WINDING UP
Ran and Judy had planned to go to London in the spring, to live in
retirement and to pursue their studies under private tutors. But as the
season opened in all its beauty they became so enchanted with their
delightful country home that they could not bear the thought of leaving
it.
“Couldn’t we have a resident tutor?” inquired Ran with some hesitation
as he and Judy were discussing the question one morning, seated on a
rustic bench under an old oak tree in their lovely lawn.
“‘A resident tutor?’” repeated Judy dubiously.
“Yes, such as the gentry have for their children.”
“For their children,’ of course, but not for grown people; not for
themselves. No, Ran, dear, we could not have a resident tutor for you
and me. That would set the servants to talking and the neighbors to
gossiping; and they would wonder where we had been brought up, perhaps
laugh at us, perhaps scorn us. I should not mind it for myself, Ran, but
I should mind it a great deal for you.”
“That is not the way I feel, Judy, dear, for I do not care a fig what
they say of me, but I could not bear to have them criticise you.”
“So, you see, Ran, we could not have a resident tutor.”
“I suppose we shall have to go and hide ourselves in London to pursue
our studies, Judy, dear.”
“Yes,” said the young woman with a deep sigh, “but mightn’t we put off
going until winter? Oh, it is so hard to leave this lovely place in the
glory of the spring.”
“Judy, love, time is passing quickly, and our education is very
backward.”
“Especially mine,” sighed Judy.
“But I tell you what I will do!” exclaimed Ran with sudden inspiration.
“I will confide the whole matter to Mr. Campbell, and take counsel with
him.”
“The very thing! And, oh, Ran!” exclaimed Judy, catching inspiration in
her turn, “might he not become our tutor? Give us an hour three or four
times a week?”
Ran fell into thought, but did not reply.
“I have so often heard of clergymen taking pupils. Even taking them in
their houses. But he need not do that. Could he not come to us or let us
go to him a few times every week?”
“I declare, Judy, darling, that is a splendid idea of yours, and I will
ask him, and if he should consent to do as we wish, why, then, we need
not bother ourselves about going to London to hide ourselves and look
for teachers!” exclaimed Ran in delight.
“And then there need be no gossip. No one need know what brings the
rector to our library or takes us to his study,” concluded Judy.
“I will go and see Mr. Campbell at once,” exclaimed Ran, with boyish
eagerness, as he sprang up, seized his hat from the ground and set off
in a brisk walk for the rectory.
But he met the rector full tilt at the lodge gate, as Mr. Campbell was
on his way to make a call at the house.
They both burst out laughing as they came into collision, and the
minister took Ran’s arm, turned him about and walked with him back to
the rustic seat where Judy sat.
She rose to welcome the visitor and to make room for him beside her on
the bench.
“Good-morning, ma’am,” he said, lifting his hat and taking the offered
seat. “We have lovely weather just now. It must be lovely even in
London. In fact, there is always delightful weather in London during
May, when the season is at its height. Do you leave for town soon?”
“Oh, I hope not. I never, never, never wish to leave for town,” said
Judy, with a genuine pout.
“I am sure I wish you never would,” laughed Mr. Campbell. “But I thought
you were daily expecting to start,” he added, turning to Ran.
“So we have been; but we have postponed our departure from day to day,
from reluctance to leave the country,” replied the young man.
“But the height of the season will soon be over. The weather will grow
warm and London intolerable. Much as I should desire for my own sake to
detain you here, I should advise you not to delay your departure.”
“But we don’t want to go at all! And we were not going for the sake of
the season, anyhow. And it depends on you, Mr. Campbell, whether we go
or not!” exclaimed Judy, taking the initiative and breaking right into
the midst of the matter.
“On me, Mrs. Hay!” inquired Mr. Campbell, with a puzzled air.
“Ran, tell him!” commanded Judy.
And then Randolph Hay confided to James Campbell the story of his own
and Judy’s neglected education, and their plans for remedying their
defects, and ended by diffidently proposing that the minister should, if
he pleased, become the director of their studies.
“I fear that my petition is a most presumptuous one, sir; but I hope and
trust that you will not consider it offensive. If so, I pray you to
pardon me.”
