LEAVING MILLBANK.
It was in vain that Frank protested against the pride which refused to
receive anything from the Irving estate. Roger was firm as a rock.
“I may be foolish,” he said to Lawyer Schofield, who was often at
Millbank, and who once tried to persuade him into some settlement with
Frank. “I may be foolish, but I cannot take a penny more than the terms
of the will give to me. I have lived for years on what did not belong to
me. Let that suffice, and do not try to tempt me into doing what I
should hate myself for. I have been accustomed to habits of luxury,
which I shall find it difficult to overcome; just as I shall at first
find it hard to settle down into a steady business, and seek for
patronage with which to earn my bread. But I am comparatively young yet.
I can study and catch up in my profession. I passed a good examination
years ago. I have tried by reading not to fall far behind the present
age. I shall do very well, I’m sure.” Then he spoke of Schodick, where
he had decided to go. “Some men would choose the West as a larger field
in which to grow, and at first I looked that way myself; but Schodick
has great attractions for me. It was my mother’s home. I shall live in
the very house where she was born. You know my father gave me the farm,
and though it is rocky and hilly and sterile,—much of it,—I would rather
go there than out upon the prairies. I shall be very near the town,
which is growing rapidly, and there is a chance of my getting in with a
firm whose senior member has recently died. If I do, it will be the
making of me, and you may yet hear of Roger Irving from Schodick as a
great man.”
Roger had worked himself up to quite a pitch of enthusiasm, and seemed
much like his olden self as he talked of his plans to Lawyer Schofield,
who had never admired or respected him so much as he did when he saw him
putting the best face upon matters and bearing his reverses so
patiently. Everybody knew now that he was going to Schodick, in New
Hampshire, and that Hester and Aleck were going with him. Both seemed to
have renewed their youth to a most marvellous degree, and Hester’s form
was never more erect, or her step more elastic, than during those early
summer days, when, between the times of her ministering to Magdalen, of
whom she still had the care, she went over the house, selecting here and
there articles which she declared were _hers_, and with which Mrs.
Walter Scott did not meddle.
Full of her dread of the fever, that lady had scrupulously kept aloof
from Magdalen, and when she began to fear lest the few for whose opinion
she cared should censure her for neglect she affected symptoms of the
disease and stayed in her own room, where she received the visits of the
doctor, in white line wrappers elaborately trimmed, and a scarlet shawl
thrown across her shoulders. Frank visited her several times a day, and
once, when his heart was heaviest with the fear lest Magdalen would die,
he went to her for sympathy, and laying his head on the pillow beside
her, wept like a child. There was no pity in her voice, for she felt
none for him, and her manner was cold and indifferent as she said she
apprehended no danger,—and added that she hoped Frank would not commit
himself too far or allow his feelings to run away with his judgment. He
must remember that Magdalen had never promised to marry him, and that if
one woman could read another she did not believe she ever would.
“She loves Roger,” she said, “and he loves her, and I have made up my
mind to explain to him a few things, and thus prevent you from throwing
yourself away on a girl whose parentage is so doubtful.”
Then Frank dried his tears, and so far forgot himself as to swear
roundly that so sure as she went to Roger with such a tale, or in any
way interfered between him and Magdalen, just so sure would he _deed_
every penny of the Irving property to Roger, and if he refused to take
it, he would deed it to Magdalen, and if she refused it too, he would
make donations to every charitable institution in the land, until the
whole was given away, and he was poorer than before the will was found.
Mrs. Walter Scott was afraid of Frank in his present defiant mood, and
promised whatever he required, but suggested that it might be well for
him not to assume too much the character of Magdalen’s lover, until her
own lips had given him the right to do so. Frank knew this was good
advice, and, to a certain extent, he followed it; and when the crisis
was past, he, too, absented himself from the sick-room, and spent his
time with Roger in trying to understand the immense business which was
now his to manage, and which he no more comprehended than a child.
