"TO THE ISLAND OR TO——."
Early in the year 1866 the Midharst (Consols) account-book with the Daneford Bank showed that, after deducting all charges and paying all expenses, the principal and interest reached the enormous sum of five hundred and fifty thousand pounds, enough to buy such a property as the old baronet enjoyed.
By this time Sir Alexander had passed out of middle life into age. He was now thin and bent to one side, and very weak, but still firm of purpose. He had defeated the doctors by living so long; he had defeated "that ungrateful whelp," as he called his heir-presumptive. Of this distant cousin he had no knowledge whatever; he declined to listen to anything about him. Why he called him ungrateful no one ever knew; he called him a whelp because he was young. It was believed that Sir Alexander had never in all his life set eyes upon him, or even got an account of the young man from one who knew him.
At the time of his wife's death, the baronet made outline enquiries through his solicitor as to the age and descent of the boy. In the year of Lady Midharst's death, the boy, whose father had been a poor naval officer, was aged eight, having been born in 1838. The boy's father had died at sea. There could not be the shadow of a doubt that this William Midharst was heir-presumptive, and, if he lived, would inherit the title and the property, should Sir Alexander die without leaving a son.
Little of the baronet's time was spent with his daughter; often a whole week went by, and he did not pass more than an hour of the whole time with her. She had a suite of rooms for herself, where she lived with Mrs. Grant, an officer's widow, who knew much of the world, and was now glad to accept the position of lady's companion to the baronet's only child.
Owing to the eccentric life led by Sir Alexander, the facts that he saw no company and had no intercourse with any of the county families, Maud never went into society, and was wholly dependent on good sympathetic little Mrs. Grant for any knowledge she might gain of the great outside world. Mrs. Grant, who was of a gay and pleasure-loving disposition, had no patience with the whims and meannesses of the old man.
"You know, my dear," she said to Maud, as they sat over their tea in Maud's little drawing-room, "it's all very well for Sir Alexander to go on saving up money for you, so that you may be a great heiress one of these days; but that isn't all. He treats you as if you were a girl of twelve yet. Why, my dear, I had been out three years before I was your age, and had refused three or four offers. I had, indeed. I know you don't want offers, my dear; but I did; for I was only a poor rector's daughter, and hadn't even beauty to help me."
"Indeed I am sure you must have been wonderfully pretty. You don't know now nice you look now," replied the girl softly.
"Ah, well, my dear, after a few seasons you get to know all about your good looks; and then, my dear, after a few seasons more you get to know what is of a great deal more consequence, all your defects, or at least a good many. I don't suppose any woman ever found out all the weak points in her appearance, and that's a mercy. But as I was saying—what was I saying?"
"I think," said Maud, with an expression of great innocence, "that you were blaming papa for never having given me an opportunity of finding out the weak points in my personal appearance."
"Yes, that's it. That is, not quite it. Maud, I won't have you twist things I say in that way. You know I am always for your good; indeed I am."
"I am quite sure of it, dear Mrs. Grant," returned the girl gratefully, and with a trace of moisture in her large soft eyes, as though she relented having taken advantage of the other's impetuosity.
The woman took her hand, and stroked it briskly, and said:
"There, there, Maud, don't be silly. Look at this very case in point. Why, you turn sentimental over a few words from an uninteresting middle-aged woman! Now is that a proper thing in an heiress of twenty? Why, my dear, you'd have no account to give of offers refused if once you went out. You'd marry the first booby who asked you, rather than disoblige him or cause him pain."
"I shall never marry anyone I do not love," said Maud, with an air of quiet decision.
"Maud, be silent; you are only a school-girl, with a lot of sound rules in your head, and not the least idea of how they are applied, or where. I tell you I know something of the world and girls and love and marriage. I tell you, you'd marry the first stupid lout who said to you: Maud, I love you!"
"Was the first who proposed to you a stupid lout?" asked the girl simply.