“My young friend, on the contrary, your proposal is both flattering and
agreeable. I shall gladly and gratefully undertake the task for which
circumstances as well as, I hope, college training, have fitted me.”
“I thank you with all my heart, Mr. Campbell. You have made everything
smooth and pleasant for us,” heartily responded Ran.
Judy caught the minister’s hand, pressed it between both hers, and so
expressed her gratitude.
Later all the details of the engagement were arranged between the
minister and his pupils.
On Ran’s pressing entreaty, Mr. Campbell consented to stay and dine with
them that day. And it was during his visit that the evening mail brought
them foreign letters from Cleve Stuart, with the news of his Uncle John
Cleve’s death.
“A good man gone to his rest,” was the comment of the clergyman.
The news of death—even of the death of a stranger whom we only knew by
report—always casts a shadow, for a longer or a shorter time, over the
circle into which it is brought.
Bright Judy was the first to smile and dispel the cloud.
“And now, Mr. Campbell, it is so well that you have consented to take
pity on us, for under present circumstances we could not leave Haymore,”
she said.
The minister raised his brows interrogatively.
“Because we must write and ask our friends to come and spend the summer
with us here.”
“Ah! I understand,” said the rector.
“Your patient lingers longer than any of us expected,” remarked Ran.
“Yes,” replied Mr. Campbell, “his tenacity of life is really wonderful,
poor soul!”
And he arose and bade his hosts good-night.
Gentleman Geff lay slowly sinking at the rectory of Haymore.
The cold contracted on that fatal winter night of his attempted flight
had settled on his lungs, and in the deeply inflamed condition of the
whole system from alcoholism, had fastened with fatal tenacity upon his
system.
But with the change in the seat of the disease—which, while it slowly
destroyed his lungs, completely relieved his brain—his mental faculties
were perfectly restored, with clear recollection of all that had
transpired, so that he knew his antecedents and his present surroundings
quite as well as our readers do. He knew also that he had no reason to
fear prosecution. His only fear—a secret one—was of death, “and after
death the judgment.”
He had not been prosecuted for any of his felonies, which, indeed, were
surrounded by such circumstances as admitted of their being ignored
rather than compounded.
All the documents by which he had seemed to secure a merely nominal
possession of the Haymore estate concerned the name of Randolph Hay, and
for all the law or the public knew, or need know, that name had been
claimed only by its real owner, the gentleman now in peaceable
possession of the Haymore estate, and never by the impostor who had
tried to take it.
So there was no legal obligation upon any one to bring a criminal
prosecution for fraud and forgery upon the dying malefactor.
And as to his heavier crimes of bigamy, robbery and attempted murder
which had been committed in the United States, there was not the least
likelihood that his surrender under the extradition treaty would ever be
demanded by that government to answer for them before an American
tribunal.
All whom he had so deeply injured, or tried to injure, had freely
forgiven him—all, that is to say, except Lamia Leegh, who in her bitter
humiliation was incapable of forgiving him.
The rector had to strive and pray for grace before he could pardon the
man who had wronged his daughter. But after this grace was given, James
Campbell spent many hours beside the bed of the dying man, reading to
him, praying with him, persuading him to repentance, exhorting him to
faith.
Gentleman Geff was despairing, and at times defiant in his despair.
“You needn’t talk to me, Mr. Campbell. I am as the devil made me. As I
‘have sown’ I ‘must reap.’ If there is anything that can give me
satisfaction now, it is that, after all, I have no blood on my
conscience. Bad as you may think me, I was never cut out for a murderer.
No, nor for a drunkard. Circumstances, temptation, opportunity—these
make destiny. I took to drink to drown remorse. I was a fool for feeling
it. Bah! how can a creature of destiny be responsible for anything he
does? Yet I am glad there is no blood on my hands.”
Mr. Campbell had spoken to Jennie, asking her if she could not overcome
her repugnance so far as to go in and speak to Montgomery, now that he
was in his senses.
