CHEWTON-ABBOT.
IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.
Mrs Abbot drove home in her stately carriage thinking deeply. Her mind was tolerably easy. She knew there was little chance of a young man’s love living through years of absence and silence. Frank would go into the great world, and gaze on many a fair face during that time; till the beautiful face of Millicent Keene—for even Mrs Abbot could not gainsay the girl’s beauty—would gradually fade from his thoughts. He would taste the cup of ambition; he would see what power and station meant in the world, and would soon laugh to scorn his boyish dream. He would very quickly realise the difference between Abbot of Chewton Hall and plain Frank Abbot, who had to earn the bread to keep a wife, be she ever so charming. In fact, the thoughts of Mrs Abbot in her carriage and Miss Keene on her sofa were almost identical, although the words which expressed them differed.
Save for one thing, Mrs Abbot’s reflections were very comforting. The drawback was that she felt lowered in her own eyes. She had made a mistake, and had been treated with contumely. The victory was hers, but she had not won it herself. It was not her cleverness, but the girl’s right-mindedness which would bring about the separation. She blamed herself for having misread the girl’s character, and found her honest indignation at the imputation that her love for Frank was influenced by his possessions, mortifying to think of. Still, matters had turned out well. She would have the satisfaction of telling her husband that all was, or would be, at an end—that the hope of the Abbots would not marry nobody’s daughter. So busy was she with these thoughts, that she did not notice, when some three miles outside the smoky town of Bristol, a horseman approaching. Upon seeing him, her coachman gathered up the reins preparatory to stopping his horses; but, as the rider made a negative gesture, he simply touched his hat and drove on; whilst Frank Abbot and his mother passed, neither apparently noticing the other.
He was a handsome young fellow, and without a cent to his name might have given many a wealthy competitor long odds in the race for a girl’s heart. Tall and broad-shouldered—clever face, with deep-set eyes, large chin, and firm lips. He sat his horse gracefully, looking every inch a gentleman and an Englishman. Not, one would say, the man to win a woman’s love, and throw it aside at the bidding of father or mother. Not the man to do a thing hastily and repent the deed at his leisure. Rather, a man who, when once engaged in a pursuit, would follow it steadfastly to the end, whatever that end might be. It was scarcely right that Millicent Keene should allow fear to mingle with her grief at the approaching long separation from her lover. She should have looked into that handsome powerful face and understood that years would only mould the boy’s intention into the man’s determination.
Naturally, he was at the present moment rather down-hearted. His mother, having learned his secret, had refused him sympathy or aid. Too well he knew she was to be swayed neither by entreaty nor argument. He was now riding over to Clifton to reiterate his love to Millicent, and to consult as to future steps. As he passed the carriage, he wondered what had brought his mother in that direction. She had not mentioned her intention of going to the town, nor had she asked for his escort as usual. Could it be possible that she had driven over to visit Millicent? If so, he knew it boded ill; so, pricking on as fast as he could, he reached Clifton just as the girl had grown more calm and had washed away the traces of her recent tears.
Frank was terribly upset by her recital of the events of the morning. Although she did not repeat the whole conversation, he knew his mother well enough to be able to supply what Millicent passed lightly over. The proposed separation was a thunderstroke to him. In vain he entreated the girl to reconsider her determination. The promise was made, and her pride alone would insure her keeping it. Of course Frank vowed, after the usual manner of lovers, that love would grow stronger in absence; and as he thoroughly believed what he vowed, his vows were very consoling to the girl. He declared he also would go to Australia; marry Millicent, and take to sheep-farming, leaving the paternal acres to shift for themselves. All this and many other wild things the young fellow said; but the end was a sorrowful acquiescence in the separation, tempered by the firm resolve of claiming her in four years’ time in spite of any home opposition. Having settled this, the heir of the Abbots rode home in a state of open rebellion against his parents.
This they were quite prepared for, and had, like sensible people, made up their minds to endure his onslaught passively. His mother made no reply to his reproaches; his father took no notice of his implied threats; but both longed for the time to come when Miss Keene would sail to distant shores and the work of supplanting her might begin.
About one thing Frank was firm, and Millicent, perhaps, did not try to dissuade him from it. Until they were bound to part, he would see her every day. Mr and Mrs Abbot knew why his horse was ordered every morning, and whence that horse bore him at eve; but they said nothing.
The fatal day came soon enough. Frank went down to Plymouth to see the very last of his love; and the mighty steamship Chimborazo bore away across the deep seas one of the sweetest and truest girls that ever won a man’s heart. A week after she sailed, Frank Abbot started on his continental tour.
