The village of Murkley next morning bore an aspect wonderfully
different from that of the enchanted dreamland of the previous night.
In that wonderful light, everything had been softened and beautified--a
sort of living romance was in the air; the evening softness and the
strange magic of the lingering light had given a charm to everything.
When Lewis Grantley looked out next morning, the prospect was not so
idyllic. The "Murkley Arms" was in the centre of the village, where
the street widened into a sort of _place_ by no means unlike that of a
French country town of small dimensions. The house exactly opposite was
an old one, with a projecting gable and outside stair, washed with a
warm yellow, such as the instincts of an earlier age found desirable,
and with excellent effect, in a climate never too brilliant. There were
two or three of these old houses about, which gave a quiet brightness
to the grey stone and blue slate which, alas, were in the majority.
The road was partly causewayed and partly in a state of nature--and
mud: though the dryness of the weather about which everybody remarked,
though it had not especially struck the stranger, had kept this in
check. A handful of hay dropped here and there, a few stalks of straw
or other litter, gave a careless look to the place, which otherwise
was not disorderly. The little stone houses, with the blue-slated
roofs, had a look of comfort. It was not half so pretty, but it was a
great deal more well-off than many villages the stranger knew, and he
recognized the difference. He could scarcely, by craning his neck, get
a glimpse from his window of the river, which, with one or two rare
bits of meadow on its bank, disappeared immediately below underwoods
and over-hanging cliffs.
The room from which Lewis Grantley made these observations was
immediately above the front-door, where he had stood so long, with
amused astonishment, watching the leisurely proceedings of his hosts,
downstairs. It was an old-fashioned parlour, with a red and green
carpet on the floor, a red and blue cover on the table, furniture of
mahogany and black haircloth, and a large sideboard like a catafalque.
A slight mustiness, as of a place long shut up, was in the air, but
this was counteracted by a huge bouquet of hawthorn thrust into a
large jug which stood upon the sideboard. The blossom of the thorn is
not May in Scotland: were it to take the name of a month, it would be
June. There was not much refinement in the manner of this decoration,
but it was fresh and fragrant; and the windows were open, and the
"caller trout," for which Mrs. Janet had pledged herself, cooked as
fish can only be cooked when it is newly out of the water, was on the
table, along with the tea, "masked" to Janet's own taste, black and
bitter, but with a jug of mollifying cream by the side of it, "baps"
and "scones," by no means to be despised, and sweet butter, free from
any suspicion of salt, furnished forth the table. Grantley did not
disdain these dainties. He made an excellent breakfast; and everything
was so fresh and new to him, that to look out of the window was enough
to amuse him, and the absence of a newspaper, and of various other
accompaniments of breakfast in town, did not disturb his comfort in the
least. Grantley did not know anything about town indeed, and had no
regrets when he found himself in the silent atmosphere of this strange
little place. He had a very serious purpose in coming, but apart from
that it was pleasant enough to see new sights, and breathe an air to
which he was unaccustomed.
His upbringing had been of a curious kind. He was the son of English
parents, born (let us say for the sake of brevity, and according
to the fashion of our country) "abroad," which may, of course, be
anywhere, from one side of the world to the other: but was, in the
present case, on the European continent, and amidst the highest
civilization. He had grown up there rather in the subjection and
quiescence of a French boy during his school-time, than in the
freedom of an English one, and at seventeen had been left orphaned
and penniless amid people who were very kind to him, but who did not
know what to do with the desolate boy. It was at this crisis, in his
mourning clothes, his eyes dim with watching and weeping, that he
attracted the attention of a desolate old Englishman, wandering vaguely
about the world, as it seemed, with nothing to interest or attract him.