“It is not well to trust too much to agents and overseers. Better attend
to it yourself,” Roger said.
And then he spoke of one agent in particular whom he distrusted and had
intended to discharge, and advised Frank to see to it at once, and have
but little to do with him. And Frank promised to do so, remembering the
while, with regret, that between this man and himself there existed the
most friendly relations and perfect sympathy with regard to
_horses_,—Frank’s great weakness—which only want of money kept in
abeyance.
Like his mother, Frank was disposed to let Hester Floyd take whatever
she chose in the way of bedding and table-linen, and offered no
objections when she laid claim to the spoons and silver tea-set which
had been bought for Jessie, and were marked with her initials. Spoons
and forks of a more modern style, with only “Irving” marked upon them,
were next appropriated by the greedy old woman, who kept two men busy
one entire day packing boxes for Schodick, N. H. She was going at once
to the old farm-house, which the present tenant had, for a
consideration, been induced to vacate, and her preparations went rapidly
forward, until, at last, the day but one came, when, with her boxes and
Aleck and Matty, her grandniece, who went as maid of all work, she was
to start for the Schodick hills, while Roger went West for a few weeks,
thus leaving the old lady time to get things “straightened out and
tidied up” before he came. This had been Frank’s idea, conveyed to Roger
in the form of a suggestion that a little travel would do him good, and
his home in Schodick seem a great deal pleasanter if he found it settled
than if he went to it when all was disorder and confusion. All the
better, kindlier qualities of Frank’s nature were at work during those
last days, and even Hester brought herself to address him civilly, and
thank him cordially when, to her numerous bundles and boxes, he added a
huge basket of the choicest wines in the cellar.
“To be sure, he was only offering to Roger what was already his own,”
she said; “but then it showed that what little milk of human kindness he
had wasn’t sourer than swill, as his mother’s was.”
Roger had seen to the packing of but one article, and this he had done
by himself and then carried it to the back stoop where the other baggage
was waiting. Hester saw the long, narrow box and wondered what it was.
Frank saw it too, _guessed_ what it was, went to the garret to
reconnoitre, and then knew that it was the cradle candle-box, in which
Magdalen had been rocked. It had stood for years in a corner of the
garret, surrounded with piles of rubbish and covered with dirt and
cobwebs; but Roger had hunted it out and it was going with him to his
new home, sole memento of the young girl he had loved so dearly, and
who, all through the long bright summer days when he was so busy, lay
quiet and still, knowing nothing, or at most comprehending nothing, of
what was passing around her.
It was a strange state she was in, but the doctor said she was mending,
that the danger was past, and a week or two of perfect quiet would
restore her to a more natural condition. Had he said otherwise, Roger
would not have gone, but now it was better for him to leave her while
she was unconscious of the pain it cost him to do so; and on the night
before his departure for the West he went to look at her for the last
time. Only Celine was with her and she thoughtfully withdrew, leaving
him alone with Magdalen, whose pale lips he kissed so passionately and
on whose face he dropped tears of bitter anguish. Years after, when her
eyes were shining upon him full of love and tenderness and trust, he
told her of that parting scene; but she knew nothing of it then, and
only moved a little uneasily and muttered something he could not
understand. She had no farewell word for him, and so he kissed her lips
and forehead once more and drew the covering smoothly about her, and
buttoned the cuff of her night-dress, which he saw was unfastened, and
moved the lamp a little more into the shadow, because he thought it hurt
her eyes, and then went out and left her there alone.
* * * * *
They were astir early at Millbank the next morning, and a most tempting
breakfast, prepared by Hester herself, awaited Roger in the dining-room.
But he could not eat, and, after a few ineffectual attempts to swallow
the rich, golden-colored coffee, he rose from the table and left the
dining-room.
