Chapter Thirty Seven.
Bernard Farrell’s Heir.
“I’m not sorry; I’m glad!” cried Mollie, while a rain of tears rolled down her cheeks. “He was old and was tired, and everyone he loved had gone before him. It will be like going home to meet them again. He was grim and cross and suspicious, but I loved him all the same, and in his queer way I am sure that he liked me too. I’m thankful he is at rest! ... ‘Will write details.’ Thursday!—that means that she will write on Thursday evening. Mrs Thornton is nothing if not businesslike. We shall hear from her by the second post on Friday. By Friday at ten o’clock we shall know our fate. To be, or not to be—that is the question. Oh, I hope—I hope he has remembered us a little! There is no chance of inheriting the Court, as we once dreamt of doing; but still, there is a hope, and it will be a shock to bury it for ever. I used to feel comparatively indifferent; but the strain of these last six months has made me greedy; while you, you dear goose, who used to be all ambition, are in such a ludicrous condition of bliss that you can hardly rouse yourself to take any interest in the question! What it is to be engaged!”
Ruth tried to look contrite, but succeeded only in smiling seraphically.
“When you are perfectly happy it is impossible to be happier, and I honestly don’t care very much. I should like Uncle Bernard to leave me a nice message, and I shouldn’t at all object to a legacy, which would provide my trousseau; but the Court itself would be a white elephant to me now. Donald adores his work, and would not give it up for any consideration, so we could never live there ourselves.”
“You might lend it to a poor but deserving family! Astonishing as it may appear, there are a few other people in the world beside yourself and Donald, and they are not all going to be married and live happily ever after!”
This time Ruth did, indeed, look contrite, and that without an effort.
“Oh, Mollie, I am horribly selfish! Forgive me, darling! I honestly do forget everybody but ourselves sometimes; and it is hateful of me, for when I am so happy I ought to be more sympathetic, instead of less. I am, when I remember! I am so bubbling over with happiness and good-will that I feel inclined to kiss everyone I meet. But there is so much to be thought about, and every time we meet there seems to be more, and I get lost in dreams.”
“Bless your heart, don’t apologise to me. I like it!” cried Mollie heartily. “I know your heart is right; and it’s a poor thing if lovers can’t live in a world of their own for a few weeks of their life. I’m thankful beyond words that your future is settled. But oh, what a help a few hundreds would be to the rest of us just now! I feel as if I could hardly live until Friday morning, I am so anxious to hear the news! And the mysterious condition, Ruth! Do you realise that we shall know all about it in three more days?”
“I wonder!” sighed Ruth dreamily. Then, with sudden animation, “If it is good news,—if either of us came in for something really big, Mrs Thornton would wire! She simply could not wait. She is far too impulsive!”
It was an unfortunate suggestion, as it added tenfold to the strain of waiting. The minutes seemed to drag on Thursday afternoon and evening; but no telegram appeared, and Mollie’s heart sank heavily. She knew better than her sister how difficult it was to make both ends meet, and what a long and arduous task it would be to pay off the loans which had tided the family through their time of need, and she was tired—as any natural, high-spirited young thing would be—of all work and no play, and eagerly longing for a respite. Mr Farrell had expressly stated that he would not divide his property; but that did not prohibit small legacies, and when he knew that his nearest relations were in straits, surely—surely...
Mollie was up and dressed even before her usual early hour the next morning, for sleep was impossible in such a whirl of nervous anxiety. Ruth kissed her before departing to her work, and said—
“Rush down to me, dear, if there is anything good to tell. I shall look out for you about eleven.”
Mollie set about her household duties with great fervour, so as to make the long hour pass by more quickly. At last ten o’clock struck, and almost at the same time came the sound of the postman’s rat-tat. She flew to the door, arriving at the very moment that three letters fell into the box.
One was of that long, narrow shape, which inevitably foretells a bill; a second was unmistakably a circular; the third— Mollie stared at it, turned it over, looked at the postmark, stared at the writing again, in a whirl of bewildered dismay. It could not be an ordinary, unimportant letter from the children’s aunt at Brighton! It could not! The thing was impossible! Yet why, then, the address to Trix, the well-known writing—most of all, the horrible postmark?
She put her hand to her head, wondering if it were true, or only a horrible nightmare that Mrs Thornton had not written, after all!
The little mother came creeping out of the dining-room, and, seeing her child’s blanched face, was persistently optimistic. Absurd to give up hope because a letter did not come by the first possible post! A hundred things might have happened to cause a delay; and, even if it had been posted in time, the post-office was not always infallible.
Mrs Farrell recalled stories of belated letters from her own experience, and related them at length, while Mollie went numbly about her work. The disappointment was severe, and seemed like a foretaste of worse to come. Nevertheless, as time went on, her naturally buoyant nature asserted itself, and, as each delivery drew near, excitement grew to fever-pitch.
One o’clock, and a letter for the maid; three o’clock, and the postman walked past the door. Poor Mollie! The sound of his departing footsteps rang like a knell in her ears, and two hot rebellious tears rose to her eyes. It did not seem possible that anything would have prevented the kindly Mrs Thornton from keeping her promise except sheer inability to communicate bad news; and bad news meant that her own name and Ruth’s were not mentioned in the will, and that everything went to Victor Druce. Oh, it was hard to give up so much to so unworthy a supplanter!
