CHAPTER X.—A VERY SURPRISING OCCURRENCE.
The ruins of the west wing were clearly visible from the great wooden building erected by Mr Summerhayes in the park where the tenants were to dine. It was too cold in March for a tent; and there was no room in Fontanel large enough for these festivities, except the great double suite of drawing-rooms where the doors had been removed, and where there was to be a ball at night. Much was the talk about the alarming event of the previous day, which had shaken half the country with personal terrors, much warmer than are generally awakened by the intelligence of a fire at a friend’s house. On hearing of it, every soul within twenty miles had sighed with resignation or cried out with impatience, giving up all hopes of the festivities to which everybody had been looking forward; but Mr Summerhayes’s messengers with the intimation that all was going on as before, came about as soon as the news of the calamity. Mr Summerhayes himself was more gracious, more cordial, than anybody had ever known him. He spoke of “our dear boy” in his speech to the farmers, and described Charley in such terms, that the heart of Charley’s mother was altogether melted, and she felt ready to commit the fate of her children a dozen times over into her husband’s hands. Nothing could be more manly, more honourable, more affectionate, than the way in which Mr Summerhayes spoke of his own position. He was, he said, his wife’s steward and his son’s guardian; such a position might have been painful to some men—but love made everything sweet; and he was happy in having always had the entire confidence of his beloved clients. He even referred to the honoured husband of the Queen, as in something of a similar position to his own, and brought down storms of applause. Charley made his little speech with great difficulty after his stepfather. The poor boy looked ghastly, and could scarcely get the words out; but his pleased retainers, who believed him overwhelmed by his feelings, applauded all the same. When he had done what was required of him, Charley managed to steal away unperceived by anybody except Loo, who went wistfully after her brother. She overtook him by the time he had got to the woods which skirted the park, and put her arm softly within his without saying anything. The two young creatures wandered under the bristling budded trees in silence, with unspeakable sadness in their hearts. They had nothing to say to console each other—or rather Loo, whose very heart wept over her brother, could think of nothing to say to him. At last, caressing his arm with her tender, timid, little hand, Loo ventured upon one suggestion: “Oh, Charley, poor mamma!” said the girl, in her heart-breaking young voice. “Yes—poor mamma!” said Charley, with a groan. Poor Mary! it was all her doing, yet her children cast no reproach upon her. She, after all, would be the greatest sufferer.
“But, Loo, I can’t stop here after what has happened,” said Charley when they had both recovered a little; “he may be going to do everything that’s right for anything we can tell. Don’t let us talk as if it were anybody’s fault; but I can’t stop here, you know, about Fontanel, doing nothing, as if—— Don’t cry, Loo. You would not like, anyhow, to have an idle fellow for a brother. Harry is the clever one; but I daresay my godfather, the old general, could get me a commission; and I could live on my pay,” said Charley, with a slight quiver in his upper lip, “and perhaps get on. I don’t think I should make a bad soldier—only that there’s the examinations, and all that. It’s very hard, Loo, to have lost all this time.”
“Oh, Charley, Charley dear! I can’t bear it—it’s too hard to put up with,” cried poor little passionate Loo.
“Now don’t you go and take away what little strength a fellow has,” remonstrated Charley; “it must be put up with, and what’s the use of talking? Now look here, Loo; if you make a fuss, it will do no good in the world, but only vex mamma; she can’t mend it, you know. I mean to put the best face on it, and say I want to see the world, and that sort of thing; and believe exactly as if—as if the fire had never happened,” said Charley, with a dark momentary cloud upon his face. “I can make my mother believe me; and it will be a comfort to her to have me out of the way,” said the heroic lad, with something like a suppressed sob, “and to think I don’t suspect anything. It is hard—I don’t say anything else; but, Loo, we must bear it all the same.”
