A NEW LORD.
Sir William Chester came home to England to die. He had felt it when
leaving India; he had felt it on the voyage, and he had become assured
of it ere long after he had reached the fatherland.
He had made no movement towards ejecting his tenant from Leyburn Abbey.
He had found rest and shelter at Allerdale, and had very soon come to
love the old earl as he would have loved a father.
And the earl had quickly learned to love him. It had not needed the good
word of his son. His own heart had found the lovable man; and love had
been given without stint.
And the little Cordelia, now completing her twelfth year--she was like a
ray of blessed sunlight in the old castle.
She was a plump little thing, bright and winsome, her silken locks
giving promise of a rich golden brown; her large gray eyes, like twin
stars, full of laughter and full of warm, impulsive love.
Where she loved she would love with all her heart; and strange as it may
appear, her first and warmest love was given to the old earl--“Gran’pa,”
she called him, with her two dimpled arms round his neck and her rosy
lips pressed upon his cheek.
And the love that Lord Allerdale gave to the bright-faced little girl
became part of his very life. He could not, after a time, bear to have
her away from him.
He held her on his knee; he carried her in his arms; he led her in the
court and in the park, and he played with her; in short, in her society
he renewed, not his youth, but his very childhood. What a happy old man
he was when the little child had him in full subjection.
Lord Oakleigh had spoken of another as the prospective playmate of
Cordelia--his son, Matthew.
And Matthew Brandon played with her often, though she would always leave
him for the companionship of his grandfather.
Matthew Brandon was now entering his sixteenth years--just the age of
the smuggler’s son. He was not what would be called a handsome boy.
His complexion was dark; his hair intensely black; and his eyes, deeply
set in their sockets, were small, with an unusually narrow space between
them.
His face was not a mirror of frankness; and the servants were painfully
aware of two lamentable facts: First, he could be cruel and vengeful;
and second, he could lie. Of this, however, his grandfather was
ignorant.
The servants loved him too well to pain him by the telling, while the
boy was wise and wary enough to hide his darker side from those who had
authority to punish.
On the same November day that saw the smuggler chief lay dying in the
stone cottage by the Cove, Sir William Chester lay dying in one of the
tapestried chambers of Allerdale Castle.
He had sent for Matthew, and the boy had come--had come reluctantly
enough from the making of a rabbit-trap.
With his failing hand on the lad’s head, Sir William told him of his
father--told him what a good, true and loyal man he was.
“And may I not hope, my boy, that you will grow up to be like him? You
don’t know how dearly he loves you; how proud he is of his son; nor do
you realize how much of his joy and gladness in the future is dependent
upon your success in life. Oh! Matthew! Matthew! Will you not strive,
with all your might, to make your father happy and blessed? You can do
it. Let him know that his beloved boy is good and true, and honest, and
kind of heart--let him know this, and he will be as happy as a man can
be. You will try, won’t you?”
The boy kicked at the carpet with his foot; he gazed out at a
neighboring window; gazed everywhere save into the watchful eyes of the
speaker.
At length, when the baronet had finished what he had to say, Master
Matthew grunted out a dubious--“Yes--I s’pose so”--and speedily
thereafter sought his trap.
After this the baronet called his little daughter to his bedside; and
when he had kissed her he fancied that he saw a cloud on her open brow
and a look of disappointment in her bright eyes.
“What is the matter with my darling?” he asked, drawing her head down
upon his pillow.
And pretty soon it came out. Percy had promised her that he would come
up that afternoon and help her in her lessons.
Practically he had become her teacher, and she looked forward to his
coming with so much of eagerness that failure on his part became to her
a bitter disappointment.
“Well, well, little pet, do not worry. He may come yet.”
“No, no, papa, he cannot come. His papa is sick, and is dying! Oh! think
of it! He will never have a papa any more. Dear papa! you won’t die,
will you? Oh, tell me that you will not!”
A convulsion shook the dying man from head to foot. He had spoken to his
child of death, had sought to accustom her to the thought; but not yet
had he told her that he was surely leaving her.
He could not do it now--could not tell her that he was dying; but he
told her she must be brave and strong; and she must remember that, even
though he should be taken from her, she would have her dear grandpa
left, who would love her always.