The children came home from school and settled down to their “prep.” Mrs Connor retired to her room for a rest, and Mollie took her way to her stepfather’s little den to set a match to the fire, and hold a newspaper before it to make it blaze cheerily in preparation for his return. It was one of the pleasures of the day to make the sanctum look cheery and home-like for the tired man, and to-day there was an additional impetus in the knowledge that he would share in her own disappointment.
Mollie knelt by the grate, holding the newspaper in place—a tired, disheartened little Cinderella, who would have liked to lay her head on the table and indulge in a good cry. But such luxuries are not for the brave-hearted; so she resolutely blinked away the rising tears, and, rising to her feet, lighted the crimson-shaded lamp on the writing-table. Its rosy light had a wonderfully beautifying effect on the little room, giving an air of luxury to the commonplace furnishings; and when the curtains were drawn, and the easy-chair drawn up to the fire, it was as bright and cheerful a little interior as one need wish to see.
Mollie looked round with a glance of satisfaction, then suddenly rushed into the hall at the sound of a loud knock at the door. So soon! She had not expected the next delivery for another half-hour at least. No letter appeared in the box; so, with wild visions of a legal missive, registered for greater safety, she threw open the door and peered out into the night.
A man’s tall figure stood on the step; but it was not the figure of a postman. Mollie leant forward—the light from above shining on cheeks flushed from contact with the fire, and ruffled golden head—leant forward, and stared into his face with incredulous eyes.
“Mollie!” cried a well-remembered voice, which broke into an eloquent tremor over the name.
“You!” cried Mollie! “Mr Melland! It can’t be! What does it mean? You can’t really be here!”
He laughed at that, and took a step forward, like the masterful Jack of old.
“I am here; it is myself, and nobody else! I’ll tell you all about it if you will let me in. It’s rather cold to-night, you know.”
She held the door wide open at that, and hurried him across the hall into the little, pink-lighted room, which she had just prepared for another’s reception. There they stood face to face, staring at each other for a breathless moment.
“I thought you were in Raby—”
“So I was yesterday. I left this morning, and came down by the first train.”
“Mrs Thornton promised to write. I thought you were the postman just now; and, of course, one cannot help being curious.—Have you come to tell us anything nice? Did Uncle Bernard remember us at all?”
“He has left your sister his wife’s rubies. They are very beautiful, I am told, and of considerable value.”
“Oh, I am glad! Ruth will be pleased; and she will be able to wear them when she is married. How beautiful she will look! And—and me?”
Jack shook his head.
“Nothing? Not even a word to say he forgave me for coming away?”
“There is a letter. You will see it later on. What I meant was that your name was not mentioned in the will. He left you no legacy.”
Mollie sat down in the easy-chair, and leant her head against the cushions. In spite of all that had passed, in spite of every determination to be prepared for the worst, the blow fell with crushing weight. She was conscious of a feeling of physical weakness, as if the body shared with the mind in grieving over the vanished dream; but she tried bravely to smile and look unconcerned.
“Then I suppose he—Victor Druce—inherits all?”
Jack looked at her with anxious eyes.
“You expected it, didn’t you? You are not surprised? It seems to have been generally taken for granted for the last six months.”
“Yes; so Mrs Thornton said. If it had been anyone else I should not grudge it so much. And you are left out too! I wish—oh, I wish it had been different!”
Jack Melland took a step forward, and bent over her chair.
“Mollie,” he said softly, “shall we console each other? I have been waiting until this question was settled before coming to see you. It seemed an endless time to wait, but I couldn’t come till I knew the truth. How could a poor fellow, with a few beggarly hundreds a year, approach a girl who might be one of the biggest heiresses in the kingdom? But I didn’t forget you—I couldn’t forget. I have been thinking of you night and day. It was all the harder to be silent when you were in trouble; but it was the straight thing to do. You can’t tell what it means to me to see you again! When you opened the door just now, and the lamp-light showed me your little golden head—”
He broke off, with the same strange quiver in his voice which had marked his first utterance of her name; but Mollie shrank back still further in her chair, staring at him with troubled eyes.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand!”
“It’s simple enough—only that I love you, and want you to love me in return!”
“But—don’t you remember?—you told me about her—the girl you met, and loved at first sight. Suppose you met her again, and felt the same; then you would be sorry if I—”
“Oh, Mollie, do you mean to say you have remembered all this time, and never guessed! It was yourself, darling; there never was anyone else! I think I must have cared for you from the first, though I did not realise it, for I was irritated that I could never get you to be serious. You were like a child out for a holiday—full of fun and mischief—and I wanted to talk of deeper things. Then one day for a moment you showed me a glimpse of your real self—the sweet, womanly heart that lay beneath the gaiety; and as I looked at your face I recognised it, Mollie. It was something I had dreamed of when I did not know I was dreaming, and wanted, without knowing what I wanted! I saw that look again five minutes after I had told you of my lost love, as you looked at me and wished me happiness. Why did you look sad, Mollie? Were you—were you sorry at all?”