‘I don’t care much about it,’ he said to himself, dolefully enough; ‘but it may help to make some of the time pass quicker. Four years, my darling! How long it seems!’
‘He will see the world,’ said Mrs Abbot, ‘and learn that a pretty face is not everything.’
‘He will fall in and out of love with a dozen girls before he returns,’ said Mr Abbot cynically.
It has been before stated that for many years there had been little change in either the possessions or the position of the Abbots of Chewton-Abbot; but, like other people, they had occasional windfalls. Some years after Mr Abbot succeeded to the estate, a new branch of a large railway passed through an outlying part of his land, and he who made it a boast of never selling or mortgaging a single acre, was compelled, by the demands of public convenience and commerce, to part with what the railway wanted. Of course he obtained a good round sum as compensation. This lay for a long time at his banker’s, waiting for any contiguous land which might come into the market. After a while, as no fields which he wished to add to his own were open to buyers, at his wife’s suggestion he sought for another and more profitable investment, and in an evil hour became the proprietor of fifty shares in a bank, whose failure has now become historical. He bought these shares at a premium; whilst he held them, they went to a much higher premium, but no doubt the same tenacity which led him to cling to his acres made him keep to the same investment. The high rate of interest also was very useful, and kept another horse or two in the stables.
We can all remember the astonishment we felt that black day when the news of the stoppage of that particular bank was flashed from end to end of the kingdom, and how, afterwards, the exposure of the reckless conduct of its directors, and of the rotten state in which the concern had been for years, sent a cold shudder down the back of every holder of bank stock.
Mr Abbot was not a man of business. He did not at once realise what being the registered owner of these fifty shares meant. He denounced the roguery of the directors, and vowed that if ever again he had money to spare, into land it should go, nowhere else. He had an idea that no more than the money which he had invested would be lost; but when, after a few days, he gathered from the newspapers the true meaning of unlimited liability, his heart grew sick within him. The rental of his estate was about six thousand a year; so, when call after call was made on the shareholders, William Abbot knew that he was a ruined man, and lamented his folly for not having entailed the estates. Lands, house, furniture, plate, all came to the hammer; and so far as county people and landed gentry, the Abbots were extinct. Mrs Abbot had a jointure of some five hundred a year, on which the unfortunate couple were fain to live as best they could. They took a house at Weymouth, and in that retired watering-place mourned their woes in genteel obscurity.
So Frank Abbot came back from Switzerland to begin the world on his own account, with nothing but a college degree, a perfect constitution, and a few hundred pounds scraped together by the sale of his personal effects. How should he earn his living? He was sorely tempted to emigrate. He had the frame and muscles for hard work, and outdoor life would suit him. Yet he shrank from the idea of giving up as beaten in his native land. Other men had made their way; why should not he? He felt a consciousness of a certain ability which necessity might force into full play. His mother suggested the church. ‘A clergyman of good family can always marry a rich wife, and that you are bound to do now.’ Frank shrugged his broad shoulders, and thought sadly of his promised wife, so many thousands of miles away. Eventually, he decided to read for the bar. He knew it would be slow and dreary work to win success there—that for many years he must be prepared to endure penury; but a career might be made. If a hundred fail, one succeeds—why should he not be that one?
Millicent must be told the bad news. He had no right to keep a girl’s love during all the years which must elapse before he could offer her a home. He must at least release her from her vows. If—and as he believed it would be—she refused to be released, they must wait and hope. Now that the reality of marrying on nothing came home to him, he saw what it meant—what misery it must entail. Now that the earning his own living, of which he had spoken so bravely when there was no need of his doing so, was forced upon him, he became quite aware of the sacrifices he must make. He was no desponding coward, and indeed had little doubt as to his ultimate success. He felt that he could bear hardship himself; but he could not bear it if Millicent must also share it. At anyrate it was right she should know the change in his fortunes. So he wrote a few words: ‘My Darling—We are all ruined. I am going to try and make a living as a barrister. Of course I must now release you from every promise.’ He signed his name; but before sealing the letter, could not help adding: ‘But I love you more than ever.’ Then he sent the letter to Millicent’s aunt, and begged that it might be forwarded to her niece.
That letter never reached its destination. Whether it was mislaid or misdirected—whether a mail-bag was lost either on the voyage or on the long land journey—whether Miss Keene’s aunt, who had learned what reverses had befallen the Abbots, simply threw it on the fire, will never be known. All that can be said is, Millicent never received it; and after months had passed, Frank, who was looking eagerly for the overdue answer, grew very miserable, and began to doubt the love of woman.