With regard to Percy, of whom his daughter had spoken, the baronet had
no fixed thoughts of any kind. He knew the boy--knew him to be the son
of a man who was said to be a noted smuggler; but, somehow, the idea of
smuggling, as an offence, did not strike him with anything akin to
horror.
On the contrary, he thought of it without pain and even without
bitterness. Though he would not have willingly admitted a smuggler to
his friendship, he would not make war against him. And, further, he
would not visit the sins of the father upon the head of the child.
He had met Percy Maitland, and had spoken with him, and had been most
agreeably surprised by the beauty of person, and his evident beauty and
purity of mind.
He had seen enough of the boy to feel assured that the errors of the
sire had not in the least given taint to the son.
Another thing had wrought somewhat upon Sir William’s mind with regard
to Percy Maitland. When he had become acquainted with him, the first
thought that came to him thereafter found vent in these words, spoken
aloud, to himself:
“Oh, what would I give if Matthew could be like that boy! What a
blessing he might be to his father! What a blessing to us all!”
He knew that during the summer Cordelia had become not only acquainted,
but intimate with the smuggler’s son. One day the little pet had
surprised her father by asking him a question in very good French.
“For mercy’s sake! where did you learn that?” he had asked her.
“Ho! Percy taught me; and he is going to teach me to read French. Won’t
it be nice?”
And the baronet had suffered it to go on. It was enough for him that his
child was the happier for this friendship; and, further, that under its
influence she was really improving.
She was learning rapidly. Of danger in the future he never thought.
As the day drew towards its close Sir William found himself alone with
the earl. The legal steps necessary towards constituting the latter
guardian of the child, with full authority, had all been taken, and it
only remained for him to give such instructions as he had to give.
The papers had been filled out, signed, sealed and witnessed some time
before, and the earl had them in his possession, ready to act when the
time should come.
“Lord Allerdale,” said the baronet, when all preliminary matters had
been disposed of. “I shall not see the light of another day. You know
that.”
“I suppose,” replied the earl, with a faint, fleeting smile, “if I would
be in the fashion I ought to declare that I do not know any such thing;
but alas! I know it but too well. Still, I will give you more time than
that. You shall not leave us to-night, nor yet to-morrow. No, no--we
must keep you for days to come, if not for weeks.”
“Well, well,” rejoined the invalid, quickly, “be sure I will live if I
can; but we will be on the safe side. The few directions I have to give
you I will give you now, and then the end may come when it will. It will
find us prepared.”
“You are right in that, William. What you have to say to me I would have
you say at once. And I am anxious to know your wishes. Remember, you
have given your child into my care and keeping; and, though you have
confidence in my judgment, yet I would have from you certain directions
for my guidance.”
“I have confidence in your judgment, my lord,” said the baronet, with a
warm light in his failing eyes, “but it is in your great love--in the
goodness of your heart--that I most hopefully trust, for I know you will
love my darling when I am gone. I know it.”
“Love her!” repeated the old man, the tones seeming to come from the
profoundest depths of his heart, “I shall love her now--as a bright
angel, given to bless and brighten and beautify the evening of my life!
Oh! I have no words that can tell my love for the little seraph.”
For a time both the men gave way to their feelings in silence. At length
the baronet broke the spell.
“My lord, you have spoken of directions from me. I have one or two to
give you, and that is all. And here let us speak frankly. The time was
when, I know, your son had a wish that his boy and my little girl should
grow up to become husband and wife. Perhaps, at one time, I may have had
some such thought; but, with my present light, I certainly cannot wish
it. Matthew must grow up to be a different man from what he now gives
promise of being if he would look upon my daughter with the thought of
making her his wife. Surely, my lord, you will agree with me, in this?”
“Yes, yes, Sir William, I do, certainly,” the earl answered sadly. “I
have often wished that Matthew was different; and I have never held the
wish so deeply as I have done since I have known your darling. Oh! if
the boy were worthy of her how happy we all might be! But, who shall say
what may happen? He is young yet. What he may be when he shall have
grown to manhood we can not tell.”
