AN UNLOOKED-FOR INHERITANCE.
A week before, Paul Lessing and his only sister Sally had started for a
three week's tour on the continent, with as light-hearted a sense of
enjoyment as any boy or girl home for the summer vacation. They were
orphans, with only each other to care for; and Paul had not feared to
take up some of their slender capital to enable his sister to complete
her college course at Girton. If she had to earn her own living, she
should at least have the best education that money could give; and
Sally had made the best use of her opportunity. Her name was high in
the honour list, and Paul decreed that, before any plans were discussed
for her future, they should dedicate a certain sum to a foreign tour.
"It will be a good investment, Sally. You are looking pale after all
your work. We will make no definite plan; it's distance that swallows
up the money, so we'll start off for Brussels, and move on when we feel
inclined, possibly to the Rhine, and so to Heidelberg." And Sally, in
the joyousness of her mood, felt that all places would be alike
delightful in the company of her brother.
Two days later found the brother and sister seated in the garden of the
_café_ that adjoins the park at Brussels. Even now, at eight o'clock
in the evening, it was exceedingly hot, and the boughs of the trees
overhead, through which here and there a star glimmered, were
absolutely motionless. The band which played was the best string-band
in Brussels, attracting a great throng of listeners; and every table
around them had its complement of guests; and the civil waiters who
flitted hither and thither had almost more than they could do to keep
the tables properly served. Paul was smoking and reading the paper,
but Sally needed no better amusement than to watch the various groups
about her, and to listen to the exquisite playing of the band.
"We want something like this in England, Paul," she said, laying a hand
on his arm--"lots of places like this out-of-doors in the fresh air,
under the stars and trees, where people can go and drink their tea or
coffee, and listen to music that must refine them whilst they listen."
Paul laid by his paper and laughed. "Yes," he said, "and when I get
into Parliament--if ever--I will do my utmost to make some of our
wealthy citizens disgorge a part of their wealth to put places such as
this within the reach of everybody. I confess there are
difficulties----"
"What?" inquired Sally, with childish impatience.
"Our beastly climate, to begin with," Paul answered with a little
laugh. "Want of space, and want of trees when you get the space. Then
look at our population in our big cities. Brussels is just a
pocket-town, if you come to compare it with London. Of course the
recreation of the masses is only one of the many vexed questions
concerning them that Government eventually must take in hand. If you
want people to be moral, you must give them a chance of enjoying
themselves in an innocent fashion."
"Of course, you could do a lot if you once got into Parliament!" cried
Sally, with the enthusiasm of her twenty years. "When shall you get
in? and where shall you stand for? and may I help in the election?"
Paul laughed louder than before. "There's a deal to be done before I
can even think of standing for any place. First, I must accumulate
enough capital to bring me in a small independent income. You know we
have not much now."
"You can have anything and everything that belongs to me; I mean to
earn my living somehow," declared Sally, sturdily.
"Thank you. I don't mean to start that way; and money comes in slowly
to a barrister, although I am getting on fairly well. Then I will
stand for any place that will return me, after learning my honestly
expressed political opinions. Each man has his pet hobby, and I feel
that mine is the bettering of the condition of the masses."
"That will make you popular," said Sally.
"And I don't care a fig for popularity. I want to help to leave the
average condition of the people better than it is at present. The
contrast between the very rich and the very poor of our land is
something too awful to contemplate."
His talk, which he had begun half in play, had ended in deadly earnest;
and Sally laid her hand mischievously over his eyes.
"Then don't contemplate it--at any rate just now, when I am so merry
and happy. You've not answered my last question. May I help in your
election? It would be such fun."
"I think not, Sally," Paul said smiling again.
"Oh, what a mass of inconsistency!--when you were saying only to-day
that you saw no just cause or impediment why women should not do
anything for which they have a special fitness. Now I feel politics
will be my speciality, and I would not canvass for any one unless I
quite understood their views."
