BRACKENBURN.
The large estate in Yorkshire to which Philip was heir had been seldom
visited by Sidney. It was much too far from London to be a place of
residence for him while he remained in business, and Margaret's house
at Apley exactly met all their requirements as a country place within a
short distance from town. The Yorkshire estate had been left to an
agent, and the house had been let for a term of twenty-one years soon
after his settling upon Apley as their home. Hitherto, therefore, it
had been little more to them than a source of income. The tenant of
Brackenburn was reported to be an eccentric man, who greatly resented
the occasional visits of the agent, and neither Sidney nor Philip had
cared to intrude upon him. The house was small, and Sir John Martin
had left the sum of £50,000 for building one more suitable for his
heirs. Now that Philip was so nearly of age it became a question of
some importance when and how the new hall should be built. Architects
were consulted and plans drawn up, bringing more forcibly to Philip's
mind that he, too, like Hugh, to whom Apley would come, was heir to a
large property in land. The love of land awoke within him. He threw
himself with ardor into the questions of building and planting. The
tenant's lease would expire shortly after he came of age, and it was
then proposed that Philip should take up his abode in the old Manor
House, and superintend the erection of the new mansion. When thinking
of it, he always thought of Phyllis as being there beside him.
But some months before Philip's coming of age Sidney received a letter
from a firm of solicitors in York informing him that his tenant, Mr.
Churchill, was dead, and that he was left sole executor of his will,
and the guardian of his only child; "having no friend whom I can trust
in the whole world," was added. Sidney had seen his tenant only a few
times, and nothing had been said to him of the service thus thrust upon
him by Mr. Churchill's will. It was a surprise and an annoyance to
him; but the words, "no friend whom I can trust in the whole world,"
appealed to his and to Margaret's sympathy, and, telegraphing that he
was starting immediately, he set out on his northward journey.
"It is odd," he said to Margaret before leaving her, "that we have no
idea whether the only child is a son or daughter, or what the amount of
property left may be. But in any case we can befriend Mr. Churchill's
only child."
It was early morning when Sidney reached the little road-side station
nearest to Brackenburn, and a walk of four miles lay between it and the
old Manor House. His temperament was still alive to all the simple
pleasures of a solitary walk like this, at an unwonted hour and in the
very heart of the country. London lay very far away from him. His
love of nature had no touch of age upon it, and as he sauntered along
the lanes, with the joyous caroling of little songbirds all around him,
and the bracing air of the dawn caressing his face, he felt almost like
a boy again. If Margaret had but come with him, his enjoyment would
have been perfect. The fever of city life always running in his veins
cooled down into an unusual calm and tranquillity, and for once he
asked himself if his satisfied ambition was worth the sacrifice he had
made for it.
The old Manor House of Brackenburn stood at the head of a long dale,
with wide stretches of heather-clad moor rising behind it and lying in
long curves against the distant horizon. It was an old timber house,
the heavy beams black with age, and the interstices, which had once
been kept white with frequent lime-washing, were now weather-stained
and discolored. But the front of the old house was hidden under a
thick mantle of ivy, which had never been touched or trained, and which
grew in long, luxuriant sprays that waved to and fro restlessly in the
breeze. A stone wall, ten feet high, surrounded the house and
concealed the lower story, and Sidney found it difficult to push open
the heavy iron gates, which admitted him to the forecourt. The windows
were still closed with outer wooden shutters, and the only sign of life
was a thin line of smoke rising from one of the great stacks of
chimneys, and floating softly across the blue of the morning sky.
Sidney rang gently, in order not to disturb the household at so early
an hour, and the door was presently opened by an old woman, who
appeared with a candle in her hand, and led him into a darkened room.
He told her briefly who he was.
"I'll call Dorothy to you," she said as she shut the door upon him.
There was something about being left in this way to wait for some
unknown person which brought back very vividly to his memory his first
meeting with Margaret. He could see her coming in, and drawing near to
him, with her simple, unconscious grace, and hear her addressing him as
frankly as if she had been a little child. He had loved her with all
his heart from that moment. Was it possible that it was more than
twenty-two years ago? It might have been but yesterday; only she was
dearer to him now, and her love was more necessary and more precious to
him. How foolish he was to waste so much time in business, which might
be spent in companionship with her. Well, as soon as Philip, or Hugh,
was ready to take his place, he would himself relax his pursuit of
wealth and power.
He was pacing to and fro in the dark room when the door was opened
timidly, and a young, slight girl entered, and stood just within the
doorway, gazing at him. The dim light of the single candle hardly
reached her, and he could only see large dark eyes, looking black in
the wan pallor of her face, which were fastened upon him, partly in
terror, and partly in appeal to him, like the pathetic gaze of some
dumb creature doubtful of the reception it will receive. She seemed
almost to be shrinking away in dread of some unkindness, when he
approached her as she stood trembling just inside the door.
"I'm Dorothy," she said, looking up at him with pale anxiety.
"Dorothy Churchill?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered, nodding, the tears gathering slowly in her eyes.
"And you have no brothers or sisters?" he said.
"No," she whispered.
He took her hand tenderly in his, and led her to a chair, and sat down
beside her, keeping hold of the little brown hand, which trembled in
his clasp. She looked like a forlorn, neglected child. The big tears
rolled one by one down her cheeks; but she did not dare to move or wipe
them away. She seemed as if her spirit was crushed by long and
constant unkindness. Sidney drew her near to him as he would have done
a little child. His heart was troubled for her, and he wished Margaret
could be with him to comfort this lonely and sorrow-stricken girl.
"You loved your father!" he said, after a pause.
"Not much," she answered; "he frightened me."
"Didn't he love you?" he asked.
