A TERRIBLE TEMPTATION.
THE hospitable Manor House would have held almost any number of guests
upon occasion, so, although it entertained at this time Tom Grigson and
his son and namesake, John Tincroft and his Sarah, Helen Wilson, and
Mr. Fawley, the London lawyer, there was room enough and to spare.
There was sufficient reason, Mr. Fawley thought, to induce him to
remain a few days, especially in such good quarters, waiting the
event of his client's decease. He had been fully forewarned of the
doctor's firmly expressed conviction that Walter could not last long,
and his own observations confirmed this prediction. Accordingly, he
was prepared with the will, he had drawn up in London those months
previously, and with the codicil, which was but a day or two old, and
which had been duly witnessed by the Grigsons. Meanwhile, he made
the best of his time in mudding through the woods and groves in the
surrounding neighbourhood, as well as in taking mental notes of the
society into which he was thus fortuitously thrown.
While Mr. Fawley was thus engaged, Tom Grigson and his son divided
their time pretty equally between the Manor House and the Mumbles,
having at their disposal for these almost daily excursions Richard's
fast-trotting Peg and dog-cart. Once or twice young Tom remained at
his grandfather's house for the night, but he invariably found his way
back on the following day—the charms and attractions of his youthful
future bride not being sufficiently powerful, as it seemed, to keep the
complaisant, immature, and premature lover from the greater freedom
from polite restraints to be found at his uncle's.
As to John Tincroft, in the interval between the death and funeral of
Helen's father, he had not much inclination for social intercourse.
His Sarah and Helen necessarily secluded themselves in the recess of
their ladies' chamber, being understood to be engaged, in conjunction
with certain dressmakers and milliners from the next town, in the
preparation of mourning attire; or otherwise, the one in giving, and
the other in receiving, such solace as under the circumstances was most
natural.
John, therefore, was much left to himself, excepting when in the
company of his host or his old friend Tom. And strange to say (or
perhaps not strange to say) John rather shunned than courted at this
time any confidential intercourse with that old friend.
No, it was not strange. John had been both puzzled and shocked at what
he considered the inconceivable blindness of his friend in running
the risk of sacrificing the happiness of one whom he had confessed to
tenderly loving, for the sake of what might be called a convenient
family arrangement. Dear hermit-like John! If he had not lived so
long—all his life, indeed—shut up in his own shell, so to speak,
he might have known how often these convenient family arrangements
are entered into in certain classes of society; how many a pair of
cousins, or other relatives, are constantly being matched together,
without any considerations of fitness or unfitness, likes or dislikes,
qualifications or disqualifications; and all for the sake of keeping
together a certain number of money-bags, or a capital trade connection;
or of perpetuating in the family a desirable estate, or a title, or
even (as we have known it and witnessed it) the tenancy of a farm!
But John did not know this; and no wonder, therefore, that his eyes
sometimes rested, without his knowing it, with mute compassion and
sorrowful interest on the young Tom, who, to tell the truth, seemed to
care very little about the matter, one way or other, so long as he was
not expected to remain too long at a time in the company of his cousin
Blanche.
"I shall have plenty of that when we are buckled together, father,"
he said, one day (in John's hearing), when he was remonstrated and
reasoned with for running away from his "little wife."
Dear old John! Do you wonder, reader, that with all his experience
on the one hand, and his inexperience on the other, he drew doleful
pictures of the after-life of that bright boy and the cousin whom he
was doomed to marry?
"I can't do any good by saying anything about it to Tom," thought he to
himself, "and if I could, I haven't the right to interfere; but I pity
the poor boy with all my heart."
No wonder, then, that under the mood of the time, and while the shadow
of death was yet upon him, John felt more embarrassment than he had
ever expected to feel when thrown into his friend Tom Grigson's company.
Here for the present we must leave, not only this subject, but also the
Manor House, and enter the humbler precincts of Low Beech Farm.
A habitation into which death has entered, or which, as at, Low Beech,
is for the time brought into intimate connection and fellowship with
the grave, seems to be cut off from the rest of the world, and to
gather around it an atmosphere of oppression and gloom. The darkened
windows, the noiseless footsteps and subdued tones of voice which every
inhabitant adopts, as though fearful of awakening the dead, and all
other signs and tokens of grief, whether simulated or real, seem to
mark that house as set apart from the common and ordinary and vulgar
associations of everyday existence.