Knowing that he would, of course, come to say good-by to her, and
dreading an interview with him when no one was present, Mrs. Walter
Scott had made a “great effort” to dress herself, and come down to
breakfast. But she _panted_ hard, and seemed too weak to talk, and kept
her hand a good deal on her left side, where she said she experienced
great pain since her illness, and sometimes feared her lungs were
affected. With all her languor and weakness, she could not quite conceal
her elation at the near prospect of being entirely alone in her glory,
and it showed itself in her face and in her eyes, which, nevertheless,
tried to look so sorry and pitiful when, at last, Roger turned to her to
say good-by.
She had nothing to fear from him now. He had given up quietly. Success
was hers, with riches and luxury. It could matter little what Roger
thought of her. His opinion could not change her position at Millbank.
Still, in her heart she respected him more than any man living, and
would rather he thought well of her than ill. So, with that look in her
eyes which they always wore when she wanted to be particularly
interesting, she held his hand between her own and said,—
“I can’t let you go without hearing you say that you forgive me for any
wrong you imagine me to have done, and that you will not cherish hard
feelings toward me. Tell me this, can’t you, _dear brother_?”
He dropped her hand then, as if a viper had stung him, and a gleam of
fire leaped to his eyes as he replied:
“Don’t call me _brother_, now, Helen. That time is past. You have
wronged me fearfully, and but for you I should never have met this hour
of darkness. If God can forgive me for all my sins against Him, I surely
ought to try and forgive you, too. But human flesh is weak, and I cannot
say that I feel very kindly towards you, for I do not.”
He had never said so much to her before, and the proud woman winced a
little, but tried to appear natural, and, for appearance sake, went with
him to the door, and stood watching the carriage until it left the
avenue and turned into the highway.
In perfect silence Roger passed through the grounds, so beautiful now in
their summer glory, but as the carriage left the park behind, he leaned
from the window for a last look at his old home. The sun was just rising
and the dew-drops were glittering on the grass and flowers, while the
thousands of roses with which the place was adorned filled the air with
perfume. It seemed a second Paradise to the heart-broken man, whose
thoughts went back to the dream he once had of just such a day as this
when he was leaving Millbank. In the dream, however, there was this
difference: Magdalen was with him; her hand lay in his, her eyes shone
upon him, and turned the midnight into noonday. Now he was alone, so far
as she was concerned. Magda was not there; she would never be with him
again, unless she came the wife of Frank, who sat opposite, with an
expression of genuine sympathy on his boyish face. Frank was sorry that
morning, so sorry that he could not talk; but when, as they lost sight
of Millbank, Roger groaned aloud and leaned his head against the side of
the carriage, he went over to him, and sitting down beside him took his
hand in his own and pressed it nervously.
There was a crowd of people at the station; the whole village, Frank
thought, when he saw the moving multitude which pressed around Roger to
say good-by and assure him of their willingness to serve him. There were
mills in Schodick, they had heard, and shoe shops, too; and a few were
already talking of following their late master thither.
“It would be worth something to see him round even if they did not work
for him,” they said.
And Roger heard all and saw all, and said good-by to all, and took in
his arms the little baby boy named for him ten months before, and said
playfully to the mother, “He shall have the first _cow_ I raise on my
farm.”
And then the train came round the river bend and the crowd fell back,
and Frank went with Roger into the car and waited there until the train
began to move, when with a bound he sprang upon the platform, and those
nearest to him saw that he was very white and that there were traces of
tears in his eyes. No one spoke to him, though all made way for him to
pass to his carriage, which drove rapidly back to Millbank, which was
now his beyond a doubt.
Hester Floyd went later in the day, and to the last stood out against
Mrs. Walter Scott, whom she did not deign to notice by so much as a
farewell nod. Over Magdalen she bent lovingly, trying to make her
comprehend that she was going away, but Magdalen only stared at her a
moment with her wide open eyes, and then closed them wearily, and knew
nothing of Hester’s tears or the great wet kiss which was laid upon her
forehead.
