WHO SHALL BE HEIR?
From that day forward Ambrose Cortelyon seemed to regard his niece
with a certain amount of suspicion and distrust, but it was a distrust
that found no expression in words, and although Nell was conscious of
an undefinable change in her uncle's manner towards her, she was
wholly at a loss to what cause to attribute it.
The Squire was a man who expected those of his household, and all who
were in any way dependent on him, not merely to believe as he
believed, but to share his conviction that whatever decision he might
come to in any given set of circumstances was the right one, and that
all who differed from him were, theoretically, either fools or worse.
In short, he was one of that numerous class who have a firm belief in
their own infallibility in all the concerns of life; and as he was an
autocrat in his own domain, with nobody to contradict him, it was not
to be expected that his opinion of himself would become less confirmed
with advancing years. When, therefore, his niece chose to impugn his
action in a certain affair--and he now called to mind that it was not
the first time she had done so--and even to imply, not by her words
but by her manner, that his treatment of his grandson, or, to speak
correctly, his absolute neglect of him, was both cruel and unjust, he
was not, at any rate at first, so much angered as amazed at her
audacity in daring to set up her feeble girl's will in opposition to
his own, and, indeed, at her presumption in venturing to question his
decision in any way.
Nor, when he came to think the matter over at his leisure, did his
surprise, not unleavened with resentment, diminish. He told himself
that he could not have believed it of her; she had hurt him in a
tender place, and he felt as if she could never be quite the same to
him again as she had been in the past: and she never was.
It is just possible that the Squire's little smoulder of resentment
against his niece would gradually have died out had he not been beset
by a certain underlying consciousness, of which he vainly strove to
rid himself, that all through Nell had been undeniably in the right
and he indisputably in the wrong. Had he but seen his way to overlook
his son's _mésalliance_, and have brought him and his wife to
Stanbrook, in all probability Dick would still have been living. And
then, with regard to this grandson of his, this child of a play-acting
mother---- But when he got as far as that in his musings his passion
seemed to choke him. No, he had done right, quite right; no other
course was open to him. Come what might, he would never acknowledge
the brat. His blood was tainted; he was no true Cortelyon. But all his
arguing with himself did not suffice to pluck out the hidden thorn; it
was still there, rankling in his flesh. But if he could not get rid of
it, no one save himself should know of its existence, and he swore a
great oath that in the matter of his grandson he would not go back
from his word.
A day or two after her interview with her uncle Nell replied to Mr.
McManus's letter. What she wished him to do was to inform Mr. Dare
that he need be under no apprehension that Mr. Cortelyon would claim
his grandson or interfere in any way with the boy's future. She
further asked to be informed of the latter's address when Mr. Dare
should have settled upon a home for him.
To this the old tobacconist replied in the course of a week or two.
What he had to tell her was that for the present Mr. Dare had decided
to let Evan remain at Lawn Cottage in the care of Mrs. Mardin; but
that should he later think well to remove the child, Miss Baynard
should be duly advised of the change.
And there for the present the matter rested.
When Squire Cortelyon found himself once more at home, he went back to
his old mode of life with an added relish. He knew now that he had
just escaped a great danger. He had been led to believe that the
operation he was advised to undergo was of a very simple nature, but a
casual remark of the great London doctor, which he chanced to
overhear, had served to open his eyes after a very uncomfortable
fashion. In reality, the operation was anything but a simple one,
in view of possible consequences in the case of a man of threescore
years and ten. However, all is well that ends well. The dreaded
consequences had not developed themselves. He had come back home
feeling a new man, with every prospect of a renewed lease of life,
and he smiled grimly to himself to think how "that scoundrel of a
Banks"--his local medico--had succeeded in thoroughly hoodwinking him.
