New Year's Night at Leet Hall, and the banquet in full swing--but not,
as usual, New Year's Eve.
Captain Monk headed his table, the parson, Robert Grame, at his right
hand, Harry Carradyne on his left. Whether it might be that the world,
even that out-of-the-way part of it, Church Leet, was improving in
manners and morals; or whether the Captain himself was changing: certain
it was that the board was not the free board it used to be. Mrs.
Carradyne herself might have sat at it now, and never once blushed by
as much as the pink of a seashell.
It was known that the chimes were to play this year; and, when midnight
was close at hand, Captain Monk volunteered a statement which astonished
his hearers. Rimmer, the butler, had come into the room to open the
windows.
"I am getting tired of the chimes, and all people have not liked them,"
spoke the Captain in slow, distinct tones. "I have made up my mind to do
away with them, and you will hear them to-night, gentlemen, for the last
time."
"_Really_, Uncle Godfrey!" cried Harry Carradyne, in most intense
surprise.
"I hope they'll bring us no ill-luck to-night!" continued Captain Monk
as a grim joke, disregarding Harry's remark. "Perhaps they will, though,
out of sheer spite, knowing they'll never have another chance of it.
Well, well, they're welcome. Fill your glasses, gentlemen."
Rimmer was throwing up the windows. In another minute the church clock
boomed out the first stroke of twelve, and the room fell into a dead
silence. With the last stroke the Captain rose, glass in hand.
"A happy New Year to you, gentlemen! A happy New Year to us all. May it
bring to us health and prosperity!"
"And God's blessing," reverently added Robert Grame aloud, as if to
remedy an omission.
Ring, ring, ring! Ah, there it came, the soft harmony of the chimes,
stealing up through the midnight air. Not quite as loudly heard perhaps,
as usual, for there was no wind to waft it, but in tones wondrously
clear and sweet. Never had the strains of "The Bay of Biscay" brought
to the ear more charming melody. How soothing it was to those enrapt
listeners; seeming to tell of peace.
But soon another sound arose to mingle with it. A harsh, grating sound,
like the noise of wheels passing over gravel. Heads were lifted; glances
expressed surprise. With the last strains of the chimes dying away in
the distance, a carriage of some kind galloped up to the hall door.
Eliza Hamlyn alighted from it--with her child and its nurse. As
quickly as she could make opportunity after that scene enacted in
her breakfast-room in London in the morning, that is, as soon as her
husband's back was turned, she had quitted the house with the maid and
child, to take the train for home, bringing with her--it was what she
phrased it--her shameful tale.
A tale that distressed Mrs. Carradyne to sickness. A tale that so
abjectly terrified Captain Monk, when it was imparted to him on Tuesday
morning, as to take every atom of fierceness out of his composition.
"Not Hamlyn's wife!" he gasped. "Eliza!"
"No, not his wife," she retorted, a great deal too angry herself to be
anything but fierce and fiery. "That other woman, that false first wife
of his, was not drowned, as was set forth, and she has come to claim him
with their son."
"His wife; their son," muttered the Captain as if he were bewildered.
"Then what are you?--what is your son? Oh, my poor Eliza."
"Yes, what are we? Papa, I will bring him to answer for it before his
country's tribunal--if there be law in the land."
No one spoke to this. It may have occurred to them to remember that
Mr. Hamlyn could not legally be punished for what he did in innocence.
Captain Monk opened the glass doors and walked on to the terrace, as
if the air of the room were oppressive. Eliza went out after him.
"Papa," she said, "there now exists all the more reason for your making
my darling _your_ heir. Let it be settled without delay. He must succeed
to Leet Hall."
Captain Monk looked at his daughter as if not understanding her. "No,
no, no," he said. "My child, you forget; trouble must be obscuring your
faculties. None but a _legal_ descendant of the Monks could be allowed
to have Leet Hall. Besides, apart from this, it is already settled. I
have seen for some little time now how unjust it would be to supplant
Harry Carradyne."
"Is _he_ to be your heir? Is it so ordered?"
"Irrevocably. I have told him so this morning."
"What am I to do?" she wailed in bitter despair. "Papa, what is to
become of me--and of my unoffending child?"
"I don't know: I wish I did know. It will be a cruel blight upon us all.
You will have to live it down, Eliza. Ah, child, if you and Katherine
had only listened to me, and not made those rebellious marriages!"
He turned away as he spoke in the direction of the church, to see that
his orders were being executed there. Harry Carradyne ran after him.
The clock was striking midday as they entered the churchyard.
Yes, the workmen were at their work--taking down the bells.
"If the time were to come over again, Harry," began Captain Monk as they
were walking homeward, he leaning upon his nephew's arm, "I wouldn't
have them put up. They don't seem to have brought luck somehow, as the
parish has been free to say. Not but that it must be utter nonsense."
"Well, no, they don't, uncle," assented Harry.
"As one grows in years, one gets to look at things differently, lad.
Actions that seemed laudable enough when one's blood was young and hot,
crop up again then, wearing another aspect. But for those chimes, poor
West would not have died as he did. I have had him upon my mind a good
bit lately."
Surely Captain Monk was wonderfully changing! And he was leaning heavily
upon Harry's arm.
