PLANNING OUT THE FUTURE.
It has been already said that there were originally three of the
brothers Raynor: Francis, who was an officer in her Majesty's service;
Henry the clergyman; and Hugh the doctor. The youngest of these, Hugh,
was the first to marry by several years; the next to marry was Henry.
Henry might have married earlier, but could not afford it: he waited
until a living was given to him. In the pretty country rectory
attached to his church, he and his wife lived for one brief year of
their married life: and then she died, leaving him a little boy-baby,
who was named Francis after the clergyman's eldest brother. Some ten
years later the Reverend Henry Raynor himself died; and the little boy
was an orphan, possessed of just sufficient means to educate him and
give him a start in life in some not too costly profession. When the
time came, he chose that of medicine, as his Uncle Hugh had done
before him.
The eldest of the three brothers was the last to marry: Captain
Raynor. He and his young wife led rather a scrambling sort of life for
some years afterwards, always puzzled how to make both ends of their
straitened income meet; and then a slice of good fortune (as the
captain regarded it) befell him. Some distant relative left him an
annuity of five hundred a-year. Five hundred a-year in addition to his
pay seemed riches to the captain: whilst his unsophisticated and not
too-well-managing wife thought they were now clear of shoals for life.
Very closely upon this, the captain obtained his majority. This was
succeeded by a long and severe attack of illness; and the major, too
hastily deciding that he should never be again fit for active service,
sold out. He and his wife settled down in a pretty cottage-villa,
called Spring Lawn, in the neighbourhood of Bath, living there and
bringing up their children in much the same scrambling fashion that
they had previously lived. No order, no method; all good-hearted
carelessness, good-natured improvidence. Just as it had been in their
earlier days, so it was now: they never knew where to look for a
shilling of ready-money. That it would be so all through life with
Major Raynor, whatever might be the amount of his income, was pretty
certain: he was sanguine, off-hand, naturally improvident. The
proceeds from the sale of his commission had all vanished, chiefly in
paying back-debts; the five hundred a-year was all they had to live
upon, and that five hundred would die with the major: and, in short,
they seemed to be worse off now than before the annuity came to them.
Considering that they spent considerably more than the five hundred
yearly, and yet had no comfort to show for it, and that debts had
gathered again over the major's head, it was not to be wondered at
that they were not well off. The major never gave a thought to
consequences; debt sat as lightly upon him as though it had been a
wreath of laurel. If he did feel slightly worried at times, what
mattered it: he should, sooner or later, come into Eagles' Nest, when
all things would be smooth as glass. A more prudent man than the major
might have seen cause to doubt the absolute certainty of the estate
coming to him. _He_ did not; he looked upon the inheritance of it as
an accomplished fact.
The reader has probably not forgotten Mr. and Mrs. Timothy
Atkinson--at whose house Edina had stayed so many years ago. Changes
had taken place since then. Both the partners in the bank, Timothy and
his cousin (they were only second cousins), were dead: and the firm
had long been Atkinson and Street. For, upon the death of the two old
men, Mr. George Atkinson, their sole successor, took his managing
clerk, Edwin Street, into partnership. The bank was not one of
magnitude--I think this has already been said--only a small, safe,
private one. The acting head of it was, to all intents and purposes,
Edwin Street: for Mr. George Atkinson passed the greater portion of
his time abroad, coming home only every two or three years. George
Atkinson was well off, and did not choose to worry himself with the
cares of business: had the bank been given up to-morrow, he would have
had plenty of money without it. During his later life, Mr. Timothy
Atkinson had invested the chief portion of his savings in the purchase
of an estate in Kent, called Eagles' Nest. He was not a rich man, as
bankers go, never having been an equal partner in the firm; drawing
from it in fact only a small share. His death was somewhat sudden, and
occurred during one of his sojourns at Eagles' Nest. Mrs. Atkinson,
his widow; not less portly than of yore, and still very much of an
invalid; summoned her two brothers to attend the funeral: Major Raynor
from Bath, Dr. Raynor from Trennach. The major went up at once: Dr.