And yet it is not really so. The business of life must be carried on;
and the passions and habits and dispositions of the living will be
found to be held very little in check even by the near presence of the
dead. At Low Beech, for instance, the sordid carefulness of old Matthew
and his wife had not disappeared beneath the dignity of parental
sorrow. No doubt they mourned for their son after a certain fashion;
that is, they would rather he had been alive and well and well-to-do,
and rather also that, seeing he was doomed to die, the blow had not
fallen so as to place them at an inconvenience and possible expense.
But things having happened as they had gave no reason for neglecting
the business of the farm and house. So Mrs. Matthew went about her work
as usual, while Elizabeth was preparing and "making up black," as the
mother explained to the clergyman who called to condole with the family
on their bereavement; and Matthew went looking after his men, and
feeding his stock, to all appearance little moved by his proximity at
home to his dead Walter.
But he was moved, nevertheless. He couldn't make it out anyhow, he
muttered to his wife. He had varied his opinion, as we have seen, on
the subject of Walter's pecuniosity or impecuniosity; and now, at the
last, he was utterly bewildered. He shifted his views almost every
quarter of an hour, at one time thinking his son must have got a
nest-egg somewhere or other; and then returning to his firm conviction
that if Walter had been well off and prospering in Australia, he would
never have returned to his home.
I do not think that I, the chronicler, am bound to explain, or attempt
to explain, the motives (if there were any) for Walter Wilson's
reticence about his money matters, both to his friend Tincroft and to
his relatives at Low Beech. I incline to the opinion, however, that
there was no distinct reason for his silence; and that, had he lived
a short time longer, a part, at least, of the old people's curiosity
would have been satisfied. This, however, is but a conjecture; and it
is certain that, respecting his worldly possessions, Walter Wilson
"died and made no sign."
And old Matthew was troubled—so troubled that he could not rest; and on
one of the days previous to the funeral, while he was pondering over
it, and balancing probabilities, it came into his mind that Walter's
portmanteau was in the death-chamber, together with the coffin; and
also that a pocket-book which he had seen in his son's hands was
probably in the coat which he had worn on the day of his seizure, and
which had been brought to Low Beech on the removal of the corpse.
Strange that Matthew had never thought of this until now! What more
likely than that in those receptacles lay hidden some clue to the
mystery which was troubling him—or at least some scrap of information
which would help to set his mind at rest. And who had a better right
than he to look into his son's personal belongings now that he (Walter)
was beyond any further need of them? To be sure, there was the dead
man's daughter, to whom they properly belonged, perhaps. But she was
only a girl, and could know nothing about the rights of proprietorship;
and besides, wasn't he (Matthew) the poor child's natural
guardian—always supposing there should be anything to keep guard over?
And then came his old suspicion of John Tincroft having kept back some
knowledge about Walter's affairs of which he was custodian. Else why
was he so willing to take charge of Helen, as he had promised to do?
Matthew was out on his farm when these thoughts came into his head;
but he soon retraced his steps homewards; and stealing in at the back
entrance to the farm, unobserved as he believed, he crept up the stairs
while his wife and daughter and maid-servant were engaged below, and
softly entered the room which contained the coffin of his dead son.
As noiselessly as he could, he closed the door, and would have locked
himself in, probably, but that the key had long been lost.
The portmanteau was on the floor, locked; and the garments of the dead
hung on pegs near the bed's head. To search the pockets for the key of
the portmanteau, and also for the pocket-book, was, no doubt, the old
farmer's first impulse. These were found; and then, kneeling down on
the floor for greater convenience in the meanness he contemplated, he
applied the key.
There was nothing in the portmanteau to reward his search until,
carefully removing, one by one, the changes of raiment which
it contained, he came at last to two small parchment-bound and
brass-clasped books, with Walter Wilson's name written on the covers.
Trembling with excitement, the old man loosed the clasp of one of these
books, and turned over one or two leaves.
Marvellous! There were entries there which made old Matthew turn
giddy. Entries of investments in the funds, in stock of various kinds,
in railway shares (it was in the early days of railroads, be it
remembered)—investments to the amount of thousands of pounds, bearing
interest (as the keen-eyed old man saw at a glance) that would reach up
to six or seven hundred pounds a year, if not considerably more!
