The ruins of the west wing were clearly visible from the great wooden
building erected by Mr Summerhayes in the park where the tenants were to
dine. It was too cold in March for a tent; and there was no room in
Fontanel large enough for these festivities, except the great double
suite of drawing-rooms where the doors had been removed, and where there
was to be a ball at night. Much was the talk about the alarming event of
the previous day, which had shaken half the country with personal
terrors, much warmer than are generally awakened by the intelligence of
a fire at a friend’s house. On hearing of it, every soul within twenty
miles had sighed with resignation or cried out with impatience, giving
up all hopes of the festivities to which everybody had been looking
forward; but Mr Summerhayes’s messengers with the intimation that all
was going on as before, came about as soon as the news of the calamity.
Mr Summerhayes himself was more gracious, more cordial, than anybody had
ever known him. He spoke of “our dear boy” in his speech to the farmers,
and described Charley in such terms, that the heart of Charley’s mother
was altogether melted, and she felt ready to commit the fate of her
children a dozen times over into her husband’s hands. Nothing could be
more manly, more honourable, more affectionate, than the way in which Mr
Summerhayes spoke of his own position. He was, he said, his wife’s
steward and his son’s guardian; such a position might have been painful
to some men—but love made everything sweet; and he was happy in having
always had the entire confidence of his beloved clients. He even
referred to the honoured husband of the Queen, as in something of a
similar position to his own, and brought down storms of applause.
Charley made his little speech with great difficulty after his
stepfather. The poor boy looked ghastly, and could scarcely get the
words out; but his pleased retainers, who believed him overwhelmed by
his feelings, applauded all the same. When he had done what was required
of him, Charley managed to steal away unperceived by anybody except Loo,
who went wistfully after her brother. She overtook him by the time he
had got to the woods which skirted the park, and put her arm softly
within his without saying anything. The two young creatures wandered
under the bristling budded trees in silence, with unspeakable sadness in
their hearts. They had nothing to say to console each other—or rather
Loo, whose very heart wept over her brother, could think of nothing to
say to him. At last, caressing his arm with her tender, timid, little
hand, Loo ventured upon one suggestion: “Oh, Charley, poor mamma!” said
the girl, in her heart-breaking young voice. “Yes—poor mamma!” said
Charley, with a groan. Poor Mary! it was all her doing, yet her children
cast no reproach upon her. She, after all, would be the greatest
sufferer.
“But, Loo, I can’t stop here after what has happened,” said Charley when
they had both recovered a little; “he may be going to do everything
that’s right for anything we can tell. Don’t let us talk as if it were
anybody’s fault; but I can’t stop here, you know, about Fontanel, doing
nothing, as if—— Don’t cry, Loo. You would not like, anyhow, to have an
idle fellow for a brother. Harry is the clever one; but I daresay my
godfather, the old general, could get me a commission; and I could live
on my pay,” said Charley, with a slight quiver in his upper lip, “and
perhaps get on. I don’t think I should make a bad soldier—only that
there’s the examinations, and all that. It’s very hard, Loo, to have
lost all this time.”
“Oh, Charley, Charley dear! I can’t bear it—it’s too hard to put up
with,” cried poor little passionate Loo.
“Now don’t you go and take away what little strength a fellow has,”
remonstrated Charley; “it must be put up with, and what’s the use of
talking? Now look here, Loo; if you make a fuss, it will do no good in
the world, but only vex mamma; she can’t mend it, you know. I mean to
put the best face on it, and say I want to see the world, and that sort
of thing; and believe exactly as if—as if the fire had never happened,”
said Charley, with a dark momentary cloud upon his face. “I can make my
mother believe me; and it will be a comfort to her to have me out of the
way,” said the heroic lad, with something like a suppressed sob, “and to
think I don’t suspect anything. It _is_ hard—I don’t say anything else;
but, Loo, we must bear it all the same.”
