“I recollect everything about him,” said the uncle. “Though he was Harry Clifford’s father, and they are both dead ages ago, he was no older than I am. I think we were born in the same year——”
“The same year? and you are seventy; that must have been ‘87. Was it ‘87, uncle? how can we make sure?” said young Courtenay. “I must hunt up the register of baptisms to-morrow.”
“Ah! I remember some talk about that,” said the old lawyer. “The parish books were burned once, and the entry couldn’t be found. There was some talk about it at the time. Burned! I suppose you don’t know what’s happened in this fire? Oh! you’ll hear, you’ll hear quite soon enough. But what has John Clifford’s name come up about now?”
“It’s something rather important for Summerhayes—he looks in wonderful force to-day,” said Courtenay; “but if this should turn out true he will soon sing small enough. I may as well tell you at once, uncle, for I am almost sure about it. My impression is, that the entail was never legally broken; and, consequently, that Mr Clifford had no more right than I have to leave the property to his wife.”
Old Gateshead looked at his nephew with a stupified air. “The entail was never broken?” he repeated vacantly, looking in the other’s face.
“No—the entail was never legally broken,” said Courtenay, with the impatience of an acute and rapid intelligence. “The thing caught my attention some time ago, but I would not speak of it till I had worked it out. John Clifford—listen uncle—executed the papers with his father in the year 1806; and, if I am correct, he was then an infant, and incapable of doing anything of the sort. I don’t believe he came of age till 1807. By Jove! what’s the matter? the old man’s mad!”
“No, Courtenay, the old man’s not mad,” said his uncle. “Hurrah! God save the Queen! Hurrah! why don’t you help them to shout, you cold-blooded young prig? I tell you the boy’s saved. Hurrah, and long life to him!” said old Gateshead, waving his hat frantically, and echoing with the wildest shrill enthusiasm the distant cheers from the tent. “I declare to you these cheers choked me an hour ago,” cried the old lawyer; “there’s things a man can’t do even when he’s an attorney. Courtenay, I say, shake hands. You’re a disgusting young prig, and you’re a deal too clever for my practice; but if you make it out, I’ll give in to you all my life. Good Lord, that’s news! tell me all about it. We’ve got a sharp one to deal with; we’ll have to make very sure, very sure. Let’s hear every step how you came to find it out.”
Which Courtenay accordingly did, and made it perfectly clear to the anxious listener. Charley’s grandfather had been in the unpleasant predicament of having no public legal record of his age; but fifty years after the occurrence of that fortunate mistake, scraps of documents had turned up in the hands of the family solicitor, depositaries for generations of the family secrets and difficulties, which made it easy to establish, not by one distinct statement, but by many concurring scraps of evidence, the exact date of John Clifford’s birth; and to prove, as the young lawyer was now prepared to do, that the entail had never been legally broken; that all the acts of the last two reigns were founded on a mistake; that, consequently, Squire Henry’s will, in so far as it related to the estate of Fontanel, was null and void, and Charley was no longer heir but bona fide proprietor of the lands of the Cliffords. Wonderful news—more than ever wonderful that day.