But Jennie shuddered, as she replied:
“Papa, he has never even asked to see me, and I am glad he has not. I
have forgiven him. Indeed, indeed I have! And I pray for him. Indeed,
indeed I do! Not only night and morning, at the regular prayers, but
through the day, whenever I think of him, I pray for him earnestly,
fervently. I do! But, papa, I cannot even endure the thought of seeing
him.”
“Then, my child, you have not truly forgiven him. You must pray for
yourself, dear—for the gift of the grace of charity,” gravely replied
the rector.
No, Gentleman Geff had never asked to see his wife or child: never even
referred to either. Mr. Campbell was not sure that the man knew they
were in the house.
But one morning, when the rector was sitting beside him, Montgomery
suddenly said:
“I think it is a confounded shame that a sick man cannot be permitted to
see his wife and child.”
“But you can be permitted to see them. Do you wish to do so?” gently
inquired the minister.
“I should think I did. I have never even set eyes on the boy, and he
must be about nine months old by this time.”
“Your child is not a boy, but a girl,” said the rector.
“Now there! I did not even know the sex of my own child, who is nearly a
year old, and has been under the same roof with me for several weeks.
And this a Christian household!”
“If you feel equal to the interview, I will go and call my daughter now
and ask her to come and bring the little girl.”
“No. Let her come alone the first time. One at a time is all I can
stand.”
James Campbell went down to the back parlor, where he found his wife and
daughter seated at their needlework.
“Jennie, my darling,” he said, gently laying his hand upon her head,
“Montgomery has just asked to see you. Will you come to him?”
“Oh, papa! I cannot! I cannot!” she replied, with a shiver.
“Not come to a dying—yes, I must say it,” he added, after a painful
hesitation—“husband, when he sends for you?”
“He has forfeited that name, papa,” very firmly replied the wronged
wife.
“But you must forgive him, my child.”
“I do forgive him.”
“Well, then, you must come with me to him.”
“Oh, papa, I cannot! Indeed I cannot!”
“Then you do not forgive him, although he is dying?”
“Is he dying, papa?” she inquired in a pitiful voice.
“Not this moment, my dear. But Dr. Hobbs declares that he cannot live
many days in any case, and may not live an hour if another hemorrhage
should come on. Will you come with me, my dear?”
“Oh, papa, I cannot!”
“Jennie, how can you be so hard-hearted?” demanded her mother, now
entering into the conversation for the first time. “I am ashamed of you,
and afraid for you lest you be punished. After the man is dead and gone,
and you can never be kind to him again, you will be sorry. Go, at least,
and speak to him if you only stay one minute.”
“Come, Jennie,” said her father.
And then the young woman arose and followed the clergyman to the
sick-room.
She entered that room under protest; but when she saw the ghastly,
death-stricken face, the skeleton hand stretched out to her, the hollow,
sunken, unearthly eyes fixed upon her, she uttered a low cry of horror
and pity, and sank down on her knees beside the bed, took his hand and
dropped her face upon it.
The rector turned and left the room, closing the door after him.
“There, there, don’t cry! What is the use? Jennie, I am sorry that I
ever hurt you in any way. That is what I wanted to say to you, and that
is why I sent for you,” he said, speaking in a rather faint and
faltering voice.
She did not reply, but sobbed in silence.
“Jennie, did you hear what I said to you?” he inquired.
“Yes, I heard,” she sighed.
“Well, I said I was sorry I hurt you. Well, Jennie?” he asked, and then
paused as if expecting some definite answer.
“I, too, am sorry that you hurt me, or anybody else, or yourself worse
than all, Kightly. I am very sorry, and I pray to the Lord for you
daily, almost hourly. Do you pray for yourself, Kightly?”
“No, I don’t! What would be the use? ‘God is not mocked.’”
“But ‘He is full of compassion,’ Kightly. He——”
“There, that will do!” said the sick man, interrupting her. “You know
nothing about it! Go now. I have said what I sent for you to say to you.
Now go, please. I can’t stand much of this sort of thing,” he muttered
in a weak, petulant voice.
“I will come again to you when you want me, Kightly,” she said, rising.
“All right. And bring the youngster—but not to-day. There, there—go
along with you,” said the man, turning his face to the wall and closing
his eyes. Jennie left the room.
The next day she took the baby in to see its father.
