by Ellen Wood
‘She may grow stronger when the heat of summer shall have passed.’
Florence slightly shook her head, as if she could not share in the suggested hope. ‘Mamma herself does not seem to think she shall, Austin. She has dropped ominous words more than once latterly. This afternoon I showed her the plant, that it was drooping. “Ay, my dear,” she remarked, “it is like me — on the wane.” And I think my uncle Bevary’s opinion has become unfavourable.’
It was a matter on which Austin could not urge hope, though, for the sake of tranquillizing Florence, he might suggest it, for he believed that Mrs. Hunter was fading rapidly. All these years she seemed to have been getting thinner and weaker; it was some malady connected with the spine, causing her at times great pain. Austin changed the subject.
‘I hope Mr. Hunter will soon be in, Florence. I am come to ask for leave of absence.’
‘Papa is not out; he is sitting with mamma. That is another reason why I fear danger for her. I think papa sees it; he is so solicitous for her comfort, so anxious to be with her, as if he would guard her from surprise or agitating topics. He will not suffer a visitor to enter at hazard; he will not let a note be given her until he has first seen it.’
‘But he has long been thus anxious,’ replied Austin, who was aware that what she spoke of had lasted for years.
‘I know. But still, latterly — however, I must hope against hope,’ broke off Florence. ‘I think I do: hope is certainly a very strong ingredient in my nature, for I cannot realize the parting with my dear mother. Did you say you have come for leave of absence? Where is it that you wish to go?’
‘I have had a telegraphic despatch from Ketterford,’ he replied, taking it from his pocket. ‘My good old friend, Mrs. Thornimett, is dying, and I must hasten thither with all speed.’
‘Oh!’ uttered Florence, almost reproachfully. ‘And you are wasting the time with me!’
‘Not so. The first train that goes there does not start for an hour yet, and I can get to Paddington in half of one. The news has grieved me much. The last time I was at Ketterford — you may remember it — Mrs. Thornimett was so very well, exhibiting no symptoms whatever of decay.’
‘I remember it,’ answered Florence. ‘It is two years ago. You stayed a whole fortnight with her.’
‘And had a battle with her to get away then,’ said Austin, smiling with the reminiscence, or with Florence’s word ‘whole’ — a suggestive word, spoken in that sense. ‘She wished me to remain longer. I wonder what illness can have stricken her? It must have been sudden.’
‘What is the relationship between you?’
‘A distant one. She and my mother were second cousins. If I — —’
Austin was stopped by the entrance of Mr. Hunter. So changed, so bent and bowed, since you, reader, last saw him! The stout, upright figure had grown thin and stooping, the fine dark hair was grey, the once calm, self-reliant face was worn and haggard. Nor was that all; there was a constant restlessness in his manner and in the turn of his eye, giving a spectator the idea that he lived in a state of ever-present, perpetual fear.
Austin put the telegraphic message in his hand. ‘It is an inconvenient time, I know, sir, for me to be away, busy as we are, and with this agitation rising amongst the men; but I cannot help myself. I will return as soon as it is possible.’
Mr. Hunter did not hear the words. His eyes had fallen on the word ‘Ketterford,’ in the despatch, and that seemed to scare away his senses. His hands shook as he held the paper, and for a few moments he appeared incapable of collected thought, of understanding anything. Austin exclaimed again.
‘Oh, yes, yes, it is only — it is Mrs. Thornimett who is ill, and wants you — I comprehend now.’ He spoke in an incoherent manner, and with a sigh of the most intense relief. ‘I — I — saw the word “dying,” and it startled me,’ he proceeded, as if anxious to account for his agitation. ‘You can go, Austin; you must go. Remain a few days there — a week, if you find it necessary.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will say farewell now, then.’
He shook hands with Mr. Hunter, turned to Florence, and took hers. ‘Remember me to Mrs. Hunter,’ he said in a low tone, which, in spite of himself, betrayed its own tenderness, ‘and tell her I hope to find her better on my return.’
A few paces from the house, as he went out, Austin encountered Dr. Bevary. ‘Is she much worse?’ he exclaimed to Austin, in a hasty tone.
‘Is who much worse, doctor?’
‘Mrs. Hunter. I have just had a message from her.’
‘Not very much, I fancy. Florence said her mamma was poorly this evening. I am off to Ketterford, doctor, for a few days.’
