The breakfast gong had just sounded at Hoddon Grey. The hour was a quarter
to nine. Prayers in the chapel were over, and Lord and Lady Newbury, at
either end of the table, spectacles on nose, were opening and reading their
letters.
"Where is Edward?" said Lady William, looking round.
"My dear!" Lord William's tone was mildly reproachful.
"Of course--I forgot for a moment!" And on Lady William's delicately
withered cheek there appeared a slight flush. For it was their wedding-day,
and never yet, since his earliest childhood, had their only son, their only
child, failed, either personally or by deputy, to present his mother with a
bunch of June roses on the morning of this June anniversary. While he was
in India the custom was remitted to the old head gardener, who always
received, however, from the absent son the appropriate letter or message to
be attached to the flowers. And one of the most vivid memories Lady William
retained of her son's boyhood showed her the half-open door of an inn
bedroom at Domodossola, and Edward's handsome face--the face of a lad of
eleven--looking in, eyes shining, white teeth grinning, as he held aloft in
triumph the great bunch of carnations and roses for which the little fellow
had scoured the sleepy town in the early hours. They had taken him abroad
for the first time, during a break between his preparatory school and Eton,
when he was convalescing from a dangerous attack of measles; and Lady
William could never forget the charm of the boy's companionship, his eager
docility and sweetness, his delight in the Catholic churches and services,
his ready friendships with the country-folk, with the coachman who drove
them, and the _sagrestani_ who led them through dim chapels and
gleaming monuments.
But when indeed had he not been their delight and treasure from his youth
up till now? And though in the interest of a long letter from her Bishop to
whom she was devoted, Lady William had momentarily forgotten the date,
this wedding-day was, in truth, touched, for both parents, with a special
consecration and tenderness, since it was the first since Edward's own
betrothal. And there beside Lady William's plate lay a large jeweler's
case, worn and old-fashioned, whereof the appearance was intimately
connected both with the old facts and the new.
Meanwhile, a rainy morning, in which, however, there was a hidden sunlight,
threw a mild illumination into the Hoddon Grey dining-room, upon the
sparely provided breakfast-table, the somewhat austere line of family
portraits on the gray wall, the Chippendale chairs shining with the
hand-polish of generations, the Empire clock of black and ormolu on the
chimney-piece and on the little tan spitz, sitting up with wagging tail and
asking eyes, on Lady William's left. Neither she nor her husband ever took
more than--or anything else than--an egg with their coffee and toast. They
secretly despised people who ate heavy breakfasts, and the extra allowance
made for Edward's young appetite, or for guests, was never more than
frugal. Sir Wilfrid Bury, who was a hearty eater, was accustomed to say of
the Hoddon Grey fare that it deprived the Hoddon Grey fasts--which were
kept according to the strict laws of the Church--of any merit whatever. It
left you nothing to give up.
Nevertheless, this little morning scene at Hoddon Grey possessed, for the
sensitive eye, a peculiar charm. The spaces of the somewhat empty room
matched the bareness of the white linen, the few flowers standing
separately here and there upon it, and the few pieces of old silver. The
absence of any loose abundance of food or gear, the frugal refined note,
were of course symbolic of the life lived in the house. The Newburys were
rich. Their beautifully housed, and beautifully kept estate, with its nobly
adorned churches, its public halls and institutions, proclaimed the fact;
but in their own private sphere it was ignored as much as possible.
"Here he is!" exclaimed Lady William, turning to the door with something of
a flutter. "Oh, Edward, they are lovely!"
Her son laid the dewy bunch beside her plate and then kissed his mother
affectionately.
"Many happy returns!--and you, father! Hullo--mother, you've got a
secret--you're blushing! What's up?"
And still holding Lady William by the arm, he looked smilingly from her to
the jeweler's case on the table.
"They must be reset, dear; but they're fine."
Lady William opened the case, and pushed it toward him. It contained a
necklace and pendant, two bracelets, and a stomacher brooch of diamonds and
sapphire--magnificent stones in a heavy gold setting, whereof the Early
Victorianism cried aloud. The set had been much admired in the great
exhibition of 1851, where indeed it had been bought by Lady William's
father as a present to his wife. Secretly Lady William still thought it
superb; but she was quite aware that no young woman would wear it.