She sat down in a chair beside the bed, and sat the baby on the top of
the bed near its father’s head.
And there she watched it.
The man showed but very little interest in his child.
“I thought, of course, it was a boy,” he said; “but, poor little devil,
it is better that it should be a girl, for I have no money to leave it,
but being a girl, it can marry some of these days and live on some other
fellow’s money. Take it away now, Jennie. I can’t stand much of it,” he
said.
And the mortified young mother took away the dazed and depressed baby
and afterward said to her own mamma:
“I never knew Essie to behave so stupidly. You might have thought she
was a little idiot.”
“Poor baby! The dark room and the haggard man subdued her spirits. It is
a wonder she had not cried,” replied the grandmother.
“I am very glad she did not—that would have made him worse,” said
Jennie.
After this the sinking man declined daily.
Jennie spent hours at his bedside, often having the baby with her when
he could bear it.
Mrs. Campbell had been a daily visitor and an occasional nurse from the
time he was first brought to the house.
Mrs. Longman never left him except for necessary rest and refreshment.
The gamekeeper’s cottage was ready for occupancy, but neither the mother
nor the son would leave the suffering sinner to take possession of its
comforts and emoluments.
And Ran heartily excused them both under the circumstances and paid the
man’s salary.
Gentleman Geff had never been told of the death of his cousin, the
Viscount Stoors. It was thought by his attendants that the news of the
decease of a relative that left him, the dying sinner, heir presumptive
of an earldom, would be, if not too sorrowful, certainly too startling,
too exciting for the safety of an invalid, whose pulse must not be
hurried in the slightest degree lest it should bring on a hemorrhage
that must carry off the patient.
One day, about this time, Montgomery rallied, and seemed so much better
that the doctor allowed him to sit up in bed, propped by pillows.
Mr. Campbell sat by him, reading aloud the morning’s paper, when Longman
came in bringing a letter, which he placed in the hands of the rector.
It was in a deep, black-bordered envelope, sealed with a broad black
seal and directed to
THE REV. JAMES CAMPBELL,
Haymore Rectory,
Haymore, Yorkshire.
“Excuse me!” he said, and stepped quickly to the furthest window lest
the sick man should see the herald of death.
He opened and read the letter, which was from Abel Stout, the steward of
Engelwode, and was as follows:
“ENGELWODE CASTLE,
“May 28, 187—.
“REV. AND DEAR SIR: It is my painful duty to announce to you the
decease of Charles-George-Francis-Henry, tenth earl of Engelmeed, who
expired at one-fifteen this A. M., and of the succession of Capt. the
Hon. Kightly Montgomery as eleventh earl. I inclose a letter, which I
beg you to be so kind as to hand to his lordship, if my lord is still
in your house, or to forward to his address if he should have left, as
the presence of his lordship here is imperatively necessary. I have
the honor to remain, reverend sir,
“Your obedient servant,
“ABEL STOUT.”
The inclosed letter was superscribed very formally in full title to
The Right Honorable
THE EARL OF ENGELMEED.
James Campbell stared at this superscription and then glanced at the
wreck on the bed, who now bore the dignity of an earldom.
He could not hesitate to deliver this letter, however it might affect
his patient. He must deliver it! He had no choice.
But what a shock! what a revelation! what a mockery it would now be to
him!—to him who had sinned for wealth and rank, who had sold his
birthright for a mess of pottage and found the dish—poisoned!
The Earl of Engelmeed was dead. His son and heir-apparent had died
before him, and now—their next of kin, their worthless relative, Kightly
Montgomery, the penniless adventurer, who had been driven by greed of
gold and love of luxury to crime and to death—the sinful, dying Kightly
Montgomery, was now master of Engelwode, with a rent roll of twenty
thousand pounds a year!
Ah, if he had only been good and true, he would have lived to enjoy the
old title and the rich estate—more honors than he could possibly have
gained by all his crimes, even though each one of them had been a
complete success!
But now, what a cruel mockery of fate!
Mr. Campbell, reflecting on all these matters, felt really sorry for the
wretched criminal, to whom the unexpected news of his succession to the
earldom, coming to him in his last hours, must truly seem the bitterest
irony of fortune.