"Well, my Parliamentary career is in the far future," Paul interposed;
"and certainly I should not give my sanction to your undertaking any
work of that kind at present. You are much too young, and much too----"
"Pretty, were you going to add?" broke in Sally, with a ripple of
laughter. "I'm afraid not: enthusiastic would be the more likely
adjective for you to use concerning me. Besides I don't think I am
pretty. 'My dear,' said that candid old Miss Sykes to me the other
day, 'you might have been very good-looking if all your features were
as good as your eyes.' Why do ladies of a certain age take it for
granted that they can say what they choose to the budding young woman?
It annoys me frightfully. Oh, Paul!" with a sudden lowering of her
voice, "talking of pretty, there's a perfectly lovely girl who is
seated with her mother at the third table from ours. Don't turn your
head too quickly or she will think we are talking of her; and then you
can keep your head turned in the direction of the band. Her profile
comes in between it and you."
Paul did as he was bid. Sally was right, the girl to whom she directed
his attention was lovely beyond compare; and yet there was something in
her face that failed to satisfy him. The very perfection, too, of
everything about her, gave him a feeling of unconscious irritation.
"Well?" asked Sally, when he turned back to her.
"She's beautiful, certainly; but I don't like her."
"It's just because you did not discover her first."
Paul did not trouble to answer; there was a general stir amongst the
company. The concert was drawing to a close, and the burghers of
Brussels began to think of home and bed. The wives slipped their
knitting into their pocket; the husbands bestowed a passing nod and
guttural good night to each other as they moved away; and the twinkling
lights began to be extinguished one by one. In the crowd at the
entrance Paul and Sally found themselves close to the girl whom Sally
had so greatly admired. She was talking in low, clear tones to her
mother.
"Ought not to have come? What nonsense, mother! It has been quite an
amusing experience to see the way these people pass their evenings;
they are quite nice and respectable. I confess now I should be glad to
see our carriage. I feel I'm getting smoke-dried like bacon--or ham,
is it?"
It was evident that the elder of the two ladies was rather frightened
and losing her head.
"I'll not do this again without a man of our own," she said with
nervous irritability.
Paul stepped forward, raising his hat. "Is your carriage anywhere
about? Can I get it for you?"
"Oh, thank you so much. It's a private one from the Hotel de Flandres,
and I told the man to stop here."
"Unfortunately the police regulations interfere with your orders," Paul
said, with a slight smile. "He must take his place in the ranks. I
will soon find it for you if you will stay here."
"Name, Webster," said the older lady.
So Paul, with a nod to Sally to stay where she was, hurried off,
returning in a moment with the carriage.
"Thanks so much," said the girl whom Sally admired, as Paul handed her
in and closed the door behind her.
"I was quite glad of the time to consider her more closely!" cried
Sally, as they drove off. "I've never seen what I call an absolutely
perfect face before. I wonder if I shall see her again?"
"For my part I don't wish it," Paul answered carelessly. "Beautiful
she is; but she bears the knowledge of it about with her like an
overpowering perfume, and is the very impersonation of the insolence of
riches!"
"Why, Paul, you are not often either narrow-minded or unjust."
"How dare she comment upon these Belgians, who nearly all possess a
smattering of English, under their very noses!" continued Paul,
angrily. "'Quite nice and respectable,' indeed! As she and her mother
were in a fix I was bound, as a man, to offer my services; but I did it
unwillingly."
Paul's indignation was short-lived, and he and Sally walked along the
streets leisurely, on their way back to their hotel, talking on
indifferent subjects. They paused in the hall of the hotel, running
their eyes over the letters displayed outside the post-office, to see
if the evening post had brought any for them. There were none for
Sally; but two or three for Paul, that had been forwarded from his
chambers in London.
"I'll go into the salon and read them, and then we'll go upstairs to
bed. I feel infected by the early hours of these foreigners," he said,
yawning a little.
Sally turned over the leaves of a paper whilst her brother opened his
letters. The last of them he read and re-read several times; then rose
and laid his hand on Sally's shoulder.
"I'm awfully sorry, Sally, but I shall have to go back to London by the
first train to-morrow."
