“Yes,” replied Ralph, “I do mean to say so. The entail no longer exists. That part of the affair I have in a sense no one but myself to thank for. This was how it happened. It was soon after John’s death—that horrible time you know, when my mother was really mad with grief, and the whole household shocked and upset by the accident and its dreadful result. I came home just in time to see him die. He was hardly conscious, but he whispered something when they told him I was there. I could not catch the words, but my mother said it was an appeal to me to be good to his children. Very probably it was. Well, after his death, my mother fell ill, and made up her mind that she too was going to die. She was in a frightfully low, nervous state, and her mind preyed on the notion that these children, Lotty and Sybil, were going to be left to my tender mercies, and that, I verily believe, I would turn them out into the streets! Of course they were utterly unprovided for, and as things were could not be made independent. So nothing would satisfy her but the breaking of the entail, to which I, miserable enough at being thus forced into my brother’s place, and at seeing how every one wished I had been thrown from my horse instead of him, was only too ready to consent. It was done, and a portion of ten thousand pounds each, was raised for my nieces. Then the estate was resettled, giving back to my mother, of course, her former life-estate according to her marriage-settlement.”
“But only hers for life, Ralph,” interrupted the tutor. “It will all be yours in the end?”
“If I survive her,” said Ralph, “But if not, and if I marry without her approval, what then? Why, my unfortunate widow and yet more unfortunate children would be simply beggars! Not one farthing of all she has, would got to them, save she gave it of free gift. Which thing, Mr. Price, in such a case she would never do. I am not exaggerating the state of the case. I know my mother well—her good points as well as her weak ones—and I am not reckoning without my host. Very lately she has told me her mind on the subject of my possible marriage; told it me plainly enough; and I know what I have to expect. If I marry to please her, she will, I know, act most liberally. If not, all I can look for depends on the contingency of my surviving her. She has not actually threatened to stop my allowance unless I marry as she wishes, but she very nearly did so. And I may tell you, Mr. Price,” added Ralph, his dark cheek flushing darker, “that my marrying to please her is utterly and entirely out of the question. She is bewitched I think, but thank Heaven I am not. If had but a certainty, however small, I would marry to-morrow, if my sweet Marion would have me, and leave Florence Vyse to the enjoyment of all she can extract from my poor mother. For that is all she wants. My mother’s money, not me; but unfortunately she sees that through me she might best secure it.”
“But the Whitelake estate?” asked Mr. Price, “that surely is independent of Lady Severn.”
“Yes,” replied Ralph, “that was not in my grandfather’s power touch, when he made over all the rest to his daughter. It went to my father with the title. But unfortunately between his succeeding to the title and his marrying the heiress several years intervened. Whitelake was not much of a place to begin with—I don’t think in its best days it gave more than some fifteen hundred a year; and my father mortgaged it so heavily that now the rents only just cover the mortgage interest. So that is a merely illusory possession, you see, I have nothing, Mr. Price. Nothing whatever and no certainty of ever having anything. And, then, though not idle, I am desultory. At this moment I see before me no means of gaining enough to marry upon, even were I more sure than I am of my own health and strength, and even if I could make up my mind to risk the future. The present even is barred to me.”
“But if John had not died, Ralph? If you had remained in your original place as younger son. You are no worse off than you would have been then.”
“Yes, I am,” said Ralph emphatically, “ten times worse off. Had John lived some small provision would have been secured to me. He often talked of this. And I am worse off in another way. At that time I was getting on fairly well and should soon have risen higher. I had been vice consul at —— for some time, and had a good chance of succeeding Sir Archibald eventually. I liked the East, and it suited me. Climate and everything. I had ample time for the studies I liked best, and in my quiet, stupid way I was contented enough. Looking back on it now I certainly wonder at myself.” He went on dreamily. “I have, to my cost, had a shadowy, tantalizing glimpse of something like happiness! But at the time I believed myself to be an exception to the rest of mankind. I thought myself perfectly secure against this sort of thing”—he smiled half bitterly as he spoke. “You see how I am punished for my presumption.”
Mr. Price answered by another question.
“Why, then, did you leave the East? I was never quite sure of the reason.”
“Solely and entirely to please my mother. Though she cared little for me personally, she had a regard for me as the head of the family, and thought it unfitting that I should spend my life half buried alive out there. Then the estate, Medhurst, puzzled her. The agent left and she had to choose another. Then, too, she had that fit of thinking she was going to die. Altogether, I seemed to have no choice. So I threw up my appointment, as you know.”