And so they went wandering through the bare woods, poor Loo stooping now and then unawares to gather some violets according to her girlish habits, and Charley, even in the depths of his distress, following with his eye the startled squirrel running along a branch. They were profoundly, forlornly, exquisitely sad, but they could not ignore the alleviations of their youth. Amid all the sudden shock of this disinheritance—in which there mingled so cruel a sense of wrong, so warm an indignation and resentment—Charley still thought, with a rising thrill of courage and pride, that he might carve out for himself a better fortune; while Loo, her brother’s sole confidante and supporter, was herself supported by that exquisite consciousness of being able to console and encourage him, which almost atones to a girl’s heart for every misfortune. They could hear the distant echoes of the cheers and laughter and loud cordial talk of the guests, while they strayed along silent, with hearts too full to speak. Very different anticipations had the two entertained of this famous day so long looked forward to. They were to be the first in all the rejoicings undertaken in their honour—for the glory of the heir-apparent could not fail to be shared by the Princess Royal, the eldest daughter of Fontanel; they had pictured to themselves a brilliant momentary escape out of the embarrassments and restraints which they could not but be conscious of at home, and Charley had even been prepared to feel magnanimous to Mr Summerhayes, who, after all, was but a temporary interloper, and had no right to that inheritance of which the young Clifford was heir indisputable. Now, the sound of the merrymaking went to Charley’s heart with acute blows of anguish. It was an aggravation of the sudden misery, cold-blooded and odious; what were they rejoicing about? Because a poor boy had come to the coveted years of manhood, to learn bitterly, on the eve of what should have been his triumph, that he was an absolute dependant, a beggar, at the mercy of a stepfather. No wonder he could not speak; no wonder he put up his hands to his ears, and uttered a groan of rage and wretchedness when that burst of cheering came upon the wind, and Loo, speechless, could but cry and clench her little hands in the bitterness of her heart. This was between the tenants’ dinner and the ball in the evening, which was to be the gayest ever known in the county. Poor Charley would gladly have faced a tiger, or led a forlorn hope, could he have had such an alternative, instead of arraying himself in sumptuous raiment and appearing at that ball, where his presence would be indispensable. He seized poor Loo’s little hands harshly in his own, and pressed them till she could have screamed for pain. “Don’t cry; your eyes will be red at the ball—your first ball, Loo!” cried her brother, with a kind of savage tenderness; and Loo, half afraid of this strange new development of the man out of the boy, was fain to dry her poor eyes and cling to his arm, and coax him to go in to prepare for the greater trial of the night.
While these two forlorn young creatures were thus engaged, another conversation was taking place at a distance from the scene of the festivities, in the park of Fontanel. Mr Courtenay Gateshead had come down to be present at the tenants’ dinner in his capacity as legal adviser to Mr Summerhayes; but the young lawyer looked on with a preoccupied air, sometimes casting a keen look of inspection at the master of the feast. When the party from the great house left the humble revellers, Courtenay, instead of joining Mr Summerhayes, beckoned aside his uncle and partner. Old Gateshead had stayed for the children’s sake; but had found it totally impossible to change Mr Summerhayes’s first determination. He would not consent to read, much less to sign the document hastily prepared by the anxious old lawyer. He would think it over, he repeated, and see Courtenay, with an implied slight upon the powers and skill of Courtenay’s uncle, which galled the old man to the last degree. The young lawyer found his relative exceedingly sulky and out of temper. “I have something particular to consult you about,” Courtenay said, who did not yet know anything about the destruction of the deed; and Mr Gateshead, who had that disclosure to make, followed him with no very pleasant feelings to the verge of the wood, not very far from where Charley and Loo were wandering in the despair of their hearts. But the old lawyer was much taken by surprise by the question which his nephew did not put to him till they were quite alone, and sheltered from all eavesdroppers by the broad expanse of the park.
“Uncle, you have a wonderful memory. I suppose you remember John Clifford, this boy’s grandfather—he who broke the entail,” said Courtenay, in rather a hurried voice.
“John Clifford—what on earth has he got to do with it?” cried old Gateshead, whose memory was wonderful, but whose powers of comprehension were not equally vivid.
“Oh, nothing, I daresay,” said his nephew. “I want to know what you recollect about him, that’s all—he who joined his father in breaking the entail——”
“A very silly thing to do, Courtenay—a fatal thing to do. Good Lord, only think what a different position these poor children might have been in!” cried old Gateshead.
“Yes, yes—to be sure; but do you recollect anything about John?” said the young man.
“I recollect everything about him,” said the uncle. “Though he was Harry Clifford’s father, and they are both dead ages ago, he was no older than I am. I think we were born in the same year——”
“The same year? and you are seventy; that must have been ‘87. Was it ‘87, uncle? how can we make sure?” said young Courtenay. “I must hunt up the register of baptisms to-morrow.”
“Ah! I remember some talk about that,” said the old lawyer. “The parish books were burned once, and the entry couldn’t be found. There was some talk about it at the time. Burned! I suppose you don’t know what’s happened in this fire? Oh! you’ll hear, you’ll hear quite soon enough. But what has John Clifford’s name come up about now?”
