Soon after our return to Normandy I found on my breakfast-plate an
envelope in my Grandmother's handwriting. As a rule her letters came
in small square envelopes of the ordinary English shape and size. This
one was long, plastered with extra stamps, notable-looking, parchmenty.
Perhaps a consignment of tracts.
I found inside a heavy parchment document, covered with impressive
copper-plate, together with a letter from my Grandmother, written not
on her usual cream-coloured note-paper, but on whiter sheets with a
thick black edging.
Could it be Aunt Jael? The first line reassured (?) me. It was
Great-Uncle John, so rarely heard of, though known to me for ever as my
Mother's "dear Uncle" and good man. It did not need my special greed
and cunning to surmise rightly why his Will was sent to me. Inordinate
hope--changing, as I rushed through my Grandmother's letter, into
radiant certainty--stifled regret. (Regret would have been affectation,
whispered Satan.) Without reading through the letter I stuffed the
papers into the envelope and devoured my breakfast; preventing myself
thinking till it should be over.
Suzanne had been watching me. "You have had good news I think?"
"Yes," I replied, unawares.
"I'm glad, because I noticed a black-rimmed envelope, and thought
perhaps it might be bad."
In my boudoir I settled down at my leisure, luxuriously to learn the
best. Grandmother's letter was one of the longest I ever had from her.
As I read she came near me, became suddenly a part of the present.
For an instant I saw her face, _in the flesh_. But the self that saw
her was another Mary--Mary of Bear Lawn, full of fear and floggings,
surrounded by God and Aunt Jael; not that Villebecq puppet. I could
feel the selves changing place within me--and changing back....
All the old prayers, the immemorial pleadings. Love the Lord only, and
His service. Dedicate this wealth to Him. Lay it not up where moth and
rust do corrupt. His love is the only true riches. There is only His
love, my dearie....
Grandmother dear! Noblest of all the Saints, now high among the Saints
in Heaven. _How much?_ I wondered.
I found a little summary made by the lawyer on half a sheet of
notepaper, which spared my wading through the uncommaed intricacies of
the Will itself.
Briefly: there was £400 for Grandmother, £200 for Aunt Jael, £100 each
for Aunt Martha, Albert, and certain charities. All the rest--some
£10,000, or about £500 a year--was left to me: me, Mary.
At first I could only think in exultant exclamation marks. Ten thousand
Pounds! Five-hun-dred-pounds-a-year! (Sonorously mouthed.) Wealth,
freedom, power!
I was my own mistress now. I could do any defiance, yet have my bread.
Aunt Jael, urged the feeble voice of some-far-away Self. "Who is Aunt
Jael?" asked Villebecq Mary: "Ah yes, to be sure, I remember." "I pay
for the Child's music"--cry that two years ago could have rallied me
to any revenge--"I" now stifled with a bland _Pourquoi_? How silly it
seemed, how silly Revenge always is.
No, I would buy a house of my own--the ambition which life in the
Château, and other dreamings, had made my chief one now--and I would
live there with Robbie for ever. The hunger, the longing possessed me
more mournfully, more passionately than for long months. I flung myself
on the bed and covered the pillow with kisses....
I would help the Saints, play Lady Bountiful to the Lord, send much
money for the heathen, succour more than one needy labourer in the
Lord's vineyard abroad. "Sops," sneered Conscience. "Go and work in the
Lord's vineyard yourself. All that thou hast--"
How furious Uncle Simeon would be, I reflected pleasurably. The
Will provided that if I died all my share was to go (after use by
Grandmother during the remainder of her lifetime) to Aunt Martha and
Albert. So my life, which he loathed, was all that stood between Simeon
Greeber and the money that he so much loved. Unkindest cut: I had
plentiful cuts to repay. And for him alone, of Child Mary's enemies my
present self nourished hatred: for I knew he was an enemy still.
Could he _do_ anything?
Next morning's post brought the only letter he ever wrote me:--
No. 1, The Quay,
TORRIBRIDGE, N. DEVON.
November 7th, 1867 A. D.
Dear Young Niece,--
Often though one asks for your news--seeks to learn of your
material and spiritual state--it has never before been one's sad
pleasure to address you a letter in person. Two reasons have
guided me today, after much prayer, to take this step. One is to
express our sympathy--Martha's and one's own--with you in the loss
of your Great-Uncle, who, though you never saw him in the flesh,
must yet have been very near to you because of your knowledge of
his goodness to your poor suffering Mother, now a saint in Heaven!
Martha would have written herself, but she is not too well just
now: the Lord is visiting her with bodily affliction. The other
reason is to give oneself the opportunity of saying how glad one
is to learn of the worldly good fortune poor dear Mr. Vickary's
death has brought you. May you use it to _His_ glory! If--one will
be frank--one had any pangs of husbandly and fatherly jealousy at
the _lesser_ good fortune of one's dear wife and son, they were
quickly o'ercome. Prayer has won one's heart from worship of the
Golden Calf, and made one able to be with you in spirit in this new
privilege and _duty_ the Lord has conferred upon you. May you live
long to use it in His Service is one's humble prayer!
One hears of you often thro' Martha and your dear Grandmother. One
rejoices to know that, in that Papist land, you still find the
reading of His Word the chief of all your joys. One hears that
you appreciate most that "_Book_ of the heart, and _heart_ of the
book," viz, the Psalms. Yes, one can find there words of succour
for any circumstances, any frame of mind. The Psalms are prophetic
of _His_ sufferings and glory, notably the 22nd, opening with His
cup of agony when abandoned for _our_ sins; like Isaiah 53 they
point only to Christ (how one loves verses 5 and 6 for the peace
they have brought one)--Christ revealed by His Word and Spirit!
Poor dear Mr. Vickary, how quickly gone! One knew him not at all,
but one felt it keenly. One believes he was naturally a good and
lovable character--but how one longed to know something much more
than that! One's own little son is giving one great hope and
comfort. Though cursed with many faults, alas, of both character
and temper; and humble as intellectually he may be; yet he reads
the Word continually, and speaks to one freely on the subject, so
that one can form a fair opinion of his spiritual state.
Dear Martha and Albert send their love, in which one is glad, with
prayerful sincerity, to join. One has been dwelling much lately on
Philippians iv, 8.
Accept one's best Wishes,
SIMEON GREEBER.
P.S. LAY NOT UP FOR YOURSELVES TREASURES UPON EARTH. (St. Matt. vi,
19.)
I was uneasy, but what could he _do_?
The family learned my good news, hoped only it did not mean my leaving
them. To do so had indeed never crossed my mind; for my plans,
house-dreamings and the rest were, as always, watertight: in the
compartment of daydreams, and having no connection with my immediate
doings. Even had I wanted to go away, I was as penniless as before
until my twenty-first birthday should arrive.
The first two or three days after the Windfall I gave only these
surface-thinkings a hearing. All the time--even from the very second
the news entered my brain--Other Self was murmuring, though for a
foolish day or two I fought her down. Then, one silent night, she
broke loose, crashed through the silly web of pride, greed, and
heathen-helping, and rained at Snob-Mary (whom "I" loathed this night
till I could have spat in my loathing) the hard questions that only the
fools who dare not face them say are not worth facing.
Are you not commoner, meaner, lower, since this money?
Is not the Safety you now possess utterly undeserved, selfish, fatal to
your soul?
You have your wealth: how will God get even?
£500 is a goodly treasure: but what will it serve you 500 years from
now?
Will gold protect you from Eternity?
Are you happier, any happier at all?
Life was a search for the happiness that is the secret of the world.
The key was not of Gold.