PUBLIC OPINION.
Andrew would not stay at Brackenburn even for the night. He could not
endure the sight of his grandson again, until he had readjusted his
ideas and schemes, and had reconciled himself to his terrible
disappointment. Philip drove him to the station, doing his best to
comfort and cheer him, but he reached Apley the next day, after a long
night's journey, a broken-spirited and embittered old man.
Though this grandson of his could never be the fine English gentleman
he had been dreaming about, still Andrew was resolved there should be
no infringement of his birthright. Though he could never attain to
even a faint resemblance of Philip and Hugh, yet he was the eldest son,
the firstborn; and if the law of entail meant anything in England, it
must secure the inheritance to Martin. He laid the whole case, as far
as he knew the circumstances, before a firm of respectable solicitors
in the nearest large town, and was assured that if the next heir was of
sound mind, there was no doubt that he must succeed to Mr. Martin's
entailed estates. But was he sure that he was of sound mind? That was
the question. The description he gave of his grandson favored an
opposite conclusion.
It was a question that Andrew could not answer satisfactorily, even to
himself. Possibly the mind was there, but it was altogether
undeveloped. The life Martin had passed through was that of a cruelly
treated brute, cowering under cold and hunger, neglect, and oppression,
and hatred. He possessed scarcely more intelligence than an
intelligent dog. This, then, would be the loophole through which
Sidney would escape from the net he had woven for himself. He would
evade doing justice to Sophy's son by treating him as an idiot or a
madman.
Day after day Andrew went about the neighborhood, for a circle of ten
or twelve miles, telling the story of Sophy's wrongs with a publicity
strangely at variance with his dignified and melancholy reticence in
former days. He became a garrulous old man, ready to pour the history
of his troubles into every ear that would listen to it. And the story
was an interesting one. Many an old resident within some miles of
Apley recollected the incidents connected with the mysterious
disappearance of the saddler's pretty daughter, and the morose distress
of her father. Now that the almost forgotten mystery was solved the
solution proved to be more interesting than the secret. Andrew found
no difficulty in gaining listeners.
In these days public confession and public penance are impossible.
Sidney had no intention to act unjustly by his unfortunate firstborn
son, but he could take no steps to make his intentions known. He had
made his confession, with secret shame and grief, to his own
solicitors, and to one or two of his most intimate friends. The
rector, of course, had been acquainted with every detail, and had
looked more deeply into his heart of hearts than any other eye, except
Margaret's. But he could not defend himself from aspersions. A
general election was at hand; and Andrew, maddened by the remembrance
of the eager aid he had given to Sidney in former times, redoubled his
efforts to prejudice his constituents against him. But on the eve of
the dissolution Sidney addressed a letter to them, resigning his office
as their representative, and recommending as his successor the son of a
neighboring landlord. No reason was given for his resignation.
This omission Andrew seized upon. Garbled statements of the recent
events in the life of their late member of Parliament appeared in the
county papers taking the opposite side in politics--statements full of
venom and rancor. These were among the many penalties which Sidney
could not bear alone, but which fell heavily on Margaret and his sons.
The romance of Sophy's life and death contained so much truth that it
was not wise to enter into any contradictory or explanatory statements.
The son of Sidney's first wife was described as a helpless imbecile,
rendered so by the untold miseries which he had suffered with his
father's knowledge. A demand was made that the guardianship of this
unhappy heir should be taken out of his father's hands, and placed in
those of the Lord Chancellor, as the legal protector of idiots. A
commission should be immediately appointed to inquire into the present
condition, both physical and mental, of Sidney Martin's heir.
This blow struck home. Not only did Sidney suffer from it, but Philip
and Hugh, who were now together at Brackenburn, whither Hugh had gone
for the long vacation. Rachel Goldsmith was filled with indignant
anger. Andrew himself was dismayed at the storm he had raised, and the
use made of his bitter complaints by the "other side," as he called
those opposed to his own political views. He had not wished to play
into their hands. Besides, he knew that whatever concealment Sidney
might have been guilty of, or whatever subterfuges he might have been
tempted to, his grandson's welfare was safe in Margaret's hands. That
Margaret should swerve from the right path, however strait and narrow,
was incredible to him.
There was one person, however, so deeply interested in these malicious
suggestions, that she hoped they might be carried into effect, at least
so far as the appointment of a commission to inquire into the physical
and mental condition of Martin. Laura was filled with anxiety about
Phyllis; it would never do for her to marry Philip if he was to be an
almost penniless man, coming between two rich brothers. Margaret's
estate went to Hugh, and if Martin was sound in mind and body, there
was no chance for Philip. But in case he was really an imbecile, of
course Philip would succeed. She must find out the truth.
