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Chapter One
“Yes, James; this is my last dying speech and confession.”
“Oh, papa!” with a burst of sobbing.
“Be quiet, Kitty, and don’t make me so miserable. Dying is only going to sleep when a man’s tired out, as I am, with the worries of the world, money-making, fighting for one’s own, and disappointment. I know as well as old Jermingham that it’s pretty nearly all over. I’m sorry to leave you, darling, but I’m worn out, and your dear mother has been waiting for nearly a year.”
“Father, dearest father!” and two white arms clung round the neck of the dying man, as their owner sank upon her knees by the bedside.
“I’d stay for your sake, Kitty, but fate says no, and I’m so tired, darling, it will be like going into rest and peace. She always was an angel, Kitty, and she must be now; I feel as if I must see her afterwards. For I don’t think I’ve been such a very bad man, Will.”
“The best of fellows, Bob, always,” said the stout, florid, country-looking gentleman seated near the great heavily-curtained four-post bed.
“Thanks, James. I don’t want to play the Pharisee, but I have tried to be an honest man and a good father.”
“Your name stands highest in the city, and your charities – ”
“Bother! I made plenty of money by the bank, and I gave some away, and I wish it had done more good. Well, my shares in the bank represent a hundred and fifty thousand; those are Kitty’s. There’s about ten thousand pounds in India stock and consols.”
“Pray, pray don’t talk any more, papa, dear.”
“Must, Kitty, while I can. That money, Will, is yours for life, and after death it is for that boy of yours, Claud. He doesn’t deserve it, but perhaps he’ll be a better boy some day. Then there’s the lease of this house, my furniture, books, plate, pictures, and money in the private account. You will sell and realise everything; Kitty does not want a great gloomy house in Bedford Square – out of proceeds you will pay the servants’ legacies, and the expenses, there will be ample; and the residue is to be given to your wife for her use. That’s all. I have made you my sole executor, and I thought it better to send for you to tell you than for you to wait till the will was read. Give me a little of that stuff in some water, Kitty.”
His head was tenderly raised, and he drank and sank back with a sigh.
“Thank you, my darling. Now, Will, I might have joined John Garstang with you as executor, but I thought it better to give you full control, you being a quiet country squire, leading your simple, honest, gentleman-farmer’s life, while he is a keen speculative man.”
James Wilton, the banker’s brother, uttered something like a sigh, muttered a few words about trying to do his duty, and listened, as the dying man went on —
“I should not have felt satisfied. You two might have disagreed over some marriage business, for there is no other that you will have to control. And I said to myself that Will would not try to play the wicked uncle over my babe. So you are sole executor, with very little to do, for I have provided for everything, I think. Her money stays in the old bank I helped to build up, and the dividends will make her a handsome income. What you have to see to is that she is not snapped up by some plausible scoundrel for the sake of her money. When she does marry – ”
“Oh, papa, dear, don’t, don’t! You are breaking my heart. I shall never marry,” sobbed the girl, as she laid her sweet young face by the thin, withered countenance on the pillow.
“Yes, you will, my pet. I wish it, when the right man comes, who loves you for yourself. Girls like you are too scarce to be wasted. But your uncle will watch over you, and see to that. You hear, Will?”
“Yes, I will do my duty by her.”
“I believe you.”
“But, papa dear, don’t talk more. The doctor said you must be kept so quiet.”
“I must wind up my affairs, my darling, and think of your future. I’ve had quite enough of the men hanging about after the rich banker’s daughter. When my will is proved, the drones and wasps will come swarming round you for the money. There is no one at all, yet, is there?” he said, with a searching look.
“Oh, no, papa, I never even thought of such a thing.”
“I know it, my darling. I’ve always been your sweetheart, and we’ve lived for one another, and I’m loth to leave you, dear.”
“Oh, father, dearest father, don’t talk of leaving me,” she sobbed.
He smiled sadly, and his feeble hand played with her curls.
“God disposes, my own,” he said. “But there, I must talk while I can. Now, listen. These are nearly my last words, Will.”
His brother started and bent forward to hear his half-whispered words, and he wiped the dew from his sun-browned forehead, and shivered a little, for the chilly near approach of death troubled the hale, hearty-looking man, and gave a troubled look to his florid face.