When Mr Courtenay Gateshead sought Mr Summerhayes to break to him this startling intelligence, the elder lawyer went to find the mistress of Fontanel, who was reposing in her dressing-room, to prepare for the exertions of the evening. Poor Mary was in a very doubtful state of mind that day. She had wept for delight and gratitude when she heard her husband’s speech to the farmers; but when she came to be by herself again, that enthusiastic impression wore off, and the fact came back to her, striking chill to her heart—the fact that her children were now at the stepfather’s mercy, and that poor Charley, the heir, was no longer the heir unless another man pleased. Alas! poor Mary knew now, to the bottom of her heart, that it was another man—a man who, though she was his wife, did not, and could not, look on Charley Clifford as his son. She knew nothing about law, nor that the deed, though destroyed, might yet in its ashes form foundation enough for any amount of lawsuits. It was destroyed, and she had no longer any power, and everything was in Mr Summerhayes’s hands—that was enough to quench the light out of the very skies to the poor mother. She dared not say to herself what she feared, nor what she thought he would do; she only felt that he had the power, and that Charley was at his mercy—and behind all, bitterest of all, that it was her fault. She was sitting resting, in a kind of heavy gloom and stupor, with her head buried in her hands, feeling to her heart that she was avoided by her children, and that this day of triumph was to them a day of mockery, when Mr Gateshead’s message was brought her. He was a very old friend, and her first thought was that he had at last prevailed on Mr Summerhayes to consent to the new deed. She got up in eager haste, and sent her maid to bring him up-stairs. She received the old man there, in that room where her children no longer came as of old. The result was, not very long after, a hurried ringing of bells, and messengers running everywhere for Miss Loo, who was just then coming in, dark and pale from the woods, a very woe-begone little figure in her holiday dress. Poor Mary, overcome by a hundred emotions which she did not dare to tell, had fainted almost in old Gateshead’s arms, to the great dismay of the old lawyer. It was deliverance to her boy, but it was utter humiliation and downfall to her husband. In the struggle of sudden joy, confusion, and pain, her senses and her mind gave way for the moment. Loo rushing in, vaguely aware that something had happened which was well for Charley, believed for the moment, in an overwhelming revulsion of remorse and repentance, that all was henceforward to be ill for ever, and that her mother was dead. But Mary was not dead. She recovered to appear at the ball—very gracious and sweet, as was her wont, but paler than anybody had ever seen her before, as was remarked everywhere. It was a pretty ball, every body allowed; but the family looked more distrait and strange than any family, even under such an infliction, had ever been seen to look. Charley, who had most command of himself after his mother, was doing everything a young man could do to keep his partners amused and the crowd occupied; but even Charley now and then grew abstracted, and forgot himself for a moment. As for Loo, though it was her first ball, and her brown eyes were splendid in the changeable light that quivered in their depths, she kept behind her mother with a look of fright and timidity, at which many a more experienced young lady sneered openly; while Mrs Summerhayes, moving about among her guests with all her usual sweetness, in her mature beauty, could be seen sometimes to give strange wistful looks aside to where her husband stood, mostly in company with Courtenay Gateshead. Mary was pale, but Mr Summerhayes was flushed and strange to look upon. He said, in his gentlemanly way, that the ball was his wife’s business, and that he did not pretend to be able to help Mrs Summerhayes. He kept aloof from her and from her children, clinging, as it seemed, to young Gateshead. There had been a fire to be sure, but a fire only in the west wing, where nothing particular could have happened. What could it be? for the county people were all quick to perceive that something unusual was in the air—at least the ladies did, and did not fail to communicate their suspicions. There must have been a family quarrel, the more acute imagined; and Miss Laura and Miss Lydia Summerhayes, whom their brother dismissed summarily when they attempted sisterly investigations, were fain to make forlorn attempts to discover from Loo what it was. The master of the house had never been seen to speak or look at any of the family all the evening, till the principal guests were in the supper-room, all wondering, as they discussed the good things there, what could be the matter. Charley had got in debt at the university—Charley had formed some unsuitable connexion—and his stepfather was hard upon him. Thus the company speculated; but the company held its breath when Mr Summerhayes laid his hand on Charley’s shoulder, and solved the wonder of the evening in the strangest, most unexpected manner—to nobody so unexpected as to his bewildered wife.
“My friends,” said Mr Summerhayes, in his gentlemanly way (and it must be allowed that, whatever were his faults, Tom Summerhayes always was a gentleman), “we drank this boy’s health to-day as the heir of Fontanel; but since then something has happened which has excited us all considerably, as I daresay you will have perceived; and I have to tell you that Charley is not only the heir, but the master of this house. I am sure,” continued Mr Summerhayes, leaning his arm more heavily upon the shoulder of the astonished youth, “there never was a more hopeful or promising beginning than he will make, and I know he will have all your good wishes. The fact is that the property became my wife’s under a mistake: the entail was supposed to have been broken, which turns out not to have been the case; and it is an additional pleasure to us,” said Mary’s husband, turning round with a smile to meet her look, which was fixed upon him, and then leisurely surveying the amazed assembly—“it is a great additional pleasure to us,” continued Mr Summerhayes, “to find ourselves entitled, on a day every way so happy, to give up our laborious stewardship, and put our boy in possession of his own. I ask you over again, my excellent friends and neighbours, to drink the health of Charles Clifford of Fontanel.”