The girls went out into the old corridor, leaving the great carved door
of the dining-hall open behind them. The flutter of their pretty dresses
filled the picturesque passage with animation, and the sound of their
receding voices kept up this sentiment of life and movement even after
they had disappeared. Their father looked after them well pleased, with
that complacence on his countenance, and pleasant sense of personal
well-being which is so natural, but so cruel and oppressive to people
less well off. Miss Susan, for her part, felt it an absolute insult. It
seemed to her that he had come expressly to flaunt before her his own
happiness and the health and good looks of his children. She turned her
back to the great window, that she might not see them going across the
lawn, with Everard in close attendance upon them. A sense of desertion,
by him, by happiness, by all that is bright and pleasant in the world,
came into her heart, and made her defiant. When such a feeling as this
gets into the soul, all softness, all indulgence to others, all
favorable construction of other people’s words or ways departs. They
seemed to her to have come to glory over her and over Herbert dying, and
Reine mourning, and the failure of the old line. What was grief and
misery to her was triumph to them. It was natural perhaps, but very
bitter; curses even, if she had not been too good a woman to let them
come to utterance, were in poor Miss Susan’s heart. If he had said
anything to her about his girls, as she expected, if he had talked of
them at all, I think the flood must have found vent somehow; but
fortunately he did not do this. He waited till they were out of the
house, and then rose and closed the door, and reseated himself facing
her, with something more serious in his face.
“Excuse me for waiting till they had gone,” he said. “I don’t want the
girls to be mixed up in any family troubles; though, indeed, there is no
trouble involved in what I have to tell you--or, at least, so I hope.”
The girls were crossing the lawn as he spoke, laughing and talking,
saying something about the better training of the roses, and how the
place might be improved. Miss Susan caught some words of this with ears
quickened by her excited feelings. She drew her chair further from the
window, and turned her back to it more determinedly than ever. Everard,
too! he had gone over to the prosperous side.
“My dear cousin,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, “I wish you would not treat me
like an enemy. Whenever there is anything I can do for you, I am always
glad to do it. I heard that you were making inquiries after our
great-uncle Everard and his descendants, if he left any.”
“You could not miss hearing it. I made no secret of it,” said Miss
Susan. “We have put advertisements in the newspapers, and done
everything we possibly could to call everybody’s attention.”
“Yes; I know, I know; but you never consulted me. You never said,
‘Cousin, it is for the advantage of all of us to find these people.’”
“I do not think it is for your advantage,” said Miss Susan, looking
quickly at him.
“You will see, however, that it is, when you know what I have to tell
you,” he said, rubbing his hands. “I suppose I may take it for granted
that you did not mean it for my advantage. Cousin Susan, I have found
the people you have been looking for in vain.”
The news gave her a shock, and so did his triumphant expression; but she
put force upon herself. “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “Such a search
as mine is never in vain. When you have advantages to offer, you seldom
fail to find the people who have a right to those advantages. I am glad
you have been successful.”
“And I am happy to hear you say so,” said the other. “In short, we are
in a state of agreement and concord for once in our lives, which is
delightful. I hope you will not be disappointed, however, with the
result. I found them in Bruges, in a humble position enough. Indeed, it
was the name of Austin over a shop door which attracted my notice
first.”
He spoke leisurely, and regarded her with a smile which almost drove her
furious, especially as, by every possible argument, she was bound to
restrain her feelings. She was strong enough, however, to do this, and
present a perfectly calm front to her adversary.
“You found the name--over a shop door?”
“Yes, a drapery shop; and inside there was an old man with the Austin
nose as clear as I ever saw it. It belongs, you know, more distinctly to
the elder branch than to any other portion of the family.”
“The original stock is naturally stronger,” said Miss Susan. “When you
get down to collaterals, the family type dies out. Your family, for
instance, all resemble your mother, who was a Miss Robinson, I think I
have heard?”
This thrust gave her a little consolation in her pain, and it disturbed
her antagonist in his triumph. She had, as it were, drawn the first
blood.
“Yes, yes; you are quite right,” he said; “of a very good family in
Essex. Robinsons of Swillwell--well-known people.”
