MILLBANK IS SOLD AT AUCTION.
Millbank was to be sold, with all its furniture and the hundred acres of
land belonging to it. Five years had sufficed for Frank to run through
his princely fortune, and he was a ruined man. Extravagant living,
losses by fire and neglect to take advantage of the markets, fast
horses, heavy bets, the dishonesty of Holt, his head man and chief
adviser, and lastly, his signing of a note of twenty thousand
dollars,—every penny of which he had to pay,—had done the business for
him; and when the Greys landed in New York the papers were full of the
“great failure” at Belvidere, and the day was fixed when Millbank was to
be sold.
Guy pointed out the paragraph to Magdalen, and then watched her as she
read it. She was very white, and there was a strange gleam in her dark
eyes; but she did not seem sorry. On the contrary, her face fairly shone
as she looked up and said, “I shall buy Millbank and give it back to
Roger.”
Guy knew she would do that, and he encouraged her in the plan, and went
himself to Belvidere, where he was a stranger, and made all needful
inquiries, and reported to Magdalen. Mrs. Frank had already left
Millbank with her hundred thousand, not a dollar of which could Frank’s
creditors touch, or Frank either, for that matter.
Bell held her own with an iron grasp, and so well had she managed that
none of the principal had been spent, and when the final crash came and
her husband told her he was ruined, it found her prepared and ready to
abdicate at any moment The old home in Boston was sold, but she was able
to buy a better one, and she did so, and with her father and sister took
possession at once. To do Bell justice, she carried nothing from
Millbank but her clothing and jewelry. The rest belonged to Frank’s
creditors, and she considered that it would be stealing to take it. This
she said several times for the benefit of Mrs. Walter Scott, who, less
scrupulous than her daughter-in-law, was quietly filling her trunks and
boxes with articles of value, silver and china, and linen and bedding,
and curtains, and whatever she could safely stow away. Mrs. Walter Scott
was about to buy a house, too, a cosy little cottage with handsome
grounds, just out of New York, on the New Haven road. She, too, had
managed well, as she supposed. She had speculated in stocks and _oil_
until she thought herself worth forty thousand dollars. There was some
of it lying in the bank, where she could draw it at any time, and some
of it still in _oil_, which she was assured she could sell at an advance
upon the original price. So, what with the forty thousand and what with
the household goods she would take from Millbank, she felt quite
comfortable in her mind, and bore the shock of her son’s failure with
great equanimity and patience. She was glad, she said, of something to
break up the terrible life they were leading at Millbank. For more than
a year, and indeed ever since Bell’s return from abroad, scarcely a word
had been exchanged between herself and Mrs. Franklin Irving, and each
lady had an establishment of her own, with a separate table, a separate
retinue of servants, and a separate carriage. There was no other way of
keeping the peace, and in desperation Frank himself had suggested this
arrangement, though he knew that the entire support of both families
would necessarily fall on him. But Frank was reckless, and did not
greatly care. He was going to destruction any way, he said to Roger, who
expostulated with him and warned him of the sure result of such
extravagance. “He was going to ruin, and he might as well go on a grand
scale, and better, too, if that would keep peace between _the women_.”
And so he went to ruin, and wrote to Roger one morning, “The smash has
come, and I’m poorer than I was when I depended on you for my bread.
Everything is to be sold, and I can’t say I am sorry. It’s been a
torment to me. I’ve never had the confidence of my men; they always
acted as if I was an intruder, and I felt so myself. I wish I could give
the thing back to you as clear as when I took it. I’d rather saw wood
than lead the dog’s life I have led for the last five years. Bell is
going to Boston. _She_ is rich, and maybe will let me live with her if I
pay my board! That sounds queer, don’t it? but I tell you, old chap, you
are better off without a wife. I don’t believe in women any way. Mother
is going to New York and I am going to thunder.”
Roger’s heart gave one great throb of sorrow for his nephew when he read
this letter, and then beat wildly with the wish that he could buy
Millbank back. But he was not able, and he could have wept bitterly at
the thoughts of its going to strangers. “Thy will be done,” was a lesson
Roger had learned thoroughly, and he said it softly to himself, and was
glad his father did not know that the old place which had been in the
family more than fifty years, was about to pass from it forever.