“When all is over, Will, as soon as you can, take her down to Northwood, and be a father to her. Her aunt always loved her, and she’ll be happy there. Shake hands upon it, Will.”
The thin, white, trembling hand was placed in the fat, heavy palm extended, and rested there for some minutes before Robert Wilton spoke again.
“Everything is set down clearly, Will. The money invested in the bank is hers – one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, strictly tied up. I have seen to that. There, you will do your duty by her, and see that all goes well.”
“Yes.”
“I am satisfied, brother; I exact no oaths. Kate, my child, your uncle will take my place. I leave you in his hands.” Then in a low voice, heard only by her who clung to him, weeping silently, he whispered softly, “And in Thine, O God.”
The next morning the blinds were all down in front of Number 204, Bedford Square, which looked at its gloomiest in the wet fog, with the withered leaves falling fast from the great plane trees; and the iron shutters were half drawn up at the bank in Lothbury, for the old leather-covered chair in the director’s rom was vacant, waiting for a new occupant – the chairman of the Great British and Bengalie Joint Stock Bank was dead.
“As good and true a man as ever breathed,” said the head clerk, shaking his grey head; “and we’ve all lost a friend. I wonder who will marry Miss Kate!”
Chapter Two
“Morning, Doctor. Hardly expected to find you at home. Thought you’d be on your rounds.”
The speaker was mounted on a rather restive cob, which he now checked by the gate of the pretty cottage in one of the Northwood lanes; and as he spoke he sprang down and placed his rein through the ring on the post close by the brass plate which bore the words – “Pierce Leigh, M.D., Surgeon, etc.,” but he did not look at the ring, for his eyes gave a furtive glance at the windows from one to the other quickly.
He was not a groom, for his horse-shoe pin was set with diamonds, and a large bunch of golden charms hung at his watch chain, but his coat, hat, drab breeches, and leggings were of the most horsey cut, and on a near approach anyone might have expected to smell stables. As it was, the odour he exhaled was Jockey Club, emanating from a white pocket handkerchief dotted with foxes’ heads, hunting crops and horns, and saturated with scent.
“My rounds are not very regular, Mr Wilton,” said the gentleman addressed, and he looked keenly at the commonplace speaker, whose ears stood out widely from his closely-cropped hair. “You people are dreadfully healthy down here,” and he held open the garden gate and drew himself up, a fairly handsome, dark, keen-eyed, gentlemanly-looking man of thirty, slightly pale as if from study, but looking wiry and strong as an athlete. “You wished to see me?”
“Yes. Bit off my corn. Headache, black spots before my eyes, and that sort of thing. Thought I’d consult the Vet.”
“Will you step in?”
“Eh? Yes. Thankye.”
The Doctor led the way into his flower-decked half-study, half-consulting room, where several other little adornments suggested the near presence of a woman; and the would-be patient coughed unnecessarily, and kept on tapping his leg with the hunting crop he carried, as he followed, and the door was closed, and a chair was placed for him.
“Eh? Chair? Thanks,” said the visitor, taking it by the back, swinging it round, and throwing one leg across as if it were a saddle, crossing his arms and resting his chin there – the while he stared rather enviously at the man before him. “Not much the matter, and you mustn’t make me so that I can’t get on. Got a chap staying with me, and we’re going after the pheasants. I say, let me send you a brace.”
“You are very good,” said the Doctor, smiling rather contemptuously, “but as I understand it they are not yet shot?”
“Eh? Oh, no; but no fear of that. I can lick our keeper; pretty sure with a gun. Want to see my tongue and feel my pulse?”
“Well, no,” said the Doctor, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I can pretty well tell.”
“How?”
“By your looks.”
“Eh? Don’t look bad, do I?”
“Rather.”
“Something nasty coming on?” said the young man nervously.
“Yes; bad bilious attack, if you are not careful. You have been drinking too much beer and smoking too many strong cigars.”
“Not a bad guess,” said the young man with a grin. “Last boxes are enough to take the top of your head off. Try one.”
“Thank you,” was the reply, and a black-looking cigar was taken from the proffered case.
“Mind, I’ve told you they are roofers.”
“I can smoke a strong cigar,” said the Doctor, quietly.
“You can? Well, I can’t. Now then, mix up something; I want to be off.”
“There is no need to give you any medicine. Leave off beer and tobacco for a few days, and you will be all right.”