So he went back to the old familiar routine as if there had never been
a break in it, save that life seemed to have taken on an added
sweetness now that he knew what he had escaped. He trembled when he
thought of the risk he had run, not merely in one way, but in another,
for had the operation had a fatal termination he would have died
intestate (he had torn up his will after his quarrel with Dick and had
never made another), in which case his detested grandson would have
been his heir-at-law and have inherited everything. It was enough to
put him in a cold sweat when he thought of it. Of course, the day
would come when he could no longer defer asking himself the question,
"To whom or to what shall I leave my property?" But it was an
uncomfortable question to face, and a difficult one to answer; so, as
there seemed no immediate need for answering it, he shelved it till
what he chose to term "a more convenient time."
Pleasant to him were those long forenoons in the library, with no
company save that of Andry Luce, who kept his accounts, looked after
his rents, and to whom he dictated his correspondence. Pleasant it
was, with the help of Andry's sturdy arm, to stroll slowly about the
grounds, watching the gardeners and laborers at their work, chatting
with his bailiff, and giving his orders about this or the other.
Not less pleasant was it, when the fit took him, to have himself
driven in his old shandrydan to one or other of his outlying
properties, some of which lay many miles away, and satisfy himself
that everything was going on as it should do, which meant so far as
the interests of his own pocket were concerned.
But when the weather was bad, and he could not get out of doors, he
had other occupations wherewith to engage his time. He was an ardent
numismatist, and was very proud of his collection of coins and medals,
to which he kept adding from time to time as opportunity served. He
was also something of a bibliophile, and possessed a small but rather
choice collection of rare books and illuminated MSS. He would gloat
over these treasures as a miser gloats over his gold, and he derived
the most intense satisfaction from the belief (which on no account
would he have had disturbed) that his collections contained two or
three absolutely unique specimens in the way of coins such as no other
cabinet could match.
And so some months passed away, and no such person as young Evan
Cortelyon might have been in existence for any mention of him between
uncle and niece.
Then, as the winter crept springward, the Squire became unpleasantly
conscious that his physical powers were slowly, almost imperceptibly,
declining. For some little time he succeeded in persuading himself
that it was a mere temporary _faiblesse_ from which he was suffering,
due probably, in a great measure, to the moist oppressiveness of an
unhealthy season, which was carrying off numbers of younger people
than he. But when, at length, the weather vane on the stables veered
from southwest to northeast, and stuck there day after day, as if it
would never move again, bringing with it dry, sunny morns, and crisp,
bracing nights, he was obliged to seek for some other excuse for his
growing weakness. Not yet, however, would he give in and summon Dr.
Banks. Although the son on whom he had at one time built such hopes
was dead and gone, not for years had existence been sweeter to him
than it was just then, and yet, to all seeming, it was gradually but
surely slipping away from him. He felt as if a great wrong were being
done him. What was Providence about?
At length his weakness so far increased that he reluctantly authorized
Andry to summon Dr. Banks, who had attended him, off and on, from the
date of his accident, and in the course of years had extracted more
guineas from his purse than the Squire cared to reckon up.
"You have been very remiss, Mr. Cortelyon, very remiss indeed," said
the fussy little rural practitioner when he had completed his brief
examination, and had listened to the Squire's recital of his symptoms.
"You ought to have sent for me six weeks ago, if not earlier than
that. There has been a serious lowering of the vital forces, and, at
your time of life----"
"At my time of life! Damme! what d'ye mean? You don't mean to call me
an old man, and I not seventy-three till next birthday! Zounds! I'm
only just in my prime. Banks, you're an ass! It will be time enough
for you to begin to hint at my age--only to hint at it, mind you--a
dozen years hence."
Dr. Banks did his best, but his best in this instance proved of no
avail. The diminution of strength still went slowly on. At length the
Squire became too weak to go out of doors, even for a drive, and then
after a time the day came when he was unable to leave his bedroom.
At Dr. Banks's request, that well-known physician, Dr. Mills, of
Lanchester, was called into consultation, but all he could do, after
making one or two minor suggestions, was to accord his full approval
to the treatment already adopted by his colleague.
"I won't pay you your fee, doctor--hang me if I will, sir--till you
tell me what you think of me," said the Squire in his masterful way
when Dr. Mills was ready to go.