And so they went wandering through the bare woods, poor Loo stooping now
and then unawares to gather some violets according to her girlish
habits, and Charley, even in the depths of his distress, following with
his eye the startled squirrel running along a branch. They were
profoundly, forlornly, exquisitely sad, but they could not ignore the
alleviations of their youth. Amid all the sudden shock of this
disinheritance—in which there mingled so cruel a sense of wrong, so warm
an indignation and resentment—Charley still thought, with a rising
thrill of courage and pride, that he might carve out for himself a
better fortune; while Loo, her brother’s sole confidante and supporter,
was herself supported by that exquisite consciousness of being able to
console and encourage him, which almost atones to a girl’s heart for
every misfortune. They could hear the distant echoes of the cheers and
laughter and loud cordial talk of the guests, while they strayed along
silent, with hearts too full to speak. Very different anticipations had
the two entertained of this famous day so long looked forward to. They
were to be the first in all the rejoicings undertaken in their
honour—for the glory of the heir-apparent could not fail to be shared by
the Princess Royal, the eldest daughter of Fontanel; they had pictured
to themselves a brilliant momentary escape out of the embarrassments and
restraints which they could not but be conscious of at home, and Charley
had even been prepared to feel magnanimous to Mr Summerhayes, who, after
all, was but a temporary interloper, and had no right to that
inheritance of which the young Clifford was heir indisputable. Now, the
sound of the merrymaking went to Charley’s heart with acute blows of
anguish. It was an aggravation of the sudden misery, cold-blooded and
odious; what were they rejoicing about? Because a poor boy had come to
the coveted years of manhood, to learn bitterly, on the eve of what
should have been his triumph, that he was an absolute dependant, a
beggar, at the mercy of a stepfather. No wonder he could not speak; no
wonder he put up his hands to his ears, and uttered a groan of rage and
wretchedness when that burst of cheering came upon the wind, and Loo,
speechless, could but cry and clench her little hands in the bitterness
of her heart. This was between the tenants’ dinner and the ball in the
evening, which was to be the gayest ever known in the county. Poor
Charley would gladly have faced a tiger, or led a forlorn hope, could he
have had such an alternative, instead of arraying himself in sumptuous
raiment and appearing at that ball, where his presence would be
indispensable. He seized poor Loo’s little hands harshly in his own, and
pressed them till she could have screamed for pain. “Don’t cry; your
eyes will be red at the ball—your first ball, Loo!” cried her brother,
with a kind of savage tenderness; and Loo, half afraid of this strange
new development of the man out of the boy, was fain to dry her poor eyes
and cling to his arm, and coax him to go in to prepare for the greater
trial of the night.
While these two forlorn young creatures were thus engaged, another
conversation was taking place at a distance from the scene of the
festivities, in the park of Fontanel. Mr Courtenay Gateshead had come
down to be present at the tenants’ dinner in his capacity as legal
adviser to Mr Summerhayes; but the young lawyer looked on with a
preoccupied air, sometimes casting a keen look of inspection at the
master of the feast. When the party from the great house left the humble
revellers, Courtenay, instead of joining Mr Summerhayes, beckoned aside
his uncle and partner. Old Gateshead had stayed for the children’s sake;
but had found it totally impossible to change Mr Summerhayes’s first
determination. He would not consent to read, much less to sign the
document hastily prepared by the anxious old lawyer. He would think it
over, he repeated, and see Courtenay, with an implied slight upon the
powers and skill of Courtenay’s uncle, which galled the old man to the
last degree. The young lawyer found his relative exceedingly sulky and
out of temper. “I have something particular to consult you about,”
Courtenay said, who did not yet know anything about the destruction of
the deed; and Mr Gateshead, who had that disclosure to make, followed
him with no very pleasant feelings to the verge of the wood, not very
far from where Charley and Loo were wandering in the despair of their
hearts. But the old lawyer was much taken by surprise by the question
which his nephew did not put to him till they were quite alone, and
sheltered from all eavesdroppers by the broad expanse of the park.
“Uncle, you have a wonderful memory. I suppose you remember John
Clifford, this boy’s grandfather—he who broke the entail,” said
Courtenay, in rather a hurried voice.
“John Clifford—what on earth has he got to do with it?” cried old
Gateshead, whose memory was wonderful, but whose powers of comprehension
were not equally vivid.
“Oh, nothing, I daresay,” said his nephew. “I want to know what you
recollect about him, that’s all—he who joined his father in breaking the
entail——”
“A very silly thing to do, Courtenay—a fatal thing to do. Good Lord,
only think what a different position these poor children might have been
in!” cried old Gateshead.
“Yes, yes—to be sure; but do you recollect anything about John?” said
the young man.
“I recollect everything about him,” said the uncle. “Though he was Harry
Clifford’s father, and they are both dead ages ago, he was no older than
I am. I think we were born in the same year——”
“The same year? and you are seventy; that must have been ‘87. Was it
‘87, uncle? how can we make sure?” said young Courtenay. “I must hunt up
the register of baptisms to-morrow.”
“Ah! I remember some talk about that,” said the old lawyer. “The parish
books were burned once, and the entry couldn’t be found. There was some
talk about it at the time. Burned! I suppose you don’t know what’s
happened in this fire? Oh! you’ll hear, you’ll hear quite soon enough.
But what has John Clifford’s name come up about now?”