“In the city,” said Miss Susan, “so I have always heard; and an
excellent thing, too. Blood may not always make its way, but money does;
and to have an alderman for your grandfather is a great deal more
comfortable than to have a crusader. But about our cousin at Bruges,”
she added, recovering her temper. How pleasant to every well-regulated
mind is the consciousness of having administered a good, honest,
knock-down blow!
Mr. Farrel-Austin glanced at her out of the light gray eyes, which were
indisputable Robinsons’, and as remote in color as possible from the
deep blue orbs, clear as a Winter sky, which were one of the great
points of the Austins; but he dared not take any further notice. It was
his turn now to restrain himself.
“About our cousin in Bruges,” he repeated with an effort. “He turns out
to be an old man, and not so happy in his family as might be wished. His
only son was dying--”
“For God’s sake!” said Miss Susan, moved beyond her power of control,
and indeed ceasing to control herself with this good reason for giving
way--“have you no heart that you can say such words with a smile on
your face? You that have children yourself, whom God may smite as well
as another’s! How dare you? how dare you? for your own sake!”
“I don’t know that I am saying anything unbecoming,” said Mr. Farrel. “I
did not mean it. No one can be more grateful for the blessings of
Providence than I am. I thank Heaven that all my children are well; but
that does not hinder the poor man at Bruges from losing his. Pray let me
continue: his wife and he are old people, and his only son, as I say,
was dying or dead--dead by this time, certainly, according to what they
said of his condition.”
Miss Susan clasped her hands tightly together. It seemed to her that he
enjoyed the poignant pang his words gave her--“dead by this time,
certainly!” Might that be said of the other who was dearer to her? Two
dying, that this man might get the inheritance! Two lives extinguished,
that Farrel-Austin and his girls might have this honor and glory! He had
no boys, however. His glory could be but short-lived. There was a kind
of fierce satisfaction in that thought.
“I had a long conversation with the old man; indeed, we stayed in Bruges
for some days on purpose. I saw all his papers, and there can be no
doubt he is the grandson of our great-uncle Everard. I explained the
whole matter to him, of course, and brought your advertisements under
his notice, and explained your motives.”
“What are my motives?--according to your explanation.”
“Well, my dear cousin--not exactly love and charity to me, are they? I
explained the position fully to him.”
“Then there is no such thing as justice or right in the world, I
suppose,” she cried indignantly, “but everything hinges on love to you,
or the reverse. You know what reason I have to love you--well do you
know it, and lose no opportunity to keep it before me; but if my boy
himself--my dying boy, God help me!--had been in your place,
Farrel-Austin, should I have let him take possession of what was not his
by right? You judge men, and women too, by yourself. Let that pass, so
far as you are concerned. You have no other ground, I suppose, to form a
judgment on; but you have no right to poison the minds of others.
Nothing will make me submit to that.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Farrel-Austin, shrugging his shoulders with
contemptuous calm, “you can set yourself right when you please with the
Bruges shopkeeper. I will give you his address. But in the meantime you
may as well hear what his decision is. At his age he does not care to
change his country and his position, and come to England in order to
become the master of a tumble-down old house. He prefers his shop, and
the place he has lived in all his life. And the short and the long of it
is, that he has transferred his rights to me, and resigned all claim
upon the property. I agreed to it,” he added, raising his head, “to save
trouble, more than for any other reason. He is an old man, nearly
seventy; his son dead or dying, as I said. So far as I am concerned, it
could only have been a few years’ delay at the most.”
Miss Susan sat bolt upright in her chair, gazing at him with eyes full
of amazement--so much astonished that she scarcely comprehended what he
said. It was evidently a relief to the other to have made his
announcement. He breathed more freely after he had got it all out. He
rose from his chair and went to the window, and nodded to his girls
across the lawn. “They are impatient, I see, and I must be going,” he
went on. Then looking at Miss Susan for the first time, he added, in a
tone that had a sound of mockery in it, “You seem surprised.”
“Surprised!” She had been leaning toward the chair from which he had
arisen without realizing that he had left it in her great consternation.
Now she turned quickly to him. “Surprised! I am a great deal more than
surprised.”