Raynor sent a refusal; his excuse, no idle one, being that he could
not leave his patients. The season was one of unusual sickness, and he
had no one to take his place. This refusal Mrs. Atkinson, never a very
genial woman, or at all cordial with her brothers, resented.
When Mr. Timothy Atkinson's will was opened, it was found that he had
left everything he possessed to his wife unconditionally. Consequently
the estate was now at her own disposal. Though a pretty, compact
property, it was not a large one: worth some two thousand a-year, but
capable of great improvement.
On the day following the funeral, Mrs. Atkinson went up to her house
in London, the major accompanying her. There she found George
Atkinson, who had just arrived in England; which was an agreeable
surprise to her. He had always been a favourite of hers, and he would
be useful to her just now.
"I shall leave it to you, George," she suddenly observed one morning,
a few days after this, as they sat together looking over letters and
papers.
"Leave what to me, aunt?" For he had called her "aunt" in the old
days, and often did so still.
"Eagles' Nest."
George Atkinson laid down the bundle of letters he was untying, and
looked questioningly at the old lady, almost as though he doubted her
words.
"I am sure you cannot mean that."
"Why not, pray?"
"Because it is a thing that you must not think of doing. You have near
relatives in your brothers. It is they who should benefit by your
will."
"My brothers can't both inherit the place," retorted the old lady.
"The elder of them can--Major Raynor."
"I like you better, George, than I like him."
"I am very glad you like me--but not that your liking should render
you unjust to your family," he returned, firmly but gently. "Indeed,
dear Mrs. Atkinson, to prefer me to them would be an act of the
greatest injustice."
"My will ought to be made at once," said the old lady.
"Certainly. And I hope you will not as much as mention my name in it,"
he added with a smile. "I have so very much of my own, you know, that
a bequest from you would be altogether superfluous."
The conversation decided Mrs. Atkinson. She sent for her lawyer, Mr.
John Street, and had her will drawn up in favour of Major Raynor.
Legacies to a smaller or larger amount were bequeathed to a few
people, but to Major Raynor was left Eagles' Nest. Her brother Hugh,
poor Dr. Raynor of Trennach, was not mentioned in it: neither was
Edina.
The will was made in duplicate; Mrs. Atkinson desired her solicitor to
retain possession of one copy; the other she handed to Major Raynor.
She affixed her own seal to the envelope in which the will was
enclosed, but allowed him first to read it over.
"I don't know how to thank you, Ann, for this," said the major, tears
of genuine emotion resting on his eyelashes. "It will be good news for
Mary and the young ones."
"Well, I'm told it's the right thing to do, Frank," answered the old
lady: who was older than any of her brothers, and had domineered over
them in early life. "I suppose it is."
So Major Raynor went back to Spring Lawn with the will in his pocket;
and he considered that from that hour all his embarrassments were
over. And Mrs. Atkinson gave up her house in London, and stationed
herself for life at Eagles' Nest. While George Atkinson, after a
month's sojourn, went abroad again.
But now, as ill-fortune had it, Major Raynor had chanced, since that
lucky day, to offend his sister. The year following the making of the
will, being in London on some matter of business, he took the
opportunity to go down to Eagles' Nest--and went without asking
permission, or sending word. Whether that fact displeased Mrs.
Atkinson, or whether she really did not care to see him at all,
certain it was that she was very cross and crabbed with him, her
temper almost unbearable. The major had a hot temper himself on
occasion, and they came to an issue. A sharp quarrel ensued; and the
major, impulsive in all he did, quitted Eagles' Nest that same hour.
When he reached Spring Lawn, after staying another week in London to
complete his business, he found a letter awaiting him from his sister,
telling him that she had altered her will and left Eagles' Nest to
George Atkinson.
"Stupid old thing!" exclaimed the major, laughing at what he looked
upon as an idle threat. "As if she would do such a thing as that!" For
the major had never the remotest idea that she had once intended to
make George Atkinson her heir.
And from that hour to this, the major had not once seriously thought
of the letter again. He had never since seen Mrs. Atkinson; had never
but once heard from her; but he looked upon Eagles' Nest as being as
certainly his as though it were already in his possession. Once every
year at Christmas-time he wrote his sister a letter of good wishes; to
which she did not respond. "Ann never went in for civilities," would
observe the major.
