"KING'S BENCH WALK, _February 28th_.
"MY DEAR MISS BALLINGER,--I thank you heartily for your letter. It
has brought the only great pleasure I have had for months. This
has been a miserable time, but I hope and believe it is nearly
over. Your letter is the first ray of pure light that has reached
me; I hail it as the dawn succeeding the black clouds that have
overshadowed me and hidden you from my sight. You will say the dawn
might have broken sooner; that I have wilfully deprived myself
of that light, which, had I looked, I should have seen on the
horizon. That is true; and you who know me so well--better than
any one, I believe--know my answer. I was too proud to go to you
while this matter was pending, too sensitive as to what the world
might say (and in that word I include your nearest relations) to
appeal to you, to enlist your sympathy, to do aught which should
force you into the position of my partisan. You have written, and
my conscience is now clear in answering you. If I do so at some
length, telling you my 'plain, unvarnished tale,' though it would
seem tedious to many, I do not fear its seeming so to you.
"You have known me only as a poor, a very poor, man, struggling
to make his livelihood, without influence, without prospects. My
eccentric bachelor uncle, Mr. Tracy, my mother's brother, never
gave me anything beyond a ten-pound note at Christmas. For many
years I had every reason to believe that he rather disliked me
than otherwise. I never sought him; I had certainly no expectation
of his leaving me more than, possibly, a small legacy. His other
nephew, my first cousin, Giles Tracy, was generally regarded as
his heir; and but for his conduct I have no doubt he would have
continued to be so, as he unquestionably was a few years since.
"It is just five winters ago that I received what I should call a
peremptory request, rather than an invitation, to go down to my
uncle at once. I obeyed the mandate, and found him in a state of
great exasperation. His solicitor, Mr. Eagles, was with him, and
remained in the room all the time I was there. I little thought of
what importance his presence might prove to me hereafter! Giles
Tracy had been gambling, and had lost heavily at Monte Carlo. He
had not ventured to apply to his uncle to pay his debts, knowing,
in the first place, that he would be refused, and, secondly, that
his prospects for the future might be seriously impaired with the
crotchety old man. But a rumor had reached Mr. Tracy's ears, by
some means or other--I never discovered how--that Giles had been
to the Jews, and had borrowed largely at usurious interest, giving
promissory notes, payable when he should inherit his uncle's
fortune. It was to discover the truth in this matter that he sent
for me. He expected me to ferret out the facts and report them to
him. I refused to do so. He then got very angry, and said he would
leave all his money to a hospital. I said he could do what he
liked with his money--it was no business of mine--but he must take
some other means of learning the nature of my cousin's monetary
transactions. Giles and I had never been cordial friends, but I
was not going to play the part of a detective towards him. And
with that, as my uncle now turned the vials of his wrath upon me,
I left Mr. Tracy's house. I did not see him again for some time,
but I have reason to believe that this--which was the only conduct
any honorable man could pursue under the circumstances--far from
alienating my uncle, was the real cause of his conceiving more
regard for me. It was then he made the only other will that has
been found, wherein he divided his property between me and my
cousin. I had from him, in the course of the following summer, a
note begging me to go to Tracy Manor; and during the last three
years of his life I paid him several flying visits. Giles's
name was rarely mentioned on these occasions; but he said once,
looking at me in a marked manner, 'I have discovered all I wanted
about that scamp, without your intervention.' What he had learned
concerning him I know not, but that he _did_ learn something, very
much to my cousin's disadvantage, subsequently to the occasion I
have named, is certain, and will, I fear, come out at the trial.
"I often found Mr. Eagles with my uncle, and one day, about two
years before he died, he said to me, in Mr. Eagles's presence, 'I
have cut Giles out of my will entirely, and have left all my money,
as I told you I should, to a hospital.' I remember his looking at
me very searchingly, as though he wished to see what impression
his words made on me, and I remember also, distinctly, my reply:
'That is too cruel a punishment for the folly of youth.' '"Folly"?'
cried my uncle. 'Do you call that folly, sir? I tell you he is a
scoundrel!' If Eagles is forthcoming at the trial, he will remember
that scene as well as the former one; he will recall my words and
my uncle's.
