Dr Brewer came in upon the girls that same evening somewhat abruptly. He
was a busy man, with little time to spare, and he thought his sudden
arrival like a gale of wind was a good thing for them in the languor of
their grief; but there was no languor about them as he found them. The
table was covered with papers, dispatch boxes, and writing materials.
Grace had turned out all the contents of her father’s boxes, and was
gathering together and examining every scrap of written paper, while
Milly, with a pen in her hand, obediently wrote down the description of
each. One little pile of business papers had been put by itself; letters
were lying open, innocent little account books, memoranda of all kinds.
It was like a man’s mind turned inside out, with all its careless
thoughts, and those futile recollections of no importance which stick
fast in corners when all that is worth remembering fades away. The
doctor was astonished by the sight, and alarmed as well. He knew that
the scrutiny of a couple of innocent girls innocently spying thus into
every recess of the thoughts, even of the most virtuous of men, might
not be desirable.
“Hallo!” he cried, “you are so very busy, I fear I am an intruder. Is
this necessary, do you think? Would it not be better to take all these
things home?”
“Oh, doctor, you are our only friend--you can never be an intruder,”
cried Grace. “Yes, we intended to take everything home; but something
has happened since--something that makes every scrap important. We are
obliged to do it. It is for the sake of the children!”
“You are giving yourselves a great deal of pain, and you have had enough
already,” he said, seating himself at the table between them. “My dear
young ladies, you are sure I don’t want to interfere in your family
affairs; but I feel responsible to your poor mother for you.”
“What does it matter about us? Dr Brewer, we have made a great discovery
to-day!”
“I heard you were out,” he said. “I was very glad to hear that you had
been out--a little change is what you want. A great discovery! Well, so
long as it is a pleasant one----”
“I don’t know whether it is a pleasant one or not.”
“You shall have my opinion if you will trust me with this important
secret,” said the doctor, smiling. He was a man with daughters of his
own. He knew the exaggerations, the excitements of youth; and he was
very tender of these fatherless children. His friendly countenance, the
very breadth and size of the man was a support to them, as they sat
slim and slight on either side of him. But when he said this, they
looked at each other with that look of consultation which had amused him
so often. The doctor thought it was an unnecessary formula on the part
of Grace, who always had her own way; but he liked her the better for
thus consulting the silent member of their co-partnership before she
spoke. To his surprise, however, that silent member returned a glance of
meaning--a sort of unspoken veto upon the intended disclosure.
“We have been to the place where papa was when he caught his cold--the
same place; and in the same way.”
Here again little Milly, shy and acquiescent as she was, signalled her
disapproval. “Don’t,” she seemed to say, with those soft lips which
never before had expressed anything but concurrence. The spectator was
much more interested, perversely, than if the sisters had been as usual
in perfect accord.
“Then you have found your relations?” he said.
“We don’t know if they are relations. Yes, I think so; we had the
strangest reception. Doctor, I don’t know how to tell you. We are sure
there is something underneath--an inheritance, of which papa has been
cheated, which we, or rather our Lenny, is the right heir of. I suppose
such things are quite common in England?” cried Grace, full of
excitement. “You will be able to tell us what people do?”
“An inheritance!” the doctor said, amazed. And then he laughed a little,
and shook his head. “No, my dear child, I don’t think such things are at
all common in England. They happen in novels, but not anywhere else, so
far as I know.”
This disconcerted the girls for a moment. For to be told that your own
story is like a novel is always disagreeable, and throws an air of
contempt upon the sternest facts. “It does not matter,” said Grace
shortly, “however much it may be like a novel, it is nevertheless true.
We found the address in papa’s letter case--nothing but the address--and
we felt sure that was where he had gone, to see old friends, he said. We
went there this afternoon thinking we too, perhaps, might find friends,
or at least hear something about that last visit. We were received by
the strangest, beautiful old lady--oh, she was like a novel if you
please!--who would have nothing to say to us. But the others,” said
Grace, getting somewhat confused, “acknowledged that there was some one
who had gone to see them that day, Tuesday, and had left in the
rain--who was a relation--who was--or, at least, they said, pretended to
be. Only it was quite a different name.”
Dr Brewer held up his hands to stop this broken flood of disclosure.
“Stop a little, and take me with you,” he said. “A beautiful old
lady--and the others who said--but it was quite a different name. Now,
tell me what all this means.”
Then they both began to talk together explaining to him. “There was one
lady, and her son, who were very kind,” Milly said.
