THE PROGRESS OF EVENTS.
In the press of other matters we have lost sight of Mrs. Hazeldine and
Fanny for a time. The news of Mr. Hazeldine's tragical end came upon
them with all the force and suddenness of an earthquake shock,
shattering the little trivial round of their daily existence in a way
which seemed to render it impossible that it should ever come together
again. Not till the day of the funeral was Mrs. Hazeldine able to rise
from her bed, but after that last sad duty had been discharged, she
grew in strength rapidly, although no one expected of her that she
should do otherwise than keep up the _rôle_ of a semi-invalid for some
time to come.
On the day following the funeral she was interviewed by an
enterprising member of the staff of the county newspaper, whom,
nothing loth, being indeed flattered by the notion that anything she
might choose to tell the man would be deemed worthy of appearing in
print, she supplied with an exaggerated and sentimental account of Mr.
Hazeldine's last evening at home, not forgetting a description of
sundry strange dreams she had been troubled with just before the sad
event; and supplementing the whole with the mention of certain omens
and portents presaging misfortune of which she had thought nothing at
the time, but which had appealed to her since with all the force of
neglected warnings. The narrative thus obtained, having been docked of
sundry excrescences, and then touched up with sundry dramatic and
picturesque details, was duly served up for the delectation of the
public at large, greatly to the disgust of Clement and Edward
Hazeldine.
In other ways, too, Mrs. Hazeldine began to find that there was a
likelihood of her being "appreciated"--that was how she stated the
case to herself--after a fashion to which she could lay no claim
during her husband's lifetime. Both Lady Glendoyle and the Hon.
Mrs. Gore-Bandon--by neither of whom had she ever been noticed
before--called upon her in her great affliction, and were most kind
and sympathetic; while the Countess of Elstree in person made
inquiries and left a card. Even at such a time, she could not help
deriving a melancholy satisfaction from the knowledge that her
mourning was quite correct and beyond criticism. Fanny had not been
too much overwhelmed with grief to look carefully after so vitally
essential a matter.
To Fanny the loss of her father was a serious blow in more ways than
one. For one thing, it meant her enforced absence for at least six
months to come from all those gaieties and social functions in which
her soul delighted. At two-and-twenty she felt that such a waste of
precious time was nothing less than a serious misfortune; and then she
was beset by the consciousness that in mourning she looked nothing
less than "horrid." It should not be her fault if her mother and
she did not go into half-mourning at the earliest possible moment.
In the way of half-mourning there are always some lovely things
obtainable--delicate shades and semi-tones of color which would suit
her style and complexion admirably. It was especially annoying that a
certain event should have happened when it did, just as she had
entered on a most promising flirtation with Mr. Gerald Darke, who had
come down from town to stay for a month with a rich maiden aunt from
whom he had expectations. Who could say what might not have come of
the affair! As matters fell out, however, young Darke's visit had
come to an end during the time Fanny was necessarily invisible.
She felt that it was very hard on her, more particularly in view of
the fact that for some time past she had given up flirtation for
flirtation's sake, and always, nowadays--with an eye to possible
eventualities--made herself sure beforehand that the game was worth
the candle.
It was an unwelcome surprise both to the widow and her daughter to
find that, beyond a policy of insurance for twelve thousand pounds,
Mr. Hazeldine had left nothing behind him except a sum of one thousand
pounds lodged in the Bank to which his services had been given for so
many years. He was a man who never talked about his private affairs to
anybody, but that he had died so poor was a source of surprise to all
who had known him. The house, however, in which he had lived was his
own, and that was now left to Mrs. Hazeldine for her use during life.
With the exception of a legacy of five hundred pounds to his daughter,
all else he might die possessed of was to be invested for the benefit
of his widow, the interest accruing therefrom to be hers as long as
she lived, and at her death the principal to be divided equally among
his children.
It was not without many inward qualms that Edward Hazeldine allowed
himself to become an accessory to the fraud--for it could be termed
nothing less--perpetrated by his father on the Stork Insurance
Company. But, as he told himself over and over again, there was no way
of escape open to him. He felt as if he had lowered himself for ever
in his own eyes when he had acknowledged the receipt of the Insurance
Company's cheque, and had paid the same into the Bank in his mother's
name. It was another of those downward steps forced on him by his
fatal knowledge of his father's secret. Fervently did he hope it might
be the last.
A day or two after the receipt of the cheque, Edward called on his
mother in order to consult with her as to the disposition of the
money. "What I propose," he said to Mrs. Hazeldine, "is that you
should authorize me to invest the amount in the Four per cent,
debentures of a certain Company with which Lord Elstree is intimately
associated. By doing this you will come into receipt of an assured
income of four hundred and eighty pounds a year."
"Four per cent! Why, my dear Edward, I made sure that with your
financial knowledge you would be able to get me eight per cent, for my
money--or six at the very least!"
"Oh, I could get you eight, or even ten per cent., readily enough,"
retorted Edward, a little grimly, "only in that case what sort of
security would you have for your principal? People who are not content
without a high percentage for their money must take the risk with it.
Now, the investment I am proposing to you is an absolutely safe one."
"But four hundred and eighty pounds a year! I--I did hope that I
should have been able to keep a little pony-phaeton."
"There will only be yourself and Fan," responded Edward, ignoring the
latter part of her remark. "Your staff of servants might well be
reduced, and I would recommend that you should let this house and move
into a smaller one."
"My dear Edward, what are you thinking about! Remove into another
house--and a smaller one, too--when only last spring this one was
fitted throughout with new carpets and blinds? Think of the waste of
money--I will not speak of the laceration of my feelings--which such a
step would involve. This house has associations for me such as--as no
other house ever could have. But--but that, of course, matters to
nobody but myself."