“That is so,” nodded the baronet thoughtfully. After a little pause he
added: “But, my lord, you will promise me, unless Matthew shall be truly
worthy--in every way a good and reliable man--you will not allow him to
offer love to Cordelia?”
“Yes, William, I promise that. But the promise was not needed. The good
of your child will be to me as precious and as eagerly cared for as my
own life could be.”
“Another promise I would have, my lord; Cordelia shall never be urged to
marry against her will. Oh! what misery have I seen from that cause! A
marriage without love! It is a sin--a crime against common humanity, if
not against heaven! Let my child be reared as I know you will rear her,
and her own heart will be the safest, surest guide to happiness and
peace in the future.”
“Sir William,” the old man replied, with deep feeling, “I give you that
promise from my heart. Your sweet child shall never, with my consent be
asked to wed without love. If I had a daughter of my own, it should be
my chief desire--I may say, the end and aim of my life, to make her
happy. I would keep her pure, and good and true; being well assured that
in her blessedness my own greatest blessing of life would be found. And,
my dear son--for you are as a son to me--I will do by your daughter as I
would by a daughter of my own.”
Sir William murmured a few words in grateful response; but they were not
needed. His tears, and the impulsive grasp of his feeble hand, spoke
louder than any words could have done.
“Dear father,” the sick man said, breaking in upon a silence that lasted
a full minute, he still held the earl’s hand, not having relinquished it
since he had caught it in his impulse of gratitude. “My dear father, if
I may call you so--”
“Never call me by any other name,” the aged nobleman interposed. He
gazed for a few seconds into the pale, wan face upon the pillow, tears
starting from his eyes while he did so; and then resumed: “William, my
son, I know not why it is, but it is a fact nevertheless, a fact that
you have won a place in my heart close by the side of my own noble boy.
Ah! you know I may call him noble.”
“I never knew a nobler man,” the baronet responded quickly.
“Bless you!” the earl went on, two big tears starting down his ruddy
cheeks as he spoke.
“I was saying that I could not understand it. I cannot quite understand
the way and manner in which my heart has gone out to you. It is not that
I love you. No, no. I could not have helped doing that had I tried. No;
the mystery is this. In losing you or in contemplating your loss, I feel
as though I were losing my all of life. Little Cordelia will be my only
love.”
“My lord! Do you forget your son?”
The old man shook his head with dubious look and motion, while a shadow
that told of pain rested on his face.
“No,” he answered, “I think of him continually.” He paused a moment, and
then abruptly asked: “William, are you inclined to laugh at
presentiments?”
“No, my lord, far from it. I have had presentiments of my own that were
later fulfilled to the letter.”
“Chester, you speak of my son. It is a presentiment I have in relation
to him that has drawn my heart so closely to yourself. Something tells
me I shall see him never again on earth. It is not the result of a
dream; it is not a weird fancy; it has come to me like a revelation, and
I cannot put it away. But let it pass. I will not darken your last hours
of life with my gloomsome forebodings. Had you not another request to
make of me in relation to your child?”
The baronet had evidently thought to combat the unhappy presentiment of
his old friend, but when that friend had himself proposed that the
subject be dropped he had no desire to reopen it. To the last question
he replied, after a little reflection:
“Yes, my lord, there is one other subject upon which I wish to speak. I
believe my worldly affairs--affairs of property--are all settled. My
agent at Leyburn will account to you annually in the matter of rents.
The amount will be from £15,000 to £18,000 a year. Something must be
allowed for repairs and improvements. That agent, I think, is strictly
honest; yet it may be well for you to have an eye on the estate for
yourself. The distance is not great. You can go and return, with plenty
of time for business, in two days, with only one night away from your
home.
“My bank account will give you £10,000 more, as it now stands. Of course
you will be adding to it from the returns of the agent. Thus you will
see, I shall leave behind for my child an annual income of at least
£25,000.”
“And you would request me to look after this?” broke in the earl, with a
surprise which he did not attempt to hide. “My dear Sir William, do you
suppose--”
“My lord! My dear father--!” cried the baronet, as soon as he could gain
the power of speech--for his powers were failing rapidly, “how could you
mistake me? Bless my soul! I should as soon have thought of asking you
to be kind and merciful to little Cordelia! Oh! no, no: I will tell you
what I had to ask, and I pointed out the sum and substance of the dear
one’s wealth to show that my request was reasonable--that the cost would
not stand in the way of its fulfillment.
