A NEW PLAN.
There were more persons than Laura Martin who felt bitter and
disappointed when the announcement was made that Sidney Martin's second
son was about to marry his rich ward. Dorothy, with her large fortune,
had been the subject of much speculation and many schemes among
Sidney's circle, and he did not escape further odium.
His career stood in this light in the eyes of most who knew him. In
his early manhood he contracted a low marriage, which he kept a
profound secret for fear of losing the favor of his rich uncle, whose
next heir he was. When tired and disgusted with his unsuitable wife,
he deserted her and his infant son in a remote and almost unvisited
spot in the Austrian Tyrol, thus dooming his firstborn child to a life
of misery and degradation many degrees worse than that of the lowest
laborer in England. After his succession to the estates of his uncle
he assumed the character of an ardent philanthropist and Christian, by
which he gained the affection of the only daughter and heiress of
Colonel Cleveland of Apley. His eldest son by this marriage was
brought up as his heir, and would have succeeded him but for the
accidental discovery of his first-born son, a man of thirty, densely
ignorant, and as uncivilized as a savage. The right of this man having
been established by his mother's father, Sidney was compelled to
acknowledge him and place him in the house which would belong to him
upon his father's death. But to compensate the second son, thus
dispossessed and disinherited, he handed over to him the wealthy ward,
who had been entrusted to his care by a man who knew him only under his
assumed character. This young girl had been kept secluded from all
chances of making another choice. Sidney Martin was a clever man, said
the world, a clever Christian.
No man knew the depth of his repentance. Even Margaret but dimly
guessed it. If he could have made a sacrifice of all his life, and
gone back to the hour when he fled from Sophy's shrill peevishness, he
would have done it, and taken up his life afresh, burdened with her as
his wife and the mother of his children. But the past could not be
undone. There was a closer union now between him and Margaret than
there ever had been, though it had struck its roots in his sin and
sorrow. It might have been a higher union, lifted up into pure regions
of holiness and gladness, but he had dragged her down to him in the
valley instead of rising with her to fairer heights.
Another scheme presented itself to his brain, always busily planning
how to retrieve the past. Why should not Philip and Dorothy marry at
once, and go to live at Brackenburn? Philip had been brought up to
fulfill the duties of an English country gentleman, a post Martin could
never fill. He might still take that position, and look after the
Yorkshire estate as long as Sidney himself lived. Then the progress
which Martin had been making under Dorothy's influence, and which had
been arrested by her departure, would go on again. Martin was sinking
back mentally, and was failing physically. Philip and Dorothy would
save him body and soul.
Margaret approved cordially of this idea. Her heart was full of pity
for the desolate man, living his lonely life among people who must
utterly fail to understand him. There was no reason why Philip and
Dorothy should not marry soon and take up their charge. They could
make a home for Martin, who loved them both so ardently; and if it came
to pass in the future that he should marry, they would give up the
place to him. As Dorothy loved her birthplace so much, she and Philip
might choose to build themselves a house in the neighborhood of
Brackenburn.
There was one person only who might raise an objection to this plan;
and Philip went down to Brackenburn to consult Andrew Goldsmith, and
convince him of its desirability. It was a November night when he
reached the manor house, and scarcely a light shone in any of its
windows, and not a sound was to be heard until Philip rang the great
hall door bell. It was opened by Selina, with a candle in her hand;
and by its dim light she led him along the many passages until they
reached the door of the housekeeper's room near the kitchen. Both
Andrew and Mary Goldsmith were dozing in the flickering firelight, and
Selina giggled audibly at their bewildered efforts to appear awake and
lively.
"A poor home for Martin," thought Philip, as he shook hands with the
old people. Martin was stretched upon the hearthrug, and did not stir.
He was lying in a languid posture, as if his strength was quite worn
out. His hair, no longer left to grow in a tangled mass, lay in thin,
straight lines on his forehead and his hollow temples, which had almost
the color of old ivory. His cheeks, too, were sunken, and as he slept
there was a tremulous movement about his lips, which gave to him an air
of childish weakness. He looked like a strong man whose strength was
slowly ebbing away.
"Martin, old man," said Philip, laying a cold hand on his burning
forehead, "wake up and give me a welcome."
Martin awoke with a violent start, and looked up vacantly, like a dog
just roused from his sleep, but when he saw who was bending over him he
burst into a passion of tears.
"It is time Dorothy and I came to take care of him," thought Philip.
He would have no other fire kindled, and as supper was just ready, he
sat down with them. When this meal was over, and Mary and Selina had
gone to see after his room for the night, Philip found an opportunity
of at once telling his business. Andrew was fond of him, but in his
obstinate old heart there was a lurking jealousy of this fine young
fellow who had so long usurped the place of his grandson. It vexed him
to see Martin stretch himself on the ground at Philip's feet, and gaze
up into his face in humble admiration.
