Mr. Mannering had got into his sitting-room the next day, as the first
change for which he was able in his convalescent state. The doctor’s
decree, that he must give up work for a year, and spend the winter
abroad, had been fulminated forth upon him in the manner described by
Dora, as a means of rousing him from the lethargy into which he was
falling. After Dr. Roland had refused to permit of his speedy return to
the Museum, he had become indifferent to everything except the expenses,
concerning which he was now on the most jealous watch, declining to
taste the dainties that were brought to him. “I cannot afford it,” was
his constant cry. He had ceased to desire to get up, to dress, to read,
which, in preparation, as he hoped, for going out again, he had been at
first so eager to do. Then the doctor had delivered his full broadside.
“You may think what you like of me, Mannering; of course, it’s in your
power to defy me and die. You can if you like, and nobody can stop you:
but if you care for anything in this world,--for that child who has no
protector but you,"--here the doctor made a pause full of force, and
fixed the patient with his eyes,--“you will dismiss all other
considerations, and make up your mind to do what will make you well
again, without any more nonsense. You must do it, and nothing less will
do.”
“Tell the beggar round the corner to go to Italy for the winter,” said
the invalid; “he’ll manage it better than I. A man can beg anywhere, he
carries his profession about with him. That’s, I suppose, what you mean
me to do.”
“I don’t care what you do,” cried Dr. Roland, “as long as you do what I
say.”
Mr. Mannering was so indignant, so angry, so roused and excited, that he
walked into his sitting-room that afternoon breathing fire and flame. “I
shall return to the Museum next week,” he said. “Let them do what they
please, Dora. Italy! And what better is Italy than England, I should
like to know? A blazing hot, deadly cold, impudently beautiful country.
No repose in it, always in extremes like a scene in a theatre, or else
like chill desolation, misery, and death. I’ll not hear a word of Italy.
The South of France is worse; all the exaggerations of the other, and a
volcano underneath. He may rave till he burst, I will not go. The Museum
is the place for me--or the grave, which might be better still.”
“Would you take me there with you, father?” said Dora.
“Child!” He said this word in such a tone that no capitals in the world
could give any idea of it; and then that brought him to a pause, and
increased the force of the hot stimulant that already was working in his
veins. “But we have no money,” he cried,--“no money--no money. Do you
understand that? I have been a fool. I have been going on spending
everything I had. I never expected a long illness, doctors and nurses,
and all those idiotic luxuries. I can eat a chop--do you hear, Dora?--a
chop, the cheapest you can get. I can live on dry bread. But get into
debt I will not--not for you and all your doctors. There’s that Fiddler
and his odious book--three pounds ten--what for? For a piece of vanity,
to say I had the 1490 edition: not even to say it, for who cares except
some of the men at the Museum? What does Roland understand about the
1490 edition? He probably thinks the latest edition is always the best.
And I--a confounded fool--throwing away my money--your money, my poor
child!--for I can’t take you with me, Dora, as you say. God forbid--God
forbid!”
“Well, father,” said Dora, who had gone through many questions with
herself since the conversation in Miss Bethune’s room, “suppose we were
to try and think how it is to be done. No doubt, as he is the doctor,
however we rebel, he will make us do it at the last.”
“How can he make us do it? He cannot put money in my pocket, he cannot
coin money, however much he would like it; and if he could, I suppose he
would keep it for himself.”
“I am not so sure of that, father.”
“I am sure of this, that he ought to, if he is not a fool. Every man
ought to who has a spark of sense in him. I have not done it, and you
see what happens. Roland may be a great idiot, but not so great an idiot
as I.”
“Oh, father, what is the use of talking like this? Let us try and think
how we are to do it,” Dora cried.
His renewed outcry that he could not do it, that it was not a thing to
be thought of for a moment, was stopped by a knock at the door, at
which, when Dora, after vainly bidding the unknown applicant come in,
opened it, there appeared an old gentleman, utterly unknown to both, and
whose appearance was extremely disturbing to the invalid newly issued
from his sick room, and the girl who still felt herself his nurse and
protector.
“I hope I do not come at a bad moment,” the stranger said. “I took the
opportunity of an open door to come straight up without having myself
announced. I trust I may be pardoned for the liberty. Mr. Mannering, you
do not recollect me, but I have seen you before. I am Mr. Templar, of
Gray’s Inn. I have something of importance to say to you, which will, I
trust, excuse my intrusion.”