The long-drawn "O-o-o-h!" was powerless to express half the
disappointment his sister felt.
"It's business, I suppose: everything nasty is always business," she
said at last.
"Well, no, it's not business; and it certainly is not pleasure. You
remember I had an old godfather, Major Lessing? I'm sure he amply
fulfilled his godfatherly duty by the silver milk-jug he gave me at my
baptism--which I've never set eyes on for many a long year, by the
way--and the tips he shoved into the palm of my hand whenever I paid
him a visit on my way from school. I don't think I've seen him since;
and why, now that he's dying, he has a particular desire for a call, I
can't tell you. It's inconvenient, to say the least of it."
"_Must_ you go?" asked Sally, despairingly.
"I'm afraid so. It's the last thing one can do for him, poor old chap!"
"He might have chosen some other time to be ill," said Sally, who, not
knowing the major, was inclined to be heartless.
"Well, yes. But we won't lose our holiday; we'll come again later,
Sally."
"We shan't! I'm perfectly certain we shan't!" cried Sally, turning
away her head so that Paul should not see that there were tears in her
eyes. "It was too delightful a plan to carry out."
The next day found Paul and his sister back in London. Sally was to go
to an aunt for a few days, until Paul could settle his plans; and when
he had seen her off from the station, he turned his own steps in the
direction of the quiet square where his godfather had spent his
solitary life since the days of his retirement from active service.
His eyes turned instinctively to the windows, to see if the blinds were
drawn down; but the house wore its usual aspect of dignified reserve,
with its slightly opened casements. The imperturbable butler, who
answered Paul's ring at the bell, seemed at first inclined to question
his right to enter.
"My master is very sadly, sir; he's not fit to see any one."
"But he sent for me," said Paul, quietly. "Will you let him know, as
soon as possible, that Paul Lessing has come in answer to his letter?"
At the mention of the familiar name Smith's manner altered perceptibly;
he threw open the library door and ushered Paul in. It was scarcely a
minute before he returned.
"My master is awake and will see you at once, sir."
"Has he been long ill?" Paul asked.
"It's been coming on gradual for a year or more, sir. Creeping
paralysis is what the doctors call it. He's no use left in his legs,
and very little in his arms or hands; but his brain seems as active as
ever. He took a turn for the worse last week, and the end, they think,
may come at any time."
"Thank you; I'll go upstairs now."
He entered the sick-room so quietly that the nurse, who sat by the
bedside, did not hear him; but the grey head on the pillow turned
quickly, and the dying eyes shone with eager welcome.
"I'm glad you've come; I thought you meant to leave it till too late,"
was the abrupt greeting.
"I was abroad, and did not get your letter at once," Paul said gently.
"And you came back? That's more than many fellows would have done.
Nurse, draw up those blinds, and leave us, please; there are several
things I have to say. No, you need not talk about my saving my
strength. What good will it do? A few minutes more life, perhaps," he
added testily, as he saw the nurse giving Paul some admonition under
her breath. "Women are a nuisance, Paul; and at no time do they prove
it more than when you are ill and under their thumb. There! take a
seat close by me, where I can see you."
"You wanted to see me about something particular, your lawyer told me,"
said Paul, filled with pity at the sight of the perfectly helpless
figure. "It may be that I can carry out some wish of yours. I should
be glad to be of service to you."
Major Lessing did not answer for some minutes, and Paul ascribed his
silence to exhaustion. In reality the keen eyes were scanning Paul's
face critically, as if trying to read his character.
"I wanted to see you; and now you've come I don't know what to make of
you. It has crossed my mind more than once since I've lain here, that
I've been a rash fool to make a man I know so little of, my heir."
Paul could not repress an exclamation of astonishment; the news gave
him anything but unmixed pleasure.
"It was surely very rash, sir. I've no possible claim upon you. I
have scarcely even any connection with you except the name."
"That's it," said the major. "You have the name, and that must be
carried on and a distant tie of relationship; and there's something
else, Paul. Years ago I wanted to marry your mother. You are my
godson; you might have been my real son, you see."