"Are you tired, uncle? Would you like to sit down on this bench and
rest?"
"No, I'm not tired. It's West I'm thinking about. He lies on my mind
sadly. And I never did anything for the wife or child to atone to them!
It's too late now--and has been this many a year."
Harry Carradyne's heart began to beat a little. Should he say what
he had been hoping to say sometime? He might never have a better
opportunity than this.
"Uncle Godfrey," he spoke in low tones, "would you--would you like to
see Mr. West's daughter? His wife has been dead a long while; but--would
you like to see her--Alice?"
"Ay," fervently spoke the old man. "If she be in the land of the living,
bring her to me. I'll tell her how sorry I am, and how I would undo the
past if I could. And I'll ask her if she'll be to me as a daughter."
So then Harry Carradyne told him all. It was Alice West who was
already under his roof, and who, fate and fortune permitting, _Heaven_
permitting, would sometime be Alice Carradyne.
Down sat Captain Monk on a bench of his own accord. Tears rose to his
eyes. The sudden revulsion of feeling was great: and truly he was a
changed man.
"You spoke of Heaven, Harry. I shall begin to think it has forgiven me.
Let us be thankful."
But Captain Monk found he had more to thank Heaven for ere many minutes
had elapsed. As Harry Carradyne sat by him in silence, marvelling at the
change, yet knowing that the grievous blow which was making havoc of
Eliza had effected the completeness of the subduing, he caught sight of
an approaching fly. Another fly from the railway station at Evesham.
"How dare you come here, you villain!" shouted Captain Monk, rising in
threatening anger, as the fly's inmate called to the driver to stop and
began to get out of it. "Are you not ashamed to show your face to me,
after the evil you have inflicted upon my daughter?"
Philip Hamlyn, smiling kindly and calmly, caught Captain Monk's lifted
hands. "No evil, sir," he said, soothingly. "It was all a mistake. Eliza
is my true and lawful wife."
"Eh? What's that?" said the Captain quite in a whisper, his lips
trembling.
Quietly Philip Hamlyn explained. He had taken the previous day to
investigate the matter, and had followed his wife down by a night train.
His first wife _was_ dead. She had been drowned in the _Clipper of the
Seas_, as was supposed. The child was saved, with his nurse: the only
two passengers who were saved. The nurse made her way to a place in the
south of France, where, as she knew, her late mistress's sister lived,
Mrs. O'Connett, formerly Miss Sophia Pratt. Mrs. O'Connett, a young
widow, had just lost her only child, a boy about the age of the little
one rescued from the cruel seas. She seized on him with feverish
avidity, adopted him as her own, quitted the place for another
Anglo-French town where she was not previously known, taught the child
to call her "Mamma," and had never let it transpire that the boy was not
hers. But now, after the lapse of a few years, Mrs. O'Connett was on the
eve of marriage with an Irish Major. To him she told the truth; and, as
he did not want to marry the child as well as herself, he persuaded her
to return him to his father. Mrs. O'Connett brought the child to London,
ascertained Mr. Hamlyn's address, and all about him, and watched about
to speak to him, alone if possible, unknown to his wife. Remembering
what had been the behaviour of the child's mother, she was by no means
sure of a good reception from Philip himself, or what adverse influence
might be brought to bear by the new ties he had formed. Mrs. O'Connett
had the same remarkable and lovely hair that her sister had had, whom
she very much resembled; she had also a talent for underhand ways.
That was the truth--and I have had to tell it in a nutshell, space
growing limited. Philip Hamlyn had ascertained it all beyond possibility
of dispute, had seen Mrs. O'Connett, and had brought down the good
tidings.
Of all the curious sights this record has afforded, perhaps the most
surprising was to see Captain Monk pass his arm lovingly within that of
Philip Hamlyn and march off with him to Leet Hall as if he were a prize
to be coveted. "Here he is, Eliza," said he; "he has come to cheer both
you and me."
For once in her life Eliza Hamlyn was subdued to meekness. She kissed
her husband and shed happy tears. She was his lawful wife, and the
little one was his lawful child. True, there was an elder son; but,
compared with what had been feared, that was a slight evil.
"We must make them true brothers, Eliza," whispered Philip Hamlyn. "They
shall share alike all I have and all I leave behind me. And our own
little one must be called James in future."
"And you and I will be good friends from henceforth," cried Captain Monk
warmly, clasping Philip Hamlyn's ready hand. "I have been to blame in
more ways than one, giving the reins unduly to my arbitrary temper.
It seems to me, however, that life holds enough of real angles for us
without creating any for ourselves."
And surely it did seem, as Mrs. Carradyne would have liked to point out
aloud, that those chimes had been fraught with messages of evil. For had
not all these blessings set in with their removal?--even in the very
hour that their fate was sealed!
Harry Carradyne had drawn his uncle from the room; he now came in again,
bringing Alice West. Her face was a picture of agitation, for she had
been made known to Captain Monk. Harry led her up to Mrs. Hamlyn, with a
beaming smile and a whisper.
"Eliza, as we seem to be going in generally for amenities, won't you
give just a little corner of your heart to _her_? We owe her some
reparation for the past. It is her father who lies in that grave at
the north end of the churchyard."