Edward looked at it with amusement.
"The stones are gorgeous. When Cartier's had a go at it, it'll be something
like! I can remember your wearing it, mother, at Court, when I was a small
child. And you're going to give it to Marcia?" He kissed her again.
"Take it, dear, and ask her how she'd like them set," said his mother,
happily, putting the box into his hand; after which he was allowed to sit
down to his breakfast.
Lord William meanwhile had taken no notice of the little incident of
the jewels. He was deep in a letter which seemed to have distracted his
attention entirely from his son and to be causing him distress. When he had
finished it he pushed it away and sat gazing before him as though still
held by the recollection of it.
"I never knew a more sad, a more difficult case," he said, presently,
speaking, it seemed, to himself.
Edward turned with a start.
"Another letter, father?"
Lord William pushed it over to him.
Newbury read it, and as he did so, in his younger face there appeared the
same expression as in his father's; a kind of grave sadness, in which there
was no trace of indecision, though much of trouble. Lady William asked no
question, though in the course of her little pecking meal, she threw some
anxious glances at her husband and son. They preserved a strict silence at
table on the subject of the letter; but as soon as breakfast was over, Lord
William made a sign to his son, and they went out into the garden together,
walking away from the house.
"You know we can't do this, Edward!" said Lord William, with energy, as
soon as they were in solitude.
Edward's eyes assented.
His father resumed, impetuously: "How can I go on in close relations with
a man--my right hand in the estate--almost more than my agent--associated
with all the church institutions and charities--a communicant--secretary
of the communicant's guild!--our friend and helper in all our religious
business--who has been the head and front of the campaign against
immorality in this village--responsible, with us, for many decisions that
must have seemed harsh to poor things in trouble--who yet now proposes,
himself, to maintain what we can only regard--what everybody on this estate
has been taught to regard--as an immoral connection with a married woman!
Of course I understand his plea. The thing is not to be done openly. The
so-called wife is to move away; nothing more is to be seen of her here; but
the supposed marriage is to continue, and they will meet as often as his
business here makes it possible. Meanwhile his powers and duties on this
estate are to be as before. I say the proposal is monstrous! It would
falsify our whole life here,--and make it one ugly hypocrisy!"
There was silence a little. Then Newbury asked:
"You of course made it plain once more--in your letter yesterday--that
there would be no harshness--that as far as money went--"
"I told him he could have _whatever_ was necessary! We wished to force
no man's conscience; but we could not do violence to our own. If they
decided to remain together--then he and we must part; but we would make it
perfectly easy for them to go elsewhere--in England or the colonies.
If they separate, and she will accept the arrangements we propose for
her--then he remains here, our trusted friend and right hand as before."
"It is, of course, the wrench of giving up the farm--"
Lord William raised his hands in protesting distress.
"Perfectly true, of course, that he's given the best years of his life to
it!--that he's got all sorts of experiments on hand--that he can never
build up exactly the same sort of thing elsewhere--that the farm is the
apple of his eye. It's absolutely true--every word of it! But then, why did
he take this desperate step!--without consulting any of his friends! It's
no responsibility of ours!"
The blanched and delicate face of the old man showed the grief, the wound
to personal affection he did not venture to let himself express, mingled
with a rocklike steadiness of will.
"You have heard from the Cloan Sisters?"
"Last night. Nothing could be kinder. There is a little house close by the
Sisterhood where she and the boy could live. They would give her work, and
watch over her, like the angels they are,--and the boy could go to a day
school. But they won't hear of it--they won't listen to it for a moment;
and now--you see--they've put their own alternative plan before us, in
this letter. He said to me, yesterday, that she was not religious by
temperament--that she wouldn't understand the Sisters--nor they her--that
she would be certain to rebel against their rules and regulations--and then
all the old temptations would return. 'I have taken her life upon me,' he
said, 'and I can't give her up. She is mine, and mine she will remain.'
