Disinherited
Valentine's Day had brought early flowers, and the song of the thrush
and glints of golden sunshine, but the bright weather was too good to
last, and winter again stretched out an icy hand to check the advance of
spring. Green daffodil buds peeped through a covering of snow, and the
yellow jessamine blossom fell sodden in the rain. The playing-field was
a quagmire, and the girls had to depend upon walking for their daily
exercise. Their tramps were somewhat of an adventure, for in places the
swollen brooks were washing over the tops of their bridges, and they
would be obliged to turn back, or go round by devious ways. The river in
the valley had overflowed its banks and spread over the low-lying
meadows like a lake. Tops of gates and hedges appeared above the flood,
and sea-gulls, driven inland by the gales, swam over the pastures.
Flocks of peewits, starlings, and red-wings collected on the uplands,
and an occasional heron might be seen flitting majestically across the
storm-flecked sky.
As a rule the school sallied forth in waterproofs and thick boots,
regardless of drizzle or slight snow, but on days of blizzard there was
Swedish drill or dancing in the big class-room, to work off the
superfluous energy accumulated during hours of sitting still at lessons.
One afternoon, when driving sleet and showers swept past the house, and
an inclement sky hid every hint of sunshine, the twenty girls, clad in
their gymnasium costumes, were hard at work doing Indian club exercises.
Dulcie, who stood in the vicinity of the window, could watch the
raindrops splashing on the pane, and see the wet tree-tops waving about
in the wind, and runnels of water coursing down the drive like little
rivulets. It was the sort of afternoon when nobody who could help it
would choose to be out, and a visitor to the Hall seemed about the most
unlikely event on the face of the earth. Judge her surprise, therefore,
when she heard the hoot of a motor-horn, and the next instant saw,
coming up the drive, the well-known Daimler touring car from Cheverley
Chase. In her excitement she almost dropped her clubs. Had Cousin Clare
come over to see them? Or had Everard a holiday? She longed to
communicate the thrilling news to Lilias, but the music was still going
on, and her arms must move in time to it. She waited in a flutter of
expectation, revolving all kinds of delightful possibilities that might
occur. Cousin Clare would surely send a cake and a box of chocolates,
even if she had not come herself. Five minutes passed, then Davis, the
parlor-maid, opened the door, and whispered a brief message to Miss
Perkins. The mistress held up her hand and stopped the exercises.
"Lilias and Dulcie are wanted at once in the study," she said.
Amid the astonished looks of their companions, the two girls put down
their clubs and left the room, Dulcie hastily telling her sister, as
they hurried down the passage, how she had seen the car from the window.
They tapped at the study door, and entered full of pleasant
anticipation. Miss Walters was standing by the fire, with a letter in
her hand.
"Come in, girls," she said gravely. "I've sent for you because I have
something very sad to tell you. Can you prepare your minds for a great
shock? Your Grandfather was taken ill suddenly last night, and passed
away this morning. Your cousin has sent the car to fetch you both home.
Go at once and change your dresses, and Miss Harvey will help you to
pack a few clothes. The chauffeur is having some tea, but you must not
keep him waiting very long. I can't tell you how grieved I am. You must
be brave girls and try to comfort every one else at home. It will be a
sad loss for you all."
Lilias and Dulcie went upstairs almost dazed with the unexpected bad
news. They could hardly believe that their grandfather, whom they had
left apparently in the best of health and spirits, could have gone away
into that other world where Father and Mother and a little sister had
already passed over before. They packed in a sort of dream, drank the
cups of tea which Miss Walters, full of kind sympathy, pressed upon them
in the hall, greeted Milner, who was starting his engine, and entered
the waiting car. Owing to the floods, they took a roundabout route, but
half an hour's drive through sleet and rain brought them to Cheverley
Chase. It was strange to see the blinds all down as they drew up at the
house. As they ran indoors, Winder, the old butler, came from his pantry
into the hall. They questioned him eagerly. He shook his head as he
replied:
"It's a sad business, Miss Lilias and Miss Dulcie. He was just as usual
yesterday, then about nine o'clock Miss Clare rang the bell violently,
and when I came into the drawing-room, there was Master lying on the
floor in a kind of fit. I telephoned to the doctor, and we got him to
bed, but he never recovered consciousness. He went at eleven this
morning, as you'll see by the clock there. I stopped all the clocks at
once. It's the right thing to do in a house when the master dies. Miss
Clare's in her room. I'll let her know you've arrived."