The one exception was this. When his eldest son, Charles, had attained
his sixteenth year, the major mentioned the fact in the annual letter
to his sister. A few days afterwards, down came the answer from her of
some half-dozen lines: in which she briefly offered Charles an opening
(as she called it) in life: meaning, a clerkship in the bank of
Atkinson and Street, which her interest would procure for him. Master
Charles, who had far higher notions than these, as befitted the heir
to Eagles' Nest, threw up his head in disdain: and the major wrote a
letter of refusal, as brief as the old lady's offer. With that
exception, they had never heard from her.
The major and his wife were both incredibly improvident; he in
spending money; she in not knowing how to save it. Yielding and
gentle, Mrs. Raynor fell in with anything and everything done by her
husband, thinking that because he did it, it must be right. She never
suggested that they might save cost here, and cut it off there; that
this outlay would be extravagant, or that unnecessary. There are some
women really not capable of forethought, and Mrs. Raynor was one of
them. As to doing anything to advance their own interest, by
cultivating Mrs. Atkinson's favour, both were too single-minded for
such an act; it may be said too strictly honourable.
It was with them, his uncle and aunt, that Frank Raynor had spent his
holidays when a boy, and all his after-intervals of leisure. They were
just as fond of Frank as they were of their own children: he was ever
welcome. The major sometimes called him "my son Frank," when
speaking of him to strangers; very often indeed "my eldest boy."
As to taking people in by so doing, the major had no thought of the
sort; but there is no doubt that it did cause many a one, not
acquainted with the actual relationship, to understand and believe
that Frank was in truth the major's son. Possibly their names being
the same--Francis--contributed to the impression. Amongst those who
had caught up the belief, was Mrs. St. Clare. She had occasionally met
the Major and Mrs. Raynor in Bath, though the acquaintanceship was of
the slightest. When her son, young St. Clare, came into possession of
The Mount, and it was known that she was going to remove there, the
major, meeting her one day near the Old Pump-room, said to her, in the
openness of his heart, "I'll write to Trennach to my boy Frank, and
tell him to make himself useful to you." "Oh," returned Mrs. St.
Clare, "have you a boy at Trennach?" "Yes, the eldest of them: he is
with his uncle the doctor," concluded the major, unsuspiciously. Had
he thought it would create mischief, or even a false impression, he
would have swallowed the Pump-room before he had spoken it. That the
major was the presumptive heir to Eagles' Nest was well known: and
Mrs. St. Clare may be excused for having, under the circumstances,
carried with her to her new abode the belief that Frank would succeed
him in the estate.
On the night that the enlightenment took place--when Frank so candidly
and carelessly disabused Mrs. St. Clare's mind of the impression--he
perceived not the chill that the avowal evidently threw upon her. That
it should affect her cordiality to him he could never have feared. A
more worldly man, or one of a selfish nature, would have seen in a
moment that his not being heir to Eagles' Nest rendered him a less
eligible parti for Margaret; but Frank Raynor, in worldliness, as in
selfishness, was singularly deficient. And he left The Mount when tea
was over, quite unconscious that anything had occurred to diminish the
favour in which he was held by its mistress.
Not with that was his mind occupied as he walked home; but rather with
thoughts of the future. Daisy was to be his; she had promised it; and
Frank would have taken her to himself to-morrow, could he have
provided her with bread-and-cheese. How to do this was puzzling his
brain now.
He took the road home over the Bare Plain. Never, since the night of
that fatal tragedy, had Frank Raynor taken it by choice: he always
chose the highway. But to-night he had a patient lying ill in the
cottages on the Plain; and Dr. Raynor had said to him, "Call in and
see Weston, Frank, as you return." The visit paid, he continued his
way homewards. It was a light night: there were neither stars nor
moon: but a white haze seemed to veil the sky, and lighted up
surrounding objects. Frank looked towards the Bottomless Shaft as he
passed it; his fascinated eyes turning to it of their own accord.
Bringing them back with an effort and a shudder, he quickened his
pace, and went onwards with his burthensome secret.
"Will it lie hidden there for ever?" he said, half aloud. "Pray Heaven
that it may!"