“Oh,” cried Dora. “I am sure you cannot know that my father has been
very ill. He is out of his room for the first time to-day.”
The old gentleman said that he was very sorry, and then that he was very
glad. “That means in a fair way of recovery,” he said. “I don’t know,”
he added, addressing Mannering, who was pondering over him with a
somewhat sombre countenance, “whether I may speak to you about my
business, Mr. Mannering, at such an early date: but I am almost forced
to do so by my orders: and whether you would rather hear my commission
in presence of this young lady or not.”
“Where is it we have met?” Mannering said, with a more and more gloomy
look.
“I will tell you afterwards, if you will hear me in the first place. I
come to announce to you, Mr. Mannering, the death of a client of mine,
who has left a very considerable fortune to your daughter, Dora
Mannering--this young lady, I presume: and with it a prayer that the
young lady, to whom she leaves everything, may be permitted to--may,
with your consent----”
“Oh,” cried Dora, “I know! It is the poor lady from South America!” And
then she became silent and grew red. “Father, I have hid something from
you,” she said, faltering. “I have seen a lady, forgive me, who was your
enemy. She said you would never forgive her. Oh, how one’s sins find one
out! It was not my fault that I went, and I thought you would never
know. She was mamma’s sister, father.”
“She was--who?” Mr. Mannering rose from his chair. He had been pale
before, he became now livid, yellow, his thin cheek-bones standing out,
his hollow eyes with a glow in them, his mouth drawn in. He towered over
the two people beside him--Dora frightened and protesting, the visitor
very calm and observant--looking twice his height in his extreme
leanness and gauntness. “Who--who was it? Who?” His whole face asked the
question. He stood a moment tottering, then dropped back in complete
exhaustion into his chair.
“Father,” cried Dora, “I did not know who she was. She was very ill and
wanted me. It was she who used to send me those things. Miss Bethune
took me, it was only once, and I--I was there when she died.” The
recollection choked her voice, and made her tremble. “Father, she said
you would not forgive her, that you were never to be told; but I could
not believe,” cried Dora, “that there was any one, ill or sorry, and
very, very weak, and in trouble, whom you would not forgive.”
Mr. Mannering sat gazing at his child, with his eyes burning in their
sockets. At these words he covered his face with his hands. And there
was silence, save for a sob of excitement from Dora, excitement so long
repressed that it burst forth now with all the greater force. The
visitor, for some time, did not say a word. Then suddenly he put forth
his hand and touched the elbow which rested like a sharp point on the
table. He said softly: “It was the lady you imagine. She is dead. She
has led a life of suffering and trouble. She has neither been well nor
happy. Her one wish was to see her child before she died. When she was
left free, as happened by death some time ago, she came to England for
that purpose. I can’t tell you how much or how little the friends knew,
who helped her. They thought it, I believe, a family quarrel.”
Mr. Mannering uncovered his ghastly countenance. “It is better they
should continue to think so.”
“That is as you please. For my own part, I think the child at least
should know. The request, the prayer that was made on her deathbed in
all humility, was that Dora should follow her remains to the grave.”
“To what good?” he cried, “to what good?”
“To no good. Have you forgotten her, that you ask that? I told her, if
she had asked to see you, to get your forgiveness----”
“Silence!” cried Mr. Mannering, lifting his thin hand as if with a
threat.
“But she had not courage. She wanted only, she said, her own flesh and
blood to stand by her grave.”
Mannering made again a gesture with his hand, but no reply.
“She has left everything of which she died possessed--a considerable, I
may say a large fortune--to her only child.”
“I refuse her fortune!” cried Mannering, bringing down his clenched hand
on the table with a feverish force that made the room ring.
“You will not be so pitiless,” said the visitor; “you will not pursue an
unfortunate woman, who never in her unhappy life meant any harm.”
“In her unhappy life!--in her pursuit of a happy life at any cost, that
is what you mean.”
“I will not argue. She is dead. Say she was thoughtless, fickle. I can’t
tell. She did only what she was justified in doing. She meant no harm.”
“I will allow no one,” cried Mr. Mannering, “to discuss the question
with me. Your client, I understand, is dead,--it was proper, perhaps,
that I should know,--and has left a fortune to my daughter. Well, I
refuse it. There is no occasion for further parley. I refuse it. Dora,
show this gentleman downstairs.”