It was terribly touching. I could only say that I was no judge of his
conscience, and never pretended to be; but that he could only remain here
on our terms."
"The letter is curiously excitable--hardly legible even--very unlike
Betts," said Newbury, turning it over thoughtfully.
"That's another complication. He's not himself. That attack of illness has
somehow weakened him. I can't reason with him as I used to do."
The father and son walked on in anxious cogitation, till Newbury observed a
footman coming with a note.
"From Coryston Place, sir. Waiting an answer."
Newbury read it first with eagerness, then with a clouded brow.
"Ask the servant to tell Miss Coryston I shall be with them for luncheon."
When the footman was out of earshot, Newbury turned to his father, his face
showing the quick feeling behind.
"Did you know that Mr. and Mrs. Betts are trying to get at Marcia?"
"No! I thought Coryston might be endeavoring to influence her. That
fellow's absolutely reckless! But what can she have to do with the Bettses
themselves? Really, the questions that young women concern themselves with
to-day!" cried Lord William, not without vehemence. "Marcia must surely
trust you and your judgment in such a matter."
Newbury flushed.
"I'm certain--she will," he said, rather slowly, his eyes on the ground.
"But Mrs. Betts has been to see her."
"A great impertinence! A most improper proceeding!" said Lord William,
hotly. "Is that what her note says? My dear Edward, you must go over
and beg Marcia to let this matter _alone_! It is not for her to be
troubled with at all. She must really leave it to us."
The wandlike old man straightened his white head a trifle haughtily.
* * * * *
A couple of hours later Newbury set out to walk to Coryston. The day was
sultry, and June in all its power ruled the countryside. The hawthorns were
fading; the gorse was over; but the grass and the young wheat were rushing
up, the wild roses threw their garlands on every hedge, and the Coryston
trout-stream, beside which Newbury walked, brimming as it was, on its chalk
bed, would soon be almost masked from sight by the lush growths which
overhung its narrow stream, twisting silverly through the meadows.
The sensitive mind and conscience of a man, alive, through the long
discipline of religion, to many kinds of obligation, were, at this moment,
far from happy, even with this flaming June about him, and the beloved
brought nearer by every step. The thought of Marcia, the recollection of
her face, the expectation of her kiss, thrilled indeed in his veins. He was
not yet thirty, and the forces of his life were still rising. He had never
felt his manhood so vigorous, nor his hopes so high. Nevertheless he was
haunted--pursued--by the thought of those two miserable persons, over whom
he and his father held, it seemed, a power they had certainly never sought,
and hated to exercise. Yet how disobey the Church!--and how ignore the
plain words of her Lord--"_He that marrieth her that is put away
committeth adultery_'"?
"Marriage is for Christians indissoluble. It bears the sacramental stamp.
It is the image, the outward and visible sign of that most awful and
most sacred union between Christ and the soul. To break the church's law
concerning it, and to help others to break it, is--for Christians--to
_sin_. To acquiesce in it, to be a partner to the dissolution of
marriage for such reasons as Mrs. Betts had to furnish, was to injure not
only the Christian church, but the human society, and, in the case of
people with a high social trust, to betray that trust."
These were the ideas, the ideas of his family, and his church, which held
him inexorably. He saw no escape from them. Yet he suffered from the
enforcement of them, suffered truly and sincerely, even in the dawn of his
own young happiness. What could he do to persuade the two offenders to the
only right course!--or if that were impossible, to help them to take up
life again where he and his would not be responsible for what they did or
accomplices in their wrong-doing?
Presently, to shorten his road, he left the park, and took to a lane
outside it. And here he suddenly perceived that he was on the borders of
the experimental farm, that great glory of the estate, famous in the annals
of English country life before John Betts had ever seen it, but doubly
famous during the twenty years that he had been in charge of it. There was
the thirty-acre field like one vast chessboard, made up of small green
plots; where wheat was being constantly tempted and tried with new soils
and new foods; and farmers from both the old and new worlds would come
eagerly to watch and learn. There were the sheds where wheat was grown,
not in open ground, but in pots under shelter; there was the long range of
buildings devoted to cattle, and all the problems of food; there was the
new chemical laboratory which his father had built for John Betts; and
there in the distance was the pretty dwelling-house which now sheltered the
woman from whose presence on the estate all the trouble had arisen.
