Chapter 6

A DEATH AND A DISCOVERY.

I am really inclined to believe, after all, that the best mode of finally extinguishing sorrow for a dead husband, is to listen quietly to the reasonable pleas of a live lover. After the scene to which it has been my painful task to allude in the last chapter, it would have been the very height of prudery on the part of the lady and gentleman, had they avoided speaking on the subject in which they had both become so deeply interested. They did not attempt it. The first excitement over, Margaret entreated her lover to be gone. He did not move. She conjured him, as he valued her esteem, to flee from that spot, and to return to it no more. He pressed her hand to his devoted lips. "What would become of her?" she emphatically exclaimed, clasping her taper fingers in distrust and doubt. "You will be mine, dear Margaret," was the wild reply, and the taper fingers easily relaxed--gave way--and got confounded with his own. After the lapse of four-and-twenty hours, reason returned to both; not the cold and calculating capacity that stands aloof from every suggestion of feeling, but that more sensible and temporizing reason, that with the _will_ goes hand-in-hand, and serves the blind one as a careful guide. They met--for they had parted suddenly, abruptly--in the summer-house, by previous appointment. Michael pleaded his affection--his absorbing and devoted love. She has objections numerous--insuperable; they dwindle down to one or two, and these as weak and easily overcome as woman's melting heart itself. They meet to argue, and he stays to woo. They bandy words and arguments for hours together, but all their logic fails in proof; whilst one long, passionate, parting kiss, does more by way of demonstration than the art and science ever yet effected.

Abraham Allcraft, who had been busily engaged behind the scenes pulling the wires and exhibiting the puppets, appeared upon the stage as soon as the first act of the performance was at an end. His son had said nothing to him, but Abraham had many eyes and ears, and saw and heard enough to make him mad with villainous delight. The second year of widowhood had commenced. Margaret had doffed her weeds. She openly received the man on whom she had bestowed her heart. They were betrothed. The public voice proclaimed young Allcraft the luckiest of men; the public soul envied and hated him for his good fortune. Abraham could never leave the presence of his future daughter--and in her presence could never cease to flatter her, and to grow disgusting in his lavish praises of his son.

"When I first saw you, my dear lady," said the greedy banker, "I had but one thought on my mind that livelong day. 'What would I give,' said I, 'for such a daughter? what would I give if for my noble son I could secure so sweet a wife? I never met his equal--I say it, madam--who, being his father, should perhaps not say it; but a stranger can admire his lusty form and figure, and his mind is just as vigorous and sprightly. A rare youth, madam, I assure you--too disinterested, perhaps--too generous, too confiding--too regardless of the value of that necessary evil--money; but as he gets older he will be wiser. I do believe he would rather have died, though he loved you so much--than asked you for your hand, if he had not been thoroughly independent without it.'"

"I can believe it, sir," sighed Margaret.

"I know you can--bless you! You were born for one another. You are a sweet pair. I know not which is prettiest--which I love the best. I love you both better than any thing in the world--that is at present; for by-and-by, you know, I may love something quite as well. Grandfathers are fond and foolish creatures. But, as I was saying--his independence is so fine--so like himself. Every thing I have will be his. He is my partner now--the bank will be his own at my death, madam. A prosperous concern. Many of our neighbours would like to have a finger in the pie; but Abraham Allcraft knows what he is about. I'll not burden him with partners. He shall have it all--every thing--he is worthy of it, if it were ten tines as much--he can do as he likes--when I am cold and mouldering in the grave; but he must not owe any thing to the lady of his heart, but his attention, and his kindness, and his dear love. I know my spirited and high-minded boy."