Five long years have passed by. Frank Abbot is now a barrister of nearly three years’ standing. He works hard, is frequently on circuit, and if, as yet, he has not achieved any brilliant forensic triumph, he is neither briefless nor without hope. Some small cases have been intrusted to him, and he finds the number of these slowly but surely increasing, and knows that if the opportunity comes, and if, when it does come, he may be able to seize it and make the most of it, success may soon be his. Even now he makes enough to supply the modest wants to which he has tutored himself. But for some time after the last of his little capital had vanished, he had been hardly pressed. Indeed, in order to live at all, he had been compelled to accept some aid from his parents’ reduced means. They gave this readily enough, as, with all their faults, they loved their son. Even to this day, Frank looks back with a shudder upon one or two years of his life.
The five years have changed him from a boy to a man. He is handsome as ever, but his look is more serious; his features express even more character. He has given up all dreams of the woolsack; but is conscious of possessing fair abilities, a good address, a commanding presence, and a great deal of ready self-confidence. He feels that in a few years’ time he may have a home to share, if the woman he loves is still willing to share it. He has not again written to her. He has heard nothing from her, although the time by which he promised to claim her has long passed. He is, however, resolved that as soon as he sees the future fairly promising, he will seek her, and learn whether she is still true to him; or whether the sweetest episode of his life must be linked with the memory of a woman’s faithlessness and inconstancy. He sighs as he thinks of the time which has elapsed since she waved him that last farewell at Plymouth. ‘She may be married, years ago,’ he says, ‘and have three or four children by now.’ Then he thinks of her steadfast eyes, and knows that he wrongs her—blames himself for his mistrust. To sum up, Frank Abbot’s constancy remains firm; but he is obliged to do what thousands of other men must do, hope for better days, working, meanwhile, with might and main to bring the dawn of those better days near.
Does he regret the loss of his fortune much? Of course he does, being neither a fool nor of a superhuman nature. Many a day, as he sits in wig and gown in the stifling court, listening to learned arguments on cases in which he has not the remotest interest, his soul longs for a day with the pheasants, a run with the Duke’s hounds, or a ride round the home-farm; and he anathematises all joint-stock banks as roundly as his father may be supposed to have done. But, nevertheless, Frank is not a soured man. He is somewhat grave and self-contained, but pleasant company enough to the few men whom he chooses to call his friends.
He has not been near Chewton Hall since the family downfall. It had been bought, with a great part of the furniture, by a rich London merchant, whose name, although he had heard it at the time of the sale, had slipped from his mind. Frank cared little who held it. He knew it is only in romances that a ruined family regains possession of its kingdom. Some day he intended to run down and have a look at the old place which he had loved so well; although he feared the sight would not improve the tenor of his mind, or make him less inclined to rail at Fortune.
Just about this time Frank made a new acquaintance. It was long vacation. The Lord Chief-justice was yachting; his brother-judges, Queen’s Counsel, and learned leaders, were recruiting their jaded energies as it best pleased them; gay juniors had thrown their wigs into their boxes, and were away on various holiday pursuits. Frank, however, who had recently succeeded in getting some occasional work on a journal, and who hoped to get more, was still in London. One morning, a gentleman, who wished to see Mr Abbot, was shown into his chambers. The visitor was a tall middle-aged man, strongly built, well dressed, and with pleasant features. He looked like one who had led a hard life, and lines on his brow told of trouble. His hands were large and brown—it was evident they had not been idle in their day. Not, perhaps, quite a gentleman, as we conventionally use, or abuse, that word, but a noticeable, out-of-the-common man. He gave Frank a sharp quick glance, as if trying to gauge his intellect and powers. Apparently satisfied, he took the chair offered him, and explained his errand. He had a lawsuit pending, and wished Mr Abbot to conduct the case. Frank interposed smilingly, and told his new client that it was etiquette for his instructions to come through a solicitor. He explained that a barrister and the man whose cause he pleaded must communicate through a third party. His visitor apologised for his ignorance about such matters, and said he would see his solicitor. However, after the apology was accepted, instead of bowing himself out, Mr John Jones—for by that name he called himself—entered into a general kind of conversation with Frank. He spoke easily and pleasantly on a variety of topics, and when at last he left the room, shook hands most cordially with the young man, and hoped he should meet him again soon.
‘Wonder who he is?’ said Frank, laughing over the sudden friendliness this stranger had exhibited. ‘Anyway, I hope he’ll make his solicitors send me that brief.’
