GOING OVER TO SQUIRE CARR'S.
Mr. Arkell put his arm within Robert Carr's, as they walked away
together. It would be difficult to express how very much he felt for
this young man. His father's fault was not his, and Mr. Arkell, at
least, would not be one to visit it upon him. For a few yards their
steps were taken in silence; but the clergyman spoke at last, his eye
dilating, his voice vehement.
"If they had only known my mother as I knew her, they would see how
improbable is this tale that they are telling! I do not care what their
suspicions are, what their want of proof; I _know_ that my mother was my
father's wife."
"Indeed I hope it will prove so," said Mr. Arkell, rather at a loss what
else to say.
"She was modest, gentle, good, refined; she was respected as few are
respected. There never was a trace of shame upon her brow. Could her
children have been trained as she trained hers, if--if--I can hardly
trust myself to speak of this. It is a cruel calumny."
Perhaps so. But, looking at it in its best light; allowing that they
were really married; the calumny was alone the fault of this young man's
father. If he could have removed the stigma, he should have done it. Did
this poor young man begin to think so? Did unwilling doubts arise, even
to him? Scarcely, yet. But the lines grew hard in his face as they
walked along, and his troubled eyes looked out straight before him into
space, seeing nothing.
"I wish you would give me the whole history of the past yourself, Mr.
Arkell, now that I can listen quietly. I was hardly in a state to pay
attention just now; somehow I distrusted that old lawyer."
"You need not have done that. He was your grandfather's man of business;
and, though a little rough, he is sufficiently honest."
"Is he not acting for Squire Carr?"
"I think not. I am sure not."
"Will you give me the history of the past, quietly? as correctly as you
can remember it."
Mr. Arkell did so; telling, with a half laugh, the ruse Robert Carr had
exercised in getting his father's carriage to take them away, and the
hot water he, William, got into in consequence. He told the whole
affair from its earliest beginning to its ending, concealing nothing; he
mentioned how Mary Hughes had happened to be at work at his mother's
house that day; and the dreadful distress she experienced, as soon as
the matter was made known to her; he even told how severe in its
judgment on the fugitives was Westerbury.
"And were _you_ severe upon them also?" asked Robert Carr.
"Just at first. That is, I believed the worst. But afterwards my opinion
changed, and I thought it most likely that Robert married her in London.
I thought that for some time. In fact, until I saw the letter that you
heard Mr. Fauntleroy speak of, as having been written by your mother to
her sister Mary."
"You saw that letter yourself, then?"
"Yes, my father showed it to me. Not in any gossiping spirit, but as a
convincing proof that the opinion I had held was wrong, and his was
right. He had been very greatly vexed at the whole affair, and would
never listen to me when I said I hoped and thought they were married. It
was, as Mr. Fauntleroy observed, a plain, convincing letter; and from
the moment I saw it, I felt sure that there had been no marriage, and
would be none. I am so grieved to tell you this, my dear young friend;
but I might not be doing my duty if I were to suppress it."
Robert Carr's face turned a shade paler.
"I see exactly how it is," he said: "that it is next to impossible for
you, or anyone else, to believe there was a marriage; all the
circumstances telling against it. Nevertheless, I declare to you, Mr.
Arkell, on my sacred word as a clergyman, that I am as certain a
marriage did take place, as that there is a heaven above us."
Mr. Arkell did not think so, and there ensued a pause.
"Your father died rather suddenly, I believe," he said to Robert Carr.
"Very suddenly. He was taken with a sort of fit; I really cannot tell
you its exact nature, for the medical men differed, but I suppose it was
apoplexy. They agreed in one thing, that there was no hope from the
first; and he never recovered consciousness. I was in London when they
telegraphed to me, but when I got home he had been for some hours dead."
"I will send to the hotel for your portmanteau," said Mr. Arkell; "you
must be our guest while you stay. My son will be delighted. He is about
your own age."
"Thank you, no; you are very kind, but I would rather be alone just
now," was Robert Carr's answer. "This is not a pleasant visit for me,
and I am in poor health, besides. I shall not stay here long; I must
enter upon a search for the register of the marriage. But I should like
to pay a visit to the Carr's before I leave, and I am too fatigued to go
back to-day."
"To pay a visit to the Carr's?" Mr. Arkell echoed.