Paul felt a lump in his throat; this love-story of long ago was
pathetic. His mother had died when he was still quite a child, but she
lived in his memory as beautiful and fascinating.
"She was half Irish," he said.
The major nodded. "So, partly from sentimental reasons, and partly
because there was no one better, I've left the property at Rudham to
you," he went on with a smile. "There would have been plenty of money
to have left with it; but I've made some very bad speculations lately,
and lost a great deal. I took to speculation from sheer want of
amusement. I was a good billiard player as long as I had the use of my
limbs; but here I've been, literally tied by the legs, for the last two
years. The only thing properly alive about me was my brain, and
speculation has interested me; but I was badly hit ten days ago. There
will be some money, but you won't be a rich man."
"I don't care about it," interposed Paul, eagerly.
"Then you ought to; a landlord poorly off is in a bad case in these
days; and I want things kept as they are, Paul. I've not lived at
Rudham, but I've kept my eye on it all the same; and what you call
progress, and its attendant abominations, has not hurt it much yet. I
made a mistake when I let the bishop nominate a successor to the living
when old Gregg died three years ago. Curzon's a go-ahead fellow, from
all that I hear; I don't want a go-ahead squire."
"I'm afraid you've made another mistake, and, if there's time, you had
better undo it," said Paul, gravely.
"Do I look like a man who can re-arrange all his matters?" asked the
Major, irritably. "After all, what I ask of you is no very hard thing
to grant; simply to accept the good the gods provide, and let well
alone."
"But that for me is an impossible condition," said Paul. "I cannot let
things alone if I feel that I can better them. I'm in no way fitted
for a country squire; I've been brought up on different lines from you,
and arrived at very different conclusions. I am grateful to you for
your thought of me, but I want to live my own life unfettered by any
conditions."
"And this is how you show your readiness to carry out any wish of
mine?" said the major, bitterly.
"I'm sorry; but I promised in the dark, not knowing that my principles
would be involved."
"I'm glad to hear you have any. May I ask what you call yourself? A
Lessing who is not a Conservative is not worthy of the name."
"I scarcely know what I am; but my friends call me a Socialist."
"Then in Heaven's name, I've made a bigger blunder than the last!" said
the squire, with an odd thrill in his voice.
"It's not my fault; and there may still be time to undo it," said Paul,
rising, for the flush that crept to the major's temples warned him that
the interview had been too long and too exciting. "I would thank you,
if I could, for the thought of me, and I am sorry to have been the
cause of disappointment, but it would not have been honest to hide my
opinions."
"No; you've been honest enough, in all conscience. If there's yet
time----" He broke off, turning away his head, and taking no notice of
Paul's departure.
All that night Paul paced his room in deep thought. The scene he had
witnessed had stirred him more than a little; and it grieved him to his
heart that he had so seriously disturbed the last moments of a dying
man.
"But I could not have hoodwinked him," he thought; "no honest man
could. But to-morrow I'll prove to him that I am ready to help him in
any way that I can. If he will only talk quietly, and keep his temper,
he could surely suggest some more fitting heir than I; and the business
details could be fairly quickly settled if I could take down his wishes
and see his lawyer. He must yet have several days to live, I should
think, with his extraordinary vitality of brain."
At a very early hour the following morning, therefore, Paul presented
himself again at the house in the square, with the request that he
might have a short interview with the major.
"Very sorry, sir," said Smith, with an added gloom of manner, "but my
master's much worse; they don't think he'll live through the day. He
was very restless last night; and nothing would satisfy him but that I
should go off in the middle of the night and fetch Mr. Morgan--the
lawyer as wrote to you, sir; but when I got him here my master had lost
his power of speech. He knew Mr. Morgan quite well, but he could not
make him understand what he wanted."
"And now?" asked Paul, pitifully.
"The doctor is just coming down the stairs, and will speak to you, sir."
Paul went out into the hall to meet him. "How did you find the major?"
Paul inquired.
"Dead," replied the doctor, drawing on his gloves. "He died as I
entered the room."