However, no brief came; but for the next few days Frank Abbot was always tumbling across Mr John Jones. He met him in the street as he went to and from his chambers. Mr Jones always stopped him, shook hands, and as often as not, turned and walked beside him. Frank began to like the man. He was very amusing, and seemed to know every country under the sun. Indeed, he declared he was a greater stranger to London than to any other capital. He was a great smoker; and as soon as he found that Frank did not object to the smell of good tobacco in his chambers, scarcely a day went by without his paying him a visit and having a long chat over a cigar. Frank was bound to think that Mr John Jones had taken a great liking to him. Perhaps, the man wanted a friend. As he said, he knew no one in London, and no one knew him.
So young Abbot drifted into intimacy with this lonely man, and soon quite looked forward to the sound of his cheerful voice and the fragrance of those particularly good cigars he smoked. He even, at Mr Jones’ urgent request, ran down to the seaside for a couple of days with him, and found the time pass very pleasantly in his society.
Although the young man was very reticent on the subject of his family’s misfortune, Mr Jones had somehow arrived at the conclusion that he was not rolling in wealth. He made no secret of the fact that he himself was absurdly rich. ‘I say, Abbot,’ he remarked one day, ‘if you want any money to push yourself up with, let me know.’ Perhaps Mr Jones fancied that judgeships were to be bought.
‘I don’t want any,’ said Frank shortly.
‘Don’t take offence. I said, if you do. Your pride—the worst part of you. It’s very hard a man can only help a fellow like you by dying and leaving him money. I don’t want to die just yet.’
Frank laughed. ‘I want no money left me. I shouldn’t take yours if you left it to me.’
‘Well, you’ll have to some day, you see.’ Then Mr John Jones lit another cigar from the stump of the old one, and went his way; leaving Frank more puzzled than ever with his new friend.
But the next day an event occurred which drove Mr John Jones, money, and everything save one thing, out of his head: Millicent Keene was in England—in London!
When he saw her letter lying on his table, Frank Abbot feared it could not be real. It would fade away like a fairy bank-note. No; before him lay a few lines in her handwriting: ‘My dear Frank—I have returned at last. I am at No. 4 Caxton Place.—Yours, Millicent Keene.’
Early as it was, he rushed out of his office, jumped into a cab, and sped away to the address she gave him.
We may pass over the raptures, the embraces, the renewed vows, the general delicious character of that long-deferred meeting. We may suppose the explanation of the lost letter accounting for the girl’s silence; and we may picture her sympathy with her lover’s misfortunes, and her approval of the manly way in which he had gone to work to retrieve them, in some degree. Let us imagine them very very happy, sitting hand in hand in a room at No. 4 Caxton Place; Millicent, by-the-by, looking more beautiful than ever, her charms not lessened by the look of joy in her dark eyes.
Their first transports are over. They have descended to mundane things. In fact, Frank is now telling her that he believes he can count on so many hundreds a year. What does his darling think?
Miss Keene purses up her pretty mouth and knits her brows. To judge by appearances, she might be the most mercenary young woman. Frank waits her reply anxiously.
‘I think we may manage,’ she says. ‘I have been accustomed to poverty all my life, you know.’
Frank would have vowed to work his fingers to the bones before she should want anything; but remembering just in time that his profession worked with the tongue instead of the hands, checked himself. He thanked her with a kiss.
‘When shall we be married?’ he said.
She looked up at him shyly. ‘Would you think it very dreadful if I said the sooner the better? In fact, Frank, I have come from Australia to marry you. If you had forgotten me, I should have gone straight back.’
‘Next week?’ asked Frank, scarcely believing his own happiness. ‘Will next week be too soon? One advantage of being poor and living in lodgings is, that we can be married without any bother “about a house.”’
Millicent gave him to understand that next week would do. She was staying with some distant relative. No one’s consent had to be asked. She had told her father all. The day Frank chose, she would be his wife.
‘How is your father? I forgot to ask,’ said Frank.
‘Much the same as ever,’ answered Millicent in a way which inferred that Mr Keene’s struggles to redeem fortune were as great as before.
Then she dismissed Frank until to-morrow. He went home walking on air, and, like a dutiful son, wrote to Mrs Abbot, telling her that Millicent had returned, and next week would marry him. Mrs Abbot’s reply may be given here:
‘My dear Frank—I say nothing. I am too much horrified. If any young man was ever called upon to marry money and build up the fallen fortunes of a family, it is you. My last hope is gone. The obstinacy of your character I know too well. If I thought I could turn you from your purpose, I would come and kneel at your feet. If I knew Miss Keene’s address, I would make one last appeal to her. She, I believe, was a sensible young woman.—Your affectionate Mother.’