It is not necessary to be good in order to be kind, and old Sir Patrick
Murray, though he had cast off his own family, and cared nothing for
his flesh and blood, was not without a capacity of love in him, and
was as desolate in his old age as any orphan could be in his youth. He
was appealed to, as being an Englishman, in favour of the child of the
English pair who were dead. They were not of exalted condition; the
father was a clerk in the Vice-Consul's office, the mother had come
"abroad" as a nursery governess, no more. Their child spoke English
badly, and though he was furious in defence of his nationality, knew
nothing about the habits of his race, and had never been in England in
his life. Sir Patrick took him as he might have taken a puppy in the
same desolate circumstances. The lad was about his house for a month or
two, reading for him, arranging his papers, fulfilling offices which
were only "not menial," as the advertisements say. He was browner
than an English lad, and more domestic, with no pressure upon him of
games to be played or athletic duties to fulfil, and perhaps more soft
in his manner, with warmer demonstrations of gratitude and youthful
enthusiasm for his benefactor than an English youth could have shown.
By degrees he got into the old man's heart. They left the place of
young Grantley's birth, and thus cut all the ties he had of human
association. There were some relatives at home he had never seen, and
one of them had written to say that his sister's son should not want
while he had anything, and that the boy "of course" must come to him;
but none of the others took any notice, and even this open-hearted
person was evidently very glad and relieved in no small degree when he
was informed that a rich old Englishman had taken his nephew up.
"I hope you will do nothing to forfeit his kindness," this uncle wrote,
"for, though you should have come to us and welcome had you been
destitute, we are poor people, and it is far better that you should
have to depend on yourself."
This was all Lewis had in the world out of old Sir Patrick's favour,
but that favour was bestowed upon him all the more liberally that he
had nobody, just as the old man declared _he_ had nobody, to care for
him.
"We'll stand by each other," Sir Patrick said. And no doubt there is a
standing ground upon which old age and youth can meet which is wanting
when one of the two involved is an old man and the other a middle-aged
one. Sir Patrick scarcely remembered his son, who had been away from
him by far the greater part of his life, and had shown very clearly,
when they met, that a man of fifty is on too great an equality with
another man of seventy-five to leave much room for filial feeling. The
general thought his father (frankly) an old bore, and could not forgive
him for that ridiculous palace, the new Murkley, which Sir Patrick had
built in his youth. But to Lewis Grantley his noble patron was no old
bore, but the most gracious of gentlemen and the kindest of fathers.
The lad looked up to him with a kind of adoration. What did he know
about the Scotch relations? and, if he had known, he would not have
cared. It seemed natural to him that a man should know nothing about
his relations. It was his own case.
They travelled about everywhere, the old man and the young one, the tie
between them growing closer every day. When Sir Patrick got too weak
to travel, Lewis nursed and served him like the most devoted of sons.
It was only when a letter came with prodigious black borders, about a
year before Sir Patrick's death, announcing that of General Murray,
that the young fellow became aware that his old friend had a son. But
except that a dinner-party was put off, and a hatband put on, no other
notice was taken of the loss, and it faded out of the favourite's mind
as a matter of no importance either to himself or any one else. When
Sir Patrick died, Lewis mourned as sincerely as ever child mourned a
parent, and was as much startled to find himself the master of a large
fortune, left to him by this second father, as if he had been seventeen
instead of twenty-five; for all this time, eight long years, had passed
since his adoption by the kind old man to whose service he had devoted
himself with an _insouciance_ more characteristic of the country of his
birth than of the race to which he belonged.
During Sir Patrick's life he had received an allowance which was enough
for his wants, and he had scarcely begun to awaken out of his grief
to the consciousness that he must do something else for his living
when the extraordinary intimation was made to him that he was a rich
man. It may be thought strange that a young man of five-and-twenty
should continue, without a profession or any further apparent hopes,
devoted to the service of an old benefactor who had never made him any
promises, and taking no thought as to what his future was to be, when
that old benefactor in the course of nature should be taken from him.
But such things are possible enough. The young man was not afraid of
the future. He had never expected anything but to face it when the time
came. He was of an easy temperament, not troubled about what would
happen to-morrow. And why should Sir Patrick die? He did not forestal
that event, nor make sure of it till it came. Afterwards he must do
what he could--he was not afraid.