Dr. Raynor was sitting in the small room behind his surgery; a room
chiefly used for private consultations with patients; in his hand was
a medical journal, which he was reading by lamplight. He put it down
when Frank entered.
"I want to ask you something, Uncle Hugh," began Frank, impulsively,
as though what he was about to say was good news. "Should I have any
difficulty, do you think, in dropping into a practice when I leave
you?"
"You do mean to leave me, then, Frank?" returned Dr. Raynor, without
immediately replying to the question.
"Why, of course I do, Uncle Hugh," said Frank, in slight surprise. "It
was always intended so. I came here, you know, for two years, and I
have stayed longer than that."
"And you would not like to remain altogether, and be my partner and
successor?"
"No," replied Frank, very promptly. "It would be a poor living for two
people; my share of it very small, for I could not expect you to give
me half the profits. And there are other reasons against it. No, Uncle
Hugh; what I want to do is, to jump into some snug little practice in
a place where I shall get on. Say in London."
A smile crossed the more experienced doctor's lips. Young men are
sanguine.
"It is not easy to 'jump into a snug little practice,' Frank."
"I know that, sir: but there are two ways in which it may be done. One
way is, to purchase a share in an established practice; another, to
set up well in some likely situation, with a good house and a plate on
the door, and all that, and wait for patients to drop in."
"But each of those ways requires money, Frank."
"Oh, of course," acquiesced Frank, lightly, as though money were the
most ordinary commodity on earth.
"Well, Frank, where would you find the money? You have not saved much,
I take it, out of the salary you have from me."
"I have not saved anything: I am never a pound to the good," answered
Frank, candidly. "Clothes cost a good deal, for one thing."
"When gentlemen dress as you do, and buy their kid gloves by the
dozen," said the doctor, archly. "Well, whence would you find the
means to set yourself up in practice?"
"That's what I want to ask you about, Uncle Hugh. I dare say you
remember, when there was so much talk about that will of my aunt
Ann's, that it was said I had a share in it."
"Indeed, Frank, I don't. I remember I was told that she had not left
anything to me; and I really remember no more."
"Then you cannot tell me what the amount was?" exclaimed Frank, in
accents of disappointment. "I thought perhaps Uncle Francis might have
told you."
Dr. Raynor shook his head. "I have no idea, Frank, whether it was one
pound or one thousand. Or many thousands."
"You see, sir, if I knew the exact sum, I could think about my plans
with more certainty."
"Just so, Frank. As it is, your plans must be somewhat like castles in
the air."
"I recollect quite well Uncle Francis telling me that I came in for a
good slice. That was the exact phrase: 'in for a good slice.' He had
read the will, you know. I wonder he did not mention it to you."
"All I recollect, or know, about it is, that Francis wrote me word
that nothing was left to me. He said he had remonstrated with
Ann--your aunt--at leaving my name out of the will, and that she
ordered him, in return, to mind his own business. I do not care for it
myself; I do not, I am sure, covet any of the money Ann may leave;
though I could have wished she had not quite passed over Edina."
"She must have a good deal of money, Uncle Hugh, apart from Eagles'
Nest."
"I dare say she has."
"And, if Uncle Francis comes in for that money, I should think he
would make over half of it to you. I should, were I in his place."
"Ah, Frank," smiled the doctor, "people are not so chivalrously
generous in this world; even brothers."
"I should call it justice, not generosity, sir."
"If you come to talk of justice, you would also be entitled to your
share, as Henry's son. He was equally her brother."
"But I don't expect anything of the kind," said Frank. "Provided I
have enough to set me up in practice, that's all I care for."
"You would not have that until your aunt dies."
"To be sure not. I am not expecting it before. But what has struck me
is this, Uncle Hugh--I have been turning the thing over in my mind as
I walked home--that I might, without any dishonour, reckon upon the
money now."
"In what way? How do you mean?"
"Suppose I go to some old-established man in London who, from some
cause or other--advancing years, say--requires some one to relieve him
of a portion of his daily work. I say to him, 'Will you take me at
present as your assistant, at a fair salary, and when I come into my
money'--naming the sum--'I will hand that over to you and become your
partner?' Don't you think that seems feasible, sir?"