"No, he wasn't; at least I did think he was then, but I afterwards knew that he was the best of them all; and I was often sorry I did not take him."
"And did he marry?"
"Yes; he married a fool."
"Who had just come out—her first season?" asked Maud, with her hands folded serenely on her lap.
"Yes. But how did you guess?"
"Well, you see, you told me I should marry the first stupid lout who asked me, and I thought it likely a girl only just out did marry the stupid lout who proposed first to you."
"But, dear, I told you he wasn't a stupid lout; then I thought he was stupid, and was often sorry afterwards—of course I mean before I married—that I did not accept him."
"This gives me more hope for my own case. You see, the girl who had only just come out took the man you thought was a stupid lout, and was right in taking him."
Maud looked up and smiled.
For a moment Mrs. Grant tapped her foot impatiently on the carpet; looked hither and thither, rose a little hastily, and cried: "Well, Maud, if you don't think I have a very serious interest in what I say, I will say——" She paused, and looked at the sweet, half-frightened face of the girl. All at once her manner underwent a change. She drew near the girl, and putting her arm round her waist, "I will say," she continued, "that whoever gets you cannot help loving you. Men are often bad, Maud darling; but I don't think there is one such a villain and a fool as to be unkind to you."
As April of 1866 grew into May, the asthmatic affection from which the old baronet suffered abated; but the valvular defect of heart increased. He had fainted three or four times in the month of April, and in May his debility became so great that he was unable to leave his bed. Other symptoms now showed themselves, and complicated the case, and so embarrassed the action of the heart that the doctors declared he must expect a speedy termination. Towards the end of May the doctors declared he would never rise from his bed.
The old man, whose spirit was in arms against these doctors, would not believe them. Twenty years ago they had told him the same thing.
They said: No, the circumstances were different. They had then said he might go at any moment; things were worse than that now. There was no longer any chance of recovery, and the dread was things would grow worse.
The doctors found it necessary to be almost brutally candid with him, for they had learned he had not yet made his will.
Insecure as was the tenure upon which he had for the past twenty years held his life, he had gone on from day to day deferring the arrangement of his affairs on the grounds that he was too busy, and that if he made his will now he should have to add codicils according as his savings increased. His lawyer assured him no such thing was necessary, because, after all bequests had been mentioned, he could leave his daughter residuary legatee absolutely or with any provisions and restrictions he liked to impose.
As the lawyer had failed in the old time the doctors failed now. But they were resolved to leave no stone unturned in their attempt to get him to settle his affairs. The dying man's daughter was too young, and too timid, and too closely interested in the execution of the document to think of asking her aid; so they resolved to summon Mrs. Grant, and request her to press the matter home to the mind of the invalid.
In the great banqueting-room the three physicians in attendance sat when it was resolved to invoke Mrs. Grant.
The vast apartment had been allowed to fall almost into ruins. It was the finest room in the house, and few houses in either county that claimed the banks of the Weeslade at this point could boast so noble a chamber.
But twenty years of neglect had defiled and defaced the room. The curtains were faded and worn, the hair grinned through the torn covers of the fine old oak chairs. Damp had attacked the moulding of the picture frames, and here and there the moulding had fallen off, leaving the bones of the discoloured frames exposed to view. The ceiling, formed of oak cross-beams, with flowers and fruit pieces in the panels, had felt the corroding touch of wilful Time. Here and there the canvas bulged off the panel, and hung in loose flabby blisters from the roof. The fine oak floor had grown dull and woolly for want of use and care. Sir Alexander kept no servants to look after the apartments he did not make use of, and refused to allow even beeswax for the floors.
The dog-irons, which had stood watch over the home-fire of generations of his name and blood, were rusted. The tapestries hanging across the doors, here and there torn from their hooks, hung in neglected disorder from the rods. The hospitable greeting "Welcome," in blue enamel in the wreath of carved vine-leaves round the top of the huge sideboard, had lost some of its letters. The glasses of the lamps held by the bronze Nubian slaves at the doors were reduced to half their number. The leather thongs lacing the suits of armour that held the groups of candles at either end of the sideboard had rotted and parted, and the helmets and back and breast plates gaped at the sutures.