A trouble which had been greatly aggravated by Coryston's presence on the
scene. Newbury, for all that his heart was full of Marcia, was none the
less sorely indignant with her brother, eager to have it out with him, and
to fling back his charges in his face.
Suddenly, a form appeared behind a gate flanked by high hedges.
Newbury recognized John Betts. A tall, broad-shouldered man, with slightly
grizzled hair, a countenance tanned and seamed by long exposure, and
pale-blue spectacled eyes, opened the gate and stepped into the road.
"I saw you coming, Mr. Edward, and thought I should like a word with you."
"By all means," said Newbury, offering his hand. But Betts took no notice
of it. They moved on together--a striking pair: the younger man, with his
high, narrow brow and strong though slender build, bearing himself with the
unconscious air of authority, given by the military life, and in this case
also, no doubt, by the influence of birth and tradition; as fine a specimen
of the English ruling class at its moral and physical best, as any student
of our social life would be likely to discover; and beside him a figure
round whom the earth-life in its primitive strength seemed to be still
clinging, though the great brain of the man had long since made him its
master and catechist, and not, like the ordinary man of the fields, farmer
or laborer, its slave. He, too, was typical of his class, of that large
modern class of the new countryman, armed by science and a precise
knowledge, which has been developed from the primitive artists of the
world--plowman, reaper, herdsman; who understood nothing and discovered
everything. A strong, taciturn, slightly slouching fellow; vouched for
by the quiet blue eyes, and their honest look; at this moment, however,
clouded by a frown of distress. And between the two men there lay the
memory of years of kindly intercourse--friendship, loyalty, just dealing.
"Your father will have got a letter from me this morning, Mr. Edward,"
began Betts, abruptly.
"He did. I left him writing to you." The young man's voice was singularly
gentle, even deferential.
"You read it, I presume?"
Newbury made a sign of assent.
"Is there any hope for us, Mr. Edward?"
Betts turned to look into his companion's face. A slight tremor in the
normally firm lips betrayed the agitation behind the question.
Newbury's troubled eyes answered him.
"You don't know what it costs us--not to be able to meet you--in that way!"
"You think the arrangement we now propose--would still compromise you?"
"How could we?" pleaded the younger man, with very evident pain. "We should
be aiding and abetting--what we believe to be wrong--conniving at it
indeed; while we led people--deliberately--to believe what was false."
"Then it is still your ultimatum--that we must separate?"
"If you remain here, in our service--our representative. But if you would
only allow us to make the liberal provision we would like to make for
you--elsewhere!"
Betts was silent a little; then he broke out, looking round him.
"I have been twenty years at the head of that farm. I have worked for it
night and day. It's been my life. Other men have worked for their wives
and children. I've worked for the farm. There are experiments going on
there--you know it, Mr. Edward--that have been going on for years. They're
working out now--coming to something--I've earned that reward. How can I
begin anywhere else? Besides, I'm flagging. I'm not the man I was. The
best of me has gone into that farm." He raised his arm to point. "And now,
you're going to drive me from it."
"Oh, Betts--why did you--why _did_ you!" cried Newbury, in a sudden
rush of grief. The other turned.
"Because--a woman came--and clung to me! Mr. Edward, when you were a boy
I saw you once take up a wounded leveret in the fields--a tiny thing. You
made yourself kill it for mercy's sake--and then you sat down and cried
over it--for the thought of all it had suffered. Well, my wife--she
_is_ my wife too!--is to me like that wounded thing. Only I've given
her _life_!--and he that takes her from me will kill her."
"And the actual words of our Blessed Lord, Betts, matter nothing to you?"
Newbury spoke with a sudden yet controlled passion. "I have heard you quote
them often. You seemed to believe and feel with us. You signed a petition
we all sent to the Bishop only last year."
