There are many who think that our law of primogeniture is a sad hardener of the heart,—estranging the father from the son, widening petty misunderstandings to the breadth of grievances, engendering suspicions where there should be trustfulness, and opening two roads in life to those who should rightfully have trod one path together. If one half of this be the price we pay for our “great houses,” the bargain is a bad one! But even taking a wide margin for exaggeration,—allowing much for the prejudices of those who assail this institution,—there is that which revolts against one's better nature, in the ever-present question of money, between the father and his heir. The very fact that separate rights suggest separate interests is a source of discord; while the inevitable law of succession is a stern defiance to that sense of protection on one side, and dependence on the other, that should mark their relations to each other.
Captain Martin was not devoid of affection for his family. He had, it is true, been very little at home, but he did not dislike it, beyond the “boredom” of a rather monotonous kind of life. He was naturally of a plastic temperament, however, and he lived amongst a set whose good pleasure it is to criticise all who belong to them with the very frankest of candor. One told how his governor, though rolling in wealth, kept him on a most beggarly allowance, illustrating, with many an amusing story, traits of avarice that set the table in a roar. Another exhibited his as such a reckless spendthrift that the family estate would never cover the debts. There was a species of rivalry on seeing who should lay most open to public view details and incidents purely belonging to a family. It was even a principle of this new school to discuss, and suffer others to discuss before them, the class and condition of life of their parents in a tone of mockery and derision, whenever the occasion might admit it; and the son of the manufacturer or the trader listened to allusions to his birth and parentage, and even jested upon them himself, in a spirit more flattering to his philosophy than to his pride.
Martin had lived amidst all this for years. He had been often complimented upon the “jolly good thing he was to have one of these days;” he had been bantered out of many a wise and prudent economy, by being reminded of that “deuced fine property nobody could keep him out of.” “What can it signify to you old fellow, a few hundreds more or less. You must have fifteen thousand a year yet. The governor can't live forever, I take it.” Others, too, as self-invited guests, speculated on all the pleasures of a visit to Cro' Martin; and if at first the young man heard such projects with shame and repugnance, he learned at last to listen to them with indifference, perhaps with something less!
Was it some self-accusing on this score that now overwhelmed him as he sat alone in his room, trying to think, endeavoring to arouse himself to action, but so overcome that he sat there only half conscious, and but dimly discerning the course of events about him? At such moments external objects mingle their influences with our thoughts, and the sound of voices, the tread of footsteps, the mere shutting of a door, seem to blend themselves with our reveries, and give somewhat of reality to our dreamy fancies. A large clock upon the mantelpiece had thus fixed his attention, and he watched the minute-hand as though its course was meting out the last moments of existence. “Ere it reach that hour,” thought he, fixing his gaze upon the dial, “what a change may have come over all my fortunes!” Years—long years—seemed to pass over as he waited thus; scenes of childhood, of infancy itself, mingled with the gay dissipations of his after-life; school days and nights at mess, wild orgies of the play-table and sad wakings on the morrow, all moved through his distracted brain, till at length it was only by an effort that he could shake off these flitting fancies and remember where he was.
He at once bethought him that there was much to be done. He had given Massingbred's letter to his mother, entreating a prompt answer, but two hours had now elapsed and she had not sent her reply. There was a struggle between his better nature and his selfishness whether to seek her. The thought of that sick-room, dark and silent, appalled him. “Is it at such a time I dare ask her to address her mind to this? and yet hours are now stealing over which may decide my whole fate in life.” While he thus hesitated, Lady Dorothea entered the room. Nights of anxiety and watching, the workings of a spirit that fought inch by inch with fortune, were deeply marked upon her features. Weariness and fatigue had not brought depression on her, but rather imparted a feverish lustre to her eyes, and an expression of haughty energy to her face.
“Am I to take this for true,” said she, as, seating herself in front of him, she held out Massingbred's letter,—“I mean, of course, what relates to yourself?”
He nodded sorrowfully, but did not speak.
“All literally the fact?” said she, speaking slowly, and dwelling on every word. “You have actually sold the reversion of the estate?”
“And am beggared!” said he, sternly.
Lady Dorothea tried to speak. She coughed, cleared her throat, made another effort, but without succeeding; and then, in a slightly broken voice, said, “Fetch me a glass of water. No, sit down; I don't want it.” The blood again mounted to her pale cheeks, and she was herself again.