‘To Ketterford!’ replied Dr. Bevary, with an emphasis that showed the news had startled him. ‘What are you going there for? For — for Mr. Hunter?’
‘For myself,’ said Austin. ‘A good old friend is ill — dying, the message says — and has telegraphed for me.’
The physician looked at him searchingly. ‘Do you speak of Miss Gwinn?’
‘I should not call her a friend,’ replied Austin. ‘I allude to Mrs. Thornimett.’
‘A pleasant journey to you, then. And, Clay, steer clear of those Gwinns; they would bring you no good.’
It was in the dawn of the early morning that Austin entered Ketterford. He did not let the grass grow under his feet between the railway terminus and Mrs. Thornimett’s, though he was somewhat dubious about disturbing the house. If she was really ‘dying,’ it might be well that he should do so; if only suffering from a severe illness, it might not be expected of him; and the wording of the message had been ambiguous, leaving it an open question. As he drew within view of the house, however, it exhibited signs of bustle; lights not yet put out in the dawn, might be discerned through some of the curtained windows, and a woman, having much the appearance of a nurse, was coming out at the door, halting on the threshold a moment to hold converse with one within.
‘Can you tell me how Mrs. Thornimett is?’ inquired Austin, addressing himself to her.
The woman shook her head. ‘She is gone, sir. Not more than an hour ago.’
Sarah, the old servant whom we have seen before at Mrs. Thornimett’s, came forward, weeping. ‘Oh, Mr. Austin! oh, sir: why could not you get here sooner?’
‘How could I, Sarah?’ was his reply. ‘I received the message only last evening, and came off by the first train that started.’
‘I’d have took a engine to myself, and rode upon its chimbley, but what I’d have got here in time,’ retorted Sarah. ‘Twice in the very last half hour of her life she asked after you. “Isn’t Austin come?” “Isn’t he yet come?” My dear old mistress!’
‘Why was I not sent for before?’ he asked, in return.
‘Because we never thought it was turning serious,’ sobbed Sarah. ‘She caught cold some days ago, and it flew to her throat, or her chest, I hardly know which. The doctor was called in; and it’s my belief he didn’t know: the doctors nowadays bain’t worth half what they used to be, and they call things by fine names that nobody can understand. However it may have been, nobody saw any danger, neither him nor us. But at mid-day yesterday there was a change, and the doctor said he’d like further advice to be brought in. And it was had; but they could not do her any good; and she, poor dear mistress, was the first to say that she was dying. “Send for Austin,” she said to me; and one of the gentlemen, he went to the wire telegraph place, and wrote the message.’
Austin made no rejoinder: he seemed to be swallowing down a lump in his throat. Sarah resumed. ‘Will you see her, sir? She is just laid out.’
He nodded acquiescence, and the servant led the way to the death chamber. It had been put straight, so to remain until all that was left of its many years’ occupant should be removed. She lay on the bed in placid stillness; her eyes closed, her pale face calm, a smile upon it; the calm of a spirit at peace with heaven. Austin leaned over her, losing himself in solemn thoughts. Whither had the spirit flo
wn? to what bright unknown world? Had it found the company of sister spirits? had it seen, face to face, its loving Saviour? Oh! what mattered now the few fleeting trials of this life that had passed over her! how worse than unimportant did they seem by the side of death! A little, more or less, of care; a lot, where shade or sunshine shall have predominated; a few friends gained or lost; struggle, toil, hope — all must merge in the last rest. It was over; earth, with its troubles and its petty cares, with its joys and sorrows, and its ‘goods stored up for many years;’ as completely over for Mary Thornimett, as though it had never, been. In the higher realms whither her spirit had hastened ——
‘I told Mrs. Dubbs to knock up the undertaker, and desire him to come here at once and take the measure for the coffin.’
Sarah’s interruption recalled Austin to the world. It is impossible, even in a death-chamber, to run away from the ordinary duties of daily life.
CHAPTER III. TWO THOUSAND POUNDS.
‘You will stay for the funeral, Mr. Clay?’
‘It is my intention to do so.’
‘Good. Being interested in the will, it may be agreeable to you to hear it read.’
‘Am I interested?’ inquired Austin, in some surprise.