“You have bad news there,” said the dying man, glancing at the broad,
black-edged envelope.
“Yes, I fear so. It comes from Engelwode, in Cumberland, where you have
relatives, I think,” replied the rector gravely.
“Oh, yes, relatives!” sneered the new earl, who did not even suspect
that he was one.
“‘A little more than kin, and less than kind.’
There is no love lost between us, believe me.”
Hearing this, the rector did not consider it necessary to be very
cautious in breaking this news. Nevertheless, he said:
“Let me give you your restorative before we say anything more about the
letter.”
And he arose and poured out the draught, some powerful tonic, compounded
of beef, coca and brandy, and administered it. Then he replaced the
glass on the table and said:
“The letter is for you, my lord.”
“What the devil do you mean?” demanded the new earl.
“Will you take the letter and look at it? Have you light enough? Shall I
draw up the shades?”
“No,” said the patient, taking the letter and squinting at it. “This is
for my uncle, not for me. Though how it should have come here I can’t
imagine.”
“Your lordship’s uncle, the late earl, is dead, my lord,” quietly
replied the rector.
“Dead!”
“Yes.”
“Dead! But there is Stoors.”
“He died before his father. But read your letter, my lord,” said the
rector, purposely ringing the changes on the title that he would have
too much good taste to bestow on the heir of an earldom under ordinary
circumstances, but on this impenitent sinner, on this unpunished felon,
on this dying peer, he lavished the honor with unction in the very
bitterness of irony.
“Read your letter, my lord.”
“I cannot! Oh, this is too terrible!” groaned the dying earl, covering
his face with his hands.
Did he mean, or did the rector for one moment believe that he meant, the
sudden death of his relatives, so near together, was too terrible?
No, indeed. The man meant, and the rector knew that he meant, to receive
this rich and august inheritance just at the hour of death was indeed
“too terrible”—was insupportable.
Poor wretch! he burst into tears and sobbed aloud, dropping back on his
pillow and turning his face to the wall.
“Pray try to be calm, my lord. This emotion will do you a mischief,”
pleaded Mr. Campbell.
“Go and bring my wife and child to me. Let me tell them the news,” he
exclaimed, and then burst into the most sarcastic peal of laughter the
rector thought he had ever heard. He left the room and went to find his
daughter, whom he came upon, as usual, seated beside her mother and
engaged in needlework over the baby’s cradle.
“Come, my dear. Montgomery wants you. Bring the little one along with
you. And, Hetty, dear, you had better come also,” he said.
Both women looked up anxiously, half expecting that this was their final
summons to the sick-room; that now “the end of earth” for Kightly
Montgomery was at hand.
“Is anything the matter, Jim?” inquired Hetty, while Jennie’s eyes asked
the same question.
“News of Montgomery’s relatives in Cumberland, that is all,” replied the
rector.
“What news?” demanded Hetty.
“He prefers to announce it in person.”
“Dear me! How mysterious we are! Come on, Jennie!” said Mrs. Campbell,
taking her husband’s arm and leading the way.
Jennie picked up her baby and followed.
They entered the sick-room.
The sick man held out his hand to his wife, saying:
“Come here, Jennie, my girl! You are Countess of Engelmeed! Did you know
it? And that doll in your arms is Lady Esther Montgomery!—for a few
hours only while I draw the breath of life. Afterward you will only be
countess dowager, while she will be countess in her own right. For the
earldom of Engelmeed is not a male feoff exclusively, but failing the
male line which fails in me, will ‘fall to the distaff,’ as represented
by that rag baby of yours. So I think—you are com——” He paused in sudden
pain and prostration.
“Do not speak again for the present, my lord. You will hurt yourself.
Rest a while,” said the rector, while Jennie looked at her mother in
helpless dismay.
“He is delirious again, my dear,” whispered Mrs. Campbell in reply to
that look.
“Stoop down——” muttered the dying man in a low, faint, husky voice.
Jennie bent over him to catch his failing words.
“You will be—compensated—for all—you have gone through—by being made—a
countess—you ought——”
His voice suddenly ceased. A spasm of pain traversed his face.