With a hasty movement, Matthew closed this book, reclasped it, and
opened the other. It was a bank-book—some London bank—in which a
respectable sum had been placed to the credit side of the account, with
only one or two small items on the opposite page, indicating that these
sums only had been drawn out since the account was opened.
Almost beside himself with excitement, the avaricious old man carefully
replaced these precious volumes, and refilled the portmanteau before he
ventured to turn to the pocket-book which lay on the floor within his
reach. This was soon accomplished, however, and the book was opened. It
had many divisions in it, forming separate cases, and there were folded
papers in several of these receptacles. But Matthew, after his former
discoveries, cared little for these in comparison with the contents of
one of these pockets, which attracted his glistening eyes.
"Bank notes! One, two, three. Ten! Twenty! Fifty!" gasped the covetous
old man, as he unfolded and held them up to the light. "Who would have
thought of this, now!"
Who shall tell the force of the temptation that whirled through that
sordid brain, and quickened the sluggish pulses Of that throbbing
heart?—The temptation which whispered to his grasping thoughts and
desires that his son, being dead, needed money no longer; that no one
knew of his having that amount of portable wealth about his person,
that his grand-daughter was of course well provided for, and that,
at all events, he himself was the proper person to take care of
this property—till it was claimed, if it ever should be; and if not
claimed—well, what then?
His trembling hands had closed upon these notes, and he was about
to—no, not to replace them in the pocket-book, when suddenly the
chamber door was thrown open, and his daughter stood before him,
flushed with fear and anger.
"For shame, father! Oh, father, father! What is it you are doing?
Put them back, put them back, put them back!" she cried, in tones of
terror. "And thank God for having saved you from this sin."
"Elizabeth, woman! How dare you speak to me like that? What is it you
mean? What business have you to be prying into what doesn't concern
you?" stammered the miserable old man, in broken sentences, as he
sprang to his feet, the bank paper still in his grasp.
"Put them back! Put them back!" repeated the daughter, in yet stronger
tones of desperation. "Strike me if you will, father," she cried, as
she thought she detected a threatening gesture in the clenched hand.
"Strike me, and kill me, if you will, and let me be laid along with
poor Walter—oh, I wish I could be! I wish I could be!—But don't rob the
dead and the living as well. Father, dear father," she went on, in more
imploring accents; "put them back; oh, father, put them back!"
"How came you here, girl?" demanded the old man, hoarsely.
"God sent me, I think," said she; "oh, father, I heard you come in,
and knew that you came up here, and I followed, and have seen it all
from that little window—" and she pointed to a single pane of glass in
a corner of the room near the ceiling, which dimly lighted a narrow
dark staircase to the attic above—"and God has sent me to keep you from
doing a great sin. Oh, father, father, put them back!"
Slowly and silently the old man cast his eyes on to the floor, stooped,
picked up the pocket-book, put the notes in their former position, then
passionately threw the book down again, muttering, "I shall remember
this, Elizabeth. I shan't forget it, you may make sure of that," and
then he shuffled out of the room.
It was a fine, soft, sunny day on the afternoon of which Walter Wilson
was buried. There was but little pomp at that funeral, though there
were many to follow him to his grave.
There was Helen as chief mourner, and the ceremonious undertaker said
that it was the right and proper thing for her, as the only child, to
walk first and alone, behind the coffin, all the way from Low Beech
Farm to the church—for it was a walking funeral, as was the fashion
then in those parts; but Helen pleaded so earnestly and tearfully that
Sarah might accompany her and support her, and so put strength into her
to bear the last scene in her father's history on earth, that it was
yielded.
And so Walter's old discarded lover, and his daughter by another and
perhaps more highly-prized wife than Sarah would ever have been,
followed him together and stood side by side at the open grave, and
were the last to depart when the solemn ceremony was over.
And if the tears which ran down Sarah's cheek then, sprang, some of
them, from old remembrances revived, there was no treason in them
against God or man. In that world whither the words just uttered over
the dead transported the thoughts of the living, "they neither marry
nor are given in marriage, but are as the angels of God in heaven."
Old Matthew and his wife followed their first-born to the grave, and
in their train came Walter's sister and his brothers and their wives.