“It’s something rather important for Summerhayes—he looks in wonderful force to-day,” said Courtenay; “but if this should turn out true he will soon sing small enough. I may as well tell you at once, uncle, for I am almost sure about it. My impression is, that the entail was never legally broken; and, consequently, that Mr Clifford had no more right than I have to leave the property to his wife.”
Old Gateshead looked at his nephew with a stupified air. “The entail was never broken?” he repeated vacantly, looking in the other’s face.
“No—the entail was never legally broken,” said Courtenay, with the impatience of an acute and rapid intelligence. “The thing caught my attention some time ago, but I would not speak of it till I had worked it out. John Clifford—listen uncle—executed the papers with his father in the year 1806; and, if I am correct, he was then an infant, and incapable of doing anything of the sort. I don’t believe he came of age till 1807. By Jove! what’s the matter? the old man’s mad!”
“No, Courtenay, the old man’s not mad,” said his uncle. “Hurrah! God save the Queen! Hurrah! why don’t you help them to shout, you cold-blooded young prig? I tell you the boy’s saved. Hurrah, and long life to him!” said old Gateshead, waving his hat frantically, and echoing with the wildest shrill enthusiasm the distant cheers from the tent. “I declare to you these cheers choked me an hour ago,” cried the old lawyer; “there’s things a man can’t do even when he’s an attorney. Courtenay, I say, shake hands. You’re a disgusting young prig, and you’re a deal too clever for my practice; but if you make it out, I’ll give in to you all my life. Good Lord, that’s news! tell me all about it. We’ve got a sharp one to deal with; we’ll have to make very sure, very sure. Let’s hear every step how you came to find it out.”
Which Courtenay accordingly did, and made it perfectly clear to the anxious listener. Charley’s grandfather had been in the unpleasant predicament of having no public legal record of his age; but fifty years after the occurrence of that fortunate mistake, scraps of documents had turned up in the hands of the family solicitor, depositaries for generations of the family secrets and difficulties, which made it easy to establish, not by one distinct statement, but by many concurring scraps of evidence, the exact date of John Clifford’s birth; and to prove, as the young lawyer was now prepared to do, that the entail had never been legally broken; that all the acts of the last two reigns were founded on a mistake; that, consequently, Squire Henry’s will, in so far as it related to the estate of Fontanel, was null and void, and Charley was no longer heir but bona fide proprietor of the lands of the Cliffords. Wonderful news—more than ever wonderful that day.
When Mr Courtenay Gateshead sought Mr Summerhayes to break to him this startling intelligence, the elder lawyer went to find the mistress of Fontanel, who was reposing in her dressing-room, to prepare for the exertions of the evening. Poor Mary was in a very doubtful state of mind that day. She had wept for delight and gratitude when she heard her husband’s speech to the farmers; but when she came to be by herself again, that enthusiastic impression wore off, and the fact came back to her, striking chill to her heart—the fact that her children were now at the stepfather’s mercy, and that poor Charley, the heir, was no longer the heir unless another man pleased. Alas! poor Mary knew now, to the bottom of her heart, that it was another man—a man who, though she was his wife, did not, and could not, look on Charley Clifford as his son. She knew nothing about law, nor that the deed, though destroyed, might yet in its ashes form foundation enough for any amount of lawsuits. It was destroyed, and she had no longer any power, and everything was in Mr Summerhayes’s hands—that was enough to quench the light out of the very skies to the poor mother. She dared not say to herself what she feared, nor what she thought he would do; she only felt that he had the power, and that Charley was at his mercy—and behind all, bitterest of all, that it was her fault. She was sitting resting, in a kind of heavy gloom and stupor, with her head buried in her hands, feeling to her heart that she was avoided by her children, and that this day of triumph was to them a day of mockery, when Mr Gateshead’s message was brought her. He was a very old friend, and her first thought was that he had at last prevailed on Mr Summerhayes to consent to the new deed. She got up in eager haste, and sent her maid to bring him up-stairs. She received the old man there, in that room where her children no longer came as of old. The result was, not very long after, a hurried ringing of bells, and messengers running everywhere for Miss Loo, who was just then coming in, dark and pale from the woods, a very woe-begone little figure in her holiday dress. Poor Mary, overcome by a hundred emotions which she did not dare to tell, had fainted almost in old Gateshead’s arms, to the great dismay of the old lawyer. It was deliverance to her boy, but it was utter humiliation and downfall to her husband. In the struggle of sudden joy, confusion, and pain, her senses and her mind gave way for the