“My lord--listen: It is my earnest desire that my child shall never be
sent away from your immediate care--never from your castle while you
find home in it--never away from your daily loving sight--for the
purpose of attending any school. She can have tutors here; and she shall
be taught whatever she desires to know.”
And he then went on to enumerate the more important branches of
education that had occurred to him. In the end, said the earl, holding
his friend’s hand while he spoke:
“My dear William, it shall be as you have said; and, I may add, it would
have been so if you had not spoken. Expense! Pshaw! Why bless and save
us! I can’t spend the twentieth part of my income in the ordinary way of
living. If I spend a portion of it for the good of our little cherub, I
shall be happy. However, that is all understood. And now, is there not
something more?”
“No, I think of nothing, It is growing dark.”
“Yes; the sun is near its setting.”
“Near its setting? What do you mean? It must have set long ago.”
“Certainly not. Open your eyes--there. Do you see where the sunbeams
fall upon the wainscot, near the door?”
The baronet turned his face in the direction pointed out and shook his
head in disappointment.
“I can not see it. It is dark--dark. My lord.”
“Here, William. What is it?” Thus speaking, the earl moved softly back
to the bedside and took the baronet’s thin, cold hand in his own warm
grasp. “Have you something more to say?”
Chester looked up half vacantly but with an expression of eagerness not
to be mistaken.
“Yes. Sit down, my lord.”
“I am sitting. Do you not see?”
“Not plainly; but I can feel your hand.” He paused here, and for a brief
space seemed buried in profound thought. At length he turned the poor
sightless eyes once more toward his host, and went on, with deep and
anxious feeling:
“Lord Allerdale, will you tell me what is your plan in regard to
Matthew. Is he to live here always with you?”
“Would it give you relief if I should answer you in the negative?”
“Oh! my lord! Do not think I would seek to drive the boy from his proper
home. No! no! no! no! Yet--yet--you will not allow him to--”
“Stop! Stop where you are, William, and let me think a little bit.” With
this the earl took a turn across the room with his head bowed and his
arms folded on his breast. When he came back his countenance had cleared
and a brighter look was on his face than had been there for a
considerable time.
“My dear Chester,” he said with frank sincerity, “within these few
moments last past I have resolved upon an important step. Matthew has
for a long time been teasing me to let him go to school with a friend of
his at Oxford. It is a private establishment, wherein youths are
prepared for entering college. I have thought it all over, and have come
to the conclusion that he will be better off there than here. I shall
let him go.”
Sir William tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His face, however,
in the quick bright light that flashed upon it, told how much the earl’s
speech had comforted him. He had conceived a deep, harrowing dread of
the influence of Matthew Brandon over his sweet child.
The sun had set and the shades of evening had fallen when Sir William
Chester found strength to ask for his daughter.
She came and laid her head beside his own on the pillow. He kissed her
and breathed a whispered blessing; and shortly thereafter the earl took
her down into his lap.
A few moments later the dying man gave a sudden start, and put forth
both his hands, as toward an object in the vacancy above him--the hands,
which for two hours and more he had not been able to lift to his lips.
But they were lifted now, and strongly upheld; and at the same time a
celestial light beamed in his eyes, and brightened his death-white face.
“George! George!” he cried, in seeming ecstasy, “I come! I come! Oh!
this is rest!” And that was the last. His hands fell back upon his
hushed bosom. With those words on his lips, and that ecstatic smile upon
his face, he died. But the strangest part was to come; though the earl
was not unprepared for it. The dying words of Sir William--the evident
vision that had called them forth--had impressed him deeply. He could
not believe they had been meaningless.
Four months had passed after the death of the baronet, when word came
from India that George Brandon, Lord Oakleigh, was dead. He had died not
more than three or four hours before Sir William Chester had breathed
his last.
And thus, by one of those curious dispensations of Providence, given, it
would almost seem, on purpose to puzzle us, a boy in his sixteenth year,
more fit for the pillory than for a title--Matthew Brandon--had become
Lord Oakleigh.
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