‘Why, of course you are,’ replied Mr. Knapley, the legal gentleman with whom Austin was speaking, and who had the conduct of Mrs. Thornimett’s affairs. ‘Did you never know that you were a considerable legatee?’
‘I did not,’ said Austin. ‘Some years ago — it was at the death of Mr. Thornimett — Mrs. Thornimett hinted to me that I might be the better some time for a trifle from her. But she has never alluded to it since: and I have not reckoned upon it.’
‘Then I can tell you — though it is revealing secrets beforehand — that you are the better to the tune of two thousand pounds.’
‘Two thousand pounds!’ uttered Austin, in sheer amazement. ‘How came she to leave me so much as that?’
‘Do you quarrel with it, young sir?’
‘No, indeed: I feel all possible gratitude. But I am surprised, nevertheless.’
‘She was a clever, clear-sighted woman, was Mrs. Thornimett,’ observed the lawyer. ‘I’ll tell you about it — how it is you come to have so much. When I was taking directions for Mr. Thornimett’s will — more than ten years back now — a discussion arose between him and his wife as to the propriety of leaving a sum of money to Austin Clay. A thousand pounds was the amount named. Mr. Thornimett was for leaving you in his wife’s hands, to let her bequeath it to you at her death; Mrs. Thornimett wished it should be left to you then, in the will I was about to make, that you might inherit it on the demise of Mr. Thornimett. He took his own course, and did not leave it, as you are aware.’
‘I did not expect him to leave me anything,’ interrupted Austin.
‘My young friend, if you break in with these remarks, I shall not get to the end of my story. After her husband’s burial, Mrs. Thornimett spoke to me. “I particularly wished the thousand pounds left now to Austin Clay,” she said, “and I shall appropriate it to him at once.” “Appropriate it in what manner?” I asked her. “I should like to put it out to interest, that it may be accumulating for him,” she replied, “so that at my death he may receive both principal and interest.” “Then, if you live as long as it is to be hoped you will, madam, you may be bequeathing him two thousand pounds instead of one,” I observed to her. “Mr. Knapley,” was her answer, “if I choose to bequeath him three, it is my own money that I do it with; and I am responsible to no one.” She had taken my remark to be one of remonstrance, you see, in which spirit it was not made: had Mrs. Thornimett chosen to leave you the whole of her money she had been welcome to do it for me. “Can you help me to a safe investment for him?” she resumed; and I promised to look about for it. The long and the short of it is, Mr. Clay, that I found both a safe and a profitable investment, and the one thousand pounds has swollen itself into two — as you will hear when the will is read.’
‘I am truly obliged for her kindness, and for the trouble you have taken,’ exclaimed Austin, with a glowing colour. ‘I never thought to get rich all at once.’
‘You only be prudent and take care of it,’ said Mr. Knapley. ‘Be as wise in its use as I and Mrs. Thornimett have been. It is the best advice I can give you.’
‘It is good advice, I know, and I thank you for it,’ warmly responded Austin.
‘Ay. I can tell you that less than two thousand pounds has laid the foundation of many a great fortune.’
To a young man whose salary is only two hundred a year, the unexpected accession to two thousand pounds, hard cash, seems like a great fortune. Not that Austin Clay cared so very much for a ‘great fortune’ in itself; but he certainly did hope to achieve a competency, and to this end he made the best use of the talents bestowed upon him. He was not ambitious to die ‘worth a million;’ he had the rare good sense to know that excess of means cannot bring excess of happiness. The richest man on earth cannot eat two dinners a day, or wear two coats at a time, or sit two thoroughbred horses at once, or sleep on two beds. To some, riches are a source of continual trouble. Unless rightly used, they cannot draw a man to heaven, or help him on his road thither. Austin Clay’s ambition lay in becoming a powerful man of business; such as were the Messrs. Hunter. He would like to have men under him, of whom he should be the master; not to control them with an iron hand, to grind them to the dust, to hold them at a haughty distance, as if they were of one species of humanity and he of another. No; he would hold intact their relative positions of master and servant — none more strictly than he; but he would be their considerate friend, their firm advocate, regardful ever of their interests as he was of his own. He would like to have capital sufficient for all necessary business operations, that he might fulfil every obligation justly and honourably: so far, money would be welcome to Austin. Very welcome did the two thousand pounds sound in his ears, for they might be the stepping-stone to this. Not to the ‘great fortune’ talked of by Mr. Knapley, who avowed freely his respect for millionaires: he did not care for that. They might also be a stepping-stone to something else — the very thought of which caused his face to glow and his veins to tingle — the winning of Florence Hunter. That he would win her, Austin fully believed now.