"We'll go and find her, thank you," said Lilias, walking quietly
upstairs.
The Ingleton children were truly grieved at the loss of the grandfather
who, for so many years, had stood to them in the place of a parent. They
went softly about the house and spoke in hushed voices. Everything
seemed strange and unusual. A dressmaker came from London with boxes of
mourning for Cousin Clare and the girls; beautiful wreaths and crosses
of flowers kept arriving and were carried upstairs. Mr. Bowden, the
lawyer, was constantly in and out, making arrangements for the funeral;
neighbors left cards with "Kind sympathy" written across the corner.
Everard, who had arrived home shortly after his sisters, seemed to have
grown years older. He walked with a new dignity, as of one who is
suddenly called to fill a high position.
"I'll be a good brother to you all," he said to the younger ones. "You
must always look upon the Chase as your home, of course. I'll do
everything for you that Grandfather ever did, and more!"
"Will the Chase be yours now, then, Everard?" asked Bevis.
"I suppose so. I'm the eldest son, you see, and the property has always
gone in the direct line. It was entailed until fifty years ago. I shan't
make any changes. I've told the servants so, and they all said they
wished to stay on. I wouldn't part with Winder or Milner for the world!
They're part of the establishment."
"I couldn't imagine the place without them," agreed Dulcie.
On the afternoon before the funeral, Mr. Bowden, who had motored over to
make some final arrangements, concluded his business, drank a cup of tea
in the drawing-room, and was escorted by Everard and Lilias through the
hall.
"The passing of the Squire is a sad loss to the neighborhood," he
remarked. "He was a true type of the good old school of country
gentlemen, and most of us feel 'we shall not look upon his like again.'"
"No," replied Everard. "It will be very hard to succeed him, I know, but
I shall try to do my best."
Mr. Bowden started, looked at him musingly for a moment, knitted his
brows, then apparently came to a decision. Instead of taking his hat and
coat from Winder, he waved the two young people into the study, followed
them, and shut the door.
"I want a word with you in private," he began. "I'm going to do a very
unprofessional thing, but, as I've known you for years, I feel the case
justifies me. I can't let you come into the dining-room to-morrow, after
the funeral, and hear your grandfather's will read aloud, without giving
you some warning beforehand of its contents. I hinted to you, Everard,
at Christmas-time, not to count too much upon expectations."
"Why, but surely I am the heir?" burst out Everard with white lips.
"My poor boy, you are nothing of the sort. Your grandfather has willed
the property to the child of his elder son, Tristram."
At that critical moment there was a rap at the door, and Winder, the
butler, entered, respectfully apologetic, to summon Mr. Bowden to the
telephone. The lawyer answered the call, which was apparently a very
urgent one, for, without another word to Everard and Lilias, he took hat
and coat, hurried from the house, mounted his motor-cycle, and was gone.
He left utter consternation behind him. The two young people, returning
to the study, tried to face the disastrous news. He had indeed told them
no details, but the main outline was quite sufficient. They could
scarcely accustom themselves to believe it for a moment or two.
"To bring me up as the heir, and then disinherit me!" gasped Everard.
"Why, everybody called you 'the young squire'!" exclaimed Lilias. "It's
unthinkable!"
"Unthinkable or not, I'm afraid it's true," said Everard bitterly.
"Bowden wouldn't have told me otherwise. I suppose he drew up the will,
so he knows what's in it. Nice position to be in, isn't it? Turned out
to make room for some other chap!"