She seized an opportunity when they were dining at the Hall with no
other guests present. It was a summer's evening, and after dinner they
sat out of doors on the terrace. Phyllis, in obedience to previous
orders, carried Dorothy out of the way. Laura began with a little
trepidation.
"We saw old Andrew this morning," she said, "and he could talk of
nothing but his grandson."
Laura knew there were times when the fewest words were best, and she
spoke these with an air of innocent frankness.
"Yes, Sidney," said George, "the old man is angry with himself at
giving rise to these vexatious reports. Would it not be best to bring
Martin here for people to see him for themselves?"
"No, no; it is impossible," answered Sidney.
"But why?" pursued George. "It is always best to face a difficulty as
soon as possible. You cannot keep him out of sight forever. Is it
true, then, that the poor fellow is imbecile?"
"Not at all," replied Sidney. "The simple truth is that he is a
savage. He has no more idea of our modes of life and thought than a
savage has. His vocabulary is that of a savage; at the most he knows
less than three hundred words, and he cannot learn the English
equivalents of those. His brain is almost utterly undeveloped, and his
mind is almost as much closed against us as if he was only a dog. But
there is no reason to suppose him imbecile, and, in time, he may yet
learn a good deal."
"Is he strong in body?" asked Laura.
"As strong as a giant in some ways," said Sidney. "His hard life has
made his muscles like iron. He can sleep out of doors amid snow and
frost that would kill any one of us, and he can eat food that would
sicken us. Yes," he added, in a tone of unfathomable regret, "my
eldest son is a savage and a heathen, but he is not an idiot."
"And must he really be your heir?" asked Laura with a trembling voice.
"Certainly," he replied; "he is old enough to cut off the entail, but
until he can understand what that means it cannot be done, and that is
a very complex idea for a savage brain. There is no ground for
dispossessing Martin. Two of our most eminent mental specialists have
been to Brackenburn, and they discover no mental incapacity excepting
that of an altogether undeveloped brain. They found him more dull and
ignorant than the lowest type of English laborer, but they attribute it
solely to neglect, not to brain weakness. He may be unfit for his
position, but there is no reason why his son should be."
"Goodness!" exclaimed Laura, aghast. "You think, then, he will marry."
"Why not?" asked Margaret. "Nothing would tend to civilize him so much
as a wife and children, if only we can find some good and nice village
girl whom he could love, and who would consent to marry him. But no
lady would become his wife."
"Of course not," assented Laura; "but what, then, is to become of poor
Philip?"
"Philip wants to become a surgeon," said Margaret, smiling, "and I am
willing, even glad; but Sidney hesitates. I do not want my boy drowned
in commercial cares, and dealing chiefly with money all his life, as
Sidney has been. I do not think money worth the sacrifice. I cannot
help believing that our Lord meant what He said: 'How hardly shall they
that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!' It is true. Tell me,
Sidney, is it not true? I shall be glad to have Philip out of the race
for wealth. They will not be poor--Laura; my boy and your girl. They
will have enough to secure everything worth having--everything that
tends to health and culture and rational pleasure. They will only have
to do without superfluities."
"Philip a surgeon!" exclaimed Laura; "not even a clergyman to take the
family living!"
"That would be impossible," replied Margaret; "he feels no call for it,
and he could not go into the Church for the sake of the family living."
"That would be a sin against God," said George; "next to the
unpardonable sin, if it be not that sin itself. Let Philip become a
surgeon; my Phyllis will love him as much as if he was the owner of
Brackenburn."
But there were at least two persons there who doubted it, and with good
reasons. A smile that had grown rare on Sidney's face lit it up for a
moment, as the thought flashed across him that Philip would soon see
the real nature of the wife he had chosen, and that Dorothy would also
appear to him in her true light. Laura inwardly vowed that neither
persuasion nor authority on her husband's part should keep Phyllis
bound to a man who entered the insignificant career of a surgeon. It
would have been a knotty question whether Phyllis could have married
him, even if he had entered into partnership with his successful
father; but she should never become the wife of a professional man.
And Martin? It was possible that Sidney and Margaret were exaggerating
his deficiencies. Laura felt no doubt that they painted him worse than
he was; it was Margaret's habit to overstate any opinion she formed.
If he was only a boor, why could not Phyllis civilize him? She might,
in any case, keep her boorish husband in the background and still enjoy
the distinction of being Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn. Before she bade
them good-night she had constructed for herself a tolerable image of
Martin, which might be quite easily tolerated by a girl like Phyllis.
She might still live to see her the wife of Sidney's eldest son.