Mollie put her hand to her side with a gesture as natural as it was charming.
“It hurt,” she said simply. “I never, never dreamt that you meant me, and I have tried hard not to think of you ever since; but I didn’t succeed very well... Why did you always write to Ruth instead of to me?”
Jack laughed happily, and with a lover’s privilege seated himself on the arm of the easy-chair, and took Mollie’s hands in his.
“Because, as I told you before, you darling, I was waiting. And do you really think you could make up your mind to marry me on next to nothing, and live in a tiny house, and wrestle with the household bills? Do you think I am worth the sacrifice?”
Mollie smiled at him, shyly confident.
“I’m so improvident that I’m afraid I’d marry you on nothing. I haven’t a copper of my own, remember. You will have a penniless bride. Oh, I wish more than ever that Uncle Bernard had left me something, so that I might help you! It does seem hard, doesn’t it, that Victor Druce should get it all?”
Jack hesitated a moment, tugging at his moustache with his unoccupied hand.
“I didn’t say that, you know. I never told you that he did.”
“Jack!”
The name slipped out so naturally on the surprise of the moment that there was a prolonged interval in the conversation, while Jack acknowledged the compliment. Then Mollie returned to the attack, laughing and rosy.
“You asked if I were surprised. You said everyone had taken it for granted!”
“Exactly; so I did. But for once everyone was mistaken. Druce has not come in for the property.”
“Then, who—who—”
“Someone equally unworthy—an ungracious rascal of a fellow called Melland. It is all mine, Mollie—all that there is to leave!”
And then Jack did a pretty thing—a thing that he would have sneered at as high-flown and sentimental a few months before; but no man really knows himself or his capabilities till he loves and is beloved. He slipped off his seat, and knelt on the floor at Mollie’s feet.
“And I have come to you,” he said gravely, “to ask you to share it with me, for it’s worth nothing, and worse than nothing, if I have not you by my side!”
He held out his hand as he spoke, and Mollie laid hers in it, while her face confronted him, white and tense with excitement.
“I can’t—I can’t believe it!” she gasped. “It is too wonderful! You and me! That lovely, lovely place; and we the masters of it, able to do as we like—just as we like, all the summer days, and the winter days, and the beautiful spring, and no more anxiety and trouble! Jack—Jack!”
Her head went down on his shoulder, and he held her fast while she shed a few natural tears of joy and thankfulness.
“My poor girl—my dear girl! Yes, it is all over, and the money is as much yours as mine. I feel sure Mr Farrell meant it to be so, and that you will find something to that effect in this letter he has left you. He discovered my secret before I left Raby, and said plainly how much he wished it success. There, darling, read your letter! I hope you may find some kind words to comfort your heart.”
Mollie broke open the envelope, which he handed to her. It was a solemn business, reading a message from the dead, and her big eyes looked quite awestruck as they scanned the page. There were only a few words, written in a small, tremulous hand:—
“My dear Mollie,—I leave you nothing, hoping that you may share all. That is my strong wish, and I believe I am helping on your happiness by an apparent neglect. Try to forgive me for refusing your last request. It would have been easier to consent, but I considered that a short period of anxiety would be a blessing in disguise, if it showed you who were your true friends. If a man comes forward and offers you his love in the days of obscurity and poverty, that man’s love is worth having. I hope and believe it will come to you. I thank you for your kindness to an old man. Forgive him for all his offences, foremost among them an unfounded suspicion.—Your friend and kinsman, Bernard Farrell.”
“There! You see how right I was?” cried Jack in triumph. “In effect, we are joint heirs, and have equally free hands in the disposal of the money. You must settle an income on your mother which will ensure her against anxiety, and then you can come away with an easy mind, and help me to turn into a country squire and learn my duties to the tenants. You told me once that he would be hard-worked if he were conscientious, and I want to do the thing well while I am about it. This is December. I mean to be married in January, at latest!”
Mollie laughed, but with a somewhat tremulous sound. The change of scene which had taken place within the last quarter of an hour was so complete, so extraordinary, that she felt dazed by the shock. Not only had undreamed-of happiness come to herself, but with it such relief and ease for all belonging to her, that they would rejoice equally with herself. It did indeed seem more like a dream than a reality, as, with Jack’s arm round her waist and her head resting contentedly upon Jack’s shoulder, they drifted off into one of those delightful conversations which follow all happy betrothals.
“Do you remember?” queried Jack. “Do you remember?” echoed Mollie. “What did you mean when you said?”
“How did you feel when you heard?”
“When did you first begin?”
“And are you quite sure you will never, never—” It is all as old as the hills, and as new as to-morrow morning, though each separate pair of lovers imagine in their innocence that they own the exclusive monopoly.
“Jack!” cried Mollie at last, sitting suddenly upright and clasping her hands in amaze. “Jack, imagine it! All this time I have forgotten the most thrilling part of all. The condition—the mysterious condition! What was it? What did you do, or leave undone, which made you different from the rest of us?”