moment. Loo rushing in, vaguely aware that something had happened which was well for Charley, believed for the moment, in an overwhelming revulsion of remorse and repentance, that all was henceforward to be ill for ever, and that her mother was dead. But Mary was not dead. She recovered to appear at the ball—very gracious and sweet, as was her wont, but paler than anybody had ever seen her before, as was remarked everywhere. It was a pretty ball, every body allowed; but the family looked more distrait and strange than any family, even under such an infliction, had ever been seen to look. Charley, who had most command of himself after his mother, was doing everything a young man could do to keep his partners amused and the crowd occupied; but even Charley now and then grew abstracted, and forgot himself for a moment. As for Loo, though it was her first ball, and her brown eyes were splendid in the changeable light that quivered in their depths, she kept behind her mother with a look of fright and timidity, at which many a more experienced young lady sneered openly; while Mrs Summerhayes, moving about among her guests with all her usual sweetness, in her mature beauty, could be seen sometimes to give strange wistful looks aside to where her husband stood, mostly in company with Courtenay Gateshead. Mary was pale, but Mr Summerhayes was flushed and strange to look upon. He said, in his gentlemanly way, that the ball was his wife’s business, and that he did not pretend to be able to help Mrs Summerhayes. He kept aloof from her and from her children, clinging, as it seemed, to young Gateshead. There had been a fire to be sure, but a fire only in the west wing, where nothing particular could have happened. What could it be? for the county people were all quick to perceive that something unusual was in the air—at least the ladies did, and did not fail to communicate their suspicions. There must have been a family quarrel, the more acute imagined; and Miss Laura and Miss Lydia Summerhayes, whom their brother dismissed summarily when they attempted sisterly investigations, were fain to make forlorn attempts to discover from Loo what it was. The master of the house had never been seen to speak or look at any of the family all the evening, till the principal guests were in the supper-room, all wondering, as they discussed the good things there, what could be the matter. Charley had got in debt at the university—Charley had formed some unsuitable connexion—and his stepfather was hard upon him. Thus the company speculated; but the company held its breath when Mr Summerhayes laid his hand on Charley’s shoulder, and solved the wonder of the evening in the strangest, most unexpected manner—to nobody so unexpected as to his bewildered wife.
“My friends,” said Mr Summerhayes, in his gentlemanly way (and it must be allowed that, whatever were his faults, Tom Summerhayes always was a gentleman), “we drank this boy’s health to-day as the heir of Fontanel; but since then something has happened which has excited us all considerably, as I daresay you will have perceived; and I have to tell you that Charley is not only the heir, but the master of this house. I am sure,” continued Mr Summerhayes, leaning his arm more heavily upon the shoulder of the astonished youth, “there never was a more hopeful or promising beginning than he will make, and I know he will have all your good wishes. The fact is that the property became my wife’s under a mistake: the entail was supposed to have been broken, which turns out not to have been the case; and it is an additional pleasure to us,” said Mary’s husband, turning round with a smile to meet her look, which was fixed upon him, and then leisurely surveying the amazed assembly—“it is a great additional pleasure to us,” continued Mr Summerhayes, “to find ourselves entitled, on a day every way so happy, to give up our laborious stewardship, and put our boy in possession of his own. I ask you over again, my excellent friends and neighbours, to drink the health of Charles Clifford of Fontanel.”
It was thus that Mr Summerhayes extricated himself from his false position. The cheers which disturbed all the loiterers in the ball-room, and brought them in a crowd to see what it was, were more for the retiring monarch than the new sovereign. Charley himself, in a warm revulsion of his generous heart, had seized both his stepfather’s hands, and wrung them with strenuous gratitude. “I will never forget your generosity,” cried the eager boy, who would have made over Fontanel there and then had Summerhayes pleased, into his keeping over again. Charley knew nothing of the stormy scene with Courtenay—the silent rage and mortification which had thrown off Mary’s attempts at consolation before necessity and his better genius warned Mr Summerhayes of this opportunity left him for a graceful retreat. Charley did not know, nor the world—and the few who did know had no wish to remember. The whole party was in a flutter of admiration; and poor Miss Laura and Miss Lydia did all but go into hysterics between horror at the catastrophe and pride in their brother. Never before had Mr Summerhayes of the Manor taken so high a position before the county as that night when he gave up possession of Fontanel.