FORTUNE’S WHEEL.
Many weeks went by, and one would scarcely have recognized in the
quiet, hard-working lawyer, who toiled early and late with such
persistence and energy, the idle, defiant, unprincipled man who had
heartlessly dragged his wife away from home and friends, subjecting her
to almost every kind of discomfort, and refusing to put forth a single
effort for her support.
Philip had not yet ascertained where Arley was, and the letter which
he had written, with her jewels and money, were still in his keeping.
He could not make up his mind to call upon Miss McAllister to obtain
her address, for he dreaded both her questions and her displeasure. He
had heard that she was something of an invalid and did not go out at
all, so he hoped she had not yet heard of his return.
She had not, and it was known but by very few outside those doing
business with him, for he did not frequent his old haunts; he shunned
his club and all society, devoting every hour not needed for rest to
his business.
His business increased so rapidly that he was obliged to hire
assistants, and the gold which he had so coveted began to pour in upon
him from every quarter; but every pound over and above his actual
needs he conscientiously deposited in the Bank of England to swell the
account in Arley’s name.
And so six months went by in this busy way. At the end of that time he
balanced his accounts, and was astonished with the result.
“This is not bad for a beginning,” he said as he looked at the generous
figures. “A few years like this, and I could put Arley back where I
found her.”
“Ah, no!” he added, in a tone sharp with pain. “I could give her twenty
thousand pounds, perhaps, but I can never give her back her free, happy
life--I can never blot from her memory the bitterness, the pain and
disgrace which I have since inflicted upon her. Oh, Arley, my beloved!
why did I not appreciate the prize I had won? If I had but heeded
your counsels, I should now have you and happiness, together with my
prosperity!
“Fool! fool!” he cried, leaping wildly to his feet, as if he could not
bear the thought of it; “you are rightly punished! No fate, however
wretched, no penance can be too severe for you; you have brought it all
upon yourself, and you must bear it as best you can!”
There came a rap on his office door just then, but it took him more
than a minute to compose himself sufficiently to go and answer the
summons.
It was only the postman, who silently handed him an official-looking
document, and then hastened away again.
In a listless way Philip broke the seals and proceeded to inspect its
contents, supposing it to be something connected with his own business.
But, after he had read a page or two, he was seized with amazement, and
perused the remainder of the communication with breathless interest.
That old adage, “It never rains but it pours,” seemed destined to
prove true for Philip Paxton, for he learned that a widowed aunt and
her whole family, consisting of a son and two daughters, who lived
in Wales, had been suddenly swept out of life by that dread disease,
diphtheria. The children had first fallen victims to it, and then the
worn-out, heart-broken mother had lain down to follow them.
She was the widow of the late Sir Frederick Sharpley, Baronet, who had
been Philip’s mother’s only brother, and the paper which he held in his
trembling hands told him that he, being the nearest living relative,
was heir to the estate and title of his uncle.
He could not realize it; it had come upon him so suddenly, so wholly
unexpected that he actually could not comprehend it, and sat staring at
the document in a way that would have been ludicrous under any other
circumstances.
Twice he was obliged to read it through before he could realize that
it was not all a vision of his own imagination. But it was all there
in black and white; the family lawyer had made it very plain, and had
written him immediately after Lady Sharpley’s funeral, at her request.
She would allow no notice to be sent him of her children’s death, on
account of the fear of contagion, and when she found that she also
could not live, she exacted a promise that he should be told nothing
for the same reason, until she should be lain in the family vault,
and the house thoroughly purified, lest he, too, contract the fatal
disease, and the estate, for the lack of an heir, fall to the crown.
“Tell him,” were her last words, “to be a good, an honorable man, and
keep the title unspotted. There has never yet been a stain upon the
fair escutcheon of the family, and my personal legacy to him is, its
purity--let him maintain it as long as he shall live.”
It was with a very white face that Philip at length folded up that
startling communication and fell to musing upon its contents.
The estate of the late Sir Frederick, the lawyer wrote, was a
remarkably fine one, wholly unencumbered, and with a rent roll of
nearly fifteen thousand pounds, while there was a bank account yielding
nearly as much more.
How strangely fortune’s wheel turns round!
Coming just at this time, Philip felt as if he could not bear these new
honors which had been heaped so unexpectedly upon him, and, bowing his
head upon his desk, he groaned aloud, feeling humiliated and crushed as
he had never felt before.
What were houses, lands, rent rolls or bank accounts to him now? They
were like the “apples of Sodom that turn to ashes in the grasp.”
His new position would bring him no happiness; it could not restore to
him either his own self-respect or Arley’s love--the only two things
which seemed really worth anything just now to him.
But with new honors came new cares; his inheritance must be looked
after, and as soon as he could arrange his business so as to leave it,
he repaired to Elmsford, as Sir Frederick’s estate had been called.
He found it a beautiful place. The mansion itself was very old, but,
having been built in a most substantial way and kept in thorough
repair, with modern conveniences added from time to time, it was a
house to love and be proud of. The grounds about it had been laid out
with exquisite taste and judgment, and were considered the finest
in the county. There was a deer park, abounding in deer, for Lady
Sharpley had allowed no hunting since her husband’s death, five years
previously; while the wide-spreading upland and meadow on every hand
were rich with grain and herbage.
There was a fine picture-gallery in the mansion, containing works of
some of the best artists--both of sculptors and painters--of several
centuries, and there was a wealth of plate, of solid silver, that was
fairly dazzling to the eyes.
As Philip Paxton roamed over his new possessions, visiting room after
room, noting the beauty and elegance of everything about him, no smile
came to his lips, no gladness to his heart, for it all seemed to mock
at him, to jeer at the emptiness of his soul.
Mr. Farley, the steward, appeared to be a competent, trustworthy young
man, and he was much pleased with him.
He had received the young baronet with great courtesy and friendliness,
conducting him over the estate with evident pride in its fine
appearance, while his books, upon examination, showed excellent
business capacity; and Philip resolved to leave the management of it
still in his hands--at least for the present--while he returned to his
own labors in London.
There was no longer any need of this, pecuniarily, but work had become
a mental necessity; it would not do to stop; he must not have time
to brood over his past, lest his remorse and misery drive him to
desperation.
So, giving Mr. Farley full control, Sir Philip Paxton went back to his
close chambers in Grey’s Inn, leaving all this beauty and luxury behind
him, and plunged more assiduously than ever into his business.
But one thing he had resolved upon, and now carried it into action. He
paid a visit to Arley’s old lawyer and had the twenty thousand pounds
which he had deposited in the bank written up to Arley’s account.