He went to Millbank and examined Frank’s affairs to see if anything
could be saved for the young man, who seemed so crushed, so hopeless,
and so stony. But matters were even worse than he had feared. There was
nothing to do but to sell the entire property. Roger _could_ buy the
mill, and the men were anxious for him to do so, and crowded around him
with their entreaties, which Frank warmly seconded.
“Buy it, Roger, and let me work in it as a common hand. I’d rather do it
a thousand times than live on my wife, even if her money did come from
me.”
Frank said this bitterly, and Roger’s heart ached for him as he replied
that perhaps he would buy the Mill; he’d think of it and decide. It was
not to be sold till after Millbank, and his decision would depend on who
bought that. This comforted Frank a little, and he felt a great deal
better when he at last said good-by to Roger, who went back to Schodick
the day but one before Guy Seymour’s arrival in Belvidere.
Guy did not go to see Frank. He found out all he cared to know from
other sources, and reported to Magdalen, who could scarcely eat or
sleep, so great was her excitement and so eager was she for the day of
the sale.
“Have you answered Roger’s letter?” Alice asked, and she replied: “No,
nor shall I till Millbank is mine. Then I shall take my answer to him
with a deed of the place.”
She had it all arranged,—her going to Schodick unannounced to see Roger,
her laying the deed before him, and her keen enjoyment of his surprise
and astonishment, both at the deed and the sight of herself.
“It is five years since I saw him. I wonder if he will know me, and if
he will think me old at twenty-four?” she said as she arose and glanced
at herself in the mirror.
Three years of travel had not _impaired_ but greatly _improved_ her
looks and style, and those who thought her handsome when she went away
exclaimed now at her matchless loveliness, and Magdalen knew herself
that she was beautiful, and was glad for Roger’s sake. Every thought and
feeling now had a direct reference to him, and when at last the day of
the sale arrived, she was sick with excitement, and read Guy’s message
in bed.
He had promised to telegraph as soon as Millbank was hers, and all
through the morning she waited and watched and her head throbbed with
pain and she grew more and more impatient, until at last came the
telegram.
“Millbank is yours. Mr. Roger Irving neither here nor coming. GUY.”
Then Magdalen arose and dressed herself, and seemed like one insane as
she flew about the room and packed a small hat-box preparatory for
to-morrow’s journey. She was going to Millbank to execute the deed, and
then on to Schodick with Guy. Alice helped her all she could, and tried
to keep her quiet, and make her eat and rest lest her strength should
fail entirely.
But Magdalen was not tired, she said, nor sick now. She felt better than
she had done in years, and her eyes were bright as stars and her cheeks
like damask roses when she bade Alice good-by and started for Belvidere.
Guy met her at the station, and conducted her to the new hotel, which
had been built since she left the place. The windows of her room
commanded a view of Millbank, and she looked with tearful eyes at her
old home and Roger’s, and thought, “It will be ours again.” She had no
doubt of that, no doubt of Roger, and her heart thrilled with ecstasy as
she anticipated the joyous future. There had not been much excitement at
the sale, Guy told her; but few seemed to care for so large a house, and
the bids had ceased altogether when once it was rumored that _he_ was
merely bidding for _her_,—for Magdalen.
“I believe they suspected your intention,” Guy said, “and you got
Millbank some thousands cheaper than I thought you would. It is a grand
old place, and has not been injured by its recent proprietors.”
Magdalen did not wish to go into the house while Mrs. Walter Scott was
there, but she rode through the grounds in the afternoon, and the next
day started with Guy for Schodick, which they reached about three
o’clock.
“Mr. Irving was in town,” the landlord said, “and slightly indisposed,
he believed; at least he was not at his office that morning, and the
clerk said he was at his house, sick.”
“I am going to him at once,” Magdalen said to Guy. “You have been there.
You can direct me,” and within half an hour after their arrival in
Schodick she was on her way to Roger’s house with the deed of Millbank
in her pocket.