“She told us it was an impostor or a madman who had come, and said he
was--somebody,” cried Grace; “but that _that_ person had died long ago;
and that our father was far more respectable; and that we could raise a
great law-suit if we liked; but the others said if we were _his_
daughters, it would make a great difference--oh, a very great difference
to them.”
“But they were very kind, and kissed us, and promised to come and see
us,” cried Milly, breathless, coming in again at the end.
“This is a very curious story,” said Dr Brewer. “I don’t pretend to
understand it very well, but so far as I can make out---- What was the
name? Of course there are family quarrels now and then, and sons who
bring a great deal of trouble upon everybody----”
“That could never be the case with papa,” cried Grace proudly; “I am
sure he must have been wronged.”
“Many an excellent man has been foolish in his youth,” said the doctor;
“we must not take things too solemnly. If you will tell me the name,
perhaps I may recollect if it has figured in the papers.”
Here both the girls were up in arms. They confronted him with flaming
eyes, and a blaze of anger.
“Doctor, I think you don’t understand at all! If you think our dear
father, whom we have just lost,”--and here Grace’s voice wavered, and
Milly dried her eyes--“was likely to do anything that would be in the
papers----”
“Why, my dear children,” cried the doctor, “how unreasonable you are! Of
course, he was in the papers a hundred times over. A man of note in his
community--a public man with letters to the Colonial Secretary, and who
entertained the Prince, as you told me yourselves----”
Here they looked at each other again, and blushed at their mistake.
“Yes, to be sure,” said Grace. “Dr Brewer is right, and we are silly. I
was thinking of something else.”
“Probably, for instance,” said the doctor, “there were advertisements in
what people call the agony column, entreating him to go home. You don’t
know the agony column? Oh, it is very easy to laugh; but there are
sometimes appeals there that remind one of sad stories one has known. A
doctor, you know, hears a hundred stories. What was the name?”
Once more that consulting look, and once more a blush of excitement
tinged with real diffidence, and a little embarrassment of shame. They
could not bear to think of a name which was fictitious, of anything
that was untrue about their history. “You know,” said Grace, hesitating,
feeling for the moment as if no inheritance, not even an old castle or
even a title, which had vaguely glanced across her mind as a
possibility, could make up for this falsehood--“you know, we are not at
all sure that it was papa. He never mentioned anything of the kind, nor
did we ever hear it before. The name was Crosthwaite. It is not pretty;
it is an odd name.”
“Crosthwaite--Crosthwaite: where have I heard it? It is not pretty, as
you say; it is a north-country name, Yorkshire perhaps, or--where did I
hear it? Ah, I remember, some one had been making inquiries
down-stairs.”
“It was Geoffrey,” cried Milly unawares: and then blushed more deeply
than she had hitherto blushed either for shame or anger, and caught
herself up, and drew back a little, in embarrassment which did not seem
to have any adequate cause.
“Then you know the people?” the doctor said in surprise.
“We know only their Christian names,” Grace, somewhat startled too,
explained eagerly to cover her sister. “The son is Geoffrey, and the old
lady is Miss Anna.”
“Bless me!” cried the doctor, “this is very peculiar. Oh! but you said
there was another lady--a lady and her son? Yes, yes, I see--a Mrs
Somebody--and this Miss Anna.”
“Mrs Underwood,” Grace said.
Dr Brewer’s surprise grew more and more. “I know a Geoffrey Underwood,”
he said, “a young barrister--a very nice young fellow. To be sure! he
belongs to two ladies who live up Hampstead way. This is very curious.
He is an excellent young fellow. He will tell me at once what the
mystery is--if there is any mystery; but, my dear young ladies, I am
afraid your romance will come to nothing if Geoffrey Underwood is in it;
for you may be sure he is not a young fellow to lend himself to any bad
business. Your beautiful old lady may be cracked, you know; she must be
off her head--a harmless lunatic perhaps. I very much disapprove of it,”
said the doctor, with professional warmth; “entirely, in every way--but
still there are people who, out of mistaken kindness, insist upon
keeping such cases at home--a thing that never ought to be done.”
Grace had listened with some dismay, feeling her house of cards tumbling
about her ears. “She was not insane, if that is what you mean. They were
afraid of her. She was the one who talked the most. I am sure she was
not insane; and then Mrs Underwood, too--you remember, Milly?--she said,
‘If it is so we are relations;’ and then her son, he said, ‘It will make
the greatest difference to us all.’”