But it overwhelmed the young man when he was told of all he had
gained by the death of his old friend. He had not even known how rich
Sir Patrick was. His income might have ended with him for anything
Lewis knew; he had never inquired what his means were. When this
astounding news suddenly burst upon him, he was so much touched and
overwhelmed by so great a token of the old man's love that no other
circumstances had much weight with him. But by-and-by he began to
inquire and understand. The will was a very curious will. It began by
enumerating the property which was settled and out of his power by his
son's marriage settlement, and which would naturally go to his son's
daughter; to other daughters mentioned as the elder and the second, but
without names, which probably had been forgotten, he left each a sum of
money, two thousand pounds, the residue being entirely for "the use and
benefit of my beloved young friend, Lewis Grantley, who has been a true
son to my old age."
This will, as we have said, came upon Lewis like a thunderbolt. That
he himself should suddenly be turned into a rich man was wonderful
enough, but that his old friend had relatives so near was still more
wonderful. After the first shock of sensation, which was naturally
excited by his own personal share of the revelation, the mind of the
heir turned with a vague curiosity to those unknown personages. It
did not for a long time occur to Lewis that he had in any way wronged
them; indeed, it is very doubtful whether it would ever have done so,
had not the suggestion been thrown into his mind by the lawyer who had
the management of Sir Patrick's affairs. When the agent and the heir
met some time after the old man's death, the former congratulated his
client significantly that "the family" did not seem to have any idea of
disputing the will.
"The family--disputing the will!" Lewis said, with astonishment. He
was bewildered by the suggestion. The agent had come from Scotland on
purpose to give the young man full information concerning his fortune.
"They might, you know, have pleaded undue influence, or even that Sir
Patrick was old, and unfit to judge for himself: that he had been
bullied into it, or coaxed into it."
"Bullied into it--or coaxed into it!" Lewis echoed the words in utter
amazement and dismay, with that slightest touch of foreignness in his
accent which in the circumstances made the lawyer's blood boil, for
he was an old family lawyer, who had managed the Murray property for
generations, and his indignation was unspeakable, as may be supposed.
"Just so," he said, coldly. "I was consulted on the subject; but I
could only say there was no evidence--nothing that had come under my
observation; so you need not fear any opposition on that point."
"But this is very mysterious," said Lewis. "Why should they entertain
such an opinion of me?"
He asked the question in all innocence, fixing his eyes upon the
lawyer's face; and Mr. Allenerly, though so prejudiced, could not help
being moved by this entirely straightforward regard.
"You see," he said, a little abashed, "they know nothing about you."
"That is true enough," said Lewis, reassured.
"They know nothing about you; all that they know is, that somebody
has stolen into their grandfather's regard, and got all their
money--somebody that has nothing to do with the family. That's rather a
bitter pill, for they're not rich. You might be an angel from heaven,
and yet as you are not a Murray the family would feel it; but you may
make yourself easy on the subject. There will be no opposition."
The insinuation and the re-assurance were alike astonishing to Lewis.
"If there is any ground on which to oppose it, I should wish that there
should be opposition. I did not want Sir Patrick's money. I never
thought of it--never knew he had any."
"You couldn't suppose," said Mr. Allenerly, with some disdain, "that
all this was kept up on nothing?"
They were in Sir Patrick's rooms, where the young man had remained.
"That is true. No, surely it could not be kept up without money--and
there was plenty of money--of course, I must have been aware of that;
but I never thought of it--not for myself."
The lawyer was very prejudiced and extremely unwilling to allow himself
to say anything, but after a little hesitation he burst forth, as if
the confession had been forced from him, "I believe that."
"Then why should they think so badly of me?" Lewis said.
He did not make any rash proposal to give up the property, as perhaps
a hot-headed young Englishman might have done. People who have been
brought up abroad have more respect for money in itself than we have.