“But aren’t you going to give me any physic?”
“Not a drop.”
“Glad of it. But I say, the yokels down here won’t care for it if you don’t give them something.”
“I have found out that already. There, sir, I have given you the best advice I can.”
“Thankye. When am I to come again?”
“Not until you are really ill. Not then,” said the Doctor, smiling slightly as he rose, “for I suppose I should be sent for to you.”
“That’s all then?”
“Yes, that is all.”
“Well, send in your bill to the guv’nor,” said the young man, renewing his grin; “he pays all mine. Nice morning, ain’t it, for December? Soon have Christmas.”
“Yes, we shall soon have Christmas now,” said the Doctor, backing his visitor toward the door.
“But looks more like October, don’t it?”
“Yes, much more like October.”
“Steady, Beauty! Ah, quiet, will you!” cried the young man, as he mounted the restive cob. “She’s a bit fresh. Wants some of the dance taken out of her. Morning. – Sour beggar, no wonder he don’t get on,” muttered the patient. “Take that and that. Coming those games when I’m mounting! How do you like that? Wanted to have me off.”
There was a fresh application of the spurs, brutally given, and after plunging heavily the little mare tore off as hard as she could go, while the Doctor watched till his patient turned a corner, and then resumed his walk up and down the garden – a walk interrupted by the visit.
“Insolent puppy!” he muttered, frowning. “A miserable excuse.”
“Pierce, dear, where are you?” cried a pleasant voice, and a piquant little figure appeared at the door. “Oh, there you are. Shall I want a hat? Oh, no, it’s quite mild.” The owner of the voice hurried out like a beam of sunshine on the dull grey morning, and taking the Doctor’s arm tried to keep step with him, after glancing up in his stern face, her own looking merry and arch with its dimples.
“What is it, Jenny?” he said.
“What is it, sir? Why, I want fresh air as well as you; but don’t stride along like that. How can I keep step? You have such long legs.”
“That’s better,” he said, trying to accommodate himself to the little body at his side.
“Rather. So you have had a patient,” she said.
“Yes, I’ve had a patient, Sis,” he replied, looking down at her; and a faint colour dawned in her creamy cheeks.
“And you always grumbling, sir! There, I do believe that is the beginning of a change. Who was the patient?”
The Doctor’s hand twitched, and he frowned, but he said, calmly enough, “That young cub from the Manor.”
“Mr Claud Wilton?” said the girl innocently; “Oh, I am glad. Beginning with the rich people at the Manor. Now everyone will come.”
“No, my dear; everyone will not come, and the sooner we pack up and go back to town the better.”
“What, sell the practice?”
“Sell the practice,” he cried contemptuously. “Sell the furniture, Sis. One man – fool, I mean – was enough to be swindled over this affair. Practice! The miserable scoundrel! Much good may the money he defrauded me of do him. No, but we shall have to go.”
“Don’t, Pierce,” said the girl, looking up at him wistfully.
“Why?” he said angrily.
“Because it did do me good being down here, and I like the place so much.”
“Any place would be better than that miserable hole at Westminster, where you were getting paler every day, but I ought to have been more businesslike. It has not done you good though; and if you like the place the more reason why we should go,” he cried angrily.
“Oh, Pierce, dear, what a bear you are this morning. Do be patient, and I know the patients will come.”
“Bah! Not a soul called upon us since we’ve been here, except the tradespeople, so that they might get our custom.”
“But we’ve only been here six months, dear.”
“It will be the same when we’ve been here six years, and I’m wasting time. I shall get away as soon as I can. Start the New Year afresh in town.”
“Pierce, oh don’t walk so fast. How can I keep up with you?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“That’s better. But, Pierce, dear,” she said, with an arch look; “don’t talk like that. You wouldn’t have the heart to go.”
“Indeed! But I will.”
“I know better, dear.”
“What do you mean?”
“You couldn’t go away now. Oh, Pierce, dear, she is sweet! I could love her so. There is something so beautiful and pathetic in her face as she sits there in church. Many a time I’ve felt the tears come into my eyes, and as if I could go across the little aisle and kiss her and call her sister.”
He turned round sharply and caught her by the arm, his eyes flashing with indignation.
“Jenny,” he cried, “are you mad?”
“No, only in pain,” she said, with her lip quivering. “You hurt me. You are so strong.”