"Yes. Why should I not? They are my relatives, and I do not see that
there need be ill blood between us. As to the property, they have no
real right to it whatever, and I hope I shall speedily produce proof
that it is mine, and so put an end to any heartburning. I suppose," he
added, reverting to the one subject, "that you are quite sure the
marriage did not take place before they left Westerbury?"
"You may put that idea entirely aside," replied Mr. Arkell. "There's no
doubt that their going away was in consequence of a bitter quarrel
Robert had with his father; that it was unpremeditated until the night
previous to their departure. In Westerbury they were not married, could
not have been; but perhaps they were in London. It is true, I believe,
they did not stay there anything like three weeks--and you heard what
Mr. Fauntleroy said; but I suppose it is possible to evade the law,
which exacts a residence of that length of time in a place, before the
ceremony can be performed."
"Yes, there's no doubt they were married in London," concluded Robert
Carr. "I must ascertain what parish they stayed in there; and the rest
will be easy."
Not another word was said. Robert Carr walked on in silence, and Mr.
Arkell did not interrupt it. Mr. Arkell took him into his house. In the
dining-room, the old familiar room you have so often seen, sat a lady,
languidly looking over a parcel of books just come in. By her side,
leaning over her chair, grasping the books more eagerly than she, the
stranger saw a young man of about his own age--tall, slender,
gentlemanly--with a face of peculiar refinement, and a sweet smile.
"Now, I wonder what they mean by their negligence? The two books I
ordered are not here. I wish _they_ knew what it was to have these fine
starry nights, and be without a book of reference; they----"
"Travice," interrupted Mr. Arkell, "I have brought you a visitor, the
son of a once close friend of mine. My wife, Mrs. Arkell. Charlotte,
this is Mr. Robert Carr, Mr. Carr's grandson."
Mrs. Arkell turned and received him with a curtsey and a dubious look.
Always inclined to judge on the uncharitable side, she had had nothing
but indifferent scorn to cast to the rumour that Robert Carr's children
were going to lay claim to the property, just as she had scorned Robert
Carr himself in the old days. She knew that this must be one of the
children.
Travice went up at once and shook him warmly by the hand, his pleasant
face smiling its own welcome. "I have often heard my father speak of
yours," he said; "I am so pleased to see you."
Very little was said in the presence of Mrs. Arkell, touching the
business that had brought Robert Carr to Westerbury; but one subject led
to another, and Robert Carr told, as one of the strange occurrences of
the world, that which had made so strong an impression on himself--the
story of the disappearance of Mr. Dundyke. He told it as to strangers;
and not, until he had related his own meeting with them at Grenoble, and
his visit to Mrs. Dundyke on the night of her return to London, did he
find that Mrs. Arkell was her sister. It was Travice Arkell's
impetuosity that brought it out then; Mrs. Arkell had been better
pleased that it should remain a secret.
"We have heard it all," said Travice; "and Mrs. Dundyke is my aunt and
my godmother. She and my mother are sisters."
"I was not aware of it," said Robert Carr. "Is it not a strange tale?"
"Strange!" repeated Travice, "I never heard of anything half so strange.
I have been waylaying Mr. Prattleton as he came out of college, wanting
to hear more than my mother could tell me. I wish I had been at Geneva!"
"So do I," said Robert Carr.
Robert Carr remained to dinner. He still expressed a wish to make
himself known to his relatives, the Carrs; and Mr. Arkell offered to
drive him to Eckford on the following morning. A railway now went near
the place; but the seven miles' drive was pleasanter than the ten of
rail, and Squire Carr's house was a good mile and a half from the
Eckford station. So it was arranged.
"Travice," said Mr. Arkell, as Robert Carr took his departure, "I was
glad to see your reception of this gentleman. Be to him a _friend_ in
any way that you can. It may be, that he will not find too many of them
in Westerbury."
Mrs. Arkell tossed her head. "I am rather surprised that you should
bring him here, and introduce him on this familiar footing. The past
history of the father is not a passport for the son. I should not have
cared so much had Charlotte and Sophy been away."
"Charlotte and Sophy! He'll not poison them. What are you thinking of,
Charlotte? He has been reared a gentleman; he is a clergyman of the
Church of England. Whatever may have been the truth of the past, _he_ is
not to blame for it."
