“No, Magda,” Roger replied, “it would not have been better if you had never come here. You have made me very happy, so happy that—” he could not get any further for something in his throat which prevented his utterance.
She had brought him sorrow, and yet he would not for the world have failed of knowing how sweet it was to love her even if she could not be his. If he could have kept her and taken her with him to his home among the hills, he felt that he would have parted willingly with his fortune and beautiful Millbank. But that could not be. She belonged to Frank; everything was Frank’s, and for an instant the whole extent of his calamity swept over him so painfully that he succumbed to it, and laying his face upon the table sobbed just as piteously as he had done in the first moment of surprise and pain when he heard that both fortune and name were gone. Magdalen could not understand all the causes of his distress. She did not dream that every sob and every tear wrung from the strong man was given more to her than to the fortune lost, and she tried to comfort him as best she could, thinking once to tell him how willingly she would toil and slave to make his new home attractive, deeming no self-denial too great if by its means he could be made happier and more comfortable. But she did not dare do this until she knew whether she was wanted in that home among the Schodick hills where he said he was going. Oh, how she wished he would give some hint that he expected her to go with him; but he did not, and he kept his face hidden so long that she came at last to his side, and laid her hand on his shoulder and bent over him with words of sympathy. Then, as he did not look up, she knelt beside him, and her hand found its way to his, and she called him Roger again, and begged him not to feel so badly.
“You will drive me mad with remorse,” she said, “for I know I have done it all. Don’t, Roger, it breaks my heart to see you so distressed. What can I do to prove how sorry I am? Tell me and I will do it, even to the taking of my life.”
It did not seem possible that this girl pleading thus with him could be another’s betrothed, and for a moment Roger lost all self-control, and forgetting Frank and his rights snatched her to his arms and pressing her to his bosom rained kiss after kiss upon her forehead and lips, saying to her, “My darling, my darling, you have been a blessing and a comfort to me all your life, but there’s nothing you can do for me now. Once I hoped—oh, Magda, my little girl, that time is far in the past; I hope for nothing now. I am not angry with you. I could not be so if I would. I bless you for all you have been to me. I hope you will be happy here at Millbank when I am gone; and now go, my darling. You are shivering with cold and the room is very damp. God bless you, Magda.”
He led her out into the hall, then closed the door upon her, and went back again to his solitude and his sorrow, while Magdalen, bewildered and frightened and wearied out, found her way as best she could to her own room, where a few moments later Celine found her fainting upon the floor.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE WORLD AND THE WILL.
The world, or that portion of it represented by Belvidere, did not receive it kindly, and when the new heir appeared in the street on the day succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter, he was conscious of a certain air of constraint and stiffness about those whom he met, and an evident attempt to avoid him. It was known all over town by that time, for Roger had made no secret of the matter, and an hour after Magdalen left him, he had sent for all the servants, and told them briefly of his changed condition. He entered into no particulars; he merely said:
“My father saw fit to make a later will than the one found at the time of his death. In it he gave Millbank and all its appurtenances to Frank, as the child of his eldest son, my brother Walter. This later will, of whose existence I did not know, has recently been found, and by virtue of it everything goes to Frank, who is the rightful owner of Millbank, or will be when the will is proved. You have served me faithfully, some of you for years, and I shall never forget your unvarying kindness and fidelity. The amount of wages due each of you I shall venture to pay from money kept for that purpose. My nephew will allow me to do that, and then, so far as I am concerned, you are at liberty to seek new situations. Our relations as employer and servant are at an end. I do not wish you to talk about it, or to express your sympathy for me. I could not bear it now, so please do not trouble me.”
This last he said because of the murmur of discontent and surprise and dissatisfaction which ran through the room when those assembled first learned that they must part with their master, whom they had loved and respected so long.