"Mr. Goldsmith," began Philip. In old times he had called him Andrew,
but since he knew him to be his father's father-in-law he had adopted a
more formal mode of address, which Andrew always acknowledged by a slow
and somewhat dignified motion of his head. "Mr. Goldsmith, I came to
tell you and Mary, who are among my earliest friends, that I am going
to marry Miss Dorothy. Soon, too, for my father and mother wish it, as
well as myself."
Andrew took his pipe out of his mouth as if to speak, but put it back
again till he should hear more, for he was sure there was more to come.
"We are to be married almost immediately," continued Philip, "partly on
Martin's account. You know how he misses my mother and Dorothy, and
you know how quickly he learns from Dorothy. He has fallen back ever
since she went away. So we intend to make a home for Martin. We are
going to take him under our charge, and see how much we can do for him.
My mother says this life is only a moment in our endless life, and
Dorothy and I are going to spend our moment in taking care of my
brother."
"How are you going to do it?" asked Andrew suspiciously.
"And as soon as we are married, we are coming here to live with
Martin----"
"That shall never be," interrupted Andrew, bringing his clenched fist
down on the table with a blow that made Martin start, and cower like a
frightened hound. "I'll see that my grandson is not turned out of his
own house. No, no. Marry as soon as you please; but you shan't come
to live in Martin's place."
Andrew's folly and vehemence were so unexpected by Philip, that for a
minute or two he sat silently staring at the old man's infuriated face.
Martin, who had been roused by his angry tones, sat up on his heels and
gazed from one to the other in bewildered attention.
"Mr. Goldsmith," said Philip, after his pause of amazement, "we are
making this arrangement chiefly on Martin's account. It is true Miss
Dorothy loves this house, where she was born, and would rather live
here than anywhere else; but she knows it can never be ours. We think
of building another house in this neighborhood."
"Ay!" interrupted Andrew again, "with the money left by Sir John Martin
to build a place suitable for his heir. But Martin is his heir. I am
not too old to see that he has his rights. What you say sounds all
very well; but there's nobody but me to see the poor lad gets his own.
I'm sorry to gainsay you, Mr. Philip, but you cannot come to live here
in my grandson's house. He must be master, and nobody else."
"Not for his own good?" asked Philip. "He cannot be master, for he
does not know how to give an order to any servant. He will learn in
time, if we take him in hand. We thought you and Mary would be glad to
return to Apley, for you are among total strangers here; and Rachel is
going to live with us as housekeeper."
"Ah!" cried Andrew, with a long-drawn accent of suspicion and contempt,
"Rachel would do anything to serve you. I should soon hear that Martin
had signed his rights away. I couldn't trust Sophy's son with Rachel
when it was you he had to be unsaddled for. No; it shall never be.
I'll stay by Martin as long as I live; and nobody else shall be master
or mistress in his house."
"Martin," said Philip, stooping down to his brother again, and speaking
in the simple Italian words he understood, "I am going to marry the
signorina. Would you like us to come here, and live with you always?"
Martin repeated the words slowly to himself in a whisper; and slowly
the expression of his heavy face turned into a smile so wistful and
pathetic that it made Philip's heart ache. It was the smile of a soul
that sees afar off the glory and blissful ness of a life from which it
is shut out, but which it gazes at with distant and ignorant sympathy.
"Yes, yes, my brother!" he answered.
"I don't know what you say to him," said Andrew jealously; "but he's
more simple than a child; you may do what you like with him. But you
won't take me in; neither you nor your father. Here Martin is, and
here he stays."
"We wish him to stay here," replied Philip. "We are coming chiefly for
his sake."
"But I say you shall not come," persisted Andrew. "I'm his only
guardian, and I'll defend his rights. Come in Philip--turn out Martin.
That's how it will be; and I put down my foot against it. Here Martin
stops, and here I stop; and nobody else comes in as master."
"You compel me to remind you that Martin has no right to this house,"
said Philip, "as long as my father lives. This place belongs to my
father, and to no one else."
"I'll take lawyer's opinion on that," he answered doggedly. "I've
given up putting my trust in any man, especially Mr. Martin. And if
it's true, as sure as you bring Miss Dorothy here as your wife I'll
take my grandson away, down to Apley, and all the country-side shall
see Mr. Martin's son and heir sitting at work in a saddler's shop. He
is fitter for that, perhaps, than to be a squire; but whose fault is
it? Who deserted him and his mother? Oh! Sophy, Sophy! my poor lost
little girl!"
He dropped his white head upon his hands, and his sobs sounded through
the little room. Philip rose silently, and went away; and Martin, with
his bare feet, followed him noiselessly. The old man was left alone
with his impotent rage and grief.