The children’s education and great part of their maintenance must fall on their uncle; and again his marriage must wait till this burthen was lessened. Old Mrs. Morton died; and meetings thus became more difficult and infrequent. Frank had hoped to retain the little house where he had lived so long; but his sister-in-law’s demands were heavy, and he found himself obliged to sell his superfluous furniture, and commit himself to the rough attendance of the housekeeper at the office, where two rooms were granted to him.
Thus had year after year gone by, unmarked except by the growth of the young people at Westhaven and the demand of their mother on the savings that were to have been a nest-egg, while gray threads began to appear in Mary’s hair, and Frank’s lighter locks to leave his temples bare.
So things stood when, on this strange afternoon, Miss Marshall was summoned mysteriously from watching the due performance of an imposition, and was told, outside the door, that Mr. Morton wanted to speak to her.
It was startling news, for though the Misses Lang were kindly women, and had never thrown obstacles in the way of her engagement, they had merely permitted it, and almost ignored it, except when old Mrs. Morton was dying, and they had freely facilitated her attendance. ‘Surely something as dreadful as the running down of the Emma Jane must have happened!’ thought Mary as she sped to the drawing-room. She was a little brown mouse p. 6of a woman, with soft dark eyes, smooth hair, and a clear olive complexion, on which thirty-eight years of life and eighteen of waiting had not left much outward trace; for the mistresses were good women, who had never oppressed their underling, and though she had not met with much outward sympathy or companionship, the one well of hope and joy might at times suffer drought, but had never run dry, any more than the better fountain within and beyond.
In she came, with eyes alarmed but ready to console. ‘Oh, Frank, what is it? What can I do for you?’
‘It is no bad news,’ was his greeting, as he put his arm round her trembling little figure and kissed her brow. ‘Only too good.’
‘Oh, is Mrs. Charles going to be married?’ the only hopeful contingency she could think of.
‘No,’ he said; ‘but, Mary, an extraordinary incident has taken place. I have inherited a property.’
‘A property? You are well off! Oh, thank God!’ and she clasped her hands, then held his. ‘At last! But what? How? Did you know?’
‘I knew of the connection, but that the family had never taken notice of my father. As to the rest I was entirely unprepared. My great-grandfather was a younger son of the first Lord Northmoor, but for some misconduct was cast off and proscribed. As you know, my grandfather and father devoted themselves to horses on the old farm, and made no pretensions to gentility. The elder branch of the family was once numerous, but it must have since p. 7dwindled till the old lord was left with only a little grandson, who died of diphtheria a short time before his grandfather.’
‘Poor old man!’ began Mary. ‘Then—oh! do you mean that he died too?’
‘Yes; he was ill before, and this was a fatal blow. It appears that he was aware that I was next in the succession, and after the boy’s death had desired the solicitor to write to me as heir-at-law.’
‘Heir-at-law! Frank, do you mean that you are—’ she said, turning pale.
‘Baron Northmoor,’ he answered, ‘and you, my patient Mary, will be the baroness as soon as may be.’
‘Oh, Frank!’—and there was a rush of tears—‘dear Frank, your hard work and cares are all over!’
‘I am not sure of that,’ he said gravely; ‘but, at least, this long waiting is over, and I can give you everything.’
‘But, oh!’ she cried, sobbing uncontrollably, with her face hidden in her handkerchief.
‘Mary, Mary! what does this mean? Don’t you understand? There’s nothing to hinder it now.’
She made a gesture as if to put him back from her, and struggled for utterance.
‘It is very dear, very good; but—but it can’t be now. You must not drag yourself down with me.’
‘That is just nonsense, Mary. You are far fitter for this than I am. You are the one joy in it to me.’
‘You think so now,’ she said, striving to hold herself back; ‘but you won’t by and by.’
‘Do you think me a mere boy to change so p. 8easily?’ said the new lord earnestly. ‘I look on this as a heavy burthen and very serious responsibility: but it is to you whom I look to sweeten it, help me through with it, and guard me from its temptations.’
‘If I could.’
‘Come, Mary, I am forced to go to London immediately, and then on to the funeral. I shall miss the train if I remain another minute. Don’t send me away with a sore heart. Tell me that your affection has not been worn out by these weary years.’
‘You cannot think so, Frank,’ she sobbed. ‘You know it has only grown. I only want to do what is best for you.’
‘Not another word,’ he said, with a fresh kiss. ‘That is all I want for the present.’
He was gone, while Mary crept up to her little attic, there to weep out her agitated, uncertain feelings.
‘Oh, he is so good! He deserves to be great. That I should be his first thought! Dear dear fellow! But I ought to give him up. I ought not to be a drag on him. It would not be fair on him. I can love him and watch him all the same; but oh, how dreary it will be to have no Sunday afternoons! Is this selfish? Is this worldly? Oh, help me to do right, and hold to what is best for him!’
And whenever poor Mary had any time to herself out of sight of curious eyes, she spent it in concocting a letter that went near to the breaking of her constant heart.
p. 9CHAPTER II
HONOURS REFLECTED
On the beach at Westhaven, beyond the town and harbour, stood a row of houses, each with a garden of tamarisk, thrift, and salt-loving flowers, frequented by lodgers in search of cheap sea breezes, and sometimes by families of yachting personages who liked to have their headquarters on shore.
Two girls were making their way to one of these. One was so tall though very slight, that in spite of the dark hair streaming in the wind, she looked more than her fifteen years, and her brilliant pink-and-white complexioned face confirmed the impression. Her sister, keeping as much as she could under her lee, was about twelve years old, much more childish as well as softer, smaller, with lighter colouring and blue eyes. Going round the end of the house, they entered by the back door, and turning into a little parlour, they threw off their hats and gloves. The younger one began to lay the table for dinner, while the elder, throwing herself down panting, called out—
‘Ma, here’s a letter from uncle. I’ll open it. p. 10I hope he’s not crusty about that horrid low millinery business.’
‘Yes, do,’ called back a voice across the tiled passage. ‘I’ve had no time. This girl has put me about so with Mrs. Leeson’s luncheon that I’ve not had a moment. Of all the sluts I’ve ever been plagued with, she’s the very worst, and so I tell her till I’m ready to drop. What is it then, Ida?’ as an inarticulate noise was heard.
‘Ma! ma! uncle is a lord!’ came back in a gasp.
‘What?’
‘Uncle’s a lord! Oh!’
‘Your uncle! That stick of a man! Don’t be putting your jokes on me, when I’m worrited to death!’ exclaimed Mrs. Morton, in fretful tones.
‘No joke. It’s true—Lord Northmoor.’ And this brought Mrs. Morton out of the kitchen in her apron and bib, with a knife in one hand and a bunch of parsley in the other. She was a handsome woman, in the same style as Ida, but her complexion had grown harder than accorded with the slightly sentimental air she assumed when she had time to pity herself.