“It’s something rather important for Summerhayes—he looks in wonderful
force to-day,” said Courtenay; “but if this should turn out true he will
soon sing small enough. I may as well tell you at once, uncle, for I am
almost sure about it. My impression is, that the entail was never
legally broken; and, consequently, that Mr Clifford had no more right
than I have to leave the property to his wife.”
Old Gateshead looked at his nephew with a stupified air. “The entail was
never broken?” he repeated vacantly, looking in the other’s face.
“No—the entail was never legally broken,” said Courtenay, with the
impatience of an acute and rapid intelligence. “The thing caught my
attention some time ago, but I would not speak of it till I had worked
it out. John Clifford—listen uncle—executed the papers with his father
in the year 1806; and, if I am correct, he was then an infant, and
incapable of doing anything of the sort. I don’t believe he came of age
till 1807. By Jove! what’s the matter? the old man’s mad!”
“No, Courtenay, the old man’s not mad,” said his uncle. “Hurrah! God
save the Queen! Hurrah! why don’t you help them to shout, you
cold-blooded young prig? I tell you the boy’s saved. Hurrah, and long
life to him!” said old Gateshead, waving his hat frantically, and
echoing with the wildest shrill enthusiasm the distant cheers from the
tent. “I declare to you these cheers choked me an hour ago,” cried the
old lawyer; “there’s things a man can’t do even when he’s an attorney.
Courtenay, I say, shake hands. You’re a disgusting young prig, and
you’re a deal too clever for my practice; but if you make it out, I’ll
give in to you all my life. Good Lord, that’s news! tell me all about
it. We’ve got a sharp one to deal with; we’ll have to make very sure,
very sure. Let’s hear every step how you came to find it out.”
Which Courtenay accordingly did, and made it perfectly clear to the
anxious listener. Charley’s grandfather had been in the unpleasant
predicament of having no public legal record of his age; but fifty years
after the occurrence of that fortunate mistake, scraps of documents had
turned up in the hands of the family solicitor, depositaries for
generations of the family secrets and difficulties, which made it easy
to establish, not by one distinct statement, but by many concurring
scraps of evidence, the exact date of John Clifford’s birth; and to
prove, as the young lawyer was now prepared to do, that the entail had
never been legally broken; that all the acts of the last two reigns were
founded on a mistake; that, consequently, Squire Henry’s will, in so far
as it related to the estate of Fontanel, was null and void, and Charley
was no longer heir but _bona fide_ proprietor of the lands of the
Cliffords. Wonderful news—more than ever wonderful that day.
When Mr Courtenay Gateshead sought Mr Summerhayes to break to him this
startling intelligence, the elder lawyer went to find the mistress of
Fontanel, who was reposing in her dressing-room, to prepare for the
exertions of the evening. Poor Mary was in a very doubtful state of mind
that day. She had wept for delight and gratitude when she heard her
husband’s speech to the farmers; but when she came to be by herself
again, that enthusiastic impression wore off, and the fact came back to
her, striking chill to her heart—the fact that her children were now at
the stepfather’s mercy, and that poor Charley, the heir, was no longer
the heir unless another man pleased. Alas! poor Mary knew now, to the
bottom of her heart, that it was another man—a man who, though she was
his wife, did not, and could not, look on Charley Clifford as his son.
She knew nothing about law, nor that the deed, though destroyed, might
yet in its ashes form foundation enough for any amount of lawsuits. It
_was_ destroyed, and she had no longer any power, and everything was in
Mr Summerhayes’s hands—that was enough to quench the light out of the
very skies to the poor mother. She dared not say to herself what she
feared, nor what she thought he would do; she only felt that he had the
power, and that Charley was at his mercy—and behind all, bitterest of
all, that it was her fault. She was sitting resting, in a kind of heavy
gloom and stupor, with her head buried in her hands, feeling to her
heart that she was avoided by her children, and that this day of triumph
was to them a day of mockery, when Mr Gateshead’s message was brought
her. He was a very old friend, and her first thought was that he had at
last prevailed on Mr Summerhayes to consent to the new deed. She got up
in eager haste, and sent her maid to bring him up-stairs. She received
the old man there, in that room where her children no longer came as of
old. The result was, not very long after, a hurried ringing of bells,
and messengers running everywhere for Miss Loo, who was just then coming
in, dark and pale from the woods, a very woe-begone little figure in her
holiday dress. Poor Mary, overcome by a hundred emotions which she did
not dare to tell, had fainted almost in old Gateshead’s arms, to the
great dismay of the old lawyer. It was deliverance to her boy, but it
was utter humiliation and downfall to her husband. In the struggle of
sudden joy, confusion, and pain, her senses and her mind gave way for
the moment. Loo rushing in, vaguely aware that something had happened
which was well for Charley, believed for the moment, in an overwhelming
revulsion of remorse and repentance, that all was henceforward to be ill
for ever, and that her mother was dead. But Mary was not dead. She
recovered to appear at the ball—very gracious and sweet, as was her
wont, but paler than anybody had ever seen her before, as was remarked
everywhere. It was a pretty ball, every body allowed; but the family
looked more _distrait_ and strange than any family, even under such an
infliction, had ever been seen to look. Charley, who had most command of
himself after his mother, was doing everything a young man could do to
keep his partners amused and the crowd occupied; but even Charley now
and then grew abstracted, and forgot himself for a moment. As for Loo,
though it was her first ball, and her brown eyes were splendid in the
changeable light that quivered in their depths, she kept behind her
mother with a look of fright and timidity, at which many a more
experienced young lady sneered openly; while Mrs Summerhayes, moving
about among her guests with all her usual sweetness, in her mature
beauty, could be seen sometimes to give strange wistful looks aside to
where her husband stood, mostly in company with Courtenay Gateshead.