He laughed; he had the upper hand at last. “Why more?” he said lightly.
“I think the man was a very reasonable old man, and saw what his best
policy was.”
“And you--accepted his sacrifice?” said Miss Susan, amazement taking
from her all power of expression;--“you permitted him to give up his
birthright? you--took advantage of his ignorance?”
“My dear cousin, you are rude,” he said, laughing; “without intending
it, I am sure. So well-bred a woman could never make such imputations
willingly. Took advantage! I hope I did not do that. But I certainly
recommended the arrangement to him, as the most reasonable thing he
could do. Think! At his age, he could come here only to die; and with no
son to succeed him, of course I should have stepped in immediately. Few
men like to die among strangers. I was willing, of course, to make him a
recompense for the convenience--for it was no more than a convenience,
make the most you can of it--of succeeding at once.”
Miss Susan looked at him speechless with pain and passion. I do not know
what she did not feel disposed to say. For a moment her blue eyes shot
forth fire, her lips quivered from the flux of too many words which
flooded upon her. She began even, faltering, stammering--then came to a
stop in the mere physical inability to arrange her words, to say all she
wanted, to launch her thunderbolt at his head with the precision she
wished. At last she came to a dead stop, looking at him only, incapable
of speech; and with that pause came reflection. No; she would say
nothing; she would not commit herself; she would think first, and
perhaps do, instead of saying. She gave a gasp of self-restraint.
“The young ladies seem impatient for you,” she said. “Don’t let me
detain you. I don’t know that I have anything to say on the subject of
your news, which is surprising, to be sure, and takes away my breath.”
“Yes, I thought you would be surprised,” he said, and shook hands with
her. Miss Susan’s fingers tingled--how she would have liked, in an
outburst of impatience which I fear was very undignified, to apply them
to his ear, rather than to suffer his hand to touch hers in hypocritical
amity! He was a little disappointed, however, to have had so little
response to his communication. Her silence baffled him. He had expected
her to commit herself, to storm, perhaps; to dash herself in fury
against this skilful obstacle which he had placed in her way. He did not
expect her to have so much command of herself; and, in consequence, he
went away with a secret uneasiness, feeling less successful and less
confident in what he had done, and asking himself, Could he have made
some mistake after all--could she know something that made his
enterprise unavailing? He was more than usually silent on the drive
home, making no answer to the comments of his girls, or to their talk
about what they would do when they got possession of the manor.
“I hope the furniture goes with the house,” said Kate. “Papa, you must
do all you can to secure those old chairs, and especially the settee
with the stamped leather, which is charming, and would fetch its weight
in gold in Wardour street.”
“And, papa, those big blue and white jars,” said Sophy, “real old
Nankin, I am sure. They must have quantities of things hidden away in
those old cupboards. It shall be as good as a museum when we get
possession of the house!”
“You had better get possession of the house before you make any plans
about it,” said her father. “I never like making too sure.”
“Why, papa, what has come over you?” cried the eldest. “You were the
first to say what you would do, when we started. Miss Susan has been
throwing some spell over you.”
“If it is her spell, it will not be hard to break it,” said Sophy; and
thus they glided along, between the green abundant hedges, breathing the
honey breath of the limes, but not quite so happy and triumphant as when
they came. As for the girls, they had heard no details of the bargain
their father had made, and gave no great importance to it; for they knew
he was the next heir, and that the manor-house would soon cease to be
poor Herbert’s, with whom they had played as children, but whom, they
said constantly, they scarcely knew. They did not understand what cloud
had come over their father. “Miss Susan is an old witch,” they said,
“and she has put him under some spell.”