“There is only one thing to be said,” said the visitor, rising, “you
have not the power to refuse it. It is vested in trustees, of whom I am
one. The young lady herself may take any foolish step--if you will allow
me to say so--when she comes of age. But you have not the power to do
this. The allowance to be made to her during her minority and all other
particulars will be settled as soon as the arrangements are sufficiently
advanced.”
“I tell you that I refuse it,” repeated Mr. Mannering.
“And I repeat that you have no power to do so. I leave her the
directions in respect to the other event, in which you have full power.
I implore you to use it mercifully,” the visitor said.
He went away without any further farewell--Mannering, not moving,
sitting at the table with his eyes fixed on the empty air. Dora, who had
followed the conversation with astonished uncomprehension, but with an
acute sense of the incivility with which the stranger had been treated,
hurried to open the door for him, to offer him her hand, to make what
apologies were possible.
“Father has been very ill,” she said. “He nearly died. This is the first
time he has been out of his room. I don’t understand what it all means,
but please do not think he is uncivil. He is excited, and still ill and
weak. I never in my life saw him rude to any one before.”
“Never mind,” said the old gentleman, pausing outside the door; “I can
make allowances. You and I may have a great deal to do with each other,
Miss Dora. I hope you will have confidence in me?”
“I don’t know what it all means,” Dora said.
“No, but some day you will; and in the meantime remember that some one,
who has the best right to do so, has left you a great deal of money, and
that whenever you want anything, or even wish for anything, you must
come to me.”
“A great deal of money?” Dora said. She had heard him speak of a
fortune--a considerable fortune, but the words had not struck her as
these did. A great deal of money? And money was all that was wanted to
make everything smooth, and open out vistas of peace and pleasure, where
all had been trouble and care. The sudden lighting up of her countenance
was as if the sun had come out all at once from among the clouds. The
old gentleman, who, like so many old gentlemen, entertained cynical
views, chuckled to see that even at this youthful age, and in
Mannering’s daughter, who had refused it so fiercely, the name of a
great deal of money should light up a girl’s face. “They are all alike,”
he said to himself as he went downstairs.
When Dora returned to the room, she found her father as she had left
him, staring straight before him, seeing nothing, his head supported on
his hands, his hollow eyes fixed. He did not notice her return, as he
had not noticed her absence. What was she to do? One of those crises
had arrived which are so petty, yet so important, when the wisest of
women are reduced to semi-imbecility by an emergency not contemplated in
any moral code. It was time for him to take his beef tea. The doctor had
commanded that under no circumstances was this duty to be omitted or
postponed; but who could have foreseen such circumstances as these, in
which evidently matters of life and death were going through his mind?
After such an agitating interview he wanted it more and more, the
nourishment upon which his recovery depended. But how suggest it to a
man whose mind was gone away into troubled roamings through the past, or
still more troubled questions about the future? It could have been no
small matters that had been brought back to Mr. Mannering’s mind by that
strange visit. Dora, who was not weak-minded, trembled to approach him
with any prosaic, petty suggestion. And yet how did she dare to pass it
by? Dora went about the room very quietly, longing to rouse yet
unwilling to disturb him. How was she to speak of such a small matter as
his beef tea? And yet it was not a small matter. She heard Gilchrist go
into the other room, bringing it all ready on the little tray, and
hurried thither to inquire what that experienced woman would advise. “He
has had some one to see him about business. He has been very much put
out, dreadfully disturbed. I don’t know how to tell you how much. His
mind is full of some dreadful thing I don’t understand. How can I ask
him to take his beef tea? And yet he must want it. He is looking so
ill. He is so worn out. Oh, Gilchrist, what am I to do?”
“It is just a very hard question, Miss Dora. He should not have seen any
person on business. He’s no’ in a fit state to see anybody the first day
he is out of his bedroom: though, for my part, I think he might have
been out of his bedroom three or four days ago,” Gilchrist said.
“As if that was the question now! The question is about the beef tea.
Can I go and say, ‘Father, never mind whatever has happened, there is
nothing so important as your beef tea’? Can I tell him that everything
else may come and go, but that beef tea runs on for ever? Oh, Gilchrist,
you are no good at all! Tell me what to do.”
Dora could not help being light-hearted, though it was in the present
circumstances so inappropriate, when she thought of that “great deal of
money"--money that would sweep all bills away, that would make almost
everything possible. That consciousness lightened more and more upon
her, as she saw the little bundle of bills carefully labelled and tied
up, which she had intended to remove surreptitiously from her father’s
room while he was out of it. With what comfort and satisfaction could
she remove them now!