Mary was pale, but Mr Summerhayes was flushed and strange to look upon.
He said, in his gentlemanly way, that the ball was his wife’s business,
and that he did not pretend to be able to help Mrs Summerhayes. He kept
aloof from her and from her children, clinging, as it seemed, to young
Gateshead. There had been a fire to be sure, but a fire only in the west
wing, where nothing particular could have happened. What could it be?
for the county people were all quick to perceive that something unusual
was in the air—at least the ladies did, and did not fail to communicate
their suspicions. There must have been a family quarrel, the more acute
imagined; and Miss Laura and Miss Lydia Summerhayes, whom their brother
dismissed summarily when they attempted sisterly investigations, were
fain to make forlorn attempts to discover from Loo what it was. The
master of the house had never been seen to speak or look at any of the
family all the evening, till the principal guests were in the
supper-room, all wondering, as they discussed the good things there,
what could be the matter. Charley had got in debt at the
university—Charley had formed some unsuitable connexion—and his
stepfather was hard upon him. Thus the company speculated; but the
company held its breath when Mr Summerhayes laid his hand on Charley’s
shoulder, and solved the wonder of the evening in the strangest, most
unexpected manner—to nobody so unexpected as to his bewildered wife.
“My friends,” said Mr Summerhayes, in his gentlemanly way (and it must
be allowed that, whatever were his faults, Tom Summerhayes always was a
gentleman), “we drank this boy’s health to-day as the heir of Fontanel;
but since then something has happened which has excited us all
considerably, as I daresay you will have perceived; and I have to tell
you that Charley is not only the heir, but the master of this house. I
am sure,” continued Mr Summerhayes, leaning his arm more heavily upon
the shoulder of the astonished youth, “there never was a more hopeful or
promising beginning than he will make, and I know he will have all your
good wishes. The fact is that the property became my wife’s under a
mistake: the entail was supposed to have been broken, which turns out
not to have been the case; and it is an additional pleasure to us,” said
Mary’s husband, turning round with a smile to meet her look, which was
fixed upon him, and then leisurely surveying the amazed assembly—“it is
a great additional pleasure to us,” continued Mr Summerhayes, “to find
ourselves entitled, on a day every way so happy, to give up our
laborious stewardship, and put our boy in possession of his own. I ask
you over again, my excellent friends and neighbours, to drink the health
of Charles Clifford of Fontanel.”
It was thus that Mr Summerhayes extricated himself from his false
position. The cheers which disturbed all the loiterers in the ball-room,
and brought them in a crowd to see what it was, were more for the
retiring monarch than the new sovereign. Charley himself, in a warm
revulsion of his generous heart, had seized both his stepfather’s hands,
and wrung them with strenuous gratitude. “I will never forget your
generosity,” cried the eager boy, who would have made over Fontanel
there and then had Summerhayes pleased, into his keeping over again.
Charley knew nothing of the stormy scene with Courtenay—the silent rage
and mortification which had thrown off Mary’s attempts at consolation
before necessity and his better genius warned Mr Summerhayes of this
opportunity left him for a graceful retreat. Charley did not know, nor
the world—and the few who did know had no wish to remember. The whole
party was in a flutter of admiration; and poor Miss Laura and Miss Lydia
did all but go into hysterics between horror at the catastrophe and
pride in their brother. Never before had Mr Summerhayes of the Manor
taken so high a position before the county as that night when he gave up
possession of Fontanel.