Travice Arkell was full of sympathy. "How ill he looks!" he exclaimed;
"though he seems to think nothing of it, and says it is the result of a
hurt. Is it not curious that he should have met with Mrs. Dundyke? He
says his mother was in some way related to the Dundykes."
"There, that will do, Travice," interposed Mrs. Arkell. "I shall dream
of that Geneva lake to-night, and of seeing dead men in it. But,
William," she added in a lower tone to her husband, "what a misfortune
it will be for Betsey, should she have nothing left to live upon! She
would have to go out as a housekeeper, or something of that sort."
Squire Carr's residence was a low, rambling, red-brick building, with a
quantity of outhouses lying around it, and an avenue of oaks leading
almost up to the low-porched entrance door. Pacing before this porch, a
clay pipe in his mouth, and his dark hair uncovered to the September
sun, was Benjamin Carr. He seemed in a moody study, from which the sound
of wheels aroused him, and he saw Mr. Arkell driving up in his open
carriage, a stranger sitting with him, and the groom in the back seat.
Benjamin Carr wore a short velveteen shooting-coat--it set off his tall
form to advantage; and Robert Carr thought what a fine man he was.
"Why, Benjamin, I did not know you were at home."
"I got here a day or two ago," returned Benjamin, putting aside his
pipe, and shaking hands with Mr. Arkell. "The squire's slice of luck
brought me. One of the girls wrote me word of it; so I've come to see
whether I can't drop in for a few of the pickings."
It was an awkward answer, considering that Robert Carr was listening;
perhaps he did not understand it. Mr. Arkell made rather a bustle of
getting out, and of standing aside for Robert, telling his groom to take
the horse round to the stables. "Is your father in, Benjamin?" he asked.
"For all I know. I have seen none of them since breakfast. Valentine's
gone over to Eckford, I believe; but--here's the squire."
The squire, attracted by the sounds of the arrival, was peeping forth
from the house door. He wore a shabby old coat, and his poor shrunken
clothes looked altogether too small even for his miserable little
figure. Robert Carr was struck with the contrast to his fine son.
A word or two of explanation from Mr. Arkell, delivered in a low tone, a
prolonged, astonished stare from Benjamin, and the squire, in a
bewilderment of surprise, was shaking hands with Robert Carr.
"It is the first visit I have made to my father's native place, and
though unpleasant circumstances have brought me, I do not see that they
need be any reason for my shunning my relatives; I daresay we only wish,
on both sides, all that is fair and right," began Robert Carr. "I
expressed a wish to come and see you, sir, and Mr. Arkell kindly offered
to drive me over."
Had the squire followed his first impulse, he might possibly have
ordered Mr. Robert Carr off his premises again; for he could only look
upon him as a secret enemy, who had very nearly wrested from him a brave
inheritance. But his policy throughout life had been to conciliate, no
matter at what expense of hypocrisy. It was the safest course, he held;
and he pursued it now. Besides, if there was one man that the squire did
not care to stand altogether a sneak before, it was William Arkell with
his well-known uprightness.
The squire led the way to his study, turning over in his mind what
secret end Robert Carr could hope to answer by coming over and spying
into the enemy's quarters. That he had come as a spy, or in some
character as base, it was out of the squire's nature to do other than
believe. Benjamin followed, in a state of wonder. As they went along the
stone passage, Robert Carr caught sight of some pretty girls peeping
here and there like scared pheasants; but the squire raised his finger
meaningly, and they scuttered away.
The visit was not a pleasant one, after all; and perhaps it was a
mistake to have made it. The restraint was too visibly evident. Robert
himself spoke of the inheritance--spoke openly, as one honourable, or we
may as well say, indifferent, man would discuss it with another. There
could be no possible doubt that his father and mother were married, he
said; and he hoped the property of all sorts would be allowed to rest in
abeyance until the fact was ascertained, which might be done in a week's
time.
The squire was rather taken aback, especially at the easy, confident
tone; not a boasting tone--one of quiet, calm surety. "Why, how do you
think to ascertain it?" he asked.
"I shall search the registers of the London churches."