Mrs. Hazeldine began to whimper in a gentle but aggravating way.
Edward got up and walked to the window and stood there, turning over
the keys and money in his pocket.
"And then, again, what chance would Fanny have of getting well
married, if we were to go and live in some little cottage, which in
all probability would swarm with earwigs and black beetles?"
"My dear mother, pray don't say another word about it."
But if he thought he was going to get off so easily, he was mistaken.
"Just, too, as I am getting round me a circle of friends such as I
never had in your poor father's lifetime! Lady Glendoyle, and Mrs.
Gore-Bandon, and others. What would they think if I were to bury
myself alive in the way you want me to? I might almost as well go and
live in one of the parish almshouses. I consider it most unkind of you
even to suggest such a thing."
Edward ground his teeth, but refrained from any reply. He had wound
Mrs. Hazeldine up, and there was nothing for it but to let her run
down of her own accord. Presently he remembered an appointment, and
took a hurried leave.
Although nothing more was said about the widow's removal to a smaller
house, her son's strong will prevailed over her weak one as far as
money matters were concerned. The twelve thousand pounds were invested
in accordance with Edward's suggestion, and Mrs. Hazeldine tried to
derive consolation from the fact that none of her fine acquaintances
would know how very limited was her income. Naturally, she told
herself, if they thought of the matter at all, they would put her
income down as being at least twice the amount it actually was.
It was with a very strange feeling that John Brancker woke up on the
morning of the day after his interview with Mr. Avison, and called to
mind the fact that he had no office to go to, nor any work to do.
"I feel like a fish out of water, and not a bit like a gentleman of
ease and leisure," said John at breakfast next morning, with a little
rueful laugh. "Now that I have got back home and am among my old
familiar surroundings, all that has happened during the last three
months seems almost as if it had never been. More than once this
morning I have caught myself looking at the clock, under the
impression that it would soon be time to set off; and on coming down
stairs I began to brush my hat in the hall just as I used to do every
morning."
"After all you have gone through of late, dear, you must give yourself
a month's holiday at the very least, before you even begin to think of
looking out for another situation."
John shook his head. "It would hardly be worth calling a holiday,
because I should be fidgeting all the time, and wondering what was
going to become of us."
"Going to become of us, indeed! To hear you talk, one would think
there was nothing but the Workhouse before us. It is not often,
goodness knows, that I insist upon having my own way, but I do in
this. You shall take a month's holiday, going right away from Ashdown;
and if we find you too obstinate to go of your own accord, why then
Hermy and I will carry you off by main force, and having locked up the
Cottage, leave it to take care of itself till our return."
John was pottering about the garden after breakfast, when the Reverend
Peter Edislow was announced. He was the Vicar of St. Mary's, the
church at which John, previously to his imprisonment, had filled the
post of organist for several years. He shook hands with John, and
said:
"I congratulate you most cordially, Mr. Brancker, on the result of
last Saturday," but there was not much cordiality in his tone. He was
a thin, ascetic-looking man, with a somewhat sour and querulous
expression of countenance. He regarded himself as the most ill-used
person of his acquaintance, and pitied himself accordingly, while
cherishing much inward resentment against certain of his
ecclesiastical superiors who had passed him over time after time, when
there was preferment in the air, in favor of others, altogether his
inferiors--or so he was firmly persuaded--in point of learning,
eloquence, and sound doctrinal piety. He felt it to be hard--very
hard--that his many merits should have received such scant
acknowledgment at the hands of those who ought to have been among the
first to accord them their due meed of appreciation and reward.
"Thank you, sir," said John. "It is a great pleasure to me to hear you
say so. One never knows until trouble overtakes us how many friends
and well-wishers one really has. And now about the organ, sir. I
presume it is your wish that I should take up my old duties on Sunday
next?"
"Hum! Well, the fact is, Mr. Brancker, it is about your position as
organist that I have called to see you this morning. We are very well
satisfied with Mr. Plympton, who has been officiating during your
absence--very well satisfied, indeed--and I think, taking all the
circumstances of the case into consideration, that it would, perhaps,
be as well if the existing arrangement were allowed to go on, at all
events for some little time to come. You will not fail to appreciate
my motives, I am sure."
"All the circumstances of the case!" echoed John, blankly. "Pardon me
if I fail to quite apprehend your meaning, Mr. Edislow."
The vicar coughed behind his hand. "I was in hope that your own good
sense would have spared me the necessity of any further explanation,"
he said, a little stiffly. "If you are not aware, I can only say you
ought to be, that although your trial on Saturday last resulted in
your acquittal--a fact on which I have not failed to congratulate you
most heartily--a very antagonistic feeling towards you still exists in
certain quarters. There are not wanting those who say that, although
the jury by their verdict avouched your innocence, certain suspicious
circumstances connected with the affair have not yet been cleared up;
and, in short, they choose to exercise the right of private opinion,
and--and to assume--But, really, is there any need for me to pursue
this painful topic any further?"
"None whatever, Mr. Edislow," answered John, with grave dignity. "If
such a feeling as you speak of exists--though it seems hard to believe
it of one's fellow-townsmen--why, then, sir, I quite agree with you
that my position as organist at St. Mary's is no longer tenable, and I
will at once place my formal resignation in your hands."
"Ah! Brancker, it is a sad thing to say, but we live in a most
uncharitable world. I shall be sorry to lose your services, but, all
things considered, I fail to see how you could have come to any other
decision."