suitable frocks and pretty jackets and hats, and when she was strong enough he took her out riding with him.
The first ride was a bit of a trial to the child, for she could not help thinking of poor step-auntie and The O'Shee, but after that she enjoyed herself immensely. To the astonishment of the Colonel, he found that he had to teach her nothing. She could ride by a sort of instinct; she was part of her horse. He got her a dark Lincoln green habit, and a little green velvet cap with a heron's feather in it; and no sweeter sight could have been seen than the little maid and the elderly man as they crossed country side by side.
She could ride by a sort of instinct; she was part
of her horse.—Page 85.
But the Colonel knew what Maureen did not, that this golden time in his life was but an episode, that Maureen did not belong to him, and that soon—ah! too soon—the sweet presence and the voice like a bird's, and the lovely brown eyes, would leave Rathclaren and go back again to old Templemore, where Dominic and his father would be anxiously waiting for her.
While these things were happening at Rathclaren and Maureen by no effort at all on her part was making herself the idol of the entire establishment, the Rector—dear man!—was making leaps and bounds towards health. The feeling of health was in his veins, the keenness of health was in his eyes. Egypt had begun to save him, and Switzerland—selected parts, of course—did the rest of the business. He would certainly be able to return to his parish duties in the early summer, just when Templemore was in its prime, when the fat kine were prosperous, and the lean kine had disappeared for the present.
The Rector was by no means sorry to live. He had been content to die—God's will was his—and he never struggled against the inevitable; but now that earthly life was really restored to him in the most marvellous and unexpected way, he gave himself up to the enjoyment of it. His wife's will troubled him, however, not a little. At first, that is, immediately after her death, it troubled him profoundly, but then Maureen's severe illness caused every thought, except of her, to fade from his mind; but when she got better and the danger passed away, the Rector's conscience smote him very hard with regard to the will. He went to see Murphy at Kingsala, he went to see O'More and Walters, and he said the same thing to each and all,
"That will ought not to be acted on. My poor wife died through an accident. Had she lived she would have altered her will, for she told me so just before her death, poor dear. In fact, I was supposed to know nothing of this will, which was made just before our marriage, when she fancied she loved me; but she certainly told me most distinctly quite lately that all her money would belong to her own two daughters. Then she was killed—you know how. The will turned up. You had a copy, O'More, and we have heard from Debenham and Druce; but I cannot possibly see how we can act upon it—I mean as gentlemen and Christians. We take advantage of a terrible accident to destroy all my poor wife's hopes with regard to her girls."
Then Murphy said, "Now whist awhile, your Reverence, and I'll come and see you in a few days at Templemore. This requires thinking over. These aren't the days of chivalry, O'Brien, my man. Go home, rest quiet, be thankful the life of the little one is spared, and do nothing until you see me, for I'll come over to Templemore one fine morning, and have a bit of news for you as like as not."
The Rector waited with what patience he could, and the longer he waited the more sensitive did his conscience become. But at last, to his unbounded amazement, Dominic rushed in to inform him that an outside car was coming down the avenue, and there were four men on it, to say nothing of the driver; and when the four men stepped into the old house, which looked most sadly shabby without Maureen's care, the Rector found himself in the presence of Murphy the lawyer, of Mr. O'More, Mr. Walters, and of Mr. Debenham, head of the great firm of solicitors in Chancery Lane.
Now these men began at once to talk to the Rector, and they talked in a wonderfully convincing way. Their argument was this: First and foremost, the late Mrs. O'Brien had very much undervalued her property, which amounted not to fifty thousand pounds, but after all death duties had been paid would represent the very comfortable figure of between eighty and ninety thousand pounds. This money, by the lady's desire, had remained untouched since her second marriage, and the lawyers, Debenham and Druce, by wise investments had increased the original capital very much. How by the terms of the will this sum was to be divided in equal portions among Mrs. O'Brien's two daughters, the Misses Mostyn, the Rector's three children and his niece, Maureen O'Brien, and further, an equal share was to be given to the Rector himself.
"That is precisely how the will stands, Mr. O'Brien," said Debenham, in his extremely refined English voice, "and as all the inheritors, with the exception of yourself, are much under age, nothing whatsoever can be done to alter it until your youngest child comes of age. Now I drew up this will for the late Mrs. O'Brien. She was most sincere in her wish at the time that you and yours should share her wealth with her own two daughters. The fact is, the late Mostyn was old enough to be her father. He was a city merchant and made his pile, although it amounted to nothing like what he would have made, had he not been suddenly stricken down by apoplexy. His wife and he led a cat-and-dog life together, and I think his death was a great relief to the poor woman. Anyhow, be that as it may, Mr. O'Brien, you can part with your share of the property if you like, but the portions set aside for the children cannot possibly be interfered with. I and my partner are trustees for the children's share of the property, and I shall provide them with ample means, which the will allows for their education, until they each come of age; more I cannot do. They will each be fairly well off, and I should strongly advise you, Mr. O'Brien, to take your own share and make no bones about it. The whole thing seems to me to be an interposition of Providence to prevent an angry and irresponsible woman from carrying out her designs. You will all be comfortably off, and I think if she could speak to you now, she would beg of you not to make your family unhappy by refusing to receive your share of the profits. After all, Mr. O'Brien, it was you she loved when she made the will. She did not know the children."