“He said so? then perhaps after all there is something in it,” said Dr
Brewer. The doctor began to look serious. “One can never understand the
outs and ins of a family. So many people that have a good deal of money
to leave make foolish wills. It may be something of that kind. Bless me!
poor young Underwood, a fine young fellow. It will be hard upon him. You
must excuse me if I see both sides of the case,” he added gravely;
“young Underwood is----” and here he came to a dead pause.
It would be impossible to imagine anything more uncomfortable than the
sensations of these two girls. They were silent for a little, and
nothing was said round the table except a faint sound from the doctor of
concern and sympathy, accompanied by the shaking of his head. Grace
burst forth at last, unable to restrain herself.
“But, doctor, if it belongs to us rightfully, if it ought to come to my
brother Lenny--a family estate.--I don’t know what it is--perhaps
something that has belonged to us for hundreds and hundreds of years,
perhaps something that would change his position altogether, and make
him somebody of importance: is it not my duty to stand up for my
brother, to get him whatever he has a right to--although other people
may have to suffer?” the girl cried, with passion.
Milly by this time began to cry quietly, with her hands over her face;
and Grace stood alone, the champion of the family rights.
“Yes, yes,” the doctor said--“yes, yes; of course everybody should have
their rights; other people must always be a secondary consideration.” He
added, after a moment’s pause, “But don’t take up any false ideas about
family estates. Young Underwood is sufficiently well off, I have always
heard. He has had a good education. I don’t suppose he makes very much
money by his profession, so he must be able to live without that. But
his people are very quiet people. They live quite out of the way; they
are scarcely in society at all. Dismiss from your mind all idea of
hereditary estates or important position. All the same, money in the
funds is very nice--when there is enough of it.”
“Money in the funds!” said Grace, her countenance falling; while Milly
took one of her hands from her face, and looked over the other like a
sort of woebegone and misty Aurora from behind the clouds.
“Nothing more romantic than that, I fear,” said Dr Brewer; “but that’s a
very good thing, a very nice thing. No, life in England is not romantic
to speak of; it’s a very businesslike affair. If people have enough to
live on, it doesn’t trouble them very much how it comes. Land is dear.
It’s very nice if you have enough of it, but it’s an expensive luxury.
You get better percentage for your money even in the funds--and no
risks.”
“But, perhaps,” said Grace, “as--Geoffrey--is not the right heir--it
might be something different. Perhaps if it came back to the old family
there might be something more. Sometimes--things pass away, don’t they,
when it is not the direct line?”
“Peerages?” said Dr Brewer with a laugh. “Oh, yes; but I never heard of
property going astray. Money must find its level, you know; it must go
somewhere; it cannot just be spilt upon the earth like water and made an
end of. It must turn up somewhere. When a man dies intestate, I believe
his money goes to the Queen; which is hard, I have always thought. If it
were divided among the poorest of his neighbours it would be more
sensible. Sometimes a title drops by reason of a failure in the direct
line. But I don’t suppose you thought----” Here he stopped short, and
gave vent to a sudden laugh. “I do believe, my poor dear girl, that this
is what was in your mind----”
“I never said there was any such thing in my mind,” said Grace, growing
crimson. She felt as if she could have sunk into the earth. She had
nothing to say to defend herself, except this simple denial, and to hear
the doctor laugh was terrible. He laughed so frankly, as at the most
apparent nonsense. The girl did not know what to do. Was she such a fool
as he thought?
“It is very romantic,” he said; “but I fear, Miss Grace, in modern days
such things happen very rarely. Life was a great deal more picturesque
in the past. Now people are very thankful for such small mercies as
money in the funds.”
Grace made no reply. She too felt very much disposed to cry; it seemed
cruel that anybody should laugh at them in their circumstances, in their
deep crape. The sound of laughter even was out of place in the room from
which so lately the chief inhabitant had gone. She felt herself hurt, as
well as ashamed, by being made the cause of merriment; and even little
Milly, though she had not agreed with her, uncovered her little tearful
face, and was indignant in Grace’s cause.
“I don’t think there is so much to laugh at, Dr Brewer,” Milly ventured
to say. “You were not there to see what happened. You would have thought
it very, very important if you had seen how they looked, and heard what
they said.”
“I beg your pardon,” said the doctor, “was I unmannerly? I didn’t mean
to be. Why we should laugh at simplicity I cannot tell, but everybody
does. I have not the least doubt it was a most natural mistake.”
Simplicity! when everybody had always thought her so sensible, so
superior to all delusions. Grace shrank back into herself. She would
scarcely reply to any further questions.
