"You compel me to remind you that Martin has no right to this house," said Philip, "as long as my father lives. This place belongs to my father, and to no one else."
"I'll take lawyer's opinion on that," he answered doggedly. "I've given up putting my trust in any man, especially Mr. Martin. And if it's true, as sure as you bring Miss Dorothy here as your wife I'll take my grandson away, down to Apley, and all the country-side shall see Mr. Martin's son and heir sitting at work in a saddler's shop. He is fitter for that, perhaps, than to be a squire; but whose fault is it? Who deserted him and his mother? Oh! Sophy, Sophy! my poor lost little girl!"
He dropped his white head upon his hands, and his sobs sounded through the little room. Philip rose silently, and went away; and Martin, with his bare feet, followed him noiselessly. The old man was left alone with his impotent rage and grief.
CHAPTER LVI.
ON THE MOORS.
Andrew Goldsmith went, as he had threatened, to consult lawyers, one after another, and learned, to his vexation, that, so long as the father lived, the son had no legal claim to the estate. There could be no disputing Sidney's right to dispose of Brackenburn as he pleased during his lifetime. The next course to take would be to follow out his other threat of having his grandson at Apley, and setting him to learn his trade in the village shop, in the sight of all the passers-by. But here again he found himself baffled. He had no authority over Martin; no power save that of persuasion. And how could he persuade one with whom he could exchange no conversation, except by signs? Martin was free to choose for himself; and none but his enemies had access by language to his mind. They might tell him exactly what they pleased; and there was no doubt they would prevail upon him to welcome Philip and Dorothy to Brackenburn. Andrew found himself defeated on all points.
One thing he resolved upon in this defeat—he would not leave Brackenburn unless he was forcibly ejected. He would remain beside Martin, jealously guarding him against signing away his rights. If they ejected him he would find quarters near at hand; and all the country should hear of his apprehensions. The thing should not be done in a corner. If it was done it should be proclaimed far and wide. He was Martin's sole protector as long as he lived; and his resolution and resentment made him feel strong enough to live through many long years yet.
Since old Andrew was so determined in his opposition to Sidney's scheme, there was no longer a great haste in pushing forward the marriage of Philip and Dorothy. But the old purpose of keeping Christmas at Brackenburn was taken up again. Margaret hoped that she and Rachel could make Andrew believe that there was no antagonism felt by any one of them against Martin, but that their great desire was to arrange everything for his welfare. They were glad to hear that he did not intend to quit Brackenburn on their arrival, although he had taken lodgings in the bailiff's house, resolved not to sleep under the same roof as Sidney.
The weather during December was unusually severe. For several days a bitter northeast wind, rising almost to a gale, swept across England, and there was a leaden hue in the gloomy sky, as of low clouds charged with snow, which needed a little rise in the temperature before it could fall. Even at Apley, black frosts, changing into dense fogs, prevailed. But in Yorkshire, though the fogs were lighter, the frost was keener. Every pool and tarn on the moors were ice-bound, and the noisy burn running down the valley at Brackenburn was silenced, only a sluggish thread of water trickling under the sheet of ice which spread from side to side. The coarse grass upon the moors was fringed with ice; and the low trees, now bare of leaves, showed like masses of white coral against the leaden sky. The farmers brought their flocks of sheep to pastures near home, and only the wild ponies were left to brave the inclemency of the threatened storm. But it was slow in coming. Now and then the clouds broke, and gleams of wintry sunshine, or a brilliant vision of stars, appeared through the opening.
The winter once again made Martin feel more at home. This snow-charged sky was familiar to him, more familiar than the soft, hazy, blue sky, or the drifting clouds of summer. The moorlands, too, were less strange to him in their frost-bound grayness than in the gorgeous purple and gold of autumn. He felt less homesick than usual; yet he was no happier. There was a lurking dread in his heart, so vague that he was only dimly conscious of it—the dread of having Philip and Dorothy in their great happiness always in sight.