Meanwhile Miss Susan sat half-stupefied where he had left her, in a
draught, which was a thing she took precautions against on ordinary
occasions--the great window open behind her, the door open in front of
her, and the current blowing about even the sedate and heavy folds of
the great crimson curtains, and waking, though she did not feel it, the
demon Neuralgia to twist her nerves, and set her frame on an edge. She
did not seem able to move or even think, so great was the amazement in
her mind. Could he be right--could he have found the Austin she had
sought for over all the world; and was it possible that the unrighteous
bargain he had told her of had really been completed? Unrighteous! for
was it not cheating her in the way she felt the most, deceiving her in
her expectations? An actual misfortune could scarcely have given Miss
Susan so great a shock. She sat quite motionless, her very thoughts
arrested in their course, not knowing what to think, what to do--how to
take this curious new event. Must she accept it as a thing beyond her
power of altering, or ought she to ignore it as something incredible,
impossible? One thing or other she must decide upon at once; but in the
meantime, so great was the effect this intimation had upon her mind, she
felt herself past all power of thinking. Everard coming back found her
still seated there in the draught in the old hall. He shut the door
softly behind him and went in, looking at her with questioning eyes. But
she did not notice his look; she was too much and too deeply occupied in
her own mind. Besides, his friendship with her visitors made Everard a
kind of suspected person, not to be fully trusted. Miss Susan was too
deeply absorbed to think this, but she felt it. He sat down opposite,
where Mr. Farrel-Austin had been sitting, and looked at her; but this
mute questioning produced no response.
“What has old Farrel been saying to you, Aunt Susan?” he asked at last.
“Why do you call him old Farrel, Everard? he is not nearly so old as I
am,” said Miss Susan with a sigh, waking up from her thoughts. “Growing
old has its advantages, no doubt, when one can realize the idea of
getting rid of all one’s worries, and having the jangled bells put in
tune again; but otherwise--to think of others who will set everything
wrong coming after us, who have tried hard to keep them right! Perhaps,
when it comes to the very end, one does not mind; I hope so; I feel sore
now to think that this man should be younger than I am, and likely to
live ever so much longer, and enjoy my father’s house.”
Everard sat still, saying nothing. He was unprepared for this sort of
reply. He was slightly shocked too, as young people so often are, by the
expression of any sentiments, except the orthodox ones, on the subject
of dying. It seemed to him, at twenty-five, that to Miss Susan at sixty,
it must be a matter of comparatively little consequence how much longer
she lived. He would have felt the sentiments of the _Nunc Dimittis_ to
be much more appropriate and correct in the circumstances; he could not
understand the peculiar mortification of having less time to live than
Farrel-Austin. He looked grave with the fine disapproval and lofty
superiority of youth. But he was a very gentle-souled and tender-hearted
young man, and he did not like to express the disapproval that was in
his face.
“We had better not talk of them,” said Miss Susan, after a pause; “we
don’t agree about them, and it is not likely we should; and I don’t
want to quarrel with you, Everard, on their account. Farrel thinks he is
quite sure of the estate now. He has found out some one whom he calls
our missing cousin, and has got him to give up in his own favor.”
“Got him to give up in his own favor!” repeated Everard amazed. “Why,
this is wonderful news. Who is it, and where is he, and how has it come
about? You take away one’s breath.”
“I cannot go into the story,” said Miss Susan. “Ask himself. I am sick
of the subject. He thinks he has settled it, and that it is all right;
and waits for nothing but my poor boy’s end to take possession. They had
not even the grace to ask for him!” she cried, rising hastily. “Don’t
ask me anything about it; it is more than I can bear.”
“But, Aunt Susan--”
“I tell you we shall quarrel, Everard, if we talk more on this subject,”
she cried. “You are their friend, and I am their--no; it is they who are
my enemies,” she added, stopping herself. “I don’t dictate to you how
you are to feel, or what friends you are to make. I have no right; but I
have a right to talk of what I please, and to be silent when I please. I
shall say no more about it. As for you,” she said, after another pause,
with a forced smile, “the young ladies will consult with you what
changes they are to make in the house. I heard them commenting on the
roses, and how everything could be improved. You will be of the greatest
use to them in their new arrangements, when all obstacles are removed.”
“I don’t think it is kind to speak to me so,” said Everard, in his
surprise. “It is not generous, Aunt Susan. It is like kicking a fellow
when he is down; for you know I can’t defend myself.”
“Yes, I suppose it is unjust,” said Miss Susan, drying her eyes, which
were full of hot tears, with no gratefulness of relief in them. “The
worst of this world is that one is driven to be unjust, and can’t help
it, even to those one loves.”