"On my next visit to Tracy Manor, I heard incidentally that
Eagles's health had broken down, and that he had gone to New
Zealand. He did so little business in the country town where he
resided, that to give it up was no loss. The loss was to Mr. Tracy,
whose amusement it seems to have been constantly to make fresh
wills, or add codicils to old ones. I have found any number of
draughts and memoranda in the old gentleman's hand, but the will
he _professed_ to have made in the spring of 1888, leaving all his
money to a hospital, is not forthcoming. I find notes of increasing
donations to myself, beginning in January, 1886--the date of my
refusal to comply with his wishes as regarded Giles. Then comes the
will I have already named, made in 1887. But all this, of course,
is worth very little as evidence that I did not influence him; the
only evidence of paramount importance is Eagles's. It was difficult
to trace him at first, for he left no family in England, nor any
address, being uncertain where he would go. But he has been found,
and his evidence will have been taken on commission, I hope, if his
health prevents his returning to England for the trial.
"The last time I saw my uncle he was very ill. Though I did not
know he was dying, I felt confident he would never really recover,
and I therefore resolved to speak to him about Giles. I had some
difficulty in approaching the subject, but I referred to the last
occasion when he had mentioned my cousin's name to me, and I said I
hoped he would reconsider his decision. 'No,' he replied; 'my will
is made; Eagles is gone; I am not going to alter the last will he
drew up, and which I signed eighteen months ago. I haven't altered
my mind, in any respect, since then.' 'I am sorry to hear it,' I
replied; 'whatever faults Giles may have committed--' 'Call them by
their right name,' he interrupted, testily; 'call them _sins_.'
'Well, then, whatever sins he has committed, he is young; he has,
probably, a long life before him; you brought him up to believe
he would be your heir. It is cruel to cut him off absolutely, and
without any hope for the future.'
"I traversed the same ground over and over again; I left the old
man no peace; and at length I induced him to allow me to wire for
an old solicitor, named Pringle, whom Mr. Tracy knew something of,
from London. He promised me to add a codicil to his last will,
devising the sum of twenty thousand pounds to his executors, in
trust for his nephew, Giles Tracy, securing by this means that my
cousin should not beggar himself by gambling. I did not remain in
the room when he gave these instructions, for my uncle said he
wished to be alone with Mr. Pringle; and he vouchsafed no hint of
the main tenor of the will, which I then firmly believed devised
the greater part of his fortune, as he had told me, to a hospital.
Nor did I learn till his death, three months later, when this will
was opened, that he had left the whole of his vast fortune, except
this twenty thousand pounds, to me.
"Mr. Pringle predeceased my uncle; his testimony would have been
valueless on the main points, inasmuch as he did no more than add
this codicil to the will, which had been executed eighteen months
before. But it would have gone to prove that Mr Tracy obviously
chose that I should be kept in ignorance of the disposition of his
money. He ordered me from the room, as I have said, before Mr.
Pringle opened the will and read it to him, as the old lawyer told
me afterwards, at my uncle's request. 'And his mind,' he added,
'was remarkably clear.'
"I have now shown you how false is the assertion that I brought a
lawyer to my uncle's death bed, to reverse his will in my favor.
It had been signed and attested eighteen months before, without my
having any knowledge of its provisions. As to the second signature,
which my cousin was foolish enough, at first, to dispute--if proved
to be a forgery it would only affect his legacy of twenty thousand
pounds!
"The world has been very ready to believe that I am a blackguard;
therefore I have kept aloof, alike from friends and foes. I will
neither conciliate the latter, nor oblige the former to declare
themselves for me, until my name is cleared of this foul charge in
the open court of law.
"When I heard I was my uncle's heir, my first Quixotic idea was
to divide the fortune with Giles. That idea, of course, I soon
dismissed, not alone on account of his attitude towards me, but
because I felt I should not be justified in contravening my uncle's
express wishes as regarded the fortune which his industry had built
up. Could I think that Mr. Tracy had formed an unjust estimate of
Giles's character, I can honestly say I would, even now, give him
half the estate, regardless of the misconstruction such an act
would meet with from the good-natured world. But I have ascertained
that my uncle had ample reason for deciding as he did. I say no
more. The trial will come on in a few days. Everything in law is
uncertain--except the costs! Eagles is due this week. If he dies
on the passage, or that by other misadventure his evidence is not
forthcoming, I shall be bitterly, grievously disappointed. Not that
it will affect the issue of the case. I know that my adversary
cannot upset the will; he has not, legally, a leg to stand on. But
between technical and moral victory there is a wide difference.