The chamber smelt like a vault just opened, and, although the weather was bright and fine, all the furniture, the walls, the floor, felt damp and slimy.
As soon as the doctors had finished luncheon, Mrs. Grant was sent for. She arrived in a state of great agitation; she feared that Sir Alexander was in the last extremity.
Dr. Hardy, the senior physician, a pale, soft-voiced, self-contained man of few words, was the spokesman. He said:
"You will be glad to hear, and you will be kind enough to inform Miss Midharst, that there is no cause for any alarm on account of the present condition of Sir Alexander."
Mrs. Grant looked infinitely relieved. Strange and unsympathetic a father as the invalid had been, she did not like the thought of having to tell anything dreadful about him to Maud.
"I am glad to hear it. Shall I go at once and tell Miss Midharst the good news?"
Dr. Hardy held up his hand with a gesture which said quite plainly: "If you will be so kind as to confine your attention to me, you may rest assured of knowing explicitly what I wish to have done in this matter." Having allowed the gesture a little while to sink into the mind of Mrs. Grant, he went on with his lips:
"But," he said, with strong emphasis on the conjunction, to show Mrs. Grant that she had interrupted him, and that he regarded the interruption as frivolous, "the case has now arrived at that state of progress when almost at any time the patient's head may be attacked. Should the head be attacked, Sir Alexander will lose the possession of those mental gifts and powers which he now possesses undiminished and unimpaired."
"Poor child!" cried the widow, thinking of the guileless daughter of the stricken man.
"And," continued Dr. Hardy, with the same resolute emphasis on the conjunction, "we consider that he should be at once induced to make his will, and we have resolved to request you will use your influence with him. We have tried and failed. May we count on you?"
Mrs. Grant looked up with a half-amused, half-astonished air. As soon as she had somewhat recovered from her surprise, she said very earnestly:
"There is nothing in this world I would not try to do for Miss Midharst; but there is no more chance of Sir Alexander listening to me on any business matter than of his asking advice of the wind. He believes women can and ought to know nothing about business. It would only vex him if I spoke of anything of the kind to him."
The poor little woman looked quite distressed and helpless.
The three men glanced from one to the other in despair. In a few seconds Dr. Hardy spoke again to the little widow.
"Is there no friend of the patient's whom you could suggest as likely to have influence on him? Do you think his lawyer would have weight? We know how he has secluded himself from the world and his own class, and that we are not to look among those who would naturally be his friends for the assistance we now want. Do you think his lawyer would be likely to succeed with him in this?"
"I am greatly afraid not. I have heard that—although he has a high opinion of Mr. Shaw, his lawyer—he would never in any way accept advice in his affairs beyond legal matters. I understand Sir Alexander has no personal liking for Mr. Shaw. And he won't speak to any clergyman."
Again the three men looked at one another in doubt and difficulty. Again Dr. Hardy spoke:
"This is a matter of the utmost importance to those who come after Sir Alexander, and we are most anxious it should be settled, and at once. If we thought it was a disinclination to make a will, or a determination not to make one, that kept him back, we should feel no responsibility in the matter. But he refuses to settle his worldly affairs solely upon the ground that we are deceived as to his condition of health. Now we are confident we are right. He will never rise from his bed again. Already dropsy has made its appearance; at any moment that may, directly or indirectly, affect the head; in his case it is almost sure to do so at some time."
Dr. Hardy paused a moment; then proceeded with more decision than heretofore:
"Perhaps you, Mrs. Grant, would be kind enough to ask Miss Midharst if she could give you the name of anyone on whose advice Sir Alexander would be likely to rely in an important business affair? You need not distress Miss Midharst with anything more explicit."