"God help me!" said Mr. O'Brien. "Poor Constance, I never understood her! If you really think it would please her, sirs——"
"Please her—naturally it would please her!" said O'More.
"And I shall not require it long," continued the Rector, who little guessed on that sorrowful day that he was to become quite well once more.
"There is a provision made for that in the will, sir," said Mr. Debenham, "which gives your share in equal proportions to the six children, so I do not see how in any case you can touch it or interfere with it. That's a fine boy of yours," continued Debenham. "I rather guess that he will make money of his own, and not require any help from any one."
All these things happened while Maureen was ill, and she naturally knew nothing about them, and nothing whatever about the little fortune which had been left her by step-auntie; but as the days flew on, and April followed March and May followed April, more and more deeply did Colonel Herbert hate that will, for if it were not in existence he would simply force O'Brien to give him Maureen to be his forever, to share his money, his love, and his home.
How it so happened that while the Rector was coming by leaps and bounds back again to life and health, two girls at school were mourning not so much for their mother, who, as a matter of fact, they did not like, but because they were not the heiresses they had hitherto called themselves to their schoolfellows.
Mr. Debenham called to see these girls, one day, at their showy school near Dublin. They were like each other, and painfully like the dead woman. The lawyer could not help uttering a quick sigh when he saw them. Henrietta was the taller and stronger of the two. She was what might be described as a "bouncing young maid," very much developed in figure, with her mother's fiery blue eyes and her mother's auburn hair which tended to red. That hair was all fluffy and curly and untidy about her head. She was not a pretty girl; she had too many freckles for that; and her nose had a little tilt up at the end, which gave to Henrietta Mostyn a particularly impertinent appearance. Daisy was very like her sister, but with a difference; her eyes were smaller and closer together, she had a cunning look about her, and her hair was of a flaxen shade without a touch of gold in it. Her eyebrows were the same colour as her hair, and her eyelashes were white. She was altogether the sort of girl whom you would rather not know, for there was a cunning, deceitful expression about her face, which no effort on her part could conceal.
"Well, so we are robbed," said Henrietta. "Poor mumsie-pumsie went to smash, and we are robbed. That's a nice look-out. Of course, you'll manage, Mr. Debenham, that those horrid O'Briens don't get our money."
"They shan't get your money, Miss Mostyn," said the lawyer, "but they'll get their own."
"Whatever do you mean by that? Then we do get mumsie's fortune. I said so to Daisy last night. When I want to tease her I call her Dysy."
"I don't think I care to listen to your remarks," said Mr. Debenham. "Your poor mother died in a very terrible way."
"Oh, don't tell me, or I'll shriek," said Daisy. "Hold me, Henny, hold me, Henny; I'll shriek!"
"Silly child," said the lawyer, "have you no self-control? I have spoken to the head-mistress of your school, Mrs. Henderson, and she understands that owing to circumstances you are not to remain here after the summer holidays. That is the wish of your step-father and guardian, the Reverend Patrick O'Brien. You will probably be sent to another school, which I will recommend."
"But our money—the chink," said Daisy; "that's the main thing."
"You get your share, Miss Daisy. Your mother's money is divided into seven portions. Until you come of age, or marry, a certain portion will be spent on your education. After that the capital will be yours to do as you wish with. You each of you have, roughly speaking, about thirteen thousand pounds."
"Is that all?" cried Henrietta. "Why, mumsie said that we were heiresses!"
"You are, to that extent."
"But she said we should have at least fifty thousand between us, and she was going to bring us out in Dublin, and we were going to have no end of larks. What do you mean by saying that we'll have thirteen thousand pounds each?"
"How old are you, Miss Mostyn?"
"We are both of us fifteen," said Daisy. "Twins, dear little twins. But please tell us, we want to know what has become of all the rest of mumsie's money?"
"She left her entire property," said the lawyer, "to be divided into seven portions. These portions, were to be divided between yourselves, Mrs. Mostyn's second husband, the Reverend Patrick O'Brien, his three children, and his dear little niece. None of you can touch the capital until you come of age. Kitty O'Brien is at present only six. Her portion, therefore, will in all probability be the largest, as there will be a greater time for it to accrue. By the way, your mother made one provision, which I rather fought against, but she was determined. You are not any of you to come of age until you are twenty-five."
"Good gracious!" exclaimed Henny.
Daisy burst into tears.
"I'll be a beastly old maid by then," she sobbed.
"Well, good-bye, children, good-bye. Your poor mother is gone, and you must make the best of what is to you a bad job. But you have got a delightful step-father, who will do his utmost for you so as to bring you up in the fear of God, and I am sure you cannot help liking his dear children."
"If you mean that I am going to like that beastly little niece, you're fine and mistook, Mr. Lawyer," said Daisy. "I think you are a horrid man, and I believe, I really do, that you forged that will."
"Good-bye, girls, and don't be silly," said Debenham.
He said to himself as he took his seat in his motor-car: "Poor O'Brien, I thought his troubles were ended; but I really do not think I ever saw a more unpleasant pair of girls than the Mostyns. Their mother over again, only worse. Thank goodness, I've saved O'Brien from making a fool of himself. That saintly sort of person often does that kind of thing. That poor, dear, brave little girl, I'm afraid, will have an awful time when the Mostyns go to Templemore. Why, the face of the one they call Daisy is as sly and as full of mischief as a monkey's."