"Who is this child of Uncle Tristram's? We've never heard of him."
"It'll be the kid who is in that photo, I suppose--Leslie. He looked
about a year old in the portrait, and it's thirteen years since Uncle
Tristram died, so he's probably fourteen or so now. To think of a kid of
fourteen taking _my_ place here! It's monstrous!"
"Oh, Everard, what _shall_ we do?"
"I don't know. I'm going out to think it over. Don't say a word about it
to anybody yet. Promise me you won't!"
Everard seized his cap and waterproof, and plunged out-of-doors into the
rain. He did not return till dinner-time. If he was silent and
preoccupied at that meal, both Cousin Clare and Dulcie set it down as
natural to his new sense of responsibility. Lilias looked at him
uneasily. There was a hardness in his face which she had never seen
there before. She longed to catch him alone and question him, but after
dinner he purposely avoided her, and left a message that he had gone to
the stables. She would have liked to confide in Cousin Clare, but she
had given her promise to keep the secret, and even Dulcie must not share
it yet. The girls slept in separate rooms at home, so that when Lilias
had said good night to the family she was alone. She went to bed, as a
matter of course, but tossed about with throbbing heart and whirling
brain. Mr. Bowden's information had effectually banished sleep. In about
an hour, when the house was absolutely quiet, came a soft tap at her
door. She jumped up hastily, threw on her dressing-gown, and opened it.
Everard stood in the passage outside.
"May I come in? I want to speak to you, Sissy! It's important," he
whispered.
"I thought you had gone to bed," said Lilias, admitting him, and
dragging forward two basket chairs. "What is it, Everard? Don't look
like that--you frighten me!"
Her brother had seated himself wearily, and buried his head in his
hands. He raised two haggard eyes at her words.
"I've come to say good-by to you, Sis. I'm going away to-night! Don't
speak to me, for I'm not in a mood for argument! Do you think that I
could stand by Grandfather's grave to-morrow, when I know he has
disinherited me? I tell you, I can't. I'm not going to stay and hear the
will read! If I'm kicked out of the property, at least I'll keep my
dignity. Why, everybody on the estate believed I was the heir! Only this
afternoon, Rogerson, the new under-gardener, asked me to keep him on,
and Hicks said he'd serve me as faithfully as he'd served the old
Squire. How could I face the servants when they knew the Chase wasn't
mine after all! The humiliation would be intolerable! No! I've all the
Ingleton pride in me, and if I'm not to be master here, I'll shake the
dust of the place off my feet for ever. Grandfather will have made some
provisions for you younger ones; he always promised to do that, and it's
right you should take it, but as for me, if he's left me anything, I
don't mean to touch a penny of it--it must be all or nothing! You others
are welcome to my share, whatever it is. I'm going out into the world to
earn my own living."
He spoke forcibly, and with desperate earnestness. To Lilias, watching
him anxiously, he seemed in these few hours to have changed from a boy
into a man. Eager words rose to her lips, but he stood up and stopped
her.
"I've told you it's no use arguing! My mind's absolutely made up. I've
ordered Elton to have the small car ready, and to drive me to Balderton
to catch the midnight express to town. It's the last order I shall give
in this house. He looked surprised, but he didn't dare to question me.
To-morrow everybody will know that I've no more authority here than the
kids. I'll be far away by then, thank goodness."
"But, Everard, what are you going to do in London? How can you earn your
own living?" pressed Lilias.
"Sweep a crossing, or go to sea! I don't care two-pence what happens to
me. Good-by, Sis, I'm off! You may tell the others to-morrow, if you
like. No, I won't promise to write! You'll be better without me. I've
closed this chapter of my life completely, and I'm going to begin a
different one. The two won't bear mixing up."
Giving his sister a hasty kiss, Everard left the room and walked softly
away down the passage. A few minutes later, Lilias heard the sound of
wheels, and, looking through the window, saw the rear lights of the car
disappearing down the drive, and away across the park. She went back to
bed, sobbing.