“But, you know,” Dr Brewer said, with great gravity, “it is no laughing
matter. Where there is a question of taking their living from another
family, you must be very sure of your facts. It is such a hard case that
a jury would give every advantage of a doubt to the people assailed. It
would prefer to see what they did in the very best light. There would be
a prejudice against the claimants, however much _dans leur droit_ they
might be. The evidence would have to be very exact, as clear as
daylight. Any lawyer would tell you this. He would tell you, if your
evidence was not beyond question, to accept, or even offer, a
compromise. Such things are of every-day occurrence. You may have a
strong case, but if you can’t support it, and make it all as distinct as
clockwork, they will suggest a compromise. Have you found anything among
these papers to support the claim you are intending to make?”
“No.”
“You say your father never spoke about it, never referred to his former
name; gave you not the slightest hint of any rights of his in England?”
“No.”
“In short, you have no proof at all?” the doctor said.
“Not any, that we know of,” said Grace.
She sat, dogged and obstinate, answering only in monosyllables, or with
as few words as possible, sitting bolt upright against the high back of
her chair. Her heart had sunk, and her confidence was failing her; but
she would not yield, or at least seem to yield.
“That is not very hopeful,” said Dr Brewer, “any lawyer would tell you.
But you are determined, notwithstanding, to make out your case?”
“Yes,” said Grace.
She no longer felt amiably disposed towards the doctor. He had cast down
her dream-castle; he had represented her to herself as a vulgar
money-seeker; he had overthrown all her romantic hopes of gaining
advancement for her family, and making of Lenny a pattern English
gentleman, perhaps nobleman. She saw now what a slender foundation she
had built it all upon; but as nothing in the world would ever make Grace
give in, she hardened herself over her inward confusion, and stood like
a rock though her heart was quaking. The doctor made two or three sharp
little speeches; but he was half-angry, too, that the girls upon whom he
had been spending so much feeling should be so impervious to his
influence. He got up hurriedly at last, and said something about still
having some patients to see, though it was getting late.
“Good-night,” he said. “I should say I would be glad to do anything I
could to help you, if I did not think you were embarking upon a most
perilous undertaking. I think, permit me to say so, you should take your
mother’s advice first.”
“I shall do nothing mamma will disapprove of,” said Grace; and she
parted with stateliness from this friend who had been the only one to
succour them in their trouble.
As for Milly, she was very deprecating and tearful as she held out her
two hands to him. “Do not be angry!” she said with her beseeching eyes.
It was all the doctor could do not to stoop down and kiss this
peace-maker as he went away. He had thought her a little nobody at
first, but he did not do so now. “I declare she is as like Laura as one
flower is to another,” he said to himself as he went down-stairs. Now
Laura was the doctor’s favourite child--and what more could be said?
When he was gone, Grace returned to her previous occupation with her
father’s papers; but her heart was gone out of her search. “We might
have asked him at least to recommend some lawyer to us,” she said, which
was the only observation she made to Milly on the subject. Milly,
indeed, was dismissed altogether from the employment she had been
trusted with before Dr Brewer came in. Grace continued to look over the
papers, to put one on this heap, and the other on that; but she no
longer required Milly’s pen to write down and describe what each was.
For at least an hour they sat silent, the younger sister looking
wistfully on, the elder rustling the papers, bending over them with
puckers of careful consideration over her eyes, affecting to pause now
and then to deliberate over one or another. At length Grace gathered
them all together, with a sudden impatient movement, and, putting them
back into the despatch-box, concluded suddenly without any warning by an
outburst of tears.
“To think,” she cried, when Milly, greatly alarmed, yet almost glad thus
to recover her sister, hurried to her--“to think that we should be going
over all these things that were his private things just the other
day--not for love, or because it was necessary, but for business, and
about money! Oh, how hard we are, how heartless, what poor wretched
creatures! I could not have believed it of myself.”
“Dear,” said Milly, soothing her, “it is because everything is so
strange; and to do anything is a little comfort; and for the children’s
sake.”
“I wish now,” said Grace, with her head upon her sister’s shoulder,
“that we had telegraphed at once to mamma.”
“Perhaps it would have been better,” said Milly; “but you thought it
would be so dreadful for her, without any warning.”
Grace wept less bitterly when this instance of her own self-denial was
suggested to her. “It is so long to wait--so long to wait,” she cried.
And then a sense of their desolation came over them, and the two forlorn
young creatures clung to each other. Their nerves were overwrought, and
they were able for no more.