_ABBOTSMEAD IN SHADOW._
Mr. Fairfax's letters were brought to him, and after glancing cursorily
through the batch, he gathered them all up and went off to his private
room. Bessie conjectured that he would be busy for the rest of the
afternoon, and she took a walk in the park until dusk, when she returned
to the house and retired to her own parlor. The dressing-bell rang at a
quarter to seven, as usual, and Mrs. Betts came to assist at her young
lady's toilet. Being dressed, Bessie descended to the octagon room,
which she found empty.
It was a fine, frosty night, and the sky was full of stars. She put
aside a curtain and looked out into the wintry garden, feeling more than
ever alone and desolate amidst the grandeur of her home. It seemed as if
the last unkindness she had suffered was the worst of all, and her heart
yearned painfully towards her friends in the Forest. Oh, for their
simple, warm affection! She would have liked to be sitting with her
mother in the old-fashioned dining-room at Beechhurst, listening for the
doctor's return and the clink of Miss Hoyden's hoofs on the hard frozen
road, as they had listened often in the winters long ago. She forgot
herself in that reverie, and scarcely noticed that the door had been
opened and shut again until her grandfather spoke from the hearth,
saying that Jonquil had announced dinner.
The amiable disposition in which the squire had come home appeared to
have passed off completely. Bessie had seen him often crabbed and
sarcastic, but never so irritable as he was that evening. Nothing went
right, from the soup to the dessert, and Jonquil even stirred the fire
amiss. Some matter in his correspondence had put him out. But as he made
no allusion to his grievance, Bessie was of course blind and deaf to his
untoward symptoms. The next day he went to Norminster to see Mr. John
Short, and came back in no better humor--in a worse humor if
possible--and Mrs. Stokes whispered to Bessie the explanation of it.
Mr. Fairfax had inherited a lawsuit with a small estate in Durham,
bequeathed to him by a distant connexion, and this suit, after being for
years a blister on his peace, had been finally decided against him. The
estate was lost, and the plague of the suit with it, but there were
large costs to pay and the time was inconvenient.
"Your grandfather contributed heavily to the election of Mr. Cecil
Burleigh in the prospect of an event which it seems is not to be,"
concluded the little lady with reproachful significance. "My Arthur told
me all about it (Mr. Fairfax consults him on everything); and now there
are I don't know how many thousands to pay in the shape of back rents,
interest, and costs, but it is an immense sum."
Bessie was sorry, very sorry, and showed it with so much sense and
sympathy that her grandfather presently revealed his vexations to her
himself, and having once mentioned them, he found her a resource to
complain to again. She hoped that he would get over his defeat the
sooner for talking of it, but he did not. He was utterly convinced that
he had right on his side, and he wanted a new trial, from which Mr. John
Short could hardly dissuade him. The root of his profound annoyance was
that Abbotsmead must be encumbered to pay for the lost suit, unless his
son Frederick, who had ready money accumulated from the unspent fortune
of his wife, would come to the rescue. In answer to his father's appeal
Frederick wrote back that a certain considerable sum which he mentioned
was at his service, but as for the bulk of his wife's fortune, he
intended it to revert to her family. Mr. Laurence Fairfax made, through
the lawyer, an offer of further help to keep Abbotsmead clear of
mortgages, and with the bitter remark that it was Laurence's interest to
do so, the squire accepted his offer.
So much at this crisis did Bessie hear of money and the burden and
anxiety of great estates that she thought poverty must be far
preferable. The squire developed a positively bad temper under his
worries. And he was not irritable only: by degrees he became ill, and
yet would have no advice. Jonquil was greatly troubled about him, and
when he refused to mount his horse one splendid hunting morning in
February, though he was all equipped and ready, Bessie also began to
wonder what ailed him besides crossness, for he was a man of strong
constitution and not subject to fanciful infirmities.