"That seems so long ago, Mr. Edward,--so long ago. I've been through a lot
since--a lot--" repeated Betts, absently, as though his mind had suddenly
escaped from the conversation into some dream of its own. Then he came to a
stop.
"Well, good morning to you, sir--good morning. There's something doing in
the laboratory I must be looking after."
"Let me come and talk to you to-night, Betts! We have some notion of a
Canadian opening that might attract you. You know the great Government farm
near Ottawa? Why not allow my father to write to the Director--"
Betts interrupted.
"Come when you like, Mr. Edward. Thank you kindly. But--it's no good--no
good."
The voice dropped.
With a slight gesture of farewell, Betts walked away.
Newbury went on his road, a prey to very great disturbance of mind. The
patience--humbleness even--of Betts's manner struck a pang to the young
man's heart. The farm director was generally a man of bluff, outspoken
address, quick-tempered, and not at all accustomed to mince his words.
What Newbury perceived was a man only half persuaded by his own position;
determined to cling to it, yet unable to justify it, because, in truth, the
ideas put up against him by Newbury and his father were the ideas on which
a large section of his own life had been based. It is not for nothing that
a man is for years a devout communicant, and in touch thereby with all the
circle of beliefs on which Catholicism, whether of the Roman or Anglican
sort, depends.
The white towers of Coryston appeared among the trees. His steps quickened.
Would she come to meet him?
Then his mind filled with repugnance. _Must_ he discuss this
melancholy business again with her--with Marcia? How could he? It was not
right!--not seemly! He thought with horror of the interview between her
and Mrs. Betts--his stainless Marcia, and that little besmirched woman, of
whose life between the dissolution of her first marriage, and her meeting
with Betts, the Newburys knew more than they wished to know, more, they
believed, than Betts himself knew.
And the whole June day protested with him--its beauty, the clean radiance
of the woods, the limpid flashing of the stream....
He hurried on. Ah, there she was!--a fluttering vision through the
new-leafed trees.
The wood was deep--spectators none. She came to his arms, and lightly
clasped her own round his neck, hiding her face....
When they moved on together, hand in hand, Marcia, instinctively putting
off what must be painful, spoke first of the domestic scene of the day
before--of Arthur and her mother--and the revelation sprung upon them all.
"You remember how _terrified_ I was--lest mother should know? And
she's taken it so calmly!"
She told the story. Lady Coryston, it seemed, had canceled all the
arrangements for the Coryston meeting, and spoke no more of it. She was
cool and distant, indeed, toward Arthur, but only those who knew her well
would perhaps have noticed it. And he, on his side, having gained his
point, had been showing himself particularly amiable; had gone off that
morning to pay political visits in the division; and was doing his duty in
the afternoon by captaining the village cricket team in their Whitsuntide
match. But next week, of course, he would be in London again for the
reassembling of Parliament, and hanging about the Glenwilliams' house, as
before.
"They're not engaged?"
"Oh dear, no! Coryston doesn't believe _she_ means it seriously at
all. He also thinks that mother is plotting something."
"When can I see Coryston?" Newbury turned to her with a rather forced
smile. "You know, darling, he'll have to get used to me as a brother!"
"He says he wants to see you--to--to have it out with you," said Marcia,
awkwardly. Then with a sudden movement, she clasped both her hands round
Newbury's arm.
"Edward!--do--_do_ make us all happy!"
He looked down on the liquid eyes, the fresh young face raised appealingly
to his.
"How can I make you happy?" He lifted one hand and kissed it. "You
darling!--what can I do?"
But as he spoke he knew what she meant and dreaded the coming moment. That
she should ask anything in these magical days that he could not at once lay
at her feet!--she, who had promised him herself!
"_Please_--let Mr. Betts stay--please, Edward! Oh, I was so sorry for
her yesterday!"
"We are all so sorry for her," he said, after a pause. "My father and
mother will do all they can."
"Then you _will_ let him stay?" Her white brow dropped caressingly
against him.
"Of course!--if he will only accept my father's conditions," he said,
unwillingly, hating to see her bright look darkening.