The attorney's testimony as to my uncle's anger against Giles,
which led to his altering his will and sending for me--this,
and his having been present at our interview, are of the utmost
importance to _me_. Without this testimony I shall not feel that my
character is completely cleared in the world's estimation. Is this
over-sensitiveness? I do not think so; I am afraid you will. But
at all events, whether I obtain this satisfaction or not, you will
hear from me as soon as the trial is over. Until that time I must
be silent; I can then, without fear of what man may say, ask you a
question which I have not felt myself, hitherto, entitled to do.
"And so, my dear Miss Ballinger, for the present, farewell!
"Your very faithful friend,
"IVOR LAWRENCE."
The long strain was ended at last. Her joy found its vent in tears.
What did anything signify now? Between the measured words, the
self-imposed restraint, she read the truth--the truth which, she
repeated to herself over and over again, she had known all along.
Grace fell on her knees, there, beside the window, where she read
the letter--the window which looked out on the rocky peaks and snowy
summits of that wonderful region--and thanked God, child-like,
for her deliverance from the sorest grief it is given humanity to
suffer--disillusion.
When she arose, there was a light on her countenance which shone there
all day. But those who loved her, knowing naught of the letter, only
said to each other,
"How radiant Grace looks--quite like her old self. At last she is
beginning to forget!"
They left that hospitable home, to which they will always look back
with grateful and pleasureable recollection, the next morning. Except
on the higher peaks, and in the fastnesses of rock, the snow was gone.
There is no thaw in that blessed region; the snow is absorbed by
evaporation, and the rich brown earth appears from beneath it, offering
at once a solid resistance to the feet of man and beast.
The Caldwells accompanied them to the depot, and there, while they were
bidding the travellers good-by, a head appeared at the window of a
private car, which seemed to Mordaunt like a direct manifestation that
Providence was actively employed in his behalf. How otherwise could
it be accounted for--surely not by mere paltry coincidence--that Mr.
Planter should be travelling to San Francisco by this train, with his
wife and daughter?
The greater part of the journey Mordaunt passed in that private car.
Mrs. Frampton and Grace were also invited to take their seats in it,
but they candidly confessed that they found it too fatiguing to talk
all day long in a train, and confined themselves to paying a daily
visit to the ladies at tea-time. At first, Grace had some ado to
persuade her aunt to receive this small hospitality, or, indeed, to
be passably civil. She was extremely annoyed at meeting these people,
"the only ones," as she said, "on the whole of this continent, I
particularly wished to avoid." But she was too clever not to accept
the logic of events. Since the girl and her parents were there--under
her nose--the best thing she could do was to study them, not to put
herself in the wrong with Mordy, and so damage her influence, by her
demeanor to his friends. The father belonged to a type she had not yet
met, and him she soon got to like. He had no pretension of any kind,
but possessed great shrewdness and considerable business capacity.
Unfortunately, he had also an inveterate love of speculation. He
had made three fortunes, and lost two. He spoke quite simply of his
deficient education, his early struggles, his successes, and his
failures. He was now on the top of the wave. But (Mrs. Frampton asked
herself) how long would he remain there? As an acquaintance, she found
him really quite interesting; he told her so much about railway stocks,
in which he had a large amount of capital, and explained to her the
resources of the country through which these lines passed. "But," as
she said to her niece, "clever and straightforward as the man is--and
he does impress me with a great sense of straightforwardness--one would
never feel safe with such a speculator! He told me openly he didn't
wish his daughter to marry an Englishman, and though he would never
forbid her marrying any one she loved, he would try and prevent it by
all the weight of his influence. That is my only hope! I see Mordy is
very far gone. But the girl does not care enough about him, I suspect,
to oppose her father."
"Perhaps so. I am not sure. How do you like her? Don't you think,
besides her beauty, that she is very attractive?"
"I am always attracted by beauty. You know it is a weakness of mine.