Early in March, Mr. Frederick Fairfax wrote home that his Russian tour
was accomplished, and that he was impatient to be on board his yacht
again. The weather was exceedingly rough and tempestuous later in the
month, and the squire, watching the wrack of the storm on the wolds,
often expressed anxiety lest his son should be rash and venturesome
enough to trust himself out of port in such weather. Everybody was
relieved when April opened with sunny showers and the long and severe
winter seemed to be at an end. It had not made Bessie more in love with
her life at Abbotsmead: there had, indeed, been times of inexpressible
dreariness in it very trying to her fortitude. With the dawning of
brighter days in spring she could not but think of the Forest with fresh
longing, and she watched each morning's post for the arrival of that
invitation to Fairfield which Lady Latimer had promised to send. At
length it came, and after brief demur received a favorable answer. The
squire had a mortified consciousness that his granddaughter's life was
not very cheerful, and, though he did not refuse her wish, he was unable
to grant it heartily. However, the fact of his consent overcame the
manner of it, and Bessie was enjoying the pleasures of anticipation, and
writing ecstatically to her mother, when an event happened that threw
Abbotsmead into mourning and changed the bent even of her desires.
One chilly evening after dinner, when she had retreated to the octagon
parlor, and was dreaming by the fireside in the dusk alone, Jonquil,
with visage white as a ghost, ushered in Mr. John Short. He had walked
over from Mitford Junction, in the absence of any vehicle to bring him
on, and was jaded and depressed, though with an air of forced composure.
As Jonquil withdrew to seek his master the lawyer advanced into the
firelight, and Bessie saw at once that he came on some sad errand. Her
grandfather had gone, she believed, to look after his favorite hunter,
which had met with a severe sprain a week ago; but she was not sure, for
he had been more and more restless for some time past, had taken to
walking at unaccustomed hours, to neglecting his correspondence, leaving
letters for days unopened, and betraying various other signs of a mind
unsettled and disturbed. It had appeared to Bessie that he was always in
a state of distressed expectancy, but what for she had no idea. The
appearance of Mr. John Short without previous notice suggested new
vexation connected with the lawsuit, but when she asked if he were again
the messenger of bad news, he startled her with a much more tragical
announcement.
"I am sorry to say that I am, Miss Fairfax. Mr. Frederick has not lived
much at home of late years, but I fear that it will be a terrible shock
to his father to hear that he is lost," said Mr. John Short.
"Lost!" echoed Bessie. "Lost! Oh where? Poor grandpapa!"
"On the Danish coast. His yacht was wrecked in one of the gales of last
month, and all on board perished. The washing ashore of portions of the
wreck leaves no doubt of the disaster. The consul at the nearest port
communicated with the authorities in London, and the intelligence
reached me some days ago in a form that left little to hope. This
morning the worst was confirmed."
Bessie sat down feeling inexpressibly sorrowful. "Grandpapa is out
somewhere--Jonquil is seeking him. Oh, how I wish I could be more of a
help and comfort to him!" she said, raising her eyes to the lawyer's
face.
"It is a singular thing, Miss Fairfax, but your grandfather never seems
to want help or comfort like other men. He shuts himself up and
broods--just broods--when he is grieved or angry. He was very genial and
pleasant as a young man, but he had a disappointment of the affections
that quite soured him. I do not know that he ever made a friend of any
one but his sister Dorothy. They were on the Continent for a year after
that affair, and she died in Italy. He was a changed man when he came
home, and he married a woman of good family, but nobody was, perhaps,
more of a stranger to him than his own wife. It was generally remarked.
And he seemed to care as little for her children as he did for her. I
have often been surprised to see that he was indifferent whether they
came to Abbotsmead or not; yet the death of Mr. Geoffry, your father,
hurt him severely, and Mr. Frederick's will be no less a pain."
"I wish I had not vexed him about my uncle Laurence's boys. We were
becoming good friends before," said Bessie.
"Oh, the squire will not bear malice for that. He discriminates between
the generosity of your intention towards the children, and what he
probably mistook for a will to rule himself. He acted very perversely in
going out of the way."
"Does my uncle Laurence know the news you bring?"
"Yes, but he desired me to be the first medium of it. Jonquil is a long
while seeking his master."