She straightened herself.
"If they separate, you mean?"
"I'm afraid that's what they ought to do."
"But it would break their hearts."
He threw her a sudden flashing look, as though a sword gleamed.
"It would make amends."
"For what they have done? But they don't feel like that!" she pleaded, her
color rising. "They think themselves properly married, and that no one
has a right to interfere with them. And when the law says so too,
Edward?--Won't everybody think it _very_ hard?"
"Yes, we shall be blamed," he said, quietly. "But don't you see, dearest,
that, if they stay, we seem to condone the marriage, to say that it doesn't
matter,--what they have done?--when in truth it seems to us a black
offense--"
"Against what--or whom?" she asked, wondering.
The answer came unflinchingly:
"Against our Lord--and His Church."
The revolt within showed itself in her shining eyes.
"Ought we to set up these standards for other people? And they don't ask to
stay _here_!--at least she doesn't. That's what Mrs. Betts came to say
to me--"
Marcia threw herself into an eager recapitulation of Mrs. Betts's
arguments. Her innocence, her ignorance, her power of feeling, and her
instinctive claim to have her own way and get what she wanted,--were
all perceptible in her pleading. Newbury listened with discomfort and
distress--not yielding, however, by the fraction of an inch, as she soon
discovered. When she came to an abrupt pause, the wounded pride of a
foreseen rebuff dawning in her face, Newbury broke out:
"Darling, I _can't_ discuss it with you! Won't you trust me--Won't
you believe that neither father nor I would cause these poor things one
moment's pain--if we could help it?"
Marcia drew away from him. He divined the hurt in her as she began twisting
and untwisting a ribbon from her belt, while her lip trembled.
"I can't understand," she said, frowning--"I can't!"
"I know you can't. But won't you trust me? Dearest, you're going to trust
me with your whole life? Won't you?"
He took her in his arms, bending his handsome head to hers, pleading with
her in murmured words and caresses. And again she was conquered, she gave
way; not without a galling consciousness of being refused, but thrilled all
the same by the very fact that her lover could refuse her, in these first
moments of their love. It brought home to her once more that touch of
inaccessible strength, of mysterious command in Newbury, which from the
beginning had both teased and won her.
But it was on her conscience at least to repeat to him what Coryston had
said. She released herself to do it.
"Coryston said, Edward, I was to tell you to 'take care.' He has seen Mr.
and Mrs. Betts, and he says they are very excitable people--and very much
in love. He can't tell what might happen."
Newbury's face stiffened.
"I think I know them as well as Coryston. We will take every care, dearest.
And as for thinking of it--why, it's hardly ever out of my mind--except
when I'm with you! It hangs over me from morn till night."
Then at last she let the subject be dismissed; and they loitered home
through the woods, drawing into their young veins the scents and hues of
the June day. They were at that stage in love, when love has everything to
learn, and learns it through ways as old and sweet as life. Each lover is
discovering the other, and over the process, Nature, with her own ends in
view, throws the eternal glamour.
Yet before they reached the house the "sweet bells" in Marcia's
consciousness were once more jangling. There could be nothing but pleasure,
indeed, in confessing how each was first attracted to the other; in
clearing up the little misunderstandings of courtship; in planning for the
future--the honeymoon--their London house--the rooms at Hoddon Grey that
were to be refurnished for them. Lady William's jewels emerged from
Newbury's pocket, and Marcia blazed with them, there and then, under the
trees. They laughed together at the ugly setting, and planned a new one.
But then a mention by Newbury of the Oxford friend who was to be his "best
man" set him talking of the group of men who had been till now the leading
influence in his life--friends made at Oxford, and belonging all of them to
that younger High Church party of which he seemed to be the leader. Of two
of them especially he talked with eager affection; one, an overworked
High Churchman, with a parish in South London; another who belonged to a
"Community," the Community of the Ascension, and was soon to go out to a
mission-station in a very lonely and plague-stricken part of India.