“Just put it down on the table by his side, Miss Dora,” said Gilchrist.
“Say no word, just put it there within reach of his hand. Maybe he will
fly out at you, and ask if you think there’s nothing in the world so
important as your confounded---- But no, he will not say that; he’s no’ a
man that gets relief in that way. But, on the other hand, he will maybe
just be conscious that there’s a good smell, and he will feel he’s
wanting something, and he will drink it off without more ado. But do
not, Miss Dora, whatever you do, let more folk on business bother your
poor papaw, for I could not answer for what might come of it. You had
better let me sit here on the watch, and see that nobody comes near the
door.”
“I will do what you say, and you can do what you like,” said Dora. She
could almost have danced along the passage. Poor lady from America, who
was dead! Dora had been very sorry. She had been much troubled by the
interview about her which she did not understand: but even if father
were pitiless, which was so incredible, it could do that poor woman no
harm now: and the money--money which would be deliverance, which would
pay all the bills, and leave the quarter’s money free to go to the
country with, to go abroad with! Dora had to tone her countenance down,
not to look too guiltily glad when she went in to where her father was
sitting in the same abstraction and gloom. But this time he observed her
entrance, looking up as if he had been waiting for her. She had barely
time to follow Gilchrist’s directions when he stretched out his hand and
took hers, drawing her near to him. He was very grave and pale, but no
longer so terrible as before.
“Dora,” he said, “how often have you seen this lady of whom I have heard
to-day?”
“Twice, father; once in Miss Bethune’s room, where she had come. I don’t
know how.”
“In this house?” he said with a strong quiver, which Dora felt, as if it
had been communicated to herself.
“And the night before last, when Miss Bethune took me to where she was
living, a long way off, by Hyde Park. I knelt at the bed a long time,
and then they put me in a chair. She said many things I did not
understand--but chiefly,” Dora said, her eyes filling with tears--the
scene seemed to come before her more touchingly in recollection than
when, to her wonder and dismay, it took place, “chiefly that she loved
me, that she had wanted me all my life, and that she wished for me above
everything before she died.”
“And then?” he said, with a catch in his breath.
“I don’t know, father; I was so confused and dizzy with being there so
long. All of a sudden they took me away, and the others all came round
the bed. And then there was nothing more. Miss Bethune brought me home.
I understood that the lady--that my poor--my poor aunt--if that is what
she was--was dead. Oh, father, whatever she did, forgive her now!”
Dora for the moment had forgotten everything but the pity and the
wonder, which she only now began to realise for the first time, of that
strange scene. She saw, as if for the first time, the dark room, the
twinkling lights, the ineffable smile upon the dying face: and her big
tears fell fast upon her father’s hand, which held hers in a trembling
grasp. The quiver that was in him ran through and through her, so that
she trembled too.
“Dora,” he said, “perhaps you ought to know, as that man said. The lady
was not your aunt: she was your mother--my"--there seemed a convulsion
in his throat, as though he could not pronounce the word--“my wife. And
yet she was not to blame, as the world judges. I went on a long
expedition after you were born, leaving her very young still, and poor.
I did not mean her to be poor. I did not mean to be long away. But I
went to Africa, which is terrible enough now, but was far more terrible
in those days. I fell ill again and again. I was left behind for dead. I
was lost in those dreadful wilds. It was more than three years before I
came to the light of day at all, and it seemed a hundred. I had been
given up by everybody. The money had failed her, her people were poor,
the Museum gave her a small allowance as to the widow of a man killed in
its service. And there was another man who loved her. They meant no
harm, it is true. She did nothing that was wrong. She married him,
thinking I was dead.”
“Father!” Dora cried, clasping his arm with both her hands: his other
arm supported his head.
“It was a pity that I was not dead--that was the pity. If I had known, I
should never have come back to put everything wrong. But I never heard a
word till I came back. And she would not face me--never. She fled as if
she had been guilty. She was not guilty, you know. She had only married
again, which the best of women do. She fled by herself at first, leaving
you to me. She said it was all she could do, but that she never, never
could look me in the face again. It has not been that I could not
forgive her, Dora. No, but we could not look each other in the face
again.”
“Is it she,” said Dora, struggling to speak, “whose picture is in your
cabinet, on its face? May I take it, father? I should like to have it.”
He put his other arm round her and pressed her close. “And after this,”
he said, “my little girl, we will never say a word on this subject
again.”