“Refuse! certainly not; I’ll think of it, and see Courtenay about it. We can talk it over at dinner,” said Mr Summerhayes, walking away calmly towards the house with his wife.
This conversation had taken place at the gardener’s cottage, within hearing of Loo, who had all this time been standing at the window. When Mary and her husband went away, the old lawyer uttered a furious and profane exclamation. “He’ll speak to Courtenay. I’m not to be trusted, I suppose; confound the upstart!” cried old Gateshead; “but I shan’t stay here to be insulted by Tom Summerhayes. Lord bless us! what’s the matter, my dear?”
This question was addressed to Loo, who came suddenly up to him, overwhelming the old man with the gaze of her great brown eyes. “Tell me only one thing—is Charley disinherited?” said Loo, grasping with her slight but firm fingers the lawyer’s arm.
“My dear, you don’t understand it,” said Mr Gateshead.
“I understand it perfectly; is Charley disinherited?” asked the anxious girl.
“Well, my dear, it depends on circumstances,” said the lawyer; “don’t look at me so fiercely, it is not my doing. The deeds are destroyed—that’s all. I daresay it won’t make any difference. We can prove——Don’t cry, my dear child; I‘ll stand by you if he tries to do anything—and you can tell your brother so. It shan’t make any difference if I can help it—don’t cry.”
“I don’t mean to cry,” said Loo, with indignation; “is this why the fire was?” The words seemed to drop from her lips before she was aware; then a violent blush rushed over poor Loo’s pale face; she shrank back, and took her hand from his arm, and turned her face away. “I did not mean to say that; I meant to say—I understand,” said Loo, slowly. It was a very woe-begone despairing face that she turned upon him when she looked round again. The old man, who had known her all her life, patted her on the head as if she had been still a child.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear, things will come straight; though your stepfather has been rude to me, I will not go away for your sakes,” said Mr Gateshead; but such a conversation as this could not be carried on. The lawyer returned to the house to be present at the investigation into the cause of the fire which Mr Summerhayes was already making; and Loo, for her part, sick at heart, and in a state of the profoundest despair, went out to seek her brother. It was just as well for both that they did not meet that morning; for neither of the two in their hearts had any doubt upon the subject. As for their mother, she kept by her husband’s side, in a state of mind not to be described; taking hope by times; listening with eager anxiety to hear any explanation that could be offered; trying to believe that he only hesitated to replace the destroyed deed because he had no confidence in old Gateshead, and preferred to consult Courtenay; but in her heart feeling, like Charley, that total shipwreck had happened, and that the foundations of the earth were giving way.
CHAPTER X.—A VERY SURPRISING OCCURRENCE.
The ruins of the west wing were clearly visible from the great wooden building erected by Mr Summerhayes in the park where the tenants were to dine. It was too cold in March for a tent; and there was no room in Fontanel large enough for these festivities, except the great double suite of drawing-rooms where the doors had been removed, and where there was to be a ball at night. Much was the talk about the alarming event of the previous day, which had shaken half the country with personal terrors, much warmer than are generally awakened by the intelligence of a fire at a friend’s house. On hearing of it, every soul within twenty miles had sighed with resignation or cried out with impatience, giving up all hopes of the festivities to which everybody had been looking forward; but Mr Summerhayes’s messengers with the intimation that all was going on as before, came about as soon as the news of the calamity. Mr Summerhayes himself was more gracious, more cordial, than anybody had ever known him. He spoke of “our dear boy” in his speech to the farmers, and described Charley in such terms, that the heart of Charley’s mother was altogether melted, and she felt ready to commit the fate of her children a dozen times over into her husband’s hands. Nothing could be more manly, more honourable, more affectionate, than the way in which Mr Summerhayes spoke of his own position. He was, he said, his wife’s steward and his son’s guardian; such a position might have been painful to some men—but love made everything sweet; and he was happy in having always had the entire confidence of his beloved clients. He even referred to the honoured husband of the Queen, as in something of a similar position to his own, and brought down storms of applause. Charley made his little speech with great difficulty after his stepfather. The poor boy looked ghastly, and could scarcely get the words out; but his pleased retainers, who believed him overwhelmed by his feelings, applauded all the same. When he had done what was required of him, Charley managed to steal away unperceived by anybody except Loo, who went wistfully after her brother. She overtook him by the time he had got to the woods which skirted the park, and put her arm softly within his without saying anything. The two young creatures wandered under the bristling budded trees in silence, with unspeakable sadness in their hearts. They had nothing to say to console each other—or rather Loo, whose very heart wept over her brother, could think of nothing to say to him. At last, caressing his arm with her tender, timid, little hand, Loo ventured upon one suggestion: “Oh, Charley, poor mamma!” said the girl, in her heart-breaking young voice. “Yes—poor mamma!” said Charley, with a groan. Poor Mary! it was all her doing, yet her children cast no reproach upon her. She, after all, would be the greatest sufferer.