A very long while. So long that Bessie rang the bell to inquire, and
the little page answered it. The master was not come in, he said; they
had sent every way to find him. Bessie rose in haste, and followed by
Mr. John Short went along the passage to her grandfather's private room.
That was dark and empty, and so was the lobby by which it communicated
with the garden and the way to the stables. She was just turning back
when she bethought her to open the outer door, and there, at the foot of
the steps on the gravel-walk, lay the squire. She did not scream nor
cry, but ran down and helped to carry him in, holding his white head
tenderly. For a minute they laid him on the couch in the justice-room,
and servants came running with lights.
"It is not death," said Mrs. Betts, peering close in the unconscious
face. "The fire is out here: we will move him to his chamber at once."
As they raised him again one stiffened hand that clutched a letter
relaxed and dropped it. The lawyer picked it up and gave it to Miss
Fairfax. It was a week old--a sort of official letter recording the
wreck of the Foam and the loss of her crew. The suddenness and tragical
character of the news had been too much for the poor father. In the
shock of it he had apparently staggered into the air and had fallen
unconscious, smitten with paralysis. Such was the verdict of Mr. Wilson,
the general practitioner at Mitford, who arrived first upon the scene,
and Dr. Marks, the experienced physician from Norminster, who came in
the early morning, supported his opinion. The latter was a stranger to
the house, and before he left it he asked to see Miss Fairfax.
The night had got over between waiting and watching, and Bessie had not
slept--had not even lain down to rest. She begged that Dr. Marks might
be shown to her parlor, and Mr. John Short appeared with him. Mrs. Betts
had put over her shoulders a white cachemire wrapper, and with her fair
hair loosened and flowing she sat by the window over-looking the fields
and the river where the misty morning was breaking slowly into sunshine.
Both the gentlemen were impressed by a certain power in her, a fortitude
and gentleness combined that are a woman's best strength in times of
trouble and difficulty. They could speak to her without fear of creating
fresh embarrassment as plainly as it was desirable that they should
speak, for she was manifestly aware of a responsibility devolving upon
her.
"Though I apprehend no immediate danger, Miss Fairfax, it is to be
regretted that this sad moment finds Mr. Fairfax at variance with his
only surviving son," said Dr. Marks. "Mr. Laurence Fairfax ought to be
here. It is probable that his father has not made a final disposition of
his affairs; indeed, I understand from Mr. John Short that he has not
done so."
"Oh, does that matter now?" said Bessie.
"Mr. Fairfax's recovery might be promoted if his mind were quite at
ease. If he should wish to transact any business with his lawyer, you
may be required to speak of your own wishes. Do not waste the favorable
moment. The stroke has not been severe, and I have good hopes of
restoration, but when the patient is verging on seventy we can never be
sure."
Dr. Marks went away, leaving Mr. Wilson to watch the case. Mr. John
Short then explained to Bessie the need there was that she should be
prepared for any event: a rally of consciousness was what he hoped for,
perfect, whether tending to recovery or the precursor of dissolution.
For he knew of no will that Mr. Frederick had made, and he knew that
since the discovery of Mr. Laurence's marriage the squire had destroyed
the last will of his own making, and that he had not even drawn out a
rough scheme of his further intentions. The entailed estates were of
course inalienable--those must pass to his son and his son's son--but
there were houses and lands besides over which he had the power of
settlement. Bessie listened, but found it very hard to give her mind to
these considerations, and said so.
"My uncle Laurence is the person to talk to," she suggested.
"Probably he will arrive before the day is over, but you are to be
thought of, you are to be provided for, Miss Fairfax."
"Oh, I don't care for myself at all," said Bessie.
"The more need, then, that some one else should care for you," replied
Mr. John Short.
Inquirers daily besieged Abbotsmead for news of the squire. Mr.
Laurence Fairfax came over, and Mr. John Short stayed on, expecting his
opportunity, while slowly the old man recovered up to a certain point.
But his constitution was permanently weakened and his speech indistinct.