Mrs. Grant rose with prompt willingness, and hurried away in the sustaining hope that Maud might be able to solve the difficulty.
When Mrs. Grant had gone, the three men drew near one of the tall narrow windows that looked west along the Island and commanded the beautiful valley of the broad river, and the broad, blue, bright Weeslade itself.
An everlasting Sabbath filled that luxuriant valley with a peace which seemed too fine for earth. Because of the height on which the Castle stood, and its distance from the nearest shore beyond the western end of the Island, all detail was subdued and lost; nothing was left to trouble the eye or excite enquiry. The eye could see nothing but broad green pasturages and vast expanses of emerald grainshoots reaching down to the river's brink, and sloping softly inward towards the quiet hills that stood up apart, clad in purple and blue wood, and crowned with violet uplands lying secure against the azure sky.
The tide was full; the winds were still; from the trees around through the open window came the fragrant spices of the may. Above, the lark took up where all human voices end the praises of the spring. The glory of inextinguishable youth was in his song, the wild rapture of a regenerated soul. Below, the sad-throated thrush piped of the mellow melancholy of a ripe old world that had borne a thousand generations of men, who had moved all their days through the same narrow and unsatisfying avenues of desire and passion and final failure to the richly padded grave. The thrush sang to the earth of those who had died; the lark sang to the skies of those who shall live for ever.
Around the three men as they stood by the open window was the mouldering chamber of an ancient house. On one side lay the decayed old man of a noble race. On the other side the maiden daughter of that man, who had smothered up his affectionate visitings under piles of gold, scraped together for her, for the pride of his lineage.
Beyond there in the city was ruin. A great bank which had a branch in Daneford had stopped payment to-day. The three men by the window were talking of that while they awaited the return of the woman.
"Dreadful! I am told that the poor Mainwarings are completely ruined by it."
"Completely. Fancy old John Musgrave put four thousand pounds into it on deposit this day week. It will kill him. He had sold out Turks, and was going to buy United States."
"Poor old fellow! I do pity him."
"There was a rumour of one of the local banks being in a bad way. Did either of you hear it?"
"Not the Daneford?"
"No; Grey is safe. Bless me, his father left him a couple of hundred thousand clear of the business, and he's been making money ever since."
"Is it the Weeslade Valley?"
"I don't like to say. It is so dangerous to speak. But there is a rumour of a local bank, and it's not Grey's."
"No. I should think Grey could stand anything. They say it was always Grey's system to keep the money near home. It's a commercial and customers' bank, and not a gad-about among foreign speculations and bubble manufacturers."
At that moment Mrs. Grant re-entered the room.
The three men turned round and went to her.
"I have seen Miss Midharst, and she says she thinks the person most likely to have influence with Sir Alexander is Mr. Grey the banker."
"A most excellent man," said Dr. Hardy, turning to the other two. "What do you think?"
"Capital!"
"No one could be better."
Dr. Hardy spoke to Mrs. Grant for the last time on that occasion. "Send a note by express to Mr. Grey, requesting him to come immediately. Explain to him what our views are, and ask him to do his best to induce Sir Alexander to make his will."
In less than an hour and a half Mr. Grey received Mrs. Grant's letter. It merely said that his presence was urgently desired at the Castle at once, and that by hurrying he would greatly oblige Sarah Grant.
He was in his private room at the Bank when he read the letter. He opened his private black bag. Bank proprietors do not always carry firearms, in fact rarely, almost never. Clerks in charge of money often do. Grey always carried a revolver—now.
"He can't have heard of his Consols? In that case he would have written himself or come. What can this be?—so sudden, so urgent, and from Mrs. Grant! Perhaps the failure of the St. George's has frightened him. If he asks me to give up the money now! Ah, I can't face that! No, no! This first," and he took a revolver out of his bag.
Again he thought awhile, and ended with a question: "Shall I go to the Island or to——?" He poised the revolver.
As he did so there was a knock at the door.