Yes, and he knew human nature generally--knew its weaknesses and faults--and lived upon them. His words require but little explanation. The wedding-day had not been fixed. The ceremony once over, and his mind would be at rest. "It was a consummation devoutly to be wished." Why? He knew well enough. Michael had proposed the day, but she asked for time, and he refrained from further importunity. His love and delicacy forbade his giving her one moment's pain. Abraham was less squeamish. His long experience told him that some good reason must exist for such a wish to dwell in the young bosom of the blooming widow. It was unnatural and foreign to young blood. It could be nothing else than the fear of parting with her wealth--of placing all at the command of one, whom, though she loved, she did not know that she might trust. Satisfied of this, he resolved immediately to calm her apprehensions, and to assure her that not one farthing of her fortune should pass from her control. He spoke of his son as a man of wealth already, too proud to accept another's gold, even were he poor. Perhaps he was. Margaret at least believed so. Abraham did not quit her till the marriage day was settled.

He returned from the widow in ecstasy, and called his son to his own snug private room.

"I have done it for you, Michael," said the father, rubbing his grasping hands--it's done--it's settled, lad. Two months' patience, and the jewel is your own. Thank your father, on your knees--oh, lucky Mike! But mark me, boy. I have had enough to do. My guess was right. She was afraid of us, but her fears are over. Till I told her that the bank would make you rich without her, there was no relenting, I assure you.

"You said so, father, did you?" asked the son.

"Yes--I did. Remember that Mike when I am dead--remember what I have done for you--put a fortune in your pocket, and given you an angel--remember that, Mike, and respect my memory. Don't let the world laugh at your father, and call him ugly names. You can prevent it if you like. A son is bound to assert his father's honour, living or dead, at any price."

"He is, sir," answered Michael.

"I knew, Mike, that would be your answer. You are a noble fellow--don't forget me when I am under ground; not that I mean to die yet no--no--I feel a score of years hanging about me still. I shall dandle a dozen of your young ones before these arms are withered. I shall live to see you--a peer of the realm. That money--with your talents, Mike, will command a dukedom."

"I am not ambitious, father."

"You lie--you are, Mike. You have got your father's blood in you. You would risk a great deal to be at the top of the tree; so would I. _Would_ I? Haven't I? We shall see, Mike--we shall see. But it isn't wishing that will do it. The clearest head--the best exertions must sometimes give in to circumstances; but then, my boy, there is one comfort, those who come after us can repair our faults, and profit by our experience. That thought gives us courage, and makes us go forward. Don't forget, Mike, I say, what I have done for you, when you are a rich and titled man!"

"I hope, father, I shall never forget my duty."

"I am sure you won't, Mike--and there's an end of it. Let us speak of something else. Now, when you are married, boy, I shall often come to see you. You'll be glad to have me, sha'n't you?"

"Is it necessary to ask the question?"

"No, it isn't, but I am happy to-night, and I am in a humour to talk and dream. You must let me have my own room--and call it Abraham's _sanctum_. A good name, eh? I will come when I like, and go when I like--eat, drink, and be merry, Mike. How white with envy Old Varley will get, when he sees me driving to business in my boy's carriage. A pretty match he made of it--that son of his married the cook, and sent her to a boarding-school. Stupid fool!"

"Young Varley is a worthy fellow, father."

"Can't be--can't be--worthy fellows don't marry cooks. But don't stop me in my plans. I said you should give me my own room, Mike--and so you shall--and every Wednesday shall be a holiday. We'll be in the country together, and shoot and fish, and hunt, and do what every body else does. We'll be great men, Mike, and we'll enjoy ourselves."

And so the man went on, elevated by the circumstances of the day, and by the prospects of the future, until he became intoxicated with his pleasure. On the following morning he rose just as elated, and went to business like a boy to play. About noon, he was talking to a farmer in his quiet back room, endeavouring to drive a hard bargain with the man, whom a bad season had already rendered poor. He spoke loud and fast--until, suddenly, a spasm at the heart caught and stopped him. His eyes bolted from their sockets--the parchment skin of his face grew livid and blue. He staggered for an instant, and then dropped dead at the farmer's foot. The doctors were not wrong when they pronounced the banker's heart diseased. A week after this sudden and awful visitation, all that remained of Abraham Allcraft was committed to the dust, and Michael discovered, to his surprise and horror, that his father had died an insolvent and a beggar.

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