And gradually, as he talked, Marcia fell silent. The persons he was
speaking of, and the ideas they represented, were quite strange to her;
although, as a matter of mere information, she knew of course that such
people and such institutions existed. She was touched at first, then
chilled, and if the truth be told--bored. It was with such topics, as
with the Hoddon Grey view of the Betts case. Something in her could not
understand.
She guided him deftly back to music, to the opera, to the night of
Iphigenia. No jarring there! Each mind kindled the other, in a common
delight. Presently they swung along, hand in hand, laughing, quoting,
reminding each other of this fine thing, and that. Newbury was a
considerable musician; Marcia was accustomed to be thought so. There was a
new and singular joy in feeling herself but a novice and ignoramus beside
him.
"How much you know!"--and then, shyly--"You must teach me!" With the
inevitable male retort--"Teach you!--when you look at me like that!"
It was a golden hour. Yet when Marcia went to take off her hat before
luncheon, and stood absently before the glass in a flush of happiness, it
was as though suddenly a door opened behind her, and two sad and ghostly
figures entered the room of life, pricking her with sharp remorse for
having forgotten them.
And when she rejoined Newbury down-stairs, it seemed to her, from his
silent and subdued manner, that something of the same kind had happened
also to him.
* * * * *
"You haven't tackled Coryston yet?" said Sir Wilfrid, as he and Newbury
walked back toward Hoddon Grey in the late afternoon, leaving Marcia
and Lady Coryston in the clutches of a dressmaker, who had filled the
drawing-room with a gleaming show of "English silks," that being Lady
Coryston's special and peremptory command for the _trousseau_.
"No. He hasn't even vouchsafed me a letter."
Newbury laughed; but Sir Wilfrid perceived the hurt feeling which mingled
with the laugh.
"Absurd fellow!" said Sir Wilfrid. "His proceedings here amuse me a good
deal--but they naturally annoy his mother. You have heard of the business
with the Baptists?"
Newbury had seen some account of it in the local paper.
"Well now they've got their land--through Coryston. There always was a
square piece in the very middle of the village--an _enclave_ belonging
to an old maid, the daughter of a man who was a former butler of the
Corystons, generations ago. She had migrated to Edinburgh, but Coryston
has found her, got at her, and made her sell it--finding, I believe, the
greater part of the money. It won't be long before he'll be laying the
foundation-stone of the new Bethel--under his mother's nose."
"A truly kind and filial thing to do!" said the young High Churchman,
flushing.
Sir Wilfrid eyed him slyly.
"Moral--don't keep a conscience--political or ecclesiastical. There's
nothing but mischief comes of it. And, for Heaven's sake, don't be a
posthumous villain!"
"What's that?"
"A man who makes an unjust will, and leaves everything to his wife," said
Sir Wilfrid, calmly. "It's played the deuce in this family, and will go on
doing it."
Whereupon the late Lord Coryston's executor produced an outline of the
family history--up to date--for the benefit of Lady Coryston's future
son-in-law. Newbury, who was always singularly ignorant of the town gossip
on such matters, received it with amazement. Nothing could be more unlike
the strictly traditional ways which governed his own family in matters of
money and inheritance.
"So Arthur inherits everything!"
"Hm--does he?" said Sir Wilfrid.
"But I thought--"
"Wait and see, my dear fellow, wait and see. He will only marry Miss
Glenwilliam over his mother's body--and if he does marry her he may whistle
for the estates."
"Then James will have them?" said Newbury, smiling.
"Why not Marcia? She has as good a chance as anybody."
"I hope not!" Newbury's tone showed a genuine discomfort.
"What is Lady Coryston doing?"
"About the Glenwilliam affair? Ah!--what isn't she doing?" said Sir
Wilfrid, significantly. "All the same, she lies low." As he spoke, his eyes
fell upon the hillside and on the white cottage of the Atherstones emerging
from the wood. He pointed.
"They will be there on Sunday fortnight--after the Martover meeting."
"Who? The Glenwilliams?"
Sir Wilfrid nodded.
"And I am of opinion that something will happen. When two highly
inflammable bodies approach each other, something generally does happen."