The squire burst into a laugh. Had Robert Carr told him he was going to
search the moon, it could not have struck upon his ear as a more absurd
proceeding. Squire Carr was as sure that there had been no marriage as
that the sun was then shining on his visitor's head; he had been sure of
it, to his cost, all these long years.
"Well," said he, "you'll do as you like, of course, but don't go to much
expense over it."
"Why?"
"Because you will _never_ find what you are looking for, and it's a sin
to throw away good money. I asked your father myself whether he had been
married to the girl in London, and he told me he had not, that he had
never been inside a church in London in his life; he told me also that
he never should marry her. He spoke on his honour, and therefore I know
he spoke the truth."
There was an unpleasant silence. Robert Carr began to feel that the
topic could not be pursued.
"Look here, Mr. Carr," resumed the squire, in his piping voice: "you, as
a university man, must be in a degree a man of the world, and must know
that what's fair for the goose is fair for the gander. Had Marmaduke
Carr's son lived and come over here to take possession, he would have
taken it, uninterfered with by us; it would have been his own, and we
should have wished him joy. But he did not live, he died; he died, in
the eyes of the law, childless, and I am the inheritor. As good tell me
you lay claim to this house of mine here, as to the property I have just
come into of my uncle Marmaduke's."
"You will not allow it to lie in abeyance for a while?"
"Most certainly not. Nobody else would: and you must be a very young man
to ask it. I have the law on my side: you cannot in England act contrary
to the law, Mr. Carr."
"Well, I daresay you _think_ you are right," said Robert Carr in a
tolerant spirit. "Let us drop the subject. I did not, I assure you, come
here to enter upon it; I came to make acquaintance with you, my
relatives, and to say, but in no spirit of anger or contention, that I
intend to establish and maintain my rights. We need not be enemies, or
speak as such."
"Very well," said the squire, "I'll ask you one thing, and then we'll
drop it, as you say; and it was not I who began it, mind. How came you
to think of advancing your claim to my uncle Marmaduke's property? What
put it in your head?"
"I believe it to be my property--that I have succeeded to it, with my
brother and sister, in consequence of the death of my father. You must
understand, Squire Carr, it is only now, since this question arose, that
I have heard there was any doubt cast upon our birth."
"I see. Robert kept it from you. He was a simpleton for his pains; and
you must not mind my being plain enough to say it. Next to the wrong
itself, the worst wrong that parents can inflict is the keeping it a
secret from their children. And now let us go to luncheon. I told them
to lay it. Never mind about its being early: you shall not go back
without first taking something to eat."
"If you go away without partaking of our bread and salt, we shall think
you bear us malice," said Benjamin, courteously, as he walked on to the
dining-room with the clergyman.
Mr. Arkell was following, but the squire laid his finger on his arm to
detain him. "Don't let him do it," he whispered.
"Do what?" asked Mr. Arkell.
"All this searching of registers and stuff that he talks of. Mind! I am
not speaking in a selfish spirit, as I might if I were afraid of
it,"--and for once the squire's earnest tones, and eyes, raised full in
Mr. Arkell's face, proved that he was really speaking truth. "I am sorry
for the young man; he is evidently a gentleman, and he looks sickly; and
his father has done an ill part by him in letting this come upon him as
a blow. There's not the smallest probability that they were married; I
know what Robert said to me, and I would stake my life that they were
not. If he searches every register in the three kingdoms, he'll never
find its record; and it is a pity he should spend his money, and his
time, and his hopes over it. Don't let him do it."
"That he will do it, I am quite certain," was the reply of Mr. Arkell.
"He seems perfectly to reverence the memory of his mother; and it is as
much to vindicate her fame that he will make the search, as for the sake
of the inheritance. Robert Carr was grievously to blame to let it come
to this. He ought to have set the question at rest, one way or the
other, before his death."
"The fact is, Robert overreached himself," said Squire Carr. "I can see
it plainly. He did not marry the girl, because it would have been the
means of forfeiting his father's property--for old Marmaduke would have
kept his word. He wanted to come into that property, and then to have
made a will and left it to these children, relying on their foreign
birth and residence to keep always the fact of their illegitimacy from
them. But he died suddenly, you see, before he had come into it, and
therefore the property goes from them. Robert overreached himself."
Mr. Arkell nodded his head. His opinion coincided with Squire Carr's.