If they do not seek after it so enterprisingly, neither do they
separate themselves from it so lightly. There was no indignant flash of
a proposal to undo Sir Patrick's will, and prove his disinterestedness
beyond a question, in what Lewis said. That would have been foreign
to all the habits of his mind. But he grew very grave from that time
forth, a mood which suited well enough with his mourning. An intention
formed itself in his mind almost immediately, which he did not at once
carry out for a number of petty reasons each entirely unimportant in
itself, but mounting up together into a certain reasonableness. It was
not his grief, for he was young and his patron old, and the natural
tears were wiped soon; nor the necessity of settling all his foreign
affairs, getting rid of the house, selling or storing up the furniture
and pictures, providing for the servants; but there were a number of
other small things, including an illness which very naturally followed
his long devotion to a sick old man.
At last, however, but not till Sir Patrick had been dead nearly a year,
he set off for Scotland to carry out his intention. He was not seduced
to London on the way, or to make any acquaintance with the wonders of
England. London, to be sure, was growing empty and the season near
its end. He came direct from one of the Dutch ports to Leith, and
without any pause proceeded to the town which was the nearest, so far
as he could make out, to Murkley. One night he had reposed himself in
Edinburgh, and one in the "George." It was but three days now since he
had crossed the sea, and here he was in Murkley, in the native place of
his benefactor, on the very estate which had been his, near the house
in which he was born. All this had produced a great effect upon the
young man, and so did the conversation with Duncan and the new view of
himself and his own conduct suggested by that worthy. Passing gusts
of anger and uneasiness had crossed his mind, which were neutralized
indeed by the amusing circumstances of his arrival and the novelty
of the scene around. But when he had found himself alone that first
evening, and the outer world shut out, it could not be denied that the
usual peace of his mind was much disturbed. He no longer felt sure of
himself, and that tranquil consciousness of having done and of meaning
to do his best, which gave serenity to his character, failed him
almost for the first time in his life. It was a painful experience to
go through, but there was a satisfaction in the thought that he was
now on the spot at least, and in the way of ascertaining exactly what
the state of the matter was, and how he could best amend it, or if
amendment was possible.
This cheering thought and the influence of the morning restored his
satisfaction in the external world, and his hopes for what was before
him, and the sense of being surrounded with novel circumstances in
a new country with everything to learn and to enjoy, restored his
spirits. One thing gave him a momentary annoyance, which, however,
ended soon in the half mischievous, boyish pleasure which he felt in
the expedient he thought of to meet it. The annoyance was his sudden
recollection that the name of Lewis Grantley was no doubt well known at
Murkley Castle. To allow himself to be known as that detested personage
would baffle him in all his intentions. The way of eluding this was a
sufficiently simple one, that of dropping his own name. Accordingly
he took the first step in conciliating the family by doing the thing
of all others at which they were most indignant--assuming the name of
Murray, as Sir Patrick had wished. Sir Patrick had expressed a wish on
the subject, but it was not mentioned in the will, nor was there any
such stipulation made. And Mr. Allenerly had thought it inexpedient.
Therefore it had been understood that Grantley he should continue to
be. The best disguise he could assume, he felt, was to take the name
which would be supposed to be the most unlikely he could hit upon, and
yet to which he had a certain right. The idea of doing so amused while
it annoyed him. Sir Patrick would have liked it. It would have been a
pleasure to the old man; and to himself it would be a shield in this
country of the Murrays where every third person to be met with bore the
name. If at the same time a sense of deception and unreality crossed
the young man's mind, he put it away as a piece of folly. He had
nothing but a good meaning in this visit to his adversary's country, to
the neighbourhood of the people whom he had wronged without knowing it,
most innocently because altogether unawares.
This serious background of thought occupied his mind much while he lay
awake in the stillness of the night. But the stillness did not continue
long. The darkness was not much more than the twinkling of an eyelid,
he thought, and the birds were all awake in a multitudinous chorus, and
the sun shining into his room before drowsiness overcame him. At five
and twenty, however, a great deal of noise and tumult is necessary to
keep sleep away from the eyes, and Lewis, when he got the tangle of his
cares unloosened, soon lost consciousness of the birds. And when he
woke in the morning and found himself in a new world, with everything
about him novel and unfamiliar, amusement and pleasure got the upper
hand with scarcely an effort. Let the countryside think what it would
of him, he knew himself better, and it would go hard with him, he said
to himself, if he did not conquer even the countryside.