"Well, Squire, to be frank with you, I think your condition a somewhat
grave one. But while there's life there's hope, you know. Yes, yes, we
mustn't give up hope on any account; and you could not be in better
hands than those of my friend Dr. Banks."
"You would advise me to make my will, eh?" The cunning smile with
which he leered up into the physician's face hid a terrible anxiety at
the back of it.
The doctor pursed out his lips. "In such matters it is always
advisable to be prepared, to take time by the forelock, as
one may say. And in your case, Mr. Cortelyon, I am inclined to
think--um--well, yes, that any testamentary arrangements you may have
to make should not----"
"I understand," broke in the Squire with a wave of his hand. "Not a
word more is needed. Here is your fee. I am obliged to you for your
frankness; and so good-day to ye." He felt as if sentence of death had
just been pronounced on him.
Yes, it was no longer possible to cheat himself with vain hopes of
recovery. The dread fact that for him life's business was nearly over
could no longer be ignored, and the sooner he clasped it to him and
made himself familiar with its grim visage, the better it would be for
him during the little time he could call his own. He had lately had
private information from Piljoy that a certain property, on which for
years he had set longing eyes, would be in the market before another
twelvemonth was over, and yet he, Ambrose Cortelyon, would not be
there to bid for it! Again he asked himself what Providence was about.
Still, however much he might rail and rebel in secret at the dark
prospect before him, knowing all the while how childish and futile it
was to do so, his hard face in nowise softened to those about him, and
he betrayed no slackness of interest in any of the little everyday
affairs that went on around him.
But another spectre, besides that grisly one which Dr. Mills's words
had called up, began to haunt him, hovering round his pillow by night,
and never being far from his elbow between daybreak and dark. There
was only one way of exorcising it, as he knew full well, and that was
by making his will. The entail had been cut off in his grandfather's
time, sixty years before. How hateful soever the necessity might be,
it was one which could not with safety be much longer delayed, unless
he wished that all he might die worth should go to his disowned and
unknown grandson. Beyond him and Nell, so far as he knew, he had not a
single living relative. Whom, then, should he make his heir? For him
it was fast becoming the question of questions.
Oh, it was hard, hard, while he was still in what, rightly considered,
ought to be looked upon as the prime of life, to have to part from the
earthly possessions he loved so well, and which had cost him such long
and painful scraping to accumulate! But there was no help for it;
leave them he must; the fatal fiat had gone forth. At times, it may
be, his heart sent forth an anguished cry for his dead son; but if
such were the case, it in nowise served to mitigate the rancor, almost
inhuman in its bitterness, with which he regarded the dead man's
child. He had spoken no more than the truth when he said that he never
forgave.
It was just about this time that the Hon. Mrs. Bullivant, having heard
of his illness, drove over from Uplands to see him. The Squire had
never been very popular among those of his own class, and even now,
when he was reported to be in failing health, there were not many
callers at Stanbrook. Such as there were got no farther than the
entrance hall, for in each case the Squire, on the plea of illness,
excused himself from seeing them, and probably the majority of them
were as well pleased that he did so. But of the Hon. Mrs. Bullivant a
special exception was made. She was shown up into his bedroom, where
the Squire lay in his huge four-poster, propped up with pillows, and
there she stayed for upwards of an hour. For this, however, there was
a reason.
Mrs. Bullivant, when known to the world as Miss Onoria Flood, the only
daughter and heiress of a wealthy brewer, was the lady chosen by Mr.
Cortelyon for his son's prospective wife. He and Mr. Flood were
neighbors, so to speak, for only a short half-dozen miles divided
Uplands from Stanbrook, and when once the subject was broached--by the
Squire in the first instance--they were not long in coming to a quiet
understanding between themselves. Then Mr. Flood dropped a hint of
what was in the wind to Onoria, who was a dutiful daughter, and at
once fell in with her father's views. After that, all the Squire had
to do was to recall his son from London and break the news to him. To
Mr. Cortelyon the match seemed an eminently desirable one. Although
the brewer did not come of a county family, he was most respectably
connected, having one brother an archdeacon, and another high up in
the service of John Company. But the great attraction of all lay in
the fact that on coming of age Onoria would be entitled to a legacy of
twenty thousand pounds bequeathed her by her grandfather. Further, she
would be her father's sole heiress (he had Flood's word for that); and
as the brewer was of a gouty habit and somewhat plethoric withal, it
seemed not unlikely that---- Yes, in every way a most desirable match.