“She’s to be the lady of Millbank, I s’pose, but I don’t begrutch her
her happiness with that old sarpent for a mother-in-law and that
white-livered critter for a husband,” Hester thought as she stole softly
from the room and went down to where the drayman was loading her
numerous boxes and bundles. Frank offered her the use of the carriage to
carry herself and Aleck to the station; but she declined the offer, and
took a fierce kind of pride in seeing the village hack drive up to the
side door. “She as’t no odds of nobody,” she said, and tying on her six
years’ old straw bonnet, and pinning her brown shawl with a
darning-needle, she saw deposited in the hack her old-fashioned
work-basket and her satchel and bird cage and umbrella, and her bandbox
tied up in a calico bag, and her palm-leaf fan, and Aleck, and Matty,
who carried two beautiful Malta kittens in a basket as her own special
property. Then, with a quick, sudden movement, and an indifference she
was far from feeling, she shook the hands of all her fellow-servants
over whom she had reigned so long, and hoping they would never find a
“_wus_” mistress than she had been, sprang into the hack with an
alacrity which belied her seventy summers, and was driven to the depot.
From her window Mrs. Walter Scott watched the fast receding vehicle, and
felt herself breathe freer with every revolution of the wheels. When
Roger went, a great weight had been lifted from her spirits, but so long
as old Hester Floyd remained she could not feel altogether free; and now
that the good dame was really out of the house she sat perfectly still
until she heard the whistle of the engine, and saw the white smoke of
the train which carried the enemy away. Then she rose up from her
sitting posture, and her long graceful neck took a prouder arch, and her
step was more firm, her manner more queenly, as she went directly to the
kitchen, and summoning the servants to her presence told them they were
at liberty to leave her employ within a month, as she should by that
time have provided her self with other help. Very civilly they listened
to her, and when she was through informed her that she need not wait a
month before importing her new coterie of servants, as each one of them
was already supplied with a situation, and was intending to leave her
that night, with the exception of Celine, who had promised Mrs. Floyd to
stay till Miss Lennox’s mind was restored.
With a haughty, “Very well, do as you like,” Mrs. Walter Scott swept out
of the kitchen and made the circuit of the handsome rooms which were now
her own. Frank, too, had watched the hack as it drove away, and listened
for the signal by which he should know that Hester Floyd was gone, for
not till then could _he_ feel perfectly secure in his possessions. But
as the loud, shrill blast came up over the hills and then died away amid
the windings of the river, there stole over him a pleasurable sense of
proprietorship, and he thought involuntarily of the familiar lines, “I
am monarch of all I survey, my right there is none to dispute.” Frank
liked to feel comfortable in his mind, and as he reviewed the steps by
which he had reached his present position, he found many arguments in
his own favor which tended to silence any misgivings he might otherwise
have experienced. He was not to blame for his grandfather’s will, nor to
blame for hiding it. Everybody knew that. Roger said he was not, and
Roger’s opinion was worth everything to him. He had been willing to burn
the will, and when he could not do that, he offered repeatedly to divide
with Roger, and was willing to divide now and always would be. Surely he
could do no more than he had done. He was a pretty good fellow after
all, and he began to whistle “Annie Laurie” and think of the agent whom
Roger had warned him against, and wished it had been anybody but _Holt_,
who was such a good judge of horses, and had such a fine high blood for
sale, which he offered cheap, because he needed a little ready money. As
the war steed scents the battle from afar, and pricks up his ears at the
smell of blood, so Frank felt his love of horse flesh growing strong
within him. There could be no harm in riding over to _see_ Holt’s horse.
He would have to go there any way if he dismissed the man, as Roger had
advised, and he would go at once and have a bad job off his mind.
Accordingly, when lunch time came Mrs. Walter Scott lunched alone, and
when the dinner hour came she dined alone, and when the stable doors
were closed that night they shut into his new home Firefly, “the
swiftest horse in the county,” which Frank had bought for eleven hundred
dollars.
Holt, the agent, was not dismissed!