"He loved his dogs most of all," said Dorothy, sobbing. "Oh, come
upstairs, please. You are the master now; and oh, I want you to come
to his room. They said I must not give any orders about anything."
She led the way up the broad old staircase, where the morning sun was
shining in gleams of light through chinks in the shutters, and, pausing
for a moment or two before a door till he was close beside her, she
opened it very cautiously. The room was low and dark, wainscoted with
almost black oak, which reflected no light from the candles that were
burning in honor of the dead. A heavy four-post bedstead held the
corpse of the dead man, laid out in the terrible rigidness of death;
eyes closed, lips locked, head and hands motionless for ever. The head
and face were uncovered, and the weird, indescribable seal of death was
on them. No light would ever reach those closed eyes again, no sound
would ever enter those deafened ears.
If that had been possible, the uproar that followed Sidney's entrance
into the darkened room would have aroused the dead man. For to each of
the four posts of the great bed was chained a huge mastiff, which, as
he stepped across the threshold, sprang forward as far as the chain
would allow him, as if to attack the intruder, with a wild chorus of
furious howling and baying.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, starting back in horror, "what is the
meaning of this?"
"He would have it so," answered Dorothy, as she clung with both hands
to his arm; "he would have them here all the time he was ill, because
he said no one else loved him. And John and Betsy said they must stay
here till you came, because you are the master now. But, oh! they were
howling and wailing all night, and the night before, and it is
dreadful. Oh! be quiet, Juno and Di; he cannot hear you now. Yes, you
loved him, I know. But he is gone, and can never come back to you.
Poor dogs! lie down, lie down. I will be kind to you, and take care of
you; but you must not stay here, now the master is come. Poor dogs,
poor dogs!"
Her voice fell into tones of pity, and she loosed Sidney's arm, and
ventured up to the mastiff nearest to her, laying her hand gently on
its great rough head and speaking caressing words, until all four
crouched down moaning, as if they understood her. After the furious
barking it seemed as if a sorrowful silence had fallen into the
death-chamber, though the dogs still whined and whimpered, but quietly,
as if they were growing exhausted with their grief.
"He loved them very much," said Dorothy, looking across to Sidney as he
stood at some distance, afraid of provoking the mastiffs to a fresh
outbreak if he attempted to draw nearer. "Oh, yes! he loved them ever
so much more than he did me. He always said I should live to be a
sorrow and a curse to him; and it was no use wasting his love upon a
girl. I am almost grown up now; but I've never been a sorrow and a
curse to him. And I never would have been, father," she added, turning
and speaking to the corpse, as if it could hear her; "perhaps you know
now that I would always have been a good girl to you."
"Come away, my poor child," said Sidney, with a feeling of deep pity
and tenderness for the desolate girl, "you belong to me now. Come
away, and these poor dogs shall be taken out of this room. I cannot
come to you, lest they should begin their fierce uproar again."
She was shivering with excitement when she reached his side; and he put
his arm round her, and almost carried her away from the gloomy room and
terrible assemblage of mourners. The light was stronger outside the
door, and he could see her small, pale face quivering, and her dark
eyes gleaming with terror and grief. He stooped down and kissed the
pale face.
"Now, Dorothy," he said, "listen to me. I have no daughter, and from
this moment I take you as mine; and my wife will be as a mother to you.
It is a new life you are about to begin; quite different from this old
one. Which is your room, my child? Go, and rest now till afternoon.
And remember that I am master here, and I will take every care of you."
Though owner of the old house he hardly knew it. It was twenty years
since he had let it to Mr. Churchill, and he had not seen it since. He
filled up his time, while waiting for the solicitor from York, in
wandering through the rambling old rooms. Most of them were low and
dimly lighted, with heavy mullioned windows and wainscoted walls; but
there was a charm about them which no modern mansion can possess. All
of them were poorly and barely furnished with the mere necessaries of
household life. There were no curtains to the windows, and no carpets
on the floors, which looked as if they had been seldom cleaned. His
footsteps echoed loudly through the nearly empty rooms; and he found
nowhere any trace of wealth or refinement, except in the library, which
was well furnished with books. There were only two servants--an
elderly man and his wife. The large garden surrounding the house had
become a wilderness, where the old gravel walks were scarcely to be
traced.
"The little girl will be poor," Sidney said to himself, "but Margaret
will care the more for her if she has nothing."
As the morning passed on the solicitor arrived, eager to get through
his business and catch a return train, which would take him back that
evening. He ran rapidly through the will, which left everything in
Sidney's hands.
"You see you have absolute power," he said; "it is the simplest will in
the world. His only daughter sole heiress, and you sole executor. No
relations, no legacies, no conditions."
"He must have been an odd man," remarked Sidney.
"Very odd indeed," he replied, "very odd! Has not spent £200 a year
over and above his rent since he came to this place. No, I'm wrong!
since his wife left him, when their child was about two years of age.
Ran away, you understand, and providentially died a few months
afterward. The girl has grown up quite untaught and uncared for. She
will be eighteen soon, and looks and acts like a child of twelve. A
serious thing that, with her fortune."
"Fortune!" repeated Sidney. "I judged them to be poor."
"About a quarter of a million, more or less," said the solicitor; "and
she has never been trusted to spend a sixpence in her life. Poor
Churchill professed to hate her, as being like her mother; but you see
he could not disinherit her. Curious instinct that in human nature to
leave one's possessions to one's own flesh and blood. We seldom find
it contravened."
"But there is no trace of wealth about the house," suggested Sidney.
"Churchill sold off all his wife's knickknacks when she ran away," he
replied, "and kept nothing but necessaries. He has lived here with two
servants and a host of dogs. By the way, the dogs are to attend the
funeral as far as the churchyard gates; the rector will not allow them
inside. We fixed the funeral for to-morrow, and I will run over to it;
and then we can arrange any further matters of business."