But we know what happened when Dick was told his father's goodwill and
pleasure in the matter. However willing under other circumstances he
might have been to fall in with the old man's views, he was precluded
from doing so by the simple fact that he was already a married man.
Thereupon followed the quarrel, and all that sad succession of events
with which we are already acquainted.
But Onoria did not go long unwedded. Before six months had gone by she
became the wife of the Hon. Hector Bullivant, the second son of Lord
Cossington, an impecunious peer, whose estates were mortgaged up to
the hilt. Neither affection nor sentiment had anything to do with the
union. Onoria married for position, the Hon. Hector for money.
Everybody who knew the young couple said that what followed was only
what they had prophesied all along, so easy is it to be wise after the
event.
The Hon. Hector was a notorious gambler and _roué_, and within a
couple of years of his marriage he had contrived to dissipate his
wife's fortune to the last guinea. A few months later he came by his
end in a drunken brawl, greatly to the relief of everybody connected
with him, leaving behind him one child, a boy a little over twelve
months old. Then the widow went back home to her father, taking her
son with her. Not long afterwards Mr. Flood was carried off in a fit
of apoplexy.
When his will was read it was a terrible disappointment to Onoria to
find that, instead of coming in for everything, as she had all along
been led to expect she would, she was merely left an income of six
hundred a year, together with the Uplands estate, and that everything
else was left in trust for her son. She had known that her father was
not likely to be a long liver, and, backed up by his wealth, she had
looked forward to a brilliant _rentrée_ into London society at no very
distant date, with, it may be, a second and more brilliant marriage in
the background. It was, indeed, a terrible disappointment.
Mrs. Bullivant at this period of her life was what is generally
understood by the term "a fine woman," that is to say, she was built
on ample lines, and was of generous proportions. Later on she would
tend to obesity. She was black-eyed and black-haired, with regular
features of a cold, statuesque type, which, as she was essentially
unemotional and a thorough specimen of ingrained selfishness, formed a
fair enough index to her disposition.
Such was the woman who came one day to see Squire Cortelyon on what
she had been given to understand was likely to be his deathbed. As a
matter of course, she knew of the quarrel between father and son, of
Dick's untimely death, and of his having left a widow and a child whom
the old man refused to acknowledge or to recognize in any way. She and
the Squire had not met since a little while before her marriage;
still, it seemed only what was due to good feeling and neighborly
sympathy, more especially in view of what had happened in the past,
that she should be desirous of seeing him once again before it was too
late. If there was any other motive, or half-motive, at work below the
surface, she would hardly have confessed its existence even to
herself.
As already stated, the interview between her and the Squire lasted
over an hour. By the time it came to an end the sick man was pretty
well exhausted; still, he was glad, he was very glad, that he had seen
her. Her visit had supplied him with a ray of light where all had been
darkness before. She was a woman after his own heart--energetic,
capable, a man as regarded business ability, of a like saving
disposition and with an ambition similar to his own; that is to say,
to become a great landed proprietor, or rather, that her son should
become one when he grew up and came into his inheritance. He did not
think that Flood had treated her as handsomely as he ought to have
done. Still, Uplands was hers--a fine property, and one which could
not have come into more capable hands.
Had the fates proved propitious, Onoria would have been his
daughter-in-law; it was owing to no fault of hers that she was not;
consequently she might, in a sense, be said to have a claim upon him.
Why should he not leave her a life-interest in his landed property,
the same, at her decease, to devolve upon her son, on condition of his
adding the name of Cortelyon to his present one? But it was a project
not to be hastily decided upon. He would think it over. And he did.