“I – I did not mean it,” he said, releasing her.
“But you hurt me still, dear, to see you like this. Oh, Pierce, darling,” she whispered, as she clung to his arm and nestled to him; “don’t try and hide it from me. A woman always knows. I saw it from the first when she came down, and we first noticed her, and she came to church looking like some dear, suffering saint. My heart went out to her at once, and the more so that I saw the effect it had on you. Pierce, dear, you do love me?”
“You know,” he said hoarsely.
“Then be open with me. What could be better?”
He was silent for a few moments, and then he answered the pretty, wistful eyes, gazing so inquiringly in his.
“Yes,” he said. “I will be open with you, Sis, for you mean well; but you speak like the pretty child you have always been to me. Has it ever crossed your mind that I have never spoken to this lady, and that she is a rich heiress, and that I am a poor doctor who is making a failure of his life?”
“What!” cried the girl proudly. “Why, if she were a princess she would not be too grand for my brave noble brother.”
“Hah!” he cried, with a scornful laugh; “your brave noble brother! Well, go on and still think so of me, little one. It’s very pleasant, and does not hurt anyone. I hope I’m too sensible to be spoiled by my little flatterer. Only keep your love for me yet awhile,” he said meaningly. “Let’s leave love out of the question till we can pay our way and have something to spare, instead of having no income at all but what comes from consols.”
“But Pierce – ”
“That will do. You’re a dear little goose. We must want the Queen’s Crown from the Tower because it’s pretty.”
“Now you’re talking nonsense, Pierce,” she said, firmly, and she held his arm tightly between her little hands. “You can’t deny it, sir. You fell in love with her from the first.”
“Jenny, my child,” he said quietly. “I promised our father I would be an honorable man and a gentleman.”
“And so you would have been, without promising.”
“I hope so. Then now listen to me; never speak to me in this way again.”
“I will,” she cried flushing. “Answer me this; would it be acting like an honorable man to let that sweet angel of a girl marry Claud Wilton?”
“What!” he cried, starting, and gazing at his sister intently. “Her own cousin? Absurd.”
“I’ve heard that it is to be so.”
“Nonsense!”
“People say so, and where there’s smoke there’s fire. Cousins marry, and I don’t believe they’ll let a fortune like that go out of the family.”
“They’re rich enough to laugh at it.”
“They’re not rich; they’re poor, for the Squire’s in difficulties.”
“Petty village tattle. Rubbish, girl. Once more, no more of this. You’re wrong, my dear. You mean well, but there’s an ugly saying about good intentions which I will not repeat. Now listen to me. The coming down to Northwood has been a grave mistake, and when people blunder the sooner they get back to the right path the better. I have made up my mind to go back to London, and your words this morning have hastened it on. The sooner we are off the better.”
“No, Pierce,” said the girl firmly. “Not to make you unhappy. You shall not take a step that you will repent to the last day of your life, dear. We must stay.”
“We must go. I have nothing to stay for here. Neither have you,” he added, meaningly.
“Pierce!” she cried, flushing.
“Beg pardon, sir; Mr Leigh, sir.”
They had been too much intent upon their conversation to notice the approach of a dog-cart, or that the groom who drove it had pulled up on seeing them, and was now talking to them over the hedge.
“Yes, what is it?” said Leigh, sharply.
“Will you come over to the Manor directly, sir? Master’s out, and Missus is in a trubble way. Our young lady, sir, Miss Wilton, took bad – fainting and nervous. You’re to come at once.”
Jenny uttered a soft, low, long-drawn “Oh!” and, forgetful of everything he had said, Pierce Leigh rushed into the house, caught up his hat, and hurried out again, to mount into the dog-cart beside the driver.
“Poor, dear old brother!” said Jenny, softly, as with her eyes half-blinded by the tears which rose, she watched the dog-cart driven away. “I don’t believe he will go to town. Oh, how strangely things do come about. I wish I could have gone too.”
Chapter Three
John Garstang stood with his back to the fire in his well furnished office in Bedford Row, tall, upright as a Life Guardsman, but slightly more prominent about what the fashionable tailor called his client’s chest. He was fifty, but looked by artificial aid, forty. Scrupulously well-dressed, good-looking, and with a smile which won the confidence of clients, though his regular white teeth were false, and the high foreheaded look which some people would have called baldness was so beautifully ivory white and shiny that it helped to make him look what he was – a carefully polished man of the world.
