“Nothing more romantic than that, I fear,” said Dr Brewer; “but that’s a very good thing, a very nice thing. No, life in England is not romantic to speak of; it’s a very businesslike affair. If people have enough to live on, it doesn’t trouble them very much how it comes. Land is dear. It’s very nice if you have enough of it, but it’s an expensive luxury. You get better percentage for your money even in the funds—and no risks.”
“But, perhaps,” said Grace, “as—Geoffrey—is not the right heir—it might be something different. Perhaps if it came back to the old family there might be something more. Sometimes—things pass away, don’t they, when it is not the direct line?”
“Peerages?” said Dr Brewer with a laugh. “Oh, yes; but I never heard of property going astray. Money must find its level, you know; it must go somewhere; it cannot just be spilt upon the earth like water and made an end of. It must turn up somewhere. When a man dies intestate, I believe his money goes to the Queen; which is hard, I have always thought. If it were divided among the poorest of his neighbours it would be more sensible. Sometimes a title drops by reason of a failure in the direct line. But I don’t suppose you thought——” Here he stopped short, and gave vent to a sudden laugh. “I do believe, my poor dear girl, that this is what was in your mind——”
“I never said there was any such thing in my mind,” said Grace, growing crimson. She felt as if she could have sunk into the earth. She had nothing to say to defend herself, except this simple denial, and to hear the doctor laugh was terrible. He laughed so frankly, as at the most apparent nonsense. The girl did not know what to do. Was she such a fool as he thought?
“It is very romantic,” he said; “but I fear, Miss Grace, in modern days such things happen very rarely. Life was a great deal more picturesque in the past. Now people are very thankful for such small mercies as money in the funds.”
Grace made no reply. She too felt very much disposed to cry; it seemed cruel that anybody should laugh at them in their circumstances, in their deep crape. The sound of laughter even was out of place in the room from which so lately the chief inhabitant had gone. She felt herself hurt, as well as ashamed, by being made the cause of merriment; and even little Milly, though she had not agreed with her, uncovered her little tearful face, and was indignant in Grace’s cause.
“I don’t think there is so much to laugh at, Dr Brewer,” Milly ventured to say. “You were not there to see what happened. You would have thought it very, very important if you had seen how they looked, and heard what they said.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, “was I unmannerly? I didn’t mean to be. Why we should laugh at simplicity I cannot tell, but everybody does. I have not the least doubt it was a most natural mistake.”
Simplicity! when everybody had always thought her so sensible, so superior to all delusions. Grace shrank back into herself. She would scarcely reply to any further questions.
“But, you know,” Dr Brewer said, with great gravity, “it is no laughing matter. Where there is a question of taking their living from another family, you must be very sure of your facts. It is such a hard case that a jury would give every advantage of a doubt to the people assailed. It would prefer to see what they did in the very best light. There would be a prejudice against the claimants, however much dans leur droit they might be. The evidence would have to be very exact, as clear as daylight. Any lawyer would tell you this. He would tell you, if your evidence was not beyond question, to accept, or even offer, a compromise. Such things are of every-day occurrence. You may have a strong case, but if you can’t support it, and make it all as distinct as clockwork, they will suggest a compromise. Have you found anything among these papers to support the claim you are intending to make?”