On the day previous to the funeral, in walking through the streets of Ketterford, Austin found himself suddenly seized by the shoulder. A window had been thrown open, and a fair arm (to speak with the gallantry due to the sex in general, rather than to that one arm in particular) was pushed out and laid upon him. His captor was Miss Gwinn.
‘Come in,’ she briefly said.
Austin would have been better pleased to avoid her, but as she had thus summarily caught him, there was no help for it: to enter into a battle of contention with her might be productive of neither honour nor profit. He entered her sitting-room, and she motioned him to a chair.
‘So you did not intend to call upon me during your stay in Ketterford, Austin Clay?’
‘The melancholy occasion on which I am here precludes much visiting,’ was his guarded reply. ‘And my sojourn will be a short one.’
‘Don’t be a hypocrite, young man, and use those unmeaning words. “Melancholy occasion!” What did you care for Mrs. Thornimett, that her death should make you “melancholy?”’
‘Mrs. Thornimett was my dear and valued friend,’ he returned, with an emotion born of anger. ‘There are few, living, whom I would not rather have spared. I shall never cease to regret the not having arrived in time to see her before she died.’
Miss Gwinn peered at him from her keen eyes, as if seeking to know whether this was false or true. Possibly she decided in favour of the latter, for her face somewhat relaxed its sternness. ‘What has Dr. Bevary told you of me and of my affairs?’ she rejoined, passing abruptly to another subject.
‘Not anything,’ replied Austin. He did not lift his eyes, and a scarlet flush dyed his brow as he spoke; nevertheless it was the strict truth.
Miss Gwinn noted the signs of consciousness.
‘You can equivocate, I see.’
‘Pardon me. I have not equivocated to you. Dr. Bevary has disclosed nothing; he has never spoken to me of your affairs. Why should he, Miss Gwinn?’
‘Your face told a different tale.’
‘It did not tell an untruth, at any rate,’ he said, with some hauteur.
‘Do you never see Dr. Bevary?’
‘I see him sometimes.’
‘At the house of Mr. Hunter, I presume. How is she?’
Again the flush, whatever may have called it up, crimsoned Austin Clay’s brow. ‘I do not know of whom you speak,’ he coldly said.
‘Of Mrs. Hunter.’
‘She is in ill-health.’
‘Ill to be in danger of her life? I hear so.’
‘It may be. I cannot say.’
‘Do you know, Austin Clay, that I have a long, long account to settle with you?’ she resumed, after a pause: ‘years and years have elapsed since, and I have never called upon you for it. Why should I?’ she added, relapsing into a dreamy mood, and speaking to herself rather than to Austin; ‘the mischief was done, and could not be recalled. I once addressed a brief note to you at the office of the Messrs. Hunter, requesting you to give a letter, enclosed in it, to my brother. Why did you not?’
Austin was silent. He retained only too vivid a remembrance of the fact.
‘Why did you not give it him, I ask?’
‘I could not give it him, Miss Gwinn. When your letter reached me, your brother had already been at the office of the Messrs. Hunter, and was then on his road back to Ketterford. The enclosure was burnt unopened.’
‘Ay!’ she passionately uttered, throwing her arms upwards in mental pain, as Austin had seen her do in the days gone by, and holding commune with herself, regardless of his presence, ‘such has been my fate through life. Thwarted, thwarted on all sides. For years and years I had lived but in the hope of finding him; the hope of it kept life in me: and when the time came, and I did find him, and was entering upon my revenge, then this brother of mine, who has been the second bane of my existence, stepped in and reaped the benefit. It was my fault. Why, in my exultation, did I tell him the man was found? Did I not know enough of his avarice, his needs, to have made sure that he would turn it to his own account? Why,’ she continued, battling with her hands as at some invisible adversary, ‘was I born with this strong principle of justice within me? Why, because he stepped in with his false claims and drew gold — a fortune — of the man, did I deem it a reason for dropping my revenge? — for letting it rest in abeyance? In abeyance it is still; and its unsatisfied claims are wearing out my heart and my life — —’