And then John Tincroft and the lawyer came after. And the Grigsons were
there too.
It was "a fine funeral," one of the onlookers said to another. But
it was soon over, and then the family, with Tincroft and the lawyer,
returned to Low Beech to transact business, for there was Walter's will
to be read, as Mr. Fawley had taken care to inform them all.
Helen would fain have stayed away, but it was needful she should be
there; and, still under Sarah's wing, but supported and comforted now
by John Tincroft also, she entered, for almost the first time, the home
of her father's childhood and youth.
The will, when it came to be read, was not very prolix. It contained an
inventory of investments, and all was left in trust—after the payment
of a legacy of a thousand pounds to his dear cousin Sarah Tincroft—to
John Tincroft, of Tincroft House, and so forth, for the benefit of the
testator's dear and only child, Helen. The property thus bequeathed
amounted, at a rough calculation, to something over twenty thousand
pounds. The will also constituted John Tincroft sole executor of the
testator's estate and effects, and the guardian of his daughter until
she should be of age. In case of her decease before she had reached
twenty-one, the property was to be distributed among certain charities
which were named.
No mention was made in this will of any other family connections than
John and Sarah. Evidently it had been prepared at a time when the fire
of resentment in Walter's mind against his family had not yet died out.
Matthew 'Wilson looked furiously across the room at John Tincroft and
Sarah. He understood it all now, he thought; and before he had composed
himself, the lawyer was reading the codicil which had been drawn up and
signed and witnessed so lately in the sick-chamber at High Beech.
In this instrument was revoked so much of the original will as related
to the disposal of the property in case of Helen's death, and a fresh
disposition was made of it. It was to be divided in equal parts between
the several members of the testator's family, or their survivors.
Old Matthew smiled ghastlily at this. Little hope that he should ever
see any of his son's money, he probably thought.
But there was something else more interesting.
After an expression of regret that there had been so long an alienation
or distance of feeling between the testator and his family, certain
legacies were to be paid to them out of the estate, amounting
altogether to a thousand pounds—namely two hundred pounds each to the
brothers, to Old Matthew, and to the sister. In addition to this, there
were some bank notes which would be found in his pocket-book—(old
Matthew broke out into a visible perspiration here)—amounting to eighty
pounds. This sum the testator willed to be placed without deduction
into the hands of his dear sister Elizabeth, in remembrance of their
old love, which had been afresh stirred up (the document went on to
say) by what passed in the last walk they took together.
This was nearly all. The funeral expenses were, of course, to be paid
out of the estate, and the necessary legal powers were to be placed in
John Tincroft's hands to administer to the will.
There was a short silence when Mr. Fawley had finished reading; and he
and his friends from the Manor House were about to depart, when Old
Matthew arose. Hoarsely, he spoke.
He had never known such trickery—never. Here was his son Walter, who
had come home from Australia a rich man, making believe to be a poor
man. Or if he didn't make-believe that, he never said he wasn't, and
didn't seem as if he had got a pound to bless himself with. And then,
instead of coming to his proper home in England, as he ought to have
done, and to his old father and mother, he had been putting up with his
old lover and her husband, which was most improper; but, of course, Mr.
Tincroft had made it answer his purpose. And though he had pretended
to him that he did not know whether Walter was rich or poor, anybody
could see now what a pretence that was. And he was to be executor
too, and Helen's guardian, when, by rights, he, the grandfather,
ought to have been. A good deal more fit, he was, though he said it,
to take care of money (having been used to business all his life)
than a college gentleman who had never added up a sum since he went
to school, he dared to say. And he said now that it was an unnatural
thing, and wicked, to be taking his poor grand-daughter from her proper
sheltering-place; and he wanted to know if Mr. Tincroft meant to come
between relations like that. Wasn't Helen Wilson his own flesh and
blood?
And then there was the money that was left to Elizabeth over and above
her share of that paltry thousand pounds—
"You shall have it all, father, if you will," said Elizabeth, "only if
you won't go on talking like this," she added, her cheeks mantling with
shame.
"And if your grand-daughter prefers making her home at Low Beech,
she has only to say so, and her will shall be law to me," said John
Tincroft.
We need not give Helen's reply. And as little need is there to tell how
the sombre party soon broke up. Our next chapter will open on other
scenes and circumstances.
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