Jonquil, Macky, and Mrs. Betts were his nurses, and the first person
that he was understood to ask for was Elizabeth. Bessie was so glad of
his recollection that she went to him with a bright face--the first
bright face that had come about his bed yet--and he was evidently
pleased. She took up one of his hands and stroked and kissed it, and
knelt down to bring herself nearer to him, all with that affectionate
kindness that his life had missed ever since his sister Dorothy died.
"You are better, grandpapa; you will soon be up and out of doors again,"
said she cheerfully.
He gave her no answer, but lay composed with his eyes resting upon her.
It was doubtful whether the cause of his illness had recurred to his
weakened memory, for he had not attempted to speak of it. She went on to
tell him what friends and neighbors had been to ask after his
health--Mr. Chiverton, Sir Edward Lucas, Mr. Oliver Smith--and what
letters to the same purport she had received from Lady Latimer, Lady
Angleby, Mr. Cecil Burleigh, and others, to which she had replied. He
acknowledged each item of her information with a glance, but he made no
return inquiries.
Mr. Chiverton had called that day, and the form in which he carried
intelligence home to his wife was, "Poor Fairfax will not die of this
bout, but he has got his first warning."
Mrs. Chiverton was sorry, but she did not refrain from speculating on
how Miss Fairfax would be influenced in her fortunes by the triple
catastrophe of her uncle Laurence's marriage, her uncle Frederick's
death, and her grandfather's impending demise. "I suppose if Mr.
Laurence were unmarried, as all the world believed him to be, she would
stand now as the greatest prospective heiress in this part of the
county. If it was her fortune Mr. Cecil Burleigh wanted, he has had a
deliverance."
"I am far from sure that Burleigh thinks so," returned Mr. Chiverton
significantly.
"Oh, I imagined that projected marriage was one of convenience, a family
compact."
"In the first instance so it was. But the young lady's rosy simplicity
caught Burleigh's fancy, and it is still in the power of Mr. Fairfax to
make his granddaughter rich."
Whether Mr. Fairfax would make his granddaughter rich was debated in
circles where it was not a personal interest, but of course it was
discussed with much livelier vivacity where it was. Lady Angleby
expressed a confident expectation that as Miss Fairfax had been latterly
brought up in anticipation of heiress-ship, her grandfather would endow
her with a noble fortune, and Miss Burleigh, with ulterior views for her
brother, ventured to hope the same. But Mr. Fairfax was in no haste to
set his house in order. He saw his son Laurence for a few minutes twice,
but gave him no encouragement to linger at Abbotsmead, and his reply to
Mr. John Short on the only occasion when he openly approached the
subject of will-making was, "There is time enough yet."
The household was put into mourning, but as there was no bringing home
of the dead and no funeral, the event of the eldest son's death passed
with little outward mark. Elizabeth was her grandfather's chief
companion in-doors, and she was cheerful for his sake under
circumstances that were tryingly oppressive. To keep up to her duty she
rode daily, rain or fair, and towards the month's end there were many
soft, wet days when all the wolds were wrapt in mist. People watched her
go by often, with Joss at Janey's heels, and Ranby following behind, and
said they were sorry for Miss Fairfax; it was very sad for so young a
girl to have to bear, unsupported, the burden of her grandfather's
declining old age. For the squire was still consistent in his obstinacy
in refusing to be gracious to his son and his son's wife and children,
and Bessie, on her uncle Laurence's advice, refrained from mentioning
them any more. Old Jonquil alone had greater courage.
One evening the squire, after lying long silent, broke out with, "Poor
Fred is gone!" the first spontaneous allusion to his loss that he had
made.
Jonquil hastened to him. "My dear master, my dear master!" he lamented.
"Oh, sir, you have but one son now! forgive him, and let the little boys
come home--for your own sake, dear master."
"They will come home, as you call it, when I follow poor Fred. My son
Laurence stands in no need of forgiveness--he has done me no wrong.
Strange women and children would be in my way; they are better where
they are." Thus had the squire once answered every plea on behalf of his
son Geoffry. Jonquil remembered very well, and held his peace, sighing
as one without hope.