"I dare say it does, Frank."
"But then, you see, to do this, I ought to know the exact sum that is
coming to me. Unless I were able to state that, I should not be
listened to. That's why, sir, I was in hopes that you could tell me
what it was."
"And so I would tell you if I knew it, Frank. I do not think Francis
mentioned to me that you would come in for anything. I feel sure, if
he had done so, I should remember it."
"That's awkward," mused Frank, thoughtfully balancing the paper-knife
he had caught up from the table. "I wonder he did not tell you, Uncle
Hugh."
"To say the truth, so do I," replied Dr. Raynor. "It would have been
good news: and he knows that I am equally interested with himself in
the welfare of Henry's orphan son. Are you sure, Frank, that you are
making no mistake in this?"
"I don't think I am. I was staying at Spring Lawn when the major came
home from Aunt Atkinson's after her husband's death, and he brought
her will with him. He was telling us all about it--that Eagles' Nest
was to be his, and that there were several legacies to different
people, and he turned to me and said, 'You come in for a good slice,
Frank.' I recollect it all, sir, as though it had taken place
yesterday."
"Did he mention how much the 'slice' was?"
"No, he did not. And I did not like to ask him."
There was a pause. Dr. Raynor began putting the papers straight on the
table, his usual custom before retiring for the night. Frank had
apparently fallen into a reverie.
"Uncle Hugh," he cried, briskly, lifting his head, his face glowing
with some idea, his frank blue eyes bright with it, "if you can spare
me for a couple of days, I will go to Spring Lawn and ask Uncle
Francis. I should like to be at some certainty in the matter."
"I could spare you, Frank: there's nothing particular on hand that I
cannot attend to myself for that short time. But----"
"Thank you, Uncle Hugh," interrupted Frank, impetuously. "Then suppose
I start to-morrow morning?"
"But--I was about to inquire--what is it that has put all this into
your head so suddenly?"
Frank's eager eyes, raised to the doctor's face, fell at the question.
A half-conscious smile parted his lips.
"There's no harm, sir, in trying to plan out one's future."
"None in the world, Frank. I only ask the reason for your setting
about it in this--as it seems to me--sudden manner."
"Well--you know, Uncle Hugh--I--I may be marrying some time."
"And you have been fixing on the lady, I see, Frank!"
A broad smile now shone upon Frank's face. He was sending the
paper-knife round in circles on the table, with rather an unnecessary
noise. Dr. Raynor's thoughts were going hither and thither; he could
not recall any individual in the neighbourhood of Trennach likely to
be honoured by Frank's choice. In an instant an idea flashed over
him--an idea that he did not like.
"Frank! can it be that you are thinking of one of the Miss St.
Clares?"
"And if I were, sir?"
"Then--I fear--that there may be trouble in store for you," said the
doctor, gravely. "Mrs. St. Clare would never sanction it."
"But she has sanctioned it, Uncle Hugh. She sanctions it every day of
her life."
"Has she told you so?"
"Not in words. But she sees how much I and Daisy are together, and she
allows it. _That_ will be all right, Uncle Hugh."
"Daisy? Let me see? Oh, that is the young one: she is a nice little
girl. I cannot say I like the elder. But----"
"But what, sir?"
"You are by nature over-sanguine, Frank; and I cannot help thinking
that you are so in this. Rely upon it, there is some mistake here.
Mrs. St. Clare is a proud, haughty woman, remarkably alive, unless I
am in error, to self-interest. She would not be likely to give a
daughter to one whose prospects are so uncertain as yours."
"But I am wishing to make my prospects more certain, you see, uncle.
And I can assure you she approves of me for Daisy."
"Well, well; if so, I am glad to hear it. Nevertheless it surprises
me. I should have supposed she would look higher for suitors for her
daughters. The little girl is a nice girl, I say, Frank, and you have
my best wishes."
"Thank you, Uncle Hugh," warmly repeated Frank, rising, his face
flushing with pleasure as he met the doctor's hand. "Of course you
understand that it must not yet be talked of: I must first of all
speak to Mrs. St. Clare."
"I shall not be likely to talk of it," replied Dr. Raynor.