The clean japanned boxes about the room, all bearing clients’ names, the many papers on the table, the waste-paper basket on the rich Turkey carpet, chock full of white fresh letters and envelopes, all told of business; and the handsome morocco-covered easy chairs suggested occupancy by moneyed clients who came there for long consultations, such as would tell up in a bill.
John Garstang was a family solicitor, and he looked it; but he would have made a large fortune as a physician, for his presence and urbane manner would have done anyone good.
The morning papers had been glanced at and tossed aside, and the gentleman in question, while bathing himself in the warm glow of the fire, was carefully scraping and polishing his well-kept nails, pausing from time to time to blow off tiny scraps of dust; and at last he took two steps sideways noiselessly and touched the stud of an electric bell.
A spare-looking, highly respectable man answered the summons and stood waiting till his principal spoke, which was not until the right hand little finger nail, which was rather awkward to get at, had been polished, when without raising his eyes, John Garstang spoke.
“Mr Harry arrived?”
“No, sir.”
“What time did he leave yesterday?”
“Not here yesterday, sir.”
“The day before?”
“Not here the day before yesterday, sir.”
“What time did he leave on Monday?”
“About five minutes after you left for Brighton, sir.”
“Thank you, Barlow; that will do. By the way – ”
The clerk who had nearly reached the door, turned, and there was again silence, while a few specks were blown from where they had fallen inside one of the spotless cuffs.
“Send Mr Harry to me as soon as he arrives.”
“Yes, sir,” and the man left the room; while after standing for a few moments thinking, John Garstang walked to one of the tin boxes in the rack and drew down a lid marked, “Wilton, Number 1.”
Taking from this a packet of papers carefully folded and tied up with green silk, he seated himself at his massive knee-hole table, and was in the act of untying the ribbon, when the door opened and a short, thick-set young man of five-and-twenty, with a good deal of French waiter in his aspect, saving his clothes, entered, passing one hand quickly over his closely-shaven face, and then taking the other to help to square the great, dark, purple-fringed, square, Joinville tie, fashionable in the early fifties.
“Want to see me, father?”
“Yes. Shut the baize door.”
“Oh, you needn’t be so particular. It won’t be the first time Barlow has heard you bully me.”
“Shut the baize door, if you please, sir,” said Garstang, blandly.
“Oh, very well!” cried the young man, and he unhooked and set free a crimson baize door whose spring sent it to with a thud and a snap.
Then John Garstang’s manner changed. An angry frown gathered on his forehead, and he placed his elbows on the table, joined the tips of his fingers to form an archway, and looked beneath it at the young man who had entered.
“You are two hours late this morning.”
“Yes, father.”
“You did not come here at all yesterday.”
“No, father.”
“Nor the day before.”
“No, father.”
“Then will you have the goodness to tell me, sir, how long you expect this sort of thing to go on? You are not of the slightest use to me in my professional business.”
“No, and never shall be,” said the young man coolly.
“That’s frank. Then will you tell me why I should keep and supply with money such a useless drone?”
“Because you have plenty, and a lot of it ought to be mine by right.”
“Why so, sir? You are not my son.”
“No, but I’m my mother’s.”
“Naturally,” said Garstang, with a supercilious smile.
“You need not sneer, sir. If you hadnt deluded my poor mother into marrying you I should have been well off.”
“Your mother had a right to do as she pleased, sir. Where have you been?”
“Away from the office.”
“I know that. Where to?”
“Where I liked,” said the young man sulkily, “I’m not a child.”
“No, and this conduct has become unbearable. It is time you went away for good. What do you say to going to Australia with your passage paid and a hundred pounds to start you?”
“’Tisn’t good enough.”
“Then you had better execute your old threat and enlist in a cavalry regiment. I promise you that I will not buy you out.”
“Thank you, but it isn’t good enough.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“Never mind.”
Garstang looked up at him sharply, this time from outside the finger arch.
“Don’t provoke me, Harry Dasent, for your own sake. What are you going to do?”
“Get married.”
“Indeed? Well, that’s sensible. But are there not enough pauper children for the parish to keep?”
“Yes, but I am not going to marry a pauper. You have my money and will not disgorge it, so I must have somebody’s else.”