Lionel had not been many hours at Park Newton before he began to have visitors. The county families and neighbouring gentry who had known the late Mr. St. George either called or left their cards. Lionel was young and unmarried, and would be a decided acquisition to the limited circle of Midlandshire bachelors: that is to say, of eligible bachelors. Of ineligible bachelors there were always enough and to spare. But the advent of such a possible prize—of a bird with such splendid plumage as the new owner of Park Newton—was enough to send a pleasurable thrill through all the dovecotes within a circuit of twenty miles. Of the existence of a certain young lady, Edith West by name, nothing, of course, was known or suspected.
One of the first to call at Park Newton, and introduce himself to Lionel, was the Reverend John Wharton, the vicar of Duxley. Mr. Wharton was an octogenarian, but hale and hearty; as far as appearances went, he seemed likely to last for another twenty years.
“My having known your uncle, the late Mr. St. George, must be my apology for intruding upon you so soon,” he said, as he shook Lionel warmly by the hand. “And not your uncle only, but your grandfather also. And now I should like to know you.”
“You are very kind,” said Lionel. “And I appreciate the honour you have done me.”
“There was another member of the family, too, whom I recollect very well,” said the vicar, as they sat together in the library. “I refer to your mother.”
“Did you know my mother?” asked Lionel, eagerly.
“I did indeed. I remember her first as a sweet slip of a girl, playing and romping about the house and grounds. Then I missed her for three or four years while she was away at school. Then she came back, a sedate young lady, but very, very pretty. How fond your grandfather was of her! But he never forgave her for running away and marrying your father—never, that is, until he lay dying.”
“Do you mean to say, sir, that my grandfather ever did forgive my mother?”
“Certainly he forgave her, but not till he lay on his deathbed. I was in the room at the time and heard his words. Taking your uncle’s hand in his, your grandfather said—and his words came very slowly and feebly:—‘Arthur, life and its duties look very different, as I lie here, from what they did when I was in health. It lies on my conscience that I never forgave poor Dorothy. It’s too late to send for her now, but send her my blessing after I’m gone, and say that I loved her to the last.’ He shut his eyes, and was silent for a little while. Then he spoke again. ‘Arthur,’ he said to your uncle, ‘is it your intention ever to marry?’ ‘I shall never marry, father,’ was the answer. ‘Then who’s to have Park Newton, after your time?’ ‘It will not go out of the family, you may depend upon that, father,’ said your uncle. ‘Some time or other it will have to go to one of the two boys,’ resumed your grandfather; ‘either to Dorothy’s boy, or to Geoffry’s son, Kester. Now I don’t want to tie you down in any way, Arthur, but I confess I should like Dorothy’s lad to have Park Newton. He could change his name to St. George, you know. Young Kester might have a life allowance out of the estate of two or three thousand a year, and there would still be enough left to keep up the old place in proper style. I feel that I have acted wrongly to Dorothy. There is some reparation due to her. If I thought that her boy would one day have the estate, I think I should die happier.’ ‘Father, it shall be as you wish,’ said Arthur St. George, solemnly.”
“A promise that was made only to be broken,” said Lionel, bitterly. “I have heard my mother say that the first intimation she had of my grandfather’s death was derived from the columns of a newspaper. Further than that, my uncle Arthur never wrote a single line to my mother; never would even see her; never hold any communication with her, direct or indirect, to the last day of her life.”