“My lord! my lord! Have mercy on yourself and keep still,” pleaded the
rector.
It was too late. A wild look flew into the eyes of the dying man and
fixed them on the rector’s face. A torrent of blood gushed from his
mouth. Gentleman Geff had spoken his last words, and in a very few
minutes he had drawn his last breath.
Jennie threw herself sobbing into the arms of her father. She was too
young to have much self-control, but whether now she wept from grief,
horror or compassion, or all three combined, she could not herself have
told.
Her father took her babe to his bosom and led her to her own room, where
he made her lie down on her bed and placed the child beside her.
The rector went to his study and wrote a letter to the steward at
Engelwode, telling him what had happened.
Then he walked over to Haymore Hall to carry the news to Mr. Randolph
Hay and to confer with him on what was next to be done.
Ran and Judy were both shocked and grieved at the fate of their
enemy—their enemy, however, only in so far as he tried to wrong them
primarily with the wish to benefit himself rather than to injure them.
“The remains should be taken to Engelwode Castle and placed in the
family vault, of course,” said the rector. “And as the last earl died
without having had time to make a will between his succession and his
death, my granddaughter, the little countess, will be a ward in
chancery.”
“And no doubt the lord chancellor will constitute you, sir, the guardian
of her person and a trustee of her estate,” added Ran.
“Perhaps—most likely, indeed; in which case they will associate some
other reliable man with me in the onerous charge. And I should like you
to be that man, Hay,” pleaded the parson.
“With pleasure; if the lord chancellor will appoint me,” answered Ran.
“Is Jennie much distressed, sir?” inquired Judy, sympathetically.
“Yes, madam. She is very much agitated.”
“May I go to her? Could I do her any good?”
“I feel sure you could. I should feel very grateful to you.”
Judy hurried into the house and got her wraps, and came out to join the
rector in his walk homeward.
At the rectory door they were met by Mrs. Campbell, who, after very
gravely saluting Judy and thanking her for coming, turned to the rector
and inquired:
“What was all that the wretched man was rambling about in his last hour?
Was there any foundation of truth in it?”
“It was all truth, Hetty, from foundation rock—to carry out your
simile—to capping stone; and baby Essie is now Countess of Engelmeed in
her own right and a ward in chancery.”
“Well, well, well! She doesn’t know it—Jennie, I mean, of course. She
thinks he was out of his head.”
“Yes, I saw she did; but it is true,” said the rector, as they entered
the house.
A week later the remains of the last Earl of Engelmeed were laid in the
vault of his forefathers, amid all
“The pride, pomp and circumstance”
of funeral parade.
After the ceremonies the rector, with his wife, daughter and grandchild,
returned to the rectory, where they were all to live during the minority
of the infant countess.
Ran and Judy came back to their beloved home, but had scarcely got
settled there when they received letters announcing the speedy arrival
of Mr. and Mrs. Cleve Stuart, with their children and a friend—Mr.
O’Melaghlin, of Arghalee, in Antrim.
“I wonder who he is,” pondered Ran, as he took the letter over to the
rectory to show it to Mr. Campbell.
“Why, I know the name and the place, but not the man. I have been to
Arghalee. All except the very ground on which the ancient castle stands,
and which the impoverished O’Melaghlin would not sell under any stress
of fortune, forms a part of the duke’s estate. The castle is one of the
show places of the neighborhood; not for its parks, plantations or
picture galleries, by any means—for there are none—but for the great
antiquity of the ruins. The owner was supposed to be traveling abroad.
He is The O’Melaghlin in question, of course. The guidebook to the
ancient castle shows the family to be lineal descendants from Roderick
O’Melaghlin, monarch of Meath, and more remotely from Konn, a somewhat
mythical king of prehistoric Ireland. So, you see, you will have an
illustrious guest, though he may be as poor as ‘Job’s turkey.’”
“No; the letter says he has made an immense fortune in the gold mines of
Australia, and is coming back to live on his estate.”
“When do you expect them?”
“By the next steamer—for this letter was written from New York the day
before they were to start.”
“Ah!” said the rector.
And Ran, having communicated his good news, went home to his Judy.