And she has a nice voice and good manners. I won't say more at present.
I must watch her. But if she was an angel straight from heaven, I
shouldn't wish Mordy to marry a girl with such uncertain prospects."
Grace smiled.
"I suspect an angel straight from heaven would not come, 'in utter
nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory!' Mr. Planter, who seems
devoted to his daughter, would not allow her to be dependent on his
speculative ventures, I should think. However, it is no use worrying
about it, aunty, one way or the other. The thing may never come to
pass."
"No. Mordy suffers from chronic inflammation of the heart. Only he
has the disease in rather a worse form than usual. I wish it had been
Beatrice Hurlstone, however."
Her niece made no reply. It was wiser to let her aunt absorb and
assimilate the Planter family slowly, than to cram them down her
throat. And the next day Mrs. Frampton said,
"I have been talking a good deal to the mother. I don't dislike her.
She is not as clever, she has not the worldly tact of Mrs. Hurlstone,
and is evidently inferior to her daughter and to the husband, but I
don't think she is a bad sort of woman."
"Certainly not. On the contrary, most amiable."
"She has been telling me a great deal about her girl's bringing up."
"Ah! That is a favorite subject of hers."
"She says they both prefer England to America."
"The daughter does not go that length, at present. Mr. Planter is
a very indulgent husband and father, but I suppose he would not be
pleased if he heard his wife say that."
Mrs. Frampton complained much of the tedium of the journey, though the
capacity of roaming through a long train of cars, of visiting, when so
minded, the one devoted to refreshment, and of studying the Planter
family at stated intervals, broke the monotony of those three days and
nights. To Grace, her head pressed against the window most of the time,
with a wonderful panorama rolling past her dreamy eyes, the time did
not seem long. Her thoughts and heart were far away--now, in some foggy
chambers in the King's Bench Walk, now in the yet foggier law courts.
Therefore it was that her eyes looked dreamy, though they gazed on the
grand scenery of the La Veta range till darkness swallowed it up, and
though they opened at daybreak to find those mountains lying like a
string of pink shells on the horizon, their bases still veiled in blue
mists, while the tawny yellow prairie, and cliffs of sandstone in the
foreground, were gradually being kissed into life by the rising sun.
The whole of the journey was memorable for its beauty and strangeness,
and will never be forgotten by that solitary watcher at the car-window,
though it seemed at the time as though her mind were too much engrossed
to be very sensitive to the impression of outward objects. Through the
lovely plain of Utah, past Salt Lake City, surrounded by its still
leafless gardens and orchards; over wild stretches of frozen prairie,
where the little dogs came out of their holes and sat up, unafraid,
on their hind-legs to watch the train; down, at twilight, into the
very heart of purple-folded hills, clear-cut against the orange glow
of sunset; boring its way through mighty walls of granite--the train
sped on, till the morning of the third day broke and revealed a very
different scene. It was as though a wizard's hand had touched the
roadside, the vast stretches of garden and vineyard, with an emerald
green, the vividness of which, no doubt, seemed greater by contrast
with the midwinter the travellers had been looking upon but a few
hours since. Here, in California, it was not spring, but already early
summer; arum-lilies thrust up their sheafs of bloom behind the palings
of little white-faced houses; great fruit farms were a-flush with
almond, peach, and apricot-blossom; and here and there scarlet and gold
flashed out among the greenery as the train rushed by.
To two young persons without much poetry in their composition--the
one engrossed with his companion, the other pleased, amused, and
flattered--these varying aspects of nature, and the sudden melting of
the iron bands of winter, spoke only the dryest prose. It had been
cold; was now suddenly warm; instead of snow and ice, green blades of
grass were sprouting everywhere. And that was all. Had they read, and
if so did they understand, the sweet old fable of "The Sleeping Beauty"
awakened by the magic horn of love? Certain it is that the fancy of
neither suggested any analogy between that fable and the frost-bound
earth casting off her fetters, under the warm breath of spring, arising
and putting forth her tender buds, and bursting, after slumberous
silence, into song. And no doubt it was just as well. Had either been
of an imaginative temperament, he or she would not have suited the
other--for all present purposes--as well.
On the third afternoon they entered the fair city of San Francisco.